The World Ends in April Read online

  Also by Stacy McAnulty

  The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Stacy McAnulty

  Cover art and design by Michelle Cunningham

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! rhcbooks.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Name: McAnulty, Stacy, author.

  Title: The world ends in April / Stacy McAnulty.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Random House Children’s Books, [2019]

  Summary: “When seventh-grader Eleanor reads an article online claiming that an asteroid will hit Earth in April, she starts an underground school club to prepare kids for the end of the world as we know it.” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018052249 | ISBN 978-1-5247-6761-7 (trade) | ISBN 978-0-593-12390-4 (intl.) | ISBN 978-1-5247-6762-4 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-1-5247-6763-1 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Family life—North Carolina—Fiction. | End of the world—Fiction. | Clubs—Fiction. | Emergency management—Fiction. | Blind—Fiction. | People with disabilities—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M47825255 Wor 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781524767631

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v5.4

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  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Stacy McAnulty

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Author's Note

  Impact

  Definitions

  According to NASA

  Readiness Kit

  Legitimate Sources

  FTLOA—For the Love of Acronyms

  Sources

  Acknowledgments

  For Lily (Margery and Geoff 4ever!)

  Mack Jefferson, my best—and only—friend, reads to me from his Braille edition of The Outsiders. I’m spread out on the floor of my bedroom with my dog, Bubbles, running my hand through her soft belly fur and wondering if we have any pudding cups in the pantry. Also wondering if Mack will notice if I slip out for a few minutes. Probably. I’ve tried in the past.

  “Elle, are you even listening?” he asks.

  “Of course. Always. I love this book.”

  “Lies. All lies.” Mack uses a ridiculous accent like he’s a vampire from Transylvania, when actually he’s a black, blind twelve-year-old kid from North Carolina.

  “Just keep reading.” I pull Bubbles into my lap.

  “Dude, I finished the chapter.”

  “Oh, good.” That means our language arts homework is done. Mack’s a good student. I’m a student. “Do you want to—”

  A loud knock interrupts me. Bubbles jumps up, barks once, and then hides under my bed.

  “Go away! No one is here!” I’m expecting one of my brothers.

  But the door opens, and it’s Grandpa Joe in his camouflage pants, an army-green T-shirt, and a matching cap. His cheeks are red and his eyes flash with excitement.

  “Hey, what’re you doing here?” I ask. Even though he lives only ten minutes away, he rarely just stops by.

  “Private Eleanor Dross, it’s time. We have to bug out. Now!” He smiles but quickly covers his grin with his hand.

  “What?” I say, as if I don’t know what he’s talking about. But I totally do. Grandpa Joe is here for one of his drills. He spends his days getting ready for catastrophes. And whenever he can, he drags me and my brothers along for practice.

  “We can’t,” I tell him. “I have a friend over.” I motion to Mack in case Grandpa Joe missed him.

  “We’ll take Private Mack with us. But we gotta roll now. Giddyup!”

  “What’s happening?” Mack rocks in his seat.

  “Get moving, soldiers. I’ll explain in the truck.” He claps his hands three times.

  “Grandpa Joe, stop. You’re scaring Mack.”

  “I’m not scared,” Mack says, smiling.

  Bubbles wriggles out from under the bed and jumps back into my lap. She must sense that this is not an emergency.

  I look at the time on my phone. “It’s almost six. Dad’s going to be home any minute.” And he has no patience for these drills.

  “Your daddy is gone,” Grandpa Joe says, and for a second I feel sick, as if he just told me Dad was gone gone.

  “Stuck in Columbus on business. Called to ask if I could look after y’all tonight.”

  I understand now. Grandpa Joe has decided to seize the moment.

  “I don’t have time for a drill,” I whine. “I have homework to do.” And Netflix to watch.

  “Who says this is a drill?” Grandpa Joe puts his fists on his hips and puffs out his chest. “Grab your bug-out bag. Be in the truck in two minutes. I’ll round up the boys.” He backs out of my room.

  “Cool,” Mack says as he stands and unfolds his cane. “Drill or not, I’ve always wanted to bug out.” Mack’s one of those people who like everything. If he were an emoji, he’d be the smiley face. Me, I’d be the eye-roll emoji.

  Some grandfathers bowl, play golf, or build model airplanes. At least in movies. Mine is a prepper—someone who spends their time and money preparing for the apocalypse.

  “Trust me. This is just a stupid drill.” Then I get an idea. “And you’re my ticket out. Tell him you can’t go with us. Tell him to take you home, and I’ll escape with you. Please.”

  “No, Elle. I want to do this. I’ve heard you complain about these drills forever. I want to experience the torture.”

  “Thanks for nothing.” I p
ull myself to my feet and set Bubbles on my bed. “You’re the only one who understands me, girl.”

  My bug-out bag—or BOB—is packed. Mostly. Grandpa Joe gave me all the supplies years ago. I dig it out from the bottom of my closet, under clothes and stuffed animals that I can’t seem to throw away. The bag flips over. Everything spills out.

  “Shoot!” I grab handfuls of whatever and shove them into the bag.

  “One minute, Team Dross!” Grandpa Joe hollers.

  My brothers crash through the hallway like a herd of acrobatic elephants. They’re in elementary school and still think this is fun.

  I yank on sneakers. I wore sandals once for a bug-out drill, and the lecture lasted longer than the exercise.

  “Darn. I can’t find my flak jacket.” It’s army green and has about a thousand pockets. Instead, I slip on a purple cotton hoodie and pull my blond hair into a ponytail. This isn’t going to end well.

  “What do I need?” Mack asks. He wears the same thing every day: jeans, sneakers, either a black or gray T-shirt, and dark glasses.

  “Nothing. You’re fine.” There’s no chance Mack will disappoint Grandpa Joe. Me, on the other hand—it’s pretty much guaranteed.

  The lights go dark for a few seconds and then come back on. I assume Grandpa Joe has hit the main power breaker to the house. He’s done it before.

  Mack grabs his own backpack. It’s filled with normal stuff like schoolwork, his iPad, and a lunch bag.

  “Come on, Mack.” I lead him to the stairs and place his hand on the railing. Mack knows my house well. He ought to; we’ve been friends since kindergarten.

  Bubbles tries to follow us out the garage door. I have to stop her from escaping. She’s small (only fifteen pounds) and sweet, and she’d be totally useless in an emergency situation. Real or imaginary.

  “Stay here, Bubbles. Trust me, I’d rather be home with you.” I kiss the top of her head. She’s essentially the only girl in my life.

  My brothers are already in the back seat of the truck. Grandpa Joe lays on the horn.

  “Coming.” I stumble across the driveway, trying not to step on my untied laces. Mack is next to me with one hand on his cane and the other on my elbow.

  I collapse into the front seat and slide to the middle. Mack takes the passenger seat.

  “Good work, soldiers. We’re buggin’ out.” Grandpa Joe puts the truck in reverse and eases down the driveway.

  “Dad doesn’t like it when you turn off the electricity,” I say to Grandpa Joe.

  “Who says I turned off the power?” Then he leans toward me and whispers, “Don’t worry about your daddy. He doesn’t scare me. At least not while he’s out of town.” He elbows me playfully.

  I don’t share Grandpa Joe’s enthusiasm for catastrophes any more than my dad does, but somehow Dad gets to opt out of these adventures. Maybe feeling guilty is something I will outgrow, and I’ll finally be able to say, “No thanks. I’m staying put.”

  “What are we running from?” Phillip sticks his head between me and Grandpa Joe.

  “Is it an alien invasion?” Edward kicks the back of my seat, unable to sit still. He’s excited, not terrified.

  “Something worse,” Grandpa Joe says, looking at them through the rearview mirror. “It’s the black plague. People are dropping like flies, and we need to get away from the general population before we all get sick and keel over.”

  “You’d better not give them nightmares,” I warn.

  Grandpa Joe chuckles but quickly puts on his serious face.

  I turn around and point at the boys. They’re all smiles. “Seat belts. Now.”

  Both my brothers have curly blond hair and freckly pale skin, and everything they do is loud. People mistake them for twins, especially when Phillip isn’t wearing his glasses. But Edward is in third grade and has more energy than a nuclear bomb. His teacher makes him run the track before he’s allowed into the classroom. Phillip is slightly taller and a fourth grader who smells like an old man because he insists on wearing cologne that he bought at the dollar store. He has a lot of energy too. But if you give him a book—any book—you can deactivate him. He also thinks he’s the smartest in the family and probably is. He’s been labeled advanced gifted, and we’re basically learning the same things in math class. He reminds me of this all the time. It’s hard to say which brother I find more annoying.

  “Are we going to your secret bunker? Is that how we avoid the plague?” Mack asks.

  “Not exactly a bunker,” Grandpa Joe replies.

  Ten minutes later, we pull in front of his house. At least we’re not in the woods, pretending to be on the run. I’m not in the mood to search for a suitable cave or hang a tarp. Grandpa Joe and I have been doing drills and preparing for the end of days since I was in preschool. I remember bringing a snap light and Mylar rescue blanket to show-and-tell. As the boys got older (Grandpa Joe insisted they be potty-trained before being prepper-trained), they joined us on the adventures.

  I don’t know the exact moment it all stopped being fun. Maybe about the same time I stopped playing with dolls and believing monsters live under my bed.

  Inside, Grandpa Joe turns on a battery-powered lantern that sits by the door. His house has electricity, running water, and Wi-Fi, but I guess we’re not using any of that today.

  “To the shelter,” Grandpa Joe says. He holds the lantern over his head and leads us to the basement stairs.

  We follow quietly. The only sound is Mack’s cane tapping on the wooden floors. The boys tiptoe down the steps while Mack and I bring up the rear. Grandpa Joe unlocks a door at the bottom with a key he keeps chained to his belt. He’s very cautious about his safe space and the supplies he’s collected.

  The basement is lined with rows of cabinets, each labeled and some locked. It’s basically a small Walmart down here, but with fewer fluorescent lights. He’s got food, clothes, bedding, tools, weapons, toiletries, first-aid supplies, and even dog food for Bubbles.

  “Gather around, soldiers.” Grandpa Joe motions to a wooden table that’s surrounded by five chairs—one for each of my brothers, Grandpa Joe, me, and Dad. But I can’t remember the last time Dad was down here.

  “Pack inspection,” Grandpa Joe announces.

  “Aww,” Edward whines. “Does that mean this is just a drill?”

  “You thought aliens were actually attacking us? Or the plague had struck in the three hours since you got home from school?” I shake my head.

  “I was hoping it was real too,” Mack says, smiling.

  Edward opens his bag and dumps the contents onto the table. Grandpa Joe sorts through the items, nodding his approval.

  “What’s in the pack?” Mack asks.

  “Everything you need to survive for a few days after the world ends.” I hand him each item to check out: flashlight, wool socks, tarp, packaged food, first-aid kit, canteen, envelope with some cash, aspirin, fire starters, and a dozen other things. He turns each in his hands and then holds the item an inch away from his face to see it. Like most visually impaired people, Mack has some vision.

  “So cool. I need all this stuff.” Mack holds out an empty palm, and I place my hand in his. “You can help hook me up, right?” He squeezes.

  “Sure.” I squeeze back.

  I’ll admit, this bug-out drill is less awful with Mack here. His excitement and interest make the evening bearable. I could say the same about a typical school day.

  “Where’s your rope?” Grandpa Joe asks Edward.

  Edward looks at his feet. “Um…”

  Phillip rats out his brother. “He used it to tie up Aidan Wheeler in the backyard.”

  “You can’t play with the equipment in your bag. And if you take something out, it needs to be replaced ASAP.” Grandpa Joe lines up Edward’s three MREs—meals, ready-to-eat. Vacuum-sealed pouches fi
lled with high-calorie, gross-tasting food that’s already cooked and can last decades on a basement shelf.

  “Overall, good job. Pick your dinner, Private Edward.”

  “Ooh, what’s for dinner?” Mack asks, rocking on his feet.

  “Ten-year-old toxic food product,” I answer. “And I don’t really mean food.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Grandpa Joe says. “We’re having MREs. They’re plenty tasty and packed with nutrients.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try them. Elle has talked about them a lot.” Mack obviously wasn’t listening carefully, or he wouldn’t be asking to try one.

  “I’ll take the chili and macaroni!” Edward grabs a foil pack that’s meant for soldiers in the field, not kids in the suburbs.

  “Isn’t it wasteful to eat it now? Especially when there’s a McDonald’s right down the street.” I’m desperately trying to avoid a dinner from a pouch. “Shouldn’t we save them for a war or something?”

  “We’re not wasting anything if we actually eat it,” Grandpa Joe answers. “Private Eleanor, it’s important to set expectations. Being prepared is not just about having supplies. We eat the food. We use the tools. We know what to expect.”

  I expect my gag reflex to kick in. I’ve tried at least twenty MRE flavors. Given a choice, I’d rather eat a bowl of twigs.

  “Who’s next?” Grandpa Joe asks.

  Phillip jumps in when I should have. I need to get this over with. My bag is a mess. Half the necessary things are at the bottom of my closet.

  Of course, Phillip’s pack is perfect. He has everything, and even some extra stuff like books.