Chapter 28

“To put to rest our doubts.”

Spencer saw his dad’s jaw tighten beneath his trim beard. To everyone else, General Clean was Reginald McClean—an ex-warlock, commander of the Sweeper forces. He was an enemy without a shred of kindness or mercy.

But to Alan Zumbro, General Clean was an old friend. He was Rod Grush, Alan’s former coworker and partner. They had spent years together, working to uncover clues that would lead to the Auran landfill and the Manualis Custodem. But Rod Grush had betrayed Spencer’s father, a decision that had led to Alan’s detainment in the dumpster prison at New Forest Academy.

“When we met in my laboratory,” Clean said, “you didn’t believe that I would kill you.” He took a silent step toward Alan, his white lab coat swaying around him. “What do you think today?”

“Give us the magnet,” Spencer demanded.

“Stay out of this, boy,” answered the Sweeper. General Clean never took his eyes from Alan Zumbro. “I have a score to settle with an old friend.”

Alan finally acknowledged the big Sweeper. “What do you want, Rod?”

“A duel,” answered General Clean. “To put to rest our doubts.”

“What doubts?” Alan asked.

“You doubt that I would kill you,” said Clean. “I doubt that you would kill me.” He shrugged. “I see only one way to resolve this.”

He reached into his lab coat and withdrew a damp rag. Spencer felt sick when he saw it. The last time he’d witnessed Clean use the Glopified rag, it had caused the death of Walter Jamison. With a single crack of his damp rag, General Clean’s victims vanished without a trace.

“Choose your weapon,” said Clean. “And let me familiarize you with mine.” He dangled the rag as if he were displaying a fine cloth. It was wrinkled and stained, the hem slightly tattered. “The rag can tear through cloth and covering, dematerializing organic flesh on contact. Anything touching that flesh vanishes with it. Not even your Rebel coveralls can protect against my rag.” Clean’s reptilian mouth curled in a smirk. “I learned that the night I finished Walter Jamison.”

Spencer stepped forward, his teeth gritted in anger at General Clean’s casual mention of Walter’s death. But Alan held out a hand to steady his son.

Spencer saw his dad step forward, the hot sun causing a trickle of sweat to drip down the side of his face. “Razorblade,” Alan said, beckoning with his outstretched hand.

“This isn’t a fair duel!” Daisy cried. “Sweepers have to die twice!”

“Then my opponent will have to be twice as determined,” answered Clean.

Spencer withdrew a razorblade from his belt and pressed it into his father’s hand. “You don’t have to do this, Dad,” he whispered.

Alan slid his thumb along the button, extending the razorblade into a two-edged sword. The metallic sound echoed between the rows of storage units.

“Your boy is right,” Clean said. “You should think carefully. Do you have the mettle to kill an old friend?”

“I’ve thought long enough.” Alan leapt forward, swinging his razorblade in a downward arc. General Clean reacted, sliding easily out of the way.

Clean sidestepped, his rag parrying a thrust from Alan. They paced as only duelers can, weapons darting and flashing in the hot Florida sun.

Spencer positioned himself beside Daisy, the two kids huddling near the wreckage of the janitorial cart. It was clear that General Clean had the advantage. Being half Grime made his movements silent and swift.

The Sweeper sprang sideways, leaping off the wall and making an aerial whip for Alan’s head. Alan ducked aside, following up with a series of sharp thrusts as the Sweeper hit the ground.

“Give me the magnet!” Alan demanded. Clean’s tail swished out, and Alan barely managed to leap over it.

“You should have rescued all your people the first time,” said the Sweeper. He kept his left hand closed tightly around the Glopified magnet.

Spencer reached into his belt pouch and drew a pinch of vacuum dust. Clean was drawing closer, definitely within range. A simple Palm Blast would take the Sweeper down, and Alan could easily finish him.

“How will you do it, Alan?” Clean asked. “How will you kill me?” He whipped his rag, and the damp fabric wrapped around Alan’s blade as he parried the blow. “Will you stab me through the chest?”

Clean flicked the rag, angling the tangled razorblade back at Alan. The blade nicked Alan’s shoulder, but he refused to let go of the weapon. Spencer saw his dad wince in pain.

“Or,” Clean continued, “will you take my head?” The Sweeper tugged his rag upward, causing Alan’s arm to extend. They stood face-to-face, sweat dripping from their chins.

“I don’t need your head,” Alan said. “I just need your hand.”

With one swift movement, Alan Zumbro slipped his razorblade out of Clean’s rag and brought the sword around in a deft slice. The Glopified razorblade cut through General Clean’s forearm, completely severing the Sweeper’s left hand.

General Clean cried out in pain. His rag fell limply to the ground as he gripped the stump of his left arm, oozing with the pale slime of a wounded Grime. Clean staggered back, tumbling to his knees among the wreckage of the janitorial cart. Standing only a few feet behind him, Spencer saw the gruesome wound and looked away.

Alan took a step forward, the tip of his razorblade gently touching Clean’s broad chest. He needed only to thrust, and General Clean would die.

“You won’t,” muttered Clean. His voice was raspy and his breath short from the pain. “You won’t kill me. Even if it’s only the death of my Sweeper side. You don’t have the nerve to stab an old friend.”

Spencer saw his father hold the tip of the razorblade steady for several long seconds. The sun beat down on his bearded face, and his shirt was wet with sweat and blood.

Silently, Alan took a step back and closed his razorblade. “Get out of my sight,” he whispered.

Moving with all the speed and fluidity of a Grime, General Clean’s remaining hand snatched his limp rag from the ground and tucked it into the folds of his soiled lab coat. His long tongue shot out, stealing the razorblade from Alan’s grip. The Sweeper lunged backward, his wounded arm wrapping around Spencer as his tongue delivered the blade into Clean’s hand. The sword extended, its smooth edge pressed threateningly against the boy’s throat.

Spencer didn’t even have time to gasp. His pinch of vacuum dust fell uselessly to the ground. He squirmed against the big man’s grip, painfully aware of the sharp weapon pressed under his chin.

Clean’s tail lashed out like a whip, knocking Daisy back against the storage units as Alan stepped forward with his fists clenched.

“Let him go!” he demanded. Any trace of mercy that had glimmered in Alan’s eyes died when General Clean touched his son. The Sweeper began a slow retreat, dragging Spencer with him.

“The magnet!” Spencer cried. “Open the storage units!”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the severed hand lying on the pavement. The Grimelike fingers were still curled tightly around the magnet.

Daisy lunged for the fallen hand. Closing one eye in disgust at the task, she peeled back the sticky fingers, and the magnet rolled out of the grasp. Immediately, the polished metal locks ripped from the storage unit doors and came whizzing to the magnet in the girl’s hand.

In the hailstorm of flying locks, General Clean’s razorblade suddenly snapped shut. The big Sweeper leapt onto Spencer’s back, knocking the boy forward onto the pavement. Spencer pushed against him, rolling onto his side, but General Clean was gone.

“Where’d he go?” Spencer staggered to his feet, gaze casting down the rows of storage units. He knew the Grime Sweepers could move quickly, but Clean’s sudden departure was too fast. It was almost as if the General had vanished.

“I got the magnet!” Daisy shouted. She was holding it steady above her head, now a dozen shiny locks bent around its magical glow. The remaining Rebel prisoners threw open their doors and stumbled out into the sun.

Spencer was still scanning the area, searching for any sign of General Clean. His father’s hand on his shoulder caused him to startle.

“We have to get these last prisoners back to the landfill,” Alan said, gesturing toward the squeegee portal. Spencer nodded, finally giving up on wondering how Clean had escaped so suddenly.

“This way!” Alan said, leading the new batch of the Rebels back toward the portal.

Spencer approached Daisy, who still stood with the glowing magnet in hand. “How do I get these off?” she asked, pointing to the shiny locks that clung to the silvery orb of magic surrounding the magnet.

“Try to slide the whole thing into your belt pouch,” Spencer suggested. “The locks will fall off when the polish wears off.”

Daisy nodded, fighting to stuff the magnetic ball of locks into her pouch. Once the magnet was stowed, she slipped her hand free.

The recently freed Rebel prisoners were moving quickly, leaving their young rescuers behind. A shadow passed overhead, and Spencer looked up just as Dez landed beside him.

“Hurry up, you chumps,” Dez said. “Not sure how much longer those Rebel defenders can keep the squeegee portal open.”

Spencer nodded. They needed to get back to the landfill.

“I’d offer to give you a hand,” came a familiar voice from behind. “But it looks like you’ve already found one.”

Spencer turned to see Dr. Bernard Weizmann standing in the middle of the aisle, holding General Clean’s sundered hand. He twitched his pencil-thin mustache and waved Clean’s slimy hand at them in greeting.

“What’s with the creepy hand?” Dez asked.

“Eww,” Daisy said. “Put that down!”

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Bernard said with a wink. “You must have solved my garbology clues.”

Daisy nodded. “Your note was right. The Rebels are looking for something important. And we need Bookworm’s help to find it,” she said.

“We have his textbook back at the landfill,” Spencer explained. “Did the BEM take his lunchbox when they captured you at the Gates house?”

Bernard nodded. “I couldn’t ditch it fast enough. One of those Sweeper thugs threw the lunchbox in the moving truck along with everything else.”

“Where did all the stolen stuff end up?” Daisy asked, glancing across the island. “Are they keeping it here?”

Bernard dropped the severed Sweeper’s hand and tugged nervously at his aviator cap. “They’re not keeping the Rebel stuff at all.” He twitched his mustache. “They’re destroying it.”