Bumageddon: The Final Pongflict (19 page)

But more important than ‘what' was ‘why'.

Why
was he hearing anything at all?

He was supposed to be dead.

He'd just been hit by an arseteroid the size of a major city with three thousand trillion megatons of destructive force. Enough force to completely wipe out 95 per cent of life and utterly change the course of history on Earth forever. Zack was a tough bumfighter—that was for sure—but no bum-fighter was tough enough to survive an impact like that.

So, he figured, he
must
be dead.

And if he was dead, was he in Bumhalla?

Zack heard the tyrannosore-arse screech again and frowned.

If this
was
Bumhalla, then what was a tyrannosore-arse doing here?

He blinked again and, discovering with relief that he was now able to see, looked around him.

It sure didn't
look
like Bumhalla.

Bumhalla was supposed to be a glorious place where great bum-fighting warriors gathered to celebrate their heroic bum-fighting days.

But what Zack saw was just a cobweb-covered corrugated-iron roof only a few metres away from his face.

It wasn't exactly what he'd expected Bumhalla to look like.

Somehow he'd expected the decor to be a little more upmarket.

A little more befitting honoured bum-fighters.

Pressed gold ceilings, for instance.

Not cobwebs.

A large black spider crawled lazily across the roof towards a small fly struggling on its web.

Zack shivered as he watched the fly. He knew all too well how that felt. He reached up and pulled the fly free of the web.

Sitting up, he realised he was a long way off the ground.

He was sitting on top of an enormous stack of hay bales.

There was a gap, and on the other side of the gap there was another large stack of hay bales.

Smoke was wafting into the building from somewhere outside.

Old rusty bits of machinery and contraptions were hanging from the walls.

He heard the screech again.

But now it sounded less like a tyrannosore-arse and much more like a rooster.

Zack blinked again.

Nope.

He wasn't in Bumhalla.

He was sure of that much.

And he wasn't on prehistoric Earth.

As far as he could tell, the only immediate danger he faced was falling off the hay bale and being attacked by a rooster.

But what about Eleanor?

Where was she?

‘E
leanor?' called Zack.

There was no response.

‘Eleanor?' he called even louder.

‘Zack?' said a voice from the top of the other hay bale stack. ‘Where are we? Are we dead?'

‘I'm not too sure,' said Zack. ‘But I don't think so. We seem to be in a barn.'

Zack watched as Eleanor sat up and rubbed her eyes.

She coughed.

‘How did we get here?' she said, peering over the edge of the stack and towards the open door, where there seemed to be some sort of bonfire burning. ‘And where are our bums?'

‘I don't know,' said Zack. ‘Apparently this is what happens when you're hit by a gigantic arseteroid from outer space. You wake up in a barn with no bum.'

‘I would have preferred Bumhalla,' said Eleanor.

‘Me too,' said Zack. ‘But who's complaining? At least we're alive.'

‘Or we're dreaming,' said Eleanor.

‘Even if we're dreaming, we're still alive!' said Zack.

‘Not necessarily,' said Eleanor. ‘We could be dead and just dreaming that we're dreaming that we're still alive.'

‘But that's stupid,' said Zack, raising his voice. ‘If we were dead, how could we . . .'

‘You'll be dead if you don't get out of my barn right now!' yelled a figure standing in the doorway. ‘How many times do I have to tell you kids that it's not safe to play up there? Your mothers will kill me if they find out!'

Zack and Eleanor both stared at the figure in the doorway. It was bright and their eyes were having trouble adjusting to the light, but as they did they saw, to their surprise, that it was Ned Smelly.

‘Ned?' said Zack, wondering why he was dressed in a pair of farmer's overalls instead of his traditional bum-fighting armour.

‘Ned?!' said Ned, walking over to the middle of the bales as Eleanor and Zack climbed down. ‘Who's Ned?'

Zack looked at Ned and grinned.

‘Why, you of course!' he said. ‘You're Ned. Ned Smelly!'

‘Right, that does it!' said Ned, his face turning crimson with anger. ‘I've had enough of you two! Get out of here and don't even think about coming back again until you've learnt some respect!'

Zack and Eleanor stood there, too surprised by Ned's outburst to move.

‘Well?' he said. ‘What are you waiting for? Git!'

He waved his pitchfork and moved towards them threateningly, but Zack and Eleanor didn't need any more encouragement to leave.

They ran.

Z
ack and Eleanor ran out of the barn, past a smoking bonfire and down a long dirt driveway.

They didn't stop running until they came to a gate. They clambered over it and stood on the other side trying to catch their breath.

‘What was all that about?' said Eleanor. ‘Why do you think Ned was upset?'

Zack was holding on to a letterbox as he panted, and noticed a small painted sign hanging from the bottom.

‘I don't know,' said Zack. ‘But I think it might have something to do with the fact that his name is not Ned Smelly.'

‘Huh?' said Eleanor, standing up with her hands on her hips, looking back up the driveway in case Ned Smelly was coming after them. ‘Of course that was Ned. Wasn't it?'

‘Not according to this sign here,' said Zack.

Eleanor bent down and studied it carefully. ‘Ed . . . Kelly . . .' she said, reading aloud. ‘Ed Kelly?'

‘Ed Kelly,' said Zack, nodding.

After she had stared at it for a long while, Eleanor rose up slowly. ‘Zack,' she said. ‘Something's happened. Something big.'

‘I know,' said Zack, nodding. ‘But
what
exactly . . . and why are you staring at my bum?'

‘Because it's where it's
supposed
to be, Zack,' said Eleanor, patting her rear. ‘And so is mine!'

Zack reached around and patted his bum. Of all the strange things that had happened in the last few minutes, this was the strangest of all. His bum had been running around by itself for so long that he could hardly remember when it was last attached.

‘Are you okay?' he said.

But there was no reply.

‘Hey!' said Zack. ‘Say something!'

He knew it was a dangerous command to give to his bum, but it remained silent.

‘You're right,' said Zack to Eleanor. ‘Something's horribly wrong. I'm worried.'

‘I didn't say something's horribly wrong,' said Eleanor. ‘In fact, I think it might be the other way around. I think that—for a change—something might have gone horribly
right.
'

‘Eleanor,' said Zack, ‘you must still be suffering methane madness—or at least you've inhaled too much of that bonfire smoke! Ned Smelly thinks he's somebody called
Ed Kelly
? And my bum isn't running around being a smart-arse? How can you call that “horribly right”?'

‘Because
it's exactly what we wanted,
you idiot!' said Eleanor.

‘But I thought “Ned Smelly” was a good name,' said Zack.

‘Not that,' said Eleanor, ‘though that's part of it. No, what I mean is that we've succeeded in creating a future where bums are
just
bums. The Great White Bum has been destroyed and the world has evolved exactly as it
would have if he hadn't been encouraging bums to rebel against their owners for so many thousands of years!'

Z
ack thought carefully.

Perhaps Eleanor was right.

If she was, it would certainly help to make sense of the Blind Bum-feeler's predictions: ‘Zack Freeman . . . saviour of free men everywhere . . . past, present
and future
. . .' Here they were in the future and men were now, apparently, free. But it still didn't make sense, thought Zack.

‘You're forgetting one thing, Eleanor,' said Zack, frowning. ‘We were directly underneath that arseteroid. Whether or not we succeeded, we shouldn't
be
in the future. We shouldn't be anything apart from a couple of fossils at the centre of the Earth.'

‘You're wrong, Zack,' said Eleanor. ‘We weren't
directly
underneath the arseteroid. Don't you remember? We were underneath the Great White Bum and Robobum.'

‘You think we were protected from the force of that arseteroid by a couple of bums?' said Zack.

‘Not just ANY couple of bums,' said Eleanor. ‘The combination of the Great White Bum's blubber and
the fully riveted reinforced steel cheeks of Robobum may have been enough to shield us from the worst of it.'

‘But even if that's true, how did we end up here?' said Zack. ‘Why aren't we just sitting around on the smoking shell of a dying Earth? The impact of that thing would have been incredible, inconceivably violent—nobody could have survived it. Not even us!'

‘Nobody's supposed to have been able to travel through a brown hole and survive, either,' said Eleanor. ‘But
we
did.'

‘Maybe we were just lucky,' said Zack.

‘Maybe,' said Eleanor. ‘And then again, maybe not. Brown holes are the result of an extraordinary amount of force. It's possible that at the moment of the arseteroid's impact the force was
so
great that a temporary brown hole was created. A hole through time and space lasting only a mere instant—but long enough to suck us back to the future and spit us out in the present.'

‘But,' said Zack, ‘that means the Great White Bum might have survived the blast and been sucked back here as well!'

‘No,' said Eleanor, shaking her head. ‘Definitely not.'

‘How can you be so sure?' said Zack.

‘Because if he had been, our bums wouldn't be so much a part of us. They'd be running free. No, he—and Robobum—were destroyed in the blast. We were transported back. Evolution has been able to develop the rest of the world without the interference of the Great White Bum. Give or take a few minor details, of course.'

Zack pondered Eleanor's words.

‘So we're the only survivors . . .' he said. ‘Just us and Ned . . . I mean,
Ed
. . .'

‘Maybe,' said Eleanor, her eyes widening. ‘And maybe not. Did you hear what Ned—I mean
Ed
—said? He said, “Your mothers will kill me.” Mothers, Zack. He said
mothers
!'

Z
ack could see exactly where Eleanor was leading.

‘Come on, Zack,' she said excitedly. ‘Let's go home!'

‘Wait!' said Zack, grabbing her shoulders and making her face him.

‘What?' said Eleanor, impatiently. ‘Don't you see, Zack? In a Great White Bum-free world there was no Great White Bum to kill my mother . . . my mother is still
alive
! I've got to see her!'

‘Be careful, Eleanor,' said Zack. ‘If everything you've said is right then, yes, she
could
be alive. But she might not be the same as you remember her.'

‘I hardly remember her at all anyway,' said Eleanor. ‘I was only four when she died.'

‘I'm just saying don't get your hopes up too high,' said Zack. ‘That's all.'

Eleanor nodded. ‘All right, Mr Gloomy,' she said. ‘Can we go now?'

‘Wait,' said Zack. ‘One more thing. We'd better not tell anybody about what we've been through. If you're right, and there's no such thing as runaway bums and bum-fighters in this world, then they'll think we've gone insane.'

But Eleanor was already running.

Zack took off after her.

Z
ack and Eleanor ran all the way from Ed Kelly's farm into Mabeltown. But as they passed the Mabeltown sign they were in for another surprise. It didn't say Mabeltown. It said:
Marbleton.

Even so, the change didn't faze them too much. Not after their run-in with Ed Kelly. They were starting to get the hang of the new world. Everything was the same, just slightly different. Or was it that everything was different, but just slightly the same?

Neither Zack nor Eleanor particularly cared as they ran through the streets of Marbleton, which Zack was relieved to see was exactly the same as Mabeltown except that it bore no evidence of the
devastating bum attacks that he had witnessed the last few times he was there.

There weren't even any skidmarks on the road, except for those left by cars.

‘Not like that!' yelled a familiar voice, as they hurried past the local football oval. A large, brawny football coach wearing a footy jumper with black-and-white stripes and cut-off sleeves was showing a group of kids how to kick a football.

Zack smiled and pointed him out to Eleanor.

‘Look,' he said. ‘It's the Kicker!'

Eleanor nodded and smiled too, as the Kicker dropped the ball onto his boot and kicked it clear out of the oval.

‘
That's
how you kick a ball,' he yelled at the terrified children.

‘Same old Kicker!' said Zack.

‘Yeah,' said Eleanor. ‘Some things never change.'

They turned the corner into the main street. As they passed the local bakery, they heard a series of sharp cracks. The sign on the window read
S. McKerr's Bakery.
They could see a large woman brutally kneading and smacking a lump of dough into submission.