Disaster Diaries: Aliens!

by R. McGeddon, Jamie Littler (Illustrator)

Overview

So Aliens have invaded your planet? Bummer.
You could pretend you can't see them and hope they go away.
Or wear camouflage, pretend they can't see you and hope they go away!

Sam, Arty and Emmie have just barely survived a recent zombie infestation when their sleepy little town of Sitting Duck finds itself the victim of an alien invasion!

But unlike what you often see on television, the aliens are very small and very cute. How dangerous can they be?
SPOILER ALERT: they're very dangerous. And when they disintegrate the mayor with their ray guns, it’s a complete disaster. It’s up to Sam, Arty and Emmie to save the day! Again. Let the total domination of the planet begin!

This series from author R. McGeddon is a must for young readers who plan on surviving the highly probable alien invasion that should be happening somewhat soon-ish. Disaster Diaries: Aliens! offers helpful tips to survive this encounter. (Hint: Pretend you can’t see the alien and hope it goes away). In fact, your very life may depend on experiencing the laugh-out-loud hijinks and catastrophic escapades that can only be found in the town of Sitting Duck.

An Imprint Book

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781250090898
Publisher:	Imprint
Publication date:	05/24/2016
Series:	Disaster Diaries , #2
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	208
File size:	6 MB
Age Range:	8 - 12 Years

About the Author

R. McGeddon is absolutely sure the world is almost certainly going to probably end very soon. His middle grade series, The Disaster Diaries, details the many ways this could happen. A strange, reclusive fellow – so reclusive in fact, that no one has ever seen him, not even his mom – he plots his stories using letters cut from old newspapers and types them up on an encrypted typewriter. It’s also believed that he goes by other names, including A. Pocalypse and N. Dov Days, but since no one’s ever met him in real life, it’s hard to say for sure. One thing we know is that when the aliens invade, he’ll be ready!

Jamie Littler is the suspiciously happy, award-winning illustrator of The Disaster Diaries series, written by R. McGeddon. He hails from the mysterious, mythical southern lands of England. It is said that the only form of nourishment he needs is to draw, which he does on a constant basis. This could explain why his hair grows so fast. When he is not drawing, which is a rare thing indeed, he spends time trying to find the drawing pen he just lost. He is down to his last one.

R. McGeddon is absolutely sure the world is almost certainly going to probably end very soon. His middle grade series, The Disaster Diaries, details the many ways this could happen, including a zombie apocalypse, an alien invasion, and a mad scientist. A strange, reclusive fellow – so reclusive in fact, that no one has ever seen him, not even his mom – he plots his stories using letters cut from old newspapers and types them up on an encrypted typewriter. It’s also believed that he goes by other names, including A. Pocalypse and N. Dov Days, but since no one’s ever met him in real life, it’s hard to say for sure. One thing we know is that when the zombie apocalypse comes, he’ll be ready!

Read an Excerpt

Disaster Diaries: Aliens!

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By R. McGeddon, Jamie Littler

Macmillan Children's Publishing Group

Copyright © 2014 Hothouse Fiction Ltd.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-09089-8

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CHAPTER 1

Somewhere near the center of the town of Sitting Duck lies Hetchley's Park. It's quite nice. I mean, it's not brilliant, but, you know, it's all right. It's got a lake, which is pretty cool.

Okay, it's not actually a lake as such — it's a duck pond. But still, that's not bad, is it?

Right, fine, it doesn't have a duck pond, either. It has a bench. But it's a nice bench, and that's what counts. Geez, stop picking on Hetchley's Park. What's wrong with you?

Anyway, Hetchley's Park is near the middle of Sitting Duck, and near the middle of Hetchley's Park (just by the bench, which is actually in a bit of a state now that I look at it properly), best friends Sam, Arty, and Emmie were hanging out and having a laugh.

Or rather, Arty was having a laugh. The other two ... not so much.

We'll come to that in a minute, though. First, let's take a closer look at the three friends. In alphabetical order, because everyone likes the alphabet, don't they?

Arty. He's a lovely lad, that Arty, if a bit too clever for his own good sometimes. People say that Arty's brain is as big as his belly, but that's clearly not true, because his head would have to be absolutely massive to hold a brain that size.

Emmie. Pink, girly, and flowery — three words that have never been used to describe Emmie. Of the three friends, Emmie is probably the toughest. She's an all-action girl who is rumored to have once punched a tiger in the face. Of course, the rumor is utter nonsense. She actually punched it in the ribs.

And finally we come to Sam. Everyone loves Sam. He's witty, charming, brave, and clever. Not Arty clever — no one's Arty clever except Arty himself — but smart enough when he needs to be. He's just great all around, really. I mean, you should have seen how he handled the zombies in the last book. Wow. That's all I'm saying. Wow!

"Come on," giggled Arty, who was eager to get on with the story. "It's easy!"

Sam sighed. Emmie scowled. This treasure hunt Arty had set up had stopped being fun roughly four seconds after it had started. It was now entering its fifth hour. It was the code-breaking kit that was the problem. Arty had been given it for his birthday and thought it would be fun to leave cryptic clues for his friends to follow. Not for the first time that day, Sam wished Arty had just been given a football or something instead.

"Right, read the clue again," Sam said.

Emmie squinted at the rectangle of paper and read aloud:

RFC MJB MYI RPCC [right arrow] 2

Sam nodded. "Right. So what does it mean?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

Arty snorted a laugh. "I can't believe you haven't figured it out. It's so easy!"

"I swear," growled Emmie, "say that one more time and you won't leave this park alive."

It was autumn, but the breeze that drifted around the park was warm. As it swept over Emmie, though, she gave a shiver. Her eyes darted across the grass, past the bench, and over to a clump of trees near the gate. This did not go unnoticed by Sam, because he's also quite sensitive, as well as all that other stuff I said about him earlier.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Of course I'm okay," Emmie snapped. She took a deep breath and her voice softened a little. "It's just ... it's hard to believe it's been three months since ..."

"The zombies," said Sam.

Emmie nodded.

"Poor Professor Pamplemousse," said Arty. "Apparently they found one of his arms wedged under the merry-go-round last month. It had been there the whole time."

"Nasty," said Sam. "I suppose he sort of brought it on himself, though. He did invent the zombie virus, after all."

"Not on purpose," said Arty.

Sam shrugged. "I suppose."

They stood in silence, each of them remembering some of the horrors they'd seen over the summer. At least, Sam and Emmie were doing that. Arty had realized he had accidentally stepped on a massive dog poop and was trying to wipe it off on the grass without anyone noticing.

"Still, it's over now," said Sam.

"Is it?" asked Emmie. "Half the town still seems pretty brain-dead to me."

"They were always a bit like that," Sam reminded her. "Anyway, it's done with. Let's not talk about it anymore."

"Exactly!" cried Arty. "Not when we've got something much more fun to do instead!"

"Do we?" asked Emmie, hopefully. "Does that mean we can stop this stupid treasure hunt, then?"

Arty's face fell. "I was talking about the treasure hunt."

"You have a very strange concept of fun, my friend," said Emmie as she looked at the clue for about the fiftieth time since they'd arrived at the park. "Right, let's get this over with. It's a code, right? The groups of letters are words, so there are four words in the answer. Three with three letters, the last one with four."

"Correct!"

"What does the arrow mean?" asked Sam.

"Aha, if I told you that, you'd know the answer," Arty gloated. "You have to figure it out."

"Wait a minute," said Emmie. She turned to Sam. "The third clue. How did we figure that one out again?"

"No idea," admitted Sam. "I'd lost the will to live by then."

"Was that the one where the letters had been swapped with numbers?"

Arty giggled. "Might have been."

"Arty!" Emmie barked, so sharply she made both boys jump in fright.

"Okay, yes. That's right," Arty said quickly.

Sam peered at the clue. "But this one doesn't have numbers."

"No, but what if the letters have been swapped with other letters, and the arrow means move along?" Emmie suggested. So A would become B, B would become C. Like that."

"Only there's a number two, so —"

"You move two places instead!" Emmie realized. "Pass me a pencil, quick."

Sam fished in his pocket until he found the pencil Arty had given them at the start of the treasure hunt. It had been brand-new when Arty had handed it over, but now it was chewed all the way around, and Emmie had snapped it in half in a fit of rage twenty minutes into clue number one.

Silently, she scribbled on the paper right beneath Arty's studiously neat writing. As she wrote, a smile of relief spread across her face.

"'The Old Oak Tree,'" she read. "That's the final clue. The Old Oak Tree."

She grabbed Sam by the shoulders and squeezed. "We're almost there," she said, her voice a hysterical whisper. "We've almost done it. We're almost free. Quickly — to the Old Oak Tree!"

With a whoop of triumph, she raced off. A moment later, she raced back. "Where's the Old Oak Tree?" she asked.

Sam shrugged. "No idea."

"So it seems your search isn't over quite yet!" Arty laughed. He stopped abruptly when Emmie grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and snarled right up in his face. "It's in my garden," he blurted.

Emmie's face darkened. "But that's back where we started."

"I know," Arty squeaked. "Funny, eh?"

"Right, that's it," Emmie replied. "I'm going to kill him."

Sam stepped between them. "Come on, Emmie, you can't kill him. It's his birthday."

"Thanks, Sam," wheezed Arty.

"Kill him tomorrow instead."

"Good idea," said Emmie. "Now, let's get to that oak tree and get this whole horrible ordeal over and done with."

* * *

Arty's Treasure Hunt Clues

These are just some of the more infuriating clues Arty set out for Sam and Emmie to solve. Each and every one of the below caused Emmie to inflict actual physical harm upon Arty's person. Warning: Any attempt to solve them yourself may cause your head to implode, so best not to bother.

1. 20-8-5 3-12-21-5 9-19 9-14 19-1-13 19 12-5-6-20 19-8-15-5

(Use numbers instead of letters.)

2. --- -. / .- / -.. --- --. .-.-.- / .- -. -.-- / -.. --- --. .-.-.-

(Nothing beats Morse code.)

3. Apple, cherry, and rhubarb are some examples. Get past the point and take the fourth numeral to the place of nightmares.

(The more surreal the better.)

Sam had climbed the big tree in Arty's garden hundreds of times in the past but had never known it was an oak. Come on, give the guy a break. I said he was great; I never said he was perfect.

He and Emmie squeezed through the narrow gap in Arty's back fence, then spent a good fifteen minutes trying to pull Arty behind them. For a horrible moment halfway through, it looked like Arty was going to be stuck there, wedged in the gap forever, until Emmie climbed back over the fence and shoulder-barged him through from behind.

The towering oak tree loomed above; up there was the tree house Arty had built himself to hide from his big brother, Jesse. The three friends climbed quickly up the thick trunk. The end of the treasure hunt was in sight, and Sam and Emmie had never been so happy in their entire lives.

"It's a shame it's over," puffed Arty as he heaved himself up onto a higher branch.

"No, it isn't," said Emmie.

"She's right," agreed Sam. "No offense, but I'd rather face the zombies again than another one of those clues."

"This treasure had better be worth it — that's all I'm saying," Emmie said as she heaved herself in through the tree house window. Sam slid in behind her. A moment later, Arty came toppling through and landed on the floor face-first.

A large wooden chest had been set on the table directly in front of them. As Arty untangled himself and got back to his feet, Emmie creaked open the lid. What would she find? Gold? Jewels? A small monkey wearing a hat?

Nah, it was none of them. It was a small envelope.

"It's a small envelope," said Emmie, who was very observant like that.

"Well, open it, then!" urged Arty. He hopped excitedly from foot to foot, which made the whole tree sway gently back and forth like a metronome.

Emmie tore open the envelope. Maybe there was cash inside. Or a check. Or a very small monkey wearing a hat.

But no.

"It's an invitation to my birthday party tomorrow night!" whooped Arty. "At the town observatory."

"At the what now?" asked Sam.

"The observatory!" said Arty. "It'll be the most informative birthday party you've ever been to. Forget games — we're going to learn all about the wonders of the universe!"

"Informative," said Sam.

"Learning," said Emmie.

"Yay," they said together.

Arty put his arms around them both, completely failing to notice the sarcasm dripping from their responses. "What's even better is my mom has booked the whole place just for us. We'll have it all to ourselves for hours!"

"Hours?" groaned Emmie.

"Hours!" Arty grinned. "Now, come on," he said. "If we're quick, we can squeeze in one more treasure hunt after lunch!"

Constellation Spotting

The King's Buttocks

Three Frogs in a Sock

The Great Banana

The Lesser Banana

The Bag of Chins

The Long Hamster

The Upside-Down Circle

CHAPTER 2

Several long tortuous hours of treasure hunting and an all too brief night's sleep later, Sam, Emmie, and Arty were plonked behind their desks in a biology lesson.

Miss Tribbler had been drafted to replace Professor Pamplemousse following his unfortunate encounter with the zombies. She had been hired by the school three months ago but still seemed to be in a constant state of panic, as if an undead Pamplemousse were going to come shambling through the door at any minute and demand his old job back.

The trouble with Tribbler was that she was a spitter. She didn't do it on purpose, probably. She'd just get carried away talking about — I don't know — feet or something, and she'd end up spraying blobby bubbles of saliva all over the place. Everyone at the front of the class had taken to wearing raincoats to protect them from the spray, and Miss Tribbler had quickly earned the nickname "Tribbler the Dribbler," which is both rhyming and clever, and I dare anyone to say different.

"Think of our humble planet as the most incredible life support machine in the galaxy," she gushed, forcing everyone in the front row to put up their hoods. "It gives us everything: sunlight, water, oxygen. Everything we need to sustain life!"

"Doesn't the Sun give us sunlight?" Emmie asked.

The Dribbler frowned. "Sorry?"

"She's right," Arty said. "Sunlight definitely comes from the Sun. The clue's in the name."

Miss Tribbler began to wring her hands anxiously. This was the cue for everyone at the front to pop up their umbrellas.

"Well ... y-yes," she said, stammering and spitting in equal measure. "B-but the point I was trying to make was that those things, when taken together, are v-vital to sustain life."

"No amount of sunlight would've sustained Professor Pamplemousse's life," Sam pointed out.

At the merest mention of the old teacher's name, Miss Tribbler's whole body went stiff. Her eyes darted up, down, left, right. She stared at the door for a moment, and then darted across to the windows to check they were shut tight.

"I'd rather we didn't talk about that," she squeaked at last. She turned back to the blackboard, which wasn't even a blackboard anymore, because they've all been done away with these days, haven't they? It was one of those interactive board things with the buttons and whatnot, but calling it a blackboard is quicker, so let's stick with that.

Her hand shook as she picked up the chalk (in reality a state-of-the-art light pen thingy) and began to write in a trembling and uninteresting sort of a way.

Arty, being very clever, already knew everything Miss Tribbler was teaching in that lesson; Sam, unable to sit still for a minute, wasn't listening anyway.

"So, my party tonight," Arty whispered. "Still coming?"

"Is it still at the observatory?" asked Emmie.

"Yep!"

"Then I can't," Emmie said. "I'm ... brushing my teeth."

"What, all night?"

Emmie hesitated. "I've got a lot of teeth," she said.

"She's kidding," Sam said. "She'll be there. Won't you?"

With a sigh, Emmie nodded. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Arty almost cheered. "Good," he said. "Because it's going to be out of this world!"

He stared at them expectantly.

"Out of this world. We're going to the observatory."

They looked at him blankly.

"With the telescopes and that," Arty continued. "Out of this world. Get it?"

Miss Tribbler Character Profile

1. Overactive saliva glands earned her the nickname Tribbler the Dribbler.

2. Trembling hands — shaking with fear or with barely contained rage. No one quite knows for sure.

3. Shifty eyes are always scanning for misbehaving students and the terrifying reanimated remains of Professor Pamplemousse.

4. Highly strung voice box — her screeches can shatter glass from twenty paces.

5. Running shoes, because you never know when you'll need to flee screaming for your life.

"Yes," said Sam.

"Got it," agreed Emmie, but neither one of them laughed.

Miss Tribbler turned to look their way, and they all put on their best listening faces until she turned back to the ... ahem ... "blackboard."

"Can I just check," whispered Sam, the second her back was turned. "As well as all the learning and informative content of this party — which I'm sure will be fascinating on any number of levels — there is going to be party food, right?"

"Oh yeah," said Arty, who had a huge soft spot for junk food. His stomach. "There's going to be hot dogs and pizza and cake and all that stuff. And we'll get to stay up really late."

"You think eight o'clock's late," Emmie said. "How late are we talking?"

"After midnight at least," Arty said. "It won't be until then that we get the best view of the distant galaxies."

Sam leaned forward in his seat, suddenly interested despite himself. "What do you mean distant galaxies? I thought we'd just be looking at the Moon and stuff."

Arty laughed. The sound made The Dribbler's head whip around, spraying slobber in a wide arc across the room. Like a well-rehearsed military exercise, everyone in the class ducked behind their textbooks.

Once the teacher had gone back to her shaky scribbling, Arty continued.

"You can look at the Moon anytime," he said. "The Sitting Duck Observatory has one of the most powerful telescopes in the world!"

"Why?" asked Emmie. "Where did it get that from?"

"Stella won it in a raffle," Arty explained.

"Who's Stella?" asked Sam.

"Stella Gazey, the chief astronomer. She'll be there at the party pointing out all the exciting stuff."

"What, like the exit?" said Emmie, quietly.

"You'll like her," Arty said. "She's cool. And she's really keen on the idea of making contact with distant worlds and alien civilizations."

Emmie rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah," she snorted. "She sounds really cool."

It was about then that Sam realized someone was talking to him. It took him a moment to retune his hearing, but then ...

"... tell us the answer, Mr. Saunders?"

Sam looked up to find Miss Tribbler staring expectantly at him. She was giving him that evil eye that all teachers get programmed with when they're being put together at the factory.

"Well?" she demanded.

Sam glanced around at the rest of the class, but they all had their hoods and umbrellas up, and he couldn't read anything on their faces.

"Sorry," he said. "Can you repeat the question?"

"Maybe if you would listen once in a while!" the teacher sniped. "I asked you what substance makes up twenty percent of the Earth's atmosphere?"

Sam had absolutely no idea. He puffed out his cheeks and decided to hazard a wild guess. "Jam?"

Ouch. Even I didn't expect it to be quite that wild a guess.

"Of course it isn't jam!" spat The Dribbler. "What sort of mess would we all be in if one-fifth of the atmosphere was made of jam?"

"Quite a sticky mess?" Sam ventured.

"Oxygen is the answer, Mr. Saunders," Miss Tribbler sprayed. "Oxygen. Perhaps if you paid more attention you might know the correct answer once in a while. If you want to pass this subject, then I suggest you —"

"Professor Pamplemousse, you're back!" cried Emmie, pointing to the door.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Disaster Diaries: Aliens! by R. McGeddon, Jamie Littler. Copyright © 2014 Hothouse Fiction Ltd.. Excerpted by permission of Macmillan Children's Publishing Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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