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 pizza 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. . . .