The Last Kids on Earth: June's Wild Flight

by Max Brallier

  Near the top of the nest, two Wretches are fighting over a hunk of meat. I wonder, Will Neon be like that soon? Will he be a ferocious, monster-flesh-devouring servant of Ŗeżżőcħ?

  Or will he remember that once, when he was very young, he met a girl who told him not to attack strange creatures, not to be evil, and to never, ever, ever eat walkie-talkies without permission?

  I can’t think about it any longer—I have to just do it. “Okay, Neon, it’s time.” I say it quickly, because I feel my lower lip starting to tremble.

  I walk halfway to the nest with Neon. Any further, and I’m just about guaranteed to get torn to bits.

  Looking into Neon’s eyes, I suddenly understand why my parents cried when they dropped me off at summer camp.

  I turn to go—but Neon follows.

  “No, Neon. I go this way. You go that way,” I say, pointing to the nest.

  Neon’s head cocks, then he makes a noise that sounds like Wretch laughter. Like he thinks all of this is a game.

  And that makes this worse.

  “GO!” I say. “You have to GO!”

  Neon’s shoulders draw up. He doesn’t understand. He can’t.

  He takes a slow, apologetic step toward me, like he needs me—and it breaks my heart. I can’t do this any longer. I have to end this.

  “Fine!” I say. “If you won’t go to them—I’ll make them come to you.”

  I step past him, then—

  CRACK! I bang a broken piece of my spear against the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster.

  “WRETCHES!” I shout, using my best J. Jonah Jameson commanding newsroom voice. “COME TAKE THIS ONE! HE NEEDS YOU!”

  A single Wretch swings its long neck toward me. Its cold, silver eyes lock on to mine—and I bang the spear harder and louder—

  CRACK!

  CRACK!

  CRACK!

  Finally, more Wretches turn—then beat their wings and lift off.

  Neon is frozen. His talons dig into the ground. My sneakers push off the same ground.

  And I run.

  I’m racing, nearly tumbling, back down the nest hill. My feet go out from under me, and then I’m sliding, reaching out, grabbing on to an overturned Jeep. I pull myself behind it, out of sight.

  Peeking around the side, I see Wretches circling Neon.

  One particularly large, scar-covered Wretch uses its snout to push Neon toward the nest.

  Slowly, reluctantly he trudges upward. A crumbling billboard advertising a used car dealership looms over him.

  He looks so very small and alone.

  This is hard.

  But that’s what it means to be in charge of your own adventure. Sometimes you have to do the hard thing.

  And I remind myself: the reason it’s the hard thing is because it’s the right thing.

  That’s what I was telling myself when I nearly ran out of breath, trying to save Neon underwater.

  And that’s what I’m telling myself now: I’m doing the right thing.

  Or at least I thought I was. . . .

  chapter twenty-one

  Neon looks back for me—slow at first, and then faster, frantic.

  Globlet grabs my hand. “June, he looks scared. And I feel scared.”

  “I’m not sure this is right,” Johnny Steve says.

  Wretches crowd around Neon. One prods his back, where his wings used to be. And then, at once—

  KEE-AWWW!!

  The Wretches attack! Neon whirls, trying to escape, but one enormous talon snatches him! The largest Wretch, some sort of den mother, hurls him into the horde!

  Neon is writhing, twisting, flailing.

  They’re toying with him. Because they know he’s damaged, they know he can’t fly, they know he’s not like them.

  I’ve led him to his doom.

  I burst out from behind the Jeep and race toward the horde of Wretches. I’m not thinking straight. Not even close.

  Racing up the hill, I see Neon curled up into a little ball. It’s so similar to what the Rifters did to him—like horrible déjà vu—that I want to puke. The Wretches are evil, yes—but I didn’t think they’d be evil to their own kind!

  Behind me, I hear Globlet and Johnny Steve screaming my name. Telling me to turn back. Telling me to get down.

  But I don’t, because in this moment I’m not scared of the Wretches.

  However, it’s not the Wretches they’re warning me about. It’s something else entirely. . . .

  “NO!” I cry out as I’m ripped upward, into the air.

  “Yes,” the Boss Rifter says, smiling cruelly.

  I’m instantly clawing at the lasso, trying to use the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster to slice myself free. But the Ogre sweeps me across the ground. The Blaster bangs hard against a chunk of rubble and my entire arm goes numb.

  “Leggo!” I cry. “Leggo!”

  The Boss Rifter does not “leggo.”

  Instead, the lasso is swung up, over his shoulder. I’m suddenly weightless, tumbling through the air. This is like a surprise upside-down roller coaster—and I hate surprise upside-down roller coasters! If a roller coaster is gonna go upside down, I want advance notice!

  I see Johnny Steve and Globlet, racing to catch me. But they won’t make it.

  And the last thing I see, as I’m carried away, is Neon. And a massive Wretch swinging a talon into his side.

  It is a killing blow.

  Neon cries out. Slowly, like it’s a scene out of a movie, he sinks to the ground.

  I open my mouth to scream, but blood rushes to my head, and everything goes black.

  chapter twenty-two

  When I come to, my head aches, and I can’t tell how much time has passed. Thick, heavy ropes bind my limbs. I crane my neck, and—

  What the . . .

  There’s a giant pirate ship anchor next to me.

  Oh man—what dimension is this?

  There’s a staticky buzzing sound—the lights overheard flicker, as some last, tiny bit of electricity shudders through them. In the dim light, I see a pirate. The real deal. Eye patch. Wooden leg. The whole thing.

  Have these Rifters dragged me onto the set of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie? Oh no, am I inside Davy Jones’s locker?

  I spin my head wildly, before spotting a sign that explains it all—

  Okay, so, time to play catch-up, brain. I’ve been taken prisoner by the Rifters. I’m inside, presumably—their hideout. And their hideout is a mini golf course, because, well, the end of the world is the weirdest.

  Think. Think. Need to escape. My eyes dart left and right, searching for—

  KRAK!

  A door flies open. I shut my eyes, pretending to still be knocked out in case they spill the beans on anything worthwhile.

  “When do we go back for the baby Wretch?” I hear a voice ask. It’s the Rifter, Flunk, who struggled with the concept of a tire swing. “You said it was a gift for Thrull.”

  “S’right!” Boss says. “Ya see, Flunk, to prove our loyalty to Thrull, we needs to bring him a gift. A gift of value! Winged Wretches can bend minds; that gives ’em value. And a baby Wretch, that ain’t been trained up? One Thrull can raise however he wants? That’s even MORE value! And the big grand slam part is . . . it’s got no wings! A Wingless Wretch! That goes and makes it the best gift of all, cuz it can’t escape.”

  “Yep! A mighty good gift, Boss! Best gift I ever heard of! I bet no better gift exists, except maybe a coupon for—”

  I hear Boss and Flunk’s scrap-metal boots on the floor.

  “The baby Wretch would be a happy-makin’ thing to Thrull,” the Boss Rifter says. “But Thrull wields big power now. He’s got lots a’ happy-makin’ things. We must do more. Lucky fer us, I know jus’ what Thrull wants. . . .”

  “A piz
za party?”

  “REVENGE!” Boss barks. “Think of how Thrull will reward our loyalty when we hand over one of his sworn enemies!” He kicks the anchor and my eyes fly open.

  The Boss looms over me. “How lucky I am that we found each other,” he says, with an ugly chuckle. “The one with the Multi-Hand. . . .”

  Whoa, what?

  “Back it up there a sec, pal,” I say, squinting up at him. “The multi-what?”

  The Boss Rifter’s long, thick fingers tap the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster.

  “Ohhhh, you mean the Thing-A-Ma-Blasty Gadget Blaster!” I say. “I used to call it the Gift. And, wait, you guys call it the Multi-Hand? Okay, we need to all get on the same page here, name-wise. I mean, just for ease of communication. Y’know what—how about we just call it Blasty? Simple, to the point.”

  The Boss Rifter snickers. “Soon, it’ll belong to Thrull. Along with you. And then he can call it any name he likes. See, it’s all goin’ ta belong to him. Until Ŗeżżőcħ arrivens. . . .”

  He makes a horrible laughing sound—choking as he cackles. Bits of spittle fly. I’m turning my head to avoid the shower of saliva when I see—

  Blood.

  A few tiny drops of magenta and teal on the Boss’s boot.

  It all comes rushing back. The moment before it all went black.

  Neon.

  Crying out.

  Overwhelmed by that savage, sinister swarm of Wretches.

  And that final, horrible blow.

  I feel a lump in my throat. But I refuse to let this villain see me cry. I swallow it down, stiffen, and stare up at the Boss. “I’m going to ask you a question,” I say. “And please. Just please—give me a real answer.”

  Boss looks me over: torn hoodie, ripped backpack, and sneakers covered with mud and slime and grease. He considers me for a while. Then, finally, he seems to decide I deserve an honest answer. . . .

  “Dead,” he says. “The baby Wretch is dead. There were a dozen Wretches atop him when we left, with more on the way.”

  I manage to nod, then quickly look away.

  I’m holding my breath, clenching my teeth, fighting back tears.

  “I am sorry,” the Boss says, kneeling down. “So very sorry, but—” He reaches out, his fingers tighten around Blasty, and then he yanks it off my wrist.

  And then he’s standing. “Flunk,” he barks. “Guard the prisoner. We leave at dawn.”

  “You can count on me, Boss!”

  Then the Boss leaves, slamming the door behind him so hard that a rack of golf clubs topples over and a bucket of balls spills.

  “Ooh, roundies!” Flunk shrieks. He chases after the balls excitedly, shouting with glee when he finally grabs one.

  I remember him on the tire swing, unable to figure out how it worked. And this is basically the same.

  He lifts his faceguard, examining the strange, foreign sporting good.

  Then he bites it. His teeth must be half metal, because he takes an easy chunk out of it. Then chews. And chews. Golf ball crumbs tumble from his mouth. “It’s good,” he finally announces. “But not great.”

  I sigh. “Dude, it’s a golf ball. For golf. You hit the balls.”

  “Hit—the balls?” he asks, but it comes out all garbled because he’s choking down the last hunk of golf ball.

  “With clubs,” I say, nodding to the spilled pile.

  He looks at the balls. Then at the clubs. Then back to the balls. Back to the clubs. Balls. Clubs. Balls. Clubs. Then, finally, a long “Ohhhhh . . . I get it!”

  And a moment later—

  Soon, he’s out of balls—so he uses the club to WHACK the ball vending machine. It pops open and a tsunami of balls floods out, bouncing and rolling through the back door and out onto the driving range.

  Flunk chases after them, giggling and shouting, “I’m gonna get you, roundies!”

  And here I am.

  Alone again.

  I’ve messed everything up.

  I’m being held prisoner by other-dimensional pirates inside a sprawling, tourist-trap mini golf course secret base. And soon, I’ll be delivered to our arch-nemesis, who’s constructing some sort of Tower thing to summon Ŗeżżőcħ the Ancient, Destructor of Worlds.

  Neon is dead, all because I stupidly tried to return him to his family.

  Speaking of families, I’ll never see mine again, not after Ŗeżżőcħ turns our world into his own bottomless buffet of horrid delights. And I can forget about seeing my other family, too: Jack, Quint, Dirk, Biggun, Rover, Globlet, Skaelka, and all the monsters I call friends.

  Even Johnny Steve.

  And now—ARGH—I don’t even have my weapon. The one thing that might get me out of this mess.

  I rest my head against the cold metal of the anchor. No hope. No path forward. No way out.

  This is the most alone, the most lost, that I’ve ever been.

  Actually, no.

  That’s not true.

  I have been this alone before.

  And it was not so long ago. . . .

  chapter twenty-three

  I’m remembering the last time I felt this alone.

  This memory, though—it feels so real. Like it’s more than just a memory. Like I’m there, back in those middle school halls. . . .

  I was at rock bottom. Crater city.

  I remember clawing through my locker, looking for a bag of Fritos that I thought maybe I left in there, when—

  SMASH!

  My framed Certificate of Merit shattered against the floor. I won it for being the first ever sixth-grade senior editor of the school paper.

  I had hung it on my locker door.

  And there it was on the floor, lying in a pile of broken glass. But I didn’t care.

  That dumb piece of paper didn’t matter anymore, because NOTHING from my old life mattered anymore.

  And the weight of that hit me like a cannonball.

  Everything I’d envisioned for myself was gone.

  I had a PLAN for my future. I always had clear-cut goals. I had my future mapped out by first grade, when half my classmates were still sucking Elmer’s straight out of the tube.

  I used to play it in my head, like a movie, during that ninety-nine-second sprint to the bus every morning. And then on the bus. And, well, all the time.

  Youngest editor of the middle school paper: did that. Check mark.

  Then, it would be first slow dance at the eighth-grade formal, driver’s license at sixteen, followed by starting midfielder on the Hounds lacrosse team, taking us to the state championship. Then an internship at the Morning Horn News in the big city.

  Next, a scholarship to my first-choice college, graduate near the top of the class, then I’d move to the city, land my dream job at the Morning Horn, three years there and I’d be the paper’s first female editor-in-chief—

  And y’know what else? Y’know what the biggest, best part of my big plan was? I was going to do all of it with my family cheering me on, watching me become the person I was supposed to become.

  But then the world was suddenly shattered. Just like the glass that held my dumb, useless Certificate of Merit.

  I stared at it, on the floor—thinking about how my hopes and dreams were dead, done, destroyed—just like the rest of the world.

  My hand tightened around the spear in my hand, and I knew what I would do.

  I would break that too.

  And once it broke, once my only weapon was gone—then I’d be able to truly, fully GIVE UP.

  Anger rushed through me and I raised the spear and swung—

  I caught my breath. Gathered my strength. In a moment, I would bring that spear smashing down against the school’s big fake gold lacrosse trophies! One final swing.

  And then, like I s
aid, I could quit.

  I raised the spear high, drew up my strength, then—

  “JUNE! JUNE DEL TORO!”

  I spun around. My name. Someone was calling my name. Not the army, not my parents, not some super squad of armor-clad warriors come to rescue me.

  No, it was a boy. The sound was distant and echoey, and I couldn’t quite make it out at first.

  I realized—with a mix of shock, horror, and wonder—that it was freaking JACK SULLIVAN. . . .

  JACK SULLIVAN

  THE WEIRD NEW KID

  Yup—the kid who joined the school paper and said it was ’cause he liked taking photos, even though it was SO OBVIOUS it was ’cause he had a crush on me. Like, one time, I was telling Jenny Muro that I loved French bulldogs and Jack must’ve heard me ’cause the next day he comes in with this massive scrapbook of dog photos he cut out of magazines. And he was all like, “Wait, whaaaat, you like dogs, too??! I had zero idea! I just always carry around this dog photo magazine scrapbook!! WEIRD! We’re, like—CONNECTED!” And I just stood there, groaning and thinking, Dude, freaking everyone likes dogs.

  And then, a few months later, he asked someone to ask someone to ask someone to ask someone if I liked him. But one of those people was Quint, and Quint is, well, Quint. So when it was Quint’s turn to ask someone, he asked Mr. Burr, my math teacher, which led to maybe the single most uncomfortable moment of my life—

  Yep, Jack Sullivan.

  And he was in the school.

  His voice was coming from the end of the sixth-grade wing. I looked at my spear, suddenly glad I hadn’t finished smashing it, and moved in that direction. Peering through double doors, I saw him racing toward me.

  Flanked by Quint Baker and Dirk Savage (the Smart Kid and the Kid Who Can Grow a Beard and Never Comes to School).

  They were being pursued by the Zombie Ball!