Take one root of willow. Grate with blackbird beak and horseradish. Add two bat wings, chopped. Fry in lard until softened. (Remember: DON’T add garlic.) Meanwhile beat together two snake eggs. Fold in one soggy hedgehog brain, mashed with rotten banana. Add a spoonful of earwax and a pinch of dried snot. Pour the mixture into the frying pan with one pint of chicken dripping and bring to the boil. Serve with sheep’s eyeballs, mashed potatoes and a generous glass of rooster blood.
‘Eerrrggghhh!’ Amy put her wing over her mouth. ‘Someone pass the sick bucket.’
Professor Rooster ignored her. ‘It seems that the potion worked. Fangula became an actual vampire, feeding off innocent birds as before, only this time there was a difference.’
‘Did they turn into vampires too?’ Amy asked in an awed voice.
‘Not quite, Amy,’ Professor Rooster said. ‘When a vampire mink sucks the blood of another creature it becomes a zombie. Very soon Fangula had an army of zombie poultry at her command.’
Amy risked another glance at Boo. Boo’s face was still frozen in a petrified expression.
‘Eventually, after many years, the local pheasant population revolted,’ the professor continued. ‘They marched on Bloodsucker Hall in the dead of night, slipped through the gate and flocked up the steps to meet Fangula’s zombie army.’
Professor Rooster raised the book again.
The zombie army was dreadful in its look, with drooling beaks and staring eyes. It swept towards the brave pheasants through the fog with the countess at the fore. Her fangs were bared, ready to bite the heads clean off her enemies, which she did with much joy and gnashing. The pheasants scattered in all directions, save one young bird, stouter of spirit than the rest. He stepped forward with a wooden pencil in his wing, sharpened to a point, and threw it at the countess. It struck her in the chest and pierced her heart.
‘I will return!’ she shrieked. ‘At the first sniff of rooster blood, I will rise again and take my revenge upon the birds of Bleakley Fogsham.’
And with that she fell to the ground dead. The zombie army, seeing this, disappeared into the mist.’
Amy stared wide-eyed at the professor. ‘What happened next?’ she whispered.
‘The countess was buried in the grounds of Bloodsucker Hall in an iron coffin,’ Professor Rooster said. ‘Everyone thought she’d gone for good. Until Ichabod Comb, the landlord of The Bloodless Hen juice shed disappeared last night.’
The Bloodless Hen juice shed? Amy gulped. This was getting freakier and freakier. ‘But how do you know the countess took him?’ she asked. ‘Maybe it was a fox.’
‘There are no foxes on the moor in winter,’ Professor Rooster replied crisply. ‘They go to ground. Besides, Ichabod Comb confided in one of his friends at the farm: a rooster called Rossiter Brown. Ichabod told Rossiter he went snooping up at the hall a few weeks ago and cut his foot on a broken roof slate.’ He stopped to let his words sink in.
Ruth was the first to understand. ‘If the curse is true, the countess would have smelled his rooster blood and risen from the grave!’ she whispered.
‘Eggsactly,’ Professor Rooster agreed. ‘Ichabod Comb woke her up when he cut his foot. That’s why she chose him as her first victim. All that was found at the juice shed this morning by the other chickens was a broken thimble and a trail of blood leading in the direction of Bloodsucker Hall.’
Suddenly Boo let out a terrified squawk. ‘You mean Ichabod Comb is a zombie?’ she screeched.
Amy tried hard to imagine what a zombie chicken might look like and what she’d do if she ever saw one. She didn’t think wrestling them would work: their wings would probably fall off.
‘I fear so, chickens,’ Professor Rooster said gravely. ‘And a very dangerous one at that. He’s young, strong and fit. His blood will keep Fangula going for a while. After that she’ll want more. Any of the chickens at Fogsham Farm could be her next victim, although she’d prefer rooster if she can get it. You have to stop her. Before she strikes again. The obvious target is the farm. But she’s a mink. She can travel long distances.’ He paused. ‘We are all in danger, including the chickens of Dudley Manor Coop.’
‘But how can we stop her, Professor?’ Boo wailed. ‘She might turn us into zombies!’
‘We could use the mite blaster,’ Ruth suggested. ‘We could put garlic in it instead of mites. Vampires hate garlic.’
‘It might hold her for a bit,’ Professor Rooster said, ‘especially if you crush the garlic first. But it won’t stop her for long.’ He fixed them with his sternest look.
Amy had a bad feeling about what was coming next.
‘The best way to kill a vampire mink is the same way the pheasants did it in 1887,’ the professor told them, ‘with a wooden stake through her heart.’ The monitor began to fizzle. ‘You’ll need a pencil, a sharpener and a hammer. You’ll find all three in the Emergency Chicken Pack. Good luck.’
The three chickens sat around the laptop, arguing.
‘I can’t,’ Boo said.
‘Neither can I.’ Amy pulled a face.
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘One of us has to finish her off,’ Amy argued back.
‘But you heard what the professor said,’ Boo sniffed. ‘The best way to get rid of Fangula is with a stake through her heart.’
‘And I can’t stand the sight of blood,’ Ruth said.
‘Neither can I!’ Boo wailed. ‘Are you sure you can’t do it, Amy?’ she pleaded. ‘I mean, it’s more your sort of thing than mine and Ruth’s.’
Amy knew what Boo was getting at. The chickens had been selected to join Professor Rooster’s elite combat squad because they each had a special skill. Ruth’s was intelligence; Boo’s was perseverance; and Amy’s was courage, which was why the other two expected her to do it. Her cheeks felt very red and hot. In spite of herself she was cross with Professor Rooster. It was the first time anyone had mentioned slaying vampire minks as part of their job description. She ignored Boo’s question. ‘Why doesn’t the professor do it?’ she grumbled. ‘I mean, it’s roosters Fangula likes best. It seems more fitting, somehow.’
Ruth sighed. ‘Professor Rooster’s the boss. It’s not his job to do it. That’s why he recruited us: to save chickens from evil predators. We’re the trained warriors. Maybe if we all work together it will be okay. We’ll just have to think of a plan.’
‘Yeah, like getting someone else to do it,’ Amy said stubbornly.
Just then there was a knock at one of the doors.
‘I’ll go,’ Amy said gloomily. She jumped down off the garden stool.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Ruth said. ‘No one knows we’re here except the professor and he never visits.’
Professor Rooster was obsessed with secrecy. No one else was allowed to know the location of Chicken HQ, and even the chickens didn’t know where Professor Rooster’s hideout was.
‘Maybe it’s the MOST WANTED Club!’ Boo hissed. ‘Maybe they’re back! Maybe they’ve blown our cover.’
Amy backed away. Then she panicked: she’d had another idea. ‘Maybe it’s the Countess Stella von Fangula, come to suck our blood!’ she squawked. ‘Quick! Ruth, get the mite blaster!’
Ruth hurried off.
‘Boo, go and see if we’ve got any garlic!’ Amy ordered.
‘There isn’t time!’ Boo flapped about in panic.
‘I can’t find the tube!’ Ruth shouted from the cupboard. ‘I put it down somewhere …’
The knocking came again – louder this time.
‘It’s too late!’ Amy cried. ‘Quick! Hide!’
The chickens burrowed into their straw beds.
CRASH!
The door flew open. Amy peeped through the stalks of hay. A large mallard stepped into the potting sheds. He was wearing a bow tie.
‘Oh, no,’ Amy groaned. ‘It’s James Pond. I’d rather it was Thaddeus E. Fox than that bossy big-head!’
James Pond was a duck ag
ent who worked for Poultry Patrol. Professor Rooster had drafted him in to help the chickens once before, although as things turned out they had successfully completed their first mission without him.
The chickens came out from their hiding places.
‘The name’s Pond,’ James Pond said smoothly. ‘James Pond.’
‘We know!’ Amy said crossly. ‘We’ve already met you, remember?’
‘All right, keep your feathers on,’ James Pond retorted. ‘I just came to check if you hens needed help.’
Amy felt her cheeks glow red again. I just came to check if you hens needed help! Who did he think he was! Last time James Pond was supposed to help them, he’d been tricked into flying south early for the winter by Thaddeus E. Fox. Not that they’d needed help in the first place, of course! ‘We’re managing fine, thanks!’ she fumed. ‘Why are you even here, anyway? It’s winter. You hate the winter.’
‘Poultry Patrol got in touch,’ James Pond explained. ‘They begged me to return. I couldn’t refuse.’
‘Good for you,’ Amy said sarcastically. ‘Have fun!’ She held the door open.
James Pond didn’t budge. ‘Are you quite sure you hens don’t need help?’ He glanced at Amy’s tummy. ‘Looks like you could use some keep fit training,’ he remarked, giving it a prod. ‘Tell you what,’ he offered, ‘I could stand on your feet while you do fifty sit-ups.’
‘It’s just feathers,’ Amy said firmly, ‘and no thanks.’
James Pond had put them through some keep fit training once before and she didn’t intend to repeat the experience.
‘Well, good luck with your next mission.’ James Pond finally made to leave.
Their next mission … Amy blinked. Wait a minute … She frowned, her little brain had just registered the germ of an idea. She wrestled with it mentally for a few seconds. Then she grinned. Bingo! Amy felt very pleased with herself: she had just had one of her very occasional strokes of chicken genius! ‘On second thoughts,’ she said, closing the door hastily, ‘why don’t you stay for a little while? That is, if you’re not in a rush to get somewhere.’
‘Huh?’ Boo and Ruth looked at Amy in astonishment.
Amy gave them each a nudge. ‘Fangula!’ she mouthed. ‘We can get Pond to do it!’ She made a punching motion with her wing against her chest, then keeled over.
Boo’s face lit up. So did Ruth’s. The two chickens nodded their understanding.
‘Yes, do tell us about your holiday,’ Boo said politely. She ushered James Pond to one of the garden stools.
‘How was your time in the Caribbean?’ Ruth asked. ‘I’d love to know.’
‘Busy,’ James Pond boasted, easing his backside onto the stool. ‘If I wasn’t dive-bombing rodents I was outsmarting stray cats! And if I wasn’t outsmarting stray cats, I was dismantling bird booby traps with my beak. Still, I nailed the villains and saved the world’s migrating birds, so I guess it was worth it.’ He yawned. ‘And that was just on the first morning!’
‘Wow!’ said Boo. ‘That’s impressive!’ She gave Amy a wink.
‘Thanks,’ James Pond got up. ‘Well, I guess if there really is nothing you hens need help with, I’ll get going.’
‘Actually,’ Amy said, pushing him back down again, ‘there is something …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Oh yeah?’ James Pond looked interested. ‘Want me to dive-bomb some bad guys for you?’
‘Not so much dive-bomb …’ Ruth began. She looked at Amy.
‘It’s way more fun than that!’ Amy assured him. ‘Much more of a challenge. You’ll love it, honest.’
‘More fun than dive-bombing?’ James Pond smirked. ‘What, you mean like booting them in the backside with my enormous feet?’
Amy winked at the others. ‘I’d say it’s even better than that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Way better,’ Ruth and Boo agreed.
James Pond looked intrigued. ‘Wait! Will I get my feathers dirty?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Not necessarily,’ Ruth said seriously. ‘But it would probably be better to wear waterproof overalls and a pair of rubber boots just in case.’
Amy pulled a face then twisted it quickly into a smile so that James Pond wouldn’t notice.
‘So what’s the job?’ James Pond demanded.
‘Vampire slaying,’ Amy explained casually, as if it was just the sort of thing they did every day. ‘The Countess Stella von Fangula has risen from her grave in the hamlet of Bleakley Fogsham. It’s on the moor apparently. She’s a vampire mink, you know – a real one. And the professor needs someone to drive a stake through her heart. I mean, we’d love to do it …’
‘But we think you’d be better at it,’ Ruth gushed.
‘Cos you’re so cool,’ Boo finished.
The chickens held their breath.
‘All right.’ James Pond agreed. ‘I guess I could spare a couple of days.’ He reached under his wing and drew out a slim leather case from a holster. ‘It’s lucky for you I picked up a new one of these last time I was in Transylvania. That place is full of vampires.’ He handed the case to Amy.
Amy opened it carefully. It contained a slim plastic cylinder, a pencil, a sharpener and a plastic handle with a trigger.
‘Don’t you need a hammer?’ Ruth asked.
‘Nope, not with this baby.’ James Pond looked smug.
Amy passed the instructions to Ruth. (Amy wasn’t very good at reading.)
Ruth read them out loud.
VLADIMIR’S VAMPIRE SLAYER
Instructions: Open vampire’s coffin. Screw tube onto handle. Secure sharpened pencil in tube with sharp end pointing towards vampire. Position yourself directly above coffin. Taking care that vampire does not wake up, take aim and fire.
For Best Results: ensure pencil penetrates vampire’s heart.
CAUTION: Contains small parts. Do not place in the way of baby chicks.
‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d invented something as clever as that!’
‘You will, Ruth, don’t worry,’ Amy told her. She examined the packet. ‘Have you used it before?’ she asked James Pond.
The duck appeared astonished at the question. ‘Sure I have. I’ve slain more vampires than you’ve laid eggs.’
Amy looked dubious. She hadn’t laid any eggs yet, although she hoped she might start soon. Then again, James Pond seemed to know what he was talking about.
‘The trick is to catch them during the day when they’re asleep,’ James Pond said. ‘They never go out in daylight or they get fried.’ He replaced the leather case in the holster. ‘Shall we?’ He nodded towards the door.
‘Okay,’ Amy agreed. ‘Give us a minute.’
The chickens rushed about collecting their equipment. Ruth ticked off a list.
‘Flight-booster engines?’
‘Check,’ said Amy.
‘Super-spec headsets?’
‘Check,’ said Boo.
‘Mite blaster?’
‘Check.’
‘Spare garlic tubes?’
‘Check.’
‘Emergency Chicken Pack?’
‘What’s the point of that?’ Amy asked. ‘We won’t need it now.’
‘We should probably take it just in case,’ Ruth said. She threw it into her backpack.
The three chickens strapped on their flight-booster engines.
‘Wait!’ Boo said. ‘Shouldn’t we tell the professor?’
‘Well …’ Ruth hesitated.
They both looked at Amy.
‘Nah,’ said Amy. Telling the professor meant admitting that they needed help – from James Pond of all birds! ‘The professor doesn’t need to know,’ she said. ‘As long as we get the job done, who cares anyway?’
‘I suppose so,’ Boo said slowly. ‘What do you think, Ruth?’
‘I don’t know …’ Ruth frowned. ‘Maybe we should …’
‘Hurry up before I change my mind,’ James Pond shouted.
‘We don’t have time to tell the professor!’
Amy squawked. ‘If we don’t go now we’ll have to do it ourselves! And nobody wants that, do they?’
Boo and Ruth glanced at one another. Boo nodded. ‘Okay,’ Ruth agreed. ‘I guess it won’t hurt. We can always tell him when we get back.’
‘Sure! Whatever! Let’s just go!’ Amy banged the door of Chicken HQ closed behind them and they took off into the sky after James Pond.
Down in a burrow in the Deep Dark Woods, Thaddeus E. Fox drew back his chair and stood up. It was time to address the meeting.
He banged his silver-topped cane on the table.
‘Friends,’ he said, ‘welcome to this session of the MOST WANTED Club.’
He surveyed the group. To his left was Tiny Tony Tiddles. Tiny Tony Tiddles was a small cat with a big attitude problem. He wore a black fedora on his head to make himself look like a gangster. Thaddeus E. Fox didn’t like Tiny Tony. Tiddles was rude; he was resentful; he turned up at the burrow and helped himself to food without asking; he lounged on the cushions as though he owned the joint. Still, Thaddeus E. Fox had to admit, Tiny Tony Tiddles could be useful when it came to catching chickens.
Next to Tiny Tony Tiddles sat Kebab Claude, the big French poodle. Claude was as thick as one of his famous burgers, but he was ace at barbecuing chicken. That was why he was in the club.
Next to Kebab Claude perched the three members of the Pigeon-Poo Gang. Thaddeus E. Fox had a lot of respect for the Pigeon-Poo Gang. He admired the way they dressed. Of course they weren’t as smart as him (Thaddeus always wore his old Eat’em College school uniform: top hat, tails and a silk waistcoat) but they had good taste for pigeons. Each had slicked back purple and grey feathers and a pair of cool shades. They were devious too. The pigeons had gone to the dark side and betrayed all their fellow bird kind. Thaddeus E. Fox particularly liked the way they conducted their criminal business by sludging their victims to death with poo that was so sticky it turned to concrete, then eating all their victims’ food. It was vile; it was despicable; it was downright VILLAINOUS. He couldn’t understand why more birds weren’t like them.
The Curse of Fogsham Farm Page 2