Unleashed

by Gordon Korman

  Mr. Hartman was jubilant. “How do you like that, Uncle Sam? We’re getting away! And we’re taking your stupid chair!”

  “We’re only taking it because it’s attached to one of us,” Ben puffed, just in case the cameras had microphones attached.

  “Wait!” Mr. Hartman said suddenly. “What’s happening to my mask?”

  Ben looked down to see Mr. Hartman’s chin protruding from the woolen ski mask. The stitching was unraveling from the bottom on up!

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Savannah. “It’s caught on something! There!” She pointed back down the hall.

  Ben wheeled. A single strand of yarn marked their passage all the way along the corridor.

  “Stop!” ordered Mr. Hartman as his nose was revealed. “I can’t let the cameras see me!”

  “Where are the brakes on this thing?” Ben wailed. Desperately, he stuck out a foot in an effort to halt the rolling chair.

  It was a mistake. The front-most wheel ran over his toe.

  “Ow!”

  That was when he lost his grip on the chair back. Ben and Savannah watched in horror as Mr. Hartman rolled down the hall, still belted to the freewheeling swivel chair. He careened past the elevator and disappeared through a door at the end of the corridor.

  Ben took in the sign above it: STAIRWELL A.

  The stairs!

  It was hard to decide which was louder, the crashing or the yelling.

  Ben and Savannah sprinted through the stairwell door and stared down, almost too frightened to look. There on the landing below was the wreckage of the chair. Perched atop what had once been the seat was Ferret Face, a piece of torn seat belt still in his little teeth.

  Ben’s breath caught in his throat. “Where’s Mr. Hartman?” His eyes followed the strand of yarn. It led past the landing and around the corner down the next flight.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” came Mr. Hartman’s voice. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now that the power’s back on, it’s only a matter of time before the government realizes there’s something wrong!”

  Ben raced down the steps, pausing only long enough to scoop Ferret Face under his collar. Savannah was right behind them. They caught up with Mr. Hartman and pounded to the main floor. Mr. Hartman broke the yarn while he still had half a ski mask in place; Ben and Savannah made sure to keep their T-shirts high on their faces.

  Griffin, Pitch, and Logan were waiting impatiently in the reception area.

  “What took you so long?” Griffin demanded. “What part of ‘hurry up’ don’t you understand?”

  Savannah took the Hover Handler from Pitch’s arms. “I’m so happy we have it back!”

  They ran outside and headed across the compound toward Route 31. The neighborhood was still dark. The emergency power did not extend past Facility 107-B. By the light pole, they could make out the quiet whir of the SH-9 vacuum cleaner.

  Griffin reached for the access gate in the fence.

  “Freeze!” Pitch yelled suddenly.

  Griffin turned to her quizzically. “What? Why?”

  Pitch took out her water bottle and aimed a splash at the door handle. The tiny sparks appeared once more. “The electricity is on! That means the fence is live!”

  “I hear the hum,” Logan confirmed.

  “We’re trapped!” breathed Ben.

  Mr. Hartman pulled off what was left of his stocking cap, wrapped it around his hand, and reached for the handle. But as soon as he grasped it, a shock sent him jumping back.

  “This is bad, Griffin,” Pitch said edgily. “How are we going to get past that fence?”

  Ben turned to his best friend. “What are we going to do?”

  Griffin was pale but calm. “There’s nothing we can do,” he told them evenly.

  “You said you can do anything if you have the right plan!” Logan pleaded.

  Griffin shook his head. “Sometimes what you’re up against is just too much. Face it, guys. We gave it our best shot. And we found the Hover Handler. But that’s as far as we’re going to get.”

  “Then the government wins!” Mr. Hartman protested.

  That was when they heard the sirens in the distance — not just one; a symphony.

  “Cops!” Ben exclaimed in agony.

  Griffin took out his phone. “I guess it’s time to call our folks,” he said resignedly. “They’d better know we’re probably going to get arrested.”

  “Not yet!” commanded Savannah. “Stand back, everybody! There’s no way I’m letting down Luthor and Melissa over something as puny as an electric fence!”

  She set the Hover Handler on its base a few feet in front of the gate and switched it on. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out Luthor’s old collar, the one that still had a GPS transmitter on it.

  “Savannah,” Griffin spoke up, “what are you —?”

  Before he could finish, the girl reared back and hurled the collar with all her might. It sailed over the fence and into the middle of Route 31. To Melissa’s Hover Handler, this could only mean one thing: A dog had run out into the road and needed to be lured to safety.

  The four rotor blades whirled to life, and the Hover Handler lifted off the base. It made a direct line for the collar, smashing into the gate and knocking it wide open in a shower of sparks.

  Savannah snatched up the base. “Now!” And she led the way through the fence.

  The Hover Handler hovered at an odd angle, one rotor broken off. Lopsided, it hung there over the collar, emitting its high-pitched tone, the one that always set Luthor dancing.

  “Savannah, you’re a genius!” Griffin praised. “You saved the plan!”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a taxi came along Route 31 and squashed the collar — and the GPS transmitter attached to it — flat as roadkill.

  As the taxi drove away, the wail of the sirens returned, growing louder.

  With no signal to home in on, the damaged Hover Handler began to wobble in an aimless loop, spiraling higher and higher above them.

  “What’s it doing?” asked Logan, alarmed.

  “It needs some place to go! Put the base down!” Griffin ordered.

  Savannah set the stand on the sidewalk and reversed a half-step. The group looked up into the night, to see if the wounded Hover Handler would return home.

  And it did. The unit stopped its climb and started its descent, gaining speed.

  “It’s coming in too fast!” Pitch shouted.

  Everybody jumped backward.

  CRASH!

  Melissa’s invention slammed into its base at terminal velocity, shattering into a million pieces. Wires, springs, and shards of metal and plastic pelted the five team members and Mr. Hartman.

  When the dust cleared, the device and its base were gone, replaced by a wide scatter of debris. Even Ferret Face looked on in awe.

  “I don’t think Melissa could fix that,” Logan observed. “You know, if there was any way we could gather it all up.”

  Pitch shrugged. “Well, we have a vacuum cleaner … I’m joking!” she added when they all glared at her.

  Savannah was close to tears. “I can’t believe it’s gone! Poor Luthor! Poor Melissa!”

  “This is how our government works,” said Mr. Hartman bitterly. “We’ve got a handful of smashed-up junk, but the CIA probably has a secret factory hidden away somewhere, turning these things out by the hundreds.”

  “Along with a new batch of seat-belt chairs,” said Ben pointedly.

  Now there was nothing distant about the sirens. At this range, the team members could make out the whine and blurp of several different squad cars. The police were coming — a lot of them. And soon.

  “Code Z!” Griffin called.

  The team sprang into action. Every operation had a Code Z. It meant that the plan had to be abandoned, and pronto.

  The instant Griffin yanked the SH-9 free from the wiring of the streetlight, the neighborhood around Facility 107-B began to flicker back to life. Businesses�
� neon signs glowed once more. The barber pole resumed its rotation. The clock in front of the bank came on again, forty-seven minutes behind.

  The team helped Griffin cram the vacuum back into the duffel. At that moment, the Wagoneer wheeled out of the parking lot of Saigon Palace and screeched up to the curb, bringing with it the faint smell of chili oil.

  As they pulled away, Griffin peered out the rear window at the flashing lights of the squad cars just over the rise in the road.

  Operation Recover Hover, Phase 3, was over.

  And there would never be a Phase 4.

  The Long Island Invent-a-Palooza was being held at Green Hollow High School, not far from Cedarville.

  Mr. Bing backed the station wagon up to the loading bay and shut off the engine. “Well,” he said, trying to sound encouraging, “here we are.”

  Griffin had been looking forward to this day like a prisoner awaiting his own eggs-ecution. In the end, Dad had taken pity on him and had labored feverishly alongside his son, trying to work the bugs out of what was now the SH-10. With no success. In an hour, Griffin was going to demonstrate his invention in front of the Invent-a-Palooza judges, and every light in the auditorium was going to go dark.

  “Maybe the judges won’t mind.” His father struggled to find something positive to say. “After all, you really did quiet that motor.”

  “Yeah,” said Griffin glumly. “And maybe the moon will fall out of the sky.” He hefted the duffel bag that held his so-called invention. He took a few steps toward the school, and then turned around when he heard the station wagon starting up again. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Of course. I’m just going to park the car around the front.”

  It dawned on Griffin. “You don’t want to be seen walking in with me.”

  His father sighed. “Try to understand. In my world, it’s never good to be associated with something that doesn’t work, especially when it has such a catastrophic side effect. I can’t have people worrying that my inventions might not be reliable.”

  Griffin nodded sadly. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll meet you back at the car after it’s all over.” He could feel his shoulders slumped a little lower as he carried the SH-10 inside. The one silver lining to the Invent-a-Palooza black cloud was that his father would be there to stand by him. And Dad would, but only from a distance.

  “Beep, beep! Championship invention coming through!” The stainless-steel bulk of the EGGS-traordinary bumped past Griffin, nearly causing him to drop his duffel bag. “Oh, hey, Bing. Nice day to get your butt kicked at inventing, huh?”

  “Let’s go, Darren. We haven’t got all day,” came Mr. Vader’s voice from the other side of the gleaming egg cooker.

  “Right, Dad.” But before moving on, he leaned over to Griffin and whispered, “Remind me to get you the latest draft of your speech, since you’ll be giving it at school on Monday. Hey, how many Os are there in moron?”

  “Yeah, good luck to you, too,” Griffin mumbled.

  He followed the Vaders through the loading bay, past an equipment locker, and into the large double gym. The Invent-a-Palooza logo was draped across a raised platform at the far end of the room. In front of it, tables had been set up where the young inventors would demonstrate their entries for the judges.

  Griffin scanned the audience in search of any friendly face. Nothing. No, there was Dad, climbing to the very last row of bleachers. He was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap with the brim pulled low. It was better than nothing, but not much better.

  And then his eyes fell on another familiar face — the last person he expected to see. He put down his duffel on the table beside his name and walked toward her. By the time he reached her place in the fourth row of bleachers, he was running.

  “Melissa, what are you doing here?”

  The curtain of hair parted, and the beady eyes peered out. “I came to cheer you on.”

  “It should be me cheering you on,” Griffin amended. “Your Hover Handler would wipe up the competition today — you know, if you still had it.”

  “Pitch and Savannah came over,” Melissa went on shyly. “I tried to send them away, but this time my parents made me listen.” She looked sheepish. “I’m glad I did. Pitch told me about Operation Recover Hover. All three phases.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t get it back for you in one piece.” He decided not to mention how many pieces there were by the time the plan was over — probably about fifty thousand.

  “I can’t believe you did all that for me.”

  “I was a jerk,” Griffin insisted. “I should have had the brains to see that you were the real inventor, not me. But everyone was making a big deal about my dad. And before I knew it, I was in that dumb bet with Vader. And then that boys-versus-girls stuff. It just got out of hand.”

  “I’m the one who should be saying sorry to you,” she countered. “I was so upset when my Hover Handler got stolen that I didn’t know how to react. So I kind of shut down. I almost went back to the way things used to be before I started hanging out with you guys. No Hover Handler is worth that.” She peered intently at him through a few stray strands of hair. “An invention is just a thing. Friends are way more important.”

  A compact bundle of gray fur came darting along the bleachers, followed by a hustling Ben. He grabbed Ferret Face by the tail and stuffed him back inside his shirt. “You are not going after the candy under the bleachers,” he said sternly. “I can’t take you anywhere these days.”

  Behind Ben, Pitch and Logan sidled along to take their seats.

  “I didn’t think you guys were coming,” Griffin commented.

  “What are friends for?” Pitch replied. “Savannah’s here, too, waiting in the parking lot with Luthor. Turns out, no dogs are allowed inside. She’s pretty steamed.”

  “How’s Luthor doing with the shock collar?” Griffin asked.

  “He isn’t,” Logan supplied. “Savannah couldn’t go through with it. She bought a regular collar that looks exactly like the shock one, and her parents don’t know.”

  “And does he still chase the exterminator’s truck?”

  Pitch shrugged. “It’s in the shop getting a new transmission, so he hasn’t had a chance to yet.”

  “Hey, listen, Griffin,” Ben put in enthusiastically. “Guess what we saw when Mr. Drysdale was driving us over here? Heartless is taking down his fence.”

  Griffin was not impressed. “Probably so he can put up a bigger one.”

  “That’s what I figured. But when we stopped to ask him about it, he said anyone who’s been oppressed by the government is family, and we can cross his property whenever we want to.”

  “Savannah’s dad seemed pretty weirded out,” Logan added. “But I think we got our shortcut back, and that’s the main thing.”

  Griffin sighed. “Well, at least something went right out of this whole mess.” He glanced at his watch. “I suppose it’s time to face the music.”

  “We’ll cheer for you,” Ben promised. “Even if we have to do it in the dark.”

  “Save your breath,” Griffin advised. “If you really want to help me, find a person with a decent invention and cheer like crazy for them. I’m a lost cause, but maybe — just maybe — there’s somebody who can beat Vader and get me out of that speech!”

  The judging began, school by school. Cedarville Middle School was up last.

  Great, Griffin thought bitterly. Prolong the agony. Make it last.

  As the inventions were introduced, one by one, Griffin’s heart sank farther into his sneakers. The other contestants were smart kids, but their entries were either lame gimmicks or recycled science fair projects. There was a pocketbook with a built-in interior light, a go-kart that ran on used French-fry grease, a smartphone app that organized all your other smartphone apps, a Santa-themed electric train that ran on a track that would circle your Christmas tree, a sharpener for meat scissors, a Foucault pendulum that wasn’t an invention at all, except by Foucault himself a hundred and sixty
–odd years ago, and on and on and on.

  It was painful, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking over at the gleaming form of Darren’s EGGS-traordinary. There was no chance for anybody else. Not that Darren had much part in creating it, beyond eating the finished product.

  A faint bark from outside the school reached his ears, and an insane plan began to form in Griffin’s mind. If he could somehow get Luthor in here to trash the Invent-a-Palooza, the paramedics might have to call off the competition before he had to present the SH-10. He even gave it a name — Operation Prevent-a-Palooza. It might have worked, too, if he’d had the foresight to get Savannah on board.

  “And now we move on to the final school of the competition, Cedarville Middle,” declared the PA announcer. “We begin with Darren Vader presenting the EGGS-traordinary.”

  It was a thousand times worse than Griffin had anticipated, which made it very bad indeed.

  A few minutes into the egg-cooking performance, steaming plates were rolling along the conveyor belt and into the hands of the judges for sampling. The audience, which had been pretty bored the whole time, began to come alive, breaking into applause and cheers as each new dish made its appearance. Chef Darren, Invent-a-Palooza’s darling, basked in the adulation of the crowd and never missed a chance to toss a leer in Griffin’s direction.

  Darren wasn’t just going to win this competition; they were probably going to crown him king.

  Griffin’s eyes locked with Ben’s in the bleachers. His friend wore an expression of deep sympathy.

  “And our last entrant of the day is Griffin Bing with his invention, the SH-10.”

  There was a smattering of applause, but most of the audience was still watching Darren, who was continuing to churn out egg dishes from his wondrous machine. Now he was loading his creations onto paper plates and passing them into the audience.

  “Uh — hi, everybody. My name is Griffin Bing. Have you ever asked yourself why motors on vacuum cleaners and other small appliances have to be so loud?” His voice sounded alien, high-pitched and unfamiliar, as it echoed around the big gym.