First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2015

This edition published in 2019

By Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2015 Max Brallier

Illustrations copyright © 2015 Douglas Holgate

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted.

First e-book edition 2019

ISBN 978 1 4052 9509 3

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1745 8

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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To Alyse, for support, advice, direction, and love and love and love. You’re my cutie.

And another thing . . . This book is sort of a love letter to a group of great friends: Mikey, Mouth, Data and Chunk. Roberta, Teeny, Samantha and Chrissy. Angus and Troy. Gordy Lachance and Chris Chambers. Scotty Smalls and Benny the Jet. Corey, Haley and Jimmy. Thanks, friends – and thanks to all who made you.

– M.B.

To Allyson and Angus, may we never have to enact zombie plague survival plan alpha or beta, but know that if we do I wouldn’t want to spend the apocalypse with anyone else.

– D.H.

THE LAST KIDS ON EARTH SERIES:

THE LAST KIDS ON EARTH

THE LAST KIDS ON EARTH

and the ZOMBIE PARADE

THE LAST KIDS ON EARTH

and the NIGHTMARE KING

THE LAST KIDS ON EARTH

and the COSMIC BEYOND

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back series promotional page

chapter one

That’s me.

Not the giant monster.

Beneath the giant monster. The kid on his back, with the splintered bat. The handsome kid, about to get eaten.

Forty-two days ago, I was regular Jack Sullivan: thirteen years old, living an uneventful life in the uninteresting town of Wakefield. I was totally not a hero, totally not a tough guy, totally not fighting giant monsters.

But look at me now. Battling a gargantuan beast on the roof of the local CVS pharmacy.

Life is crazy like that.

Right now, the whole world is crazy like that. Check the shattered windows. Check the wild vines crawling up the side of the building.

All of these things are not normal.

And me? I haven’t been normal, well, ever. I’ve always been different. See, I’m an orphan – I bounced all over the country, different homes, different families, before landing in this little town of Wakefield in December.

But all that moving, it makes you tough: it makes you cool, it makes you confident, it makes you good with the girls – it makes you JACK SULLIVAN.

Oh crud!

INCOMING MONSTER FIST!!!

Yikes.

Almost got a monster fist to the skull there.

I’m at CVS because I need an eyeglass repair kit – those little tool sets that dads buy for when their glasses break. I know, that’s a lame thing to need. But I have a walkie and that walkie is busted and to fix that walkie, I need a really really really tiny screwdriver and the only place to get a really really really tiny screwdriver is in an eyeglass repair kit.

This was supposed to be a quick, easy trip to the pharmacy. But one thing I’ve learned about life after the Monster Apocalypse: nothing’s quick and nothing’s easy.

This monster here is the foulest, most ferocious and just plain horrible thing I’ve encountered yet. He’s straight-up –

KA-SLAM!

Yikes! The monster’s massive fist pounds the roof until it cracks like thin ice. I trip, tumble back and land hard on my bony butt.

It’s time to stop being this monster’s punching bag. See, I’ve kind of been the world’s punching bag for a while and y’know – it just ain’t a whole lotta fun.

So I’m fighting back.

I get to my feet.

I dust myself off.

I grip the bat in my hand. Not too tight, not too loose – just like they coach you in Little League baseball.

Only I’m not trying to hit some kid’s lousy curveball . . . I’m trying to slay a monster.

Well, basically, he triumphs.

The monster’s massive hand snatches me out of mid-air. I’m a thimble in his gargantuan grasp.

I try to grab hold of my baseball bat blade (aka the Louisville Slicer), but the monster’s crushing grip pins my arms to my sides.

He pulls me in close to his face. Thick saliva, like slime, oozes down his lips. His eyes scan me over and his gaping nostrils flare as he inhales my scent. I feel like that blonde babe in King Kong. Only I don’t think this beast wants to hug me and love me . . .

He sniffs some more, blowing my hair back as he exhales. I turn my face. His breath, it’s just – wow – my man here needs to floss.

I’ve encountered other freaky beasts over the last forty-two days, but none like this. None that examined me: looking me over, smelling me, studying me.

None that felt this terrifyingly smart. I have a sick feeling in my gut – a sense – something that tells me that this beast here is 100% pure, beyond beyond EVIL.

A smile seems to creep across the monster’s face. A sinister smirk that says, ‘I’m not simply some primal thug. I’m a monstrous villain, a great evil, and I will enjoy inflicting pain upon your tiny human body.’

With a spine-tingling moan, the beast’s mouth opens wide, revealing an army of dirty fangs, with chunks of flesh between each tooth. I kick. I squirm. And, facing imminent death-by-devouring, I at last BITE. My teeth sink into monster flesh and his paw loosens slightly – just enough for me to wrap my fingers around my blade’s handle, rip it free, and –

I slam the bat into the creature’s thick cranium until he roars – a sound like BLARG!!! – and his palm opens and –

Uh-oh . . .

I’m plummeting through the air, down through the hole in the roof, into the CVS . . .

I land in the junk-food aisle. I snatch an Oreo from its package and jam it into my mouth. Mmm . . . The Oreo is a whole lot stale, but whatever – an Oreo is an Oreo, and good snacks are hard to find these days. Plus, since the world ended, it’s pretty much everything for the taking. And I’m not turning that down. No way.

Rising, I examine my predicament.

One of the monster’s giant feet fills, like, the entire store. One toe in the school supplies aisle, another on top of the hairspray and deodorant aisle. Dashing up and over the monster’s foot, toward the front of the store, I spot what I came for . . .

I shove the kit into my pocket. But then –

The monster’s clawed fingers tear through the roof like it’s nothing. The ceiling collapses around me as I dart for the door. I’d love to stay for a while – flip through the magazines, check the sunglasses spinny thing for cool aviators, eat some cheese balls. But no time for that – y’know, giant monster and all.

I burst through the front door –

I dash past a crumpled car and through an overgrown yard, and slide beneath the caved-in porch of an abandoned house.

I pull out my camera. I always carry my camera. Always. I raise the viewfinder to my eyes, twist the lens, zoom in, and – SNAP!!

I photograph every monster I come across, so later on I can study their attacks and defences and strengths and weaknesses and junk. Also, it’s just rad to say, ‘I’m a monster photographer.’

I give each monster a name, too. But what to call this guy? What to call a monster so terrifying that just looking at him scrambles my insides with french-fried fear?

The big beast roars again, a sound like ‘BLARG!’

Hmm. ‘Blarg. ’ That’s got a ring to it . . .

Suddenly, there’s a racket like a wrecking ball crashing into ten million bits of Lego. The CVS is crumbling, collapsing, as Blarg stomps through its walls into the parking lot. When the smoke clears, I see the monster, fully, for the first time – upright, standing tall on legs as thick as tree trunks, a monumental terror. He is . . .

Blarg lowers his nose to the ground and sniffs. He lifts up a car and peeks underneath. Holy crud, he’s on the hunt! He’s searching! For me!

He scans the destroyed, decaying surroundings. He watches the porch. The porch I’m under . . .

I gulp. Can he see me?

I slowly inch backward, farther into the shadows.

He stares at the porch a moment longer, then raises his head to the sky. A deafening howl of frustration erupts from his lungs.

Guess he doesn’t see me.

Blarg turns and stomps his way down Spring Street, away from the ruins of the CVS, sniffing along the ground as he goes. He’s like a bloodhound, and now he has my scent . . .

As I sneak out from beneath the porch, I think, ‘That was close.’

Super way dangerous close.

But I’m getting used to things being super way dangerous close. What can I say? Life after the Monster Apocalypse? It’s scary. And also a lot weird. But that’s OK. I’m a lot weird, too.

Now, time to get back to the tree house . . .

chapter two

JACK’S HIGH-IN-THE-SKY IMPENETRABLE TREE FORTRESS OF POWER!!!

This is where I live. I know it’s not like a real-deal home with fancy junk like bathrooms and windows, but I think it’s pretty OK.

The tree house used to belong to my scummy little foster brother. Y’know, before . . . But I’ve made some major additions since all the terror went down.

Now, why does a thirteen-year-old need a tree house that’s better-defended than Fort Knox, Stark Tower, and the X-Mansion combined?

Because a MASS of zombie hordes and monster brutes have taken over Wakefield (and, as far as I know, the whole freaking world)!

You probably know what zombies are, but in case you’ve been living in a hole, let me break down the horror –

Classic Zombie

There are other monsters, too.

Like the Dozers – big, hulking brutes that resemble two-legged rhinoceroses.

And the Winged Wretches – flying beasts like mutated pterodactyls.

And there are also the Vine-Thingies – long red vines that are alive. I mean, yeah, I know plants are alive – but these are like alive alive. They turn backyards into treacherous jungles!

Now, keep in mind, these aren’t real-deal scientific names. I’m no monsterologist.

And all that’s just scratching the surface. Almost every day I discover some new thing that is horrific and hair-raising and makes you wanna hurl.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. Y’know, why you’re privy to the thoughts and ramblings of a kid trying to stay alive during the Monster Apocalypse.

I’ll tell you.

It’s ’cause I think it’s important that future people know what it was like in the time after the monsters arrived.

Also, I’d like to be remembered – just in case I get eaten one of these days. Like this . . .

Now, how you remember me – well, only time will tell . . .

Zombie hunter?

Monster slayer?

Late-blooming, slow-developing 13-year-old?

Like I said, before the Monster Apocalypse I was an orphan. Well, I guess I still am an orphan, strictly speaking, but you know what I mean.

The last family I got stuck with – the Robinsons – they were the worst. As soon as the monsters showed up, they just hightailed it.

I wasn’t all that surprised they left me behind. Honestly, I’m kinda sure the only reason they took me in in the first place was because they wanted someone to rake the leaves . . .

Now, if this sounds like I’m trying to make you feel bad for me or something – I’m not. That is not my style. I’m just letting you know the situation. The ins and outs. The deets.

I learned a long time ago that it’s best to try not to worry so much about the junk life shovels on you. Life tries to knock you one – just do your best to duck and keep moving. The way I see it, someone’s always got it worse, right?

I mean, unless you’re the last person on Earth. Then, technically, yeah, no one has it worse.

Ever since the Robinsons peaced out – that’s forty-two days ago, now – I’ve been forced to survive alone in a world of monsters. That’s pretty much the plot of a video game, right?! So I said, y’know what, I’ll treat life like a video game.

And that’s easy, because I’ve always looked at life from a video-game-y angle anyway – picturing people’s stats and powers and imagining obstacles like they’re big boss fights.

You know how in video games there are challenges you complete to earn Trophies and Achievements?

Well, I created my own. I call them . . .

Feats of

Apocalyptic Success!

I earn them by completing goals and challenges. The riskier the challenge, the greater the Feat. And I always need photographic proof. For example:

| FEAT: Mad Hatter! Steal the hats off five zombies.
| FEAT: Outrun! Beat a zombie in a footrace.
| FEAT: Say Cheese! Take a photo with someone you knew before they got zombified.
| FEAT: House Hunter Explore 50 different abandoned houses.

There are like 106 Feats still to be completed. And if I start running low, I just create more.

Now – pay attention – here’s where things get serious.

There is one VERY IMPORTANT Feat of Apocalyptic Success that I have not yet completed. It is:

FEAT: Damsel in Distress Find and rescue love interest, June Del Toro.

Here’s why this particular Feat of Apocalyptic Success is the ULTIMATE Feat of Apocalyptic Success.

When I first moved to Wakefield, I decided I wanted to be a photojournalist (which is just a fancy word for taking photos of cool, action-y stuff).

When I told the Robinsons, they said, ‘YEAH OK, THAT ’LL HAPPEN!’

So I was like, whatever, I’ll handle this on my own, and I got a gig taking photos for the school paper. That’s where I met June Del Toro . . .

June Del Toro

– The Love Interest –

June was the student editor of the Parker Middle School Gazette, which was perfect, ’cause if we’re both working on the paper, that gives us a reason to chat and get friendly, right?

Turns out, though, June is scary when she’s on the job. But even when she’s ticked-off and super-stressed, she manages to remain ridiculously cute . . .

Now, I should be clear here – I think June kind of hates me.

She told me I was lazy. I respectfully disagree. Not lazy – I was just trying to fulfill my role as photographer: the wild rebel who plays by his own rules, the hip cool guy who’s always being hip and cool non-stop, 24/7, non-stop hip and cool, hip and cool.

June said my photos weren’t capturing the important stories around the school. I guess she just wanted snapshots of bake sales or a pic of Ms Gradwohl’s new whiteboard or something?

See, I don’t go in for a lot of that boring junk. I like action! I like capturing that single moment in time that will never, ever be repeated.

And now? Now my camera is full of once-in-a-lifetime death-defying moments and crazy-close calls!

I mean, just this week . . .

Anyway, even though June maybe kind of hates me, I also maybe probably definitely kind of like her – a lot.

But is she still out there? Is she still alive? Is she still in town?

Here’s what I know . . .

The day the Monster Apocalypse began I know FOR A FACT June was inside our middle school. But I don’t think she’s still there, because I went by a few days ago and I stood outside hollering ‘June!’ and there was no answer.

I’m also VERY SURE that June’s parents did not leave town, because I went to her house last week and their cars were still in the driveway. I broke in and looked around inside the house, too, and it didn’t seem like they’d packed up and taken off on a train or something.

And I REFUSE to believe that June has been zombified.

So that means she MUST be here, in town, somewhere.

So I’m going to find her. And I’m going to rescue her.

There you have it.

That’s my life.

And that’s my goal.

I will not rest until I’m done.

I’m a dorky warrior orphan. I’m a zombie-fighting, monster-slaying tornado of cool (not really, but this is my story, so deal). And I will – Rescue June Del Toro and complete the ULTIMATE Feat of Apocalyptic Success!

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