The Flinkwater Factor (6 page)

13

Corp
us Callosum

“I embedded some images of J.G. in the Brazen Bull animation,” Billy said.

“I know. I saw them,” I said.

“You did?”

“Yeah. So did Barney.”

He gave me an uncomprehending look. “Who's Barney?”

“My cat! He totally spazzed.”

“Oh. Um  . . . so you didn't bonk?”

“Do I look bonked to you? Don't answer that. I took precautions.”

“Interesting that not everybody bonks,” Billy said.

“Wait—are you saying that you were intentionally putting people in a coma?”

“No! I just wanted to make people hate J.G.”

“Everybody already hates J.G.,” I said.

“I thought by putting those images in everybody's head I could kick it up a notch. I didn't expect the  . . . er  . . . side effects. Like I said, it's got to be the WDK Factor. Something in the way the system executed my commands caused a feedback loop in the corpus callosum. At least, that's one theory.”

The corpus callosum, in case you don't know, is a thick, fibrous band of nerve tissue that connects the left brain to the right brain. It works sort of like the northbridge chip in an antique PC, shunting informa­tion back and forth between the brain halves, so that the right brain (the feeling and ­visualizing half) and the left brain (the logic and language half) can operate in sync. If the corpus callosum is damaged, you get a person who can only read with one eye and only cry with the other.

At least that's how my biology teacher explained it. I'm sure it's way more complicated than that, but I'm trying to get to the part that you actually want to know about, which is
How come all the bonking?

“I think it has to do with cognitive dissonance,” Billy was saying. “That's when you have two incompatible things going on in your head at the same time.”

“I
know
what cognitive dissonance is,” I said. I didn't really, but I didn't want Billy to think I was stupid.

“Anyway,” he continued, “those images of J.G. must have caused a feedback loop in the corpus callosum. I have an idea how we can fix it.”

“With the Projac?”

“Yeah. You ever hear of electroconvulsive therapy?”

“Wasn't that a twentieth-century torture technique?”

“Actually, it's still used to treat depression and a bunch of other stuff. Basically, you run a current through somebody's brain to reboot them.”

“How do you know about stuff like that?”

“I was reading about ways to make my brother less of a jerk.”

“And now what? Are you planning to walk into the hospital and start blasting people with the Projac?”

He grinned. “We'll start with J.G.”

“Why J.G.? He's the last person I'd want to wake up.”

“True. But this is an experimental treatment. If the shock turns him from a vegetable into a ­fungus  . . . I'd just as soon it be J.G. and not somebody else.”

“Brotherly love,” I muttered.

“Have you ever had your nostrils glued together?”

I'd thought the hospital was crowded last night, but that was nothing compared to this. Now there were unconscious people on gurneys lined up along the hallways, laid out on the carpet in the lobby, and propped up on chairs in the waiting room. It took us twenty minutes to find J.G. He was stashed in a second-floor room with four other vegetating victims. A tired-looking nurse was checking on them. We stood politely by and waited for her to leave.

Johnston George was a nice-looking kid when he was comatose. You might mistake him for the sort of boy who would walk an elderly woman across the street or help a kitten down out of a tree—even though he would be more likely to trip the old lady and set fire to the cat.

As soon as the nurse left the room, Billy pulled the Projac out of his pocket and pointed it at J.G.'s head.

“Wait!” I said. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Nope,” said Billy.

He pulled the trigger.

14

Awake
nings

The flash of a Projac is not as bright and colorful as the ray guns you see in science fiction movies. It was more like the beam of a dim flashlight in a dusty room. Its sound was wimpy too—sort of like the
ghaaak
sound Barney makes when he barfs up a hairball. But the gun's effect on J.G. was dramatic. His body elevated itself off the bed as if the mattress had exploded.

J.G. bounced off the mattress and sat up, looking around wildly. He did not look so nice anymore. His eyes landed on Billy.

“You little
turd
!” J.G. croaked. “I'm gonna—”

Billy pulled the trigger again. In fact, he pulled it three more times, sending J.G. into all manner of airborne convulsions. When he flopped down on the bed for the final time, J.G.'s eyes were pointing in two different directions
and his tongue was hanging out—but at least he was unbonked.

“It worked,” said Billy, gazing with wonder at the Projac.

J.G. was beginning to move again. “Maybe we should go,” I said.

“Right. But first  . . .” Billy took aim at one of the other bonked patients—it happened to be Theo Winkleman, the very first SCIC victim—and zapped him. Theo convulsed, his eyes popped open, and he sat up, looking around confusedly.

I said, “Billy! You can't just randomly shoot people!”

“You
shot
me?” Theo said.

Billy aimed the Projac at the next patient.

I grabbed his arm. “Wait! We don't know how much power that thing has left. We have to make sure we wake up the right people first.”

J.G.'s eyes were coming back into focus. He was trying to sit up.

“Time to go,” I said.

We found my dad on the third floor. He had his own private room. My mom was sleeping in a side chair next to his bed. She looked half-bonked herself.

“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Billy whispered.

“Better let me,” I said. “He's my dad.” I took the
Projac and aimed it. “Do I shoot at his head, or anywhere?”

“I don't think it matters,” Billy said.

It felt too weird to point the gun at my dad's head, so I shot him in the chest.

It worked instantly. His eyes opened and he sat up, putting his hands to his head to make sure it was still attached. My mom, awakened by the
ghaaak
of the Projac, had a similarly bewildered expression.

“Dad? Are you okay?” I asked.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You bonked,” I said.

He noticed the Projac in my hand and his eyes widened.

As I have mentioned, the Projac was a top secret weapons project, and the fact that it was being wielded by his very own daughter was almost enough to send him straight back into his coma.

But before he could say anything, four men charged into the room waving guns, shouting at us to
flinking
get our gosh darn derrieres on the
flinking
floor. Except that wasn't
exactly
what they said.

I immediately dove for the floor, but Billy just stood there with his mouth hanging open, staring in admiration and disbelief at the display of raw testosterone and SWAT team weaponry.

Luckily, they didn't shoot him.

1
5

The Most Popular Kid in Flinkwater

You'd think we would be hailed as heroes for saving the people of Flinkwater from SCIC, but that wasn't what happened. Instead of getting our pictures taken while receiving the key to the city and a big fat reward check, Billy and I got our pictures taken at the police station, holding nine-digit numbers under our chins.

The charges? Stealing an illegal weapon. Possessing an illegal weapon. Firing an illegal weapon. Assault with an illegal weapon.

Fortunately, the Projac was
so
illegal and
so
top secret that ACPOD security—aka my dad—whisked us out of the police station a few hours after we were arrested and managed to get the whole affair hushed up.

Sort of.

Because even after Billy and I cured SCIC and all the hospitalized people went home and the Brazen Bull was deleted from every tablet, desktop, and phone in Flinkwater, the DHS remained. You could hardly walk down the street without seeing a few black, tinted-windowed SUVs patrolling the streets.

As soon as they gave us our phones back, I called Uncle Ashton.

“Ginger, baby, I've been worrying about you! Are y'all still bubbled?”

“Not so much,” I said. I told him about me and Billy and the Projac. “The fence is mostly still there, but they've opened the roads in and out of town. The airport is open. And we got our tabs back.”

“That's a heck of a tale,” he said. “How's your momma?”

“She's still a little cranky.”

He laughed—a torture test for the little speaker in my phone.

“Ginger, baby, your mama knows more about cranky than a pit full of rattlesnakes. Is the DHS is still hanging around?”

“Yeah. But I don't know why.”

“They're gonna be hard to get rid of, punkin. How's your hacker boyfriend doing?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I said, thinking,
Not yet, anyway
.

Uncle Ashton chuckled.

“Besides,” I said, “Billy didn't do it on purpose.”

“Not saying he did. But maybe there's more than one gator in that hole. When a primary government contractor like ACPOD gets hacked, the DHS ain't gonna believe it was just because some kid got bullied by his brother. Not sure I believe it either. Something don't smell right. That Brazen Bull, punkin, might be jest a cud-chewing heifer straddlin' a rattler den.”

Uncle Ashton can be overly fond of animal metaphors. And, as I've mentioned, he's kind of paranoid. I'm
sure
he used to be a spy.

“Are you saying the DHS is going to stay in Flinkwater?” I said.

“Baby, they're like ticks on a hound.”

As for J.G., Billy's revenge backfired. Everybody who had viewed the subliminalized Brazen Bull became weirdly fascinated by J.G. Even though they had no
conscious
memory of it, his face was embedded in their
sub
conscious. Girls were literally
throwing
themselves at him, and guys who had always avoided contact with J.G. for fear of wedgies or worse suddenly wanted to be his friend.

Stunned and flattered by all the attention, J.G. forgot that he was a psychotic monster and started acting like a regular person.

Billy had a theory, of course.

“They don't consciously remember what they saw on the screen. All they know is that J.G. is somehow special, and they want to be special too.”

“Some revenge. You've made him the most popular kid in Flinkwater.”

“At least he's not gluing people's nostrils together.”

That was true. Billy's attempt to avenge himself on his brother had accidentally-on-purpose made the world a better place.

But not for long. I'd like to say that we went back to what normally passes for normal in Flinkwater, but I'd be lying. Uncle Ashton was right. Compared to what happened next, the Brazen Bull was nothing but a cud-chewing heifer. Standing over a rattlesnake den.