Invasion of the Junkyard Hog

by Bill Doyle

  “Hhhs,” she said.

  A loud, wet sniff came from outside the holes in the wall. Keats caught sight of a huge brown hairy nostril. Then the nose pulled out of view.

  Keats heard flapping sounds. It was as if a giant bird were flying away.

  “Well, that was—” Beatrice started to say, and Lillian finished for her, “Nuf.”

  KEATS DIDN’T DARE move from his spot on the floor for a couple seconds. Was the junkyard hog coming back?

  “Uh, right … fun,” Henry finally said. He gave Keats a hand up. Shaken, Keats steered clear of the long jagged hole in the wall.

  “Oh, don’t worry!” Beatrice said. “The hog is probably searching for more magical items. It really wants the compass. Once it finds that, the spell we cast to keep the hog in the junkyard will be broken. It can fly off to any part of the world it likes. That’s why you have to find the compass first!”

  “Okaaay,” Henry said. His eyes had gotten wider and wider as Beatrice spoke. “You know what, Keats? It’s my World’s Greatest Plan that we go get lunch. Now. We can come back later.” He was scratching his chin.

  “Sure,” Keats pretended to agree. Getting attacked by a flying hog wasn’t his idea of a good way to spend a summer morning. Still he felt a little guilty. He asked the sisters, “Maybe Mr. Cigam could help you find the compass?”

  “Archibald?” Beatrice scoffed. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, dear, but he’s rather mixed up lately.”

  “Yeah, we’ve definitely noticed,” Henry said.

  Lillian must have sensed they meant to leave for good. “Esaelp!” she said.

  “Please,” Beatrice said. “Just keep the wand zipped up tight and the hog won’t smell it. If you don’t find the compass, we’ll be stuck here forever.”

  “Reverof,” Lillian said sadly.

  Shaking his head, Henry said, “This place is huge. Where would we start looking?”

  The sisters laughed. “You’re asking us for directions?” Beatrice said.

  “Syot!” Lillian chirped.

  “True,” Beatrice said with a nod. “Archibald brought the compass here with old toys. You could start in the junkyard’s toy zone. It’s right on the path. You can’t miss it.”

  The sisters were bumping Henry and Keats toward the door. After several tries, Lillian opened it.

  “Which path?” Henry asked.

  “There’s only one,” Beatrice answered. “It makes a big circle through the junkyard. If you follow it, you’ll end up back here. Just stay away from the center.”

  “Wait … why?” Keats asked, but the sisters were pushing them through the doorway.

  “Don’t worry,” Beatrice said. “When you find the compass, stop the spinning needle. We’ll come to you!”

  With that she closed the door. The cousins heard the lock turn from inside. Henry and Keats stood facing the shack.

  “Hold on,” Keats said, dazed. “What just happened?”

  “I think we agreed to find a magic compass in a huge junkyard that’s been invaded by a flying hog,” Henry said. He turned toward the junkyard gate. “But there’s our way out.”

  More banging came from inside the shed. Keats could imagine the sisters bumping into each other.

  Keats sighed. “We have to help them, Henry.” He stared up into the clear, sunny sky. “Besides, there’s no sign of the hog.”

  “Chicken is great for lunch, but who wants to be one?” Henry said. He winked at Keats. “All right. We’ll do it. We’ll just stay on the path.”

  Side by side, the cousins walked away from the shed, deeper into the junkyard. The path curved through walls of tubs, sinks, and toilets.

  “This must be the bathroom junk,” Keats said. Then he pointed to piles of dishwashers, stoves, and microwaves up ahead. “And there’s the kitchen area.”

  “What’s in here?” Keats stopped to look in a steel bin next to the path.

  Henry lifted out a handful of cabinet knobs. “They must strip everything down and sort the parts,” he said. He tossed the knobs back in the bin and wiped his hands on his pants.

  Keats opened the next bin. It was filled with showerheads.

  “The sisters forgot to tell us what the compass looks like,” Keats said as he stood on his toes to peek inside.

  “Not to worry,” Henry said. “I bet we’ll know it when we see it. It’s bound to be pretty strange!”

  They hiked through a canyon of tractor mowers. After that came busted red wagons, rusty swing sets, and broken bicycle frames.

  “I think we’ve entered the toy zone,” Keats said.

  Henry spotted something in the dirt. “Hoofprints, cuz!” he cried happily. “The junkyard hog has been here!”

  Glancing up at the sky, Keats gasped. “Why do you sound like you want to throw a party?”

  “The hog can smell magic, right?” Henry said. “Maybe he was on the scent of the magic compass.”

  They followed the tracks to a clump of half-buried toys next to the wall of wagons.

  From the hoof marks everywhere, it was clear the hog had been digging up the toys. Keats saw the tail of a rocking horse, the head and arms of a monkey holding cymbals, and two blades from a remote-control helicopter.

  Closer to the wall, the hog had dug a deeper hole.

  Henry crouched down next to it. “I wonder what the hog was after in here.…” He reached inside and felt around with his hand. “A-ha!” he said.

  Keats’s hopes shot up. “Is it the compass?”

  Henry pulled his hand out. Instead of a compass, he was gripping a rusty toy dog the size of a loaf of bread. It had metal springs for legs and a steel tube for a body. Its two ears looked like flattened soda cans. A small wrench was clamped in its mouth like a bone.

  “Check it out.” Henry ran his finger along the side of the toy. Someone had scratched PROPERTY OF A. CIGAM in the metal.

  “A. Cigam?” Henry said. “That must be Mr. Cigam! We found his old toys!”

  Keats shook his head. Something didn’t make sense here. “Why would he bury them?” he asked.

  Shrugging, Henry flipped the toy’s power switch. Nothing happened. “Looks like the battery is dead.” Henry gave the dog a shake. Some rust fell off.

  Keats squinted. “There’s something else written on the battery compartment.”

  “You’re right,” Henry said. “It says, Better bet—” He stopped to wipe off a clump of dirt.

  As Henry took a breath to keep reading, Keats had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Mr. Cigam was a magician. This could be a spell. “Wait, Henry!” he said.

  Too late. Henry read, “Better bet this battered battery will be better yet.”

  There was a sizzling sound, then—

  Boing!

  The toy dog’s brown marble eyes flew open. It squirmed out of Henry’s hands, and its rusty legs hit the ground with a creaky bounce.

  “Stunner,” Henry said. But it wasn’t just the dog that came to life. Every toy within the sound of Henry’s voice was moving. The rocking horse’s tail twitched. The monkey’s head spun. And between the cousins and the path, the blades of the half-buried helicopter waggled in the dirt.

  “What’s going on?” Henry said. “I didn’t use the wand!”

  “It must be a wandless spell!” Keats said. “It made dead batteries work again.”

  The toy dog started yapping with a tinny bark and bouncing in circles. Then it clattered off down the path.

  ZINK! The helicopter freed itself, popping up out of the ground. The toy’s blades spun quickly into a blur. It hovered, then lurched sideways.

  Now, inches off the ground, the rotor whirled toward Henry and Keats like a giant ceiling fan.

  “What kind of toy is that?” Henry asked.

  “One that you’d want to bury in a junkyard,” Keats said. “That’s why Mr. Cigam dug holes for all this stuff!”

  The cousins backed up between two bins of metal parts. Soon they were pressed up against the wall of
red wagons.

  The helicopter had them trapped. Henry found a rock by his feet and threw it at the toy. With a few sparks, the blades cracked the rock into pieces and kept spinning.

  Henry and Keats tried to squeeze past the helicopter one way and then the other. But it flew back and forth, blocking them.

  The blades were fifteen feet from them and coming closer each second.

  “We need to do something fast!” Henry shouted. “Try the wand, Keats!”

  Desperate, Keats unzipped the backpack on Henry’s back and pulled out the wand.

  “Quick!” Henry said. “Make up a spell!”

  Keats’s mind raced. “Um, halt that helicopter, so it won’t, uh …” He trailed off. “I can’t think of a word that rhymes with helicopter!”

  “Magic doesn’t have to be perfect!” Henry said as the blades sliced closer, blowing back their hair. “Say anything!”

  Keats was still drawing a blank. He just waved the wand at the whirling rotor. “I need a rhyme!” he shouted. “Nothing is happening!”

  “Wrong,” Henry said. “Look!”

  He pointed up, past the sideways helicopter. The blue sky wasn’t empty anymore. A creature the size of a couch with giant flapping wings blotted out the sun.

  The flying hog was heading straight at them.

  AS IT FLEW closer, the cousins got their first good look at the junkyard hog.

  “Holy moly,” Keats whispered.

  It was like a farm hog inflated to ten times its normal size. Brown-feathered wings had grown on both sides of the hog’s back. Clumps of black hair and warts sprouted from its pink skin and around its red eyes. But what really caught Keats’s attention were the sharp white tusks on either side of its long snout.

  “Put the wand away!” Henry shouted. Keats shoved the wand into the backpack and zipped it up.

  The hog circled once. Then it swooped in about thirty feet over their heads.

  They had to escape, but there was nowhere to run. The helicopter still had them trapped.

  “Yooodooohooo!” the hog yodeled. As Keats looked up, the hog’s wings folded back against its body. It plummeted at them.

  “Incoming!” Henry cried.

  The hog missile was moving so fast, the pink skin rippled on its face. Keats could tell its body wasn’t made for flying. Instead of a straight line, the hog dive-bombed on a wobbly course.

  “I have an idea!” Henry said. He jerked one way and then another. The helicopter zigged and zagged with him. Henry faked going right. The blades went right.…

  “Now!” Henry pulled Keats forward and to the left. Keats felt the blades bite into the air inches from his body. The cousins barely slipped between the bin and the helicopter.

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. The flying hog tried to change course in midair, aiming for the cousins. It wobbled and—

  Sping!

  The hog nicked the back of one of the blades. The helicopter rammed into the dirt and got stuck again.

  The impact sent the junkyard hog out of control. It spiraled through the air and into the wall of wagons.

  CRASH!

  Keats glanced back while he ran. The hog thudded onto the spot right where the cousins had been. With a huge snort, it shook itself, sending dirt flying. Then, spreading its wings, it rose into the air again.

  “The hog’s coming back!” Keats said. “Keep moving!”

  The cousins scrambled farther down the path. Behind them, the wall of wagons made a creaking sound. With a snap, it started to collapse.

  “Avalanche!” Henry shouted. He and Keats ducked behind a bin of broken lamp stands.

  The wall of red wagons crashed over the path like a tidal wave. With a clamor that hurt Keats’s ears, the wagons buried the helicopter and the rest of Mr. Cigam’s toys.

  But the chaos didn’t end there. Like dominoes, the wagons knocked into the wall of bikes, which fell into the swing sets. Dirt swirled and shot into the air as everything came smashing down.

  And then the junkyard was quiet.

  Breathing hard, the cousins stared at the disaster. Slowly the dust clouds settled. Keats searched the sky for the hog. It was gone … for now.

  “I have to say I’m rethinking this job,” Henry murmured. “Being a chicken is sounding better and better.”

  Keats was still stunned. “That hog only wanted the wand,” he said softly. “Not us, or the magic toys.”

  “Why are we just standing here?” Henry said, throwing up his hands. “This is nuts!”

  Keats nodded and snapped out of it. “When you’re right, you’re right,” he said. “Let’s get our bikes and go home. The sisters will have to find the compass another way.”

  The cousins headed back toward the toy zone. A twenty-foot mountain of caved-in wagons and bikes and swing sets blocked the path.

  “We can climb over,” Henry said. But it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Keats put his foot on a bike frame to step over a swing set. His foot slipped and the junk higher up tumbled toward him. The handle of a wagon whacked into his shoe.

  “Ouch!” Keats said. He tried again. Each time he set off mini junk slides.

  “Whoa!” Henry said. “This is dangerous.”

  “We can’t get back,” Keats said miserably. “We’re stuck.”

  Henry shook his head. “The path is one big circle, right? We can keep going around until we come back to the front gate. Who knows? We might find a shortcut on the way.”

  Keats looked at the sky. Still no sign of the hog. “Okay,” he said with a nod. After all, what choice did they have?

  They took the path away from the destroyed toy zone and sped through the restaurant and movie theater areas. Giant popcorn makers that still smelled like fake butter were piled high.

  “So what does magic smell like to the flying hog?” Henry asked. “Popcorn, maybe?”

  Keats shrugged. Henry was trying to distract him from the hog. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Must smell like something good,” Henry said. “For me, it’d be like grassy football cleats. For you, I bet it’d be the smell you get when you flip the pages of an old book.”

  This actually made Keats smile. “Good one, Henry.”

  The cousins walked and walked. Soon the walls of junk were a blur of rusty machines and strange parts. They didn’t stop to look in any of the bins. Keats just wanted to get out of there.

  Henry asked, “Do you think the compass was buried back there under the wagons?”

  Keats shook his head. “The hog gave up digging around the toys,” he said. “And if it had found the compass, the sisters said it would have flown away. No, I bet the compass is still somewhere in the junkyard.”

  Just then the hairs on the back of Keats’s neck stood on end. He slowed down.

  “What is it, Keats?” Henry asked.

  “Shhh,” Keats whispered. “Something is following us.”

  “I know.” Henry chuckled. “It’s called bad luck.”

  Fa-ping. A metallic shuffling noise came from the nearby pile of coffeemakers. Keats’s stomach flip-flopped.

  “Don’t panic,” Henry said. “Maybe it’s a big mouse?”

  Crash! A coffee can lid rolled across the path like a tumbleweed. Something had knocked it loose.

  “A very big mouse?” Henry added.

  “It could be the hog,” Keats whispered. He checked to make sure the wand was still zipped up tight.

  Henry shook his head. “I don’t think sneakiness is a huge thing with the hog.” He turned and called back, “Hello? Who’s there?”

  No answer. Suddenly Keats didn’t want to find out who—or what—it was.

  The cousins moved ahead more quickly. The noise trailed behind them. Soon Henry and Keats were running. Still the noise got closer. Whatever was making it would catch up to them in just a few seconds.

  They dashed around a sharp turn and nearly slammed into eight big blue metal barrels.

  “We can’t outrun it,” Henry said. �
��We have to hide until it goes past.” He tipped an empty barrel back so Keats could see the bottom was missing.

  “There’s not room in there for both of us,” Keats said.

  “You get inside this one,” Henry said. “And I’ll take that one. Hurry!”

  Keats nodded. As Henry tilted up his own barrel, Keats crawled under the lip of the other one. Inside, tiny dots of light came through the rusted top.

  “Henry?” Keats whispered.

  “Shhh, it’s coming,” Henry said.

  There was a clanking sound. Keats held his breath. Suddenly he heard Henry shout, “A-ha!”

  Henry was in trouble! Keats had to help! He lifted the bottom of the barrel too fast, and the whole thing toppled over. It rolled a couple times with him still inside.

  Keats finally crawled out feetfirst. “I’m coming, Henry!”

  Dizzy, he staggered in the wrong direction, and then stumbled into Henry. His cousin was grinning at him. “You were really on a roll there, Keats,” Henry said.

  Something was bouncing around Henry’s feet. It took a second for Keats to focus.

  It was Mr. Cigam’s toy dog!

  “He survived the avalanche,” Henry said. “He must have been following us.”

  The dog spun in small circles, yapping again and again.

  Henry knelt down and held out his hand to the dog. “Hey, little guy, take it easy or you’ll blow a fuse,” he said. “What should we call him, Keats?”

  Keats shrugged. He started to answer Henry when the toy dog leapt in the air and nipped at his fingers. Even with the little wrench still in its mouth, it hurt! So instead of “Fido,” what came out of Keats’s mouth was “Fi—Don’t!”

  Henry grinned. “Fidon’t is a weird name, but I like it. What do you think, Fidon’t?” The dog spun in more circles. “I wonder if he can do any other tricks.”

  “I don’t know if spinning is really a trick,” Keats said.

  “This one might save us time.” Henry waved his index finger at the dog. “Find a shortcut, Fidon’t.”

  The toy dog wiggled like he was shaking off robot fleas. When Henry repeated “Find a shortcut,” Fidon’t scratched his tin ear with a hind leg.