Chapter 34

“Heads.”

The Hoarder’s dwelling was a decent hike from Bookworm’s collected pile of ordinary scissors. Depending on the positioning of the landfill, it might have been days away. The Spade literally had the power to move the ground, bringing up new landscapes as old trash piles folded under. The way the Dark Aurans had left the landfill after using the Spade actually worked out quite conveniently.

During the hike, Spencer saw a familiar forest of overgrown forks and spoons. He knew that just beyond lay the Glop lagoon and the Broomstaff. But he didn’t get to revisit the old sites, as Bookworm led the group another way.

Not quite two hours had passed when they came to the staircase Sach had mentioned. It was at least fifty feet wide and more than a hundred stairs high. Spencer didn’t know how the stairway had gotten there. He’d stopped wondering about the fantastical formations at the landfill. It was enough to know that the ground was saturated with Glop and the magic deformed the debris in strange ways.

The odd thing about the stairs was the way they were situated. They rose on an angle into the blue sky, leading absolutely nowhere.

Bookworm paused in the shadow of the staircase. He didn’t seem eager to go any farther. Peering around the edge of the stairs, Spencer saw a wide-open field of garbage. On the far side of the field was the largest washing machine he’d ever seen.

The machine was an old model that had been tipped on its side. The dials and knobs were enormous, and the lid was the size of a football field. The machine had once been white, but rust streaked down the sides and the paint was chipping in huge flakes. The lid was a little bent, and it stood barely open, like a door ajar. Inside was impenetrable darkness.

“The scissors are inside the washing machine?” Alan clarified with Bookworm.

The Thingamajunk nodded, pointing across the field of trash to the Hoarder’s spacious dwelling.

“So, who’s our best trash-talker?” Bernard asked.

“Definitely not me,” said Daisy. Her idea of trash-talking usually led to compliments.

“I’m guessing Sach has the most practice,” Spencer said.

The Dark Auran nodded, wiping a bead of sweat from his white hairline. “I say we team up on him,” Sach said. “It might be more effective if we all trash-talk at once.”

“Good idea,” Alan said, stepping out into the littered field. “Let’s do this.”

Daisy turned to Bookworm. “Thanks for leading us,” she said. “You want to wait here?” Bookworm settled down into a pile of trash, his textbook mouth expressing a clear look of relief at not being asked to join the confrontation. He pointed two fingers at the place where his eyes might be, then turned them to point at Daisy.

“Okay,” she said, patting him on the head. “You just watch.”

Spencer waited until Daisy was ready to go; then the two kids jogged a few steps to catch up to Bernard, Alan, and Sach.

The walk across the field was long. Spencer was sweating in no time, and it didn’t help that he felt exposed and watched. More than once, he caught sight of movement around the edges of the field. He thought he might have imagined it until Bernard spoke up.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones interested to see how this goes,” said the garbologist. Spencer saw them clearly then, other Thingamajunks spying from a safe distance.

“If anyone sees a chance to slip into the washing machine, do it,” Alan said. “As soon as Sach identifies the Glopified scissors, we make a full retreat back to the Rebels.”

It was eerily quiet as they approached the dwelling. Lined up on both sides of the dark entrance were more than a dozen oversized pencils. They rose straight out of the ground like trees, sharp tips skyward.

Staked onto the pointy end of each pencil was a different scrap of trash. On one stake, a deflated soccer ball tucked inside a dirty pillowcase. On another, a computer keyboard with a fringe of old shoelaces. There was a skewered toaster with flip-flops in the slots meant for bread. A lamp shade wrapped around a fake potted plant.

Spencer was just wondering what the strange trash could mean when Bernard whispered a cryptic word: “Heads.”

Spencer suddenly found it hard to swallow. His skin prickled with goose bumps despite the heat. The garbologist was right. These were the skewered heads of dead Thingamajunks, posted outside the Hoarder’s dwelling to deliver a very clear message.

No wonder Bookworm was terrified. This guy was more than a hoarder. He was a cold-blooded killer. Spencer was just wondering if perhaps they’d made a mistake when a shadow passed out of the washing machine and the Hoarder stepped into view.

It was, without a doubt, the largest Thingamajunk Spencer had ever seen. Its body was an assortment of trash. Scraps of metal and bags of rotten groceries formed legs and arms. The torso was mostly comprised of a wooden dining table. The creature was nearly twice the size of Bookworm; Spencer had to look straight up to see its head.

The Hoarder’s mouth was the bumper of an old pickup truck. Its head was a battered lawnmower that was tipped backward, the bottom displayed outward like a face. The moment the Hoarder saw the humans standing uninvited in the entrance, the lawnmower blades spun into action, its face now a blur of movement.

Spencer and his companions all started trash-talking at once. Among his own insults, Spencer caught snippets from the others.

“ . . . smell worse than dirty laundry . . .”

“ . . . fender bender with your face . . .”

“ . . . only thing you scare is my lawn . . .”

“ . . . have a picnic on that kitchen table . . .”

The trash-talking didn’t seem to have its usual effect. Instead of backing down, the Hoarder appeared to be fueled by the taunting words. The large Thingamajunk seemed to grow angrier and more aggressive with every sentence.

The Hoarder shrieked, a noise that sounded like its whirling lawnmower blades had been pressed against a chalkboard. With one swipe of its lanky arm, all five humans were knocked backward, quickly silencing the useless trash-talk.

Spencer didn’t doubt the Hoarder’s cruel intentions as it leaned forward to pluck the humans out of the garbage. The Thingamajunk’s hand was hovering just above Daisy when a familiar bellow pealed across the trash field.

The Hoarder froze, and everyone turned to see Bookworm standing in the middle of the field on quivering legs. The Hoarder seemed to laugh at the smaller Thingamajunk. It pounced over the humans, landing awkwardly close to Bookworm.

Spencer braced himself for the worst, but the two Thingamajunks did not fight. They stared at one another for a moment, both making short grunting sounds. Then the Hoarder stretched tall on its legs and beat its chest, heavy hands pounding on the kitchen table torso.

The Hoarder stepped back and Bookworm repeated the gesture, thumping his chest while bellowing as loudly as he could. Both Thingamajunks dropped onto their knuckles and circled one another. Then they turned away and headed for opposite sides of the field.

All around, the shy Thingamajunks that had been spying now poured into sight. They whooped and grunted, making their way along the edges of the field.

Spencer was on his feet again, trying to keep up with the others as they ran to the corner where Bookworm waited by the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Daisy shouted when she reached her pet. “What’s happening?”

The Hoarder was crouched beside the entrance to the washing machine as the other Thingamajunks filed onto the stairway. They seated themselves on the stairs, quieting their shouts once they had settled in.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Sach muttered. Spencer didn’t have to ask what was about to happen. The scene was quickly taking shape. The stairway was an array of bleachers, and the field, an arena.

Bookworm had accepted a challenge to fight the Hoarder.

Daisy’s pet Thingamajunk didn’t look nearly as brave as he had a moment ago. His garbage body was shaking and his textbook mouth quivered.

“What did you do?” Daisy asked.

Bookworm’s only comfort seemed to be in holding onto Daisy. The Thingamajunk absently stroked her head as if to reassure himself that she was safe. That was why Bookworm had rushed to their rescue. Despite his intense fear of the Hoarder, Bookworm couldn’t bear to see Daisy in danger.

“You good at boxing?” Bernard asked. Bookworm shook his head. The Thingamajunk didn’t seem to believe in himself.

“It’s okay,” Daisy said. “We’ll help you fight him.”

Bookworm gave a thumbs-down gesture, pointing to the host of Thingamajunks seating themselves on the staircase.

“The others won’t let us help,” Bernard assumed. “You have to fight this guy alone.”

“What happens if you win?” Alan asked.

Bookworm brought his hands together like he was snipping an imaginary pair of scissors.

“And if you lose?”

The Thingamajunk pointed across the field to where the lifeless heads were staked on the oversized pencils.

“You can do this,” Daisy encouraged. “The Hoarder might be big, but you’re faster. I believe in you!” Daisy gave Bookworm a big hug.

Bernard clapped his hands together. “Now go out there and kick some trash!”