Cows In Action 6

by Steve Cole

  Before Daisy could react, the burly woman grabbed McMoo and hurled him through the door, then dragged Bo and Pat out by the scruffs of their necks and sent them sprawling into a large rickety wagon parked in the street outside.

  McMoo lay beside them, sniffing the air. “I can smell something . . .”

  Bo pointed to the wagon, its contents concealed by a large dirty blanket. “The niff’s coming from there, Professor.”

  “It’s . . .” Pat gasped. “Sage and onion stuffing!”

  “’Ere!” cried Bettie from the doorway. “Get away from my wagon. Clear off!”

  But Bo snatched away the blanket – and the three cows gasped.

  There, gleaming in the moonlight in the back of the wagon, was an enormous, teetering tower of oven-ready turkeys!

  Chapter Eight

  THE TURKEY OF TERROR

  “It was you having that secret meeting with Ethelbad, wasn’t it, Bettie?” McMoo looked gravely at the pile of poultry. “Everyone will think these turkeys come from William the Conqueror because you will be handing them out, just as you handed out all the decorations.”

  “So what?” growled Bettie, unloading the mountain of plucked birds into her house. “If that Saxon sausage-head wants to make William look good by giving out these big juicy birds, why should I stop him?”

  “He said the turkeys had been ‘prepared’,” McMoo reminded her. “He might have poisoned them for all you know!”

  “Rubbish!” Bettie heaved the last bird inside. “Now, mind your own business and push off!” She went inside and slammed the door behind her.

  Daisy pressed her nose to the grimy window and mimed, “Sorry!” – then the shutter slammed closed.

  “Is Bettie just being stupid?” Bo wondered. “Or is she up to something?”

  “I’m not sure,” murmured McMoo. “But if Ethelbad’s working with the F.B.I., we must find out what he’s up to.”

  “Meanwhile, let’s warn William,” said Pat. “If he tells everyone the turkeys haven’t come from him, it will spoil Ethelbad’s plans!”

  “Good thinking,” Bo declared.

  “Yes, go and see him now, both of you,” said McMoo. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye on Bettie and the turkeys. With Daisy’s help perhaps we can get our hands on one of them.” He winked at his young friends. “Good luck!”

  Pat and Bo moved quickly through the snowy London streets. The star-scattered sky loomed dark and threatening overhead despite the flashing Christmas lights.

  Soon, they reached the forest. But they hadn’t got far through the wintry scrub and pines when they heard movement ahead of them.

  “Uh-oh,” Pat whispered, holding still.

  “Who’s there?” bellowed Bo fiercely. “Come out now – or be very, very sorry!”

  “Calm yourself, madame!” came a familiar voice – and Renouf the Norman trotted out of the shadows on his horse. “We don’t want to be beaten up!”

  “No indeed,” added Tostain, appearing just behind him. “We are merely patrolling these woods for naughty Saxons.”

  Renouf nodded. “We wondered whether Lord Angus had dealt with Ethelbad and set you free – and clearly he has!”

  “It’s not quite as simple as that,” Pat sighed. “Ethelbad is causing trouble that only William can deal with. The crown of England may be at stake! We must speak with the conqueror right away.”

  “William is asleep,” said Renouf. “He ate a midnight supper of pilchards in brandy and will not be disturbed.”

  “Not very fair,” Pat remarked, “when his bum will be disturbing the whole camp after a late-night snack like that!”

  “True,” said Tostain ruefully. “But pilchards are his favourites.”

  “Must be why he hangs around with you two,” said Bo, hopping up and down impatiently. “Stop wasting time and let’s go and see him – now!”

  McMoo spent the whole night huddled up in his cloak, braving the Christmas cold down an alley close to Bettie’s house. Finally, at about six in the morning, the wooden door was unbolted and Bettie lumbered out with an armful of turkeys.

  “Uh-oh,” murmured McMoo, as she bunged the birds back onto her wagon. “She must be off to make her first delivery . . .”

  While Bettie kept on loading, McMoo crept up to the other side of the cart and fiddled with one of the wheels so it became loose. Then he sneaked away again.

  As Bettie perched the last turkey on top of the pile and tried to heave the wagon away, the wheel fell off with a splintering crack and the turkeys spilled into the street. McMoo chortled to himself, his sabotage a success.

  But the massive woman simply marched up to the house next door and banged hard on the door. “Oi, Wulnoth! Can I borrow your cart?”

  “S’pose. It’s parked round the back,” came the gruff, sleepy answer.

  “Typical,” McMoo muttered, as he scuttled back over to the wagon. This time he snatched up a turkey and ran away with it.

  Bettie came back seconds later with another wagon and threw the birds onto it. Then, with the strength of a shire horse, she dragged the wagon away, ready to deliver the special turkeys to the noble families of old London.

  As soon as she was out of sight, McMoo carried his catch over to Bettie’s house and knocked on the door. Daisy threw it open with relief. “Oh, Angus, come in, you poor mite,” she fussed. “Thank goodness you got a turkey! I tried to take one for you, but Bettie went to sleep on top of the pile. Wriggling about on them all night, she was . . .”

  McMoo grimaced. “I hope she was wearing a nightie!” He quickly placed the trussed-up turkey on Daisy’s workbench. “Now, how can we test this thing?”

  “If it’s poisoned, perhaps it will smell funny when it’s cooked,” Daisy suggested. “Folk in this time wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Good point,” said McMoo. “Let’s use your electro-beam to cook a bit.”

  “Cows roasting turkeys – it’s not right,” Daisy muttered as she fiddled with her torch-like gadget. “Still, for you, Angus, my sweet, I’ll give it a go.”

  The electro-beam hummed loudly, and the cows were soon holding their noses as the whiff of cooked turkey began to fill the little house.

  Then suddenly, the oven-ready animal twitched!

  “Aaagh!” Daisy shrieked. “It’s not dead!”

  “Of course it is,” McMoo retorted, staring in alarm as the turkey started to shake. “It’s been stuffed, it’s—”

  “Alive!” yelled Daisy, as the plucked bird suddenly turned inside out in a shower of sage and onion stuffing – to reveal a robotic turkey! A silver head slid out from the chunky metal frame. Two yellow eyes fixed on the professor, and the creature shook out a pair of metal wings, its dagger-sharp beak quivering.

  “Bless my buttercups,” breathed McMoo. “It’s a cyber-turkey!”

  And with an eerie, electronic gobbling noise, the chunky metal monster pounced on him, dragging him to the floor!

  “Oof!” McMoo gasped, desperately fending off the computerized poultry. It pecked at him wildly, its terrifying talons poised to rake his hide. “Daisy, help me! The electro-beam . . .” The flustered cow grabbed the gadget and smashed it down on the cyber-turkey’s silver skull! With a flash of sparks and a clatter of wings, the menacing bird-bot flapped backwards and dropped to the ground.

  “Thanks,” said McMoo weakly. “I actually meant for you to send a high-intensity electrostatic blast into its central processing unit – but conking it on the head was good too!” He scrambled back up. “This must be one of the sneakiest F.B.I. plots yet. A stealth-robot in turkey trousers – activated by heat!”

  Daisy gasped. “Bettie’s handing them out to the most noble families in London, ready to be cooked tomorrow. As soon as those birds feel the heat of the fire . . .”

  “Hey presto!” McMoo concluded. “They turn into turkey-assassins.”

  “And then everyone turns against William the Conqueror despite all my work with those darling decorations. If
they refuse to crown him, history will be changed – and the F.B.I. can start to take control of a different future.” Daisy glowered down at the techno-turkey. “We need to stop Bettie handing them out!”

  “She refused to listen last time,” sighed McMoo. “I think we should go after Ethelbad.”

  “Must we?” Daisy pulled a face. “He gives me the willies.”

  “But he gave Bettie the turkeys! And if we get him, perhaps we can stop this problem at its source.” The professor grabbed the dented metal bird and a screwdriver. “First, let’s make sure this thing is really taken care of. Then, whatever the risks, we have to find Ethelbad and stop him – before Christmas Day becomes Deadly Turkeys-of-Doom Day, and all future history gets flushed down the toilet!”

  Chapter Nine

  MOOSTAKEN IDENTITY

  “I’ve had enough of this!” cried Bo. “How much longer do we have to wait?”

  Pat gave his sister a warning look. True enough, they had been waiting in the snow outside William the Conqueror’s private tent for hours now. Despite Renouf and Tostain’s best efforts, the six enormous bodyguards refused to let them pass. Bo’s complaints were falling on deaf ears – and Pat was worried that soon they would fall on very sharp swords . . .

  “I’m sure he’ll be awake in a minute,” said Tostain, for about the hundredth time.

  Then Pat had an idea. “Wow, look over there!” he called loudly. “An extra-big delivery of pilchards has just come in!”

  In a flash, the flap to William’s tent opened and the man himself burst out in his nightgown. “Pilchards?” the conqueror demanded, sniffing the air. “Where? Where?”

  “Um, there are no pilchards, your grace,” said Pat, trying to hold his voice steady. “That was only a ruse.”

  “A ruse, eh?” William looked blank. “Does a ruse taste like a pilchard?”

  “Oi! Newsflash for Billy the Conk!” Bo shouted. “You’ve got bigger fish to fry than pilchards – turkeys!”

  “Turkeys aren’t fish,” Pat reminded her.

  “True,” Bo agreed, “but there is something fishy about these turkeys!”

  “If they’re fishy then I’m interested,” said William happily. “Tell me your news!”

  “OK,” said Pat, with a nervous glance at Bo. “Here goes . . .”

  Having taken the bashed-in techno-turkey apart and rewired its insides, McMoo and Daisy walked nervously through the winding streets towards Ethelbad’s domain.

  But when they arrived, the Saxon’s stinky stronghold was deserted.

  “Where is everyone?” wondered Daisy.

  “Good question,” said McMoo, peering around cautiously. “Wish I had a good answer . . .”

  “Try this one.” The lumpy figure of Bettie Barmas strode out from the rotting hall in the middle of the camp. “He’s over at Westminster Abbey, rehearsing his coronation!”

  “His what? Oh, no, hang on . . .” McMoo stared at her empty wagon in horror. “Don’t tell me you’ve delivered all those turkeys already?”

  “Course I have,” Bettie shrugged. “It’s Christmas tomorrow – people will be cooking them in the morning.”

  “But they mustn’t!” McMoo waved his deactivated techno-turkey. “This is one Christmas dinner that bites back!”

  Daisy nodded. “Those things are heat-activated robotic killers in disguise. Everybody must be warned!”

  “You’re not wearing a ringblender, Daisy,” McMoo reminded her. “She doesn’t understand you.”

  “Oh, but I do, Professor,” said Bettie quietly. “It’s you who doesn’t understand.”

  “What?” McMoo frowned. “How did you know I’m a professor?”

  “The same way I can understand the cow language spoken by dear Daisy Micklepud there. As well as old Norman and Saxon and any other language in the world.” Bettie gave them both a horrible smile and her voice suddenly turned into a metallic drone. “Because I AM A TER-MOO-NATOR!”

  McMoo and Daisy stared in shock as the woman began to peel away her face. It was only a mask . . .!

  “Oh, no.” McMoo groaned. “I should have realized!”

  Bettie’s Saxon dress dropped to the ground to reveal a tough, grey hide half-hidden by metal armour. Her real face was part bull, part terrifying robot. It had eyes that glowed green, a grille for a mouth and a blazing red snout.

  “I am Ter-moo-nator T-2512,” declared the robo-bull in its grating voice. “But you may call me by my codename – Moodolph!”

  “Moodolph the red-nosed ter-moo-nator.” McMoo glowered at him. “Well, you’re a clever one, Moodolph, I’ll say that much. You knew C.I.A. agents would see through a ringblender – so you put on human fancy dress, swallowed a voice changer and disguised yourself as a woman!”

  “The real Bettie Barmas is away visiting family in the country,” Moodolph revealed. “Impersonating her has served me well. I was able to use her house as a base in this time, and I could walk about your farm without arousing suspicion.”

  “Of course,” groaned McMoo. “It was you who left the booby-trapped present that sent us here. Just before the shed was attacked, we heard Bessie saying she couldn’t be in two places at once – but with you around, she could!”

  Daisy glared furiously at Moodolph. “You tricked me into thinking you were nice. Well, now I’ll show you!” She charged at the robotic bull – but his red nose glowed brighter . . .

  “No, Daisy!” McMoo frantically hurled himself at the angry cow and knocked her down – just as a laser beam fired from Moodolph’s snout. It whizzed past Daisy’s head and turned a tent into ashes. McMoo quickly dragged her behind another tent for cover.

  “I tricked you from the start, milk cow!” sneered Moodolph, his nose smoking. “Our ‘broken’ time machine was rigged to bring you to 1066 – so you could serve the F.B.I.!” He sniggered. “Why arouse C.I.A. suspicions by stealing your work on the Short-Life Replicator when we could get you to finish your creation right here?”

  “So it wasn’t just luck that I had all the equipment I needed in your silly machine,” Daisy realized.

  “Of course not!” Moodolph advanced on their hiding place. “The F.B.I. built just one ter-moo-turkey. But thanks to your replicator, we now have loads!” He fired his nose-blaster again. McMoo and Daisy were thrown backwards as another tent exploded.

  “Your clever little plot is going to backfire,” shouted McMoo, joining Daisy behind a pile of smelly rubbish. “William the Conqueror’s on his way. He’ll tell everyone the turkeys came from Ethelbad, not him!”

  “The ter-moo-turkeys are only part of my plan.” Moodolph narrowed his eyes. “You believe that you arrived here by chance, Professor. But the holly-bat fused your Time Shed’s controls. You would have ended up here no matter what you tried to do.”

  “Oh.” McMoo sighed. “And I thought I was being so clever too!”

  “Why did you bring him here?” Daisy demanded.

  “Your electro-beam has limited power.” Moodolph pulled out a small hand-held device. “And for the F.B.I. plan to succeed, we need more energy . . .”

  “Energy that you’re draining from the Time Shed’s engines!” McMoo angrily checked his long-range Time-Power Sensor again – and found the display still blinking near empty. “No wonder the energy banks haven’t been recharging. But what do you need extra power for?”

  Moodolph smiled. “For this.”

  He pressed a button on his gadget. Professor McMoo heard a slithering noise behind him and whirled round . . .

  To find a string of Christmas lights rearing up like a poisonous snake! Suddenly, it coiled itself around the two cows.

  Daisy shrieked as the green plastic cord tightened about her tummy. And the next moment, two illuminated candy canes swooped down from the sky and started beating McMoo over the head!

  “William’s attempts to warn the people will fail. I shall simply bring forward my plans.” Moodolph laughed. “You see, Daisy, while you slept I used your tools to turn your festive
decorations into deadly weapons. Thanks to your replicator machine, they now hang all over London – ready to attack. What is more, the cyber-turkeys do not require fire to be activated.” The robo-bull waved his little device. “I can send a heat impulse from this – and the chaos will be complete!”

  “The deadly decs will terrify the common people, while the turkeys nobble the noble families – eliminating all other possible rulers.” McMoo gasped as the candy canes conked him again. “Those who survive will have no choice but to follow Ethelbad!”

  “Ethelbad will drive all Normans from England,” hissed Moodolph. “And once he is made king, F.B.I. agents shall become his royal advisors. We shall ensure that Saxons stay simple and stupid, while cows are taught to wage war on their human masters. History shall be changed for ever, and cruel cattle will take over the world . . .”

  “Never!” vowed McMoo. “The C.I.A. will stop you!”

  “They have no idea what is happening here,” jeered Moodolph. “Their time-scanners are designed to detect build-ups of F.B.I. activity – not transmissions from their own technology.” He laughed as the fairy lights wrapped themselves ever tighter around Daisy and McMoo. “What a Christmas present for the F.B.I.! War-like cattle will rule for ever more – and it is C.I.A. agents who have made it possible!”

  Chapter Ten

  FESTIVE FURY

  Pat and Bo travelled into London with the Norman army. Tostain walked behind them and Renouf rode upon his spotty horse as usual. William was also on horseback, trotting along grandly at the head of the procession, waving at people as he passed. But at the sight of so many soldiers, most Saxons hurried into their houses.

  “I mean you no harm!” William cried, speaking not-very-good Anglo-Saxon. “Spread the word – the turkeys are not mine. I have never seen a turkey before! Honestly, I much prefer pilchards . . .”