The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  Blackburn took another step forward and toward the road. “Ow!” He hopped up and grimaced. “My bad. Didn’t see that rock.” Annika threw him a dirty look. He took another step.

  Pip! Pip! Pip! He stepped on some Bubble Wrap.

  Pwwfft! He stepped on a whoopee cushion.

  La de da! He stepped on an accordion.

  Annika glared at Blackburn as he scrambled back up the tree, but not before stepping on a bike horn. Hoot! Annika shook her head in dismay. Miraculously no penguins seemed to have noticed.

  “At least I avoided those alarm clocks,” said Blackburn, pointing to a group of clocks lying in a small hole next to the road.

  Annika jabbed her thumb down the tree line. “Look!”

  Blackburn had climbed back up the tree just in time. Another band of penguins was coming up the dirt road, pulling a large wagon. Annika could smell seafood—the entire back of the wagon was filled with silver glistening fish, several feet deep. Some even still wiggled. She covered her nose with her arm to keep the horrible stink away.

  Annika nudged Blackburn, pointing two fingers at the wagon, then three fingers up, then making a circle with her thumb, and then wiggling her fingers.

  “Yer not suggesting we jump into that wagon, hide under all that fish in the back of that cart, are ye?” Annika nodded, grateful that Blackburn could interpret her bandit gestures better than Bolt could. Blackburn didn’t look happy with the plan, but nodded anyway.

  The wagon would come directly underneath them when the penguins passed. They could drop right into the cart. Yes, it would be smelly and slimy. Yes, they would both need long showers afterward. But sometimes smelly and slimy and shampoo were the best options.

  They needed the cart to stop or slow down for a moment, so they could land in the fish without mistiming their drop. In the Brugarian forest, a bandit could topple a tree onto the road to slow down a carriage, allowing bandits to climb inside and rob it. That’s how Annika had first met Bolt. But she didn’t think she could cut down a tree quickly enough for that plan to work now. She hadn’t thought to bring an ax or a saw anyway.

  The cart drew closer, and Blackburn sneezed. Annika cringed, but the cart was loudly creaking as it rolled, and no one else heard him. Still, Annika glowered at him.

  “Sorry.” Blackburn shrugged. “Allergies.”

  The cart was nearly underneath them now, and Annika needed to figure out a way to stall it. Carefully, she plucked an acorn off the branch next to her. It wasn’t much, but she didn’t have many options. She flicked the acorn at one of the penguins marching in front of the wagon and held her breath.

  Doink. The acorn bounced off the penguin’s beak.

  Unfortunately, penguins have hard beaks. The penguin didn’t even flinch as the acorn bounced off. Annika silently cursed herself. She watched as the acorn popped up into the air. It landed on one of the bird’s flippers and then spun, flipped up, bounced twice, and then rolled to a stop in a hole along the road, smacking against one of the alarm clocks Blackburn had noticed earlier.

  Brriiiinnnnngg!

  The sound jolted Annika as much as it did the penguins. As the birds halted, surprised by the jarring noise, Annika moved fast. She pushed Blackburn off the branch and then released her own grip and dropped down.

  Splunge! Fwssst!

  They both landed in the cart, amid the soft, squishy bodies of dead fish.

  Annika held her breath, partly because she wasn’t sure if someone had spotted them and partly because she was lying inside a giant bed of smelly fish. She didn’t relax until the carriage began to move again.

  Being buried in a giant pile of fish is not a particularly fun way to travel, but at least it cushioned the hard wooden floor of the wagon, which bumped and creaked on the uneven path. Annika didn’t dare move in case a penguin saw her, which was frustrating since she had a fish in her earhole that she desperately wanted to dislodge. Somehow, despite the rocking of the carriage and the countless bumps, the fish remained stubbornly in place.

  The cart stopped for a moment, but soon began moving again. They must be through the main gate and on the other side of the fence by now! Fortunately, the stop and start of the carriage jiggled the cart, and the fish in her ear fell out. Unfortunately, another fish somehow wedged itself into one of her nostrils, and that was even worse. She really wanted to sneeze it out, but that would only blow their cover.

  The cart stopped once again, and Annika heard rusty creaking, like old chains lowering a garage door, followed by a thump. Soon, there was the sound of their penguin entourage waddling away, and a door banging shut in the distance. Then, silence.

  “Borscht,” mumbled Blackburn. “Can I move now? I’ve had a fish stuck in both my nose and my ear since we fell in here.”

  “Sure. I think we’re alone.” Annika and Blackburn sat up, removing various wedged-in fish.

  They were inside a large storage warehouse with a slanted wooden ceiling and sheet metal sides. There were no lights, but there was plenty of sunlight streaming in from cracks and seams in the walls. Four or five carts, just like the one they now sat inside, were fixed along a wall, each one filled to the brim with fish. The stink in this room was so thick Annika’s eyes watered. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve never smelled anything so horrible in my life.”

  “Ye’ve obviously never been on a ship with two hundred unwashed pirates before.”

  Annika jumped down from the cart, wet and disgusted by the coating of raw fish slime covering every inch of her. Blackburn was in a similar state. Next to the warehouse’s delivery door from which they must have entered was a smaller door. As they walked toward it, Annika—normally sure-footed—slipped on some rogue fish. She regained her balance and grabbed Blackburn’s elbow when he almost teetered over himself. But they soon reached the door, and she grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

  “It’s stuck.” Annika jiggled the knob and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me try,” said Blackburn. Annika moved out of the way, and the pirate grabbed the knob, straining to twist it, grunting from the exertion. “Ugh! Omm! Errr!”

  “Shh,” urged Annika.

  Still struggling, Blackburn moved his feet back to gain more leverage, and stepped on a toy fire truck. It let out a loud siren squeak. Weeeeeooow!

  “Quiet,” Annika whispered urgently.

  Blackburn continued to push. He stepped back and into a cardboard box filled with glass plates. Crack! Crsnk! Glzzzz!

  As Blackburn continued to struggle, the door groaned, rusty metal practically screaming in agony. Annika buried her face in her hands.

  Finally, the door opened wide, and Blackburn fell forward, landing on a pile of cowbells.

  Ring-a-ling-a-ling!

  Annika and Blackburn were on the lawn of the PEWD complex, across from the main domed concrete building. They spotted no one. Maybe luck was on their side. Skipping forward, they crouched behind some bushes. Annika pointed to a snare drum and a tuba nearby. Black-burn stepped gingerly out of the way to avoid them, and backed up onto a cotton ball.

  Thft.

  Spotlights beamed onto the lawn, shining from giant lights positioned at the top of every building in the compound. Three dozen toothbrush-wielding penguins rushed toward them, seemingly from out of nowhere.

  “Really? They heard that?” moaned Annika.

  The penguins surrounded them, snarling, clomping their beaks together and waving their toothbrushes in the air. But Annika was not the sort to go quietly into the night, which is quite different from sneaking quietly into the night, which was something she could do well, unlike Blackburn. She unsheathed her knife. Blackburn withdrew his swordfish.

  Annika waited for the penguins to attack, but they didn’t. Annika continued to wait. And wait. She was growing a little impatient. And then a few penguins parted, and a tall, statuesque woman strod
e into their circle. She wore a white dentist’s coat, plain except for a fluffy cheetah-fur collar. The woman was pale, almost as white as her coat, which contrasted sharply with her charcoal-black hair. She was attractive despite her long beak-like nose and bushy eyebrows. “Vat is this? Voo are you? Vy am I saying vords with a V instead of a W?”

  “Because you have a Germanic accent?” Annika guessed.

  The woman shook her head. “Nope. It’s just fun to speak that way. I mean vay. Anyvay, I am Dr. Valzanarz.”

  “Gesundheit,” said Annika. “But do you mean Walzanarz?”

  “Of course. Now I’ll ask again, voo are you?”

  Annika blinked. “What?”

  “Voo? Voo?” the dentist demanded.

  “Do you mean who? With a W?” Dr. Walzanarz nodded. Annika held out her knife. “All you need to know is that we’re here to steal a silver tooth. Give it to us and we won’t hurt you.”

  Next to her, Blackburn made a Z with his swordfish.

  Dr. Walzanarz looked unimpressed. She glanced behind her, where the penguins continued to snarl and wave their toothbrushes. Dr. Walzanarz stared back at Annika and Blackburn. “You won’t hurt me? I have fifty penguins carrying dangerous toothbrushes. There are only two of you. Am I missing something?”

  Annika scowled. “Toothbrush-carrying penguins are no match for the greatest bandit who ever lived—or at least I will be someday—and a fearsome pirate! We’ll never surrender! Right, Blackburn?”

  Blackburn dropped his swordfish and raised his arms up. “Actually, I’d rather surrender, if that’s all right with you, missy.”

  The woman smiled, displaying perfect—and perfectly golden—teeth. Annika had to shield her eyes from the glare. “I’ve noticed you don’t have bushy eyebrows nor long, thin noses, so neither of you are the guest I vas expecting.” She turned to the penguins: “Throw them in the vaiting room. I’ll deal vith them later.”

  No one moved. The penguins remained snarling in a circle. Dr. Walzanarz turned to them, her face blooming red. “Don’t just stand there! I said I vant them in the vaiting room!”

  The penguins still didn’t move. Finally, one of the penguins barked. The dentist groaned. “Fine. I want you to throw them in the waiting room. With a W. Want and waiting, not vant and vaiting. Are you satisfied now?” She frowned. “And it’s so fun to speak in pretend accents, too.”

  18.

  Dinnertime. Or Is It Breakfast?

  Bolt changed back into his clothes and then followed Grom, Zemya, and Topo through the dark mole tunnels. Grom kept shooting Bolt furtive, hostile glances. He had agreed to keep his promise and help steal the tooth, but didn’t appear to be all that happy about it. In fact, his exact words were: “I’ll help you, but I’m very unhappy about it.”

  After a while, they climbed out of the hole and emerged onto a quiet stretch of beach along the lapping sea, the moon and stars overhead. Bolt was glad for the fresh air against his face, to smell the salt water, and to feel the fish in his pores. He stretched his arms. Penguins were meant to be outside, near water, near seafood.

  A few scattered ship parts littered the sand. The full moon above was so bright and large that it bathed the island in light. At midnight, Bolt would turn into a penguin and his new friends would turn into moles. Only Grom would remain human.

  The boy sidled up to Bolt. “You can still bite me tonight.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Have I told you I don’t like you?”

  “Not in the last few minutes,” Bolt mumbled to himself.

  The thick Pingvingrad air swirled around them, the dense hate hammering Bolt’s ears and blowing into his mouth. He burped.

  Bolt closed his eyes and concentrated on clearing the wispy fog, like he had on the pirate ship. He couldn’t repel all the hate mist—it seemed to go on forever—but he thinned it enough so that it no longer made him want to belch.

  “We have many tunnels into the fortress,” said Zemya. “But most lead into the gardens. We will need to dig a fresh hole into the main building so you will not trip their alarm system. The beach is a good place to start digging.”

  “Thank you. But sorry for all the extra work.”

  “We love to dig,” Zemya said with a shrug. “A regular mole can dig up to eighteen feet in an hour, and we’re very large moles. Still, it will be a long tunnel. It will take all night.”

  Topo snipped his rubber scissors a couple of times and then handed them to Bolt. “Sorry for threatening you earlier, my new mole brother. While I dig, can you hold on to these for me?” Bolt held the scissors up, and they flopped over. “They can’t actually cut anything,” admitted Topo. Bolt slipped them into his pocket.

  As Topo and Zemya huddled to discuss their digging strategy, Bolt thought about Annika and Blackburn. If the tunnel took all night, could he run back to the cove and look for them?

  No. His blood was churning. It was almost midnight. There was no time.

  Besides, he and Grom would run through the tunnel in the morning, grab that tooth, and rush back. It would be fast, easy. Bolt would see his friends after. He would proudly show them the stolen tooth. Wouldn’t they be surprised! Even Annika—Bolt knew she had her doubts about his ability to fight and succeed in his quests—would be impressed. Then they would go off to find the Stranger.

  As Topo and Zemya spoke together, Grom stood off to the side, his hands buried inside his pockets. Bolt hadn’t thought about it before, but it must be lonely for Grom being the only one who didn’t dig tunnels, or eat worms, or turn into a were-creature at midnight.

  Bolt knew what it was like to be lonely and to feel different. He felt that way himself, first as an orphan and now as a werepenguin. But maybe things would be better if Bolt decided to bite Grom. They could become werepenguin friends. They could fish together. Fight together. Rule! Conquer! All hail Bolt’s penguin army!

  Bolt shivered. What was he thinking? He didn’t want his own penguin army. And he certainly couldn’t curse another person into becoming a were-creature. There must be some hate mist lingering in his nostrils, making Bolt think evil thoughts. Yes, that was it. Just evil hate mist.

  Bolt’s blood began to splash inside him now; blood splashing was never a good sort of feeling. There were no clock chimes here, no ringing bells, but Bolt knew it was midnight. How could he not: the spine tingling, the foot prickling, the elbow buzzing—always the elbow buzzing before his arms vanished and sprouted into wings.

  Meanwhile, Zemya and Topo were undergoing their own transmutations. Their abnormally large fingers and fingernails became claws, as did their toenails. Their cheeks grew as their faces became rounder. They had removed their goggles, and their eyes now glowed blue. Fur crept up their bodies. Their clothes fell away, untorn. Apparently, that was why they all wore loose-fitting robes. I will need to get one of those, thought Bolt as his pants ripped down the seams.

  With a loud snort, Zemya, now a giant mole, dove into the sand to dig. Topo joined her. Their paws plunged into the soil, moving as fast as a penguin’s wings in water. Sand flew into the air, and Bolt stepped back to avoid it being flung into his penguin face.

  Grom eyed Bolt, but his expression was unreadable. Envy? Anger?

  It didn’t matter to Bolt. Only one thing did.

  Dinner.

  While the were-moles dug, and Grom stood off to the side sulking, Bolt waddled away, toward the sea.

  Come to me, come to me, the sea seemed to say, and Bolt swatted at his ears. He was sick of hearing voices in his head, although this one was sweet and harmonic.

  Soon, Bolt swam under the waves. As he went deeper into the sea, farther away from the coast, he was joined by a group of penguins. These penguins did not wear head mirrors or hold giant toothbrushes, and Bolt smiled at one. He didn’t feel completely like he belonged—Bolt never did—but it felt good swimming with his own,
away from problems, away from hate.

  How could any penguin feel hate when they were swimming in the sea, feeding on the ocean’s riches?

  “I hate humans,” yelped a penguin swimming by.

  “Oh, me too,” responded another.

  OK, so Bolt was wrong about the feeling hate thing.

  A small family of carp swam by. Bolt dove under the water to grab one for a snack, but two penguins were closer. It is the way of penguins to never fight over food; there is always more than enough fish in the sea for everyone.

  Bolt stopped and gasped, which forced him to cough up seawater. Up ahead, a penguin grabbed a carp’s head in its beak, and another penguin grabbed its tail. Courtesy would indicate one should let go, or both penguins should. Instead, one of the penguins snarled at the other; it’s difficult to snarl with a fish in your mouth, but snarl it did. It tried to yank the fish for its own, but the other penguin didn’t let go either. Their wings met, jabbing each other, as their mouths held their grips on the carp’s head and tail.

  There are plenty of fish here, Bolt thought to them.

  Mine! Mine! their thoughts hammered back.

  Eventually, the fish ripped in half, and the penguins growled, chomping down their own half portions while glaring at the other.

  Feed, my penguins! Feed and fight! You are too mighty to share!

  Those words did not come from the penguins, nor from Bolt, but they slammed into his head and—evidently—the heads of all the penguins in the water. More carp swam by and more penguins fought, slapping each other, reaching out for a fish only to have another penguin snatch it away.

  The sound echoed: feed . . . fight . . . in Bolt’s head, like bees buzzing in a hive. The Stranger, it seemed, was everywhere.

  Fight, my children. Fight! After we conquer the world, nothing will stop us.

  Bolt wanted to flee from those thoughts, and he kicked his feet forward, propelling himself away from the commotion, farther away from Pingvingrad, away from the voice.