“What are you doing up?” asked Dad. “You should be getting your beauty sleep. You need it!” He winked at Jelly.
“Thanks for that, David Beckham!” replied Mum, sitting down and grabbing one of the last disgusting granola cookies. “I can’t sleep. All I can hear is Bum-stubble slamming her door and ranting to anyone who’ll listen.”
Jelly handed Mum her coffee as she swiped through her phone.
“Ooh, Rhona’s got her bar,” Mum said, looking up eagerly. “Have ours came through yet?” Everyone shook their heads. “I wonder what they’ll look like. Do you think we’ll get fancy chocolate?”
Gran rolled her eyes.
“I think they’ll have golden wrappers,” said Jelly dreamily.
“Michelle’s got hers too. And Donna.” Mum added anxiously and kept scrolling through her phone. “And Gemma. Are you sure ours haven’t come yet? Gemma lives just up the street!”
The mailbox clattered again.
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mum. “Right on cue!”
Jelly ran out, only to see another garish pizza menu on the doormat.
She opened the front door to see Mr. Walker standing patiently outside his house, Truffles squatting by his side, and Mrs. Bunstable in her front garden, pretending to water her hanging baskets but really just nosing about.
“Have you had your chocolate yet, Mrs. Bunstable?” Jelly called.
“Oh, you mean the chocolate bars that were on the news?” said Mrs. Bunstable. “Can’t say I’m that interested in chocolate myself.”
Really, thought Jelly. She’d never heard of anyone who didn’t like chocolate! Especially not in Chompton.
“As long as I can have a custard cream with my cup of tea, I couldn’t give a monkey’s butt!” Mrs. Bunstable went on, winking. “Tell you what, love, I’ll keep a lookout for the postman for you.”
“Thanks,” said Jelly, edging back into the house and slowly closing the front door. “Oh, you know me,” shouted Mrs. Bunstable, making sure she could be heard by Mr. Walker. “Anything I can do to help. I’m all about helping, me. I do charity stuff all the time. I’ll probably get an award someday….”
—
Jelly glared out the window, twisting her hair around her fingers. Litter was blowing around in the breeze, and she could see a host of burned-out garbage cans tipped over in the middle of the road. It was strangely quiet for a Saturday. Maybe everyone was sleeping in after a hard night’s rioting and looting. Or waiting for their chocolate, just like her? But then, why did so many people have them already? Even Maya had texted to say she had received hers.
What if the Wellingtons had been left out? What if their chocolate had been lost in the mail?
Dad put the TV on. There was nothing on any channel but footage of the riots. They seemed to have happened all over the world. Cities and towns had been ransacked as people tried to get their hands on any remaining chocolate. When they couldn’t, they grabbed anything they could: TVs, game consoles, computers and jewelry.
The prime minister made another appearance. She announced that after all the problems last night, a curfew would be in place tonight starting at six p.m. No one but the emergency services and the military would be allowed on the streets. Then things got even worse—the TV started showing people with their delivered chocolate bars. They were dancing around, waving the chocolate and the official government letter that came with each bar. Some people were even eating the chocolate! Eating it on live TV! Had they no consideration?
Jelly turned the TV off. All she could think about was her disaster ration bar. It was torture waiting for it. Her tummy twisted and grumbled, but she was saving herself for chocolate. The last chocolate she would ever have…
After she’d dried the mugs, she went up to her bedroom and lounged in her chair with her feet on the bed. As she did so, something suddenly scurried out of one of the cuffs on her jeans. An insect! Jelly instinctively grabbed a magazine and rolled it up, ready to batter it like Mum would have done.
Then she paused, looking at the insect as it ran across the carpet. Putting the magazine down, she reached instead for a glass and swiftly placed it over the unexpected visitor. She got down on the floor and looked at it carefully. Through the glass, she saw that it seemed to be the same sort of white insect she had seen at Chox. Where had it come from?
Typing “white insect” into her tablet, Jelly’s mind swirled with questions. After seeing images of tons of freaky insects, she changed her search to “white insects and chocolate.”
There were even freakier images of insects inside chocolate.
“Yuk!” she groaned, then pondered before typing: “White insects and chocolate crops.”
There were pages and pages of information about cacao trees and bean shortages. Among the many photos of dense green plantations and sacks of beans, one picture caught her attention: a close-up of what looked like a white wood louse. She clicked on the image.
Jelly read that they were called mealy bugs. There was evidence that they could be responsible for passing on a virus to the cacao tree, which would eventually kill it. They seemed to be partly responsible for the poor chocolate crops of the last few years, and maybe even the Chocopocalypse that was happening right now.
So what were they doing here? In Chox? And the Big Choc Lot? Had Gari accidentally brought some back from his travels? Had they come in a package from one of his tropical suppliers? With this added to her list of worries, Jelly’s brain raced with even more questions.
She slipped a sheet of paper under the glass and carefully placed the mealy bug outside on her windowsill. It was immediately swept away by a gust of wind.
“Sorry!” she called out, hoping it had landed somewhere safely.
Closing the window, she picked up her tablet and played Zombie Puppy Dash, hoping it would take her mind off chocolate.
It didn’t work.
—
By the end of the afternoon, it was obvious: their chocolate was not going to arrive.
The Wellingtons had been forgotten.
Mum went off to bed in a grump. Dad, Jelly and Gran sat in the living room in silence.
At last Gran said, “Maybe I’ve got some spare chocolate hidden away. There are so many secret spaces in my Gran-a-van, I’ll bet there’s a few pieces in a dusty corner somewhere.”
Jelly doubted it, but still smiled at the way her gran kept trying to cheer her up. The mention of a dusty corner, though, made her think of the dusty corner in the shed where her experiment was sitting. She wondered whether she should go out and film another segment. Her final video would have to show different stages of the experiment, but what was the point? There was nothing to film—it was just a boring box!
Worries filled her head. She still had to edit that video and post it online, but she couldn’t do that until Sunday when the Chocopocalypse had happened—or hadn’t happened. There would hardly be any time for anyone to “like” it before Mr. Tatterly looked at them that night. And besides, it would be a worthless video that no one would like anyway.
But the thought of that beautiful bar of chocolate just waiting in that box in the shed started to drive her crazy. What if tomorrow she opened the box and it was gone, or turned into—what was it the professor had said…particulate matter? She would definitely regret not eating it today, when they had the chance.
She made a sudden decision. “Come on, Dad. Come on, Gran,” she said, her stomach churning with both hunger and excitement. “I’ve got something to show you!”
Jelly wrenched open the back door and ran out into the garden. The traffic noise had a deeper, booming quality to it than normal—she could feel it inside her chest. Huge camouflaged military trucks streamed along the highway, heading out of Chompton, their cargos of chocolate delivered. Although, not all delivered!
“It was supposed to be my science experiment, Gran,” Jelly shouted over her shoulder. “But what if I finished the experiment today? Would that be all right?”
&nbs
p; “Of course, dear,” said Gran. “If you think that’s best.”
Jelly ran straight to the shed and reached for the box on the shelf. If she wasn’t going to get any (or many) “likes,” then would it be better not to do the experiment at all? She’d have some explaining to do to Mr. Tatterly, but that would be better than being humiliated!
She felt around, pushing the jar of curtain rings away and pulling down the paint cans and the deflated basketball.
It wasn’t there!
She moved more and more jars, cans and boxes onto the floor. Then she looked on the other shelves, where she knew she hadn’t put it—but just to be sure. Where was the box? It didn’t make any sense.
She heard Dad calling from outside, over the din of the highway, “You all right in there?”
“It’s not here!” she yelled. “It’s not here! I need it. It’s my experiment!”
Dad squeezed in through the door. “Where did you put it?” he asked.
“Here,” pointed Jelly. “Right here. I am absolutely sure.” She could barely speak, she was so upset. Her throat was tight and her breathing was shallow. Her hair was in tangles around her fingers.
“Are you sure you put it in there?” asked Gran, squeezing in too. “Have you looked under your bed? Or in your wardrobe?”
“I put it in the shed on the shelf. I know I did—I even filmed it, like you said, Gran. It’s a metal box, with a sticker of a kitten with an eye patch on it. It can’t just have disappeared!” Jelly tugged on her hair, wrapping it even more around her fingers in frustration.
“Careful, Jennifer dear,” said Gran. “You’ll pull your hair out.”
“Jelly, please!” said Dad, taking her hand and trying to untangle her hair.
“Stop it,” cried Jelly. “Leave me alone!”
She ran out of the garden, through the hall and out the front door, slamming it behind her.
Jelly raced down the street, not sure where to go or what to do. Once she was a few streets away, she slowed down. There had to be something she could do. Her chocolate experiment had somehow vanished, and the disaster bar had not been delivered. This was all just plain wrong. Chocolate wasn’t supposed to disappear—if the Chocopoacalypse was real—until tomorrow.
But it wasn’t tomorrow yet. It was today. And even if chocolate had disappeared, the box it was in wouldn’t disappear with it too. It didn’t make sense.
Why no delivery either? Everyone else’s bar had been delivered. Why had they been so unlucky? Why couldn’t her family just have one little bit of luck for a change? I have to do something, she thought. But what?
She made her way into town, past the old Scout Hut that was being used as an emergency center for a-lotta-choca-litis sufferers. A dozen or so pasty-faced patients loitered around the entrance, wearing hospital garments that were open down the back, displaying well-above-average-size bottoms to the world. Oh dear, Jelly thought. Too much chocolate really isn’t very good for you….
The farther she moved into town, the clearer she saw the results of last night’s rioting. Shop windows were smashed, and glass still covered the pavements. Litter and empty boxes rolled around in the light evening breeze. Some attempts to board over windows and clean up had been made, but it was still a very sorry scene.
The Chocolate Pole was now bent, with a sign hanging off it that read: THE END OF THE CHOCOLATE WORLD IS NIGH! Worse than that, lying facedown on the ground, surrounded by litter and sprayed with paint, was the bronzed figure of Sir Walter Waffle. His hand, which had proudly held up the world-famous block of chocolate, had been hacked off. It filled Jelly with more sadness than she had thought possible.
In the window of the post office were notices:
WE HAVE NO CHOCOLATE LEFT—PLEASE DO NOT EVEN ASK!
WE HAVE NO CHEESE & ONION CHIPS LEFT EITHER!
Jelly went in and headed straight for the counter at the back of the shop. As she rushed through, a blind was hurriedly pulled down at the counter, and she was greeted with the word “Closed.”
“No!” cried Jelly, sprinting forward. “It’s an emergency.”
A multi-jeweled hand from the gloom of the post office counter partially lifted up the blind. “Sorry, but we’re closed,” said the hand.
“But it’s an emergency! Please! Please! Please!”
“The last mail has gone, darling,” said the hand.
“I don’t need anything mailed,” said Jelly quickly. “But our mail didn’t arrive today. We didn’t get our chocolate bars! I think they must be somewhere here—could you please have a look? Please? We’re the Wellingtons at Number Twenty-Two Waffle Way West.”
“Wait a moment, please,” said the hand before it disappeared.
Jelly bobbed on the spot, staring at the blind, as if she might burn a hole through it so she could see what the hand was doing. Eventually the hand reappeared and slid a piece of paper through the gap under the counter.
Jelly picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Form F252,” said the hand. “Claim form for the nondelivery or damage of items in transit.”
“But…,” mumbled Jelly, “what do I do with it?”
“Fill in the details and mail it on Monday. In six to eight weeks, you should get a response.”
“What?” Jelly cried out.
“Thank you—we’re closed.” The hand waved and then disappeared for the final time.
A moment later the post office lights went out completely.
Jelly wanted to scream. But she didn’t. Instead, she trudged back outside and slumped onto a bench. She stared at form F252 as huge dollops of tears smacked onto it.
“Are you okay, there?”
Jelly looked up and blinked. Through her tears she could just make out the figure of a soldier in camouflage gear and extremely muddy boots crouching down before her.
“Not really,” she mumbled.
“What’s up?” he asked gently.
Jelly shook her head. She didn’t want to continue crying in front of a stranger. She sniffed loudly and rubbed her damp cheeks with the back of her hand.
“No chocolate…,” she spluttered through her tight throat and tears. “Didn’t deliver…Didn’t get any…They…forgot us.”
“Tell you what, let me check….” He pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from a pocket. “What was your name?” he asked.
“Jennifer.” She sniffed. “Jennifer…Wellington.”
“Well, well, well. It just so happens that you’re a lucky one. Your name’s on my Operation Easter Bunny list of Possible Forgottens.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed her something.
Jelly took it and looked at it through wide, blurry eyes. It was a bar of chocolate. GOVERNMENTAL DISASTER CHOCOLATE RATION was emblazoned across its length in simple black writing on a brown paper wrapper, with a silver foil underneath. On the back, in smaller writing, was ON HER MAJESTY’S CHOCOLATE SERVICE next to a small black crown emblem. It wasn’t anything fancy, but at that moment it looked like the most wonderful thing in the whole world.
“But…but…” Jelly looked up, only to see the soldier’s boots disappearing into the back of a jeep before it zoomed away. “Thank you,” she whispered.
—
“Look, look!” screamed Jelly, bursting into the living room.
“Where have you been?” shouted Mum. “You can’t just run off like that. We’ve been sick with worry! And the curfew’s just about to begin.”
Jelly held out the bar. Everyone gaped at it with giant eyes.
“Where did you get that?” asked Dad.
“I got it from a soldier!” said Jelly. “Honestly. He said I was on his list.”
“You shouldn’t take sweets off strange men,” warned Gran.
“I know, I know,” said Jelly, “but it just kind of happened.”
Everyone crowded around the bar.
“I’m sorry it’s not ginger,” said Jelly, moving it toward her gran. “Happy birthday for next week….You know, just in
case chocolate disappears and I did lose your bar.”
Gran’s mouth dropped open, and beads of tears filled her eyes, making them twinkle. “That is the most…” She struggled for the words. “That is just…Oh, my beautiful girl.” She kissed Jelly on the cheek, covering her in tears. Then she straightened up and said, “No, no. You have it. It was given to you.”
Mum and Dad nodded. “You enjoy it, munchkin,” Mum said.
Jelly looked down at the bar of chocolate. To her it was worth a lot more than its weight in gold. But she knew it wouldn’t taste as good if she ate it by herself.
“No…,” she finally said. “We’ll all share it!”
“I was hoping you were going to say that!” said Dad, then winced as Mum poked him in the stomach. “Oh, come on…we were all thinking it!”
The four of them danced around the living room, laughing and cheering and crying—while being serenaded from next door by a Kenny Rogers song.
—
The bar had six segments.
“Okay, let’s do this properly this time,” said Jelly.
“Yeah, let’s not have any dirty-dishwater-flavored chocolate this time.” Dad grinned at a red-faced Mum.
They decided to snap the bar into four segments and slice the two remaining segments in half. That way they would each have one and a half segments. Gran did this with expert precision using a carving knife, covering the bar with a kitchen towel to avoid any chocolate projectiles.
Mum raked around in a kitchen drawer, eventually pulling out some paper napkins with a snowflake pattern and a red trim. “I know it’s not the holiday season,” she said, beaming, “but it’s still kind of special!”
One chunk and a half was placed onto each napkin and handed out.
“Happy Christmas!” said Dad.
“Don’t do it!” barked Jelly.
“Don’t do what?”
“Singing,” she said, staring at him. “No singing Christmas songs. I know what you’re like.”
“Spoilsport!” He grinned.
The Chocopocalypse Page 7
