The Last Kids on Earth and the Zombie Parade. Max Brallier
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it sounds like Joe’s Pizza is an entirely different scene. A monster scene. And that causes Quint to begin rapidly hitting me . . .
Thrull looks up at me. I hand him my hockey stick (the one I conk zombie noggins with) to use as a crutch and we all help him to his feet.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We’ll get you back to Joe’s Pizza.’
Dirk gathers up his gardening supplies. I sheath my weapon. Quint sniffs his armpit. And with that, our very strange group hobbles out of the Circle One Mall, home of the Wormungulous.
I have big plans for this mall – plans to never return.
Thirty minutes later, the five of us – plus Rover – are standing across the street from Joe’s. And my brain is just like, ‘What the huh?!’
I see ample evidence that this is not the Joe’s Pizza we’re used to . . .
– Ample Evidence –
‘Mr. Thrull, what exactly is this?’ Quint asks.
‘This is where I live,’ he says, shifting and adjusting his weight on the hockey stick. ‘Come.’
That sounds reasonable enough – but something stops me.
‘Um, one second, Mr. Thrull!’ I exclaim. ‘Quick buddy huddle!’
I grab my friends and we all dash out of hearing distance.
‘Should we go in there?’ I ask.
Dirk and June both nod. ‘I think so . . .’ June says.
‘Why not?! You know how old folks always tell you not to trust strangers? Great advice! You know what’s better advice? Don’t trust monster strangers! The dude’s wearing bone jewellery.’
Quint opens his mouth to respond, but a strange sound interrupts us. It’s like the sound of a blade, slicing between us, silencing us.
‘Do you guys hear that?’
It’s like the wind, rustling through the trees. But louder. The sound fills the air. Like a flute or a, uh – what’s that lame plastic instrument from elementary school? A recorder! It sounds a bit like that. But the sound is deeper, rougher – and the longer I listen to it, the more it begins to sound like a strange, devilish, musical scream. There’s no other way to describe the sound. It is an inhuman SHRIEKING.
But there’s no time to ponder the strange sound, because Thrull is limping toward Joe’s. If we’re going in, the time is now.
‘Come on!’ June says.
I listen to the noise a moment longer. The sound enters my ears and proceeds to march straight down my spine, twisting it, terrifying me to my core.
It’s only a noise.
Yet it scares me beyond belief.
‘Jack!’ Quint barks. I shake my head, trying to shake out the fear, and I reluctantly follow my friends. From inside Joe’s, I hear glass shatter and freakish, inhuman laughing.
But I continue following.
We all do.
Rover trots beside me. As we step up onto the sidewalk, I tell him to stay, and he flashes those puppy-dog eyes at me. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be back, buddy,’ I say. ‘I think . . .’
Continuing forward, we pass the monsters hanging out outside. I try to give them good, solid, manly nods – but they just look at me like, ‘Buddy, you are in the wrong place.’
Thrull places his hand against the door, and pushes it open, and we step inside. Inside, to the strangest sight imaginable . . .
Tentacles dance in the air! Furry beasts armwrestle! Scaled things play some strange version of darts. At the counter, insect-like monsters suck down entire pizzas in a single bite. Small flying creatures swoop through the air, delivering food. And everywhere, at tables, in booths, are HULKING MONSTERS chatting it up in some sort of monster language.
A few speak English. Bits and pieces of strange monster dialogue float over:
‘. . . ONCE POUNDED A GURLAK INTO THE MUD WITH JUST MY TAIL . . .’
‘. . . MORE SNOZZLE STEAKS, CHEF! . . .’
‘. . . TASTES BETTER WHEN IT’S STILL BREATHING, IF YOU ASK ME . . .’
A massively round monster behind the bar wings a pizza pie through the air, directly into the mouth of a heaving creature that is seemingly all mouth and nothing else.
And then there’s us.
There’s me.
The thirteen-year-old human.
The scared, confused, overconfident-but-only-overconfident-in-order-to-hide-his-crippling-fear kid.
‘My friends!’ Thrull bellows. ‘Listen!’
The grumble of monster voices grows quiet. They turn in their chairs. Some crane impossibly long necks. I can feel their eyes – some with thousands of little eyeballs, like flies – watching us.
Thrull purses his lips. He sighs through his neck-gills, then says, ‘Œŕŗūæŀ, known in this world as BLARG!’
The monsters simply stare. Silence hangs in the air like a poorly timed fart. Finally, a small, zero-armed creature, perched on a chair, laughs and leans forward. ‘This small human defeated a servant of Ŗeżżőcħ the Ancient, Destructor of Worlds? HA! Not likely!’ the creature says, cackling.
Hey! Are they calling me a liar?! I’m many things. I’m lazy. I’m clumsy. I’m a sucker for girls with British accents. I’m pretend-charming but not real-charming. But I’m no liar.
Well, that’s not totally true, either. I mean, I’ve lied plenty. Who hasn’t?
But I’m not lying about this!
I cough into my fist, take a deep breath, and step forward. ‘Um. Ah. No. It’s true. I did. For real. With this,’ I say as I pull the Louisville Slicer from its sheath.
The way the monsters react, you’d think I’d just pulled a severed donkey head from my back pocket. Some gasp like humans. Others make sounds that I can only assume are monster versions of gasps.
They begin to sniff the air and then start to smile. It’s like they can smell Blarg on the blade.
Thrull looks at me with a grin that’s all teeth. He rests one massive paw on my shoulder. I can’t help but feel all warm inside . . .
And then –
‘And these are my friends!’ I say, shouting to be heard over the roar. ‘I didn’t do it alone! They helped! Like, a whole bunch!’