by Max Brallier
But I don’t have time to think about that—I hear stomping and cracking in the distance. The Rifters and Ogres will soon be back.
I take a slow step forward.
I don’t want to get attacked by a creature who could easily claw me to death. But I also can’t let the Rifters deliver this creature to Thrull. If I do that, I’m basically just serving him our surrender on a silver platter. . . .
I swallow—and I inch closer. I see nothing evil or cruel behind the creature’s blinking eyes.
In fact, the blur-creature’s confused, frightened face reminds me of something else entirely: the Wakefield Hound.
Okay, so, quick aside.
The Wakefield Hound was our school mascot. But instead of stuffing some teacher into a big ol’ dog costume, our genius gym coach decided to use his real-life, actual dog: Mr. Peppers the chihuahua. “For authenticity!” he said.
Well, guess what? Mr. Peppers hated it! Every time they jammed that poor fella into that costume, he’d freak, and then this would happen—
But I had a hunch that little pup was no man-eater. It was bunk. So, naturally—as a reporter—I wrote a story about it. The headline was a doozy—
BARKING NEWS!
MR. PEPPERS ISN’T MEAN, HE’S JUST PAWS-ITIVELY MISERABLE!
The story was a sensation! Everyone stopped trying to stuff him into a costume, and he went back to being a friendly, happy dog.
What I’m saying is, sometimes being scared and being hurt makes you act like you’re mean. Maybe that’s the case with this creature.
“Hey,” I say, inching closer. “I’m just gonna free you, okay? Then you go your way, and I’ll go mine. And you don’t let them find you again, cool? ’Cause you don’t want any Thrull in your life—trust me.”
I stand over the creature and grab the polearm, careful not to get too close.
I twist and turn, trying to wrench it out of the ground, feeling like a post-apocalyptic King Arthur.
It loosens.
An inch. Two inches.
The creature is able to move now—but just barely. As I twist again, the creature strains and manages to look back at me.
That’s when the weird thing happens—the weirdest thing in a day full of weird things.
As it stares into my eyes, there’s a sudden—
KA-SKAK!
Like radio static. . . .
A sudden surge of images pass across my vision, like someone’s flipping through TV channels at warp speed. I see—
Something flying through the air.
Something that looks like a nest.
Something like a glowing tornado.
And then I just see BLACK. I move my eyes back and forth, but still nothing. Then color and light, and I realize it’s Globlet.
“I put my hands over your eyes ’cause you were being weird.”
“Uh-huh . . .” I mumble.
My mind is a hazy, speeding jumble. That felt like one of those tired-beyond-tired moments at school, where you fall asleep in the back of the bus or in class. It’s not like a full dream—it’s something else. . . .
Like a trance.
I can imagine the look on my face. It’s a look I’ve seen before. Nearly a year ago, back when—
RAWRRR!
“June! Watch out!” Globlet squeaks.
Too late. My hand is ripped from the polearm! I’m snatched by a big, butt-ugly brute’s enormous grubby paw.
“Let go!” I shout. I’m kicking and thrashing, lifted into the air until, suddenly, I’m face-to-face with the Boss Rifter.
“Interferin’ with my catch, is you?” asks the Boss Rifter, though he’s not so much asking as he’s accusing.
“No, no,” I say. “I would never. I just, um . . .”
Come on! I mentally order myself. What would reporter June do? But this Ogre is squeezing so hard I can’t remember anything but the first thing I ever learned about news—the ol’ who, what, where, when, why.
So, just as it feels like my insides are about to explode, I burst out—
The Boss Rifter cocks his head, confused for a moment—good. Maybe I’ve thrown him off-guard with my flurry of hard-hitting questions.
But then he leans in—so close I can smell his fetid breath. “I’m doin’ the inquirin’ here, not you,” he snarls.
“Actually,” I say. “That’s not how I like to operate. Normally, I find an interview goes best if—”
KA-SLAM!
The Ogre punches the dirt next to me, and I feel the ground shake.
The Boss Rifter says, “You talk a lot. Creatures that talk a lot is usually up to something. You plannin’ to deliver the wingzer to Thrull, izit? So you and your blubber buddy here gets the credit?”
Before I can get any clarification on that, Globlet hops out from behind my back. “HEY! I’M NOBODY’S BLUBBER BUDDY!”
The Boss Rifter snaps, “Silence, jelly ball!”
“Lemme at him,” Globlet whispers.
The Ogre’s hand tightens and pulls us closer. The Boss Rifter says, “My bunch tracked the beast and my bunch trapped the beast! And soon, right, it’ll be my bunch that gives it to Thrull.”
“Dude,” I say. “Believe me. I’m not trying to give anything to Thrull.”
Except a swift kick in the butt. In my head, I kick a lot of butts.
The Boss grunts, and I realize now he’s suspicious of why I wouldn’t want to give Thrull a gift. Great, I’ve really put my foot in it this time.
Wait. My foot. That’s it! I spot the polearm still jutting out of the ground and know what I have to do. Just gotta keep the Boss distracted. . . .
“So, what’s with the gift for Thrull? Is it his birthday or something?
“Like you don’t know what’s happenin’. Ev’ry creature in this rotten dimension knows. Thrull is the big boss now,” the Boss Rifter says.
He’s studying my face, then Globlet’s. Finally he notices the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster, and grabs at it. “And whadda we have here?”
“IT’S AN OVERSIZED WATCH AND SHE WEARS IT WHEN SHE WANTS TO FEEL FANCY!” Globlet shouts. “NOW BACK OFF.”
The Boss laughs. “I think my ogre’ll be crushin’ you, now. The both of you. Yep, you’ll both be crushed good.”
My dangling foot can feel the bottom of the polearm. It’s close. . . .
As the Ogre squeezes tighter, the top of my foot finds the polearm and I manage to—
Suddenly, there’s a FLASH of movement beneath us. I see a blur of color—a spark of neon light—as the creature darts away!
“GET IT!” the Boss shrieks. The Ogre lunges out, paw opening, and Globlet and I crash to the ground.
The creature speeds across the playground, almost slithering. The Ogre chases after it— squashing swing sets and stomping over slides.
I watch—relieved—as the creature disappears, escaping by diving and drilling down into a sandbox.
“We’re getting outta here!” I say.
“Don’t narrate it!” Globlet says. “Just do it!”
I grab the polearm from the ground, and then we’re racing back the way we came, I spot a half-open manhole cover—just enough room to slip in.
I glance back.
The Ogre stomps his foot in frustration, the Boss Rifter scowls. The creature got away.
But I watch for a moment too long—because the Boss Rifter suddenly turns, locking eyes with me.
He looks at me like, You won this round, but there will be another . . . soon. . . .
And then Globlet and I disappear into the darkness. . . .
chapter nine
“We’ll walk this sewer until we’re far away from that lousy playground,” I tell Globlet. “Then we’ll come back up and find our way home.”
“Genius! Geni
us!” Globlet exclaims.
But the farther we walk, the less I like my plan. The sewer is dark and slimy. Dirty water and garbage rush beneath my feet, and sometimes I’ll hear a crunch that sounds suspiciously like breaking bone.
Only Globlet’s glow guides us. I hold her out like I’m some old-timey, Ebenezer Scrooge inn-keeper. . . .
When we finally come to another open manhole cover, it’s been hours. I’m so eager for fresh air that I don’t care where it takes us—I just climb up and out.
“I’m happy to be out of these tunnels!” Globlet chirps. “All that glowing was making me sleepy.”
“Only problem,” I say, looking around at our new surroundings. “Now I have even less of an idea where we are. . . .”
“I know where we are!” Globlet proclaims triumphantly. “This is the place you call Earth!”
I sigh. She suddenly looks concerned.
We’re in one of those just-built-yesterday neighborhoods, where every house is almost identical to every other house, and the only way you can remember which one is yours is if you plant some tulips or something. Then every time some parent is dropping you off, you gotta say, “It’s the one with tulips out front!” But then it snows and the tulips die and nobody knows the difference anymore.
There aren’t any tulips here now.
Just an endless web of thick, pulsating Vine-Thingies that weave the houses together.
“I just want to get home.”
But that’ll be easier said than done. We walk. And walk. And walk. And it’s not just that every house looks like same. Every street looks the same. And they’re all named after trees!
I go left onto Maple Street, which turns onto Pine Street, and loops us around to Poplar Street. Where even are we?
We pass a huge, snaking Vine-Thingy that I’m sure we’ve passed before. The houses are rotting while the Vine-Thingies are flourishing.
“I need a sec, Globlet,” I finally say, as I take a seat on the ground. “My legs are like rubber.”
“I know the feeling,” Globlet says.
Just then, I look over.
And I gasp.
“No, Globlet!” I groan. “That means we’re going in circles! We’re lost!”
A scary question starts gnawing at my insides. What if we don’t make it back? What if we’re not just lost but we’re, like, lost lost?
It’s like the TV remote. Sometimes you can’t find it for a while, but you know it’ll turn up eventually—you just have to finally get frustrated enough and go digging between the couch cushions.
But other times you lose something, like my lucky slap bracelet, and somehow you just know that it’s never turning up. Like, ever.
Is that me? Am I now my lucky slap bracelet? Am I lost lost?
My shoulders sag. My legs are throbbing and my feet are on fire. I want to curl up. I want to fall asleep to the cute, soothing sounds of Globlet’s bubbly snoring. I want to hear—
RAWRR
Not that.
That’s a roar. A soft, shrill, barely there roar.
I look up.
The blur creature.
It’s back.
Perched on top of a massively thick Vine-Thingy that is draped over a two-story house.
And it’s staring at me.
“Do you think it wants us to, um, follow it?” I’m partly asking Globlet—but mostly asking myself.
“I don’t know what it wants,” Globlet says. “But I am WAY too hungry to take another lap around this boring tree town. FOLLOW! FOLLOW!”
We cross the street, toward the creature. A smile creeps onto its face. It turns, striding up the wide vine.
And that’s when I see its back.
It has fins. No, not fins. Stumps. Small remnants jutting out of its back—like a hint of something that was there before. Like . . .
Wings.
That’s gotta be it. Maybe it used to have wings. And now it doesn’t.
I wonder what that’s all about—
And right then, the realization hits me with absolute, complete, total, overwhelming terror. The way my head felt. The vision. It was just like Jack and the King Wretch.
We learned about the Winged Wretches’ monstrous abilities when the most powerful of them—the King Wretch—beamed nightmarish visions into Jack’s head.
Bardle told us that all Wretches have that power, but he’d never seen one with the strength of the King Wretch. And I’d never experienced it before today.
All Winged Wretches are soldiers; soldiers that serve Ŗeżżőcħ. Pure evil. I mean, the last time I tangled with one—it was ugly. . . .
The creature’s lizard-like neck turns. It’s looking back at us.
I see little raised bumps above its eyes, like bubbly eyebrows. That’s where more eyes will grow in. Because Winged Wretches have lots of eyes for seeing stuff so they can do bad stuff.
There’s no doubt. This creature is a baby Wretch. . . .
-Baby Wretch!-
I take a step back—not even quite realizing it. “It’s a—it’s a—it’s a . . . baby Winged Wretch.”
“Wait, WHAAAAAT?” Globlet asks.
The Wretch’s head bobs upward in that classic “C’mon, gang!” nod. Guess that gesture works in all dimensions.
And then my mind is juggling two different scenarios.
Stay where we are—and maybe remain hopelessly lost? Or follow a Winged Wretch—and maybe be eaten?
I’m trying to do what I do best—weigh the pluses, the minuses, the goods, the bads—
But I can’t think straight, because there is a strange, new noise filling my brain.
Noises coming from all around us. . . .
At first, I think I’m just imagining it. Could just be the fear, causing me to hear creepy things that aren’t there. Like that time a few years ago, when I lay in bed and became convinced the lacrosse helmet I’d left on my bedroom floor was actually a human skull and had to call my mom in to hit the lights. Yeah, that was embarrassing.
But I know it’s not just my imagination when Globlet says, “What’s that sound? Is it vines?”
“No,” I say. “Vine-Thingies don’t MOAN.”
But that’s undeniably what I’m hearing: MOANING. Coming from everywhere. This labyrinth of look-alike streets and houses suddenly feels ALIVE. As the moans grow louder, it occurs to me that I only know one thing that moans. . . .
Suddenly—
SLAM! CRASH!
There is movement everywhere. Doors fall open, windows shatter, and screens rip.
It’s like some gruesome end-of-the-world game show, and each house is hiding a terrifying prize. . . .
LET’S SHOW HER WHAT SHE’S WON, FOLKS!
chapter ten
I can’t believe I let this happen!
I was too loud! Too careless. Globlet and I didn’t check these houses! We did no reconnaissance! We were just loudly bumbling down the streets like eighth graders on Halloween night! With no idea we were traveling through a GIANT MAZE OF ZOMBIE-FILLED HOUSES!
Then, suddenly, there’s that rawr sound again.
The baby Wretch.
It’s still there, looking at us with that Hey, what are you doing, dummies? expression on its face. Then its head dips and it strides up the thick vine, disappearing over the roof.
I stare at that spot for a split second, though it feels like an eternity. Finally—
“Well, June!” Globlet exclaims. “GO!”
“But, but—” I stammer. “That’s where the Wretch went!”
“Uh . . . yeah?” Globlet says. “WENT. Past tense! Which means now it’s GONE. Which means that must be a way OUT.”
Argh! Now I have to update the math in my head. Stay where we are—and definitely be devoured by zombies? Or follow the Winged Wretch a
nd maybe be hopelessly eaten?
Fine. I’ll take the maybe eaten over the definitely devoured.
But I realize, terror ripping through me, that I may have taken too long to act. Zombies are staggering from the house in front of us.
One enormous zombie, wearing swim shorts and half-deflated water wings, stands in our way.
“Globlet, hang on!” I shout, and I dart forward. Globlet slips off my shoulder, then manages to grab my hair. She smacks, smacks, smacks against my back as I run.
The water-wings zombie lunges toward me. I yank the Rifter polearm from my backpack and skid to a quick stop. Maybe too quick—
“AIEE!” Globlet shouts as she goes flying over my head, still clutching my hair, then slams into my face.
“Let go!” I shout. “I can’t see!”
“You let go!” Globlet exclaims.
“I’m not holding you!”
“Your fur is! Tell your fur to let go!”
“It’s not fur, it’s my hair!!”
“I HATE YOUR HUMAN HAIR-FUR!” Globlet shouts.
MUURGGH!
The swimming pool zombie’s moan is loud. I can’t see, but I swing anyway. Whacking and slashing and snapping the polearm through the air. But I miss my target every time!
“Where is it, Globlet!?” I bark.
Globlet is less than helpful. . . .
Finally, Globlet says, “LET ME HANDLE THIS!” and she pounces from my head, toward the zombie. I can finally see—and I watch, in awe, as—smack!
Globlet slams into the zombie’s chest, then slides to the ground. She shrieks, “Back off, bozo! This is a June and Globlet adventure play date and you weren’t invited!”
The staggered zombie leans down, swiping for her. But she scuttles beneath his legs, grabbing one moldy flip-flop and pulling his feet out from under him. The zombie topples to the ground with a loud—