Cows in Action 12

by Steve Cole

  “If you are, it’s catching,” muttered Bo.

  McMoo nodded gravely. “The crew might be human, but their captain is a ter-moo-nator!”

  Pat’s blood chilled at the thought of the F.B.I.’s toughest field-agents. Part bull, part robot, ter-moo-nators had no emotions – or e-moo-tions for that matter – and were ruthless in the execution of their diabolical duties.

  What was this one doing with a gang of drowned Vikings and their sunken boat?

  The ter-moo-nator was certainly dressed for the part, Pat reflected – with chain mail, iron bands on his arms and an impressive yellow beard.

  The ringblender he wore would fool all humans into thinking he was a regular Viking, rather than a cyber-bull in fancy dress.

  “Where did they come from?” murmured McMoo. “And what do they want?”

  Oblivious to McMoo’s interest, Alfred turned to his band of men. “I have a plan, lads. We’ll take the Viking dress of our captives here, and trick these newcomers into thinking we’re their countrymen. Then we’ll attack and seize their ship!”

  “Spare us our pants, sir!” begged Gruntbag.

  Alfred turned up his nose. “For the sake of decency, you can wear our clothes.”

  “ ’Tis a fine plan, sire!” A long-haired archer grinned. “With Arlik’s vessel and this smaller one, we’ll be able to make bolder attacks than ever!”

  “I beseech your majesty to be careful,” said McMoo. “These are no ordinary Vikings.”

  “Neither are these.” Bryce lifted up the stumpy Henmir. “This one’s uniform wouldn’t fit a plump hamster!”

  Alfred pointed to a cave in the cliff face. “Men, take the Danes inside so we can swap clothes.” He smiled at McMoo. “You must hide there with your fellow travellers until the battle is done.”

  “Wait!” called Gruntbag as Bryce tried to pull him into the cave. “Look, rowing there by the mast – it’s Arlik himself!”

  “And beside him is Karl the Crusher, who led the next expedition,” said Ivar in wonder. “And beside him is Halfdan the Hole-puncher . . . Ooh, and Sam the Scar-maker.”

  “The very men we were sent to find!” Gruntbag agreed.

  “I’m not so sure they’re just men any longer . . .” McMoo stared, transfixed, at the crew’s strangely leathery faces, marked with black and white – almost like cowhide. They rowed in synchronized silence, more like robots than men.

  “Look!” Pat pointed to a far scrawnier-looking Viking. “There’s Sven!”

  “Back from his watery grave!” squeaked Henmir. “And wearing finer armour than he ever did in life.”

  “Silence, Danes!” Alfred snapped as Gruntbag and his gang were dragged inside the cave. “Take no joy in seeing your friends, for soon they will be vanquished.”

  McMoo, Pat and Bo kept a tense lookout as the longship crossed the last few hundred metres to shore. The ter-moo-nator and his gang remained impassive, standing still as sculptures, apparently oblivious to all . . .

  “Where would Sven find a natty new outfit under the sea?” McMoo wondered.

  Suddenly a cracking BOOM shuddered out from the sky like a supersonic thunderclap. Bo looked out to sea and gasped. “That cloud I saw before – the one that never moved . . . It’s moving now!”

  McMoo peered through his specs in disbelief as the black and white oval cloud blew towards them at incredible speed. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before!”

  Just then, Alfred strode out of the cave with his men close behind, all done up in Danish clothes. “How do we look?” he asked grandly as, with another thunderclap, the curious cloud halted overhead and burst into torrential rain, like a fluffy sponge wrung out by a giant. The drops were heavy and hot, falling hard enough to sting Pat’s skin.

  “This isn’t rainwater, it tastes like chemicals!” McMoo coughed and spluttered. “Shelter, everyone!” He pushed Pat and Bo into the mouth of the cave.

  But as the prow of Arlik’s ship scraped up onto the shore, the dismal downpour stopped and the impossible cloud sped away inland, vanishing over the cliff tops as if steered by some invisible force.

  “Who cares about a little foul-tasting rain?” hissed Alfred, gripping his sword. “Be ready to fight when I give the signal, men. We’ll wait till they jump down from their ship . . .”

  But the ter-moo-nator and his legion of horn-headed Vikings stayed put. “I am Mookow the Terrible,” the F.B.I. agent proclaimed in a loud, grating voice. “Since you escaped our sea-creature, we have come to collect you ourselves.”

  Alfred looked blankly at Bryce. “What do these Vikings speak of?”

  “You are mistaken,” grated Mookow. “We are not Vikings. We are bull-kings.”

  “Bull-kings?” Pat echoed.

  “Shhh,” said McMoo, and Pat had rarely seen him look so worried. “We can’t afford to miss any of this.”

  The ter-moo-nator glared at Alfred. “You and your men will come with us. You must become bull-kings too.”

  “Attack!” cried Alfred. He raised his sword high over his head . . .

  And it began to melt like an ice cream in the sun!

  “Your weapon, sire!” Bryce cried.

  Alfred pointed to his archer’s arrow-tips, which were dribbling like hot wax. “And your weapons too!”

  “All their weapons!” McMoo realized.

  With horror, Pat saw that it was true. Alfred’s guards groaned and gasped as their swords splattered into molten puddles and their shields fell apart. Chain mail sagged and stretched as though made from melted cheese, then flopped around their ankles like moth-chewed knickers. The metal in their helmets ran like snail-trails down their cheeks and foreheads.

  While his fellow Danes cowered out of sight, Gruntbag had crept forward cautiously to join McMoo in the mouth of the cave. “What witchcraft is this?” he whispered.

  “It’s the rain!” said McMoo. “Something in it has dissolved all the metal!”

  Pat tapped his ringblender. “This is still OK.”

  “That’s from the twenty-sixth century,” McMoo reminded him quietly. “That so-called rainwater must contain a substance that destroys older, cruder metals.”

  “We are defenceless!” shouted Bryce. “My spear is nothing but a stick.”

  “And my arrows are nothing but twigs,” cried the archer.

  Only now did Mookow jump down from the ship. “Get them!” he roared.

  Suddenly the Vikings – or bull-kings – jerked into life! All thirty of them joined the ter-moo-nator on the beach, marching like zombies, their own swords raised and shining in the sunlight – solid, sharp and deadly.

  “I can’t watch,” groaned Gruntbag, retreating to join his quivering men.

  “Alfred, run for it!” McMoo shouted.

  Mookow himself lunged for Alfred, but the king dived aside just in time. Arlik the Mighty smashed the archer to the ground with a blow from his shield. Karl the Crusher swiped his sword straight through Bryce’s spear-shaft. As the other bull-kings joined the attack, Sven tried to join in and raise his sword – but it was too heavy, and he fell over.

  “We’ve got to help Alfred and his people,” Pat cried.

  “Bo,” said McMoo, “are you still wearing those mechanical wings I told you to put away?”

  Bo grinned. “Of course I am. A girl never knows when she might have to take off in a hurry!”

  “Good,” replied McMoo. “A flying cow might distract the bull-kings long enough to tip the fight in our favour.”

  “Cool!” Bo bent over sharply, ripping the back of her dress to reveal the feathered wings. Then she plucked out her ringblender and ran outside, fiddling with the controls at her chest. A few moments later she took to the air with an excited whoop . . .

  And into the fray she flew!

  CLANG! CLUNK! She brought both hooves down on Sven’s horned helmet and kicked the sword from Mookow’s grip. Arlik tried to spike her on his spear but she turned a speedy somersault and tail-whipped him round the chops
.

  Alfred stared in astonishment. “A cow with angel’s wings? Has that rain melted my senses as well as my sword?”

  “Let’s help her, Pat.” McMoo grinned wildly. “I think it’s time we showed those Viking zombies how to really use a pair of horns!”

  Leaving Gruntbag and the others safely hidden in the cave, the C.I.A. agents dashed onto the beach to join the attack at ground level. McMoo’s mighty charge brought down three burly bull-kings in one go! Pat quickly belly-slapped their fallen foes before they could rise again.

  “Well fought, my friends!” Alfred panted. He broke the remains of a spear over Mookow’s head, but the ter-moo-nator socked him with a steel hoof and knocked him out cold.

  “You big beefy bully!” Bo quickly shot a superfast, extra-creamy jet of milk into Mookow’s face. Spluttering with rage, the ter-moo-nator leaped into the air with a speed that belied his bionic bulk. He grabbed Bo’s ankle and yanked her savagely down to earth –

  THUD!

  Bo’s mechanical wings crunched beneath her as she hit the sand and crumpled in a silent heap . . .

  Chapter Six

  VIKING DISLIKING

  “LITTLE BO!” PAT shouted in horror.

  “We’ve got to help her.” McMoo started up the shore towards Bo. But then Sven marched into their path, dragging his sword behind him. The horns on his helmet were only small and his skin was not yet patterned like the other bull-kings – but he shared their blank stare.

  “Let us pass, Sven,” said McMoo. “We helped you before – don’t you recognize us?”

  But as Sven struggled harder to raise his sword, Sam the Scar-maker pushed him aside and started swinging an axe at Pat and McMoo, driving the agents back towards the sea. And with Bo and Alfred both brought down, Pat realized that the English forces were faring badly. Bryce and another soldier struggled up – only for Halfdan the Hole-puncher to knock them down again. The archer tried to run to his king’s side, only to be conked unconscious by Arlik’s flying shield . . . Man after man was falling to the power of Mookow and his belligerent bull-kings.

  Now, Mookow himself and two other bull-kings joined Sam in attacking the unarmed Pat and McMoo. “Ringblenders detected,” the ter-moo-nator hissed, swiping viciously with his axe. “C.I.A. agents must be destroyed!”

  With an obedient nod, Sam and the bull-kings fought even more fiercely.

  “No way past them,” McMoo muttered, “so we’ll have to retreat. Come on, Pat, into the water!”

  Pat followed the professor, swimming out to sea. As he looked past the ter-moo-nator, he saw Alfred stirring weakly on the shore. “Get away, sire!” he yelled. Then he felt McMoo’s hoof on his, dragging him out deeper into the water until it closed over their heads.

  Pat held his breath, waiting in the cold darkness. His head began to spin. His lungs felt ready to pop! But then McMoo pressed something to his lips – Gruntbag’s drinking horn! The professor had snapped off the pointed tip so it could be used as a kind of snorkel.

  Gratefully Pat pushed one end of the horn above the surface of the water and sucked down a breath of salty air. Then he passed the horn back to McMoo, who did the same. Pat supposed they would have to stay here until Mookow was satisfied they were dead – or at least until he got bored. He only hoped Bo would recover in time to get away as well . . .

  Pat wasn’t sure how much time passed as he and McMoo struggled to stay submerged in the gloomy water, breathing through the broken horn. But finally McMoo nudged him, and together they broke the surface like a pair of cow-shaped periscopes and waded to shore, using Gruntbag’s boat for cover.

  “That was close,” Pat gasped.

  McMoo nodded, wiping his glasses on his wet cloak. “I thought they’d never leave.”

  “But they have,” Pat realized. “And they’re carrying passengers!”

  Mookow’s longship was just departing, and looked to be piled high with the bodies of Alfred’s men. Bo was lashed to the carving of a dragon on the boat’s prow, struggling furiously. At least she’s alive, thought Pat grimly.

  “Look!” McMoo pointed to the top of the cliffs. Pat glanced up in time to see King Alfred disappear from sight, pursued by four huge bull-kings.

  “It looks like Alfred got away,” said Pat.

  “You’d better get up there and try to keep him safe. Alfred the Great is too important to history to let anything happen to him.” McMoo thought hard. “I’ll come looking for you when I can – hopefully with Bo.”

  Pat grinned. “You’re going after her?”

  “Course I am! I’ll take Gruntbag’s boat and see if I can find out what Operation Viking is all about,” McMoo told him. “Now, off you go!”

  “OK,” sighed Pat, watching Mookow’s longship as it began to dwindle from sight. “Good luck – and keep safe.”

  McMoo watched proudly as Pat tore away up the steep cliffs – if not like a mountain goat, then very much like a mountain cow. “Right,” he breathed, “time I was going . . .” But as he moved round the boat, he noticed a prone figure lying half buried in the sand.

  “Sven!” cried Gruntbag, peeping out from the nearby cave-mouth. “Is he dead?”

  McMoo stooped to examine the fallen bull-king. “No. Mookow must’ve decided he was too weak and puny compared to the other bull-kings. Let’s take this silly horned helmet off . . .” He tugged. And tugged. And tugged again.

  Ivar came out of hiding, one eyebrow raised. “I thought we were the feeble ones. Is it stuck?”

  “No, it’s not just stuck.” McMoo frowned. “Those horns are a part of him. They stick out through his helmet – but they’re growing out of his head!”

  Ivar fainted – revealing Henmir hiding behind him. “Growing out of his head?” squeaked the little Viking. “That’s crazy!”

  “Look at his skin too,” said McMoo. “Tanned and shiny, almost like leather . . .”

  Gruntbag gulped. “What does it mean?”

  “It means ‘bull-king’ isn’t just a fancy name.” McMoo looked at him grimly. “Remember that sea-monster? Part ox, part octopus, a whole new form of life? Well, I reckon Sven and the other lost Vikings have been turned into a new form of life too. Bull-kings are half human . . . and half cow!”

  Sides aching and panting for breath, Pat managed to catch up with King Alfred near the edge of the wind-blown cliffs. Some horses had been tethered to a tree, and Alfred was readying a white stallion for mounting.

  “King Alfred!” the young bullock called. “Wait for me!”

  “Boy!” The harried king looked pleased to see him. “Then you got away? I thought you had joined my poor men, captives of that evil Mookow and his sorcerer’s cloud. I curse myself for sleeping when I should’ve been fighting.”

  “It’s not your fault you were knocked out,” said Pat. “The prof – I mean, Angus – is planning to follow Mookow, to find his base. If you can raise an army and find some weapons that won’t melt in that weird rain, perhaps we can rescue your men. And my sister too.”

  “I have a base in the marshes of Athelney, to the south,” Alfred revealed, pointing a finger. But as Pat gazed over in that direction, he saw something unpleasantly familiar in the sky.

  The impossible oval cloud was hovering in the distance, and seemed to be shedding more of its sinister rain!

  “Don’t tell me that’s where your base is?” said Pat.

  Alfred turned to Pat and nodded grimly. “It would seem this enchanted thundercloud has a grudge against me.”

  Just then, the four bull-kings scrambled up over the top of the cliff and drew their swords. “Uh-oh,” said Pat. “They’ve got a grudge against you too!”

  “Quick, boy, get on a horse,” cried Alfred. “We must ride to safety!”

  Pat chose the strongest-looking horse and clambered on board. It looked back at him with a “You’ve got to be kidding me” expression, but did its best to hold his weight. And as it staggered away after Alfred’s steed, pursued by the remorseless bull-kin
gs, Pat could only hope that safety might be found somewhere in this terrifying time . . .

  With a loud grunt and an enormous shove, Professor McMoo launched Gruntbag’s longship into the water. “Right!” he cried cheerily to Gruntbag and his crew, lined up on the shore. “Who’s coming with me to brave that octopus monster, rescue Bo, and take on Mookow and his heavily armed bull-kings in some mysterious undersea lair that is bound to be chock-full of deadly traps?”

  The Vikings looked at each other in shifty silence.

  McMoo gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t all volunteer at once!”

  “I’ll come,” said Gruntbag reluctantly. “It’s my boat, after all – and when our leaders hear how I’ve messed up this mission, I’ll be dead anyway!”

  Ivar shook his head. “But if Arlik the Mighty and all the rest couldn’t stop Mookow, how can you?”

  “Perhaps by using a little brainpower,” McMoo suggested.

  “I’ve got a little brain,” Henmir piped up. “Is that any good?”

  Gruntbag smiled. “I’m glad to have you aboard, my friend.”

  “Me too.” McMoo reached into the boat and heaved out the chest, which had protected the weapons inside from the metal-eating rain. “Ivar, you’d better take these into the cave in case you need to defend yourselves. Hide out there until we get back.”

  “Thanks,” replied Ivar. “What if you don’t get back?”

  “You can pass the time congratulating each other on how right you were to stay behind.” McMoo hoisted the sail, which billowed in the breeze. “Now, Mookow’s got a head start and a lot more rowers, but we have to keep him in sight. Let’s go!”

  “Oi! Get me down from here!” Bo huffed and grumbled, struggling against the ropes that lashed her to the front of Mookow’s longship. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You are an escaped moo-tant,” the ter-moo-nator informed her. “You must be corrected by Doctor Gaur.”