Beware the Fisj

by Gordon Korman

“Intruders halt!” shrieked a voice in the distance.

  “A perfect ending to a perfect evening!” moaned Boots.

  “Here she comes again,” agreed Cathy. “You guys get going.”

  “What about you?” asked Bruno.

  “Oh, don’t worry about us,” said Cathy. “If she catches us, we’ll just tell her you’ve been terrorizing us again.”

  Carrying their equipment, the three boys vaulted the fence and ran off into the night.

  * * *

  Featherstone cruised aimlessly, alert for anything unusual that might be part of Operation Flying Fish. All was quiet. The farmhouses were dark, the fields deserted.

  Suddenly he heard a strange distant humming noise. He rolled down the window to listen. Yes, it was definitely a hum, and it was growing louder. He stopped the car and stuck his head out the window.

  “What the heck?” he gasped.

  In the sky, approaching rapidly from the south, was a brightly lit UFO.

  There was a sudden screeching of brakes, and Featherstone turned just in time to see another car skid out and around in front of him, missing him by a hair. He gaped in horror. It was the man from room 14, the Fish! It was a trap! He had been lured out here onto a lonely road …

  The UFO was almost upon him now, but the Fish was blocking the highway. Blindly Featherstone pushed the accelerator to the floor. The small car shot off the road and smashed through an old wooden fence, coming to rest in the middle of a large pigpen. Frightened, squealing pigs stampeded through the hole in the fence, disappearing into the night.

  Featherstone kicked madly at the gas pedal. The tires spun in the mud, but the car would not move. Desperately he looked around. He could see the UFO clearly now as it bore down on him from the sky, its red and green lights outlining a round body.

  Plop! The object landed in the mud of the pigpen not a metre from the car.

  “Take cover!” shouted Featherstone to himself. Frantically he kicked the door open and threw himself out of the car to land face-down in the slop trough. He lay there tensely, waiting for an explosion. Nothing happened.

  Cautiously he stole a look at the device. The green and red lights were flickering out, and the hum was dying. Slowly he picked himself up out of the trough and stood, dripping slops, staring down at the ball lying in the mud. The hum was gone now, the lights out. The sole remaining pig approached the now-dead UFO and rooted at it with his snout. Then, finding it of little interest, he too trotted out through the hole Featherstone’s car had made in the fence.

  Covered in mud and pig slops, Featherstone tried to evaluate the situation he found himself in. Once again he could remember no precedent in the RCMP training manual. He glanced back at the road. The man from room 14 had left the scene. The round object, whatever it was, seemed to present no immediate danger. The first order of business, then, must be to extricate himself from the muck of the pigpen and get the UFO back to his motel room for examination. Featherstone wrinkled his nose ruefully — and a shower wouldn’t hurt.

  He glanced at his car. The mud was over the hubcaps. It was a job for a tow-truck, possibly even a wrecker. From his pocket he produced an identification card, and with his index finger, wiped the mud from its face. He placed it under the windshield wiper for the benefit of the farmer, who was in for a shock. Then he tucked the surprisingly light UFO under his arm and began the long walk to Chutney, leaving a trail of mud and slime behind him.

  * * *

  “Miss Scrimmage,” demanded Mr. Sturgeon into the telephone, “do you realize that it is almost two in the morning? … My boys were there doing what? … Bombs? Oh, yes, atomic bombs, no doubt … Oh, just ordinary bombs. Really, Miss Scrimmage, you must attempt to control your imagination. My boys do not have access to bombs … That’s right, especially not flying bombs with red and green lights … Yes, well, Miss Scrimmage, sometimes our eyes deceive us. We’ve all been under considerable stress lately. Goodnight.”

  He turned to his wife. “Mildred, according to Miss Scrimmage, our boys laid down an artillery barrage on their campus tonight.”

  “That’s nice,” murmured Mrs. Sturgeon sleepily. “Go back to sleep, dear.”

  Chapter 11

  In the Name of the Law

  “That Cathy!” muttered Bruno at the lunch table the following day. “I’d like to string her up by her ears!”

  “It was just an accident, Bruno,” argued Boots protectively. “She didn’t mean it.”

  “It was also a flaw in my reasoning,” admitted Elmer. “Because of the tremendous speed of the craft, I should have expanded the range of the controls.” He sighed. “It was out of range in less than three seconds.”

  “Still,” snapped Bruno, “that dippy girl —”

  He was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance to the dining hall. The three boys ran to the centre of the disturbance. There, surrounded by a crowd of laughing students, marched a large pig. The animal was examining his new surroundings and glaring at the boys reproachfully as if they were trespassing on his territory.

  “Hot gazoobies!” cried Bruno in delight. “We haven’t had a guest for lunch since I don’t know when!”

  “This is our first pig,” added Boots.

  “Except for Wilbur!” shouted someone.

  “Shut up!”

  “Tell him to go away! There’s not enough food here for us, let alone him!”

  “Maybe he likes spinach!”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know. Hey! He’s eating my lunch!”

  “Just like Wilbur!”

  “I said shut up!”

  “Do you think we can keep him?”

  “Keep whom?” asked a quiet voice from the doorway. A hush fell as Mr. Sturgeon entered the dining hall. His steely grey eyes surveyed the students and finally came to rest on the pig, whose head was now buried deep in one of the garbage cans. “May I ask how that creature came to be here?”

  “He just arrived, sir,” offered Bruno.

  “I see,” said the Headmaster. “By any chance, did anyone here assist his arrival?”

  Nobody answered.

  The silence was interrupted by the grinding of a truck motor outside. Mr. Sturgeon glanced outdoors to see a truckload of pigs pull up in front of the flagpole. “You will all remain here,” he ordered, “and restrain the movements of that animal. I believe we shall be rid of him in a moment.” He went out and motioned to the farmer to drive his truck up to the dining hall.

  “Afternoon,” said the farmer. “You folks got any of my pigs here?”

  Mr. Sturgeon smiled. “We do indeed.”

  “Darndest thing I ever saw,” said the farmer, getting out of his truck. “Woke up this morning and found a car sitting in my pigpen. Big hole in the fence and all the pigs gone. Later some young fellow comes down with a tow-truck. They haul the car out of the pen and this guy gives me some money for the damages. Claims he was forced off the road by a flying bomb with red and green lights. Did you ever hear a story like that?”

  Mr. Sturgeon choked. “A flying bomb with red and green lights,” he repeated oddly. “There — seems to be a lot of that going around.”

  “First I heard of it,” remarked the farmer. “Hope my pig didn’t do any damage.”

  “No, indeed,” replied Mr. Sturgeon. “He’s just in here, and you’re quite welcome to him.”

  With the help of the boys of Macdonald Hall, the farmer loaded his pig onto the truck with the others and drove off.

  Mr. Sturgeon stood watching, scratching his head in utter confusion.

  * * *

  Featherstone sat on his bed turning the UFO over and over in his hands and observing it through a large magnifying glass. There was no doubt that it was some kind of device used by the notorious Fish, for written on the body of it in bold letters were the words M.H. Flying Fish.

  Although puzzled, Sergeant Featherstone was exhilarated. He had once more ruined the Fish’s operation. Unfortunately he h
ad also ruined his car, his clothing and his left ankle, which hurt abominably. The war against terrorism obviously had its fortunes, good and bad.

  M.H. Flying Fish. He puzzled over the letters M.H. Code, obviously. Well, his best bet was to hang around the room and hope for a fish broadcast on TV. Maybe that would add another clue.

  * * *

  “Mildred, am I going crazy?” asked Mr. Sturgeon over the dinner table.

  “Why, William, what an extraordinary question! Of course not! What makes you ask such a thing?”

  The Headmaster shook his head. “I’m not certain,” he replied. “I’ve got a phantom voice talking at me from the television set, and now Miss Scrimmage’s absurd story about red and green flying bombs seems to come from something other than her fevered imagination. That pig farmer knows someone who saw the same thing.” Violently he speared a piece of cauliflower. “I’d like to know what’s going on around here!”

  “There’s nothing going on around here, dear,” his wife soothed.

  “Well, then,” he sighed, “I guess I am going crazy.”

  “Now, William …”

  * * *

  “It’s hard to do homework,” exploded Bruno Walton angrily, “when tomorrow you may not have a classroom or a teacher to hand it in to!”

  “Meanwhile, the school is still here,” soothed Boots, “and Elmer says he’ll build another aircraft.”

  “Sure he will,” said Bruno unhappily. “But right now he’s on an overnight field trip with that enriched science group of his. That’s twenty-four hours lost — twenty-four hours closer to having the Hall bought and paid for by some dippy developer. I just can’t concentrate on math when the whole world is coming to an end!”

  “Go talk to your fish,” suggested Boots sarcastically. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  “Good idea. I think I need it.” Bruno got up and made his way over to Elmer’s PIT system.

  * * *

  This is the Fish Patrol in 201, came the voice. Our Flying Fish flew away. In fact, things are so rotten around here that even the pigs won’t stay. But we’ll fight to the bitter end! Beware the Fish!

  Mr. Sturgeon grasped the arms of his chair and sat bolt upright. “201,” he repeated. “2–0–1! Walton!”

  “Pardon me, dear?” questioned his wife.

  The Headmaster rose and began to pace nervously. “It has to be! That’s his voice! The flying fish! The pigs won’t stay! Walton!”

  “William, you’re not making sense!” she protested.

  He did not even hear her.

  “But how?” he asked aloud. An awful picture began forming in his mind, a picture of Bruno Walton doing all the things Miss Scrimmage had accused the school of. She had raved about bombs, beatings, terrorist activities! What if she were right?

  But that was ridiculous! How could she be right? Those pop cans — what did they have to do with it? What was Walton up to? Where would he get a flying bomb? What was the purpose of the big orchestra? Could he possibly be spending all that time at Scrimmage’s, as much time as the regular complaints from the Headmistress indicated? And where did they fit in, anyway? What about Miss Scrimmage’s tale of a member of his staff running about in his underwear? That couldn’t have happened! What was this fish patrol and all the talk about fighting to the bitter end? It all had no meaning. And, most perplexing of all, how could Walton insert himself on television that way, seemingly at will? The entire thing was absolutely impossible! Jumping to hysterical conclusions was Miss Scrimmage’s province. It wasn’t for the staid, sensible Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. And yet …

  Before his wife’s astonished eyes, he rushed to the telephone and dialled a number.

  “Hello, Flynn? Sturgeon here. I want you to send Bruno Walton over here immediately … No, to my home … At once, please … Thank you.”

  * * *

  “Have I done anything lately?” asked Bruno after Flynn had delivered the Headmaster’s message.

  “What kind of a question is that?” demanded Boots nervously. “We’ve all done quite a lot lately!”

  “No, I mean what have I done that The Fish would know about?” insisted Bruno, unperturbed.

  “I’ve got a feeling that The Fish always knows what we’re doing, every minute of every day,” mourned Boots. “Bruno, what if he knows what’s been going on?”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Bruno. “How could he know? I see I’m not going to get any sense out of you, so I guess I’ll have to go over there and ask The Fish himself.”

  “Good luck,” murmured Boots, truly concerned.

  Puzzled, Bruno jogged across the campus. He had never been ordered to the Headmaster’s home before. What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait for normal office hours? Oh well, he thought, employing one of his staunchest philosophies: never worry about what you can’t avoid, there’s only one way to find out. He approached the Headmaster’s door and rang the bell.

  Mr. Sturgeon opened the door and fixed his visitor with the coldest of fishy stares.

  “You sent for me, sir?”

  “I did,” replied the Headmaster grimly. He looked into Bruno’s innocent, questioning eyes and was struck dumb. Even before the boy’s arrival, the Headmaster had not been sure of what he was going to say. Now he was even more uncertain. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous. How could he make such wild accusations to one of his students?

  “Uh — sit down, Walton,” he said, ushering Bruno into the living room. His wife had retreated upstairs. He paused, desperately trying to think how to phrase what he wanted to say.

  “Yes, sir?” Bruno prompted.

  “Lately,” the Headmaster began slowly, “a lot of peculiar things have been happening. For instance, Miss Scrimmage’s school has allegedly been suffering some extraordinary kinds of harassment, ranging from flying bombs to constant terrorism. Also, someone has been interfering with local television broadcasting. This whole part of the county has been complaining of seeing a large fish and hearing a voice speaking of a fish patrol.”

  Bruno turned a sickly shade of grey. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

  “In a broadcast this evening,” the Headmaster went on, “reference was made to some things which might pertain to Macdonald Hall.” His voice took on a firm, commanding tone. “I have no proof, of course, and therefore I am not making any accusations. However, my main message is this: tomorrow morning, classes will be delayed. At nine o’clock sharp there will be a complete and thorough dormitory inspection of every room, made by me personally. I had better find everything in perfect order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bruno barely whispered.

  “That will be all,” said Mr. Sturgeon, standing up. “You are dismissed.”

  Bruno left the Headmaster’s residence and dashed across the campus like an Olympic sprinter. By the time he reached room 201 in Dormitory 2 he was breathless and even paler than before.

  “Bruno, what’s wrong? What happened?” cried Boots anxiously.

  “I’m going to kill Elmer Drimsdale!” panted Bruno, rushing over to the black box and ripping out wires at random. “Every time I’ve used this miserable tin-plated piece of garbage I’ve been on television! That dumb salmon poster and every word I’ve said! The Fish heard it all! All my fish jokes! Everything!”

  Boots collapsed onto his bed. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Bruno. “This thing has been broadcasting to the whole area! Wait till I get my hands on Elmer!”

  “The Fish knows!” moaned Boots.

  “The Fish suspects,” corrected Bruno, calming down. “Tomorrow morning there’s going to be a big dorm inspection. And by the time that inspection rolls around, this kamikaze camcorder and all the other junk in this room are going to be gone!”

  “Everything?” asked Boots.

  “Everything,” said Bruno grimly. “Miss Scrimmage has been complaining about all the stuff we’ve done. If The Fish makes the connection between her complaints and Elmer’s gear, there’l
l be hot gazoobies all over the place! We have to get rid of everything, even the stuff we’ve had nothing to do with.”

  “What about Elmer?” asked Boots. “Those things are all his. He’ll have a fit when he gets back.”

  “Either he gets upset or we all get expelled,” said Bruno. “Take your choice.”

  “What are we going to do with it?” demanded Boots, beginning to panic.

  “We can bury it,” decided Bruno.

  “That’s ridiculous!” howled Boots. “Do you think The Fish won’t notice a huge patch of turned-up earth?”

  “We can bury it in the big sand pit by the road,” insisted Bruno, “the one we use for high-jump. The PIT system, it goes in the pit.”

  “There’s so much stuff!” moaned Boots. “It would take us a month to bury all this!”

  “That’s why we have to have help,” said Bruno. “We’ll recruit some guys. Right now.”

  Both boys got up and headed for the door.

  “I don’t believe it!” muttered Bruno, looking back at the black box. “I just don’t believe it!”

  * * *

  Featherstone paced his small room, frowning. The latest fish broadcast had stated that the flying fish had flown away. That was no help — he knew it already. The flying fish was sitting on his night table. “The pigs won’t stay” obviously referred to the unfortunate incident with the pigpen and the farmer who hadn’t believed him. There had been no reference to the meaning of the code letters M.H. The only new piece of information had been the introduction of the number 201. What it could mean, Featherstone had no idea.

  His stomach rumbled and he remembered that he had missed dinner. The thought of another hamburger made him wince, and the diner across the road served nothing but sticky spaghetti, rubber sandwiches and concrete meat loaf. He had to have some variety. He picked up the telephone book and began to look in the Yellow Pages under “Restaurants.”

  An ad for a local eating place caught his eye. “Mister Halibut Fish and Chips,” he read aloud. “201 Oak Road, Chutney.” He closed the book. A strange feeling was coming over him, a feeling that there was something familiar about what he had just read. “201 Oak Road,” he repeated, starting for the door.