Strike 2: Dawn of the Daybreaker by Charlie Wood Page B

would go bird-watching.”
    “Well, we’re not there yet,” Junior said. “We’ve still got a ways to go before we pass these mountains, cross the heat-belt, and reach the jungle. That’s where we’re headed—the middle of nowhere. It ain’t gonna be easy.”
    Keplar was walking behind them, holding the electronic map. “Let’s keep at it, then. We’ll stop and make a camp when the sun goes down. It can get awfully cold up here.”
    Junior looked ahead up the mountain. “There’s a hot spring about three hours from us. We can set up there for the night.”
    “Great,” Tobin said. “A hot spring in the middle of the gorgeous blossom trees of Zanatopia—exactly where I want to spend the night with you two idiots.”
    Keplar and Junior laughed.
    “Hey, it could be worse,” Keplar said. “You could be—”
    A five-fingered hand suddenly burst up from the ground and grabbed Keplar’s leg. The hand was made out of mud.
    “Hey!” the husky yelled, looking down at the brown, dripping fingers clutching to his pants. “What the hell? Hey!”
    Tobin and Junior spun around, just in time to see another giant mud-hand emerge from the ground and grab Keplar’s other leg. The two hands began pulling the dog down, dragging him into the soft dirt underneath him, which was turning into quicksand.
    “Hey!” Keplar yelled, trying to free himself from the pulling hands. As he panicked, his waist sunk under the quicksand. “Get offa me, ya bremshaws!”
    Tobin and Junior rushed to Keplar, grabbing his arms and trying to pull him away from the mud-hands, but it was nearly impossible—especially when four other mud-hands grabbed onto the dog’s backpack and began pulling him further down into the quicksand. Soon, the sand was all the way up to the dog’s chin, and the backpack was gone.
    “Get me out of here!” the husky yelled.
    “We’re trying!” Tobin said, prying the mud-fingers from Keplar’s shoulders. “But these things are so strong, we can’t—”
    “Step back,” Junior said.
    Tobin moved away and watched Junior; as the bald man held out his arm, strands of robotic machinery crawled out from his sleeve and enveloped his hand. Soon, Junior was wearing a bulky, robotic glove, and with his super-strong hand, he grabbed onto Keplar’s arm and pulled him from the mud. When the dog was free, the six mud-hands disappeared back into the quicksand.
    Exhausted, Keplar sat on the ground, with his body covered in the quickly-drying mud. His backpack was gone and the tablet map was ruined, but at least he was alive.
    “Gee,” the husky said. “I guess you are a techno-wizard.”
    Junior flexed his robotic fingers. His hand was now twice its normal size, and the sunlight was glinting off of its metal casing and silver wires. “My father and I invent things,” the bald man said. “It’s what we do.”
    As Tobin and Junior were helping Keplar to his feet, the trio heard crinkled footsteps in the leaves behind them; spinning around, they saw nobody there. But then a disembodied voice came from the forest:
    “Not only did you piss me off, Junior, but you made friends with people you really don’t wanna be friends with.”
    Tobin recognized the voice—it was the shortest punk from the saloon in the Never-World. But where was he?
    “You wanna get your teeth kicked in again, Derek?” Junior said, scanning the treetops. “That’s fine by me—come out here and I’ll make sure to break a few more bones.”
    Movement fluttered between two of the tree trunks in front of the trio, and—out of thin air—the shortest punk, Derek, emerged, his camouflage dissipating. As the punk stepped closer, Tobin saw that he had been through a drastic change; the tattoos running up his neck were now green vines, while his arms, legs, and torso were now wrapped in coiled, thorned tree branches. The skin on his face was now dull and green, and his eyes were completely brown.
    “There’s some awfully bad people who want