by Andrew Cope
They were all desperate for news of the dogs.
Professor Cortex frowned. ‘My orbiting spy satellites have tracked the micro-chips hidden inside Agents Star and Spud’s collars. I believe they are due to arrive at the suspect’s destination any second.’ Professor Cortex looked serious for a moment as he looked down. ‘Ah yes, I can see. If they maintain their current course, the pups are heading for an old disused warehouse high in the hills. The next few hours will be crucial.’
‘Yes, but – have you heard from Lara?’ ventured Ben, not really wanting to ask.
Professor Cortex hesitated. ‘GM451’s signal has gone dead. We’re hoping that she’s still in one piece …’ The professor looked down at his feet and the children turned to each other, none of them daring to say what was on their minds. ‘I’m in my van right now. I’m going to Soop’s factory to confront him. He needs to be stopped.’
‘We want to come too,’ demanded Ollie.
The professor’s hologram scratched its head, looking as worried as a hologram could. He knew this was a dangerous mission and he knew that Mrs Cook wouldn’t take kindly to them coming along. The hologram was quiet for an awfully long time.
‘Professor Cortex, can you hear us?’ demanded Sophie. ‘We want to come too.’
The hologram vanished with a pop. Ben smashed one fist into the other in frustration.
‘He did that deliberately! He doesn’t want us to come. He doesn’t want to put us in danger.’
The children jumped as there was a soft tapping at the laundry-room window. Ollie looked terrified, hiding in a pile of dirty laundry.
The tapping came again, this time with a muffled hiss. ‘Pssst.’
Ben edged towards the window and swung it open. The professor’s bald head popped into view.
‘I was transmitting the hologram from my van, parked outside your house.’ Professor Cortex sighed, ‘I might live to regret this, but I know how much you love GM451.’ He stretched his arm in and helped Ben out first. Then Sophie and Ollie. ‘Come on, gang. We’ve got an egg-venture to crack.’ The kids couldn’t help but smile at the prof’s gag: it was a joke how unfunny it was!
Mr Dewitt reversed the lorry up against the large warehouse doors; not a moment too soon for Spud and Star. They’d spent the last two hours cooped up inside the trailer with a bunch of hysterical chickens. Star had tried to suggest controlled breathing techniques to calm them, but to no avail. The chickens were in a considerable flap.
Star looked at her brother, ‘Remember – act chicken.’
Spud nodded, ‘Woof. I mean – cluck.’ He checked his goalie glove was still positioned on top of his head. It was drooping but still in place. His one remaining wing hung limply at his side.
The bolt slipped with a clunk before the back of the trailer opened and torchlight streamed in. A great deal of loud barking ensued, as Mr Campbell and Mr Heinz set about ushering the chickens down the ramp and into the warehouse. Feathers flew everywhere, as birds trampled over each other in an attempt to keep away from the growling Great Danes.
Star hurried past them. Spud made sure he kept the side with his wing towards the dogs. The pups and chickens were noisily herded into a row of steel pens. It had been a long night and the chickens were hungry. Some of the new arrivals were already pecking at the specially prepared feed and sneezing; they just couldn’t help themselves. It wouldn’t be long before they were fuelling the Cloud Maker, creating an atmosphere of grumpiness that would send customers all over the country rushing for their comforting chicken soup.
15. ‘Whoooof’
Spud tried to keep his head down as he was ushered into the warehouse. He woofed a few ‘clucks’, in an attempt to make himself sound like a real chicken, and just hoped that his disguise did the trick. Neither of the large dogs currently barking instructions at them seemed to suspect anything. So far, so good …
Star followed a little way behind her brother and was also keeping low. She concentrated on flapping her ‘wings’, and bobbing her head, even pretending to peck at the floor a couple of times.
Mr Heinz had taken up his position on top of an old wooden crate overlooking proceedings. He watched as the new arrivals were channelled into their pens, before being positioned in front of the peppery feed. He rubbed his eyes with a large paw and blinked. Something didn’t feel quite right. Or maybe something didn’t look quite right. He cast his eyes along the rows and rows of chickens that were being secured: left, right and then back again. For some reason, his gaze rested upon one particular chicken. This one looked somehow different from the rest. It was slightly larger, and … Mr Heinz couldn’t quite put his paw on it.
He jumped down from the crate and went over to inspect this particular chicken a little more closely. He reached the end of the row and stood peering at the chicken.
‘Cluck,’ said Spud, and then, ‘cluck,’ again. He gave a flap of his remaining wing for good measure. Mr Heinz was far from convinced. He looked around at the other chickens. They all had beady red chicken eyes. And yet this extra-large bird has big brown doggie eyes? He reached out his paw and touched the chocolate-orange wrapper disguising Spud’s black nose, which subsequently fell off.
‘Err, good evening,’ woofed Spud innocently. ‘Cluck cluck?’ he said hopefully.
The Great Dane’s eyes grew wide in horror as he realized that this was no chicken. He opened his mouth to shout for help, ‘HEY! Ummphhhh …’ Star had leapt from her perch and silenced the Great Dane with a swift chop to the top of his head. Not so ‘great’ now!
Dazed, the huge animal slumped to the floor.
‘Thanks, sis,’ wagged Spud, shaking off the rest of his costume. ‘OK, spread out. We need to find Mum – and fast.’ The two pups scampered along the rows and rows of chickens, checking the pens as they went.
Spud let himself out into the yard, sniffing hard. Mum’s bike, he thought, his nose taking him to the bushes. He unclipped the saddlebag and peered inside, snaffling the ‘extendable lead’. He returned to show his sister. Star had also made a discovery. She beckoned her brother and pushed a door ajar. The Spy Pups peered into the next room.
‘Bingo!’
The pups gazed in awe at the sheer scale of the machine. Kenneth Soop was rocking back and forth on his heels, a sense of contentment on his face. All of a sudden, the door burst open and in rushed Professor Cortex and the children.
‘Not good,’ woofed Star.
‘Affirmative, sis,’ agreed her brother. ‘Very not good!’
‘The game’s up, Soop,’ yelled the professor. ‘We know your evil plan and we have you surrounded,’ he continued, in an unconvincing double-fib.
‘Maximus?’ Soop purred, recognizing the white coat and sticking-plaster spectacles. ‘Maximus Cortex? Why, it must be nearly sixty years!’
‘You’ll be getting at least sixty years for this, you evil baddie,’ added Ollie for good measure. ‘And where’s our dog?’
‘Your dog?’ Soop repeated. ‘That black and white mongrel is your dog? This dog?’ he smirked, walking to the blackened window and pointing at Lara’s startled face. Her paw was tapping frantically on the window, her frenzied barking muffled behind three layers of glass.
‘Noooo, kids! Get out. Escape while you can!’
The family pet was way ahead of the game. Her head was still hurting but it hadn’t stopped her working out the entire plan, including where she was imprisoned.
The puppies watched in horror as Kenneth Soop flicked a lever marked ‘ignite’.
There was an ominous rumbling and a large whoosh that nobody could place except Lara. She shrank back from the flames as the giant oven ignited.
‘Your dog has trespassed on to my property. Into my giant chicken oven to be exact,’ he snarled. ‘Tonight there will be a change of menu. Apologies, customers, but the chicken soup is off. Today’s special … is hot dog.’
16. Hot Dog
Mr Soop stood calmly with his tentacle-like fingers clasped behi
nd his back, rocking gently back on his heels, eagerly anticipating the children’s horror. He’d summoned Mr Heinz and Mr Campbell, and although only one dog had appeared, a growling Great Dane was enough to dissuade Ben from running at the man and pummelling him with his fists.
Sophie was sobbing. ‘It’s an oven. Poor Lara. He’s cooking poor Lara.’
‘You’re a big bully,’ shouted Ollie, his bottom lip trembling. ‘And anyway, she’s not an ordinary dog, she’s a Spy Dog. So you and that Great Dame don’t stand a chance.’
‘Dane,’ corrected Soop, emphasizing the ‘n’.
‘And him as well,’ agreed Ollie.
‘It does seem a little, you know, harsh?’ suggested Professor Cortex, sliding his spectacles back up to the top of his nose. ‘I mean, Kenneth, there must be a way to sort this rumpus out. You’re a reasonable chap. Surely we can laugh the whole thing off and just call it a misunderstanding?’
‘Oh, there’s no misunderstanding, Maximus. Remember, it’s not the taking part that counts.’ He eyed the assembled crowd and his voice fell to an eerie sneer. ‘It’s the winning. And we both know that there can only be one winner.’
Lara was by now getting more than a little hot under the collar. She looked around frantically for some way out of the oven, desperately trying to shield the heat with her paws. Think, Lara, think! Her brain frantically flicked through her science lessons with the professor. Thermo-dynamics. Heat. Flames. Hot air. Hot air rises! There must be a chimney!
She looked up and, sure enough, at the far side of the huge oven was a blackened chimney. Spurred on by a glimmer of hope, Lara sprinted across for a closer look. She banged a paw on the blackened wall and the soot fell away. A ladder, she gasped. Built into the oven wall. Presumably an escape route in case anyone, or anything, gets trapped in here. She saw that it disappeared up the chimney. Hooray!
The hot dog knew she was only going to get one shot at this. The temperature was rising and her body felt weaker by the minute. The flames were licking at the oven walls and she noticed a temperature gauge with the needle in the red zone. Her tongue lolloped as she gasped for breath. I hate ladders, she thought. These paws are rubbish for climbing.
She took a run up at the ladder and launched herself upwards, paws scrabbling and teeth biting down on rung number four. I wish I were a cat, she slobbered, choking on soot but not letting go of the rung. Her back legs got a foothold and she leapt again. Rung six. She gripped her teeth into the ladder and hooked her paws around the rungs.
The retired Spy Dog knew this was life or death. The heat was rising and so was she. Lara just hoped she could make it in time.
‘NOW,’ woofed Star as she darted from her hiding place. What Star lacked in size, she made up for in speed. It was her job to go for the legs. The Great Dane’s eyes were fixed on the children and he only spied the black and white blur at the last moment – too late to stop her rugby-tackling his front legs. As the huge dog fell on to his front knees, Spud swung from nowhere, Spider-pup-style, and took his hindquarters. What Spud lacked in speed, he made up for in bulk. The Great Dane yelped in pain and fear as the dead-leg forced him on to his back knees too. In an instant, Star had used the Spider-lead to tie the huge dog’s legs and Spud used a sack to cover his head. Despite a lot of thrashing about, Mr Campbell was well and truly trussed up.
‘Like a chicken!’ woofed Star, dusting her paws off and eyeing Kenneth Soop.
‘You next,’ she growled.
With the guard dogs out of action, Ben sprinted to the oven and hauled open the door. A wall of heat hit him, but he ventured inside none the less, shielding his face with his arm. But … where was Lara? Sophie and Ollie joined their brother.
‘Oh no! Lara’s melted!’ cried Ollie.
In a modern day Wild West showdown, Maximus Cortex and Kenneth Soop eyed each other warily from three metres apart. Neither blinked. Soop’s caterpillar moustache twitched and danced, scurrying around his top lip in agitation.
Mr Dewitt had entered the room.
‘Activate the Cloud Maker,’ shouted Soop, moustache still twitching, eyes fixed on Cortex.
‘My pleasure,’ nodded the old head teacher, slightly irritated by the arrival of unwanted guests.
‘But the roof is closed!’ shouted Professor Cortex. ‘You’ll create an indoor typhoon. Anything could happen!’
‘Exactly,’ sneered Soop, nodding again to Mr Dewitt.
The Cloud Maker exploded into life, just as Lara leapt from the top of the oven, a fraction too late to stop the old man from pressing the red button. There was an agonizing yell as Lara’s teeth sank into Soop’s leg. Streaks of lightning shot up towards the darkened sky. The telltale stink of burnt chicken signalled that yet more snot had been evaporated. The rays hit the glass ceiling and had nowhere to go. Dark clouds began to swirl around the dome and huge raindrops pelted down indoors. Dewitt had taken his cane to Lara. Three hearty whacks on the snout had caused her jaws to open and Soop was away. The exhausted Spy Dog welcomed the rain, the drops hissing as they hit her singed fur. Thunderclouds swirled around and Lara dodged a bolt of lightning.
Lara looked around, desperately trying to locate the crooks. Through the commotion, she spied Dewitt and Soop standing by a large container. The old head teacher slipped the bolt on the side of the crate, the doorway falling open with a shuddering thud to reveal hundreds of cooped-up chickens. The old man leant in and flexed his cane. Immediately, the chickens exploded hysterically from the crate – a cloud of feathers and claws adding to the overall mayhem. They could easily get away in the confusion now!
Lara’s head hurt, partly from thinking and partly from the baseball bat. I love catching baddies, she thought, but this indoor storm is too dangerous. Another flash of lightning lit the dome and her decision was made. The safety of the children is paramount. Lara had no choice. She ushered the children out of the building.
By the time the police appeared, everyone was drenched and Kenneth Soop and Mr Dewitt had long since gone. Lara had cooled off sufficiently, pleased that the hot flush had passed. Somehow they’d all survived the storm. Professor Cortex was determined that there would not be another one, and had already set about dismantling the Climacta-sphere 2015. From time to time he’d let out small wondrous gasps and scribble something down in his notebook.
‘Soop sure was evil,’ murmured Professor Cortex, ‘but there’s no doubt he’s a genius too.’
17. Unfinished Business
One month later …
The sun blazed down from a clear cobalt-blue sky. The air was thick and still, with not even a hint of breeze. Life was getting back to normal in Brickfield, the dark cloud that hung over the town for so long had become all but a distant memory. There was a carnival feel to Brickfield Primary’s summer sports day. Agent GM451 (semi-retired) lay back on her striped deckchair. As a familiar face in these parts, she was something of a local celebrity: the village’s best-kept secret. Lara sighed contentedly, glancing at her watch. Soon be time to start the next race – an honour that had been bestowed upon her in recent years.
Spud and Star returned, yapping and giggling, both of them sporting a third-place sticker. The pups had just participated in the three-legged race, although they had argued it was unfair because they had twice as many legs to trip over. Ollie had disappeared to get some food, tempted by the smell of sizzling sausages.
Mrs Cook looked on nervously. Mr Cook was jogging up and down the grass verge – ‘limbering up’, as he had referred to it. The parents’ race had been what Mr Cook had been training towards for months now. Mrs Cook didn’t care whether he won or not, just as long as he reached the end in one piece.
Ollie ambled around the field among the various food stalls. A man dressed as an ice cream was handing out leaflets and a little further up a food van was serving burgers. Ollie looked wistfully at his pocket money; he didn’t have quite as much as he’d thought. He knew he could go back and ask Mum or Dad, but they were right over the other
side of the track, and there were already plenty of people queuing up. His tummy rumbled. If he had to wait much longer, he’d be starving.
Looking up, Ollie spied an old ice-cream van, but this one seemed to be selling … fried chicken. The van was parked up slightly behind the others, and appeared a little shabby. The paintwork was peeling and the windows were thick with grime. There was a large plastic chicken drumstick lying across the roof, with the letters ‘K. NUGGETS’ scrawled across it in black paint. Importantly, however, there was no one waiting to be served, so the little boy shrugged and walked over to take a closer look.
Lara took her place by the start line and pointed the starting-pistol towards the cloudless sky. Mr Cook was already crouching in one of the middle lanes, coiled like a rusty spring in anticipation of the bang. Either side of him were several mums who had kicked off their flip-flops, a dad who’d just removed his suit jacket and a rather wobbly-looking lady who might have drunk too much pop. Mrs Cook crossed her fingers. She could hardly bear to watch.
There were two men inside the van, accompanied by a huge dog that looked as if it had entered the fancy-dress competition. It seemed caked in make-up and wore a stupid hat, almost as if it were in disguise.
Glad he’s got into the spirit of things, thought Ollie.
The first man was the oldest-looking man Ollie had ever seen. He appeared to be sleeping, a flat cap pulled down covering half his face. The second man was an extremely tall figure dressed in thin, black drainpipe trousers and a black polo-neck jumper. He looked a bit like a daddy-long-legs. He unscrewed a tall silver flask and took a sip of something, before wiping his moustache with his sleeve, leaving a silver trace. As Ollie approached the window, he turned round to face him.
Ollie gasped and took a step back. The man’s face was hidden behind dark glasses and a baseball cap was pulled down tight. His long, spindly fingers splayed against the countertop, revealing breadcrumbs underneath his fingernails. He leant forwards, his breath reeking of chicken. Ollie knew exactly who he was.
