‘Probably just the wind,’ James Pond replied. ‘Go to sleep.’
BUMP!
‘There it is again!’ Ruth hissed.
The straw rustled as James Pond got out of bed. They heard the soft swish of his tail as he went around the shed checking the reinforcements.
BASH!
Amy gulped. It wasn’t the wind. It sounded more like someone or something was throwing rocks at the door.
‘It must be Fangula!’ Amy squawked.
‘And Ichabod Comb!’ squealed Ruth.
‘What shall we do?’ screeched Boo.
‘Don’t panic,’ James Pond ordered. ‘I’ve told you: they can’t get in. The nails will hold them.’
BANG!
BUMP!
BASH!
The noises came again in quick succession.
‘Try telling them that!’ Amy shrieked.
BANG!
BUMP!
BASH!
The chickens crept out of the straw. Ruth reached for her glasses and pushed them up her beak. She grabbed the garlic blaster.
‘Can you see Fangula?’ Amy whispered.
‘No, it’s too dark.’ James Pond was crouching by the window.
BANG!
BUMP!
BASH!
CRASH!
A missile flew at the door. Two of the nails pinged out.
‘Barn-it!’ he swore softly. ‘They’re stronger than I thought.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Boo sobbed.
‘There’s only one thing we can do.’ James Pond drew the slim case containing Vladimir’s Vampire Slayer from its holster. He screwed the plastic cylinder onto the handle and slotted the pencil in.
‘What, you mean you’re going to try and kill Fangula NOW?’ Amy squeaked. ‘But what if you miss? She’ll suck our blood out and turn us into zombies!’
‘I won’t miss,’ James Pond said calmly. ‘I have perfect aim. I just need one of you to distract her so she doesn’t see me until it’s too late.’
The chickens looked at one another, aghast.
‘You could do some gymnastics, Boo,’ suggested Amy.
‘I’m too scared.’ Boo’s legs were shaking. ‘How about you do your feather dusty instead, Amy?’ she pleaded.
The feather dusty was one of Amy’s best wrestling moves. It consisted of rubbing her tummy feathers in dirt and smothering her opponent’s face with dust. Normally Amy would have agreed. But to try out the feather dusty on Fangula would be suicide. Fangula would sink her gnashers straight into her neck, Amy was sure of it. ‘Er … I don’t think so.’ She trembled.
CRUMP!
Something bounced off the window. A crack appeared in the glass pane.
‘Could you just decide?’ James Pond said crossly. ‘Only we haven’t got much time.’
‘We’ll use this.’ Ruth waved the garlic blaster. ‘It’ll hold her off for a bit. The garlic’s crushed.’
‘Good,’ James Pond said coolly. He gave a little bow. ‘When you’re ready, ladies, we’ll do some vampire slaying!’ He stepped behind the bar and ducked down out of sight.
The chickens hid behind one of the wooden crates.
‘LET US IN!’ a voice screeched. ‘WE’RE STARVING.’
A blood-curdling roar went up. ‘WE WANT FOOD! WE WANT FOOD! WE WANT FOOD!’
‘Flap!’ screamed Boo. ‘There’s loads of them. Fangula must have munched some more chickens!’
Amy frowned. ‘Where did she get them from? There aren’t any other farms around here.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Boo wailed. ‘Maybe she raided the sleeping coop!’
‘But we would have heard something!’ Amy insisted.
‘It doesn’t matter now.’ Ruth clutched the garlic blaster. ‘Amy, get me some more garlic. There’s another tube on top of the bar. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need it.’
Amy rushed towards the bar. In her haste she tripped over one of the bar stools.
‘Ouch!’ Amy took a dive and bashed her head on the CD rack. The garlic tube teetered on the top. She flung out a wing and caught it. ‘Phew!’ she said, ‘that was lucky!’
SMASH!
Uh? Amy examined the garlic tube. It definitely wasn’t broken. And nor was the window (not yet, anyway). So what had made the smashing noise? Amy peered over the top of the bar. Her eyes grew round. ‘Oops,’ she whispered. It was the mite tube! It must have fallen out when she hit her head on the CD rack. Now it lay in two pieces on the floor. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. The mites had escaped.
‘TICKTICKTICKTICKTICKTICK!’ A column of tiny insects marched their way determinedly towards James Pond’s tail feathers.
‘Aarrrggghhhh!’ James Pond emerged from behind the CD rack scratching his backside frantically. ‘Look what you’ve done, you hopeless hen!’ he shouted at Amy.
But there was no time for Amy to apologise or to tell him it was just an accident and not to call her rude names like ‘hopeless hen’, because at that point everything happened at once.
BANG! The door flew open.
SPLOOSH! Ruth fired the garlic blaster.
‘DUCK!’ James Pond raised the vampire slayer.
SMASH! Something hurtled through the window.
BAM! It landed on James Pond’s wing, knocking him sideways.
WHOOSH! The pencil shot out of the vampire slayer towards Boo and Ruth.
FLUMP! Amy flung herself on top of them.
CLUNK! The pencil clattered harmlessly on the table.
‘What the peck was that?’ James Pond sat up, dazed. He was still scratching.
Amy stared at the missile. It looked strangely familiar. It had four legs like a stool but no seat. She’d definitely seen it somewhere before …
Suddenly she remembered. Her eyes widened. ‘Hold up, everyone!’ she shouted. ‘It’s not Fangula.’
Just then a wizened old chicken’s face appeared at the door, smothered in minced garlic. Behind it was an army of other wizened old chickens’ faces.
‘Give me back my Zimmer frame!’ a voice screeched.
Amy pushed her way past Boo and Ruth. ‘Granny Wishbone!’ she squawked. ‘What are you doing here?’
Down in a dungeon in the ruins of Bloodsucker Hall, 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 with some satisfaction. The Pigeon-Poo Gang had settled to sleep high up on a ledge in the wall. Tiny Tony Tiddles and Kebab Claude sprawled in their chairs, yawning. They were all too tired from their long journey to give him any trouble tonight. Instead he was able to give his attention to the newest member of the MOST WANTED Club: the Countess Stella von Fangula. The countess sat opposite him in her scarlet cloak, looking very glamorous. For a mink who was over two hundred years old, Thaddeus thought, she looked pretty darned good.
Thaddeus drew his tailcoat around him for warmth. The only drawback to having the meeting at Bloodsucker Hall was that it wasn’t as cosy as his burrow in the Deep Dark Woods. The dungeon was below ground so at least it had a roof but damp still penetrated the walls. Torches burned in great braziers; the earth floor was littered with bugs and beetles, and the air smelled musty. Rusty chains hung from the ceiling. They clanked faintly when anyone came in or out through the heavy iron door. But they were minor details, thought Thaddeus. Soon they would be feasting on the chickens of Fogsham Farm. He could put up with a damp dungeon for a day or two.
‘I am sure we would all like to thank the countess for her … er … wonderful hospitality,’ Thaddeus E. Fox began.
‘There’s nothing very wonderful about it as far as I can see,’ Tiny Tony Tiddles said rudely. ‘It sucks, like her.’
‘But darling,’ the countess protested in her husky voice, ‘it was such short notice! I only got your message a couple of hours ago. There wasn’t much time
to clean up before you arrived.’
Thaddeus glanced at his fob watch. It was six o’ clock. It had taken them all day to get from the Deep Dark Woods to Bloodsucker Hall. The Pigeon-Poo Gang had been waiting for them when they arrived. It turned out they had only just managed to deliver their message to the countess. Thaddeus cursed himself for forgetting that vampires didn’t get up until darkness fell. He should have waited until tomorrow so that the countess could prepare properly for their arrival.
‘Where are we gonna sleep?’ Tiny Tiddles persisted. ‘It’s filthy in here.’
‘You can have my coffin if you like,’ the countess offered. ‘I only use it in the daytime.’ She smiled, revealing two rows of sharp white teeth. ‘We can take turns.’
‘No thanks,’ said Tony.
‘I’m hungry,’ Kebab Claude drooled. ‘What’s for supper?’
‘I’ll ask Ichabod,’ the countess said. ‘Ichabod …’
The zombie chicken appeared.
‘Yes, m’lady?’
‘What’s for supper?’
Ichabod tilted his head back and looked craftily up at the ledge. ‘Pigeon, m’lady,’ he said.
There was an alarmed cooing from overhead.
‘Ichabod!’ the countess admonished. ‘The poo pigeons are our guests. You will have to give our friends something else to eat.’
‘All right, m’lady.’ Ichabod limped out. ‘I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen.’
‘There are two items on the agenda this evening,’ Thaddeus E. Fox said. He passed round some bits of paper.
‘May I suggest a third?’ the countess said.
‘Of course.’ Thaddeus offered her a pen.
The countess wrote in beautiful handwriting:
3. Drinking rooster blood
Tiny Tony and Kebab Claude exchanged glances.
‘Bleeeaaaarrrcchhh!’ said Tiny Tony.
The countess ignored him. ‘It’s so lovely to have company after all these years,’ she said to Thaddeus. She clapped her paws together in delight. ‘And so kind of you to arrange a banquet for me! I do so hope there will be rooster blood on the menu!’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘It’s my favourite drink.’
‘Are there many roosters at Fogsham Farm?’ Thaddeus asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ the countess said sadly. ‘Only Ichabod and one other, and I’ve already drunk all of Ichabod’s blood. I was so thirsty, you see, after all those years in the coffin.’
‘Can’t you drink ’ens’ blood?’ Kebab Claude asked.
‘I can,’ said the countess. ‘I can drink any bird’s blood …’
There was a rustling of feathers from overhead.
‘… but it just doesn’t taste as good as rooster.’
‘We’ll help you catch the other rooster,’ Thaddeus promised. He scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. ‘What are the fortifications like at the chicken sheds? Are there any humans around?’
The countess shook her head. ‘I didn’t see any last night,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they go out after dark.’
‘How did you get in?’ demanded Tiny Tony.
‘There was a hole in the back of the shed. I waited until all the other chickens had left and then I popped in and introduced myself to Ichabod. I wanted to thank him personally for waking me up,’ said the countess fondly.
‘Sounds like a stroll in the park,’ Tiny Tony remarked.
‘Well, yes,’ the countess agreed, ‘but then the chickens weren’t exactly expecting me. They might be more careful next time.’
‘PHWA HA HA HA,’ Thaddeus let out his evil laugh. ‘Don’t you worry about the other chickens, Countess. They’re too stupid to protect themselves.’
‘Unless they get Professor Rooster and his squad in,’ Tiny Tony commented.
‘Shut up, Tony,’ Thaddeus snapped. ‘I’ve already told you they won’t come.’
‘Professor Rooster?’ the countess repeated. ‘He sounds tasty. Do tell.’
‘He’s a rooster we’ve had trouble with at Dudley Manor,’ Thaddeus explained. ‘He put a team of kid combat chickens together to protect the coop, but I’m pretty sure they won’t risk coming as far as the moor.’
‘Pity,’ said the countess thoughtfully. ‘I like a feisty chicken. Their blood gives me more zip.’
Just then Ichabod returned, carrying a tray.
‘Dinner is served, m’lady,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ Tiny Tony Tiddles asked.
‘Bat wing stew with mashed bugs,’ Ichabod said proudly.
‘Delicious, darling!’ the countess took a bite. ‘Now, when is the banquet to be?’ she asked Thaddeus.
‘We’ll raid the coop tomorrow night,’ Thaddeus replied, crunching loudly on bug shells. ‘And then we shall have our feast before the humans wake up to the fact that their chickens have gone.’ He picked a bit of bat wing out of his teeth and laughed. ‘PHWA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Those chickens had better start praying.’
‘The Chicken Zimmer Frame Throwing Championships?’ Amy repeated for the umpteenth time. ‘I still can’t believe it!’
At first light the next morning the chickens made their way out of The Bloodless Hen chicken shed. James Pond waddled ahead of them. He was still scratching. And he had a huge bump on his head, like an egg.
‘Shhhh,’ he hissed. ‘We don’t want to wake the other chickens, especially not Wishbone and her cronies.’
The chickens followed cautiously. Amy was behind James Pond, carrying the Emergency Chicken Pack. Next came Boo with the flight boosters in case they had to make a quick getaway. Ruth brought up the rear with the super-spec headsets.
‘I didn’t even know there was a Chicken Zimmer Frame Throwing Championship,’ Ruth sighed.
It turned out that the bunch of bloodthirsty granny hens they had taken to be Fangula’s zombie army were at Fogsham Farm for a different reason.
‘Just our luck that Granny Wishbone turns out to be the Chicken Zimmer Frame Throwing Record Holder,’ Boo said crossly.
‘And that this year’s competition is at Bleakley Fogsham!’ Amy complained. Her cheeks glowed red. She was starving! And her neck ached from lying on the floor. Once the grannies had breached their defences and got inside The Bloodless Hen, they’d scoffed all the grain, munched all the grub scratchings, drunk all the worm juice and stolen all the straw. Then they’d snored like pigs all night.
‘And that they saw the ad in the newspaper!’ Boo added miserably. Apparently the grannies, who lived at the edge of the moor in a ramshackle smallholding, had seen an advert for the Fogsham Farm bed and breakfast in an old newspaper and decided the desolate chicken sheds looked just the place for a weekend break. They’d flown there by seagull, in return for eggs, which they’d stolen from some younger hens who lived next door to the smallholding.
‘Hurry up!’ James Pond snapped. He had reached the dry stone wall.
The chickens flapped after him. They threw the equipment over the top of the wall, hoisted themselves up and dropped down on the other side.
‘This is the path.’ James Pond led on.
‘How about giving us a hand with something?’ Amy panted. The Emergency Chicken Pack was heavy. James Pond had insisted on them bringing the hammer just in case. And there were all sorts of other things in there as well, rattling about.
‘I’m fine thanks,’ James Pond said. ‘Besides, the exercise will do you good.’
Amy’s cheeks glowed even redder. She threw the Emergency Chicken Pack on her back and struggled on.
Soon they reached the ruined church. Amy hurried past. The church was creepy. Gravestones stuck up from the heather. They towered above the chickens like enormous bird bills.
‘What if some of Fangula’s zombies from 1887 are buried here?’ Boo whispered. ‘What if she summons them from the grave?’
‘She won’t get the chance if you get a move on,’ James Pond said impatiently. ‘That’s the whole point. Here.’ They had reached the rusty iron gates of Bloodsucker Hall. H
e hopped through.
The chickens followed, one by one. They gazed upwards.
‘Bloodsucker Hall!’ Ruth breathed.
Ahead of them, through a jungle of bushes and tall grass, stood the hall. It looked even scarier from the ground than it had from the air. Most of the roof had fallen in. A tangle of ivy hung around the derelict building like green witches’ hair. The windows were as black as the eye sockets of a skull. Amy couldn’t get the idea out of her head that the house was watching them.
‘Come on.’ James Pond pushed his way through the thicket, the chickens dodging behind.
‘Can you hear that?’ Boo whispered.
‘What?’ Amy strained her ears.
‘Nothing,’ Boo said. ‘There’s no noise at all.’
Amy realised she was right. No birds sang. There were no bees or butterflies or bugs. The place was as quiet as a grave.
Eventually they reached the steps which led up to the great front door. Amy swallowed. Either side of the steps stood hideous statues of stricken birds. Crouching over each one of them – fangs bared – was the slender stone figure of Countess Stella von Fangula.
‘That’s where she was killed,’ Ruth whispered. ‘At the top of the steps.’
‘The question is, where is she buried?’ Amy said. She hoped James Pond would get this over with quickly.
‘Over here.’ James Pond had a pen in his wing. The tip of it glowed amber.
‘What’s that?’ Boo asked.
‘Vladimir’s Vampire Tracker, of course,’ James Pond said. ‘The redder it gets, the closer we are to the coffin.’ He held the pen in front of him and trudged off around the building. They approached a tangle of thorny bushes. ‘It’s in here.’ The pen shone scarlet.
‘We can’t go in there,’ Boo said. ‘We’ll get cut to ribbons.’ The thorns were as big and sharp as a lion’s claws.
‘We don’t have to!’ James Pond said. He replaced the pen in the holster and pulled out a green plastic bottle with a spray nozzle.
VLADIMIR’S THORN KILLER – TACKLES THORNS IN AN INSTANT!
He held it out and squeezed the nozzle.
The Curse of Fogsham Farm Page 4