Project X-Calibur

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group

Published by The Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com

Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributedin any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher.G. P. Putnam's Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.Purchase only authorized editions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

ISBN 978-1-101-60329-1

Lightning bolt image courtesy of Etienne du Preez/Shutterstock.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assumeany responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Abby.
Dream big.

1

161:42:09

I HAD MOTOR OIL
in my eyes, and it stung.

Luckily I knew the underside of a pickup truck like the back of my hand, so finishing the oil filter change with my eyes closed was no biggie. I dug the heels of my sneakers into the dirt and slid closer to the empty filter housing. With the truck an inch above my face and every tiny pebble beneath me digging into my back, wiping my eyes wasn't an option. I blindly grabbed the new oil filter, swept my arm out to my side, then brought it around to twist the filter into place. Even with my eyes on fire I grinned: I was that much closer to fifteen bucks.

I slid out from under the truck and opened my eyes. They still burned, but my hazy view wasn't a problem; I also knew my town and everything in it like the back of my hand. Thing is, that wasn't really something to brag about, considering Breakwater was about as un-special as a place can be: a one-bowling-alley, one-movie-theater (with
one
screen) town. We didn't have tumbleweeds blowing through the streets, but it wasn't Manhattan, either.

I turned and hurried through the back door of the diner where Mom worked, my eyes brimming with hot tears as I barreled through the kitchen.

“Hey, Ben—what's shakin'?” Denny, the diner's owner and cook, chirped as the door slammed behind me. He was cooking up his specialty, a greasy culinary monstrosity he affectionately called “The Mess.”

Denny let me use the lot behind his diner as an auto workshop whenever I needed it, probably because Mom was the best waitress he had and he wanted to keep her happy. “Gotta wash my eyes,” I blurted. I stumbled into the bathroom and jammed my elbow against the light switch. The overhead fluorescents flickered, illuminating pale green stained with decades of airborne cooking grease.

I leaned over the tiny sink. Even the water felt greasy on my skin, but pretty much all the water in Breakwater felt that way, as if the town only got the stuff that nobody in Dallas or Houston wanted.

I scrubbed my eyes and, as my world finally came into focus, looked at myself in the mirror. I didn't look much like my parents. My dad had been a firefighter, but he'd died almost a year ago, when I was twelve, so it was just me and Mom. Sometimes I got angry at him for leaving us like he did, but he was just doing his job, and doing it
well.
He really deserved the last name Stone. He was tall and strong, with shoulders like the top ledge of a brick wall. I often wondered if there was any way I'd “blossom” (Mom's word, not mine) into a man like he was. But honestly, the last word that came to mind when looking at me was “Stone.”
Styrofoam,
maybe.

I turned to leave, but before I could make it out, the door on the bathroom's one stall swung open. A small boy stared up at me.

“Greetings,” he said with a smile.

He looked about eight years old. He wore a checkered short-sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up, a fishing hat, and bulky cargo shorts. Black socks poked out of his white sneakers. Total dork.

I gave him a quick nod. I had more important things to worry about, like collecting fifteen bucks from Todd Byers, who was supposed to be waiting inside the diner for me.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Splendid, Benjamin.”

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet, you don't.”

My eyes narrowed. He was
weird,
and I wasn't in the mood for games. I probably should have turned and left, but that didn't feel right. I grabbed his hand.

“C'mon. I'll get you back to your folks.”

It was the Sunday dinner rush: lots of clanking utensils, talking, and chewing. The twelve booths (six along each side wall) were jammed full of kids wearing baseball or football uniforms, celebrating weekend victories or drowning their losses in boatloads of shakes and ice cream. This kid didn't belong with any of them. For one thing, he wasn't wearing a uniform, and for another, he didn't look very athletic to me (unless you consider fishing a sport, which I don't).

I spotted Mom darting around the cluster of tables in the center of the diner. She had plates of food balanced on her arms, and gave me a wink as she passed.

“Which ones are your parents?” I asked the kid, yelling over the noise. He didn't answer.

I scanned the diner, but didn't see a set of anxious parents or Todd anywhere. I leaned down. “Look, dude—I want to help you, but I gotta collect money for a job. It's kind of important.”

“My parents aren't here,” he said calmly. “I can assure you of that.”

I wasn't this kid's babysitter. But I couldn't leave him, and I couldn't afford to stand there for two minutes. I grabbed his hand again and maneuvered around the crowded tables. I finally spotted Todd wedged into a corner table with his friends up at the front.

Todd's parents owned one of the biggest wheat farms in Texas. Apparently, working on a farm does wonders for muscle tone, because Todd was built like a Transformer, which made him the king of middle school football. On top of that, he
drove.
You could legally get a license at fourteen if you worked on a farm—of course, you were only supposed to drive farming vehicles, and only within a half-mile radius of the farm. But Todd never paid attention to the rules, and no one ever gave him trouble.

He spotted me as I approached. “You done with my truck yet, Stone?” he barked, scrunching his cinder block–shaped face.

I held up a finger and hurried out front with the kid.

“Do you see your folks?” I pressed. “Or their car?”

The kid turned to me, and for the first time, I got a good look at his face under that hat. He was pasty pale, and since everyone around here was always sunburned, I knew the little guy wasn't from Breakwater. And there was something about his eyes that bugged me. They were . . . creepy somehow.

“I need your assistance, Benjamin,” he said, straightening and crossing his arms. His little face was strangely determined.

“Yeah. That's what I'm trying to—”

“No. I appreciate your concern for my well-being. In fact, I anticipated it. And it's commendable that you've taken it upon yourself to earn money at this young age.”

Commendable? My young age?
I was at least five years older than he was! The kid was definitely a hoop shy of a basketball court.

“I'm saying that we
all
need your assistance. Urgently.”

“All who?” I squinted against the sun beaming off the jumble of cars in the lot.

He spoke softly, leaning close. “Mankind.”

I grabbed his hand again. “If you don't want my help, then I'll get Denny to call Sheriff Tulley.
He
can find your folks. What's your name, anyway?”

I glanced into the diner windows. Todd and his buddies weren't at their table anymore.
Not
good. I'd left Todd's keys on the seat of his truck.

My stomach sank. I rushed back into the diner, turning to the kid as I went.

“Listen, stay right here until I—”

But the kid was gone now, too.
Fast little bugger.
Maybe he's athletic after all.

“
Really
not good,” I seethed, then slalomed around the crowded tables, through the kitchen, and blasted out back to find Todd and his buddies already in his truck with the engine rumbling.

“Wait!” I shouted, running with all I had. “When are you going to pay me for the oil change?!”

Todd sneered: He'd pay me when bacon flies. He gunned the gas and surged past me, so close I had to jump out of the way. I ended up on my butt, coughing through his exhaust. As I sat there and watched his truck barrel away, I thought of Dad. Sometimes, when I missed him more than usual, Mom would say not to worry because
Your father is always with you, always watching.

I wondered what Dad would think of me sitting in a cloud of dirt and truck exhaust. Would he be disappointed? If
I
was a bona fide hero, I'd sure as heck be disappointed in a son who couldn't even collect fifteen bucks from a meathead like Todd Byers.

The back door of the diner opened and Denny came out, holding two trash bags. He stopped halfway to the Dumpster when he saw me.

His brow furrowed. “You okay, Benny-boy?”

“Awesome,” I replied blankly.

Denny tossed the garbage and plodded back inside. A few moments later, Mom emerged. I got up and dusted myself off as she walked over.

“Everything alright, honey?”

“Todd left without paying me for an oil change, that's all. I'll get it from him at school.” I tried to sound casual.

Mom reached out and brushed some of the dirt off my shoulders. “Are you heading home now?”

I nodded. If I said much more, she might have heard the disappointment in my voice, and I didn't want her worrying.

“I'll see you after my shift,” she said, forcing a tiny smile. “I'll make a late dinner, then we'll watch some TV?”

“Okay, Mom.”

I swallowed hard. She put her hand under my chin and tilted my head up. Sometimes I swear she could read my mind.

“I love you, honey.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

I gathered my tools and put them in my rusty toolbox, then walked around the side of the diner. My thoughts turned to what that weird little kid had said.

We all need you. Urgently.

All who?

Mankind.

“What a little nut-job,” I muttered.