Cows in Action 12

by Steve Cole

  “Prof!” cried Bo.

  Gaur spun round and chuckled with evil satisfaction. “Ha! Did I forget to tell you I had booby-trapped my booby-trap? What a shame!” He put in a ringblender of his own. “Now, do not try to trick me again or else!”

  Just then, the entrance to the laboratory slid open to reveal two slavering cow-lions and two very frightened Vikings.

  “Angus,” Gruntbag wailed. “Is all this some terrible nightmare? I’ll wager Odin himself has never seen such madness in all his reign.”

  “Rain!” McMoo clapped his hooves and turned to Gaur. “That’s it! I’ll bet Mookow’s cloud rained all over the Vikings he captured, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” came a grating mechanical voice as Mookow strode into the room. “My rain disarmed the human fools and caused chaos, allowing me to capture them.”

  “Ah, there you are, Mookow,” said Gaur. “Have you caught Alfred the Great yet?”

  “The power of my cloud has disabled his fort at Athelney and scattered his forces far and wide,” Mookow announced proudly. “But bull-kings report that Alfred is being protected by a young warrior.”

  “It must be Pat!” cheered Bo. “Way to go, little bruv!”

  “It is only a matter of time before both Alfred and Pat Vine are in my power,” grated Mookow. “I have ordered all bull-kings to join the hunt.”

  “I should hope so too,” said Gaur fussily. “Now, why were you going on about the rain, McMoo?”

  The professor shrugged. “Perhaps some of the toxic chemicals in that water were absorbed by their puny human bodies, and that’s why they’re resisting your moo-goo.”

  “It is possible . . .” Gaur turned on Mookow. “We need rain samples.”

  “Very well,” Mookow growled reluctantly. He produced a white remote control from inside his tunic and carefully changed the settings, while Gaur busied himself gathering beakers.

  Gruntbag and Henmir looked at McMoo in disbelief, and there was no mistaking the disappointment in Bo’s eyes. “You’re really going to help them?”

  “I have to,” McMoo said quietly. “With so much at stake, believe me – I have to!”

  *

  “I’ve got to rest,” Pat panted, leaning against a tree somewhere in the Wessex woods.

  “Very well,” said King Alfred, short of breath himself. “But only for a few moments.”

  The two fugitives had ridden their horses for miles with the bull-kings close behind, until they came to a wide river. Abandoning their mounts, they had swum to the other side, and then continued on foot and hoof. Several times they had to dodge patrols of real Vikings, busy raiding monasteries or looting villages. Pat, like Alfred, longed to do something to stop them. But with the bull-kings on their trail, staying one step ahead had to be their priority.

  “I wonder where we are?” said Pat.

  “I’m not sure,” Alfred admitted, his nose twitching. “But I can smell cooking.”

  Pat sniffed. The smell of fresh bread was faint in the air. He followed the smell to a clearing, where a simple peasant hut stood, smoke curling out of its single window. “This way, sire!” he hissed. Pat was quite fond of a bun or three, and the grass around here looked pretty juicy too. “We could use some food for extra energy.”

  “The rain melted my money,” said Alfred.

  “But you’re king,” Pat argued. “Anyone will give you bread.”

  “I dare not reveal who I really am,” replied Alfred. “If the bull-kings learn I was here, they might torture the peasant folk for information leading to my capture.”

  “Then it’s time to turn on the old Patrick charm,” said Pat with a wink at Alfred. He strolled up to the door and knocked politely, preparing to turn his biggest, brightest grin on whoever answered.

  But then the door opened to reveal a huge, lumbering woman in a stained smock, and his smile twisted into a horrified grimace.

  The woman was the very image of the Farmyard Queen of Cruelty – Bessie Barmer!

  Chapter Nine

  TRAPPED!

  “WHAT DO YOU want?” the woman demanded, her chubby cheeks flushed red with heat, her hair a messy tangle.

  Pat tried to rearrange his smile. “Um . . . Your name wouldn’t be Barmer, would it?”

  “Nessie Barmer, as it happens.” The dough-faced woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “How would you be knowing that?”

  Pat gulped and thought fast. “Er . . . You’re quite famous in these parts for your amazing cooking. We’d love to try some . . . Any chance of a free sample?”

  “Cheek!” Nessie scowled. “If you want any grub, you’ll have to earn it. I haven’t done any washing for two months – I could do with popping down to the stream to give my underclothes a good scrub. But I don’t like to go out alone when those nasty Vikings are pillaging all over the place.” She plumped up her rats’-maze hair. “Anything could happen to a good-looking girl like me, don’t you think?”

  “No,” said Alfred. “But my friend will go with you, if I can shelter in your hut.”

  “Why me?” hissed Pat.

  “Because I’m king,” Alfred hissed back. Nessie disappeared into her hut, then reappeared a few moments later with a massive bundle of clothes. “You can stay,” she told Alfred, “but I’ve got some more cakes cooking. Make sure you take them out before they burn. Got it?”

  Alfred nodded. “Many thanks, good lady.”

  “Come on then, boy!” Nessie gave Pat a shove. “Let’s get going!”

  Sighing wearily, Pat followed her.

  * * *

  Back at the F.B.I. undersea laboratory, McMoo, Bo and their Viking friends watched as Mookow’s cloud came drifting through the ceiling and hovered above their heads.

  “How can it pass through all that water above us without falling apart?” Bo wondered aloud.

  “The cloud is made of a chemical gas that repels rain and seawater,” Mookow replied proudly.

  “And since you can steer it by remote control, I suppose it must be full of tiny electronic receivers that hold it in shape.” McMoo beamed. “Isn’t future technology wonderful?”

  “No,” said Gruntbag, and Henmir nodded with feeling.

  Mookow held a plastic bucket under the cloud then pressed another button on his remote control. The cloud obligingly squeezed out a little of the metal-eating liquid. Mookow held up the bucket to Gaur, who added a few drops from his test tube of moo-goo. “Now, let us see if one reacts badly to the other.”

  Sure enough, the liquid began to fizz and make a smell like rotting cabbage.

  “It seems you are correct, Professor.” Gaur narrowed his eyes at Mookow. “You should have tested your metal-eating chemicals on my moo-goo before using it.”

  Mookow glared back at him. “You should have tested your moo-goo on my metal-eating chemicals before using it.”

  “Don’t argue, fellas!” McMoo rushed over to stand between them. “We found the problem, now all we need to do is work out which chemicals aren’t getting on and sort them out.” He pointed to a grey gadget the size and shape of a toaster with a screen on top. “Hey, isn’t that a chemical analyser? That will tell me the exact ingredients of both your inventions. Make things way simpler! Let’s get started, shall we?”

  The professor snatched the test tube from Gaur and poured it into the analyser. A list of chemicals appeared on its screen, and he studied them intently.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting . . .”

  Pat stood beside a stream with Nessie Barmer while she did her washing. She hummed loudly and tunelessly as she plunged dirty clothes into the water and then stamped on them. “Make yourself useful, boy,” she growled at Pat. “Fold them up in a nice neat pile.”

  Grumbling, Pat picked up a skirt as big as a tablecloth – and as he did so, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement from the trees on the other side of the stream. Was he imagining things?

  Crack! A stick broke loudly in the thicket ahead of them. A flash of
steel and cowhide passed between two trees.

  And then a bull-king pushed out of hiding!

  “It’s a Dane!” Nessie screamed, and the warrior covered his ears. Thinking fast, Pat hurled Nessie’s skirt at the approaching bull-king. With a wet slap, the coarse material engulfed the menacing figure, who staggered back into the thick foliage.

  “Come on!” Pat grabbed Nessie by her chunky elbow and hauled her away. “We must warn Alfred.”

  Pat raced back towards Nessie’s hut, the big woman panting and wheezing behind him. Finally they reached the clearing – only to find thick black smoke pouring out of the window.

  “I don’t believe it!” snarled Nessie. “Your stupid friend has let my cakes burn!”

  As the big woman pounded up to the hut, Pat suddenly remembered Professor McMoo recounting the story of how Alfred burned a peasant woman’s cakes. “This is history as it happened,” he breathed. “Typical that the peasant woman should be one of Bessie Barmer’s relatives!”

  Nessie kicked open the door and strode inside. “How dare you!” She booted Alfred outside, and he yelped as he fell sprawling on the ground. A moment later she followed him out with a stone tray full of burned and blackened buns. “All you had to do was sit there and take my lovely cakes out when they were ready. Couldn’t be bothered, could you?”

  Alfred scrambled up. “Actually, I was busy thinking how to save the kingdom from villainous man-bull invaders!”

  “Well, I hope you thought of something,” said Pat, “because those evil invaders are on their way!”

  Right on cue, Arlik the Mighty crashed into the clearing. At the sight of Alfred and Pat, he mooed menacingly and raised a huge battleaxe above his head. Pat and Alfred got ready to fight . . .

  But then Nessie shoved them aside. “Don’t mess with me in this mood, Sunbeam!” So saying, she chucked a still-smoking cake at the murderous man-monster. With incredible accuracy and a tooth-breaking crack, it struck Arlik in the mouth. The big man choked and clutched at his throat before collapsing.

  Pat turned to look at her in wonder. “Wow, Nessie – good shot!”

  But then two more bull-kings lurched out from the cover of the trees. One had a sword, and the other had a bow and arrows. Even now the transmogrified archer was pulling back the drawstring, aiming at Alfred . . .

  “Take cover!” Pat shoved Alfred back into Nessie’s hut – just as an arrow thudded into the wall. Nessie screeched as more arrows came whizzing towards them. Pat dragged her inside the smoky building too, then slammed the door shut.

  “We’ve had it now,” said Alfred, watching as more bull-kings appeared from the woods and spread out to circle the hut. “We’ve got no weapons, and nowhere to run. They’ve got us trapped!” McMoo was still working out the complicated mix of chemicals that went into a portion of moo-goo and metal-rain, when a barked command from Gaur distracted him: “Stop your muttering!”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Bo on the stretcher, wide-eyed and innocent, while Gruntbag stood beside her with a decidedly shifty expression on his face. I wonder what they’re up to, he thought.

  Just then, a loud beep came from the control panel with the microphone beside it. McMoo observed there were several red buttons built into the console, each one of them labelled: OCTOPUS, LIONS, TURTLES, ALL ANIMALS . . . Those controls must allow Gaur to give separate commands to each of his moo-gooed minions, he realized. Right now, the button marked ARLIK was flashing.

  Mookow pressed the button. “Report, Arlik.”

  “This is bull-king Group Alpha,” came the jerky voice of the zombified Dane. “We have captured King Alfred and the C.I.A. agent Pat Vine. They report that further Vikings are hiding in a cave on the beach where Alfred was first sighted.”

  “Proceed there at once with your captives,” Mookow told him. “I shall order all other bull-kings to that beach to capture the concealed Danes. We shall collect the whole lot of you from there shortly. That is all.”

  “Oh, my poor men!” sobbed Gruntbag, while Henmir sucked his thumb.

  “And my poor little bruv!” Bo groaned.

  “At least while he was free we stood a chance of being rescued.”

  “Instead, I have another hostage to use against you, McMoo.” Gaur giggled nastily. “You are all completely in my power. Nothing can stop the F.B.I. now! Nothing!”

  Chapter Ten

  EMOO-GENCY!

  STRUGGLING AGAINST HER straps, Bo watched as McMoo toiled under the watchful stares of Mookow and Gaur, mixing chemicals in different beakers and nodding. She knew he was only helping the F.B.I. for the sake of his friends, but he really seemed to be getting into it.

  If only I wasn’t strapped down flat on my back, she thought miserably. She had told Gruntbag to give a special instruction to Henmir, but the little Viking was so short she couldn’t see from here whether or not he had done as she’d asked.

  “Nearly there,” the professor remarked.

  Bo sighed. “You’ll probably finish before Pat even arrives.”

  “He will still be useful as a hostage,” said Gaur, peering at her through his huge glasses. “With the professor’s help I will be able to create armies of bull-kings in half the time I’d imagined.”

  “Arlik’s squad will soon be reaching the beach,” droned Mookow. “Are the subjects I brought you this morning ready to fight?”

  “I’ve fed them their moo-goo,” Gaur said huffily. “But since they’ve been drenched by your silly old rain, the physical change will hardly be noticeable.”

  “Like it wasn’t in Sven,” McMoo noted.

  Gaur turned to his special microphone and pressed a new, as yet unmarked button. “Bull-king Squad Delta, activate!”

  A few seconds later, a door in the far side of the lab slid open and Alfred’s men lurched inside. They were barely recognizable – eyes blank, skin white and leathery. Only the smallest of horns were peeping through their special war helmets, but each of the men was armed with a gleaming sword or axe made of chemical-proof modern metal.

  Bo saw Gruntbag staring in horror as the men filed through in silence, led by big, bald Bryce, heading towards the airlock and its supply of longships. “That’s the fate in store for us, Henmir!”

  “Right about now, I’m afraid,” said McMoo, holding up a large bowl of silvery-looking water. “Mookow, your super cloud needs to absorb this new mix of chemicals. Then it can melt any amount of metal without interfering with the full effect of the moo-goo.”

  “I do not trust you,” grated Mookow.

  McMoo crossed to Gruntbag and yanked away the chain he wore around his neck. Then he dropped it in the bowl and it sizzled away to nothing. “There you go. Even more potent than before.”

  Gaur gave one of his trademark titters. “Reload the cloud, Mookow,” he cried. “Soak these puny Vikings, and then I’ll feed them a few tasty mouthfuls of moo-goo. They’ll never be the same.”

  “Professor!” Bo called. “You can’t let them do this!” “I’m afraid I must,” said McMoo sadly.

  Struggling still harder to be free, Bo watched as Mookow pressed his remote and the cloud slowly floated down from the ceiling. It hovered over the bowl and glowed brilliant white as it sucked up the silvery substance into its metal-mashing molecules. Bo closed her eyes against the blinding light . . .

  Then, suddenly, she heard a shout from Henmir and a squeaky flapping noise.

  With a surge of excitement, she opened her eyes to find the little Viking zooming about the room like a deranged parrot – wearing the professor’s battered mechanical wings! Henmir thumped into Mookow and sent the ter-moo-nator staggering into Gaur. Together they crashed into the lab bench and fell in a heap, while the tiny Dane flapped on in a crazy circle.

  “You did it, Henmir!” Bo shouted. “You sneaked into the magic wings, just as I told you!”

  “Being so small, no one noticed him slipping them on!” said Gruntbag proudly.

  “I wish they had!” said McMoo crossly
.

  “But it’s a fab distraction,” Bo argued. “Gaur told us the wings wouldn’t hold our weight, but they can still support a pint-sized Viking. Now quick, get me off this electric stretcher so we can all escape.”

  But just then, Henmir swooped down and smashed into the booby-trapped wire. There was a flash of sparks as the wire snapped and the wings blew apart, flinging the little man to the floor.

  “Oh, Henmir,” groaned McMoo, rushing over to check he was OK. “If only you’d held off for just a few moments longer . . .”

  “Attention, cow-lions!” A furious Gaur had pulled himself up by his microphone. “Return to the lab at once. Eat the girl and the two puny Vikings!”

  “No!” McMoo shouted. “Bo didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  “I flipping did!” Bo retorted.

  “And I won’t help you if you hurt the three of them,” McMoo went on quickly.

  Mookow was back on his mechanical feet. “You have no choice. Remember, Pat Vine is in our power. He will take their place as hostage.”

  Suddenly the main door slid open and the two cow-lions pounced inside.

  “Uh-oh.” McMoo grabbed some scissors from the table and sliced through Bo’s straps. “Time to get moo-ving!”

  Gruntbag helped Bo roll off and stood protectively in front of her. “Foul freaks of nature,” he cried, “eat me first!”

  “Or better yet, try a mouthful of stretcher!” As the fearsome beasts advanced, McMoo tipped the trolley on top of them and pinned the cow-lions to the ground. He flashed a quick grin at Gruntbag. “Couldn’t let you get eaten after acting as brave as that, could I?”

  “Me, brave? I . . . I suppose I was.” The Viking beamed. “I never knew I had it in me!”