gate, and lifts.
That’s the last thing I see.
The worm’s tail lashes me across the face, I’m flung to the floor, and everything goes black.
I slowly blink my eyes open. I’m seeing stars and spots and even four-leaf clovers – it’s like a whole Disney cartoon thing.
No sign of the others. I get to my feet and weave my way toward Sears. The entire front of the store has been destroyed.
I didn’t stop the Wormungulous.
And my friends? Have I lost them?
Wreckage and debris litter the tiled floor. Water rains down from the sprinkler system. Rubble from the ceiling is scattered through the store.
What I spot next makes me go light-headed.
June’s sneakers. The boy sneakers she wears that I love so much. One juts out from beneath a pile of wreckage.
No.
No, no, no.
My friends are buried beneath there. A pile of rubble as big as a February snowdrift.
I begin clawing and tearing at the debris. But it’s all too big. Too heavy. My fingernail snaps as I struggle to lift the massive metal gate that blankets them.
My breath becomes ragged. I feel my eyes well up with tears.
And I smell – I smell –
I smell that pungent aftershave.
I spin around to see it. Gigantic and towering. The man-monster . . .
- The Man-Monster -
I don’t draw my blade. I don’t run. I just stand there. And then, still having said nothing, I turn around and continue trying to pry my friends free.
A warm hand grips the back of my neck. The man-monster’s fingers close around my collar and I’m lifted into the air. He gently sets me down a few feet away.
The man-monster begins digging through the rubble, carefully pulling away huge chunks of ceiling. He removes bent and twisted pieces of gate. With one tremendous pull, he lifts the final piece away. And I see them.
My friends. Alive.
A little bloody, a lot dirty – but very much OK.
Relief floods through me. ‘You’re OK!’
June grins as she crawls from the pile and gets to her feet. ‘You’re OK! Why did you just stand out there and try to stare the monster down? What is wrong with you?’
‘I was trying to do a samurai thing.’
‘No more samurai things, Jack.’
Quint stumbles from the rubble and throws his arms around me. My friends and I are not big huggers. But Quint squeezes me and slaps my back. ‘I thought we were all done for!’ he exclaims.
I smile. ‘We’re good, buddy. We’re good.’
‘Yes, we are,’ June says, waving toward the man-monster. ‘Thanks to him.’
Dirk nods. ‘He punched through the gate. Pushed us inside. He took the brunt of the blow from the Wormungulous.’
So this . . . this man-monster, he not only freed my friends – he took the hit that saved their lives. And in a way, saved me – because without my friends, I might as well not exist.
This terrifying, wicked-looking thing is our saviour. Just goes to show – never judge a monster by its cover. Or its bone jewellery.
The creature suddenly gasps for breath and drops to one knee. I see that his right leg is injured. Probably battered while blocking my friends. Pulling them free has taken everything out of him.
The man-monster braces himself on a rack of clothing and manages to stand again. And then he opens his mouth.
The words practically knock me off my feet. ‘You . . . you speak English?’ I ask, stuttering.
‘I speak more languages than you know,’ the man-monster says. His voice is a throaty growl. He repeats, ‘You are OK?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We are.’
‘You are human?’ the man-monster asks. He says ‘human’ like it’s the first time he’s ever spoken the word.
‘Uh, yep,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘Sure am. Jack Sullivan is the name. And what are you?’
‘Your tongue could not form the words,’ the man-monster says.
‘Oh. Well – do you have a name? A name that my, uh, lame, subpar tongue could form?’
‘Thrull,’ the man-monster says slowly.
‘You saved us,’ June says.
‘Properly rescued our lives,’ Quint chimes in.
‘Real solid, monster bro,’ Dirk adds. ‘We owe you.’
Thrull is looking me up and down. His eyes focus on my shoulder. No – over my shoulder. The Louisville Slicer, in its sheath. He quickly reaches out and snatches it.
I take a very nervous step backward.
The Louisville Slicer is comically tiny in his big monster hands. His eyes narrow and he lifts the blade, gazing with focus.
‘Your weapon . . .’ he starts, his voice suddenly a notch softer.
‘Yes. My weapon. And I’d love it back. But, uh, no rush. You’re the boss here.’
His head tilts slightly to the side, causing the apparatuses and instruments around his neck to rattle and clang. ‘This is the blade that felled the Œŕŗūæŀ, the ancient evil, servant of Ŗeżżőcħ the Ancient, Destructor of Worlds.’ ‘Uhhh . . . felled?’ I ask.
‘That means destroyed,’ Quint whispers. ‘As in: slain.’
‘Oh. Oh yeah!’ I exclaim. ‘Yep! Well, I mean, it’s my blade. I don’t know who or what Œŕŗūæŀ is. Or who he serves. Did you say Ŗeżżőcħ the
