The Cheerleaders of Doom

by Michael Buckley

  “Shut up and listen! It’s a big underground cemetery. Nearly six million bodies were moved here in the late 18th century from a place called the Cemetery of the Innocents. The original tunnels were carved out by limestone miners and are centuries old—”

  “Less history lesson and more rescuing me from the skeleton people!” Flinch shouted, pulling fruitlessly at his bindings.

  “The tunnels are why we have to stop the bombs from exploding. If they go off, every house, business, vehicle, and person above them will collapse into the hole.”

  “I didn’t know that!” he said.

  “IT WAS IN THE BRIEFING!” his teammates shouted through the com-link.

  Duncan’s voice returned. “All right, buddy, take a deep breath and calm down. Try to relax and stay positive. What is it that your grandma always says?”

  “De que tocan a llover, no hay más que abrir el paraguas,” Flinch said.

  “What does that mean?” Wheezer asked.

  “If it’s raining, all you have to do is open your umbrella.”

  “OK . . . so what are we going to do?” Pufferfish said.

  “We’re going to find his umbrella,” Gluestick said. “Now, feel around for something to loosen the ropes.”

  Flinch reached out cautiously until something sharp jabbed his wrists. Was it a knife? What did a skeleton need a knife for? Were the skeletons not satisfied with scaring him to death—now they wanted to stab him as well?

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and focused on his situation. He had learned in his secret agent training that anything could be a tool—even a pointy thing in the middle of a stack of dead people. So he fought the urge to pee his pants and dragged the ropes back and forth against its sharp edge.

  “Maybe I need to go in after him,” Braceface said. “I’ll just morph my braces into a motorcycle and zip down there. He’s running out of time, and if we don’t act fast, this place is going to be French toast.”

  “They don’t eat French toast in France,” Pufferfish grumbled.

  “No one is coming down here!” Flinch said.

  “But, Flinch—”

  “No! The general put me in charge, and so I’m in charge and I get to say what happens and stuff!” Flinch said as he continued working away at his bindings.

  Soon there was a snap and his hands were free. He turned to find out what the sharp object was that had helped his escape. It was a skull with a jaw full of broken teeth. He had put his hands into its mouth!!! Ugh!!! He danced around trying to shake the creepy feeling out of his skin.

  “Now for the harness,” he said when he got himself under control. He found it on the ground nearby and eyed it closely, searching for damage. Tiny robots in his body called nanobytes turned the sugar that he consumed into raw power, then channeled that power into the harness, which allowed him to access it at will. Without the power, he was just a kid who ate too many cupcakes and rambled when he spoke. But how had the thugs known?

  One of the harness’s power chords had been yanked out. Flinch re-inserted the chord, and the chest plate glowed with a familiar blue light. He slipped it back over his head and locked it in place. Immediately, he felt the energy coursing through him.

  “All right, problemo numero dos has been solved. How much time do I have?”

  “Nine minutes,” Pufferfish said through scratches.

  Flinch turned up his power, ready to run. “Time to save Paris.”

  To be continued in The Villain Virus . . .

  ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

  GOOD! GET OUTTA HERE!