The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  Saytana snorted, and so did the Stranger. “I don’t remember much about my pre-penguin years, but I recall someone swiping my kite when I was, like, eight years old. Man, I was so bummed! I swore if I was ever given supernatural powers such as turning into a penguin, I would get revenge by ruling the world!” He spat on the ground and grinned, revealing small, short fangs in the back of his mouth.

  Bolt’s jaw dropped. Some dribble fell down his chin. “You want to destroy the world because you lost a kite?”

  “It was a very nice kite.”

  “But isn’t that sort of a ridiculous reason to want to rule the world?”

  “Who are you to judge?”

  Bolt gritted his teeth. He’d had much worse things happen to him than losing a kite, and he didn’t want to rule the world, or at least not usually. He had always assumed the Stranger wanted to rule because he was a werepenguin, and werepenguins were naturally evil.

  But could Bolt have been wrong? Maybe being a werepenguin didn’t make you evil at all. Maybe the Stranger had been foolish and twisted long before he had become a monster, and it was the Stranger’s powerful mind control, and that alone, that infused evil everywhere.

  Maybe werepenguins could be good inside. Were good inside.

  Bolt moved a finger. Then an arm. He felt the Stranger’s control lifting.

  Bolt knew what he had to do next. He would get to his feet, leap at the Stranger, and use the tooth to put a stop to this madness. He had to push aside the whole I cannot kill thing, for the good of humanity and penguin-dom! Bolt felt hate—hate for the Stranger—starting to rise up inside him. He crouched to jump. Well, he tried to crouch, but the Stranger’s mind was all around him again, clogging Bolt’s ears and his mouth, the wickedness tickling his throat. It was so thick, he could practically hear coughing.

  Was someone coughing? There was no one else here. He had just imagined it.

  “Bolt, I can control you as easily as a mouse can wag its tail! As easily as a fly can flap its wings, or as a zebra can change its stripes!”

  “Zebras can’t change their stripes,” said Bolt.

  “I think you’re wrong about that,” said the Stranger. “They just don’t like to talk about it. Anyway, you get the idea.”

  Bolt clenched his teeth. He was stronger than this! He needed to break these invisible chains! The penguin-verse was everywhere. Love was everywhere.

  He felt his legs tingle. Somehow, he was doing it. He shook a hand. An entire hand! It wasn’t much, but it was something. He wiggled his fingers.

  The Stranger had his back to Bolt, pacing, still thinking of his past, or his kite, or zebras. It didn’t matter, as long as he wasn’t looking as Bolt raised a leg. Bolt was fully standing now. No time to waste. He plowed forward, and—

  CRACK.

  Saytana slapped a silver wing at Bolt, smashing into his shoulder. Bolt had completely forgotten about the armored penguin! Bolt hoped the loud crack wasn’t a bone breaking. He didn’t think it was, but it really, really hurt.

  Bolt crumbled to the ground as pain shot up his arm.

  “You think you stand a chance?” said the Stranger, looking down at Bolt, yawning. “You can barely stand at all!”

  Just then, a voice popped inside Bolt’s head. Face it, Bolt. You want to rule!

  No, Bolt didn’t want that! Or did he? He felt the Stranger plucking parts of his brain like a puppet master pulling strings or, Bolt mused, like a zebra controlling its stripes.

  No! I must stop the Stranger! Bolt said to himself, his anger growing. I must attack!

  But even as these thoughts saturated his brain, Bolt couldn’t deny that he didn’t actually want to fight the Stranger. The Stranger was right about wanting to rule, wasn’t he? Bolt raised his hand and tapped his forehead in a military salute. His pain was gone. He stood up straight.

  “Don’t fight it, Bolt,” said the Stranger. “This is your destiny.”

  Those words were the last thing Bolt remembered before he heard a SNAP, like a rubber band breaking.

  “This is what you were chosen for, Bolt!”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Bolt, his voice monotone. “I accept who I am.”

  “Wait. Except or accept?” asked the Stranger.

  “Accept,” Bolt said. “Let’s take over the world.” And he meant every word of it.

  39.

  Rule!

  Bolt stared blankly, thinking: I am a werepenguin; penguins are my servants; people are my servants. I will spread misery and woe and, maybe, have a small snack.

  “Hey, man,” the Stranger said, sidling up to Bolt. “Thinking of misery and woe and having a small snack?” Bolt nodded. “I thought I recognized that look. The best part of ruling is the misery and woe, although the snacking is a gas, too.” He laughed. “You won’t think of doing much else, actually. And you’ll obey me, like the nice dog you are.”

  “Arf!” said Bolt. He briefly thought of Pygo, the penguin he knew from Sphen who had thought he was a puppy.

  The Stranger clapped Bolt on the back. “You were always the key. You and I will rule the world nicely. Or rather, evilly. There won’t be much niceness about it.”

  Bolt rubbed his hands together, enjoying the evil buzzing inside him. Even his birthmark tingled, but in a warm, happy way. He cackled. He actually cackled! And he sort of liked it. Maybe he should cackle more often.

  “Someone is on his way to help us, too,” said the Stranger.

  “Who?” Bolt asked.

  “We are penguins, not owls,” said the Stranger. “You’ll see. Now, come. I want to show you something.” He gestured toward the back entrance to the ice cave. “I think you’ll dig it.”

  Bolt followed the Stranger through a back door. The Stranger knew best. The Stranger was wise.

  Bolt’s brain felt as calm as a tranquil pond. He had fought the feelings of hate for so long that it felt good to finally give in to them. He felt a peacefulness and fullness he had not felt since he had turned into a midnight bird.

  This was who he was meant to be. A ruthless penguin! A leader! A king! Why had he ever thought of being anything else?

  All should fear Bolt the Terrible!

  He liked the sound of that. Bolt the Truly Terrible!

  Ooh, that was even better.

  Bolt the Truly Terrible and Vicious! . . . Nice.

  Bolt the Truly Terrible and Vicious and Savage Who Also Enjoyed Snacking! . . . A bit long, but accurate.

  They walked along the edge of the cave, Saytana clanking behind them. They stood on a ridge that overlooked a wide, long ravine where thousands of penguins stood, waiting. Bolt wondered if these penguins had been standing there for hours or if they had congregated from some mind control that Bolt had not detected. No matter. They stood there for him! His army!

  “Command them!” the Stranger encouraged Bolt.

  Bolt stared. Command them to do what? For a moment he was at a loss. Then he guffawed, which was even more fun than cackling. “Poke your neighbor in the eye!”

  A hundred penguins, those closest to the edge of the ravine, turned and shot out their wings, poking their neighbors in the eyes. A few yaps of pain rang out.

  “That’s my second favorite command,” said the Stranger. “Must be a werepenguin thing. My fave is tickling, though.”

  “Great idea. Tickle each other!” Bolt cried out. He clapped as penguin wings reached under underwings, tickling wing-pits. The nearby penguins, many still blinking from being eye-poked, chortled miserably.

  Bolt had always thought the one thing in life he was missing was a family, and that finding a family would make him complete.

  He was wrong. The one thing he had been missing was forcing penguins to tickle one another. This was, indeed, what he was chosen to do!

  40.

  Mind Games

  Anni
ka shook her head after Bolt had left her and Grom to enter the ice cave. Bolt may have thought he was being brave or noble by going alone, but she thought he was just being stupid. Bandits didn’t rob carriages without backup, and it was a lot easier to rob a carriage than to fight the world’s greatest werepenguin. Plus, it wasn’t like Bolt was some mighty warrior, either.

  She turned to Grom and reached into her jacket pocket, from which she removed a book. Her hands shook from the cold, but she breathed on her fingers to warm them. “This is the Code of the Bandit. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but I’m making it better. It says I don’t abandon my friends, among many other things. Bolt is my friend. And I’m going into that cave to help him. You don’t have to if you don’t want. I’ll understand if you’re afraid.”

  Grom bristled. He looked insulted. He folded his hands into fists. “Afraid? I stole worms for my sister and her mole friends every day, having to avoid rotten penguin dentists with giant toothbrushes. My sister was all, ‘You can eat some worms, too?’ and I was all, ‘Um, I’m not a mole, so no thank you.’ But I went and got them anyway. If you’re going into that cave, I’m going in, too.”

  So she and Grom followed Bolt, watching from near the cave entrance as the Stranger talked about his demented past and hopes for world domination. Bolt was kneeling—Annika could tell he was straining against the Stranger’s control but failing, and failing badly. She peeked at Grom next to her. Once the Stranger realized another werepenguin was here, could Grom keep the monster’s commands at bay?

  Grom was born from love and so could not be controlled by hate. That’s what she had told Bolt. But deep down, did she believe it? Maybe. But maybe not . . .

  Annika nudged Grom and made a variety of silent hand gestures—twirling her hand, pointing to the sides of the cave, and then making her fingers bounce up and down. “Got it?”

  “You’ll take the Stranger, I’ll face the armored penguin, we’ll grab Bolt, and then you’ll sing ‘Little Bunny Foo Foo’?”

  “Exactly.”

  It wasn’t much of a plan. Annika didn’t really know how she could defeat the Stranger, and Grom probably couldn’t take down an armored penguin, but they couldn’t just hide near the entrance of the cave all day. Back in Pingvingrad, Blackburn—oh, how she missed him!—had preferred to twiddle his thumbs than to fight. She had been wrong to wait then. She wouldn’t make that same mistake again.

  She straightened. They would just run in. Overpower the Stranger. Easy peasy.

  She tensed, grabbed her knife from her back pocket, and then she did the unthinkable.

  She coughed.

  Bandits didn’t cough! Bandits were stealthy. Boris the Brave had a farting problem, and that’s why he had been kicked out of their bandit clan. Horace the Hiccupper had been tossed out of the clan, too.

  She and Grom dove to the side, hugging the ice to avoid being seen. Annika waited a moment, not even daring to breathe. Had anyone heard her? She peeked around the corner.

  No one was looking their way. They were still safe. But the delay proved costly. Bolt was standing up and was now . . . Wait, was he saluting the Stranger?

  “Oh, Bolt,” Annika squeaked, her heart breaking at seeing her best friend so easily manipulated. It was warmer in the cave than it was outside, but a chill blew through her. Why hadn’t she, the world’s greatest bandit, seen this coming?

  They couldn’t just run in. Not now. They couldn’t fight the Stranger, and that armored penguin, and Bolt. They needed a better plan.

  She knew Bolt had been talking to the Stranger during their voyage, hearing his voice inside his head, even though he denied it. Yet she had said nothing, convincing herself that Bolt was in control, that he could ignore those voices when the time came to fight. She had been a fool.

  “What do we do now?” Grom asked in a whisper.

  “Beats me.”

  “Can the Stranger be defeated?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Does he have a weakness?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “What’s the average life span of an albatross?”

  “I have no idea!” Annika wailed. “I’m no help at all!”

  Grom shrugged. “Well, the albatross question wasn’t all that important.”

  Bolt, the Stranger, and the armored penguin walked out a back entrance. Grom and Annika followed, moving as quietly as the night, or rather quieter, since nights are mostly filled with cricket sounds and the occasional toad.

  They reached the end of the cave and inched down the side until they spotted Bolt and the Stranger. They stood near the edge of a ravine where thousands of penguins poked one another in the eye. Bolt and the Stranger giggled.

  And then the penguins began to tickle one another. Penguin laughter, a mix of spitting and gargling, is a disturbing thing to witness. Annika shuddered.

  Grom looked angry and pale. Well, he always looked pale because he was a werepenguin, but now he looked paler. “I feel so much hate and despair,” he whispered.

  Annika’s eyes widened. “Is that hate and despair taking over your mind in such a way that you want to attack me?”

  “No,” said Grom. “I feel like I hate the feeling of hate.”

  It took Annika a second to work that out, but she was satisfied.

  “We could dig a hole, pop out, and take them by surprise,” suggested Grom. “That’s what we would have done back at Pingvingrad.”

  “But we don’t have any were-moles with us. Or shovels. And the icy ground is rock-hard.”

  “Right.” Grom scratched his head. They remained silent for a bit, Annika rubbing her finger up and down her knife.

  “Well, whatever our plan,” said Grom, “that Stranger guy has no chance.”

  Annika smiled. She knew that, underneath his hard edge, Grom was not nearly as confident as he pretended to be. That’s because Annika felt the same way. She always acted like a tough bandit, but deep inside, she was often afraid. She still had so much about banditry to learn!

  She glanced at the penguins and then back at Grom.

  Born from love.

  That better not be as silly as she feared it might be.

  “I have an idea,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few minutes later, Annika and Grom inched closer to Bolt and the Stranger, ducking behind a snow mound. The penguins in the ravine had stopped their tickling, and now the Stranger and Bolt were throwing fish at each other.

  Bolt tossed a fish in the air, and the Stranger caught it in his mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. Next it was the Stranger’s turn to toss and Bolt’s turn to swallow. After every toss they each took a step backward. They were now a good fifty feet apart, yet their aim and fish-catching were quite impressive. Annika noticed Grom was drooling.

  “That sure looks tasty,” murmured Grom.

  The Stranger shouted, “Soon my guest will arrive. And then our real work will start. The world’s penguins will fall to their knees!” Annika gasped. She hadn’t even realized penguins had knees. “What should we have the penguins do next, mi amigo?” the Stranger asked Bolt. “Box each other on the ears? Twist their wings? Give wedgies, which is very hard for penguins since they don’t wear underwear?”

  Bolt smiled, nodding at each suggestion.

  Annika felt sick. Grom looked furious.

  The Stranger shrugged. “Righty, then.” He snapped his fingers. The penguins began to pull each other’s tail feathers in what looked to be a bizarre attempt at giving each other wedgies.

  Grom’s fists were clenched. He stood and pointed his finger at the Stranger. “Stop!” he cried out. “Stop right now!”

  Annika clung to the rock, not daring to move, staring up at Grom.

  “Who’s this?” the Stranger asked, his eyes narrowing, his expression morph
ing from surprise, to curiosity, to delight. His eyebrows rose, and his mouth spread into a wide grin. “A werepenguin? Another one? Bolt, you didn’t tell me you had a compadre! I’m not sure how I didn’t sense him,” he said, seeming genuinely concerned. But then he threw his hands up and shrugged. “Well, no sweat. We’ll make room for another lieutenant in our army.”

  The Stranger giggled. Grom looked, well . . . strange. His eyes rolled back into his head. He stumbled forward. His face was a blank slate. “Yes. We are meant to rule.”

  41.

  It’s Break-in-the-Action Time

  A cold wind slammed against my head, nearly knocking me backward with its force. The sun was setting, and the ocean winds howled.

  “Perhaps we should head indoors,” I suggested, always cautious of things that howl, including winds.

  “I won’t go inside until all the animals are loaded onto the ship,” said the penguin caretaker. “The penguins may be my main concern, but all the animals need someone to look after them. Perhaps this is a good time to take a break from our story and venture one thousand miles away into the forests of Brugaria, where . . .”

  “No! Stop!” I squeaked. “Let us not venture anywhere. I grow tiresome of your zigzagging in and out of stories, and I insist you stay in the polar ice cap.”

  The man whistled, a low, mourning sort of whistle, like one might hear at a funeral, or at least at the funeral of a former whistler. He sighed, deeply, as he often did. Somewhere on the boat, whooping cranes whooped. Elephants trumpeted. Possums made whatever sounds possums make.

  “What could possibly be happening in the Brugarian forests that is relevant to our story anyway?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all,” the man admitted. “I just thought a slight break from despair and horror would be a welcome diversion. The bandits were throwing a tea party.” He took a deep breath. “Never mind, then. Let’s stay at the South Pole. The Stranger was happy. His plans for world domination, the plans he had made for so long, looked like they were finally coming to fruition. The penguin uprising would begin! And he had a brand-new werepenguin to help. He was practically giddy.”