King of the Mole People--Rise of the Slugs Read online

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  To my favorite Up-worlders, Eleni, Evan, and Rosa

  PROLOGUE

  I kept telling them I didn’t want to be King. I tried everything I could to get out of it. I tried pretending to be allergic to mud. I tried disguising myself with a wig and fake mustache. I tried telling them I’d been hit on the head and no longer knew how to speak English.

  I told them I wasn’t cut out to be King, and that the longer they made me do it, the greater the guarantee that something bad was going to happen.

  But they just laughed. And I threw down my fake mustache and told them I didn’t know what they thought was so funny.

  Then I started thinking maybe they were right. Maybe being King wasn’t going to lead to disaster. Maybe my fear of bad things happening was all in my head.

  And the next thing I knew I was staring at a collection of my friends engulfed in a huge, quivering slime globule.

  I wanted to say “I told you so,” but I doubted they could hear me.

  1

  MONDAY MORNING

  I knew instinctively that time was up when a dead bird fell out of the sky. I don’t know much about omens, but I do know weirdness pretty thoroughly, and that was completely weird.

  It had been about three weeks since the world almost ended. Three weeks of me trying to get everyone to understand a couple of simple things:

  1) I was a weirdness magnet.

  And 2) Weirdness attracts more weirdness. You make a little room for things like talking to tombstones or eating eel burritos for lunch, and the next thing you know giant worms are erupting beneath your feet and ripping everything to pieces.

  For me, being King of the Mole People was like being a walking time bomb.

  I’d been trying to hand back the Mole crown pretty incessantly. But the Moles said they couldn’t accept it back without another suitable candidate. I pointed out that my humanness rendered any of them a more suitable candidate than me, and that I was giving them one month to find somebody. They agreed, but I was suspicious. I’d seen a Mole calendar. It was just a rock with another rock on top of it.

  I realize I shouldn’t have permitted it go on as long as I did, and that every day that went by increased the chances that the circling weirdness would become a vortex and destroy us all. But I’d developed a bit of a soft spot for the Moles, and like I said, I’d started deluding myself that maybe the danger was all in my head.

  And then the dead bird fell out of the sky. And I knew: it was the beginning of the end. I had to quit being Mole King immediately. And I had to do it spectacularly, so that the Moles all took it seriously.

  I followed it up by swearing that they’d never see my face down in the Mole realm ever again.

  I was never really meant to be the Mole King anyway. I was only made King by this lousy Mole named Croogy, so that he could use me as a pawn to instigate a war with the Slug People and cause giant worms to destroy the surface world. He forced me to do it by threatening to expose the embarrassing fact that I was Mole King to everyone at my school. Luckily I managed to defeat him with the help of my Royal Guard, and some Slugs, and some other creatures called Stone Goons and Mushroom Folk. And this licorice-haired, ping-pong-eyed girl who sits near me in class named Magda. She’s super weird, and won’t leave me alone, so is not at all helping my goal to eliminate weirdness from my life.

  Together we rescued the true Mole King, who Croogy had kidnapped, and put him back on the throne. But that guy immediately “abdicated” (which means he took off on a bike), and left me getting my neck bones crushed under the fifty-pound crown.

  I’d finally left the crown back where it belonged. But the real problem was that there was an open grave in my backyard that led directly to the Mole realm. Moles popped out of it all the time. It was like that Whac-A-Mole game, except I didn’t have a mallet, and my prize was I got to keep being the weirdest human in the Up-world.

  It had become clear that I was never going to get out of being King of the Mole People as long as I lived next to a hole that led right to Mole People ground zero. The problem was that the hole was in the backyard of a creepy graveyard mansion where I lived with my dad. And moving out of a creepy graveyard mansion comes with a built-in dilemma: nobody wants to buy a creepy graveyard mansion.

  We inherited the place from a relative, and we had to move in because our finances are what bankers kindly refer to as “nonexistent.” My dad said he’d be happy to sell it if we could, but he hasn’t so much as wiped a cobweb to help. I think he actually likes it here, and I think every day that goes by he and the house become more entwined.

  So it was left to me to try to find someone to help sell it. But we found our mansion was what real estate agents kindly refer to as “you’ve got to be kidding.”

  I wasn’t kidding, so I’d set to work using all the expertise and finesse I could muster to get the place looking polished and picturesque.

  But it seemed to resist all efforts of improvement. Every tombstone I patched seemed to re-crack. Every dead bush I tore out seemed to resprout. And no matter how much dirt I shoveled into it, that grave hole to the Mole realm just would not fill in.

  The interior was no better. Peeling walls, stains that changed shape before your eyes, pipes that seemed to play old maritime shanties every time you turned on a tap.

  The place was the physical manifestation of weird. It was going to be practically impossible to get it into a condition that someone, even if only a forlorn misanthrope, might want to buy. And I’d started to grow tired of trying.

  Then: dead bird.

  I was back on that sander in a flash. Hurling the crown was meaningless if I didn’t get away from that hole.

  Weirdness was picking up speed. I could feel it. Like it was trying to get my attention over the blaring sound of the power tool. I had a sixth sense about these things; I could detect abnormalities beyond the scope of others. I focused my powers and let them point me in the direction of where it was emanating from.

  Dang it, Dad!

  If there was anything that might undermine your attempt to not be associated with weirdness more than your dad standing in front of you with a live eel trying to get your attention over the sound of your sander getting gummed up on bat poop, I don’t know what it would be.

  He was returning from the stream at the back of our property with a fresh eel that he’d just fished out. Oh, did I forget to mention? We have a stream full of eels in the back of our property. Gotta make sure to list that on the real estate feature sheet.

  And with those eels, my dad began filling our pots, pans, pie plates, casserole dishes, and muffin trays. It had started as a way to save on our monthly bills. I was like, Dad, maybe if you stopped buying so many cooking containers we could afford to eat pizza.

  But I couldn’t deny my dad had a knack for preparing eels. He was so
good at it that he’d published a book, which at first I thought was ludicrous. Who’d want a book of eel recipes? His opinion was that there were already plenty of cookbooks centered around more typical ingredients, but nobody was doing eels, and he believed being unique is better.

  I thought that was nuts. But he’s my dad, and despite his oddness he was a pretty great guy who was doing his best. So I was going to be a dutiful son, and support his goofy little book project, and even turn off the electric sander so I could hear what had got him so excited this close to dawn on a Monday morning. How bad could it be?

  “Some folks from the local news are coming to our house on Friday to interview me about my book!”

  “Aww, Dad, come on!” I screeched.

  “Isn’t that great? They want to see how I work, where I live…”

  “Dad, please! We can’t let them film this place! Everyone will see it!”

  “Yes! Everyone will see it!” He beamed with his big teeth. “Won’t that be terrific publicity for the book?”

  “I’m trying to keep a lid on weirdness! The last thing I need is for everyone to see the full extent of Dreadsville Manor!”

  It took me a second, blinded as I was by the horrifying thought of my personal gallery of weirdness being broadcast all over town. But it finally clicked.

  Everyone will see it. Regular folks. Forlorn misanthropes. This could be my chance to interest someone in buying it! All I had to do was get things shaped up by the time they arrived on Friday! This was great! This was …

  Impossible. What was I thinking? I hadn’t made one bat-hair’s width of progress in all the time I’d spent sweating. How was I going to get everything looking presentable in just four days? I’d need a whole army of workers to do that, an army of workers …

  ready to do …

  my bidding …

  “What’s ‘Dreadsville Manor’?” asked my dad.

  “Huh? Oh, nothing,” I said, dropping the sander and taking him by the arm (and making a note to myself to stop calling our house by that name). “You’re right! What was I thinking? A local news story will be fantastic publicity for the book. Tell them the Underbellys can’t wait to see them on Friday!”

  “Really? Oh … okay!” said my dad, almost dancing with excitement at my sudden change of heart.

  I told him I could really use some eel frittatas for breakfast and waited impatiently as he shimmied happily into the house, dangling the fresh eel. The last thing I needed was him finding out about the Moles. He’d probably invite the whole lot of them to move in.

  Eel frittatas are actually pretty amazing. Or at least my dad’s are. He really did deserve to have a book about cooking eels. But my mind wasn’t on food at that moment. I was too busy thinking about that army ready to do my bidding. It was the perfect solution!

  There was only one hiccup.

  I had to talk to Oog. Who was a Mole. Who lived in the Mole Kingdom.

  I knew heading down to the Mole realm seemed like it was going backward from my plan to stop associating with weirdness. But it was dawning on me that if I played this just right, by the end of the week I’d be free and clear of weirdness once and for all. And besides, this was definitely going to be the last time they were ever going to see my face down there.

  I checked my watch, then pulled off my sander goggles, dropped into the grave hole that would never fill in, and ran. I had thirty minutes to get to the Mole Kingdom and then get to school, and I could absolutely not be late. Being late for school was the scariest thing I could imagine. And I’d seen a Mega Worm the size of a steamship.

  2

  MOLE LEVEL, ONE LAST TIME

  Running isn’t something I like, or am good at. But being forced to do things I don’t like and am not good at is the story of my life so far. Maybe one day I’ll get to eat chocolate-covered pancakes or ride in a speedboat or do a cannonball into a pool of rubber balls. Things I assume I like, but what do I know? I’ve never had time to try them, what with all the Mole duties and being unpopular at school and running.

  And if you think running isn’t so bad, you’re probably envisioning a nice sidewalk or grassy field on a well-lit day. Whereas, this particular Monday morning, I was running here:

  The Big Cavern was the main area in the Mole realm. It was coated in luminescent clay, had a raised throne area in the middle, and was filled with caves, grub gardens, and, of course, Moles.

  There’s no doubt that charging into the Mole realm when you’re trying to stop being the Mole King kind of sends a mixed message. It’s even more mixed if, when you get there, you announce:

  It’s mixed still further when you’re so out of breath from running that your announcement comes out sounding more like:

  Oog was a member of my Royal Guard, and my best Mole buddy, even though he had a tendency to miscalculate “helping” me in the Up-world and to mistake my personal injuries for hilarious jokes.

  My plan was to get in, give my Royal Guard my kingly order, and get out again before anyone took up any time with impertinent questions.

  “Hey!” said a round Mole, standing near me. “Didn’t you quit?”

  “Quit?” I wheezed. “No (gasp) way (gasp)…”

  “Yeah, you quit rather spectacularly,” said the Round Mole. “Threw the crown down the stairs and everything.”

  “I think you (gasp) misheard…”

  “No, you were quite clear. You said that if we ever saw your face down here again, it meant that all creation had frozen over and the sky had shattered and crashed into the sea.”

  “That was just an expression (wheeze).”

  “King!” said Oog, finally making his way through the crowd. “Oh no! Up-world freeze over?”

  “No, I was … I was just joking,” I said.

  “I knew it!” bellowed Oog, hugging the breath out of me. “I knew King not really quit! King so funny!”

  “Oh, it was a joke,” said the Round Mole. “I don’t get it.”

  Ploogoo and Boogo appeared, who are the other members of my Royal Guard. All three of them had been awarded extra Os in their names for their heroic efforts in saving everyone from Croogy and the Mega Worms, but it had been decided that the system of having your status represented by the number of Os in your name was cumbersome (the former King Zoooooooooooooooog’s sixteen Os being a prime example) and that everyone should just use the number of Os that felt comfortable.

  “Booooog!” said Boogo.

  “Oh no, has the sky shattered and crashed into the sea?” asked Ploogoo.

  “It was either just an expression or a joke, depending on the moment,” said the Round Mole, looking at me. “Maybe stick to smacking your head on stalactites if you want laughs.”

  “Listen, I’ve decided to stay being your King, but only for four more days,” I said. “Now, I don’t have much time, but I need you to—”

  “The King is back!” yelled Oog, and a shower of grubs rained down on me. Grubs are the Moles’ primary source of food, and throwing them is meant to be a sign of respect. Although this became more dubious when the Round Mole threw some into my mouth.

  “But only for four days—” I tried to make clear through a mouthful of grubs.

  “Since you’re here and still King, we might as well tend to some royal business,” said Ploogoo, and he started reporting how the King of the Mushroom Folk was claiming I got his son hooked on ice cream, and was demanding I bring them more. Ploogoo was efficient that way, and as the head Royal Guard was the obvious choice for taking over the crown. The only problem was he was having a little issue with his personal confidence.

  “He crying like a baby all the time,” said Oog to me quietly.

  “Are you discussing my personal life?” said Ploogoo.

  “Of course not! It not all about you, Ploogoo,” said Oog, then turned back to me. “He have three-day-old grub juice caked in corners of mouth, and blow nose on back of hand. He depressed because girl Mole with horn on head not like him the way he like her
. King real ladies’ man. King have advice?”

  Ladies’ Man? How blind were these Moles? I told them I didn’t have time for anything like that at the moment. I had a kingly decree to impart.

  When Oog heard I was about to make a decree, he thrust the crown toward my head, which I protested, but Ploogoo reminded me that kingly orders don’t count unless I’m wearing the crown. So I let him put it on me, and felt the familiar crack and buckle of my neck bones.

  “Good thing it’s made of stone,” said the Round Mole, “in case you want to throw it down the stairs some more.”

  I kept my lips pursed to keep out falling grubs as I told my Royal Guard to borrow a bunch of garden equipment from the Up-world: rakes, hoes, wheelbarrows, etc., and bring them, along with thirty Moles, to my backyard at sundown. The Moles all started shouting at once, everyone wanting to be included in an excursion to the Up-world. I told them they needed to keep super quiet on this mission—it was of absolute importance that they not be seen by humans.

  And now, if they didn’t mind, I had important business to attend to.

  “King want tunnel to school?” said Oog.

  “How did you know I was late for school?” I asked.

  “Oog know all about King’s schedule. We Royal Guard! Boogo make tunnel get you right to school door.”

  “No! No more ‘helping’ me in the Up-world!” I said. “It always goes wrong and makes things worse! I can take the perfectly normal route out of the Mole realm back through the open grave, thank you very much! In fact, no following me at all! Stay completely clear of my life from this point forward!”

  As I turned to go I saw Ploogoo wiping moisture from his eyes. At first I thought it was because of me quitting, but then I remembered about the girl Mole. I asked him about it, and he said he wasn’t crying, he’d just been cutting onion roots. That was a relief.