The Brain Sucker Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also By Glenn Wood

  Lester Smythe has a black heart.

  He’s invented a dangerous brain-sucking machine that removes the goodness from its victims, and he’s using it to rid the world of all human kindness.

  But Lester didn’t count on thirteen-year-old Callum McCullock and his two best friends, Sophie and Jinx.

  The trio vow to destroy the brain sucker.

  And nothing will stand in their way.

  Prologue

  The shadow on the wall was of a small man with scraggly hair and a long, thin hook-shaped nose. It moved quickly through the city, stretching as its owner passed under street lamps then shrinking as he scuttled away.

  The man was dressed entirely in black. Black shoes, black socks, black jeans, black underwear (not currently on display), a black jacket and black gloves. If he had passed through an X-ray machine, it would have revealed that his heart was also black.

  The figure stopped outside a large, modern two-storey house that sat halfway down a leafy suburban street called Success Court. The number eleven was etched into the side of a stainless-steel letterbox. The house was bathed in darkness. Both the house and street were quiet and still. The man slipped behind a sculptured bush and crept through impeccably landscaped grounds. He moved to the rear of the property, stopping abruptly as a shaft of moonlight illuminated his reflection in a ground-floor window. He could make out the colour of his eyes: one brown and the other blue. He blinked, then his lips curled into a smile, revealing teeth that were pointed like the incisors of a rat.

  He checked the area for movement. Nothing. The yard was empty. The only sound was the tinkle of water cascading into a nearby birdbath.

  Stepping back from the window, the figure reached into his belt and removed a radar scanner and a GPS unit. He had designed the device himself. It would produce a thermal image of the interior of any building it was pointed at, highlighting the brainwaves of anyone in there. These images were then relayed back to the GPS viewer.

  The man examined the house methodically. He could see the brain patterns of two adults asleep in a large bed in a downstairs room. A peanut-shaped blip indicated that a cat slept at the bottom of a set of stairs, and two child-sized signatures were emitted from a bunk bed in an upstairs room.

  Placing the scanner and GPS unit back on his belt, he slunk along the side of the house until he stood directly beneath the children’s room. The window was partially open.

  The man reached for his tool belt once again and withdrew a box about the same size as a block of butter. He put the box under the open window and tapped the lid. It flipped opened with surprising speed, extending lengthways. Then, as if by magic, a ladder appeared and rose into the air. Rung after rung sprang silently from the box until the ladder was tall enough to reach the upstairs window. The man pushed a button on the side of the box and the ladder stopped growing. With a solid clack, the last few rungs snapped into place.

  The man began climbing. He moved with the grace of a cat, making no sound. Within seconds he was outside the children’s room.

  Opening the window a little wider, he studied the bedroom. It was compact and tidy, dominated by a double-bunk bed. Two boys aged between eight and ten slept soundly under matching superhero blankets. Their rhythmic breathing filled the room. A variety of toys were packed neatly into boxes at the end of the bed and clothing sat clean and folded in two sets of open drawers.

  A look of disgust crossed the man’s face.

  I bet they are good boys, he thought. Well, not for much longer.

  A transparent ball about the size of the head of a lollypop appeared in his hand. A purple mist swirled inside. The man squeezed the ball then rolled it onto the bedroom floor. After a few seconds the outer skin of the globe dissolved and the mist leaked into the room.

  “That’ll make sure you don’t wake up.”

  From beneath his jacket the man withdrew a device that looked like a thermos flask, except the cylindrical body of the thermos was made of clear perspex and it didn’t hold tea or coffee. Instead, it contained a minute engine. The man claimed the motor was powerful enough to suck the coat off a wombat, though no one was brave enough to ask him how he knew. Attached to the top of the device were a short fat tube and a suction cup.

  Holding the thermos in one hand, the man reached into his tool belt and took out a gasmask. He placed it on his face and crept further into the mist-filled room.

  One

  It was a big day for Callum McCullock.

  Not only was he turning thirteen, but sitting at the end of his bed was a brand-new jet black Thunderkit X5 All-Terrain wheelchair. He’d wanted a Thunderkit for over a year and his grandmother had finally relented.

  Callum needed the wheelchair because he was paralysed from the waist down. He’d been born with a defect in his spinal cord and his legs were completely useless. Well, not completely, Callum often joked, they made his jeans look good.

  Swinging out of bed, he grabbed a set of clothes from his bedside drawers, dressed in a hurry and hopped into the new chair.

  The Thunderkit was completely different from every other wheelchair he had owned. For one thing it was twice as expensive, but in Callum’s eyes it easily justified its cost. It had a five wheel set-up, with two small wheels at the front and a single stabilising wheel trailing behind two much larger main wheels. Both the front wheels and the trailing wheel contained nitrogen gas shock absorbers and were fully retractable. They were controlled by a digital console on the inside of the left armrest. The retractable wheel design meant that the Thunderkit was equally stable on uphill and downhill rides. All the wheelchair’s components were aeronautical grade and, amongst other things, it had a lightweight carbon-fibre moulded seat, toughened “super grip” push rims and a dynamic hand-operated braking system. And, unlike all his other chairs, which seemed like they’d been designed by fashion-challenged science geeks, this one looked cool.

  Callum could barely contain his excitement. If his new chair was as good as he hoped, it would make a big difference in his life. When you’re stuck in a wheelchair, mobility is everything, and the Thunderkit looked like it could conquer mountains, or at the very least the steps outside the corner shop.

  Desperate to test it out, Callum wheeled quickly but quietly out of the house. It was very early and he didn’t want to wake his grandmother. He made his way through the tidy cobbled streets of Thanxton, the village he’d lived in since birth, and headed for the steepest hill in town.

  Ten arduous minutes later he sat at the top of a steep, grassy slope. He leaned forwards and eyed the almost vertical, dew-covered gradient that lay before him. He drew a deep breath, ran a hand through his short, sandy-brown hair, retracted the Thunderkit’s trailing wheel and then pushed hard on the wheel rims, launching the chair down the hill. The wheelchair picked up speed, bucking over the uneven ground. Grunting with effort, Callum fought for control, suddenly swerving right to avoid a pig-shaped rock. He straightened and hung on as the chair careened down the slope
, wind whipping against his face, making his eyes stream. As the hill finally flattened out, a deep trench appeared directly in front of the speeding wheelchair. Callum grabbed the left handbrake and squeezed hard. The chair slid sideways, narrowly avoided the rut and juddered to a halt, its knobbly tyres cutting deep grooves in the grass.

  Callum’s chest thumped with exhilaration. He slapped the side of the Thunderkit, whooped and gave a satisfied nod, a huge grin on his face. He could never have pulled off that manoeuvre in his old wheelchair. He’d tried often enough, and every time it would tip over halfway down and slam him into the dirt.

  After he caught his breath Callum rolled onto the pavement and began the uphill slog back home. He moved fast, partly because he liked to feel the burn in his arms (feeling anything is good when you are a paraplegic), but mainly because he didn’t want to be late for breakfast. His grandmother disliked tardiness and Callum hated to disappoint her. He loved his grandmother and although she could be a bit strict at times, he knew she was really just a big softie. Not so soft, however, that his breakfast wouldn’t end up in the bin if he didn’t get a move on, which would be a shame because his grandmother had mad cooking skills.

  A few minutes later he was home. Jumping his wheelchair over the kerb, Callum rolled up the ramp to the front door. He grabbed a garden hose, washed the Thunderkit’s wheels, wiped them dry with a towel that was attached to the hose reel and went inside. He hurried into the kitchen, his stomach gurgling like a drain.

  Rose, Callum’s grandmother, stood by the stove, stirring a steaming pot of homemade baked beans. She was an elegant woman in her late somethingties. Her grey hair was cut conservatively and flattered her well-balanced features. Her make-up was light and age appropriate, and she wore a spotless apron over a simple but stylish dress. A sparkle flashed in Rose’s sharp blue eyes when she saw Callum, as it always did. She rushed over and gave him a hug.

  “Happy birthday,” she said with a smile. “Do you like the chair?”

  “It’s wicked, Gran. Thank you so much.”

  “You are very welcome, young man.”

  Callum broke the hug and gazed longingly at the beans bubbling on the stove. “Will breakfast be long?”

  “No. Your timing is perfect.”

  Rose returned to the stove, spooned the beans onto a plate and brought them to an immaculately set table.

  Callum dug right into the food, stuffing a huge forkful into his mouth.

  “Slow down, Callum. You’re a gentleman, not an animal,” tutted Rose. “And get your elbows off the table. Gracious me, where are your manners this morning?”

  Callum adjusted his position at the table and selected a daintier forkful of beans. “Sorry, Gran. I’m just really hungry.”

  “That’s still no excuse for rudeness, is it?”

  Callum shook his head.

  “It’s very important to be polite and respectful, Callum. In my opinion, the way we behave is the only thing separating man from beast. Well, that and opposable thumbs.”

  Callum wasn’t about to argue. He knew how important good behaviour was to his grandmother. She had been the headmistress at Thanxton School for forty years and was largely responsible for making the village the courteous place it was. The population was so polite that the village constable would arrest people with a pleasant “Sorry about this”. And even the town drunk would say an effusive “Pardon me” after every beer-fuelled belch.

  When Callum had finished his breakfast, he asked the same question he asked every year on his birthday: “Have you heard from Mum?”

  Rose shook her head.

  Cindy, Callum’s mother, was the younger of Rose’s two daughters. She’d got pregnant at seventeen and handed responsibility for Callum over to Rose from the moment he was born. Cindy wouldn’t tell anyone who Callum’s father was, and he clearly wanted nothing to do with the child, so the parental duties fell to Rose. Even though she had lost her husband earlier in the year and was still grieving, Rose was more than happy to raise Callum. It was an arrangement that suited both Rose and her daughter. Cindy was barely capable of looking after herself let alone a child. Besides, she was busy backpacking around the world and showed no interest in returning home. In fact, Cindy had only been in touch once, when Callum was five. She called to ask if she could change his name to “Moon Spirit”. Rose refused, to Callum’s relief, and they hadn’t heard from her since.

  “There might be something in the post,” said Rose without much hope. “I forgot to check it yesterday afternoon. I’ll have a look now.”

  Callum called, “Doesn’t matter if there’s not,” as his grandmother left the house. He was surprised to find that he meant it. His mother’s absence had been painful when he was younger and he often wondered who his father was but, as the years passed, he realised his grandmother was all he needed. She had always been there for him, the only constant in his turbulent life. He knew how difficult it must be for a woman of her age to look after him, especially with his disability, but she had never complained or made him feel like a burden. Quite simply, Callum could not imagine life without his grandmother.

  Rose came back into the house with a single letter in her hand. It was in a standard white envelope so Callum knew it wasn’t from his mum. Rose opened the letter and scanned its contents before placing it back in the envelope, the colour draining from her face.

  “What is it, Gran?”

  Rose waved him away. “Nothing,” she said unconvincingly.

  She put the letter in a drawer and gave Callum a peck on the cheek. “It’s just official nonsense. I’ll make some calls and everything will be fine. Now scoot or you’ll be late for school. And come straight home tonight please.”

  Rose hustled Callum out of the house. As he left, he couldn’t help feeling that his grandmother was keeping something important from him.

  After a short trip Callum arrived at the home of Sophie Barnsworth, his best friend.

  Sophie was in the workshop of her father’s garage, which is where she could be found most mornings. A welding torch glowed orange in her hand and she had almost disappeared behind a shower of sparks. A dirty, oil-stained pair of overalls covered her athletic frame and her shoulder-length chestnut hair stuck out beneath the back of a welder’s mask.

  When the sparks died away, Callum could see that Sophie was attempting to attach an unfeasibly large engine to the rear of a remote control battle tank. The tank was no longer the standard model you’d buy in a toy store. Sophie had “improved” it. The tank’s gun barrel had been reinforced and extended, obviously so it could fire a heavier payload. The body of the tank had also been strengthened, probably to take the strain of its new engine.

  Callum waited patiently while the torch flared again, first yellow then blue. Another shower of sparks cascaded around the workshop like a blizzard of fireflies. Once the engine was attached, Sophie turned and lifted the welder’s helmet to reveal a pretty face with pale skin and green eyes.

  She saw Callum and smiled. “It’s the birthday boy! Wow,” she said, eyeing the Thunderkit. “Sweet new ride.”

  Callum smiled back. “Thanks.”

  Sophie pulled a pocket-sized canvas bag from under the bench and handed it to her friend. “I made you a pressie.”

  Callum blushed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He reached into the bag and removed a black metal torch. The torch had two buttons on the top.

  “The first button turns on the light, which has a really powerful LED bulb,” said Sophie, excitedly. “Push the second button.”

  Callum did as he was told and almost dropped the torch when a metre-long metal rod shot out the end and locked into place.

  “What’s that for?”

  “To make it easier for you to reach light switches and stuff,” Sophie said with apprehension. She was worried that Callum might think she was implying he was helpless. He could be oversensitive about those kinds of things.

  Callum retracted the rod then fire
d it out again. He nodded, obviously impressed. “Thanks, Soph. That’s gonna be really useful.”

  Sophie was relieved. She pointed to the bag. “I’ve put some clips in there so you can attach it to the chair. And I’ve got you another present, which’ll be ready in a couple of days.”

  Callum opened his mouth to protest, but Sophie silenced him. “I’m doing it, so no arguments, okay, Cal?”

  Callum sighed and agreed. “Okay.” He clipped the torch bag onto the Thunderkit then looked towards the tank. “What’s with the armour? Are you thinking of invading a small country?”

  “Actually, this isn’t a weapon of war.” Sophie patted the tank. “It’s a weapon of peace.”

  “Care to explain how that works?” Callum moved closer and examined the gigantic gun barrel with some scepticism.

  “The Dudman twins have been chasing Churchill around the backyard with their remote control helicopter. So I’m going to persuade them to stop.”

  Mr and Mrs Dudman had recently moved to Thanxton, much to the displeasure of the village. They were an unpleasant couple and had brought their equally obnoxious twin sons, Wayne and Shane, with them. Since arriving, the twins had delighted in tormenting Churchill, the Barnsworths’ pet dog, who was a highly strung terrier that barked at its own shadow.

  Callum grinned. “You mean you’re going to blow their helicopter peacefully out of the sky.”

  “I’m just going to fire a warning shot. Once they see the awesome power of my modified centurion, that’ll be the end of it.”

  Sophie stroked the tank affectionately. “It’s classic military strategy. Show your enemy you have superior firepower and they back off.”

  Callum raised his eyebrows unconvinced.

  A sudden barrage of barks shattered the solitude of the normally quiet neighbourhood. An irritating buzzing came from the Barnsworths’ backyard.

  “Come on. It’s showtime,” said Sophie.

  With some effort she lifted the tank from the workbench, placed it on the ground and grabbed the remote control unit. She shed her overalls to reveal her school uniform underneath then headed outside.