Storm Chaser

by Andrew Cope

  Lara somehow managed to keep her BMX on track, throwing her hind legs to one side to regain her balance. The hoody could see that she was in trouble and prepared to knock her clean off this time. He put his head down and headed straight for Lara once again. ‘Yikes! She’s got nowhere to go!’ yelped Spud.

  Fortunately Lara was no ordinary dog. As a highly trained secret agent, she was used to coping with situations such as these, remaining calm and making split-second decisions under pressure. Gotta think clearly and act fast. Hmmm, less is sometimes more. At the very last moment, before the hoody made contact, Lara slammed on her brakes. Missing her by inches, the skunk hurtled off the edge of the track and smashed through the surrounding wooden fencing. Shortly afterwards there was a considerable SPLASH! followed by the angry quacking of some displaced ducks.

  Lara, Ollie and the pups all raced round to the duck pond where there appeared to be a new water feature – wearing a hoody. Star began laughing; the sight of the boy standing knee-deep in water with his trousers around his ankles was extremely funny. Lara shook her head; she knew that the boy had escaped lightly – it was only his pride that had been hurt. The familiar chimes of the ice-cream van drifted over to them.

  The four of them made their way home, enjoying an ice cream in the hazy sunshine and taking it in turn to push Ollie’s damaged bike. He was upset and perhaps a little worried at what Mum might say, but Lara had tried to reassure him. ‘Spud will take care of your bike,’ she barked, throwing her son a look. ‘I will? Yes, I mean – I will,’ barked the chunky black pup.

  No one noticed the dark black cloud that was beginning to form on the early evening horizon. It was a very dark cloud on a very bright day and looked more than a little out of place. The birds stopped singing and headed for shelter high up in the trees. The temperature dropped noticeably as a large shadow seeped over the park. The calm was over. It was time for the storm.

  Far from anywhere, on a remote hill top, Ken Soop was smiling. His new improved Climacta-sphere 2015 was working.

  3. Hot Stuff

  Fifty-five years, three months and two days earlier …

  Young Maximus Cortex lived for science. He was a geek of the highest order but, as lovely Emily had pointed out, ‘That’s what makes Max special.’ He was better with animals than people and his dog was the only one in the neighbourhood that had a built-in collar light for night-time walkies. He’d been terrifically impressed by Kenneth’s idea and had even jotted a few notes during his classmate’s presentation. Now it came to his turn and he was feeling flustered. Science was his thing. Public speaking most definitely wasn’t. Words made more sense inside his head than out. The young scientist brushed his clammy hands down his lab coat, straightening it and breathing deeply for confidence.

  ‘Thank you, Kenneth,’ he began. ‘I think you’ll find that you can reverse the polarity of your invention to create sunshine,’ he said helpfully. He walked over to the board and smudged out one of the chemical symbols, scribbling 4HkQ97 in its place. ‘See? Bright, huh? Maybe we can work on it together?’

  Kenneth Soop smiled weakly. There was not a cat-in-hell’s chance.

  ‘I have several inventions on the go this year,’ announced Maximus. ‘I’m working on something that’s like a web of information, but worldwide. I’ve code named it “The Interesting Net”. Or I might shorten it to “The Internet”?’ he thought aloud. ‘It will allow you to access information on anything in the world at any time. Instantly.’

  The class gasped. Mr Dewitt twitched, looking horrified. He was the font of all wisdom, so Maximus moved swiftly on. ‘But this is my personal favourite.’ He left the room momentarily before wheeling in a squeaky trolley. A large metal box rested on the top. The box had a window in the front and a series of dials and knobs. The class waited patiently while Maximus plugged the box into the socket beside Mr Dewitt’s desk. He stood and proudly wafted his hands across the machine. ‘I call it the “Dinner-Meister2000”.’

  ‘What does it do?’ asked Frank, unable to conceal his excitement.

  ‘Well,’ began Maximus, ‘if you press this button here, a door opens,’ he demonstrated, the front of the box opening up. ‘And you pop food inside.’

  ‘Like a safe, but for food?’ guessed Emily. ‘It’s brilliant!’

  Maximus smiled. He went to the blackboard and drew a diagram. ‘Normal cooking,’ he began, ‘starts on the outside and works inwards. So, for example, you put a cake in the oven and it warms up on the outside, with the inside cooking last.’

  Maximus Cortex peered over the sticking plaster on his spectacles at the confused faces in class 5A.

  ‘And that’s rather inefficient,’ he explained. ‘So I’ve been experimenting with smaller waves of energy that will cook food much faster, because it starts cooking on the inside.’ He’d drawn a round object with arrows coming out of it, like some sort of explosion. ‘I call them “micro-waves”,’ beamed Maximus.

  ‘So that’s a micro-wave oven?’ guessed Emily.

  ‘That’s an excellent name for it, Emily,’ he said, scribbling the name on a pad. ‘Very catchy. Shall I show you how it works?’

  His classmates were nodding enthusiastically. ‘Has anyone got any food that needs cooking or warming up?’

  All eyes fell on Kenneth Soop. He was the only one who didn’t have school dinners. Every day he brought a flask of cold soup. He seemed to prefer it cold, but surely there was no harm in warming it up.

  ‘Kenneth, please let Maximus have your flask,’ beckoned a curious Mr Dewitt, not about to offer his egg-and-cress sandwiches. The lanky youth rummaged in his school bag before reluctantly handing over a flask. Maximus unscrewed the lid and poured the grey liquid into a dish. He gagged at the smell but politely carried on. ‘Cold soup goes in,’ explained Maximus. He turned a knob and twisted a dial before pressing a big red button on the top of the machine. There was a whirring noise and everyone peered into the window as the dish started rotating. Thirty seconds later, the machine pinged and Maximus opened the door. ‘And … ta-da! … Piping-hot soup comes out, ouch!’ he said, scalding his fingers on Kenneth’s soup.

  There was a spontaneous round of applause as Kenneth peered into his instantly hot broth.

  ‘This is just an early prototype,’ explained the ten-year-old. ‘Eventually I see the whole world using’ – he glanced down at his notepad – ‘micro-waved meals. Maybe companies will start producing dinners that are designed especially for micro-wave ovens? Instant meals. You could even do a Sunday dinner that’s micro-waveable.’

  The class were in hysterics. Mr Dewitt snorted loudly. He knew that it took his wife all of Sunday morning to cook his Sunday roast. ‘You and your imagination, Maximus,’ he scoffed.

  Mr Dewitt reminded the children that it was the winning that mattered before the class voted on the best invention. Emily thought about voting for Kenneth’s Climacta-sphere 1960 purely out of sympathy. But black clouds seemed like such a bad idea so she went with the unanimous vote.

  ‘Smile for the camera,’ snapped Mr Dewitt, disappearing under a black hood and pulling a cord. The timer counted down as the head teacher reappeared and hastily positioned himself behind the two boys. ‘The winner and loser together,’ he declared as the camera flashed. Maximus Cortex’s spectacles were as wonky as his grin. Kenneth Soop’s eyes were as thunderous as his invention.

  The school dinner hall was alive with excited chatter. Children were taking it in turns to put their puddings into the newly named ‘micro-wave oven’, marvelling at the instant heat. ‘Remember I was the one who came up with the name,’ blushed Emily.

  Kenneth Soop sat alone in the classroom. He’d thrown his hot soup away. He hated hot soup. He hated Maximus Cortex. But most of all he hated people. He shook his flask to check there was something left within. Unscrewing the top of the flask he removed the lid. The smell immediately engulfed the classroom like a pungent fog. Kenneth Soop waited a moment, eyes closed, the edges of his mouth almo
st smiling as he savoured the horrible aroma. After a minute he tipped the flask to reveal a revolting grey sludge that spattered the surrounding table top. He lifted the cup to his nose and inhaled deeply, before taking a large gulp of the grisly contents, some of which escaped down his chin.

  He glanced out at the summer’s day and remembered there was something he hated even more than happy people. Sports Day! The ten-year-old boy glanced out into the corridor to check the coast was clear before lifting his Climacta-sphere 1960 on to the desk at the back of the classroom. He plugged it in and opened the window. He pressed the button and his invention throbbed with energy. A bolt of lightning ripped into the blue sky and sixty seconds later dark clouds gathered over the school and large drops of rain smattered against the window. The whistle blew and the children ran indoors for a wet playtime.

  Ken Soop’s mouth turned upwards. Sports Day was cancelled. Now who’s the winner? Grey days made him happy. It seemed every cloud had a silver lining.

  4. The Cloud Maker

  Today …

  Ben, Sophie and Ollie were hungry as usual, so Mum was putting together some snacks. The TV news was delivering its usual negativity in the background. There seemed to be an awful lot of ‘chicken’ news. Mum pointed the remote control at the screen and pressed the volume button. Sales of chicken soup were at an all-time high and there had been a spate of chicken stealing. The reporter was wearing her best concerned look whilst struggling to take the missing chickens story seriously. ‘Police are puzzled,’ she said. ‘They are eggs-amining the evidence as I speak.’ Dad let out a laugh while tying his laces; Ben didn’t think it was that funny. He wondered if it was just a coincidence that the more tins of chicken soup disappeared off the supermarket shelves, the more chickens mysteriously vanished. Maybe not. Ben looked out of the window. He noticed blue sky above, but there was a dark cloud on the horizon. The cloud matched his thoughts. Ben furrowed his brow; something didn’t quite add up.

  Dad finished his stretching and did an energetic sprint on the spot. ‘It’s such a beautiful day, I’ve decided to go for a jog.’

  Lara wagged her tail hard. And as your personal trainer, it’s a great way to combine walkies with getting fit.

  ‘But there’s rain coming,’ noted Ben, pointing at the dark horizon.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dad, puffing out his chest as he opened the front door. ‘I watched the weather forecast and the lady said it’s set to be fair for the week! Big yellow sunshines all over the UK! Hurrah!’

  ‘I used to be a head teacher, you know,’ clipped the wrinkly old man. ‘In the days when schools were proper places of learning. There was no nonsense in my classroom. We had discipline. I had respect. Pupils did it my way: Mr Dewitt’s way.’ His left eye twitched.

  The care assistant didn’t seem to care very much and she certainly didn’t have time to ‘Dewitt’ his way. She popped one of old Mr Dewitt’s chocolates into her mouth before disappearing into the sunshine. The head teacher thought back to his school days; teachers and pupils would stand up smartly when he walked into the classroom. He used to be somebody back then.

  In Bleak House Nursing Home he was just another one of the residents; they didn’t even call him ‘sir’. He watched the care assistant pegging the off-white sheets to the washing line; it wouldn’t take long for them to dry today. He’d show them. He still was somebody …

  Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a dark cloud cast its shadow across the lawn. There was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, before the rain began to pour. In the commotion that followed, no one noticed the long, slender fingers tapping on old Mr Dewitt’s window. The head teacher smiled thinly and shuffled over to unlock the catch. Peering out, his gaze was met by the long, slender features of Kenneth Soop.

  ‘Greetings, my dear boy. I understand you are in need of my expertise?’

  Soop smiled and handed the old man a small package wrapped in tin foil. Mr Dewitt unwrapped it eagerly, pausing just a moment before taking several large bites. The smell of egg sandwiches filled the room.

  ‘Chicken business, sir. I knew you were the man to ask,’ replied Soop, looking around.

  ‘Delighted to be of assistance, my boy,’ replied the ageing head teacher, spitting out small pieces of egg. The world was about to Dewitt his way once again …

  Mr Cook was trying to go faster, but his gut seemed to disagree with his feet. It had been a beautiful summer’s day when he had set out for his jog, but Ben had been right, there was now a threatening black cloud that had appeared from nowhere. Lara, his newly appointed personal trainer, skipped effortlessly alongside him, barking words of encouragement. Keep it up, Mr C! Remember: no pain, no gain …

  Lara had designed him a training plan to try to shed a few pounds. Mr Cook had been a good runner in his schooldays and had even won a few races. That all seemed a long time ago now, as he struggled to outrun the impending deluge. Almost there, Mr C; you could be on for a personal best time!

  They finally reached the front garden gate. Mr Cook was soaked. He shuffled along the path slightly pigeon-toed, with his hands on hips, before collapsing through the front door. Lara clasped a pencil between her teeth. Using the blunt end, she recorded today’s time on Mr Cook’s tablet, making sure she kept track of his daily progress. Pretty good, Mr C – that’s a whole minute faster than yesterday! Ollie bounded down the stairs on hearing their return and threw his Dad a towel. ‘Wow, Dad! You look shattered!’

  ‘Thanks,’ puffed Mr Cook. ‘Blooming weather lady got it very wrong, though. I had to sprint the last half-mile to get out of the storm!’

  Overhead, the black cloud seemed to be increasing in size. Blocking out the sunlight, it cast a dark shadow that fell over the Cooks’ street and much of the surrounding neighbourhood. Rain continued to fall, softly at first, then hammering down upon the pavements and rooftops. Anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside soon made their way inside to shelter from the storm. The temperature dropped.

  Mr Cook, showered and ruddy-faced after his jog, sat in his favourite armchair, his attention fixed on the news. ‘Look at that weather map!’ he said, gesticulating at the screen. ‘The rest of the country has blue sky and sunshine and our little town has a permanent black cloud. It’s just not fair!’

  Outside, a single chicken feather fell softly from the skies above.

  5. Secret Snot

  Kenneth Soop’s long, pale, skeletal fingers gave way to similarly long, yellow fingernails. They flicked between the Great Dane’s ears, rehoming a few resident fleas. The guard dog smiled; a scratch from his master was praise indeed.

  The master was pleased – although he didn’t show it. Ken Soop removed his fingers from the dog’s head and inserted one extraordinarily long digit up his extraordinarily long ski-jump nose. He rummaged around for a moment, before removing something sticky from the depths of his left nostril. He peered at it distractedly, before replacing it in his right nostril. Soop’s moist moustache twitched, his thin lips causing it to ripple like a shuffling caterpillar. It had taken nearly sixty years, but he had finally found a way of spreading the unhappiness. The moment had arrived.

  The warehouse was vast, but the Cloud Maker seemed to fill it. A ring of churning vats surrounded complicated machinery with endless flashing lights and levers. In the centre of it all, what looked like a large, black satellite dish pointed towards the glass-domed ceiling.

  Soop looked around at his team of one: his former head teacher. Mr Dewitt was nearly ninety but wasn’t finished yet. The old man knew a thing or two about chickens and seemed keen to prove he could still ‘Dewitt’. Of course, this time Mr Dewitt would have to ‘do it’ Kenneth’s way. ‘If you please, sir.’ After a second nod, the retired headmaster grasped a lever and pulled down. There was a great deal of whirring and clicking as the great glass roof began to retract, revealing the bright blue sky above. The enormous guard dogs, Mr Heinz and Mr Campbell, looked on.

  The tall, spindly frame of Ken So
op wandered over to a large red button, his black trousers and polo neck further emphasizing his lanky limbs. Both hands hovered momentarily above the knob, fingers interlocked, before Soop activated the Cloud Maker.

  Crackling streaks of black lightning shot out of the centre of the satellite dish, filling the sky with a thick, dark smog. Static electricity charged the air; Mr Dewitt’s comb-over twitched, the dogs’ fur stood on end and Soop’s jumper sizzled. The smell of burnt chicken snot filled the warehouse.

  The rain was almost immediate. Everything was going according to plan. The Cloud Maker was fully functional and the summer sunshine had been snuffed out all over town. Soop laughed, enjoying the fact that it wouldn’t be long before the whole town would be feeling utterly miserable; they deserved it.

  Next to the warehouse containing the Cloud Maker was another equally large building. As Soop approached, he could hear a loud commotion of clucking and squawking. Pushing open the corrugated door, he was faced with line upon line, row upon row, of chickens of every shape, size and colour. Mr Dewitt was parading along the first line of chickens, checking that all was in order. Each bird had a tray of feed in front of it. He picked up a handful of seed from the nearest and held it up to examine more closely. The seed was mixed in with black peppercorns. Dewitt sniffed deeply before sneezing loudly – causing the amount of clucking to escalate even further. He bent his long, thin school cane menacingly; the old teacher had always known how to get the most out of chickens.

  All along the rows the captive chickens were pecking the feed and sneezing, the expelled contents captured in a plastic funnel positioned in front of them. Each funnel was channelled into what looked like a drainpipe, from which the murky, sticky liquid was then collected in a sizeable barrel at the end of the row.