‘Slicer powers’ thing anyway!”
Which is, like, a jab at me. But also a way of removing everyone’s feeling that wow, that was big. The teasing – it makes it all feel normal again. And I appreciate the crud out of June for it.
“Look,” I say. “I – uh – I felt the Slicer burn like that once before. With Ghazt, at the movie theatre. But I didn’t know it could do that . . .”
My friends nod. Bardle’s fingers trace his beard. It’s quiet, and then –
Zombie moans. Loud.
“OK, enough raving about Jack’s strange zombie-controlling ability. We must discuss them,” Quint says, pointing behind us.
June sighs. “We cut off Ghazt’s tail so that he couldn’t control zombies any more. But the zombies weren’t supposed to follow us!”
Quint’s hand shoots up like Hermione Granger in Potions class. “I will study the tail! I will uncover its secrets.”
Bardle looks at Quint – like he’s sizing him up. “Find a weakness in the tail,” Bardle advises. “It may provide insight into weaknesses of other Cosmic Terrors.”
Quint nods. “Wow. Using science to discover the vulnerabilities of interdimensional terrors . . . I will not let you down!”
“But what do we do with these undead bozos?” I wonder aloud.
Skaelka pokes her head in with a scary solution to that problem . . .
Bardle tugs at his rucksack as he thinks. “I suggest, strongly, that you keep them,” he says. “Who knows what is to come . . . ?”
I shrug. “Fair enough. But where are we going to put four hundred zombies?”
“When my hamster died,” Quint says, “my parents told me she went to live on a hamster farm.”
“Your parents sound most deceptive!” Skaelka says happily. “A fine quality in a parental figure!”
June chuckles – she knows what Quint was getting at. “We can ask her,” she says. “But she’s not gonna be happy. . . .”
“She’s not on the can . . .” June says, sighing and pushing through us. “Warg, it’s June! We’re here to give you – um – a really overdue thank-you.”
Oh crud! I realize we never thanked Warg for the whole “saving our buddy from turning into a zombie” thing.
I mean, if your weird aunt sends you a bad book for Christmas – you have to write a literal, physical thank-you note! Warg gave us one of her EYEBALLS to save Dirk – yeah . . . that definitely deserves some gratitude . . .
After a long moment, the door opens. It’s not Warg – it’s one of Warg’s eyeballs, using its body to nudge open the door.
“You first,” I whisper.
“No way,” June says.
“I will go either second or third,” Quint says. “Not first, not last.”
“Aww, geez,” Dirk groans, and he finally just shoves us all inside.
We’re not greeted with a warm welcome.
I flash a grin. “Ahh, you’re just saying that, Wargy. We’re buds! And we owed you a major league thanks for saving Dirk!”
Warg glares. With every eyeball.
“Sooooo, we got you a thank-you gift!” I say.
“What is this gift?” Warg asks, brooding.
“Oh you’re gonna love it! It’s a – um – massive HORDE OF ZOMBIES! All yours! They’re outside! Don’t know where you wanna put them, but we thought maybe the Christmas tree farm? And that way they can’t get out and bite us good folks and also you could maybe look after them? Again – this is a GIFT and you are SO, SO WELCOME.”
“Jack’s just rambling,” Dirk interrupts.
“Am not!” I exclaim. “This is a wonderful gesture I’m doing. It’s the gift that keeps on, uh, decaying!”
Dirk sighs. “Warg, I do wanna say thanks. They told me what you did. And I should, uh, return this.”
Dirk reaches into his bag and pulls out – oh no. The eyeball. It’s flattened and deflated – but it is most definitely the eyeball . . .
I whisper, “Dude, you’ve been carrying that around this whole time?!”
“So cool . . .” Quint says.
The eyeball is gnarly. A month in a backpack can gnarly-fy anything. But a deflated eyeball? Massive nasty.
Warg silently takes it from Dirk and sets it on the ground. Dozens of eyeballs roll off her body, surrounding and inspecting the flattened one.
Thankfully, Bardle appears in the doorway, interrupting this slow-dance-level-awkward moment.
“Quint, June, Dirk – please, bring the zombies inside the farm’s fence,” Bardle says. “Jack stays.”
Quint gives me a look, like I’ve been invited to do something special – and he hasn’t. But then he flashes me a happy thumbs-up, because he’s a bud like that.
Once everyone’s gone, Bardle wastes no time. “Jack, tell Warg what happened. With your blade . . .”
“Uh, well,” I say – and I realize I’m embarrassed and self-conscious. But I tell her everything.
When I’ve finished, all of Warg’s eyes slowly inflate and deflate at the same time. I think it’s the Warg version of, like, a deep sigh. Then she holds out her hand – palm open.
She wants the Slicer. I hesitate. I lost it once – and I won’t let it happen again. But Bardle’s neck gills flex and a rough-sounding grunt comes out.
I hand it over.
Warg runs her hand down the length of the Slicer. “Ghazt . . .” she says softly.
“Correct,”
