chapter nine

“We’ll walk this sewer until we’re far away from that lousy playground,” I tell Globlet. “Then we’ll come back up and find our way home.”

“Genius! Genius!” Globlet exclaims.

But the farther we walk, the less I like my plan. The sewer is dark and slimy. Dirty water and garbage rush beneath my feet, and sometimes I’ll hear a crunch that sounds suspiciously like breaking bone.

Only Globlet’s glow guides us. I hold her out like I’m some old-timey, Ebenezer Scrooge inn-keeper. . . .

When we finally come to another open manhole cover, it’s been hours. I’m so eager for fresh air that I don’t care where it takes us—I just climb up and out.

“I’m happy to be out of these tunnels!” Globlet chirps. “All that glowing was making me sleepy.”

“Only problem,” I say, looking around at our new surroundings. “Now I have even less of an idea where we are. . . .”

“I know where we are!” Globlet proclaims triumphantly. “This is the place you call Earth!”

I sigh. She suddenly looks concerned.

We’re in one of those just-built-yesterday neighborhoods, where every house is almost identical to every other house, and the only way you can remember which one is yours is if you plant some tulips or something. Then every time some parent is dropping you off, you gotta say, “It’s the one with tulips out front!” But then it snows and the tulips die and nobody knows the difference anymore.

There aren’t any tulips here now.

Just an endless web of thick, pulsating Vine-Thingies that weave the houses together.

“I just want to get home.”

But that’ll be easier said than done. We walk. And walk. And walk. And it’s not just that every house looks like same. Every street looks the same. And they’re all named after trees!

I go left onto Maple Street, which turns onto Pine Street, and loops us around to Poplar Street. Where even are we?

We pass a huge, snaking Vine-Thingy that I’m sure we’ve passed before. The houses are rotting while the Vine-Thingies are flourishing.

“I need a sec, Globlet,” I finally say, as I take a seat on the ground. “My legs are like rubber.”

“I know the feeling,” Globlet says.

Just then, I look over.

And I gasp.

“No, Globlet!” I groan. “That means we’re going in circles! We’re lost!”

A scary question starts gnawing at my insides. What if we don’t make it back? What if we’re not just lost but we’re, like, lost lost?

It’s like the TV remote. Sometimes you can’t find it for a while, but you know it’ll turn up eventually—you just have to finally get frustrated enough and go digging between the couch cushions.

But other times you lose something, like my lucky slap bracelet, and somehow you just know that it’s never turning up. Like, ever.

Is that me? Am I now my lucky slap bracelet? Am I lost lost?

My shoulders sag. My legs are throbbing and my feet are on fire. I want to curl up. I want to fall asleep to the cute, soothing sounds of Globlet’s bubbly snoring. I want to hear—

RAWRR

Not that.

That’s a roar. A soft, shrill, barely there roar.

I look up.

The blur creature.

It’s back.

Perched on top of a massively thick Vine-Thingy that is draped over a two-story house.

And it’s staring at me.

“Do you think it wants us to, um, follow it?” I’m partly asking Globlet—but mostly asking myself.

“I don’t know what it wants,” Globlet says. “But I am WAY too hungry to take another lap around this boring tree town. FOLLOW! FOLLOW!”

We cross the street, toward the creature. A smile creeps onto its face. It turns, striding up the wide vine.

And that’s when I see its back.

It has fins. No, not fins. Stumps. Small remnants jutting out of its back—like a hint of something that was there before. Like . . .

Wings.

That’s gotta be it. Maybe it used to have wings. And now it doesn’t.

I wonder what that’s all about—

And right then, the realization hits me with absolute, complete, total, overwhelming terror. The way my head felt. The vision. It was just like Jack and the King Wretch.

We learned about the Winged Wretches’ monstrous abilities when the most powerful of them—the King Wretch—beamed nightmarish visions into Jack’s head.

Bardle told us that all Wretches have that power, but he’d never seen one with the strength of the King Wretch. And I’d never experienced it before today.

All Winged Wretches are soldiers; soldiers that serve Ŗeżżőcħ. Pure evil. I mean, the last time I tangled with one—it was ugly. . . .

The creature’s lizard-like neck turns. It’s looking back at us.

I see little raised bumps above its eyes, like bubbly eyebrows. That’s where more eyes will grow in. Because Winged Wretches have lots of eyes for seeing stuff so they can do bad stuff.

There’s no doubt. This creature is a baby Wretch. . . .

-Baby Wretch!-

I take a step back—not even quite realizing it. “It’s a—it’s a—it’s a . . . baby Winged Wretch.”

“Wait, WHAAAAAT?” Globlet asks.

The Wretch’s head bobs upward in that classic “C’mon, gang!” nod. Guess that gesture works in all dimensions.

And then my mind is juggling two different scenarios.

Stay where we are—and maybe remain hopelessly lost? Or follow a Winged Wretch—and maybe be eaten?

I’m trying to do what I do best—weigh the pluses, the minuses, the goods, the bads—

But I can’t think straight, because there is a strange, new noise filling my brain.

Noises coming from all around us. . . .

At first, I think I’m just imagining it. Could just be the fear, causing me to hear creepy things that aren’t there. Like that time a few years ago, when I lay in bed and became convinced the lacrosse helmet I’d left on my bedroom floor was actually a human skull and had to call my mom in to hit the lights. Yeah, that was embarrassing.

But I know it’s not just my imagination when Globlet says, “What’s that sound? Is it vines?”

“No,” I say. “Vine-Thingies don’t MOAN.”

But that’s undeniably what I’m hearing: MOANING. Coming from everywhere. This labyrinth of look-alike streets and houses suddenly feels ALIVE. As the moans grow louder, it occurs to me that I only know one thing that moans. . . .

Suddenly—

SLAM! CRASH!

There is movement everywhere. Doors fall open, windows shatter, and screens rip.

It’s like some gruesome end-of-the-world game show, and each house is hiding a terrifying prize. . . .

LET’S SHOW HER WHAT SHE’S WON, FOLKS!