Billy turned toward the mall entrance, psyching himself up to enter.
“They attacked the snack shop first,” the bandaged creature said, its voice trembling with emotion. “What kind of person goes after poor defenseless snacks, I ask you?”
In Monstros it was all about the snacks, and Billy could feel the citizens’ pain.
“Don’t you worry,” he reassured the crowd. “Owlboy will take care of this.”
Puffing out his chest, he strode toward the entrance. The doors opened on their own when he stepped on the rubber mats just outside.
He paused momentarily and turned back to the parking lot. A few in the crowd gave him the thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture before entering the mall.
Just inside the door Billy stopped to observe his surroundings. There were stores as far as the eye could see, and some evidence of violence: broken glass lay everywhere, and some of the window displays were all messed up.
The snack store was just ahead, and he could see that it had been hit the hardest. Whoever—whatever—had attacked the store had a real sweet tooth: there were candy wrappers scattered all over the floor, both inside and outside the store.
Billy bent down to pick up one of the wrappers, and the smell wafted up into his nostrils.
Grape bubble gum.
Alarms went off in his head, but before he could process the information, things suddenly went crazy.
Shapes moving incredibly fast—bouncing like Super Balls on an overdose of Zap cola—were flying all around him, going so fast that he could barely make them out. He guessed that there were four—no, five of them, and he watched as they ricocheted off the walls, crashing through the windows of the snack store before bouncing outside again to do more damage elsewhere.
Attempting to keep his eyes on at least one of the furiously bouncing shapes, he tried to figure out what it was he was looking at.
That alarm inside his head was still ringing like crazy.
Grape bubble gum, bouncing: there’s something to this, Billy thought.
He played with the switches on his goggles, wondering if there were any special features that would allow him to see exactly what the shapes were. Keeping the bouncing forms in his line of sight, he pushed a button that he’d never really played with before. The bounding shape suddenly froze; and right then he knew why the clues seemed so familiar.
It was the Bounder boys—Slovakian Rot-Toothed Hopping Monkey Demons on a rampage.
But aren’t they in jail?
He didn’t have time to worry about that; they were here at the moment, making a mess of everything. Owlboy had to stop them, no matter what.
“Hey, Bounder boys!” he yelled, running to the center of the mall trying to get their attention.
One of the monkey demons stopped bouncing long enough to snarl at him through crooked yellow teeth. Billy could read the name tag on his red vest: BOBBY BOUNDER.
“We were wondering how long it would take for you to notice it was us,” the monkey demon snarled. “Do you like our new shoes?” he asked, pointing to his clunky footwear with its huge black springs.
That explained how they were bouncing around so quickly. Billy didn’t remember their being able to bounce quite this fast the last time he’d encountered them.
“Nice,” Billy said.
He heard the twang of coiled springs behind him and turned to see the other Bounder boys—Benny, Bernie, Balthasar and Bailey—all settling down long enough to be seen and encircling him.
“No glue on the floor to help you now, Owlboy,” Balthasar spat excitedly.
“And even if there were, we wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall for that trap a second time,” Benny stated.
“Fool me once, shame on me, fool me twice . . . and a bear poops in the woods,” Bailey Bounder taunted.
“Ew!” Billy said, wrinkling his nose.
“What are you talking about?” Benny asked.
“It’s an old saying,” Bailey answered. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it.”
“I’ve never heard such a thing,” Balthasar stated. “I think you probably got it wrong.”
“Are you telling me I’m stupid?” Bailey screeched, slowly bouncing on the coils of his shoes.
“Guys! Guys!” Bobby called. “A little focus here, please!”
The Bounders were completely wrapped up in their argument, and Billy realized that this would be a perfect time for him to strike. Feeling around one of the pouches on his belt, he tried to remember what kind of weapons he had brought with him. He knew he had smoke bombs, but he wasn’t sure they would do the trick.
I need something to slow them down, Billy thought, going through the objects in one pouch, then another. Most of what he found was pretty useless, aside from the smoke bombs: some string, an old AAA battery and a raisin that looked like the Frankenstein monster if he held it at just the right angle.
He was about to give the smoke bombs a try by throwing them down and using the choking cover to knock the Bounders out before they could start bouncing again, but then the explosions started.
The Slovakian Rot-Toothed Hopping Monkey Demons seemed to be as surprised as he was when the sudden detonation tossed them all into the air.
For a moment, as he picked himself up unsteadily from the ground, he almost believed that the cavalry had arrived, that the Monstros City police force had come to give him a hand with the monkey demons.
But then he saw the shapes as they emerged from the dust and smoke, and he knew that these three were about as far from the cavalry as you could get.
The Sassafras Siblings and another, even larger troll that could very well be . . . their mother?
“Do you see what happens when we have to wait for you?” Sireena Sassafras screeched, loading another explosive round into her gigantic rifle. “The stinking monkeys almost got him before us!”
“Can I help it if I had to go to the bathroom?” the giant troll answered furiously. “When nature calls, a woman must answer.”
“Leave Mother alone,” Sigmund warned his sister. “You know she has an incredibly small bladder for a troll her size.”
Billy was right; the siblings did have their mother along for their latest round of destruction. As he ran for cover, he wondered why they weren’t in jail.
“There he goes!” Sireena cried, aiming her weapon and firing.
Billy dove below a squirting fountain just as it exploded into smithereens. Brushing dirt and dust off his costume, he started running again as missile-like projectiles decimated the mall around him.
This is wicked bad, he thought, turning around briefly.
The scene was worse than he imagined.
The Bounders and the Sassafrases had joined together and were coming his way.
Mother Sassafras, as if wanting to make up for being late, pushed her way ahead of her children excitedly. “I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time,” she bellowed, two huge pistols clutched in her chubby hands.
Billy dove just as he saw her raise the weapons. Gunfire danced across the floors and wall as he tried to escape. He reached into his pouch. The smoke bombs were still there.
He decided it was probably a good idea to get away from them before they destroyed the whole mall.
“There he is!” Bernie Bounder cried, jumping toward Billy as his monkey demon brothers followed.
“There I was,” Billy retorted, throwing the smoke bombs down as hard as he could.
The bombs exploded; huge, billowing clouds of gray smoke escaped from the capsules to mask his retreat.
He hated to run but thought it best for the mall.
He played with the buttons on his goggles again, changing the lenses so that he could see through the smoke. He could make out the shapes of the Sassafrases and the Bounders searching for him, but he was able to avoid them, stealthily tiptoeing past the monsters on his way to the exit.
“He’s in this smoke somewhere,” he heard Sireena growl.
“We
’ll wait for the smoke to clear and then we’ll find him,” one of the Bounders suggested.
“Stupid monkey, do you think we have all day?” Sireena screeched her displeasure. “Mother has a hairdresser appointment in less than an hour.”
“Then what do you suggest, troll woman?” another of the Bounders asked.
Billy reached the doors and stepped on the rubber mat that signaled them to swing open.
“I say we bring it down around his ears!” he heard Mother Sassafras cry out.
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Mother dear,” Sireena agreed.
Suddenly the air was filled with the sound of explosions, and Billy found himself flung backward by the multiple blasts. He landed on his butt in the parking lot, just in front of the doors.
“Did you stop them?” one of the citizens waiting in the lot wanted to know. “Did you save our mall?”
He didn’t have a chance to answer before the entire building began to tremble and shake, collapsing in upon itself and leaving only twisted rubble.
Billy picked himself up from the ground and turned toward those waiting in the lot. They were all standing perfectly still, eyes bulging in disbelief, mouths agape at what they had just witnessed.
“Whoops,” Billy said.
* * *
It was a sold-out crowd at Giganticus Stadium.
The Puking Corpses were playing, their first concert in over one hundred fifty years, and somebody wanted to ruin it for the legion of dedicated Puking fans.
Not if I can help it, Archebold thought as he brought the bright yellow four- wheeler—the OwlWheeler—to a screeching stop in front of the entrance to the stadium.
Crowds loitered around outside the doors, hopeful Pukers desperate for tickets to the sold-out show.
Archebold revved the engine for effect before climbing from his vehicle.
“Look, it’s Owlboy!” a woman with snakes for hair and wearing a Puking Corpses T-shirt cried. Before Archebold knew it, there was an eager crowd in front of him.
“Not Owlboy,” the goblin corrected them. “OwlLad . . . it’s different, you know.”
“Figures Owlboy can get tickets to the show,” complained a monster with too many teeth and a head like a grapefruit.
“It’s Owl . . . Lad,” Archebold stressed once more.
“I guess we’ll just have to save Monstros a coupla times and then we can get anything we want,” said another disgruntled Puking Corpses fan. “Oh, thank you soooooooooo much, Owlboy. You’re better than anybody else.”
“You misunderstand, good citizen,” Archebold attempted to explain. “First, it’s OwlLad, and I haven’t tickets to the show. I’m here to investigate a possible—”
Two fearsome monsters, all fangs and horns, wearing black T-shirts and Puking Corpses identification badges, emerged from the stadium, pushing the crowd aside.
Archebold was thinking that he was about to have a problem when one of the monsters spoke.
“The Corpses heard you were outside and would like you to join them onstage.”
The goblin’s smile was so wide it nearly split his face in two. He loved the Puking Corpses and had been a member of their fan club since their very first release, “Love till You Spew.”
“Me?” he said with a girlish giggle. “The Corpses would like me to go up onstage with them?”
“You are Owlboy, correct?” the other beasties asked, leaning down to look through the goggles into his eyes.
“OwlLad,” Archebold said, “but it’s pretty much the same thing.”
“Then come this way, sir,” the monster said as he and the other beastie cut a path through the lingering crowds to get him inside the building.
“Hey, you guys haven’t seen any villainy around here, have you?” Archebold asked as he was whisked down the snaking corridors and into a private elevator. “There was an alarm going off at my supersecret headquarters and—”
“No villainy,” the monster to his left barked.
“Only the Puking Corpses,” said the other, on Archebold’s right.
Archebold shrugged. “Hmmm, must’ve been a false alarm.”
Exiting the elevator, he allowed himself to be escorted down a winding corridor, the sounds of eager fans becoming louder and louder.
“Are we going in?” Archebold asked one of the black- garbed monsters.
“They want you onstage,” the monster answered, directing him toward a closed metal door with a sign that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
“They want me . . . onstage?” Archebold gulped.
And before he knew it, he was whisked through the doors and bombarded with a cacophony of sound as the Puking Corpses rocked out onstage and the sold-out-stadium crowd roared with approval.
The lead singer of the Corpses, Vile, was dancing around the stage wearing his trademark black leather jumpsuit, singing one of their all-time-greatest hits, “If You Don’t Love Me, Stab Me in the Eye.”
Archebold couldn’t believe his luck. He never would have imagined that he would be here, watching the real-live Vile performing with his favorite rock band.
As the lead guitarist, Rancid, began his earsplitting guitar solo, Vile looked backstage and saw Archebold standing there. The singer, his white face partially hidden by waves of long, stringy black hair, pointed to him with a skeletal finger.
Me? Archebold mouthed, turning around to be certain that nobody was standing behind him.
The rock star nodded his shaggy head enthusiastically, motioning for the goblin to come onto the stage to join them.
Archebold did.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special guest with us tonight!” Vile announced. The crowd went mental. Rancid continued to play his part of the classic song, while the drummer, Rot Rogers, wailed on the elaborate drum set with multiple sets of arms all moving in different directions.
Archebold was completely paralyzed.
“The protector of Monstros City, the one, the only . . . Owlboy!”
The band went nuts, the last beats of their hit song and the cheers of the crowd blending together to form one deafening sound.
Vile then handed Archebold a microphone.
“It’s OwlLad,” he corrected, and the sound of the crowd’s approval grew even louder.
“So, Owlboy,” Vile said, taking the microphone back. “What brings you to Giganticus Stadium . . . besides wanting to hear the sold-out Puking Corpses promote their greatest-hits collection, Feeding the Worms, which will be available in stores in two weeks?”
The crowd went mental again, and Archebold clapped, adding to the noise. He’d had no idea that the Corpses were putting out another greatest-hits collection this month.
Awesome!
The goblin took back the microphone from the lead singer.
“It’s Lad . . . OwlLad, and I’m actually here on superhero business,” the superhero’s sidekick said. The crowd was so worked up, Archebold figured he could say just about anything and get a wild response.
“And lima beans are awesome.”
He was right: wild cheers, screams and whistles for lima beans.
Vile reached down and took the microphone from him again.
“That’s so true, but before we sing another smash tune which will be available on our new greatest-hits record—hitting stores in two weeks—would you be willing to share with us what kind of superhero business it was that brought you to our sold-out concert tonight? Was it something totally cool?”
Vile held the microphone down so that Archebold could speak into it.
“Well, actually, I was responding to an alarm that a crime was being committed, but from what I can see, it must have been a false alarm.”
Vile brought the microphone back to his own mouth.
“The only crime I see being committed here is that the Puking Corpses are rocking Monstros City like it’s never been rocked before!”
The enthusiastic crowd whooped, shrieked and hollered again, and even Archebold found
himself stamping his feet and hooting (as a sidekick to Owlboy should rightly do when excited) as Vile returned to the band to begin another song.
At first Archebold thought there was something on the lenses of his goggles, some kind of greenish grease. As he prepared to rock out, he tried to use one of his gloved fingers to wipe away the stain but was surprised to see that the lenses were actually clean.
“What the . . . ?” he muttered to himself as he watched a greenish cloud slowly drift down from the domed ceiling of the stadium.
And then he smelled it.
It was bad, really bad. Worse than a pile of three-week-old garbage. Worse than a bowl of tumor stew long forgotten at the back of the fridge. Even worse than the dirty diaper of an infant Stygian Bile Demon.
And then the whole arena smelled it, and things really began to get ugly.
Vile’s face twisted up in disgust and he stopped singing. “What’s that smell?” he asked before he began to cough and gag.
The audience was reacting to the sickening stench as well. They had begun to stampede toward the exits, trying to escape the most awful smell Archebold had ever encountered—and that was saying quite a bit, given that he had spent time with Halifax after the troll had eaten three yak tongue sandwiches.
That had been the worst stink ever.
Until now.
The greenish cloud was growing, hanging above the auditorium like a storm of stink.
And within the foul-smelling mist, for just a moment, Archebold thought he could see a ghostly shape.
It was smiling.
“Thanks a lot, Owlboy,” Vile said between coughs as he and the Puking Corpses retreated from the stage. “Good job at protecting the greatest concert ever to rock the Giganticus Stadium in promotion of our new greatest-hits album hitting stores in two weeks.”
“It’s OwlLad,” Archebold corrected Vile, looking around to see that he was the only one left inside the stadium.
The supersonic skateboard, which Halifax liked to call the OwlSkate, zoomed up the driveway to the mansion of the mayor of Monstros City.
Halifax had originally designed the board for Billy’s use, never expecting to be using it himself. But here he was, on a mission to save the mayor’s home from harm.
The Flock of Fury Page 4
