The Mystery of Stormy Island Page 2

  ‘Okay,’ said Boo slowly, ‘so what’s the point of giving one animal’s DNA to another?’

  ‘Well, going back to an example I used this morning in class, say that chickens wanted to run faster than humans, one way to do it would be to give chickens the DNA of a really fast animal like a cheetah,’ Ruth explained.

  Aha! Amy thought she’d cracked it. ‘So if chickens wanted to be really fierce, you could give them the DNA of a T. rex?’ she suggested brightly.

  ‘Well, yes, except that dinosaurs died out sixty million years ago,’ Ruth replied, ‘so that wouldn’t actually be possible. But you’ve definitely got the right idea, Amy.’

  Amy felt pleased with herself. She was really getting the hang of science thanks to Ruth.

  ‘Thank you, Ruth. That was very well explained,’ the professor said. He cleared his throat. ‘The point is, chickens, that Raptorov has been genetically modified by the humans. He is smarter than any other bird on the planet. That’s how he escaped from the laboratory. He also has stronger wings, sharper talons, better eyesight and better hearing than any other owl in the world, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘Does he have any weaknesses?’ asked Boo.

  ‘Not really,’ the professor said. ‘Although he does have a love of Russian classical music, particularly the works of Tchaikovsky. I believe it sends him into a sort of trance.’

  ‘So, where do we come in?’ asked Amy. She decided to ask the others who Tchaikovsky was later. She didn’t want the professor to think she was completely stupid!

  ‘Raptorov has been spotted by my bird spies hovering above the beach at Stormy Cliff Caravan Park, about forty miles north from here as the crow flies,’ the professor replied. ‘He’s hiding out in some caves on a nearby island. The caravan park is home to a large flock of chickens. They are largely unprotected by humans. So far Raptorov hasn’t launched an attack on them, which is surprising. But he will, I’m sure of it. Your mission is to stop him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Professor, you can rely on us!’ Amy said, punching the air. She knew she should be afraid, but actually she couldn’t wait to get started. The mission sounded ace. ‘Have you got any good gadgets for us?’

  Professor Rooster always provided them with useful things in times of chicken crisis (although how he sneaked them into Chicken HQ remained a complete mystery).

  ‘Er, yes, there are some in the Emergency Chicken Pack,’ the professor said. For some reason he seemed a little distracted.

  Amy wondered what was wrong. Normally the professor just switched off the monitor and let them get on with it, but it seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say. She waited.

  Professor Rooster gave a little cough. ‘Er … the thing is, chickens,’ he began apologetically, ‘it’s vital that this mission succeeds. If Raptorov isn’t stopped, no chicken anywhere in the land will be safe. That’s why I … er … think you might need a bit of help … some-birdy experienced …’

  Help? The three chickens looked at one another in alarm. He didn’t mean …??? He couldn’t …???? Not …?????

  ‘So I called up Poultry Patrol and asked for their best agent …’ said the professor more briskly.

  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! Amy felt like screaming.

  ‘… and they’re sending James Pond. He’ll be with you in about an hour. Good luck.’ The professor leaned forward and switched off the monitor. The screen fizzled for a minute and then went black.

  ‘I can’t believe Professor Rooster would do this to us!’ Amy fumed.

  ‘James Pond, of all birds!’ muttered Boo.

  ‘I can’t stand that duck,’ sighed Ruth. ‘He’s such a show-off.’

  The chickens stomped round Chicken HQ preparing for their mission. Ruth was assembling the gadgets, Boo was preparing some food for the journey and Amy was, well, just stomping round.

  ‘And he’s useless!’ she huffed, her cheeks blazing. ‘Every time he’s supposed to help us he ends up getting gummed by zombie chickens, or tricked by cunning foxes or hypnotised by cobras.’

  ‘I know,’ Boo said, slamming the mini-fridge door. ‘It’s us who have to help him, not the other way around!’

  ‘He does have some good gadgets though,’ said Ruth, rummaging about in her cupboard. ‘I suppose they might come in handy, even if he doesn’t.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Amy crossly. She stomped over to the laptop. ‘Anyone mind if I have a quick game of Chicken World Wrestling 6 before he arrives?’ she asked. ‘Only I need to let off some steam.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Be my guest,’ agreed Boo.

  ‘Thanks.’ Amy loaded the game. The contestants were based on famous real-life chicken wrestling champions and the first thing she had to do was choose who she wanted to be. That was easy! Amy picked Rocky Termin-egger – her favourite fighter of all time. The next screen gave her a choice of opponents. Amy hummed and haaaed before finally plumping for Granny Wishbone. Granny Wishbone was Chicken World Wrestling’s dirtiest fighter, which meant Amy didn’t feel at all guilty when she beat her in the game.

  The bell went. ‘Start of round one!’ said the commentator. Rocky bounced into the ring and showed off his muscly wings. Before Amy could do anything about it Granny Wishbone had snuck under the wire while his back was turned and bashed him on the head with her zimmer frame. Rocky passed out.

  ‘End of round one!’ said the commentator.

  ‘Okay,’ said Amy, taking a long, slow breath, ‘you’ve asked for it, Wishbone.’

  ‘Start of round two!’

  This time Rocky went for a winglock but Granny Wishbone was too quick for him. She spun out of his grasp and pinned his neck to the ground with her false teeth. The referee counted him out.

  ‘End of round two!’

  ‘Okay, Wishbone,’ snarled Amy, ‘this is war.’ Her cheeks sizzled.

  ‘Start of round three!’

  Rocky dived for Granny Wishbone’s scrawny legs. Granny Wishbone lashed out with a karate kick. Then she wheeled round and elbowed Rocky in the face with her bony elbow, knocking him unconscious for the second time.

  ‘Fowl!’ shrieked the crowd (and Amy). But the referee hadn’t seen.

  ‘End of round three!’ shouted the commentator. ‘Granny Wishbone wins!’

  ‘Oh, honestly!’ Amy switched off the computer. Playing Chicken World Wrestling 6 wasn’t helping very much. She felt crosser than ever.

  ‘Come and help me with the gadgets, Amy,’ said Ruth. ‘I need to check them off against my list.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amy scuttled over.

  ‘Flight booster engines …’

  ‘Check!’

  ‘Infra-red super-spec headsets with advanced radar tracking …’

  ‘Check!’

  ‘Mite blaster …’

  ‘Check!’

  ‘Evil baddie Geiger counter …’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Amy. She knew all about the other gadgets because they had used them on their previous missions, but she’d never heard of the evil baddie Geiger counter.

  ‘It looks like a watch,’ Ruth said, ‘but instead of picking up high levels of radiation like a normal Geiger counter does, it picks up high levels of evil baddie activity, so you can tell where they are and their evilness level even if you can’t actually see them.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ Amy said. ‘Was it in the Emergency Chicken Pack?’

  ‘Actually, it’s something I invented,’ Ruth said modestly. ‘I think it might come in handy against Raptorov because he’s so difficult to detect.’

  ‘It’s a great idea,’ said Amy, picking up the ‘watch’ and trying it on for size. It had a white face with a red needle and a dial calibrated in units from one to ten.

  ‘Zero means no baddie activity detected, ten means it’s as evil as it can get,’ Ruth explained.

  ‘So where would Thaddeus be on this?’ Boo asked, coming over to have a look.

  ‘I’d say he’d be about
a five,’ Ruth said. ‘Raptorov’s probably an eight from what the professor says.’

  ‘What about the MOST WANTED Club?’

  ‘Put together with Thaddeus maybe about the same as Raptorov – an eight. Individually they’re probably only a one though, and that’s counting the pigeons as a group. They don’t have the same capacity for evil as Thaddeus and Raptorov unless they have help.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amy. The other members of the MOST WANTED Club were Tiny Tony Tiddles, a black and white cat with a gangster hat, Kebab Claude, a large French poodle with a love of cooking barbecues, and the Pigeon-Poo Gang, three nasty birds with shades who would do anything for grain and sludged their victims to death with their cement-like poo.

  ‘It’s just as well it’s only Raptorov we’ve got to deal with this time,’ Ruth joked, ‘or I’d have to put more numbers on the dial!’

  ‘It’s really clever, Ruth,’ Boo said, taking the device from Amy and trying it on. ‘Only I wish you’d made the strap purple!’ Purple was Boo’s favourite colour.

  ‘Call that a gadget?’ quacked a snooty voice from the doorway. ‘No wonder the professor asked me to help.’ A large mallard duck stepped into the potting sheds. He was wearing a bow tie and had a holster strapped under his left wing. ‘Hello again, hopeless hens! My name is Pond, James Pond.’

  ‘WE KNOW YOUR NAME!’ Amy shouted at him. ‘AND WE’RE NOT HOPELESS!’ She kicked the floor and stubbed her toe painfully in the process. ‘Ow!’

  ‘You sure about that?’ James Pond sniggered.

  ‘You should have invented an annoying big-head Geiger counter, Ruth,’ Boo remarked coolly, returning the machine to her friend, ‘except he’d probably break it.’

  Amy giggled in spite of her sore toe. She wished she’d thought of something clever like that to say!

  ‘Very funny,’ said James Pond. ‘Not! Now who wants to see my gadgets?’

  ‘I do,’ said Ruth.

  Actually Amy secretly did too. ‘Okay,’ she said in what she hoped was an uninterested voice.

  James Pond waddled towards them. He fiddled with his bow tie. The knot in the centre projected a beam of bright white light towards them. The chickens turned away, covering their eyes with their wings.

  ‘It’s a laser torch,’ James Pond explained. ‘Raptorov is nocturnal, that’s why he’s hanging out in the caves at Stormy Island. This will render him temporarily dazed.’ He switched off the torch. The chickens blinked. They were still half blinded by the dazzling light.

  ‘What else?’ asked Ruth, taking off her specs and rubbing her eyes.

  ‘A homing device.’ This time James Pond reached for his holster. He drew out a long slim box. It bore the label:

  IGOR’ S

  EAGLE OWL

  HOMING DEVICE

  ‘Here!’ He handed it to Ruth. She opened it carefully while Amy and Boo looked on curiously. The box contained a tightly packed nylon net, several corks, a pair of pliers and a thin strip of metal with a blank electronic display.

  Ruth unfolded the instructions and read them out loud.

  Worried in case your eagle owl escapes? Then Igor’s eagle owl homing device is for you! Developed from genuine Russian missile technology, this brilliant invention will ensure that your eagle owl never strays again!

  Instructions

  Stun eagle owl with laser torch (not included).

  Trap bird with net.

  Set required coordinates on homing device.

  Attach to eagle owl’s leg using pliers.

  Remove net.

  NB: For extra protection against being skewered through the heart, attach corks to eagle owl’s talons.

  Results guaranteed!

  All we have to do is set the co-ordinates on the homing device to the Russian laboratory where Raptorov came from, fix it on to his leg with the pliers and off he goes,’ James Pond explained. ‘The missile technology will force him to go back there even if he doesn’t want to. Whichever way he flaps, that’s where he’ll end up.’

  ‘That’s pretty clever,’ Ruth admitted.

  ‘Yeah, not bad,’ Boo nodded.

  Amy didn’t say anything. It was pretty clever IF IT WORKED! The problem with all James Pond’s amazing gadgets was that something unforeseen usually happened to stop him using them.

  ‘Now hurry up. We need to get going.’ James Pond went outside to limber up ready for take-off.

  Amy let out a deep sigh. Now the duck was involved, this was going to be hard work! But the chickens of Stormy Cliff Caravan Park were depending on them. Whatever she thought about James Pond she knew it mustn’t get in the way of the mission.

  ‘Amy, can you bring the Emergency Chicken Pack?’ Ruth said, frantically stuffing the remaining gadgets into her backpack along with her book about the evolution of birds.

  ‘Okay.’ Amy grabbed it from another cupboard. She wondered what Professor Rooster had put in it this time, and if they would need it.

  ‘I’ve got the picnic,’ Boo said, hurrying over.

  The chickens strapped on their flight booster engines and scuttled out into the garden. James Pond was already airborne. He circled above them, his neck outstretched, his wings beating in elegant strokes. One after the other the chickens took off after him from the old walled garden and zoomed up into the sky.

  Down in a burrow in the Deep Dark Woods, Thaddeus E. Fox cowered under a blanket in a pair of scruffy pyjamas, waiting for the doctor to arrive.

  ‘Hello?’ came a voice in the tunnel. ‘Are you there, Thaddeus? It’s Doctor Brush.’

  Thaddeus didn’t reply. He wriggled deeper under the bedclothes.

  There was a soft thunk as the doctor put his bag down on the floor and tiptoed over. ‘Thaddeus?’ The edge of the blanket lifted to reveal the doctor’s face. He was an elderly fox with grey whiskers and a sensible countenance. His expression was concerned. ‘I’ve brought you another pack of dog biscuits.’ He reached for his bag. ‘I’ll get them, shall I?’

  Thaddeus grabbed him by the stethoscope. ‘You sure you weren’t followed, doctor?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said the doctor soothingly.

  ‘And you definitely didn’t see any chickens?’

  ‘Definitely,’ the doctor reassured him. ‘No chickens.’

  ‘What about roosters?’

  ‘Nope, none of them either.’ The doctor gently removed his stethoscope from Thaddeus’s grasp. ‘How about you come out from there and tell me how you’ve been getting on? There’s a good fellow.’ He took out the packet of dog biscuits and held them towards his emaciated patient.

  Little by little Thaddeus E. Fox removed the blanket from over his head and wrapped it around his thin shoulders. He sucked in an unsteady breath and reached for the dog biscuits with trembling paws.

  ‘Let me,’ the doctor said, ripping open the cardboard lid. He took out a dog biscuit and folded Thaddeus’s paw around it carefully.

  ‘Thank you,’ Thaddeus said meekly. It still took several attempts to get the biscuit into his mouth. When he finally managed it, the fox chomped on the biscuit mechanically. He made no attempt to wipe away the slobber running down his chin.

  The doctor regarded his patient with professional curiosity. Clearly there had been no improvement since his last visit. In fact he had been treating Thaddeus E. Fox for some months now and despite his best endeavours, his patient’s condition had steadily got worse. If it weren’t for him bringing dog biscuits every week Thaddeus would have starved to death by now. The poor animal seemed to have lost his appetite for life entirely.

  Thaddeus finished chomping. ‘I had another flashback last night,’ he whispered, staring into space.

  ‘Ah,’ said the doctor sympathetically. ‘Was it the one where Professor Rooster’s elite-chicken squad humiliated you in front of all your foxy friends from Eat’em College for Gentlemen Foxes?’

  ‘No.’ Thaddeus shook his head slowly. ‘It was worse.’

  ‘Not the one
where you ended up wallowing in cow’s muck and spoiling your beautiful clothes?’ said the doctor with renewed concern. That elite-chicken squad had a lot to answer for, he thought indignantly. Spoiling an Old Eatemian’s clothes was contemptible behaviour. The cow’s muck episode was enough to give anyone nightmares!

  Thaddeus started trembling all over. ‘No,’ he hissed. ‘It was the other one.’

  ‘What, the one where they launched an aerial bombardment of brick-egg bombs on your head?’

  Thaddeus nodded dumbly. He rubbed his head as if it were still throbbing.

  The doctor decided to change tack. ‘Have you been out since my last visit?’ he said briskly, although he already knew the answer.

  ‘I can’t,’ Thaddeus moaned. ‘They might be lying in wait for me.’ He started to sob.

  ‘Now, now,’ said the doctor, offering him a handkerchief.

  Thaddeus blew his nose loudly. He looked at the doctor pleadingly. ‘What’s wrong with me, doctor?’ he said in a pathetic voice.

  The doctor sighed. ‘I’ve told you before, Thaddeus, you have an advanced case of alektorophobia, otherwise known as the fear of chickens.’

  Thaddeus gave an involuntary shudder. ‘No!’ he shook his head vehemently. ‘I can’t have. I’m a fox! Foxes aren’t scared of chickens.’ He gripped the doctor’s paw. ‘It must be something else!’

  Oh dear, thought the doctor, his patient was still in denial. Every time he’d visited the burrow he’d told Thaddeus what was wrong with him, but the poor fellow couldn’t seem to get to grips with it. He decided to adopt a firmer approach. ‘Look here, Thaddeus, unless you face up to what’s actually wrong with you, you’ll never get better,’ he said crisply.

  Thaddeus remained silent.

  The doctor felt encouraged. His patient seemed to be listening for a change. He pressed on. ‘No one thinks the worse of you for what’s happened, Thaddeus. None of your old Eat’em College pals, not me, not even the former members of the MOST WANTED Club.’