The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  Bolt kept his eyes closed, continuing to shake his head and thinking more non-hateful thoughts: Parenthood. Brotherhood. Sisterhood. Anything-hood, really.

  “Look! The fog is lifting!” cried Annika.

  The boat wailed with each collision: THWACK! THUD! THKK!

  Humans and penguins, living in harmony. Happiness. Joy.

  “I don’t know what you’re doin’, Bolt, but keep doin’ it!” shouted Blackburn.

  Love, love, love, love . . .

  “Grab that rope, missy!”

  As the boat lurched, Bolt opened his eyes. The fog had partly lifted, just enough for them to see the ship’s deck and a few yards past it. Blackburn steered to portside, narrowly avoiding a rock in front of them as Annika pulled a rope to straighten the main mast.

  The pirate steered to the starboard side, avoiding another boulder.

  Had Bolt really cleared the fog? Bolt almost wished he hadn’t, as the fog had hid the hazardous mess around them. Cloudy wisps danced among the boulders jutting up from the water, revealing scattered ship remains and wooden planks floating around them. It was like a graveyard of broken boats. If the fog had not dispersed, the Bobbing Borscht would have certainly been among them.

  Blackburn steered around the destruction. In the distance they could now see a small island through the lingering strands of hate mist.

  “That must be Pingvingrad,” said Blackburn as the broken mast of a shipwrecked boat nudged against their prow. “Just in time, too.”

  The Bobbing Borscht was near the island now, so close they could see the waves of the Blackest-Deadest Sea splashing upon its snow-spotted beaches and against broken ship parts half buried in the sand.

  But the island itself was as thick with hate as the fog was. Dismal worry filled Bolt’s brow.

  “Your brow is all wrinkly, as if it is filled with dismal worry,” Annika said. Bolt could only nod and notice that Annika’s brow was just as wrinkled.

  Beyond the beach were trees. Somewhere past them, deep inside the bowels of the small island, was the fortress of PEWD. Much of the hate came from there. Bolt was sure of it.

  7.

  The Island

  As Bolt scanned the beach, Annika stood next to him. “I don’t see any penguins patrolling the area,” she said.

  “They don’t need to,” said Bolt, shivering from the cold he felt inside him. “That mist was the island’s protection. Most ships end up smashed.”

  “The mist is mostly gone now,” said Blackburn. “Hope-fully, it will never send another boat to Davey Jones’s locker.”

  “Hopefully,” agreed Bolt, although he wasn’t so sure if his fix was anything but temporary.

  SCRZZXX! The ship’s hull scraped against an unseen boulder in the water underneath them.

  “Borscht! I don’t dare get much closer to the island. These boulders are everywhere.” Blackburn pointed to a rocky crag past the beach, beyond a clump of sea stacks. “We’ll go in over there.” There was a small cove nestled in front of the cliff wall.

  As the ship floated, Bolt stared out into the sea, and the few tendrils of hate mist that remained. How did someone thousands of miles away influence the weather of a remote island? Bolt closed his eyes, reaching out into the cosmos. The penguin-verse was everywhere. Could Bolt learn to harness that sort of power, too? He opened his mind and wondered if he could, with enough practice, change the world.

  “Are you OK?” Annika asked, and Bolt opened his eyes and was no longer elsewhere. “You have a strange look on your face, like you’re here, but not entirely here.”

  “Yeah, just thinking about the weather,” said Bolt. “And the world. Stuff like that.”

  “Well, stop it. You’re creeping me out.”

  “Sorry,” said Bolt. He wanted to tell her more, but she wouldn’t understand. How could she? He was a werepenguin, and that was hard enough to explain. How could he describe the vastness of the penguin-verse when he couldn’t even describe it to himself?

  “Borscht! We’ll need to leave the ship in the deeper water and row ashore in our lifeboat,” said Blackburn. Bolt and Annika watched as he threw over the anchor and lowered the masts, tied some ropes and untied others, and then began untying more ropes to lower the lifeboat. “While I’m heavin’ anchors overboard, tyin’ ropes and untyin’ ropes, and then lowerin’ a boat, ye both can just stand there and gawk. I don’t need any help. Really.” He threw them a sour look.

  Annika and Bolt apologized and helped Blackburn prepare the boat.

  A few minutes later the three of them sat in the small craft, Blackburn panting from all his heaving, tying, and lowering while Annika paddled them ashore. Bolt sat, thinking, paddling his mind through the island, trying to feel nearby penguins and sense the werepenguin dentist. But all he felt was the island’s hate.

  “Paddling this boat is exhausting,” wheezed Annika. “Why don’t you take a turn, Bolt?”

  “I’m doing my own metaphoric paddling,” he explained. Bolt felt hate squirm up his sinuses. He forced it away, breathing it out from his nose and, even more impressively, blowing it out from his ears.

  Bolt looked at Annika, her face grimacing with her paddling, but a scowl of determination in her eyes. She was ready for a fight; she always was. Blackburn, while panting, shared her look of fierceness. Bolt tried to scowl, too, but it felt strange to him. What was Bolt doing, floating into a harbor to steal a tooth and maybe fight a terrible werepenguin? He was so much more than he had been, but still wasn’t much of a warrior. He doubted he ever would be.

  “Something in your eye?” Annika asked.

  “No, I’m scowling,” said Bolt.

  “Well, stop that, too. It’s even more disturbing than that look you give when you’re here and not here.”

  Soon they were on the shore, the boat wedged onto the small sliver of sand and its occupants clambered off. Bolt stared up at the cliff’s steep face. It rose straight up, hundreds of feet high and every inch covered by a thin layer of ice. The cliff was so tall Bolt couldn’t even see the very top. He had never climbed anything before, not even a tree, but penguins are known for climbing ice cliffs.

  Unfortunately, penguins are also known for falling off ice cliffs.

  Penguins have webbed feet that are good for clinging to rocks, and beaks they can use to puncture small footholds in the sides. Bolt had neither webbed feet nor a beak, of course, but he would try his best. He edged his fingers into a crevice and pulled himself up while jamming a foot into a small crack. He did the same with another crevice and another crack. And another.

  Twenty or thirty crevices and cracks later and he was sweating, his arms and legs aching. Bolt peeked down, although he knew it’s never a good idea to look down when climbing something; it can make you dizzy. How high was he?

  He had climbed two and a half feet.

  “Ah, come on. That’s it?” he wailed.

  Annika and Blackburn were halfway across the cove. “There’s a footpath over here,” said Annika. “Why are you climbing that ice wall anyway?”

  With a relieved groan, Bolt dropped down to the ground.

  The footpath had been carved into the rock face, rising steeply along the edge of the cliff. It was a harrowing walk up the narrow path, where one slip could send you teetering over. The path did not appear to be used often, as patches of snow and ice covered much of it. Bolt wore an old pair of sneakers, and every time they slipped he was convinced he was going to fall to his doom. Fortunately, he didn’t.

  It was a long hike. Bolt, with his infused penguin blood, could walk for a long time. Annika was in excellent banditry shape. But halfway up, Blackburn looked like he was about to drop.

  “Borscht! I need a break,” the pirate complained. The path had leveled out, and he sat on the ground, breathing heavily. The pirate removed his boots and massaged his toes. “Me feet hurt
terribly. Pirate boots are made for sailin’, not climbin’.”

  As they rested, Bolt looked over the edge, giving himself a mild case of vertigo. The world spun and he gasped for breath, but the feeling was gone in an instant as his penguin senses took over. The cliff jutted out over the harbor, and Bolt could only see half the pirate ship below; once they reached the top of the cliff, it would be completely hidden from their view.

  Bolt removed his unicorn-and-rainbow backpack from around his shoulders. He never went anywhere without it now—he was so used to carrying it, he usually forgot he had it on. Fortunately, there were still a few dead fish packed along with his spare clothes. He grabbed one and bit off the tail, fish slime dribbling down his lips. He then put his lips against the fish’s body, sucking in some fish guts. Fish intestines clung to his chin.

  He looked up, and Annika and Blackburn were staring at him. Annika’s face was green. “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up just watchin’ ye eat,” agreed Blackburn.

  “Sorry,” said Bolt.

  Soon, they were on the march again. The path rose up steadily. Bolt made the mistake of looking down again and had to catch his breath as the world spun—they were so high!—but he cleared his head and kept climbing. Eventually, and after Blackburn had to rest two more times, they reached the top. In front of them was a dark forest, stretching in both directions. They had no choice but to head straight in.

  It was silent in the forest. Lifeless. The trees were without leaves, allowing the hazy sun to cast dark and eerie shadows through an endless scattering of gray twisting branches. The plants—and there were only a few—were nearly all brown and withered. It smelled like rot. Bolt and his friends continued forward without uttering a word.

  With every step, Bolt was more and more tempted to run back to the ship. But Annika’s and Blackburn’s determined scowls gave him strength. He considered trying to form his own scowl again, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort; Bolt would never be a scowler.

  He paused for a moment, sensing penguins, hundreds of them. It was all hazy, and Bolt couldn’t lock into any specific thought or mind, but there was no denying there was a lot of evil surrounding them. He could hear malicious penguin squawks and agitated feather rustling. “We’re close,” he said.

  They advanced slower now, and soon they neared the end of the tree line. They crept to the forest’s edge and peeked out from behind a large oak.

  It reminded Bolt of sticking your head into a sauna, except instead of hot steam he was hit with a wave of loathing. Fortunately, they saw no penguins—none in the wide dirt road that ran along the row of trees nor in the vast lawn beyond it. That lawn was filled with a smattering of small buildings, sheds, some garages, and, in the middle of them, a domed concrete structure as big as a football stadium.

  Bolt thought it might actually be a football stadium until he spotted the giant letters in red on its side:

  POOWD

  Penguins are poor spellers.

  The large building was so gloomy, its gray facade seemed to swallow the sun.

  “What do you think is inside that?” Annika asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Bolt. “But whatever it is, it’s filled with hate.” Thick, terrible hate that crawled up Bolt’s skin like tiny ants.

  For some reason, staring at the dome also made Bolt feel incredibly hungry.

  The entire complex was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with three feet of barbed wire wrapped around the top. The front gate was about a hundred yards away. It appeared to be unguarded, but seemed like a good place to avoid. If there were any alarms in the fortress, that is where they would be.

  Bolt felt penguins lurking inside the nearby buildings, working inside the sheds, and filling the massive concrete dome. He could feel something stronger, too. An evil more powerful than all the other evils around, and he knew it must be Dr. Walzanarz. She was close.

  But how close? He couldn’t tell for sure, and he also couldn’t tell how many penguins were around—not exactly, anyway. It was as if something was blocking Bolt, making everything fuzzy.

  He tried to reach through the penguin-verse, to unfuzzy that which was fuzzy.

  “You’re making that weirdo look again,” said Annika.

  Bolt gave up. He couldn’t break through that strange fuzz.

  Annika gestured to a small gate in the fence, not too far from where they stood. It was covered with heavy padlocks and chains. “We can go in there.”

  “It looks sort of locked,” said Bolt.

  Annika scoffed and pulled a couple of bobby pins from her hair. “I got it. No problem.” Annika was an expert lock-picker.

  “But penguins could come out at any moment,” warned Bolt, his birthmark tingling as it often did when danger was nearby. But the fuzziness kept him from knowing more.

  “I’ll be quick.” Before Bolt could protest again, Annika rushed toward the gate. He admired her courage, but was also a little jealous of it. If only he could be that brave!

  Bolt let his mind drift through the breeze again. So many penguins were lurking close by! But it was all so, so hazy.

  Wait.

  Oh no.

  He sensed a brute force so close, so vicious, even the fuzz couldn’t completely block it. A large group of penguins, two dozen or more, were in a nearby building, and they were about to come outside.

  Guards. On patrol.

  Meanwhile, Annika had reached the gate. She inserted two bobby pins into one of the padlocks. She twisted her pins, concentrating.

  Bolt tensed. As soon as the penguins waddled out of the building they would spot Annika. She needed to get out of there. Now.

  Stop! Bolt’s mind shouted toward the penguins, but it was like his thoughts were being absorbed by the fuzz before even reaching the birds. Bolt opened his mouth to scream, to get Annika’s attention instead, but then shut it. The penguins would hear his yell—that fuzziness blocked thoughts, not voices. Bolt jumped up and down and waved. He shot out wordless commands toward Annika. Look at me! Run! But Annika remained at work, concentrating on the lock. Bolt hopped and leapt, left and right and left.

  The door to the nearby building swung open. A webbed foot stepped outside.

  Bolt tried to reach into the penguin’s head again. Stop! Go back!

  Nope. Nothing.

  The penguin took a second step outside. The open door was blocking its view, but any moment it would see Annika.

  Stop! Bolt pushed his thoughts with everything he had inside him toward the penguin. Stop! Stop! Please, please, please!

  Annika continued playing with the locks, oblivious.

  Please! Stop! Bolt begged the penguin.

  The penguin stopped, one webbed foot out the door, one still inside. Had Bolt’s thoughts wiggled through the fuzz? He wasn’t sure of anything; all he knew was that another penguin barked loudly: Why did you stop? Move out of the way!

  Annika’s ears perked up when she heard the bark, and she dropped the lock, her eyes wide. She didn’t pause, not for a moment, but sprinted back toward Bolt and Blackburn. She hurled herself behind the tree line as twenty penguin guards stepped onto the lawn. Remarkably, they had not seen her.

  “Why didn’t you give a bird whistle to get my attention?” she asked Bolt in a panicked whisper as she huddled next to him behind the tree.

  “I jumped up and down,” said Bolt.

  “Bandits whistle.”

  “I didn’t know that. Next time,” Bolt promised.

  The penguins marched in a tight formation. They wore head mirrors strapped across their foreheads and carried rifles over their shoulders.

  No, wait. Those weren’t rifles; they were thick, three-foot-long toothbrushes. Still, they looked powerful. Bolt wouldn’t want to be brushed by one of them.
r />   The penguins high-stepped past the spot where Bolt and his friends hid in the shadows of the trees. Annika made a V with her fingers, pointed to her eyes and then to the penguins, and then jabbed her thumb to the left, right, drew a circle with her pinkie, pinched her middle finger, and then made her fingers hop up and down like she was doing the hand movements to “Little Bunny Foo Foo.”

  “What does any of that mean?” Bolt asked.

  Annika sighed. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t know secret bandit hand signals. Those locks on the gate are bobby-pin-proof. I was letting you know that I’m going to sneak up to the last marching penguin, take it prisoner, and force it to unlock the gate. Oh, and then I’m going to sing the ‘Little Bunny Foo Foo’ song.”

  “That’s a horrible plan,” said Bolt.

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  “How about we just go in there?” Blackburn pointed to a hole that led under the fence and onto the lawn. “Looks like it was dug by an animal.”

  The hole was as big as a person and went right under the fence. “But what sort of animal can dig a hole like that?” Bolt wondered.

  “Not any sort of animal I’d like to meet,” said Blackburn. “Just be thankful it’s not here now. Borscht!”

  “I’d still like to sing ‘Little Bunny Foo Foo’ first,” said Annika. “I love that song.” She quickly hummed the tune, performing the simple hand movements as she did.

  A minute later, after the high-stepping penguins had marched out of view and Annika had stopped humming, they scampered from their hiding spot toward the hole. After making sure no penguins were lurking nearby, Blackburn scrambled through. Annika followed, and Bolt prepared to climb under next.

  Come in. We’ve been expecting you, Bolt.

  Bolt’s spine jumped, and when your spine jumps but the rest of you stays planted, it can be quite unsettling. Bolt looked in all directions. He saw no one.

  “Are you coming?” asked Annika, standing next to Blackburn on the other side of the fence. She tapped her foot. “We’re sort of waiting here, you know.”