Attack of the Fluffy Bunnies Read online

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

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Beaty, Andrea.

  Attack of the fluffy bunnies / by Andrea Beaty.

  p. cm.

  Summary: At Camp Whatsitooya, twins Joules and Kevin and new friend Nelson face off against large, rabbit-like creatures from the Mallow Galaxy who thrive on sugar, but are not above hypnotizing and eating human campers.

  ISBN 978-0-8109-8416-5

  [1. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 2. Camps--Fiction. 3. Twins—Fiction. 4. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B380547Att 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  Text copyright © 2010 Andrea Beaty

  Illustrations copyright © 2010 Dan Santat

  Book design by Chad W. Beckerman

  Cover illustration copyright © 2010 Dan Santat

  Cover Design by Chad W. Beckerman

  Published in 2010 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Printed and bound in U.S.A.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This one I blame on the Beatys. The millions of hours we spent watching sci-fi movies and British TV shows while consuming mass quantities of buttery popcorn and Pepsi left an enormous mark on my brain (and my waistline).

  I love you all more than you can know.

  Thanks to Michael, Katie, and Andrew for your endless support and supply of chocolate.

  Godzilla-size thanks to Susan Van Metre for being the best editor in the universe.

  Thanks to my uber-talented agent, Barry Goldblatt, and to Howard, Chad, Jason, Mary Ann, Andrea, Brett, and everyone at ABRAMS. I want you all on my team when the aliens and/or zombies and/or killer chipmunks attack!

  And finally, King Kong–size thanks to Dan Santat, who is simply brilliant. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

  Meanwhile, in space …

  The flaming meteor hurtled through the endless, black void. Remember this. It’s important later.

  Meanwhile, to begin our story …

  Not long ago, in a galaxy just beyond the Milky Way—but not quite as far as the Peanut Cluster—there lived a race of fierce, large, ugly, and ferocious furballs known as the Fierce, Large, Ugly, and Ferocious Furballs. (Fluffs for short—though in reality, there is nothing short about Fluffs.)

  In fact, Fluffs were (and are) tall with two enormous rabbitlike ears, two enormous rabbitlike feet, two enormous rabbitlike eyes, and one small rabbitlike nose. (Well, they couldn’t have two noses. That would be weird.)

  Okay, so the Fluffs are rabbits. But they are not mild-mannered, cute-cuddly-carrot-crunching, happy-hopping rabbits like those found on Earth. The Fluffs are fierce warrior rabbits whose long, floppy ears are for slapping. Whose long, floppy feet are for stomping. And whose large eyes spin in opposite directions to hypnotize unsuspecting prey. Oh yeah, and they have fangs.

  Fluffs and domestic Earth rabbits is found on the next page in Table 1: Know Your Fluff, taken from The Illustrated Guide to Fluffs and Other Space Creatures You Don’t Want to Meet by Professor Donald J. Dewdy. (Work unpublished.) Go ahead and take a moment to read it, if you want. The rest of us will meet you at the next chapter.

  For nonscientifically minded readers, readers who wish they were playing video games right now (you know who you are), and readers forced to read this book for school book reports (so sorry), we’ll sum up the contents of Table 1: FLUFFS = BAD.

  Go to next chapter.

  TABLE 1: KNOW YOUR FLUFF

  Remember the flaming meteor hurtling through space from Chapter 1? Here’s an update.

  And then …

  “What’s that smell?” thought Moopsy.*

  “It wasn’t me,” thought Floopsy.*

  “Smeller’s the feller,” thought Cottonswab.*

  “Hey!!!” thought Moopsy.

  The Fluffs looked at one another. They looked at the planet. They looked at one another again.

  “Planet’s on fire,” thought Floopsy.

  “So get a small creature and beat out the flames,” thought Cottonswab.

  “You ate the last small creature two years ago,” thought Floopsy.

  “Oh yeah,” thought Cottonswab. “That reminds me … BUURP.”

  “Did you know burps were flammable?” thought Moopsy.

  “EVACUATE!” thought Floopsy.

  “EVACUATE!” thought Moopsy.

  “BURP!” thought Cottonswab.

  Meanwhile, on Earth …

  The Rockman family van screeched to a halt in front of the crumbling stone arch at the entrance to Camp Whatsitooya. Through the arch, a gravel road wound its way into the dark woods, dwindled to two dirt tracks, and disappeared beyond a half-dead oak tree.

  “Out, you two!” said Mr. Rockman. “Time for adventure!”

  “Are you sure this is the place?” asked Kevin. “You can’t even read that sign, it’s old and cruddy and covered with moss or something.”

  “Of course it’s the place,” said Mrs. Rockman. “It says so right here on the map.”

  “And besides, it’s not cruddy,” said Mr. Rockman. “It’s rustic. It says that right here in the brochure. We would never send you to a camp that called itself cruddy.”

  Mr. Rockman jumped out of the van, sprinted to the back hatch, tossed a mound of camping gear onto the road, sprinted back to the driver’s seat, and buckled up again. All in 3.7 seconds flat.

  “Yep! Yep! Yep!” said Mrs. Rockman, snapping her fingers excitedly. “We’re here, darlings! Oh, summer camp! Beautiful summer camp! Swimming! Hiking! Campfires and marshmallows! I could linger here all day just breathing in the forest air…. Well, time’s ticking. Off you go!”

  Joules and Kevin Rockman climbed out of the van and stood in the ankle-high weeds at the edge of the road.

  “Don’t you want to come with us to check in?” asked Joules. “You know, just to make sure it’s okay.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” said Mr. Rockman. “It says so in the brochure. See? ‘Camp Whatsitooya, nestled on the aromatic shores of Lake Whatsosmelly. Camp Whatsitooya: Exceptionally Exceptional Outdoors Experiences Guaranteed. No Exceptions.*’”

  Joules and Kevin groaned. What kind of person would write that stuff?

  “And they have a spa,” said Mrs. Rockman. “See? There’s even a picture!”

  “It’s an outhouse,” said Joules.

  “It’s rustic!” said her mother. “What could be better?”

  Joules and Kevin could each think of at least four hundred and seven thousand things that would be better, but they knew it was pointless to argue, so they simply shrugged.

  “Well, my dears, we simply must go,” said Mrs.
Rockman. “Those Cherry-Cheese SPAMcakes won’t cook themselves! Wish us luck!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Rockman were on their way to the International SPAMathon in Cheekville, Pennsylvania. The Rockmans loved SPAM, that somewhat pickled, highly pink, and frighteningly brick-shaped canned meat substance used by the army in World War II as food for soldiers and/or construction material and/or a convenient object to stuff in a cannon if needed.

  Every summer, Mr. and Mrs. Rockman competed in the International SPAMathon Dessert Competition. And lost. Until last year, when Mrs. Rockman’s Funky-Chunky-Chocolate SPAM Pudding captured the judges’ hearts and intestinal tracts. The Rockmans were crowned SPAM King and SPAM Queen and invited back this year to defend their crowns.

  Unlike their parents, Joules and Kevin did not love SPAM festivals. They thought SPAM was all right, but their parents’ recipes were all wrong. So very, very wrong. Joules and Kevin had jumped at the chance to go to camp instead of this year’s Festival of Chunky Funkiness, as they called it. What could be better than a week of swimming and hiking and eating marshmallows? But as they stood in the weeds and looked past the crumbling stone arch into the dark forest of Camp Whatsitooya, they had second thoughts.

  And third thoughts.

  And fourth thoughts.

  “But what if something goes wrong?” asked Kevin.

  “What could possibly go wrong?” asked Mrs. Rockman, blowing them a kiss as Mr. Rockman hit the gas. The squeal of tires echoed through the trees like the cry of a wounded cat.

  “Famous Last Words,” said Joules as she watched the family van grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

  “Yep,” said Kevin.

  “You know what that means,” said Joules.

  “Yep,” said Kevin.

  “I hate Famous Last Words,” said Joules.

  “Yep,” said Kevin.

  Joules and Kevin Rockman shouldered their gear and headed through the crumbling stone arch into the deep woods of Camp Whatsitooya.

  The Rockman twins knew a lot about Famous Last Words. They had heard many of them while watching old movies on the Late, Late, Late Creepy Show for Insomniacs every Saturday night while their parents experimented with new recipes for SPAMalicious desserts.

  As is often the case with children whose parents are obsessed with SPAM-based cooking competitions, Joules and Kevin were not what you would call “highly supervised” children. As a result, the Rockman twins had seen far more movies than most eleven-year-olds.

  Remarkably, for not highly supervised children, Joules and Kevin were very responsible. They learned to cook at a young age. (Right after they learned that SPAM was not a good ingredient in pancakes or pudding or milk shakes.) They learned to clean house. (Right after they found SPAM cubes marinating in prune juice in the bathroom sink.) And they learned that sometimes adults—even the ones who love you—don’t listen very well when they are thinking about something else. Especially SPAM.

  Perhaps it was inevitable that Mr. and Mrs. Rockman would become obsessed with SPAM and SPAM recipes. They were scientists, after all. Mr. Rockman was a chemist and Mrs. Rockman a physicist. They were fascinated by SPAM’s unique characteristics. It was a direct extension of their research into temperature and how it affects the physical properties of various substances. Which—when you think about it—is cooking.

  The Rockmans were enthusiastic people and brought that enthusiasm to all their endeavors. It was this very enthusiasm, in fact, that led them to name their children Joules and Kevin. Joules was named after a famous scientist who figured out the amount of energy needed to raise the temperature of dry air one degree. Yes. Somebody actually did that. (Hey, they had to do something before the Internet was invented!)

  It was an unusual name, and Joules liked that.

  Kevin had a more complicated naming history. His intended name was “Kelvin,” after a guy named Lord Kelvin who figured out how cold it has to get before everything (and that means everything) stops moving. For those of you smartcicles out there who also have too much time on your hands, the answer to that question is minus 273 degrees Celsius, which equals are-you-crazy?-I’m-not-going-out-in-that-kind-of-weather-it-will-freeze-my-digits-off degrees Fahrenheit.

  Being named “Kelvin” after a guy who spent his time freezing things would have been a wedgie-maker for sure. Luckily for Kevin, the registration nurse at his birth sneezed while filling out the paperwork. Thus the name that showed up on his birth certificate was Kevin and thus it remains.

  Joules and Kevin were happy with their names. They were good names. And most important, they were not Archimedes, Galileo, Oppenheimer, Avogadro, or Einstein. For this, they were eternally grateful.

  As highly unsupervised children of SPAM-cooking scientists, Joules and Kevin Rockman developed a keen sense of awareness. They noticed things. Especially weird things. Kevin was also very organized. He liked keeping charts and records. He carried his neatly recorded observations in a notebook, which he kept with him at all times. Just in case.

  Joules was not highly organized, but she recognized the value of having someone around who was. For instance, Kevin’s chart “Awful Eaters and Where They Sit” helped Joules avoid many unpleasant cafeteria lunches seated next to soup slurpers, full-mouth talkers, and sloppy-joe-sauce droolers. Where Kevin liked to study a situation and make notes about it before deciding what to do next, Joules was more likely to poke a situation with a stick to see what would happen.

  Though they had their own methods of approaching a situation, both understood the danger of Famous Last Words. Kevin’s Chart of Famous Last Words shows this quite clearly.

  Those of you who avoided reading Table 1 probably ought to be brave and read this one. It’s important.

  Go ahead. We’ll amuse ourselves by singing while you read.

  La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.

  Okay, you’re back. It might be a good idea for us all to stick together from here on. Of course there’s nothing in this book that could possibly hurt you, and besides, if there is, it’s dead already and it looks perfectly safe and it’s just your imagination….

  KEVIN’S CHART OF FAMOUS LAST WORDS

  Meanwhile, at the edge of Camp Whatsitooya …

  “I’ve got to stop a minute,” said Joules.

  She dropped her gear on the dirt track and rubbed the grooves in her shoulders where the straps of her backpack had been.

  “What did Mom pack in these?” she asked.

  “Lunch for tomorrow in case they don’t have any SPAM at camp,” said Kevin.

  The family had eaten lunch hours ago, and Joules was getting hungry, but the thought of one of her mother’s packed lunches drove away her appetite. Their mother always insisted on packing the twins SPAM-and-jelly sandwiches with sauce for lunch. Joules and Kevin tried to explain that sandwiches didn’t need sauce.

  “That’s silly,” said their mother. “All the power is in the sauce!”

  Joules and Kevin had quickly learned to pack PB&Js in their lunches when Mom wasn’t looking. If only they’d thought to do that today. Joules could really have gone for a PB&J right then.

  Joules’s stomach growled, but she ignored it. Once more she shouldered her pack and headed toward camp.

  They reached the bend in the trail by the half-dead oak tree. Though in reality, “half-dead” was a ridiculous description since the whole tree was crawling with living things: ants, beetles, flies, and wasps. The creatu
res swarmed over the rotting tree in an endless frenzy. Hunting and being hunted.

  Joules watched a small spotted moth settle gently next to a thick brown twig. Instantly, the “twig” lurched at the moth, seized it with its spiked legs, and bit into the fluttering insect. The moth’s wings jerked once and were still as the praying mantis devoured its lunch. Joules shuddered and walked on.

  Ahead, the trail twisted and vanished. Joules looked back toward the road, which was now a far-off patch of light, all but strangled by the dark trees. Something moved in the shadows near that light.

  She stared at the spot, hoping that her parents had come back for them, but knowing, of course, that they were miles away, thinking about SPAM.

  “What is it?” asked Kevin.

  “I thought I saw something move back there,” Joules said, pointing at the patch of light.

  Kevin squinted toward the patch. All was still.

  “It’s noth—,” he started, but he stopped when Joules gave him a say-it-and-I’ll-put-grubworms-in-your-cereal look. As a take-charge kind of person, Joules was good for the threat. Even if they didn’t have cereal in the morning, she would find the grubs.

  Kevin couldn’t blame Joules for giving him the stink-eye. After all, he was supposed to be the expert on Famous Last Words. Now he understood how easy it was to say things that you shouldn’t when you are in an extraordinary situation. He decided to make a note of this on Kevin’s Chart of Famous Last Words when they reached camp.

  “Come on,” he said.

  They tromped down the track deeper into the darkness.

  We’ve been walking a long time, thought Kevin, when he heard a low, grumbling, mumbling sound behind him and figured that it was Joules’s stomach.

  “Grmmblemrrrrmm.”

  Joules heard the grumbling, mumbling sound, too. She poked her stomach to see if the noise had come from there even though she knew it hadn’t. She heard the grumbling sound again. It seemed to be behind her.