Wicked Bindup

by Paul Jennings

  I suddenly stopped feeling sorry for myself. Okay, I was seeing things that weren’t there. But somehow it was different with Gramps. It was as if he was wearing out. Like an old car or a shoe.

  ‘What’s your disease called?’ I asked in a whisper.

  ‘I’ve forgotten,’ he said. ‘I keep forgetting things. Did I really put a drill in the freezer? I’ve never been that bad before.’

  I didn’t know whether or not to tell the truth. In the end I said, ‘Don’t worry about it. It was only an old drill. No one wanted it.’

  His eyes filled with tears and he just sat there. I must have said the wrong thing.

  Gramps put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Your mum thought I was still well enough to look after you,’ he said. ‘But soon you’ll be looking after me.’

  At that very moment the frogs started up their roaring croaks.

  I backed away from the windows. Splat, splot, splitter, splatter. The frogs started throwing themselves against the glass.

  ‘It’s raining cats and dogs,’ yelled Gramps.

  ‘No,’ I shrieked. ‘Frogs.’

  The sound grew louder and louder. Every window was under attack. The frogs were hurling themselves against the house like bullets from a machine gun. In broad daylight they were mounting a crazy attack. Limp, stunned bodies mounded up like green snow on the windowsills. The glass above shivered under the blows.

  But the windows were strong. And they held. Gramps sat down and shook his head. ‘I know this isn’t happening,’ he said.

  Suddenly everything fell silent.

  The frogs had fallen back across the lawn. Their first attack had failed and now they were planning something else. Those that weren’t dead.

  The frogs were getting into a line. It was a terrifying sight. Intelligent frogs. They looked like people queuing up at a bus stop. Except that the line was too long. It wound across the lawn and out of the gate. It stretched down the dusty road and into the forest. I could see it winding over the hill way in the distance on the other side of the trees. Thousands and thousands of little green frogs. Waiting their turn.

  What were they up to?

  What was their plan?

  What did they want?

  At the head of the line one large frog stood facing the others. Like a general reviewing his troops.

  What were they lining up for? Lunch?

  Yes.

  The frog at the front – the general – opened his mouth.

  And the first frog in the line jumped into it. The general gave a gulp and the poor little creature was gone. The frog general opened his mouth again and the next little victim jumped straight in. The general chewed a couple of times and swallowed. Then he croaked and stretched open his jaws. The next frog obeyed orders. In it went.

  One by one the queuing frogs jumped into the gaping mouth. The general munched and crunched. He burped and slurped. And the line shuffled forward. Each little leaper moving anxiously on, impatient to be eaten.

  Faster and faster the meal progressed. In they went. Hopping to their doom. Kamikaze frogs. At this rate they would be gone in no time.

  And with each swallow, I noticed something happening to the frog general. Something that made the hair stand up on the back of my head.

  He was already the size of a dog. Swelling with each swallow like a monstrous balloon. Soon the tiny frogs would not be enough to satisfy him.

  He turned his eyes greedily towards us and a loud croak belched out of his mouth.

  ‘Meat,’ I said. ‘He wants meat.’

  Gramps ran to the fridge and threw open the door He started to chuckle. ‘I ate the last sausage yesterday, he yelled. ‘There’s not a bit of meat in the house.’

  I stared at Gramps’ skinny legs.

  ‘Yes there is,’ I said …

  ONE

  My new house had never seemed less like home.

  Gramps and I stared out of the kitchen window. The plague of frogs was still there.

  The frog general ate his little soldiers one at a time. He chewed and chomped and sucked and swallowed. And with each mouthful he grew bigger.

  The line of frogs shuffled forward like troops waiting for the firing squad. They jumped into his gaping gob without complaint. Without protest. They were sacrificing themselves. But for what?

  The frog general was as big as a dog and still growing. The smaller frogs had failed in their attempt to get into the house. So now they were joining forces. Making one big frog. That could … could …

  Break down the door.

  This was crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. The frogs could have attacked me on the road. But they had gone right past. Jumped over my head. So who were they after?

  It could only be one person. Gramps.

  ‘We have to stop that frog,’ I said in a trembling voice.

  ‘Rory,’ said Gramps, ‘did you know I was a Rat?’

  Oh no. He was rambling again. Out of his mind. Now he thought he was a rat.

  ‘The Rats of Tobruk,’ he said proudly. ‘In the war. We held Rommel off for months. I was in the Tank Corps.’

  I tried not to get upset by Gramps’ nonsense. The frog general had grown to the size of a sheep. And the line of frogs was leaping faster and faster into his gaping mouth. They reminded me of bullets being loaded into the breech of a gun.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a tank right now,’ I said to Gramps. ‘We could blow the frog general away.’

  Gramps began to chuckle. ‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a tank. Out the back.’

  Oh, it made me sad. It really did. Poor old Gramps.

  I had been seeing a few things myself lately. But that was because the slobberers had licked my cut hand. The infection had spread right up my arm and onto my chest. Sometimes it made my head spin and sent me crazy. I saw things that weren’t there.

  But Gramps had some other problem. He was off the planet all the time. I never knew what he was going to do next. Not that it made any difference to how I felt. I really liked him. He was a great guy. He was Dawn’s gramps, not mine. But he and I were growing close. In the heat of battle. Comrades in arms.

  My thoughts turned to Dawn. She was really gutsy. Big, strong and bold. And dead? Oh, I hoped not. I would have given anything to see her walk through that door. I started to feel really mean for calling her Big Bad Dawn. After all, the step-family was just as bad for her as it was for me.

  ‘This’ll fix him,’ said Gramps.

  I looked up and saw Gramps holding a large sack of salt.

  ‘Frogs and snails and things don’t like salt.’ He started to laugh and chuckle like a madman. ‘We’ll lob it into his gob.’

  I peered out through the green-splattered windows. The general was still cannibalising the company of frogs. His webbed feet were as big as hubcaps. He certainly wouldn’t have any trouble smashing through a window.

  ‘Not a bad idea,’ I said slowly. ‘But how will we get the salt out there without them attacking us?’ The thought of the general’s slimy mouth made me shiver. We had to do something though. Sitting waiting for the general to invite himself to dinner wasn’t my idea of fun.

  Slam. The back door banged.

  ‘Gramps,’ I screamed. ‘Gramps. Don’t go out there.’

  I was too late.

  I rushed to the back door and threw it open. I couldn’t see any frogs because they were lining up in the front yard. And I couldn’t see Gramps. Where was he?

  ‘Come on, Rory,’ said a muffled voice. ‘Start her up. We’ll let him have it.’

  Where was Gramps? What was he up to?

  The voice was coming from the vegetable garden. The wheelbarrow. A large metal dustbin was sitting in the wheelbarrow. Suddenly the lid of the bin popped open and Gramps’ head poked out. He was wearing a pair of goggles and pointing towards the front yard. Oh, weird, weird, weird. Gramps thought the wheelbarrow was a tank. He was back in the Second World War. Attacking the enemy.

  ‘Oh, what the hell,’ I yelled to myself
. ‘We’ve got to do something.’ I raced into the garden and pushed Gramps’ head back inside the bin. ‘Stay there,’ I said. ‘Until I tell you.’

  ‘Charge,’ came Gramps’ excited voice from inside the bin.

  I grabbed the handles and started to push the bin around to the front yard. Gramps was heavy but there was a slight downhill slope. And the cement path made it fairly easy. Faster and faster. There. There they were. The tiny frogs were still leaping to their doom. The general frog was still gorging himself. I gasped. He was as big as a full-grown cow.

  The general took no notice of me. Neither did the line of frogs. They must have been too intent on what they were doing. Or hadn’t they seen me?

  I had no time to think as I headed down the path towards the general. The wheelbarrow started to wobble from side to side. I couldn’t keep it upright. ‘Tank traps,’ came Gramps’ muffled voice. ‘Keep going.’

  I was nearly there. I stared into the frog general’s huge, gaping mouth. I looked into his cruel eyes. They were as big as soccer balls. They swivelled and he fixed me with a wet glare. He started to roll his tongue back into his mouth. I knew without a doubt what he was going to do. He was going to slurp me up and slide me down his throat.

  ‘Now,’ I screamed. ‘Fire.’

  Gramps’ head popped out of the bin and the general forgot all about me. His rolled tongue was already coiled like a spring. Gramps’ shaking hands held the sack of salt in the air but it was too heavy for him. He began to sink down into the bin. Thwack. The frog general cracked out his tongue like a giant whip just as Gramps’ head disappeared into the bin.

  The general’s tongue plucked the sack from Gramps’ hands as if it was no more than a fly sitting on a leaf. In a flash it was gone. Swallowed.

  The wheelbarrow tipped over and we both fell sprawling onto the ground. ‘Land mine,’ he yelled. ‘A blasted landmine.’

  We stared up at the frog. For a moment the world seemed to stand still. Nothing moved. Then the general began to moan. His pimpled green skin started to stretch. His bloated body bulged and quivered.

  Bang. The frog general exploded like a monster balloon that had been pricked by a pin.

  Thousands of bits of green muck hurtled into the air. Then they began to fall. Green and brown goo dripped down over the lawn and the house. Shreds of dead frog covered my hair and windcheater. The gum trees seemed to bear rotting green fruit.

  ‘Yahoo,’ yelled Gramps. ‘We got him. The general’s croaked it.’ He did an excited little rain dance on the lawn.

  There were a few thousand frogs left still standing in line. They seemed paralysed by the loss of their leader. For a few seconds they just stood there. Like a queue at McDonald’s that’s just heard the hamburgers have run out.

  Gramps danced away in front of them. But he was celebrating too soon.

  I stared at the blasted bits of the frog general which covered the landscape. They began to writhe and squirm. They were growing little legs and eyes. The pieces of the general were turning into more frogs. Thousands of them.

  ‘Quick,’ I screamed. ‘Back to the house.’

  But I was too late. The frogs were already heading there themselves. Leaping and bounding like a swarm of lumpy locusts, they spread across the lawn and poured into the house.

  They ignored Gramps. They ignored me.

  So what were they after?

  Gramps and I waded through the door. The frogs were swarming into Mum and Jack’s room. They were into the clothes cupboard. They were all over Mum’s jeans and wedding dress.

  Then it hit me.

  The frogs were not after me. They were not after Gramps.

  They were after Eileen. My mum.

  TWO

  I was huddled in a rickety roadside fruit stall, about to die. Killer sheep with razor-sharp steel wool were thundering towards me on a bone-crushing tractor. To make things worse, I was hugging a step-mother I didn’t even like.

  I should have been praying.

  I should have been screaming for Dad.

  Instead I was having shameful thoughts.

  I remembered the earlier sheep attacks. With the fork. And the rake. And the wrecker’s ball. All aimed at my step-mother.

  It’s Eileen they’re after, I told myself, not me. I could run for it. I could sprint down the road and they wouldn’t even see me go. They’d be too busy stabbing Eileen and ploughing her into the ground.

  I peeped through a crack to see if I had enough time to get out. Yes. The tractor was several seconds away. If I flung open the door and ran, I could make it.

  Now.

  Do it now.

  I didn’t move.

  Instead I stared at Mum’s shoe, lying where I’d dropped it on the dusty road in front of the advancing tractor.

  I couldn’t leave Eileen. She might be a pain. She might have stolen Dad from me. But she was Rory’s mum.

  Then an amazing thing happened.

  The sheep saw the shoe. Their eyes widened. Their stiff steel wool, gleaming in the morning sun, seemed to bristle.

  Just before the tractor ran over the shoe, one of the sheep pushed at the steering wheel with its front legs and the tractor swerved.

  It thundered past the fruit stall. The walls shook. Eileen swore. We were showered with dust and old price tickets.

  I kicked open the door and peered out, just in time to see the tractor veer across the road and hit a large rock.

  All four sheep flew through the air. Three of them crashed down into the undergrowth. They scrambled to their feet, leaves and twigs impaled on their wool, and glared at me. Chest thumping, I waited for them to charge. But they didn’t. They glared a bit more, then turned and ran off down the road.

  I looked around anxiously for the fourth sheep. At first I couldn’t see it. Then I heard grunting and looked up.

  The sheep was halfway up a large tree, the steel wool on its back embedded in the trunk, its legs sticking out in surprise. It started to kick and snort. After a while it tore itself free and fell to the ground.

  From that height it should have been history. It wasn’t. It stood up, gave me an evil look and came towards me.

  My insides went rigid with terror.

  Then I had an idea. I picked up Mum’s shoe and pointed it at the sheep.

  The sheep stopped. It took a step backwards. For a few seconds it seemed to be frozen. Then it turned and ran off down the road, a large scab of bark still stuck to its back.

  I hugged Mum’s shoe, weak with relief.

  But I was puzzled. Why had the sheep swerved? Why had they all run off? Was it just that they didn’t like dead people’s footwear? Or did Mum’s shoe have some sort of special power?

  My thoughts were interrupted by Eileen staggering out of the fruit stall. She had a price ticket in her hair – 2.99 a kilo. She looked shocked and dazed and her sling was crooked and I felt pretty bad that I’d thought of nicking off and leaving her.

  Sometimes you had to take responsibility for people even though it was your dad who’d invited them into your life.

  ‘The sheep have gone,’ I said. ‘For now.’

  Eileen nodded slowly, her eyes darting around. She seemed to be having trouble taking stuff in, even really short sentences.

  I went over to the tractor. It had flipped over and was sitting in a puddle of diesel, wheels still spinning. I’d thought perhaps we could ride it back to town, but the engine looked pretty crumpled.

  Then I heard a faint sound.

  Soft and high-pitched.

  Baa.

  I tensed and gripped Mum’s shoe.

  Baa.

  I looked around frantically. Was there a fifth sheep with a dodgy voice, about to drop out of a tree?

  Then I saw it. Huddled near the tractor. A tiny lamb, about three days old. It had something wrong with its leg and looked like it was in pain.

  Normally I’d have picked it up. I’d nursed quite a few injured lambs in my time. Dad reckoned I had the touch.
/>   But when those sheep on the wrecker’s ball had turned to steel, part of me had too.

  ‘Go on,’ I said to the lamb. ‘Shoo.’

  The lamb didn’t move. Eileen came over. ‘Poor little thing,’ she said. The lamb baaed pitifully and looked up at her with big eyes.

  Eileen picked it up.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said, wondering if I was turning into one of those people who couldn’t feel sympathetic even in sad movies.

  ‘You poor love,’ said Eileen to the lamb. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I saw instantly what was wrong. As Eileen cradled the lamb, its soft fluffy white wool was turning hard and grey and steely.

  ‘Eileen,’ I yelled. ‘Let go.’

  I swung Mum’s shoe and knocked the lamb out of Eileen’s arms. It landed on four strong and perfectly healthy legs. The needle-sharp coils of its steel wool glinted.

  ‘You little scumbag,’ I hissed. Before I could point Mum’s shoe at it, the lamb sniggered and ran off down the road in the same direction as the others.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked Eileen anxiously.

  She was dabbing at her neck. She looked at her fingers. There was blood on them.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘It’s just a scratch.’ She wiped the blood off.

  I waited for my own blood to stop pounding in my ears.

  ‘Come on,’ said Eileen, heading off down the road. ‘I want to get home and find out what’s happened to Jack and Rory.’

  I hurried after her. How could she be so calm? I’d already explained to her that Rory was probably dead. And the fear slicing through me was that Dad was too.

  Suddenly I felt sick with grief.

  I squeezed my neck muscles and decided that Eileen was right. No sense in panicking till we knew for sure.

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘They’re probably fine.’ My neck knew I was lying and cramped up. I had a sudden urge for a curried-egg sandwich to make it feel better.

  I made myself think about other things.

  ‘Eileen,’ I said, catching her up, ‘the sheep are after you, so you should carry this.’ I pushed the shoe into her hand. ‘It was Mum’s. She was wearing it when she died.’