In the Lair of the Mountain Beast

by James Moloney

  Dedication

  FOR YEAR SIX,

  CAMP HILL STATE SCHOOL, 2006

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Dedication

  ONE Buried Pipes, Buried Hopes

  TWO Reporting to a Ghost

  THREE A New Plan

  FOUR Beyond the City

  FIVE A Poor and Hopeless Herd

  SIX You’re Only Children, After All

  SEVEN A Nursery Rhyme From Long Ago

  EIGHT The Road

  NINE Beware the Mountain Beast

  TEN Paradise

  ELEVEN Noises

  TWELVE Plug the Hole

  THIRTEEN A Dead Landscape

  FOURTEEN Crazy Brave

  FIFTEEN Food for a Monster

  SIXTEEN Dorian’s Choice

  Excerpt from The Doomsday Rats: Book Five

  Excerpt from The Doomsday Rats: Book One

  Excerpt from The Doomsday Rats: Book Two

  Excerpt from The Doomsday Rats: Book Three

  About the Author

  Others Books by James Moloney

  Copyright

  ONE

  Buried Pipes, Buried Hopes

  BERRIN LAY DEATHLY STILL in the overgrown grass with his nose pressed up against an old wooden fence. Through a gap between the weathered palings he watched six men working in the distance, each with a pick or a shovel in his hand, and a seventh pushing a wheelbarrow to and fro.

  These weren’t the only figures he could see. Forcing the men to dig in the hot sun were three Gadges, vicious creatures twice the size of the workers they guarded, with a human’s crafty brain but the fur and the tail and especially the jaws of a wolf. Berrin had been careful to hide downwind of the digging party. If the Gadges caught his scent, they would tear him to pieces.

  Berrin would soon be eleven years old, although he knew nothing of birthdays. His body was mostly bone and sinew, though that wasn’t to say that he was weak. What muscle had managed to grow on his skinny frame helped him scramble around where he needed to go.

  Like all the warrior children who called themselves the Doomsday Rats, he was agile, strong and skilful with a sword. His skin was unnaturally pale because the Rats lived underground; they had to, if they wanted to stay alive. Down in the storm-water tunnels Berrin’s skin was grimy with ground-in dirt and mud, but to rid himself of the telltale odour he had scrubbed it clean before venturing to the surface on this mission.

  Beside him lay Olanda. She had done only a half-hearted job of cleaning herself. ‘I like being dirty,’ she’d complained to Berrin before they left the safety of the tunnels below ground.

  Olanda was the same age as Berrin and the same skinny shape that allowed her to crawl through the narrowest of pipes where the Gadges could not follow. On the rare occasions when her hair was clean, it shone as black as the night sky. Beneath her untidy fringe a pair of almond-shaped eyes stared belligerently at the world.

  ‘Keep still or you’ll get us both killed,’ Berrin hissed when Olanda fidgeted restlessly beside him. She tried her best but Berrin knew it was only a matter of time before he’d need to remind her again.

  ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Digging a trench.’

  ‘I can see that,’ snapped Olanda. ‘But why?’

  ‘To bury the pipe.’

  Olanda’s eyes followed the long black pipe that snaked along the edge of the road where the men were digging. ‘Does that pipe carry the flowers’ scent from the glasshouses to the other buildings?’

  ‘Yes, the same pipe we cut a few weeks ago. The Gadges fixed it and now they’re putting it underground to protect it.’

  ‘What’s that stuff in the wheelbarrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Concrete. The men are pouring it into the trench on top of the pipe.’

  ‘We’ll never be able to cut the pipes if they’re buried in the ground and surrounded by concrete.’

  Berrin sighed because Olanda had put his own thoughts into words. ‘That’s exactly what Malig Tumora has in mind,’ he told her, using the name of their hated enemy. A shudder passed through his body whenever he uttered those fearful words. He had good cause to be afraid because, unlike most of the Rats, he had met Malig Tumora face to face and caught a glimpse of the evil that lay within.

  Olanda lifted a crossbow into place in front of her, slotting the tip of an arrow between the fence palings.

  ‘No, put that thing away,’ Berrin said.

  ‘I could kill the first one before they knew what was happening.’

  Berrin was sure she could. Except for a boy named Quinn, Olanda was the best shot with a crossbow he had ever seen. ‘Can’t you see they have guns? The other two would riddle us with bullets before you got in a second shot.’

  Olanda sniffed but she took the bolt out of the crossbow and set it down beside her in the grass.

  ‘Dorian sent us up here to see what the Gadges are up to,’ Berrin reminded her. ‘You can go Gadge-hunting another time.’

  Gadge-hunting. Olanda liked the sound of that, even though there had never been a more dangerous sport in the history of humankind. She smiled to herself, hoping the chance for such fun would come soon.

  ‘We’ve seen enough,’ said Berrin. ‘Let’s take a look at the glasshouses.’

  This was the second part of their mission, but they soon found the task impossible. They could see the massive glasshouses towering above other buildings from hundreds of metres away, but this was as close as they dared go.

  ‘The Gadges are everywhere,’ Olanda complained in the faintest whisper.

  Watching from the shadows, and staying well out of sight, they counted three separate patrols guarding the roads that led to the glasshouses.

  ‘Malig Tumora knows those precious flowers must be protected. Without them, there won’t be any of the gas that keeps the grown-ups under control. If we could only destroy the glasshouses, the grown-ups would rebel, all of them at once, too many for the Gadges to fight.’

  ‘No chance of that if we can’t get near the glasshouses,’ Olanda pointed out in a dejected tone.

  ‘You’re right.’ Berrin had to agree, his own voice sounding equally hopeless. ‘Come on, it’s time we reported all this to Dorian.’

  ‘Wait! What’s that noise?’ Olanda said as they were about to move off.

  Berrin had heard it too, a deep rumbling sound, part roar, part growl, but trumpeted as though the noise was filtered through a hollow tree trunk. Berrin stopped to listen more closely and a sense of foreboding pricked his skin. ‘I’ve heard something like that before. It’s one of Malig Tumora’s experiments on the loose.’

  Olanda waved her hand impatiently to stop him speaking. ‘There’s something else.’

  Berrin turned his head to give his ear the best chance of picking out the new sound. Then he heard it and his legs were moving before his brain had given the command.

  Olanda was quickly on his heels. ‘It’s a human voice,’ she gasped between urgent strides. ‘Do you think it’s one of us — a Rat?’

  Every word threatened to slow him up but Berrin managed the two he needed. ‘It’s Quinn.’

  They raced together around one corner, then a second, and there he was, their friend Quinn, trapped in the doorway of a building by a creature that would make any human heart turn to ice.

  Huge and hideous, four metres high at the shoulder, the beast was a mixture of animals, like so many of Malig Tumora’s experiments. This one was grey-skinned with stripes of black, orange and white fur along its sides.

  ‘It’s a tiger-elephant. I saw them in Malig Tumora’s menagerie,’ gasped Berrin.

  Instead of a nose or a snout, the tiger-elephan
t had a short trunk that lashed dangerously in front of Quinn’s face, forcing him back against the door. The deep growling in the creature’s throat escaped partly through that trunk but also from a mouth studded with cruel teeth. A pair of tusks stuck out from either side of the trunk. As Berrin and Olanda watched in horror, one of those deadly tusks drove towards Quinn’s heart.

  TWO

  Reporting to a Ghost

  IN THE TIME IT TOOK BERRIN to step three uncertain paces forward, Olanda had fitted a bolt to her crossbow.

  ‘Get down, Berrin,’ she shouted.

  He was facing away from her but there was something about the cold determination in her call that made him drop like a stone. A whooshing sound above his head meant a bolt was on its way. With a deadly thwack, it sliced through the multicoloured fur and thick hide beneath.

  The tiger-elephant bellowed in pain and outrage, but stopped its vicious lunge towards Quinn. The beast turned to see who had attacked it. Two human children were approaching warily, one with a crossbow raised and ready. Instantly, the tiger-elephant grabbed Quinn in its short trunk and started off down the street, away from its attackers.

  Brave though he was, Quinn screamed at the top of his lungs. ‘Help me, help me!’

  The creature jerked its trunk and Quinn roared in agony. Olanda fired another bolt but the only part of the beast she could see was its enormous buttocks which were well padded with fat.

  ‘I can’t make it stop, Berrin,’ she called.

  Berrin had already seen as much. It was up to him then. Though he didn’t have a clue where the idea came from, he already had a plan. He drew the razor-sharp sword from over his shoulder and raced after the escaping creature. If it were a real tiger, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But this animal was as much elephant as stealthy cat, making it a more cumbersome beast.

  Charging faster than he’d ever thought he could, Berrin reached those massive hind legs. Either one of them could crush him easily with its weight. But if his plan was to work, he must risk getting as close as he could.

  Here goes, he thought, and, raising his sword, he slashed at the nearest leg — not at the fleshy muscle, but at the tendons behind the knee. His blade sliced clean through. Blood gushed onto the fur and, most important of all, the tiger-elephant immediately began to limp badly. Before it could turn on him, Berrin slashed the tendons of the other leg. Now the beast stopped altogether, as though paralysed at the hips.

  Poor Quinn still struggled weakly in that grotesque trunk, but his captor was too distressed to pay him any attention. It turned its head to face these tiny tormentors. Whatever its terrified eye took in was the last thing the beast saw. Olanda had followed Berrin and, finding the tiger-elephant stationary, she shot a bolt into the soft flesh just behind its ear. The monster swayed for a moment, then collapsed, already dead before it hit the hard bitumen of the street.

  Berrin rushed to free Quinn from its lifeless trunk. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so. Ow, careful of my arm.’

  Berrin took a closer look and knew instantly it was broken. Carefully he and Olanda helped Quinn back along the street and down a narrow alley until they reached a circular disk of metal. Moments later, all three were through the access hole and into the tunnels below, safe once more in their own world.

  Waiting for them were a pair of Dodgems, the tiny battery-powered cars they used to get around underground. They travelled slowly so that Quinn suffered as little pain as possible. An hour later, they arrived back at base. Berrin and Olanda were helping Quinn out of his seat when a girl hurried up to lend a hand.

  ‘Careful, Dorian,’ Berrin said. ‘Quinn’s broken his arm.’

  Dorian, the leader of the rats, was a little bigger than the others. Her extra strength came in handy when Quinn almost fainted.

  ‘Enders is the best with broken bones. Somebody get Enders,’ she shouted along the tunnel. When a boy appeared in the light of their helmet lamps shortly after, she passed the injured Rat into his care. ‘Olanda, you help Enders get Quinn into his hammock. Berrin, you come with me. Ferdinand wants to see you right away.’

  At first Berrin stayed on his feet as he followed Dorian along one of the largest-sized pipes in the system. But soon they were on hands and knees as they took a smaller branch through many junctions. Finally they reached a dangerous broken pipe, which was so narrow that even the thinnest of the Rats lost skin against the concrete as they squeezed through.

  ‘Help me, would you, Berrin,’ Dorian said.

  Her shoulders and torso had cleared the narrow gap but her hips were stuck. Doing his best to preserve Dorian’s dignity, Berrin pushed her stiffened legs ahead of him until, with a grunt and a cry of pain, she was through. Ahead, they could make out a dull light that grew stronger as they approached.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dorian,’ said a deep voice. ‘And Berrin too. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  Once he’d crawled out of the smaller pipe, Berrin could stand up again. He brushed the dirt from his hands and knees while his eyes rested on the figure who greeted them. This was Ferdinand, whose pale skin made him look rather like a ghost.

  But Ferdinand was no spirit. He was a fully grown young man who, years ago, when he was Berrin’s age, had been the first to hide from Malig Tumora in these tunnels. He had gathered other children who’d escaped from their cruel dormitories and formed them into a fighting force, the Rats, until an earthquake had trapped him in this small section of the underground pipes. Berrin always received a special welcome whenever he visited Ferdinand, for they were uncle and nephew.

  Dorian walked the short distance to the end of Ferdinand’s prison. The other two joined her, sitting stiffly on the cushions that he used as his bed.

  ‘Tell me what you saw on the surface, Berrin,’ Ferdinand said. ‘What is the new Malig Tumora up to?’

  ‘He’s ordered the Gadges to protect the glasshouses. It’s impossible to get anywhere near them, patrols everywhere.’

  ‘Did you see the observation ball that watched over you in the menagerie?’

  Berrin nodded, and shuddered at the memory this question conjured up. He had spent weeks in a blood-chilling prison under the watchful eye of a steel ball half a metre in diameter. It was the eyes and ears of an enormous computer that had been made to think like its creator, Malig Tumora.

  The computer had performed this task so perfectly that it had taken control of the city, overpowering the very man who had created it. The human being known as Malig Tumora was dead, but his evil plans were carried on by an even more ruthless machine, which carried the same name.

  Ferdinand scratched the thin hair growing on his chin. ‘I guessed this would happen. What about the pipes that carry the scent of the purple flowers around the city?’ he asked. ‘Could you cut them like you did once before?’

  Berrin shook his head. ‘The pipes are being buried underground, with concrete poured on top of them.’

  ‘Our task will be twice as difficult then,’ sighed Ferdinand. ‘We’ll need a special kind of weapon to destroy the glasshouses — something that can be fired from hundreds of metres away.’

  ‘A rocket, you mean,’ exclaimed Dorian. ‘Yes, rockets would be perfect. We could aim them at the glasshouses and, when they explode, the glass would be shattered into a million pieces.’

  ‘Great plan, Dorian,’ said Ferdinand, ‘but we have no rockets and no way of stealing them.’

  ‘Could we make some?’ she asked, reluctant to give up her enthusiasm just yet.

  ‘We’d need explosives, and even if we got hold of some, we’d be more likely to blow ourselves up than do any damage to the glasshouses.’

  The suggestion died as abruptly as it had appeared and Dorian slumped against the cold wall, dejected. Yet listening to Dorian and Ferdinand had sparked an idea in Berrin’s mind. He started listing his thoughts out loud.

  ‘We need a weapon that can be released from a long way off. Something that can fly through the air and still do
the damage we need.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve already explained — explosives are too dangerous.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of explosions.’

  The other two exchanged a bewildered glance.

  ‘Then how are you going to smash all that glass?’ asked Dorian.

  Berrin scrambled to his feet and began to pace the length of Ferdinand’s prison. This was a wild and crazy idea and only he knew what could make it work. Did he dare suggest what was in his mind? All their other plans had been thwarted. Yes, it was crazy, but it might well be their only chance.

  ‘Before the human Malig Tumora was taken away by his own machine, he begged me to help him,’ Berrin said. ‘He was desperate — ready to trade anything, even his greatest secret, if it would save his life.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Ferdinand. ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He said there was a moth living on a mountain.’ Berrin stopped pacing and closed his eyes in concentration. ‘What was its name? Yes, I remember now: Mount Windenbeck.’

  ‘A moth,’ said Dorian, more confused than ever. ‘How can moths destroy a glasshouse?’

  Berrin opened his eyes. ‘Don’t you see? It’s not the glasshouses we have to destroy; it’s the flowers inside them. The moth I’m talking about feeds on the purple flowers.’

  THREE

  A New Plan

  ‘YOU’VE GOT IT WRONG, BERRIN.’

  Ferdinand spoke with absolute conviction and Berrin had never known him to be wrong. The excitement flowed out of him like air whooshing from a balloon.

  ‘Malig Tumora sounded so sure. I really believed him, that there is such a moth and it still lives on Mount Windenbeck.’

  ‘That’s not what you have wrong, Berrin. It’s what you said about moths. Moths don’t eat anything at all. They mate with one another, then the females lay eggs and after that they die.’

  ‘But they must eat something!’

  Ferdinand shook his head but the teasing smirk on his lips warned Berrin that he was keeping something back.

  ‘What is it?’ Berrin demanded. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’