by Max Brallier
And do you have any idea just how much stuff I could get done between 7:00 and 7:10? Give me ten minutes and I’ll write you a detailed list.
But, you know what?
None of that speed matters when you are—
If I could get off, I could run. But I can’t get off because the Rifter’s chain has turned this DoomKart into a tiny version of a space shuttle re-entering Earth’s atmosphere. Bits and pieces flying off, sparking, screeching, metal nearly melting. And I’m just stuck here along for the ride.
I try to pay attention to where we are, where we’re going, but it’s all a blurry jumble of scenery. Suddenly—
SHRIEEEK!
The creature’s monstrous howl. The Rifters must be closing in. And then, suddenly, a wooden shed ahead. The Ogre is stomping through an overgrown backyard. “YIKES!” I cry out, lifting the shield, just as—
SMASH!
The shed does serious damage.
The steering wheel pops up and nearly takes off my left ear. My fancy new shield is busted up. My spear, slung over my back, snaps in half. But it’s not all bad. Looking down I see that—
“I’M FREE!” I shout.
The chain is now hooked to the pedal—not my foot! Sure, I’m still inside a quickly disintegrating DoomKart—but at the very least, I’m not trapped.
Now I just need a way off this thing. I need something I can jump to—something that will break my fall without, y’know, breaking me.
Like a haystack.
Or a bouncy castle.
Or the world’s most epic pillow fort.
Unfortunately, within my immediate range of vision, I see no haystacks, no bouncy castles, and no epic pillow forts.
But—hmm—I do spot something like a mound of oversized M&Ms. Globes of color: oranges and blues and faded greens. I realize it’s better than any bouncy pillow haystack fort: “A ball pit!”
Okay, ya germy pool of plastic, I think. Here I come!
And with that, I hurl myself from the DoomKart . . .
I land in a heap and sink into the ball pit. I keep my eyes screwed shut, listening to the sound of the Ogres’ trampling feet fading into the distance.
My elbows and knees are scraped, my teeth seem to be vibrating, and I’m mostly positive I swallowed a bug . . . possibly a bird.
But that’s okay, ’cause. . . .
“I’M ALIVE!” I cry out. “Alive! Alive and . . . I have no idea where I am!”
I look around, trying to get my bearings. But I have no bearings.
Zero bearings.
Until . . . a clue! All the balls have the letters “B.B.” on them. That means that this is—or was—a Blooper Burger.
Looking inside, I see an old jukebox, a soda fountain, and a statue of the big guy himself: Sir Blooper Burger. But his head is hanging off his body and his creepy French fry fingers are broken off.
Although, that’s not a huge help—Blooper Burger joints are everywhere and they all look identical. No joke, their slogan is “It’s not a town without a Blooper Burger!”
At least, that’s usually their slogan—sometimes the end of the world writes its own slogan. . . .
I drag my tired, wounded body across the ball pit, which is a bit like moving through rainbow-colored quicksand. I manage to pull myself up and out and flop onto the cracked, broken Blooper Burger floor.
After the sound of bouncing plastic balls stops, I notice something.
It’s quiet.
Extra quiet.
Over the past year, I’ve gotten kinda used to constant, nonstop, forever-and-ever noise. There’s Jack’s yakkity-yakking, the hum of Quint’s electricity-sucking gadgets, the shrieks and roars of passing beasts, and the never-ending chorus of snores and belches and barks that drift over from Joe’s Pizza.
But suddenly, now—it’s like someone hit the mute button.
This is silence I haven’t known since the months after the world ended. Since I was alone in Parker Middle School.
Back then, I hated the silence.
But now it’s kinda peaceful—kinda perfect. It’s like the silence is telling me, “June, you are on your own. In the mysterious, unexplored unknown that lies beyond Wakefield.”
It’s a new world.
And I’m here.
Alone.
chapter five
This wasteland world beyond Wakefield is strange. It is lush, overgrown, and wild. Greens and pinks and oranges and blues. It’s like a warped version of the old world—ripped, stretched, and recolored by some angry kid with a crayon.
It’s pretty scary.
But at least it’s pretty scary.
In fact, if Jack was here—I’d use his camera to snap a pic of the strange scenery. But like I said, I’m alone.
Without my friends.
Now, don’t get me wrong, my friends are rad. But they stink! Like, literally—their bodies emit foul odors.
And okay, I know, I probably don’t exactly smell like the inside of a Bath & Body Works myself. Personal hygiene is nobody’s number-one priority during the apocalypse. Plus, washing leads to serious FOMO—what’s worse than being in the shower, hearing something super fun going on outside, racing to finish up, hop out, dry off—and then by the time you’re dressed, all the fun is over!
But at least I make an effort! I swear, it’s like Jack and Quint and Dirk are proud of their mussy morning hair, lazy tooth brushing, and ability to “burp supersonically.”
But our monster friends are even worse . . .
Right now, though, the only stink that I smell is MY OWN STINK.
And I start to grin as I realize . . . you know what this means?
Or, wait . . . does “June Solo Adventure” sound too much like a Star Wars thing? Like an adventure about Han Solo’s kid sister “June Solo”? I mean, I know Han doesn’t have a kid sister, ’cause Quint has explained the Solo and Skywalker family bloodlines to me about a dozen times even though I could not care any—
“WAIT!” I exclaim, and I actually exclaim it out loud, to no one. “Quint’s not here! I can call this whatever kind of adventure I want! And JUNE SOLO ADVENTURE IT IS!”
And the goal of this June Solo Adventure? Get back to Wakefield.
But that’s when IT hits me.
And the IT isn’t a thought or an idea—the IT is a thing. A wet and rubbery and gooey thing that hits me in the face at about a thousand miles an hour—
For the second time in, like, three minutes, I sit up—dazed, confused, hurting. This time, the source of the pain is sitting in my lap: Globlet!
“You hit me like a missile made of gum,” I say, rubbing my face. “What are you doing here?!”
“But,” I say, “guess it’s not one hundred percent a June Solo Adventure anymore. . . .”
“Nope. GIRLS’ ADVENTURE!”
I grin.
Globlet can glow like a night-light and she thinks that everything I do is terrific. Who wouldn’t want an uncharted wasteland companion like—
KSHHHH!
Suddenly, a cracking, hissing, POP sound makes me jump.
“Hey, your tushy sneezed!” Globlet squeaks.
“My tushy did not sneeze,” I say, sighing. “It’s my walkie . . . oh man, MY WALKIE!”
I snatch my walkie from my belt and squeeze the button. “Quint? Jack? Dirk? ANYONE? Come in, over!”
No response.
Was the walkie damaged during that long DoomKart tumble-sault? Or am I just too far from Wakefield to get reception?
Quint taught me everything there is to know about walkies and radios. And I’m pretty sure mine is A-OK. So it must be the distance.
YEEAAAAIIIEEEE!
The air is split by a monstrous scream.
“Ooh!” Globlet exclaims. “Someone’s getting tickles!”
/> “What? No, Globlet! That’s not a ‘getting tickles’ scream. That’s a ‘getting hurt’ scream. . . .”
I scoop up Globlet. In a flash, she’s on my shoulder, clinging to my neck, and I’m racing through the remains of Blooper Burger.
“Are we going home?” Globlet asks.
“Yep,” I say.
“Home is this way?”
“I have no idea which way home is.”
“But you said we were going home.”
“We are,” I say. “Just not yet.”
“So where are we going now?”
“Now we’re going this way.”
“What’s this way?”
“We’re gonna find out. . . .”
We’re racing down some sort of Main Street. This town looks like it’s been attacked by a horde of rogue jackhammers: buildings are squashed and torn apart. It’s like some vengeful creature pulled the place apart and tried to piece it back together—but wrong.
“You’re running fast!” Globlet chirps. “Do you have to go Number Two?”
“No, Globlet! I’m running ’cause whatever was screaming sounded scared, and I want—”
“Nachos?” Globlet asks.
“No! I want to make—”
“Make nachos?” Globlet asks.
“No! I want to make sure whatever’s screaming is okay!”
chapter six
I’m really hoping that whatever made that pained screaming noise is something kind and friendly, who’s only, like, slightly hurt or kinda wounded.
Like maybe a baby rabbit who stubbed its toe?
Or a hamster with a tummyache?
Or a hedgehog who’s really nervous about its first day of hedgehog school?
Globlet clings tighter to my shoulder. I scramble up an overturned fire truck that’s erupting from the ground like some end-of-the-world Pride Rock.
“Ooh,” Globlet says. “Fancy view.”
A distant flicker of light catches my gaze: a flagpole. It’s jutting out of a strange, vine-choked forest. I see bits of wood, yellow plastic, flashes of metal. It takes me a second to realize it’s not a forest at all, it’s a—
“Playground!” I say.
“YAY! I love playing!” says Globlet. “And I extra love ground!”
I pause. “You love . . . ground?”
Globlet shrugs. “Duh.”
This playground is not one of those swanky new ones where everything is colorful and the ground is squishy. This playground is a sprawling, old, run-down mess of a thing. You could get a splinter just looking at it.
“Whatever made that screaming sound,” I say, “it’s in there. C’mon.”
“You don’t need to say ‘c’mon,’ I’m on your shoulder. I’m coming on regardless.”
As we get closer, I see a sign for the playground: WELCOME TO FRIENDSHIP PARK.
That makes me chuckle.
This is about the least welcoming place ever—and also the least friendly. The crisscrossing walkways, ladders, and beams are all rotting. Vines twist and wind around them.
I scramble over a vine-covered fence, then crouch down, trying to be extra inconspicuous.
“Okay, we’re in,” I whisper.
“Yes, I know,” Globlet says.
“Oh. Right. Well . . . whatever.”
YEEAAAAIIIEEEE!
The scream again. Louder. We’re close.
There is a rusty slide ahead of us. I quietly scale it, then creep to the edge of the climbing tower. Now we’ll be able to see what’s what.
But when I do see what’s what, it makes my stomach do a barrel roll . . . .
“The Rifters,” I growl.
“And look what else,” Globlet says as she stands on her gooey tiptoes. “It’s that squirmy creature they were chasing.”
“Sit still, ya dumbin’!” one Rifter roars. The Rifter wears oil-splattered spiked armor—and I can almost smell his monstrous stench from here. He lunges forward and jabs with a hooked blade. But the creature rolls and the Rifter stumbles.
I whisper, “They’re trying to catch it.”
“DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?” a loud voice barks.
It’s the largest of the Rifters—the previously established Boss Rifter. He carries a long polearm, like some sort of other-dimensional dog-catcher.
The blur creature inches back, but it’s too late—
SLAM!
The Boss Rifter swings the polearm down, pinning the creature’s tail to the ground!
Globlet’s ready to leap over the side, straight into the Rifters’ circle, rubbery fists flying. But I hold her back. “Steady, goo-ball,” I say. “We’re out-numbered, out-sized, and way out-weaponized.”
“But Jack would just jump in and save the day!”
“Maybe. And then I’d have to jump in and save his bony butt like I do half the time anyway. You and I—we gotta be smart. We gotta be stealthy.”
“Yesss . . .” Globlet says, “stealthy.” She rubs her tiny hands together like a little evil overlord.
“Thrull. That big dude said Thrull! You heard that, right, Globlet??”
“I heard it all right,” she growls. “And also, those other words that he said.”
“Globlet, we gotta save this creature. I have zero clue why Thrull wants it, but if I had a post-apocalyptic motto, it would be “DON’T LET THRULL HAVE ANYTHING HE WANTS BECAUSE ANYTHING HE WANTS WILL BE USED FOR EVIL.”
Globlet thinks for a moment. “My motto would be that ‘Dance like no one’s watching’ one. It’s so profound!”
“Um . . . right,” I say. “But y’know—bottom line: if they’re trying to take this creature to Thrull, then we must help it escape!”
chapter seven
The Rifters are pulling out rusty chains and uncoiling strange ropes made from something like monster hair. They all move forward, about to hog-tie the creature.
Actually, not all of them move forward. One Rifter seems more interested in spinning on the tire swing than he does in tormenting small creatures.
“Flunk, quit that swinging and help finish the capture!” hollers the Boss Rifter.
“Sorry, Boss! Coming, Boss!” The Rifter named Flunk tries to get off the tire swing, but he must be dizzy from all that spinning, because he gets one foot out, hops up and down trying to find his balance, and falls flat on his face.
I snicker as quietly as I can.
Flunk rejoins the group, pretending to help, but eyes the tire swing longingly.
One Rifter holds the polearm tight, while the others begin tying up the creature.
Things look grim. . . .
“Globlet,” I say. “Now is the time to make—”
“Nachos!!” she exclaims. “FINALLY.”
“No, Globlet! Our move. Now is the time to make our move.”
“Oh.” Globlet is quiet for a moment, then she whispers urgently, “Use the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster!”
“The what?”
“The Thing. A. Ma. Blasty. Gadget. Blaster,” Globlet repeats slowly.
I stare at her, not comprehending.
Globlet huffs, then hops from my shoulder to my wrist. “This!” she says.
“Ohhh. The Gift.” The Gift is the multi-purpose weapon that Jack gave me last Christmas.
I never take it off—so much so that I’d actually forgotten I was wearing it.
“Yes, ‘the Gift,’” agrees Globlet, “except ‘the Gift’ is a not-cool name and ‘Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster’ sounds super June Solo Adventure-y!”
Globlet has a point.
“All right. Time for a little Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster action,” I say, sounding like Black Widow if Black Widow had a catch phrase but that catch phrase was the worst catch phrase.
I
aim for the swing set, a dozen feet from the rifters. I yank a lever on the blaster, squeeze my fist, and—
ZA-POOF!
A pink Wham-O superball, filled with slices of sparkler, speeds through the air, and—
BOING!
The superball smacks the swing set’s top bar and ricochets straight up into the air.
“You missed!” Globlet says.
“Nope,” I say. “Just watch.”
And then—
The Rifters leap back and look up at the light show overhead. A whiny-voiced Rifter screeches, “What’s that!? WHO DONE THAT?!?”
A smaller, cuter Rifter squeaks, “BRIGHT LIGHT! BRIGHT LIGHT!”
They only have one moment to assess the situation, because in the second moment—
FWOOM!
BOING!
I fire a second superball—and a second round of fireworks explodes overhead. The Rifters are spooked, but their Ogres go full-on haywire berserk. There is a deafening, panicked—
RAWR!
At once: CHAOS! The Ogres are pushing, jostling, fleeing. Mounted Rifters tumble from their saddles. Rifters on foot run for cover. The Ogres stampede from the playground like the final bell just rang on a half day.
The Boss Rifter’s gravelly voice barks: “FOLLOW ME! WE GOTTA GET THEM OGRES!”
At once, the Rifters give chase. Lucky for us, these Rifters aren’t too bright: they all go, leaving the creature behind . . .
Lying in the dirt.
I take a breath. We did it. It worked. June Solo Adventure (featuring special guest star Globlet)has just achieved VICTORY NUMBER ONE!
“Now c’mon, Globlet,” I say as we hurry down through the structure. “Let’s set this thing free . . . ”
chapter eight
The creature’s scaly skin shimmers in the afternoon sunlight. It has short, sharp talons that scrape at the ground. Its long, spiky tail swings slowly. And this look on its face—in its eyes—it reminds me of something I’ve seen before.
