About the Author

Michael Buckley, a former member of NERDS, now spends his time writing. In addition to the top-secret file you are holding, Michael has written the New York Times bestselling Sisters Grimm series, which has been published in more than twenty languages. He has also created shows for Discovery Channel, Cartoon Network, Warner Bros., TLC, and Nickelodeon. He lives with his wife and their son, but if he told you where, he’d have to kill you.

This book was art directed and designed by Agent Chad W. Beckerman. The illustrations were created by Agent Ethen Beavers.

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The Cheerleaders of Doom

By Michael Buckley

Read NERDS: Book Three today!

Contrary to the belief of nearly everyone who knew him, Heathcliff Hodges was not insane. All you had to do was ask him. Sure, he was angry and irrational and had attacked several of the guards at the Arlington Hospital for the Criminally Insane, but anyone would react that way if they had to sit in the group therapy room 414 three hours a day learning how to hug. Every day he and a collection of insane misfits talked about their feelings. It was driving him bonkers.

“I almost destroyed the world,” Dr. Trouble cried, tears streaming out of the eye holes of the huge black mask he refused to take off his head. It had big antler-like appendages that were incredibly distracting. They were also prone to poking the other patients in the eyes. “I mean, I was this close! If I could have just gotten my mystic pyramid to line up correctly with the path of the sun I would have fried the entire Earth like an egg!”

“You’ll get another chance,” Ragdoll said, leaning over to give him a hug. She was annoyingly supportive of the other patients in group therapy, which baffled Heathcliff. Ragdoll had built a machine that turned an entire town into paper dolls. Where was her compassion when half the population of Athens, Georgia, was flattened like a pancake?

“No, I won’t!” Dr. Trouble cried. “The sun only aligns in that precise manner every one thousand years. I blew it!”

“You could always clone yourself,” said Scanner. His high-tech suit worked like a photocopier, producing unlimited and perfect copies of himself. He had used his duplicates to help rob banks from Arlington to Dallas. Seemed like a great plan to Heathcliff; unfortunately, the fool had run out of toner ink during a heist. “Make a copy of yourself and pack it away for a thousand years. That’s what I’d do.”

Dr. Dozer smiled at the group. “Those are all good ideas, but let me remind you that they are also against the law. Does anyone have any legal ideas that might make Dr. Trouble feel better?”

The room was silent as the patients blinked.

Dr. Dozer frowned. “OK, well, we’ll work on that next time. For now, I’ve noticed that Heathcliff hasn’t spoken.”

“Don’t call me that,” Heathcliff snarled.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor replied. “Would you prefer your other name? Simon?”

“I’ve given up on that one, too,” he said.

“Then what are you calling yourself?”

Heathcliff grimaced. “I haven’t decided.”

“Well, until then, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the group?”

Heathcliff looked around the room with disgust. He considered keeping his thoughts to himself but then wondered if getting a few things off his chest might not make him feel better after all.

“I hate all of you!”

“Hey!” Scanner cried. “That’s not very positive!”

“Scanner, Heathcliff has a right to express his anger. This is a safe harbor,” Ragdoll said.

Heathcliff turned his angry eyes on Ragdoll. “I particularly despise you!”

Ragdoll whimpered.

“I’m losing my mind,” he continued. “And yes, I get the irony that this is a mental hospital, but I was perfectly sane when I was dragged in here. Do you know what it’s like to sit in my room without any diversions—no books, no television, no explosives! All day and all night I have to listen to my roommate, Chucky Swiller, giggle like an idiot at the boogers he digs out of his nose!”

“Let’s be honest. This isn’t about your situation. This is about the teeth, isn’t it?” Dr. Dozer asked.

Heathcliff frowned. “Yes! My amazing, glorious, magnificent hypnotizing teeth! Knocked out by a lucky punch from one of my bitterest enemies. And now, look at me. I’m powerless. Just some regular kid with a genius level intelligence—surrounded by morons!”

He hunched down into his chair and tried to avoid their pitying eyes. What he didn’t want to tell anyone was that, along with the therapy, the empty space where his teeth had been was driving him crazy. He had developed the habit of poking his tongue in and out of the empty cavern, with its coppery-tasting hole, over and over again. He did it day and night as if his tongue might probe once more and find that his front teeth had suddenly returned from a long summer vacation. He could stand it no longer!

He leaped from his chair and yanked it off the ground. With all his strength he hefted it against a nearby window, which shattered on impact. Heathcliff dashed for it—ready to cut himself to pieces if it meant escape—but before he even reached the jagged window frame two hulking guards were on him. Both of the men were easily six foot seven inches tall, all muscle, with shaved heads and sour faces. They wrapped him in a snug straitjacket and shackled his hands and feet with chains that linked into a padlock at his chest. They slipped a hard plastic mask over his face to prevent him from biting anyone, then hoisted him onto a dolly.

“You do realize that when I rule this world you will suffer?” he seethed.

“I believe you’ve made that clear,” a guard said.

“You dare mock me? You will be the first to taste my merciless rage,” Heathcliff grumbled.

“Pipe down!” the other guard said. “You’ve got a visitor.”

Heathcliff was rolled into the visitors’ room. It wasn’t much more than a long hallway, lined with cubicles. Each had a chair that faced a thick glass window. Many of the hospital’s patients were too dangerous to have direct contact with visitors, so the visitors sat on the other side of the window and communicated by telephone.

The guards propped up Heathcliff next to a window. On the other side was a familiar face—his goon. The man looked like he’d lost a fight. One of his eyes had gone blind and his hair had a peculiar streak of white running down it.