Read Online The Void of Mist and Thunder (The 13th Reality #4) by James Dashner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Dashner
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knew it, but at least she had some tea to warm her bones and settle her nerves.
Sally had asked for chocolate milk, which embarrassed Mothball to no end. Especially when the buffoon asked if he could have a straw to “sip it up with.” Oh, she liked the man well enough, she supposed, but how he’d become a Realitant, she’d never know.
Tanner sat down in a chair opposite them, a remote in his hands. There was a huge television on the wall, bigger than any Mothball had ever seen in her life. Of course, they didn’t do a whole lot of that sort back in the Fifth Reality.
Tanner was a scrawny man with mussed-up hair and whiskers on his chin. But he had sharp eyes, and he took his job seriously.
“I’ve put together a hodgepodge of what’s been going on lately,” the man said after everyone was settled. He clicked the remote, and the television buzzed to life. “I’d say sit back and enjoy the show, but I don’t think you will very much. It’s not pretty.”
“Oh, doncha worry, son,” Sally said, his straw pinched between his fingers as he slurped his chocolate milk. He looked like an overgrown two-year-old kid in overalls. “Back where we work, we sho ’nough used to things that ain’t purty. Ain’t that right, Mothball?” He laughed, a booming sound that could only be described as a guffaw.
Mothball wanted to slug him; she knew very well he was talking about her. But then again, Sally wasn’t the handsomest cat in the litter, so maybe he was poking fun at himself as well. “Right as rain, you are,” she said. “But I’m sure you were a cute wee one when you were born and all. Been downhill ever since, it ’as.”
Sally laughed again.
“Shall we, um, get on with it?” Tanner asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Mothball replied. “So sorry for my partner, here. A bit cracked in the skull, he is.”
Tanner smiled, but it was a haunted one. “I’m afraid you’re both going to lose your appetite for laughing soon. The whole world is in one big heap of a mess. Fires, riots, rebellions, anarchy. Looting and murders. Like I said, it’s not pretty.” He pointed his remote at the television and clicked it again.
A horror show came to life on the big screen.
Paul had never understood why people liked to drink warm milk. He’d heard of it before, but it always sounded nasty to him. Warm chocolate milk, maybe. But take out that brown stuff and he wanted no part of it. Milk was meant to be ice-cold, especially when washing down some cookies.
At least those were yummy. Oatmeal and raisin.
Gretel was sitting in her chair, eating and sipping along with Paul and Sofia, but she’d yet to say anything about . . . well, anything. Paul still had no idea why they were there, which was why all he could think about was how much he didn’t like warm milk.
Sofia cleared her throat. “We really appreciate you letting us in, but I don’t think we have a lot of spare time on our hands. I’m sure Master George wants us to learn what it is you have to tell us, and then get back to him.”
Paul felt like he needed to add something. “Yeah, let’s get on with it.” He winced on the inside. That had come out a little harsher than he’d meant it. “I’m dying of curiosity here. Ma’am.” He threw that in there to sound polite.
Gretel took the last bite of her cookie then drained her cup of milk. She placed her dishes on a small table beside her. “I understand your impatience, but you’re going to have to bear with me a few moments longer before we get to my part of this story. First, I need to hear yours.”
Paul wanted to groan and kick something, but he kept himself still and quiet.
“What do you mean?” Sofia asked.
Gretel shrugged as if it were obvious. “I haven’t had one squirt of communication with the Realitants—or civilization at all, for that matter—in more than a year. I’m no longer what you’d consider ‘active,’ and informing me of the latest has to be on the bottom of
Sally had asked for chocolate milk, which embarrassed Mothball to no end. Especially when the buffoon asked if he could have a straw to “sip it up with.” Oh, she liked the man well enough, she supposed, but how he’d become a Realitant, she’d never know.
Tanner sat down in a chair opposite them, a remote in his hands. There was a huge television on the wall, bigger than any Mothball had ever seen in her life. Of course, they didn’t do a whole lot of that sort back in the Fifth Reality.
Tanner was a scrawny man with mussed-up hair and whiskers on his chin. But he had sharp eyes, and he took his job seriously.
“I’ve put together a hodgepodge of what’s been going on lately,” the man said after everyone was settled. He clicked the remote, and the television buzzed to life. “I’d say sit back and enjoy the show, but I don’t think you will very much. It’s not pretty.”
“Oh, doncha worry, son,” Sally said, his straw pinched between his fingers as he slurped his chocolate milk. He looked like an overgrown two-year-old kid in overalls. “Back where we work, we sho ’nough used to things that ain’t purty. Ain’t that right, Mothball?” He laughed, a booming sound that could only be described as a guffaw.
Mothball wanted to slug him; she knew very well he was talking about her. But then again, Sally wasn’t the handsomest cat in the litter, so maybe he was poking fun at himself as well. “Right as rain, you are,” she said. “But I’m sure you were a cute wee one when you were born and all. Been downhill ever since, it ’as.”
Sally laughed again.
“Shall we, um, get on with it?” Tanner asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Mothball replied. “So sorry for my partner, here. A bit cracked in the skull, he is.”
Tanner smiled, but it was a haunted one. “I’m afraid you’re both going to lose your appetite for laughing soon. The whole world is in one big heap of a mess. Fires, riots, rebellions, anarchy. Looting and murders. Like I said, it’s not pretty.” He pointed his remote at the television and clicked it again.
A horror show came to life on the big screen.
Paul had never understood why people liked to drink warm milk. He’d heard of it before, but it always sounded nasty to him. Warm chocolate milk, maybe. But take out that brown stuff and he wanted no part of it. Milk was meant to be ice-cold, especially when washing down some cookies.
At least those were yummy. Oatmeal and raisin.
Gretel was sitting in her chair, eating and sipping along with Paul and Sofia, but she’d yet to say anything about . . . well, anything. Paul still had no idea why they were there, which was why all he could think about was how much he didn’t like warm milk.
Sofia cleared her throat. “We really appreciate you letting us in, but I don’t think we have a lot of spare time on our hands. I’m sure Master George wants us to learn what it is you have to tell us, and then get back to him.”
Paul felt like he needed to add something. “Yeah, let’s get on with it.” He winced on the inside. That had come out a little harsher than he’d meant it. “I’m dying of curiosity here. Ma’am.” He threw that in there to sound polite.
Gretel took the last bite of her cookie then drained her cup of milk. She placed her dishes on a small table beside her. “I understand your impatience, but you’re going to have to bear with me a few moments longer before we get to my part of this story. First, I need to hear yours.”
Paul wanted to groan and kick something, but he kept himself still and quiet.
“What do you mean?” Sofia asked.
Gretel shrugged as if it were obvious. “I haven’t had one squirt of communication with the Realitants—or civilization at all, for that matter—in more than a year. I’m no longer what you’d consider ‘active,’ and informing me of the latest has to be on the bottom of
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