by Maggie Marks
And when we can’t see them, he thought.
But being in the furnace room only reminded Mason that they were nearly out of food, and had just one block of dried kelp left for fuel. If Luna couldn’t find help, they’d never make it.
I know what I’m doing, Luna had said just before leaving.
I hope so, thought Mason. I really hope so.
Then he heard a yelp from the living room.
“Asher!” Mason practically flew down the hall.
His brother stood in the middle of the room. He looked unharmed, but he was pointing at the glass.
Mason turned slowly, afraid of what he might see.
The drowned were still there, but . . . he’d already known that. Why was Asher so freaked out?
“It’s leaking,” Asher whispered.
Mason looked again—and saw a trickle of water running down the wall. He followed the trail backward, up toward the ceiling. One of the blocks in the wall looked bloated with water. It bulged, threatening to burst out of its glass frame.
It was the block Asher had replaced, the block that had once been prismarine. But now?
It was sandstone. Very wet, very crumbly sandstone. It looked as if a single blow with a fist could break that block to pieces.
“No,” Mason breathed, shaking his head side to side. “This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all!” If that block crumbled, not only would water gush in, but the drowned could get in, too!
“What do we do?” asked Asher.
“We have to fix it,” said Mason. But with what? He flew around the room, searching.
Could they plug the hole with the sponge from the entryway? Nope, it was too big. And Edward was hugging the sponge as if it were his new best friend.
“Here!” shouted Asher from the furnace room.
Mason raced toward his brother, feeling the eyes of the drowned on him with every step. Were they waiting for the sandstone block to break? For their chance to get inside?
He ran faster.
Asher stood beside the furnace, holding the block of dried kelp.
“That’s our fuel!” said Mason.
Asher nodded. “Yeah, but it’s the right size—and kind of squishy. You used one to block the hole before, remember?”
Yeah, after you broke the glass wall, Mason wanted to say. But he didn’t. Because he could hear the trickle of water running down the living room wall, and it was starting to sound more like a stream.
“Grab your pickaxe,” he said. “Let’s go.”
In the living room, Mason rushed toward the glass wall. “We have to be quick,” he said to Asher. “You break the sandstone, and I’ll stick the dried kelp in its place.”
Asher nodded, but his expression was grave.
“On the count of three,” said Mason. “One, two . . . three!”
Asher broke the sandstone with a single blow, and Mason pushed the dried kelp into the wall. The raging water tried to push it back into the room, but Mason pushed harder.
His arms shook as he leaned against the wall, waiting for the kelp block to expand with water. Finally, he could take his hands away, and the block stayed put.
But water was everywhere.
“Grab the sponge!” he called to Asher. “Let’s mop this up.”
“Yeah, right,” said Asher. “You grab it.” He pointed toward Edward, who now had all eight tentacles wrapped around the sponge.
Mason sighed. “Edward, you’re going to have to share.”
But the squid wouldn’t let go. When Mason reached for the corner of the sponge, the squid opened his mouth, showing off his sharp little teeth.
“I’m not scared of you,” said Mason, even though he kind of was.
He reached for the other side of the sponge and started to drag it into the living room, wiping up the soppy mess. But the sponge was so full of water, it only made the mess worse.
“We have to dry it out in the furnace,” said Mason. “C’mon, Edward. Let go!” He tugged the sponge across the floor, with Edward going along for the ride.
Then Mason remembered something. They couldn’t dry out the sponge in the furnace, because they couldn’t light the furnace. They had just used their last block of fuel to plug the glass wall!
He slumped down beside Edward on the floor. Cool water seeped through his jeans, but he didn’t even care.
Asher shot his brother a nervous glance. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Luna’s still out there. She’s getting help, remember?”
Mason nodded. But how much help was Luna actually bringing back? She’d need a whole army of Ms. Beacons to fight the drowned that were clustered around their underwater home.
Mason rested his chin on Edward’s wet head and sighed—until a flurry of activity on the other side of the glass caught his eye.
Something was moving through the mass of green mobs. They grunted and snarled, falling away from the glass. A trident flashed. Was it Luna?
Yes! Mason caught sight of her red shirt and dark ponytail. She battled fiercely, swinging over and over again. But did she have any help?
Mason strained to see. When he saw the white robes swirling in the water above, he knew Ms. Beacon had come, too. Her long grey hair streamed out behind her as she dove toward the drowned, toward Luna.
But as the crowd of drowned surged forward, Luna got squished up against the glass. Her trident was knocked from her hands. Hand over hand, Luna began to inch her way toward the front door.
Then a drowned threw a trident of its own. The three-pronged weapon spun through the water and knocked Luna sideways.
“No!” cried Mason, leaping from the floor. He ran to the glass, wanting to smash it to pieces and save Luna.
But it was too late.
The life drained from her eyes . . . and then she fell.
CHAPTER 10
Mason didn’t reach for his helmet.
He didn’t put on armor, or take a swig of potion.
He grabbed only his trident before flying out the double doors. As the water surged inward, he pushed his way out, with only one thought on his mind. Luna.
He struck the first drowned he came across—struck it with such rage that the beast fell backward, taking two more drowned with it.
Mason fought his way through the crowd, battling with fury, until he reached Luna’s side. He grabbed her arm and pulled, straight through the crowd, waving his trident wildly with his other hand to clear a path.
As a drowned staggered backward, Mason caught sight of Ms. Beacon hovering overhead. They locked eyes for only a moment, and then she darted away like a nervous fish.
Mason didn’t have time to call after her. Save Luna, he urged himself. Get her to the door!
Asher was already waiting, the door wide open. He helped Mason pull Luna inside. With his last ounce of strength, Mason swung the heavy door shut.
He waited for the water level to sink, for the entryway to clear so that he could help Luna. So that he could finally breathe.
Then he remembered. There was no sponge in here to soak up the water. He’d left that sponge in the living room with Edward!
Asher must have had the same thought. He was already pressing on the inner door. As it gave way, a wave of water gushed into the living room, taking the boys—and Luna—with it.
Mason struggled to regain his footing as he sucked in a sweet breath of air. Then he dropped to Luna’s side in the knee-high water.
She lay motionless, face down. He rolled her onto her side and patted her back, willing her to breathe.
But she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move at all—not even the slightest flutter of her eyelids.
“We need her potion of healing!” Asher cried. He tugged Luna’s backpack off her shoulder and rummaged around inside, grabbing the first bottle he could find.
But the thin bottle looked so strange. It wasn’t round and squat like Luna’s other bottles, and the cork was black instead of orange. “What is this?” he asked, about to uncork the bottle.<
br />
“Wait!” said Mason, spinning the bottle until they could see the handwritten label. “Potion of weakness” was scrawled in tiny, spidery letters.
“Ms. Beacon!” he suddenly remembered. “Luna must have gotten it from her. But don’t open it. That won’t help Luna.”
He patted Luna’s face, but her body hung limp in his arms. A cold trickle of dread ran down Mason’s spine.
Asher reached into the backpack and pulled out two more tall, thin bottles. “Potions of regeneration and . . . strength,” he read off the labels. “Where’s potion of healing?”
He dug deeper and produced a few lumps of coal and then some wheat. Luna had definitely visited Ms. Beacon, and the old woman had shared some supplies.
Finally, Asher pulled a vial of pink liquid from the depths of Luna’s pack. “This is it! Splash potion of healing,” he announced. “It’s what she used to heal my arm.”
In an instant, he had uncorked the bottle and dribbled the liquid onto Luna’s face.
They watched and waited.
Please wake up, Mason prayed. Please!
But Luna didn’t stir.
Asher opened the bottle again and poured more potion, swinging the bottle back and forth across Luna’s body until every ounce was gone. “Why isn’t it working?” he cried.
“Maybe it takes time,” said Mason quietly.
Edward had crept closer now in the sea of water filling the living room. He watched Luna with his wide-set eyes.
“We’re trying to save her, buddy,” Mason told him. “We’re doing the best we can!”
He wished Edward would look away. He wished the drowned outside the glass would, too. He wished the whole Overworld would go away for just a moment, long enough for Luna to get better.
But Mason could wish all he wanted. The drowned weren’t going away. They were spread thick against the glass, blocking out the midday light filtering down from the sky above.
Then they began to bump and bobble against the glass.
Thump, thump, bump.
“Stop!” Mason cried out loud. “Why won’t they stop?”
Asher jumped back, as if surprised by Mason’s voice. “Should we fight them with Ms. Beacon’s potions?” he asked.
Mason shook his head. “No way. Not without Luna. She’s the only one who knows how potions work on the drowned—which ones hurt them and which ones only make them stronger.”
But Luna still lay cold as a fish in his arms.
“Let’s move her into the furnace room,” he suddenly decided.
The furnace was cold to the touch, but the room was still warmer than the rest of the house. And there, Luna could rest away from the watchful eyes of the undead mobs glued to the windows.
As Mason and Asher carried Luna across the room, the drowned banged against the glass.
Thump, thump, bump.
In the furnace room, Mason spread a blanket over the supply chest. The chest made a nice bed, a place where Luna could lie high above the water flooding the floor.
She looked so peaceful, as if she were only fast asleep. So that’s what I’m going to pretend, thought Mason as he and Asher pulled the door shut behind them.
Back in the living room, Mason paced furiously through the lake that had formed there. “Now what?” he said. “We don’t have food. We don’t have fuel. We don’t have Luna. We don’t have a plan!”
Asher held up his hand. “Stop pacing,” he said. “And stop hollering. You’re freaking me out.”
Mason stopped. “Sorry. But I think it’s pretty much time to freak out, don’t you?”
Asher shrugged. “Maybe I can go find Ms. Beacon. Maybe I can find the heart of the sea, and finish the conduit, and . . .”
“Forget the dumb conduit!” Mason cried.
Asher took a step backward. “Uncle Bart wouldn’t let you say that,” he said, a wounded look creeping across his face.
Mason took a deep breath and blew it back out. “You’re right. Uncle Bart wouldn’t let me say that. He was always after treasure, just like you. But look where that got him!”
As soon as he’d said the words, Mason wished he could take them back. Asher’s face fell, but only for a moment. Then he fought back.
“You’ll see!” he said. “I’ll get the heart of the sea. And when I finish the conduit, you won’t need weapons or splash potions or anything. My conduit will fight those green hunks of rotten flesh all by itself.” He pointed toward the window, where the drowned wriggled and writhed.
But something else was out there now.
Mason strained to see.
“Is that . . . a zombie?” he asked. In its tattered red shirt, the mob stood out like a tropical fish against the brown robes of the drowned. But its eyes were just as cold and hollow.
The zombie let out a groan—a groan Mason could actually hear. Then it staggered forward, as if it were coming right through the glass!
Mason’s jaw dropped, his mind scrambling to make sense of what he was seeing. But as the zombie’s image swirled and faded, he realized—he wasn’t staring at a zombie on the other side of the glass. He was staring at a reflection . . .
. . . of a zombie right here in the living room.
Mason spun so fast, he almost lost his footing. He locked eyes with the undead mob. There was no time to figure out how the zombie had gotten inside. There was barely enough time to act.
As the zombie snarled and stepped toward him, Mason grabbed his trident. He raised it over his shoulder like a spear.
“Stop!” Asher suddenly cried. “Don’t strike!”
His next few words hung in the air like lingering potion.
“It’s not a zombie. It’s Luna!”
CHAPTER 11
Luna?
Mason searched the zombie’s eyes and saw nothing familiar. But the T-shirt was hers. The tattered leggings were hers. And the boots, burst open at the seams, glowed with the faint purple of depth strider enchantment.
Yes, this was Luna.
Mason nearly ran to her side.
But this Luna wasn’t a friend. This Luna snarled again. She wanted to harm him.
Mason used his trident to push her back, away from Asher. She stumbled backward, grunting, toward the furnace-room door.
With a final shove, Mason knocked her into the room. As she landed with a splash on the waterlogged floor, he swung the door shut and locked it.
Mason leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath. Would it be strong enough to hold her?
Asher’s face held a thousand questions. “How did she turn into a zombie?” he cried, his eyes wide.
Mason shook his head. “I don’t know.” Then he remembered Luna’s words—what she had said about Ms. Beacon way back when, before the drowned had come and their world had turned upside down.
Ms. Beacon knows how to cure a zombie villager—a villager who is killed by a zombie or a drowned, but then turns into a zombie herself.
“Luna isn’t a zombie,” Mason suddenly realized. “She’s a zombie villager. And Ms. Beacon knows how to cure her!”
Asher spun around so fast, his feet nearly slipped out from beneath him. “Then we have to get Ms. Beacon!”
“You’re not going out there,” Mason said quickly. The thought of losing Asher, too—of his brother turning into a zombie villager—was way too much for Mason to bear. “We’ll wait for her to come back.”
Asher hesitated. “But . . . will she come back?”
Mason thought of the way Ms. Beacon had disappeared the moment he’d spotted her. But she had come to help, hadn’t she? She had given Luna potions. And she had seen how badly injured Luna was.
“She’ll come back,” said Mason, sounding more sure than he felt. “She’ll bring a cure for Luna.”
Asher shook his head. “No, she won’t. She doesn’t even know Luna turned into a zombie!”
In an instant, Mason knew Asher was right. As Luna began to scratch at the door behind him, he jumped to his feet and began to pace
. “We need to find a way to tell her,” he said. “We have to send a message to Ms. Beacon.” But how?
Mason imagined sending Edward, with an SOS scrawled across his shiny black head. But Luna would never forgive them if something happened to Edward.
“I know!” Asher held up a hand to stop Mason’s pacing. “We’ll write it on the window!” he cried.
He raced toward the living room so fast that Mason had no choice but to follow. He glanced backward, hoping that the locked furnace-room door would hold Luna safely inside. Then he sloshed through the water until he reached Asher, who had grabbed Luna’s backpack. Asher pulled out the lump of coal. “We can write with this,” he said.
“Write on what?” asked Mason.
Asher gestured toward the window. “On the glass.”
Mason slowly nodded. “That could work! But write your message up high, where Ms. Beacon will be able to see it.” Above the drowned, he wanted to add.
Asher pounded on the glass to force the drowned to take a step back. Then he stood on a chair, reaching upward, and began to write in thick black lines:
Luna turned into a zombie villager—please help
Mason cleared his throat. “Asher,” he said, “you kind of forgot something.”
Asher stepped backward to check his work. “Right.” He reached up and added an exclamation point—and then another.
“No,” said Mason. “You have to write backward!”
“Huh?”
“Ms. Beacon can’t read that from the outside,” Mason explained. “You have to write it backward!”
“Oh!” Asher’s shoulders slumped.
“I’ll help you.” As Mason reached for the wet sponge, Edward tugged back—only a little—before dropping back down into the water that had flooded the living room floor.
With the sponge, Mason wiped the glass clean. Then he grabbed the coal, trying to ignore the drowned that was studying him through what suddenly felt like a very thin wall of glass.
Mason wrote the message, backward this time, with not two exclamation marks but three. He underlined the word help. Then he stood back. “How’s that?” he asked.
