The Junior Novelization

by Martin Howard

  With a yelp, Bitzer threw himself forward and tried to snatch it from the fire. It was too hot!

  In a flash, Shaun grabbed Bitzer’s hat. Using it as an oven glove, he pulled the paper from the flames. Bitzer grabbed it. Tossing the burning paper from paw to paw, puffing at it frantically, he managed to put out the flames. Shaking with excitement, he unrolled the charred ball and smoothed it out.

  NAME: MR. X

  PROBLEM: MEMORY LOSS.

  The animals of Mossy Bottom Farm read the words by flickering firelight and gasped.

  Shaun’s eyes shone with excitement. The Farmer hadn’t forgotten them on purpose. He had lost his memory. And he needed to get it back!

  What the Flock needed was a plan.

  A few minutes later, Shaun tapped a blackboard with a stick. Chalked on the board was “MR. X –> MOSSY BOTTOM FARM = FARMER.” Once the Farmer was back in his rightful place, his memory would come flooding back. All the Flock needed to do was get him there. Leaning over, Shaun scribbled some more, drawing a picture of the Farmer wearing a helmet.

  Sheep sucked in their breath. Bitzer’s eyes widened. The plan was bold. It was audacious. It was one of Shaun’s best. And, this time, it might just work!

  The Flock nodded to one another and went to work. The sounds of sheep rummaging through junk piles rang out in the darkness. Poles bent into strange shapes and a giant spring boinged.

  On the other side of town, Animal Containment Officer Trumper picked a scrap of wool from where it had caught on an old fence. He sniffed at it, his eyes narrowing beneath the high-tech goggles he was wearing. One hand clenched around the stun gun, he raised the other and flicked a switch on the side of his night-vision goggles. He saw the red-tinged outline of a trail of sheep’s wool.

  They went this way.

  Trumper smiled to himself and climbed into his van. He was on the hunt.

  poked around the corner of a dark alley. Reflected eyes peered along the pavement toward the spot where light spilled from the salon window. There was a muffled woof in the shadows: all clear.

  Inside the salon, one of the stylists swept at a pile of hair while the other poured coffee. The Farmer groaned, his hand cramped up around the clippers. It had been an exhausting day. He glanced at the clipboard Meryl had hung on the wall. At the top, it read “TOMORROW’S SCHEDULE.” The Farmer groaned again and sagged. Every minute of the following day was packed with appointments. It would be the same the day after, and the day after that. He could use a day off.

  Hearing a tapping sound, the salon staff looked toward the window. A bizarre sight met their gaze. A small dog with a lopsided face was peering in at them through the glass. Behind her, a gate that looked as though it had been made in a hurry had appeared on the pavement.

  Flummoxed, the Farmer, Meryl, and the two stylists stared as a sheep trotted down the road and jumped over the gate. Then another . . . and another . . . and another . . .

  A wave of sleepiness swept down the street. The heads of a young couple out strolling dropped, nose-first, into their ice-cream cones. In Trampoline World, a salesman dozed off and fell onto one of his products, snoring with every subsequent bounce. A bus swerved down the road, its driver slumped over the wheel.

  Meryl’s eyes closed. With a yawn, she drifted off to sleep, her head landing on an adding machine. Paper spooled out onto the salon floor.

  Leaping over the gate for the third time, Shaun glanced through the window and grinned to himself. The counting-sheep trick never failed. Before Shaun’s hooves touched the ground, the Farmer had fallen backward into a chair, snoring. In fact, Shaun thought as he landed and looked around, it worked a little too well. On the opposite side of the street, the bus veered off the road toward a stack of trash bins. . . .

  KERRRR-ASSSHHH!

  Quickly, Shaun gave a signal. Sheep stopped jumping and dived into the salon. Lifting the sleeping Farmer out of the door, they carried him into the dark alley. Meanwhile, Bitzer started an engine and put the vehicle the Flock had made into gear.

  A moment later, a mechanical pantomime horse whirred out into the street. Propped on top sat the Farmer, fast asleep, with a helmet on his head. From inside the horse-vehicle, the sheep below held him in place with sticks.

  With a grin, Shaun joined the other sheep, elbowing them to make room. When everyone was settled, Shaun peered out through the horse’s eyeholes and bleated. Time to go. As Bitzer put the horse into gear, Nuts began clapping two coconut shells together, making clip-clop noises as the fat and lumpy horse skimmed down the road. Shaun grinned to himself. Everything was going to plan.

  As they rounded a corner, his grin disappeared.

  Boots clumped to a halt on the pavement. Blocking the pantomime horse’s path with a raised hand . . . was Trumper.

  The horse reared backward, threatening to topple the Farmer. Quickly, the sheep maneuvered their sticks until he was sitting upright again.

  The Animal Containment Officer narrowed his eyes, glaring suspiciously at the strange man on the ragged pantomime horse. Some sort of street performer, he guessed. Then, he held up pictures of Shaun, Bitzer, and Slip — with the word “CONTAINED” stamped across the top of each one.

  Inside the horse, sheep pushed and pulled on their sticks, making the Farmer move like a puppet. His head slumped forward and back in a sloppy nod. His arm rose, pointing back the way the pantomime horse had come.

  Trumper growled thanks and stepped aside to let the horse continue on its way. Still suspicious, he turned to watch it go. It was then that he noticed a trail of what looked like wool — and it was coming from the horse! What was going on in there?

  Trumper stuck his head into the horse’s backside to find out. For a second, there was a stunned silence. He stared in shocked surprise at sheep working the sticks that held the Farmer in place, and Bitzer at the pulleys and levers.

  Taking a deep breath, Trumper opened his mouth to shout.

  “Gruu-mph!” His mouth was suddenly full of teddy; Shaun had shoved Timmy’s toy in Trumper’s face, forcing his head back out of the horse’s bottom.

  Over his shoulder, Shaun bleated at Bitzer. They had to leave: fast!

  Bitzer stamped on the pedals. The pantomime horse began to move away. But it was carrying the Farmer, a sheepdog, and an entire flock of sheep. The weight slowed it down. Shaun groaned as he peered out through the horse’s bum. Shouting at the horse to stop, Trumper was in hot pursuit, and it wouldn’t take long for him to catch up. Shaun looked around desperately for anything that might help. His gaze fell on a fire extinguisher. Bitzer had insisted on bringing safety equipment, just in case.

  Shaun grabbed the extinguisher and forced its nozzle out of the horse’s backside. Squeezing his eyes closed, he pulled the release trigger.

  In a cloud of horrible-smelling chemicals, the horse shot forward into the night.

  Coughing in a cloud of foam, Trumper raised his stun gun, flicking the switch and pulling the trigger at the same time. Crackling with power, an electrified claw zipped after the farting horse, trailing a long wire behind it.

  The shot missed and ricocheted, tangling the wire around the horse’s legs as Trumper gave chase. With a curse, he grabbed at the claw’s wire.

  It was a mistake.

  Electricity burned into his hand. The air around him snapped and fizzled. His hair stood on end, smoking.

  The horse zoomed away, dragging a screaming Trumper behind. On its back, the Farmer lolled this way and that while the sheep tried their best to keep him upright.

  In his dreams, the Farmer sighed with pleasure at the lovely massage he was getting.

  Bitzer yanked on the steering wheel, but the horse was out of control. The Flock yelped as they crashed through a wooden fence, towing Trumper behind.

  A second later, the Animal Containment Officer burst through the wrecked fence, still holding onto the wire, with two planks stuck to his feet like skis. His scream became louder as he was pulled up a ramp, then abruptly st
opped as he tipped over the edge and dropped into the jaws of a building site bulldozer.

  Sheep cheered as Trumper disappeared, then turned to peer down the road as Bitzer woofed in excitement. Up ahead, beneath yellow streetlights, was the old camper, battered and crumpled and abandoned in the breakdown lane. Bitzer pulled the handlebars around, steering toward it. Behind him, sheep released tattered clothes they had found under the arches and tied to the horse. Trousers and shirts and underwear puffed out like parachutes.

  The pantomime horse slowed, and came to rest at the side of the camper.

  for any sign of Trumper, the sheep climbed out of the horse. The Animal Containment Officer was nowhere to be seen. Hooves gently lifted the Farmer, while others pulled open the camper’s door. When the Farmer was safely snuggled up under a blanket, the sheep scouted the yards of houses lining the road. A few moments later, they returned with a borrowed clothesline, which was quickly tied to the camper’s tow bar and then to the back bumper of a bus idling at a stop nearby.

  Sighing with relief, the sheep clambered into the camper. Ahead, the bus pulled away in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The camper jerked and began rolling. Squashed against the back window, sheep faces peered at the road as Trumper finally appeared, smoking and battered, the stun gun still gripped in one grimy hand.

  The sheep waved at him as the camper trundled away.

  A moment later, Shaun heard a thunk and a rattling sound. He peered through the window again. Trumper had disappeared, but his weapon was dragging along, attached to the camper by its long wire. Shaun grinned as the wire snapped, leaving the horrible machine lying in the road. Trumper must have tried one last time to grab the sheep, but he hadn’t been able to run fast enough to keep up.

  The camper swayed and wobbled along behind the bus, city streets gradually giving way to trees and rolling fields. Slowly, the roads became narrower until the bus was finally rumbling along a country lane. Up ahead, Shaun spotted a familiar gate. Leaning out the front window, he bleated back at the Flock.

  The sheep jumped together in unison, bouncing the camper and unhitching it from the bus. The camper slowed, one wheel bouncing off a rock to send it squeaking up a tractor path. At exactly the spot where it had started, the camper rolled to a gentle stop.

  Sheep bleated in horror as it began to roll backward again. They were headed back to the city!

  A moment later, the bull heaved the camper back into its usual place. Cheers burst from the camper as the door flew open. The Flock, Bitzer, and Slip had arrived safely at Mossy Bottom Farm! The animals carried the Farmer out, lowered him into the wheelbarrow, and wheeled him toward the farmhouse. Shaun smiled. When the Farmer woke up in his own bed, Mr. X would be completely forgotten.

  Behind them, a hand appeared from beneath the camper.

  None of the animals noticed.

  In the farmhouse, two pigs sat on the sofa flicking through a cookbook. Spotting a dish that looked tasty, one of them ripped the picture out and stuffed it in his mouth.

  Squeee! A pig glanced out of the farmhouse window and squealed in shock. It was the Farmer, and he was headed straight for the house! The pig looked around in horror. While the Farmer had been away, the place had — quite literally — become a pigsty. Food and pig poo had been trodden into the carpet and splattered on the ceiling, chairs were overturned, and a partied-out pig was asleep in the Farmer’s bathtub.

  Squeeee! Squeee! SQUEEEEEEE!

  The farmhouse erupted as squealing pigs leapt to tidy the mess they’d made. One furiously washed a pile of dirty dishes while another dumped a bowl of popcorn into the open mouth of a third pig. Another wiped a cloth over a mustache he’d drawn on a photo of the Farmer. Ink smeared over the picture, making it look even worse. In desperation, the pig hurriedly redrew the mustache.

  Seconds later, the pigs fled out the back door. With a final glance over his shoulder at the gleaming farmhouse, the last one out carefully wiped hoofprints from the door handle and pulled the door closed behind him.

  In the farmyard at the front of the house, the Flock had almost finished dressing the Farmer in his own clothes. A sheep lifted a Wellington boot and slipped it onto the Farmer’s foot, then stopped as he heard a shocked bleat.

  Slip growled. Bitzer blinked. Shaun’s jaw fell open. No, it couldn’t be . . .

  The rest of the Flock fell silent.

  Standing in the distance, silhouetted against the moon with a scythe in his hand, was the unmistakable figure of Animal Containment Officer Trumper.

  Shaun bleated in shock. The sound broke the silence. Sheep picked up the wheelbarrow and fled for the nearest hiding place — the small toolshed where the Farmer kept his clippers. Bitzer banged the door shut behind them, slamming bolts and latches and locking the door. For good measure, he swallowed the key.

  The animals of Mossy Bottom Farm cowered in the dark as heavy boots stomped around the shed. The window’s view of the moon vanished as Trumper wrapped the small building in crime-scene tape. They were trapped.

  A few seconds later, Shaun heard the unmistakable sound of the Farmer’s tractor wheezing and coughing to life. The sound came closer and closer until, with a loud thump, the tractor hit the shed.

  Trumper shifted gears.

  The engine strained.

  Animals tumbled, bleating in fear as the shed fell on its side. Outside, the tractor’s engine roared louder as Trumper began to half push, half roll the wooden shed across the meadow in the direction of the old quarry. The Farmer’s head fell on Shirley. Muttering happily in his sleep, he nestled into her thick fleece, dreaming of soft pillows.

  Shaun gulped as the shed lurched and rolled across the meadow. The quarry was deep, with sheer rocky cliffs for walls. If Trumper pushed them into it, no one would survive. If only the Farmer —

  The Farmer! thought Shaun, as everybody was tossed around the shed as if they were in a huge washing machine. If anyone could help them now it was the Farmer. If only he remembered who he really was.

  Reaching out a hoof, Shaun tried shaking him awake. The Farmer grumbled in his sleep and burrowed deeper into Shirley’s fleece. Animals shouted in his ear, poking and nudging him. Still the Farmer slept on. Shaun gritted his teeth. There was nothing else to do. If the Farmer couldn’t be woken by normal methods, he would have to try something extreme. He scooped up a hoof-ful of old manure and held it to the Farmer’s nose.

  The shed came to a stop as it hit the wire fence surrounding the quarry. Metal screeched and twanged, but didn’t break. Shaun heard Trumper curse, loudly. Then wood crunched, and the shed began to rise. Sheep shrieked. Trumper was using the tractor’s grabbing claw to lift the whole shed over the deep, rocky pit. Any moment now, they’d fall and splat against the ground . . .

  The Farmer’s nose twitched at the foul smell underneath it. His eyelids fluttered. The sheep and Bitzer crowded around, bleating and woofing loudly. Slowly, the Farmer’s eyes opened. For a second, he stared at the sea of frightened faces above him, then he screamed. He’d had a dreadful day — waking up in the hospital, lost in the city, working hard at the salon — and now he was being held hostage by a gang of lunatic creatures.

  The animals crowded closer, pleading in yelps and bleats for him to remember who he really was. With another screech, he struggled away from them, making the shed rock dangerously. Reaching out to support himself, the Farmer found himself clutching an old photograph. Without thinking, he looked at it.

  The photo showed a group of young sheep, and a puppy. He peered closer, confused. At the center of the photo, grinning broadly, was a man who looked like a younger version of himself.

  The Farmer blinked as his memories returned in a rush. It was him. And these were his animals. This was his shed. This was where he was supposed to be. Not shearing people in a Big City salon. Here. On his farm. His lip wobbled. With a jolt, he realized how much he had missed the Flock, Bitzer, Mower Mouth, and even the pigs and ducks.

  A tear rolled down the Farmer’s f
ace.

  Wood creaked alarmingly. Outside, the tractor’s engine groaned, lifting the shed into position.

  The Farmer stood up, a commanding figure in thick glasses, and looked around at the scared animals. An angry frown crossed his face. Whatever was frightening them, he would soon put a stop to it.

  In one stride, he crossed to the door and pushed against it. Trumper’s tape held it firmly in place. Grunting, the Farmer put his shoulder to it and heaved.

  Tape snapped.

  The door burst open.

  Angrily, the Farmer stepped outside . . . and shrieked as he dropped into a dark abyss, only to jerk to a bouncing stop as a loop of crime-scene tape tangled around his ankle.

  The animals crowded around the door, watching in horror as the Farmer dangled below them. Bitzer woofed. The tape was straining to breaking point. They had to do something.

  Hooves clamped around Bitzer’s ankles and lowered him into the dark. He reached out to the Farmer, just a second too late.

  With a faint ripping sound, the plastic tape snapped. The Farmer flailed blindly in the darkness, and grabbed onto Bitzer’s ears. Above Bitzer, a chain of sheep swung from the open door of the shed.

  Shaun gulped. The sheep couldn’t hang on forever, and Trumper could drop the whole shed into the quarry at any moment. It was up to him to save everyone. Teeth chattering, he crawled out from the shed and onto the tractor’s arm. At the end of it sat Trumper, his hair sticking up crazily, smears of dirt and soot across his face.

  With a bleat, Shaun threw himself at the Animal Containment Officer just as he reached for the lever that would release the tractor’s grabber.

  Trumper screamed as a sheep suddenly flew out of the dark, straight at him.

  Shaun’s scrabbling hooves pressed a button. Windshield cleaning fluid jetted out and hit Trumper in the eyes. Hitting that button had worked so well, Shaun immediately tried another. Windshield wipers slapped Trumper’s face again and again.