Escape to Australia

by James Patterson

  Mom, wearing her superhero costume and a steely expression, faced down the mob. She stood toe to toe with Sergeant Hatfield, her hands on her hips.

  “No one move a muscle,” Mom snarled. She jabbed the cop in the chest with a finger. “If anyone so much as touches my kid, they’ll have me to deal with. Understand?”

  Now, I’m not a kid who cries much, but I have to admit my eyes welled up a little seeing my mom like that. There wasn’t a tiger on earth who would have protected her cub with more determination or sharper claws. If Hatfield and the rest of the zombie mob knew what was good for them, they’d quit now.

  “He’s made a fool of us all!” Hatfield barked. “He’s got to pay!”

  Behind him, the mob muttered agreement.

  “He’s made a fool of Shark’s Bay!” a voice yelled from the back.

  “I hate him!” Bradley declared.

  “He puked on me!” Belinda shouted.

  A few of the mob did double takes, as if they hadn’t heard right. Not only is this guy a slimy bunyip releaser, I could hear them thinking, he’s also a low-life puker?

  “And these pitchforks cost money!” someone else piped up.

  Mom stepped forward. “First of all, there’s no proof that Rafe was involved in anything.”

  I gulped. Mom was on thin ice here. I was on thin ice.

  One false move and the mob would push her aside and start handing out some homemade justice. But Mom wasn’t finished, not by a long shot.

  “And second of all,” she said, raising her voice, “if he was involved, then he has made a fool of you all.” Mom’s voice got sharper, something I didn’t believe possible until I heard it for myself. It had an edge to it that could have sharpened a samurai sword. “And I imagine the rest of Australia would be very interested to see exactly how Australia’s Most Fearless Town ran away from a rubber toy.”

  I could almost see everyone’s brains working as they processed the information. Mom was right. If this got out, Shark’s Bay would become a laughingstock.

  Justin Carter Hatfield narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening us?”

  “That’s rich,” Mom said, “coming from a police officer holding a pitchfork and standing at the head of an angry mob coming to hunt down my kid.”

  She had a point.

  “But, yes, since you mention it,” she continued, “it is a threat. Now get off my property!”

  Technically, it was Biff and Barb Coogan’s property, but we all knew what she meant.

  “No one will believe you bunch of blow-ins!” Hatfield said. “Where’s your proof?”

  “Right here.” Ellie stepped forward out of the crowd and held up her phone.

  Her finger hovered over the screen. “If I press this button, the evidence will be uploaded to the internet. Everyone will see how you all ran away from my silly puppet. And how you knocked over an old granny in your rush for the door, Sergeant Hatfield. It’s pretty shocking, if you ask me. It might even go viral.”

  “How did you find that?” Sergeant Hatfield asked incredulously.

  Ellie smiled. “I filmed the whole thing.”

  THE TRUTH ABOUT ELLIE’S CLIP

  We planted cameras around the surf club,” Ellie said smugly to the crowd. “I just spent the last hour editing, and now the clip is waiting to be uploaded to my video channel. I just need to press one little button.” She paused dramatically and eyeballed the mob.

  Ellie looked at Hatfield, who, it seemed, had assumed the role of leader of the (almost) zombie mob.

  “So what you have to ask yourself is: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”

  That’s a line from a movie, in case you didn’t know.

  It turned out he wasn’t feeling very lucky after all.

  And neither was the rest of the zombie mob. They lowered their pitchforks and flaming torches. Faced with a choice between getting their revenge on me (assuming they could get past the Mom of Steel) and facing global humiliation versus just backing down, the mob chose to back down. One by one they began to drift off into the rain-swept darkness.

  Ellie stepped through the front door and shook the water from her dark hair.

  “Were you really going to upload the clip?” I whispered.

  Ellie lowered her phone and smiled. “What clip?”

  KANGAROOS SUCK

  If you don’t mind, I’ll skip over the rest of my time in Shark’s Bay as quickly as possible.

  Long story short, it wasn’t pleasant.

  Mom postponed any punishment over my possible involvement in the Great Surf Club Zombie Bunyip Disaster until we were home.

  The Coogans treated us well enough for the remainder of our stay—by which I mean they treated us like we were basically radioactive. The weather may have been hot outside, but the temperature at 22 Sunspot Crescent was arctic. It was official: the cultural exchange experiment between Hills Village and Shark’s Bay had been a total disaster.

  I didn’t even see Bradley or Belinda again before we left, which was just fine by me. I could happily spend the rest of my life never seeing either of the twins ever again, and they must have felt exactly the same. In that way, and that way alone, we had something in common.

  After having time to think about it, I decided that it had been worth it. No one had been badly injured (unless you counted Bradley having his privates nibbled by a possum), no real damage had been done (other than one exploded row of temporary toilets), and I had gotten my revenge for being publicly humiliated (three times!). Not to mention, the Surf Gorillas finally got punished for wrecking Revenge of the Teenage Zombie Bunyip from Mars.

  All in all, I reflected, they deserved what they’d gotten.

  And as for Ellie and the Outsiders, Ellie and I talked until late that night. I won’t tell you what we said or how we left it. That’s just for me and Ellie. Meeting her and the Outsiders had been the highlight of my trip. I wouldn’t forget them or regret a single thing about coming to Australia.

  Except not seeing a kangaroo. I hadn’t seen a single one of those overgrown hopping rats.

  Now, that sucked.

  ATTACK OF THE FIFTY-FOOT CONSCIENCE MONSTER

  I’m sorry about Kell,” I said to Mom. “I mean, I did think he was a total jerk and all, but I know you liked him. I shouldn’t have been so happy when he… you know…”

  “When he threw me in the way of the bunyip and ran for his life, screaming like a three-year-old who saw the boogeyman?” Mom said.

  “Maybe that’s what geologists are like,” I offered.

  “I don’t think so, Rafe. I’m sure there are plenty of brave geologists out there. Just not Kell.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “you liked him and I’m sorry he did what he did.”

  We were 38,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean, about halfway back to Hills Village.

  Mom shrugged. “I thought I liked him, but he turned out to be someone different from who I thought he was. I suppose I can thank you for that. But I’m fine, honestly, Rafe. Just fine.”

  Mom put her headphones back on and started watching a movie. I noticed that none of her lucky charms were visible and that she seemed pretty calm for someone terrified of flying. I guess that after everything that had gone on in Shark’s Bay, an airplane flight didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.

  I sat back in my seat and listened to the sound of the engines.

  I was home free. So why didn’t I feel better?

  The answer came to me somewhere over Hawaii. There was the obvious stuff like missing Ellie and the rest of the guys, but that wasn’t it. No, what was bugging me was that we—me and the Outsiders—had done something great, something really cool and challenging and awesome and creative, and no one outside Shark’s Bay would ever know.

  And we never got to make our film.

  I WAS A TEENAGE OUTSIDER (AND I LIKED IT)

  I did get grounded when we got home. But that was fair. I deserved it. I did ruin the trip, after all.

  I’ve bee
n talking to Ellie online. She mentioned she might make a trip to Hills Village before too long. “And I’m working on something cool. Keep your eye on your mailbox, okay?” she added.

  I tried to get her to say more, but she wouldn’t. Nothing much had changed for her in Shark’s Bay.

  “We were always the Outsiders,” she said. “That’s the way I like it.”

  That’s a good way of looking at things. I’m kind of an outsider in Hills Village. The thing is, before I met Ellie and the rest of the Outsiders, I always saw that as a negative. Maybe I’ve been looking at things the wrong way. Instead of trying to fit in with everyone else, maybe I’d be better off not fitting in and liking it.

  I’ve started to get more interested in filmmaking, too. I even started working on some storyboards for my own movie. A horror movie, of course.

  Best of all, I’ve realized that I learned something important on the trip. It was something my mom said in between telling me how grounded I was. She said that bravery comes in many forms and she thought I was brave for producing art.

  “At least you’re trying,” she said. “You might be scared of sharks and snakes and imaginary drop bears, but who isn’t?”

  She stopped short of actually saying she approved of me letting an animatronic zombie bunyip loose on Shark’s Bay, but let’s be honest—that was never going to happen.

  Being back home felt good. On the upside, it was great to see Grandma Dotty and Junior and Flip. On the downside, I was back under the same roof as Georgia.

  There was one especially great thing about being back in Hills Village. As my feet slid between the sheets, I was pretty sure that there wouldn’t be any snakes.

  AN ARTIST LIKE KHATCHADORIAN

  Wait! I forgot to mention the best part! Probably the greatest thing to come out of the whole trip (apart from meeting Ellie).

  Four weeks after arriving back, I got a weird package marked with Australian stamps in the mail.

  Inside it was a rolled-up magazine and a note from Ellie. All it said was: here—here

  I carefully unrolled the magazine. It was something called the Great Australian Art Monthly—a big, thick, glossy thing full of articles about famous Australian artists and artists who were visiting Australia from all over the world.

  I flicked to here and almost passed out.

  It was a picture of the bunyip ripping through the lobby of the Shark’s Bay Surf Club. It had been taken on a phone camera and was a little fuzzy, but it still looked awesome. The bunyip’s mouth was open and sparks were shooting out. People were screaming and running in the background. The headline read ZOMBIE MOVIE ART TRIUMPH AT SHARK’S BAY, and it was written by Frost DeAndrews.

  “I thought I had been fooled,” DeAndrews wrote, “when the Zombie Movie exhibition I had been invited to at sleepy little Shark’s Bay turned out to be nothing more than a collection of passable sketches by visiting young American artist Rafe Khatchadorian.

  “But I was deeply mistaken. In one of the most scintillating and brave performance art productions I have seen in recent years, Khatchadorian and his art group, the Outsiders, ran us right through the A–Z of contemporary performance art and treated us to a totally immersive experience not seen since the days of Wilhelm Van Purpleschpittel and the neocolonial burble movement.…”

  The rest of the article was illustrated with more photos of the whole event and had interviews with Ellie and the guys, and a lot of art speak I didn’t understand. Even Mayor Coogan got in on the act.

  “Rafe insisted on keeping everything top secret,” he said. “We’re very proud of Shark’s Bay’s association with an artist like Khatchadorian.”

  An artist like Khatchadorian.

  It had a ring to it. I liked it.

  “Mom!” I shouted, leaping off my bed. “You gotta see this!”

  JAMES PATTERSON received the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community at the 2015 National Book Awards. He holds the Guinness World Record for the most #1 New York Times bestsellers, including Middle School, I Funny, and Jacky Ha-Ha, and his books have sold more than 350 million copies worldwide. A tireless champion of the power of books and reading, Patterson created a children’s book imprint, JIMMY Patterson, whose mission is simple: “We want every kid who finishes a JIMMY Book to say, ‘PLEASE GIVE ME ANOTHER BOOK.’” He has donated more than one million books to students and soldiers, and funds over four hundred Teacher Education Scholarships at twenty-four colleges and universities. He has also donated millions to independent bookstores and school libraries. Patterson invests proceeds from the sales of JIMMY Patterson Books in pro-reading initiatives.

  MARTIN CHATTERTON was born in Liverpool, England, and has been successfully writing and illustrating books for almost thirty years. He has written dozens of children’s books and illustrated many more for other writers, including several British Children’s Laureates. His work has been published in fourteen languages and has won and been short-listed in numerous awards in the UK, US, and Australia. In addition to writing for children, Chatterton writes crime fiction (as Ed Chatterton), continues to work as a graphic designer, and is currently working on his PhD. Having lived in the US, Chatterton now divides his time between Australia and the UK.

  DANIEL GRIFFO was always drawn toward creating and drawing images. In his teens, he became a self-taught comic illustrator and worked for both Argentinean and Italian publishers. As a freelance illustrator, Griffo has worked for many large companies, including Image Comics, Warner, and Scholastic. He currently resides in Argentina with his wife and children.

  JIMMY PATTERSON BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

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  VICTOR COMES FROM A BIG FAMILY OF SUPERVILLAINS,

  BUT HE JUST WANTS TO BE A NICE, NORMAL KID.

  HIS PARENTS WONDER…

  WHERE DID THEY GO WRONG?

  Check out this sneak preview of

  Available May 2017!

  We weren’t halfway down the block before the Smear started my supervillain education. “Pay attention, kid. There’s a lot to learn.”

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a notebook and pen.

  “What are you doing?” said the Smear.

  �
��Taking notes.”

  The Smear grabbed my notebook and threw it out the window. “First lesson: supervillains NEVER take notes!”

  “How will I remember anything?” I asked.

  “You pay attention! With a fierce, burning passion to do evil.”

  “We’ll work on it,” said the Smear. “First, let’s talk stains.”

  He started by describing various custom smear-stains and their effect on superheroes.

  “Can you pick up walrus warts at Costco?” I wondered out loud.

  “A little less talking and a little more listening,” he said.

  Then he turned to his patented stain delivery systems, including, but not limited to, stain blasters…

  I said, “What about your eyes? Can you spray stains with your eyes?”

  “No,” he said. “That would be weird. And really unsanitary.”

  Then he described a stain bomber.

  “Yum. I’ll have some blueberry salsa,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No. We don’t eat the weapons.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Next up was the Stainmixer…

  “Wouldn’t a flying dump truck be more efficient?” I asked.

  He said, “Where’s your sense of style? Anyone can make a flying dump truck.”