The Undertakers by Ty Drago Page B

around here.”
    I glanced at Sharyn, who shrugged. Then, feeling vaguely uneasy, I stepped around one of the lab tables and officially entered the Brain Factory. Steve looked me over. “We’re about the same size. How old are you?”
    â€œTwelve,” I replied. “How old are you?”
    â€œMy age isn’t relevant.”
    â€œHe’s fifteen,” Sharyn offered.
    â€œTake your shirt off,” Steve said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTake your shirt off.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œLook, do you want to help or not?”
    The fact was that I didn’t particularly want to help. I didn’t particularly care about water pistols at the moment. I just wanted to go home.
    Nevertheless I said, “I’ll help.”
    â€œThen take your shirt off.”
    â€œCan I, you know—keep my pants?”
    â€œOf course you can keep your pants!” he exclaimed.
    I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it to Sharyn, who sniffed it. “Phew! We’ve got to hook you up with some fresh clothes!” I almost said that I had a whole closet full of clothes back home, but I didn’t.
    Steve reached into a nearby box and pulled out a flat, rectangular plastic container with two long clear plastic tubes sticking out of either end. This he fitted around my stomach with a strap so the plastic container pressed against the small of my back. It was filled with water and felt cold against my skin. Then he fastened the tubes to my upper and lower arms with Velcro so each tube ran from my hand to the container against my spine. Each tube ended with a little plastic squeezable bulb that fit neatly in my palm.
    â€œNow,” Steve said, “put your shirt back on.”
    I did. The shirt hid the whole setup except for the plastic bulbs.
    â€œWhat’s it do?” I asked.
    â€œThe reservoir at your back holds saltwater. The pumps in your palms draw the water through the tubes and fire it out the ejectors behind them at high pressure. Try it out on the practice target.” Steve pointed to a mannequin that stood in front of a nearby concrete wall.
    â€œHow much’ll it hold?” Sharyn asked.
    â€œAbout a pint. But the reservoirs can be daisy-chained together so a person could wear up to four at once. That would give you about half a gallon.”
    Sharyn frowned. “Pretty heavy.”
    Steve nodded. “Well, weight’s always been a problem, hasn’t it? No way to make water lighter, after all. Go ahead, Bill—give it a try.”
    I sighed and raised my right arm, pointing my wrist at the target. Bending my middle and third fingers, I pressed down on the bulb.
    A spray of water shot from the curly antenna, hitting the mannequin square in the face.
    â€œSweet!” exclaimed Sharyn. “Try the other wrist!”
    Impressed, I switched arms and did it again. Another hit. Despite myself, I laughed. “I feel like Spider-Man.”
    Sharyn chuckled. “Do both hands together.”
    Steve protested, “No! Wait!”
    Too late. I raised both arms and fired—and the plastic reservoir on my back exploded, soaking my shirt and the seat of my pants. I cursed as cold water seeped into my boxers.
    Sharyn burst out laughing.
    â€œYou can’t fire both off at once!” Steve moaned. “To force water out one side, the other side has to be free to take in air! Otherwise you put too much pressure on the reservoir, and it pops its seams. Ugh! Look at this! Hold still, Bill—let me get it off of you.”
    I spun around, wet and irritated and suddenly very angry. “My name is Will!” I screamed into the older kid’s startled face. “Not Bill! Will!”
    Steve’s face paled, and he retreated. Behind him in the Brain Factory, the other kids stopped what they were doing.
    â€œSure,” he muttered. “Sorry.”
    Suddenly Sharyn was between us. “Chill out, dudes! Yo, Will, let Steve get that crap off