“Are you sure we can’t use any of my officers?” asked Sheriff Pryce, her hazmat suit tucked untidily into her cowboy boots. “They know this area better’n anybody.”
“There’s no need for police presence, ma’am,” Murl assured her, the low sun glinting off his aviator sunglasses. “Fracking materials are highly hazardous, and the ground remains unstable. Best leave it to the private sector.”
The sheriff leaned against the railing. “Fracking,” she grouched. “I thought this was a sweetener operation, pure and simple. Why on the round blue Earth were you going underground?”
“I’m sure Mr Fisher’s got all the relevant paperwork,” Murl responded.
“We’ll be seein’ about that.” Sheriff Pryce stormed off to her patrol car at the base of the Nu Co. driveway.
Murl sniffed. “At least the orchard’s toast,” he muttered to himself. “We’ll be leaving this ramshackle village of freaks once and for all.” There was a crackle and a distorted voice sounded from the satchel at Murl’s side. “Sir?”
Murl retrieved his walkie-talkie. “I copy, Fandango. What’s up?”
“Sir, there’s something down here I think you’re gonna want to see.”
Ugh. “Copy that.” Murl tucked away the walkie-talkie. “This place,” he grumbled, as he marched through a pathway littered with broken branches and sharp, twisted stumps.
He reached the team working the crane, and with their assistance he strapped himself securely into a harness. A pair of men, their faces obscured by hard hats and breathing masks, attached him to the hook on the crane’s lead, then lowered him into the smouldering ravine.
The darkness of the cavern engulfed him. Murl switched on the torchlight at his shoulder. The journey down took nearly a half an hour, as he was gently lowered past twisted metal girders and sparkling valueless rock formations. By the time he reached the bottom of the pit, he was livid.
“This better be good,” he growled as his feet found solid yellow rock. Behind him on the ruined cavern wall were the last vestiges of stupid child-like carvings of deer and chickens with some nonsense symbols thrown in. “Didn’t even have a podcast to listen to…” he grumbled. “No reception…”
A scientist in protective gear ran up to him excitedly. “It’s over there, sir.” He pointed to an area where five workers were bent over, examining a narrow chasm in the floor with torches. “We’re not sure what it is, but it could be something big.”
Murl brushed past him. He joined the others and knelt on the ground, directing his torchlight downwards. He stopped short. Unbelievable. “That better not be what I think it is.”
“I’ve got a sample of it right here.” A woman held out a beaker filled with a dense syrupy liquid.
Murl’s face fell. He stuck a finger into the beaker and let the gloppy black substance run over his glove, like glue.
Son of a… Murl glowered as he peered into the accursed cleft. There was no way around it – he’d have to tell Fisher. And once he did, Nu Co. would not be going anywhere after all. For flowing beneath his feet was a vast river of something dark, thick, and very, very sticky.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I offer my sincerest thanks to the following: my savvy and stylish agent Laura West; my editors Maurice Lyon and Kirsty Stansfield; the team at Nosy Crow, whether working from home during quarantine or at the Crow’s Nest; my brilliant cover illustrator Bill Bragg; my first fan and earliest reader Anna Tullis; my fabulous friends and indispensable cultural liaisons Asya and Paul Mourraille and Spooky Ruño; the Swaggers – an oasis of good prose and saucy GIFs in a mad, mad world; my mother Maribeth and brother Jesse for their enthusiastic support of all things Sticky Pines; Monkey, my constant companion and guiding light into the unknown; and, of course, JGR, without whose warm dedication, unsparing assistance, and late night semantic debatery this book would not exist.
Encounter of a Weird Kind
After all the times she had insisted that something was out there, after all the times no one believed her, after the lifetime of sniggering she had endured – tonight, Lucy Sladan would prove she was right.
With a CLICK, she loaded a roll of film into the old camera she had “borrowed” from her parents. She needed proof, the kind that was hard to fake. People of the world, she thought, prepare to learn the Truth.
Her skin tingled with excitement. She still couldn’t quite believe it. Just the night before, while taking the dog out for a gallop in the woods, Lucy had seen something in the sky; something that looked remarkably, amazingly, like the out-of-focus flying objects pictured on her favourite website: TheTruthHasLanded.org.
A flash of lightning outside the round attic window cast jagged shadows across the sloped walls. For a fleeting moment, Lucy’s bedroom seemed full of motion. She twisted a lock of purple hair and counted out six Mississippis before she heard the corresponding rumble of thunder. Pushing her plastic-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose, she reread a highlighted article in yesterday’s newspaper:
SECOND DISAPPEARANCE
IN STICKY PINES
Beloved candy-store owner, Mandy Millepoids, 66, has been reported missing. He was last seen birdwatching in Molasses Grove on the evening of September 1. Meanwhile, police are still searching for factory worker Alastair Chelon, 37, last seen fishing at Black Hole Lake on August 17. Authorities are looking into sightings of large wild animals in the area.
Wild animals, Lucy scoffed. She knew the truth. These guys weren’t attacked. They were abducted. By ALIENS.
She imagined the article they would write about her tomorrow: Lucy Sladan, 12-year-old genius, rescues missing Sticky Pines residents while awesomely confirming once and for all the existence of extraterrestrials. Former critics are amazed and deeply apologetic.
All she needed to do now was sneak out without getting caught.
A knock on the door sent the newspaper
