Chicken Mission: Chaos in Cluckbridge

by Jennifer Gray

  So that was why her mother looked tired. She was broody!

  ‘That’s all right!’ Oh, I’m so pleased to be home,’ Amy said, hugging her back.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you,’ her father said. ‘We had a letter from Professor Rooster by pigeon post. He said you were on another mission.’

  ‘It … finished,’ Amy said vaguely. She didn’t want to worry her parents with Cleopatra when she didn’t have to, especially when her mother was expecting chicks.

  ‘I’m longing to hear about your adventures,’ her mother said. ‘Come in and have some worm juice and a piece of seedcake.’

  ‘See you later, guys!’ Amy called to her friends. But they were too busy with the flight-booster engine to reply.

  ‘Everything all right?’ her father asked.

  ‘Yes, great!’ Amy said in what she hoped was a cheery voice. She followed her mother into the coop.

  ‘Help yourself to seedcake,’ her mother urged, settling back down on her nest. Amy caught a glimpse of several eggs peeping out from beneath her mother’s cosy feathers. She counted seven in all: six brown and one white. Seven brothers and sisters! She wondered when they were due to hatch.

  The seedcake was delicious. Amy washed it down with a cup of worm juice.

  ‘Come on then,’ her father said. ‘Tell us all about it!’

  So Amy did. She told her parents everything that had happened since she left Perrin’s Farm for Tibet. She told them about the Kung Fu School for Poultry and meeting Boo and Ruth for the first time. She told them about Chicken HQ and Professor Rooster. She told them about Thaddeus E. Fox and the villains of the MOST WANTED Club. She even told them about James Pond, the annoying duck secret agent from Poultry Patrol, who kept barging in on the act when the chickens didn’t need him! The only bit she left out was Cleopatra. By the time she had finished it was dusk.

  Her father whistled. ‘Wow!’ he said. ‘You really have grown up.’

  ‘Who’d have thought you’d do all that?’ her mother said admiringly. ‘It seems like only yesterday you were a chick.’ She spread her feathers wider over her eggs.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Amy burst into tears.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ her mother asked with concern.

  ‘I don’t know! I was so looking forward to coming home, and now I feel like I don’t belong here any more,’ Amy sobbed. ‘I thought everything would be the same, and it isn’t. At least, the farm is the same, and you’re the same and my friends are the same but I’m different. I’m all grown up. No one wants to play with me. They’re only interested in the flight-booster engine.’

  Amy’s mum and dad exchanged looks.

  ‘Amy, it’s not just you that’s changed. Everyone has. Your friends have grown up too. Just in a different way from you,’ her dad said.

  ‘Have they? How?’ Amy asked in a small voice.

  ‘Well, most of them have started laying eggs for one,’ her mother said.

  Amy sighed. ‘I haven’t, I don’t know how to do it. I’ve tried a few times and I really want to but nothing seems to happen.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve been too busy,’ her mother said tactfully. ‘Laying an egg’s the sort of thing you need peace and quiet for. You can’t do it when you’re running about being a chicken warrior.’

  ‘Maybe your friends can teach you,’ her dad suggested.

  ‘I can’t ask them,’ Amy said. ‘I already told you, they’re not interested in me.’

  Her father gave a little cough. ‘Have you stopped to think they might be worried that you’re not interested in them?’

  ‘Why would they think that?’ Amy said, astonished.

  ‘Well, you’ve been away and had adventures they can only dream of,’ her mother said. ‘Maybe they think what they’ve been doing isn’t very exciting in comparison.’

  ‘But it is!’ Amy protested. ‘I’d love to lay eggs and play “It” and hang out in the barn and wrestle the goose. That’s why I came back. I really missed all that.’

  ‘Then tell them!’ her father said.

  ‘Okay,’ Amy agreed. She could see that her parents were right. It wasn’t just her who felt shy. She should give her friends another chance.

  Just then there was a knock at the door.

  Her mother went to answer it.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Cluckbucket,’ she heard one of her friends say, ‘we brought Amy’s flight-booster engine back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Amy’s mum said. ‘Would you like to come in and see her?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I expect she’s busy …’ A shuffling noise came from the doorway. It sounded to Amy as if her friends didn’t really want to leave.

  ‘Go on …’ her father waved his wing at his daughter.

  Amy leaped off the hay and scuttled to the door. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Her friends looked at her with hopeful expressions.

  ‘I am busy – planning a midnight feast!’ Amy announced, saying the first thing that came into her head. She hoped her parents wouldn’t mind. ‘Who wants to join?’

  ‘We do!’ her friends cried.

  ‘We can have it at mine, if you like,’ one of them offered. ‘Seeing as your mum’s – well, you know!’

  Amy smiled gratefully.

  ‘We could play games,’ another one suggested.

  ‘And tell spooky stories!’ said a third.

  ‘I can’t wait. Oh, and by the way,’ Amy said bravely, ‘can anyone teach me how to lay an egg?’

  In an abandoned warehouse beside the river, Thaddeus E. Fox stood on a crate under a bright, electric strip light. On separate crates either side of him were Snooty Bush and Cleopatra, the queen cobra. Thaddeus allowed himself a smirk. The warehouse was the perfect place to house an undercover battery farm.

  According to Snooty Bush, the warehouse had once been used by humans as a flat-pack furniture store. Although it had been abandoned some years ago, it was still divided into sections by rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving units.

  At the base of each row of shelves, a narrow conveyor belt fed towards a customer-collection area. Beyond the collection area were the checkout desks, and beyond the checkout desks stood the remains of a take-away burger grill.

  Whoever it was that had designed the flat-pack furniture store, Thaddeus decided, could have had a brilliant career in battery farming. As it was, they had set it up perfectly for the foxes.

  Thaddeus and his cronies had congregated in the collection area, amongst piles of old cardboard boxes.

  It was time to address the meeting.

  ‘Huh, hum,’ Thaddeus gave a little cough. The meeting came to order immediately with a respectful hush, not – Thaddeus recalled sourly – like the meetings of the MOST WANTED Club, whose members rarely paid sufficient attention to anything he had to say. His audience today looked much more promising.

  The Society of Enterprising Foxes had assembled a team of a dozen of its best foxy brains to help set up the battery farm. Virginia Fox Diamond was amongst them. What a stroke of luck to find a warehouse with a burger grill, Thaddeus thought gleefully! The lovely Virginia was going to set up her fast-food restaurant, Foxy’s, in it. He was sure it would be a hit.

  In front of the foxes sat row upon row of rats. They all wore the same blank expression as if they had been brainwashed. That was because the rats had been brainwashed. Cleopatra had hypnotised every single one of the revolting rodents into a robotic trance. They would do anything Thaddeus wanted.

  ‘Welcome,’ Thaddeus said, ‘to the first meeting of the MOST ENTERPRISING Club of villains. The purpose of today’s meeting is to unveil our devious plan for the City of Cluckbridge’s first battery farm.’

  His audience listened attentively.

  Thaddeus flipped the title page over to the next sheet on the flipchart.

  ‘The chickens will be kept in crates in rows A to F,’ he said, pointing with his cane to the diagram. ‘The first team of rats will collect
the eggs and place them in containers, which will then be lowered onto the conveyor belts beneath, to other members of the team. Are you with me so far?’

  The rats nodded mechanically.

  ‘The eggs will then travel along the conveyor belts to the customer-collection area where a second rat team will sort them into small, medium and large sizes for our customers to choose from.’ He paused. Virginia Fox Diamond was watching him closely. She gave a little nod.

  ‘Our customers will then proceed to the checkout where they will pay for their purchases.’ He lavished a smile on Virginia. ‘We’ll accept most types of currency: clothes, jewellery, leather goods, bedding – anything they can steal from the humans. For a further fee they can then have their eggs fried at the burger grill by Virginia and her team of Fast Food Foxes.’

  The foxes drooled.

  ‘How soon can I offer chicken on the menu?’ Virginia Fox Diamond demanded.

  ‘Very soon,’ Thaddeus replied calmly. He forgave the interruption. Virginia Fox Diamond was ambitious. He was beginning to think she might be a suitable mate for himself. ‘Let me explain the process,’ he said. The best bit was still to come – the bit that he’d thought of, in fact, with a little help from Cleopatra. ‘Once a chicken stops laying it will be taken to Row G – otherwise known as “death row”.’

  A murmur of approval at this part of the plan echoed around the warehouse.

  Thaddeus waited for silence. ‘Her majesty, Cleopatra, gets first pick of the chickens facing execution.’ For one dreamy moment he imagined the queen cobra’s jaws closing around Professor Rooster and his elite chicken squad. He shook himself. He must stay focused. ‘After that, we all get a share.’ He held his paw up for emphasis. ‘Do not worry foxes; there will be plenty of chickens to go round.’ He licked his lips. All this talk of chicken had left him feeling fiendishly hungry.

  ‘How do we replenish our chicken supply?’ asked Virginia.

  ‘Row H will contain broody hens and a cockerel,’ Thaddeus explained. ‘These hens will be required to sit on their eggs until they hatch. Once hatched the chicks will be collected by the rats – NOT NIBBLED by the way,’ he added in a stern voice, ‘and taken to rows I and J where they will be force fed a diet of chicken feed and GRO-BIG – an enlarging chemical – until they are old enough to lay eggs, thus replacing those chickens who have been removed from rows A to F to death row.’

  ‘Where will we get the chicken feed and the GRO-BIG from?’ Virginia persisted.

  Gosh, she was good! Thaddeus flipped to the next diagram.

  ‘The chicken feed will come from the Pampered Pet Warehouse, which is located here …’ he pointed with his stick, ‘and the GRO-BIG will come from the Keep Out Chemical Factory, which is located here. As you can see, the three buildings form a triangle. Fortunately for us they are connected by the same sewers which run underneath this area of the city. We need two more teams of rats whose job it will be to steal the goods. Any volunteers?’ He looked hard at the rats.

  The rats goggled back at him. ‘We’ll do it,’ several rats said.

  ‘Good. It should be straightforward to smuggle the supplies out at night.’ Thaddeus gave a bow. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes our devious plan.’

  He was rewarded with a dazzling smile from Virginia Fox Diamond. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘Sounds like you’ve thought of just about everything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Thaddeus.

  ‘There’s just one small detail …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘How do we catch the chickens?’

  Thaddeus’s eyes gleamed. ‘We’re going to invite them to your opening night.’ He produced some flyers from his pocket.

  ‘You sure they’ll fall for it?’ Virginia asked doubtfully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Thaddeus, ‘I’m sure.’

  At his top-secret location near Chicken HQ, Professor Rooster was reading the Cluckbridge Echo. The newspaper had been brought to him that morning by one of his spies.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe a word of it.’ His first-hand experience of chicken predators over the years told him Cleopatra’s supposed vanishing act was a trick. Snakes were like magicians: they could make you believe you had seen something when it was only an illusion. ‘I’ll bet she slipped off the boat and swam back to shore when everyone’s back was turned,’ he muttered. He hoped his elite chicken squad wouldn’t fall for it. They needed to stay alert. It was two days since Cleopatra’s escape from the zoo. She would be hungry again soon.

  Just then something landed on the wooden roof of his hideout. He heard scratching and a faint coo.

  A messenger pigeon! Perhaps it had important news.

  The unseen bird tapped at the wood with its beak.

  Tap-tap tap. Tappidy tap tap tap. Tap-a-tappity tap tap.

  Professor Rooster listened carefully. The pigeon was tapping out code. It was the method his spies used to communicate with him.

  Tap-tap tap. Tappidy tap tap tap. Tap-a-tappity tap tap.

  Professor Rooster’s face registered shock. Then anger. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘They’ve taken a holiday? Without asking me?!’ Things were even worse than he had feared. If Boo, Ruth and Amy had been duped by Cleopatra into thinking they could take a break then the other chickens of Cluckbridge stood no chance against the cunning cobra. They would fall for anything. And meanwhile Boo and Ruth were off their guard and Amy wasn’t even in the vicinity! She had gone to Perrin’s Farm without telling him.

  Professor Rooster felt betrayed. It was only a matter of time before Cleopatra struck, and his team – his elite chicken squad upon whom all the urban chickens were relying – would be caught napping. He shook his head crossly.

  Yes, they were young, but the three of them should have learned by now that being a chicken warrior was all about discipline. It was about obeying instructions, not clearing off on holiday when you felt like it without checking with your boss first. This was Cleopatra they were talking about, for goodness sake! She was a far more dangerous chicken predator than Thaddeus E. Fox and his MOST WANTED Club.

  It was reckless. It was immature. It was downright stupid. Sometimes Professor Rooster thought his elite chicken squad just didn’t have a clue!

  Professor Rooster came to a decision. He needed a professional poultry protector. Somebirdy he could trust, someone who would be able to fly straight to Cluckbridge (via Perrin’s Farm to collect Amy) and take charge of the operation before anybody got hurt. Holidays, indeed! He tapped a few keys on his laptop and spoke into the microphone.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘this is Rooster speaking. Is that Poultry Patrol?’

  ‘Yes,’ the polished voice of the receptionist replied. ‘How can we help you this time, Professor?’

  ‘Get me James Pond,’ Professor Rooster said. ‘I need to brief him on a mission.’

  Back at Perrin’s Farm Amy’s first attempt at laying an egg had not been a success. After a great deal of coaching from her friends at the midnight feast (which had turned out to be loads of fun) and far too much toffee popcorn and worm juice, she had retired to the roosting box. At first she had found it difficult to sleep because of the toffee sugar rush. Then, when she did finally go to sleep she was restless because the popcorn gave her terrible indigestion. On several occasions during the night she had the uncomfortable sensation that she’d let rip with an enormous fart but when she woke up she found, to her amazement, that instead of passing wind she had actually laid an egg.

  Of sorts.

  The egg was a sorry looking thing. It was shaped a bit like a giant piece of toffee popcorn and had a knobbly shell, parts of which were as hard as a brick, and other parts of which were as soft as a marshmallow. A small puncture in the membrane of one of the marshmallowy parts leaked egg yolk onto the straw. It only took a couple of sniffs to establish that the egg yolk smelled pungently of worm juice.

  ‘Yuk,’ said Amy, picking bits of yellow goo off her feathers.
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br />   ‘Let’s have a look,’ her mother said.

  Amy shuffled over to let her mother see. ‘I told you I couldn’t do it,’ she said despondently.

  Her mother smiled. ‘I don’t think that’s too bad, for a beginner.’

  ‘But it’s the wrong shape, and it smells funny,’ Amy complained.

  ‘That’s because you ate too much toffee popcorn and drank too much worm juice before you went to bed,’ her mother told her.

  Amy was puzzled. ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘It makes all the difference,’ her mother said. ‘What comes out one end depends on what goes in the other.’

  Amy had no idea laying an egg was so complicated.

  ‘For example,’ her mother continued, ‘if you eat lots of grit before you lay, the shell of your egg will be hard, like a brick. If, on the other hand, you don’t eat ANY grit and drink lots of water, it will be very soft, like a marshmallow. If you eat toffee popcorn, it will be a bit of a mixture.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amy. ‘What about the inside?’

  ‘Same thing,’ said her mother. ‘The flavour of the egg will depend on what you’ve eaten and drunk before you lay it. In this case, worm juice.’ She waggled her wing at Amy. ‘You need to have a balanced diet if you want to lay a decent egg, young lady.’

  Amy wasn’t very interested in laying a decent egg. She was more interested in laying peculiar ones. An idea for a game was forming in her little chicken brain. ‘So, if I ate nettles,’ she said slowly, ‘would the egg yolk sting if it went in your eyes?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What if I ate rotten vegetables?’

  ‘Then you’d lay a stinky egg,’ said her mother.

  Amy grinned. She didn’t feel despondent any more. Laying eggs could prove to be much more fun than she had ever imagined. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, collecting the eggy straw ready to throw it in the yard.