Animal Exodus

By Peter Harrison

Fly-tippers cause havoc when they dump toxic waste on an unsupervised land-fill next to the old farm. Creatures start dropping like flies as the poison spreads. Animal meetings are held and the word goes out; Fly, walk, waddle, but take the next bus out.

Myrtle Mouse and her surviving kid brother, Wilbur, are one of the last to leave their home. Joined by Thomas Rat and Maurice Mole they attempt the long and hazardous journey to a distant quarry encountering numerous adventures along the way and, thanks to the conniving, scheming, sharp-as-a-button Walter Worm, the remnants of the group finally reach a place of haven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barny Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310901171

Book preview

The old farm stood in a hundred and fifty hectares close to the unregulated land-fill site. Paul and Peter Hardcastle were eccentric like their parents before them. They owned both sites. It was off the beaten track and safely hidden behind a small wood. The dumping-ground was used by all and sundry - private individuals and firms large and small who baulked at paying exorbitant Council fees. As long as they paid cash to the twins, the land-owners did not mind the noise or the dust or the flies that were part and parcel of the site. They did not object or query anything that was dumped. Timber, metals, defunct household goods, factory waste. Any mortal thing was accepted. The fee, naturally, was negotiable.

The Hardcastle land dipped into a huge natural gully allowing massive amounts of refuse to be off-loaded. It meant that the dump was never seen by the general public. It was almost impossible for two reasons - the public road was half a mile away from prying eyes and the Hardcastle twins owned four Irish Wolfhounds that permanently roamed the site. The dogs were feral - wild and vicious.

The waste-tip had been in operation for the best part of a decade. The twins periodically scavenged the site, once or twice every few days in case some abandoned item caught their interest. They retrieved all kinds of household goods from the land-fill. A few items were brand-new. Others were not so good, but still in working order. Norbert Ingram - owner of Ingram’s Second-Hand Stores - was their best customer. The oddball lived a few miles away in a decrepit building with a host of animals as his only company. The old codger would be contacted whenever items of value were discovered and the bartering would commence. The trade suited both parties.

It was late when the unmarked lorry trundled through the open gate. The diminutive driver leaned out of the part-open door and offered a bulky envelope to Paul Hardcastle. The packet was opened and the money counted. A self-satisfied smile etched over the grizzled features of the Hardcastle twin as he gestured towards an uncluttered corner of the land-fill. The driver slammed the door shut, manoeuvring the wagon towards the allocated place. Gears clanked alarmingly as the vehicle reversed deep into the dumping-ground. The rear end of the wagon started to lift. Large iron drums that were stacked one on top of each other creaked and clattered and finally overbalanced. They rolled noisily from the back of the truck and landed in an untidy heap on a festering mound of garden waste. As the final drum fell from the wagon, it spiralled away from the rest, only stopping when it careered into an ancient oak tree.

That’s convenient, said Paul Hardcastle, waving the wagon away.

Peter Hardcastle asked, What’s convenient?

It’s one less to stand upright! replied Paul, gesturing at the upright drum. He shuffled towards the solitary container. Come on, let’s see what we’ve got!

Peter, the meeker of the twins, followed obediently.

Paul approached the booty, saw the painted sign and whooped with joy. B.P. he said, chortling. Glanced at his brother, British Petroleum! he wailed hysterically. We’ve hit the jackpot!

Petrol! replied Peter. We’ll make a fortune!

Petrol or diesel, said Paul, frowning. It’s one or the other.

Is that a problem?

Not for us … We’ll give Ingram a call. He likes buying in bulk.

"Shouldn’t we take some?"

Paul pondered for some moments. That’s a good idea, he replied. Go back to the house and find a few spanners … We’ll fill the odd bucket or two.

Peter glanced at the untidy pile of big drums, mentally counting the containers. There’s thirty drums of petrol! That’s thirty times ... He paused and glanced at his sibling, Paul, how much shall we ask for each one?

We’ve got all night to think about a price!

Paul Hardcastle turned and headed back to the farmhouse. Peter followed like a lap dog.

When we fill the fuel tank of our Land-Rover, said Paul. How much does the garage charge?

I don’t know. You always pay.

The twins disappeared into the night, happy with the find and ignorant of the consequences but the brothers had made a grave error; their logic wrong. They had put two and two together and agreed the steel drums were filled with fuel produced by the petrol company, British Petroleum but B.P. was the initials, back to front, of Percival Bouffant, owner of the small firm, Bouffant Chemicals. The firm was situated in the trading estate in the nearby town. Bouffant cut corners when he could; a fly-tipper extraordinaire without qualms or conscience, especially when it came to saving money.

A short distance away, two overweight, juicy worms watched the Hardcastle twins leave the field. They sat nestling against one another, not only for comfort but to hold off the growing chill of the night.

Walter Worm, proud as punch that he had secured the affections of Wilhelmina after so long a courtship, said, Something going down, honey. The humans think there`s petrol in those tin boxes …What say we stay awhile and take notes?

Wally, replied Wilhelmina stretching her buxom body. What’s petrol?

You don’t know, kid? said Walter chortling. His tiny brain started firing on all cylinders as he struggled to think of an answer. Come on, surely everyone knows about petroleum? Walter had seen the signs on billboards and tankers. Knew the brand-leaders off by heart - Jet, B.P. Esso - but was clueless about its powers or properties. Not wishing to appear stupid in front of wife number three - especially after bragging and boasting - he said matter of fact, It’s a liquid, honey. Something like water!

In a tin can? questioned the spouse. Petrol doesn’t run free like streams across the forest floor?

Walter knew he was digging a hole so deep he would soon be buried up to his slimy head. He spluttered unconvincingly, It’s different, babe. Walter pretended to concentrate on the events close by, I’ll tell you sometime, okay … Those two-legged creatures have got me curious.

He must think I’m one dumb wiggler, thought Wilhelmina despairingly. Especially when he’s been wed to such well-to-do worms.

Wally, she asked demurely. You ever think of your ex-wives?

Walter sighed with relief, relieved that Wilhelmina had changed the subject, It’s our wedding-day, honey and you want to talk about dimwits like Chantelle and Chloe? … It was the best day of my life when birds gobbled them both for breakfast! He slapped his tail playfully over her rump, Every cloud, Wilhelmina! They disappeared and then you squirmed into my life! … Every cloud!

You mean that, Wally?

Cross my heart and hope to die! he said and kissed his brand-new wife.

Walter Worm stiffened as noises wafted over him. It was the humans. The two-legged creatures hurried towards the huge tin can that stood up-right next to the big, leafy tree. One held a large, deep container; the other gripped a steel implement. The men stood so close Walter Worm could smell the acid odours wafting from their gargantuan bodies.

Nudging his brand-new spouse, Walter said, Let’s listen, honey.

The Hardcastle twins were in dispute. Paul was having second thoughts. Something did not gel. Something was not right. The idea of dumping valuable cargo in the middle of a land-fill did not seem logical. Peter was adamant that it was manna from Heaven, a gift from the Gods. He told his brother in no uncertain terms they should stick to their original plan and sell the petrol.

But why was it dumped? asked Paul. There must be something wrong with it!

Was there anything wrong with that cooker we salvaged yesterday?

No, said Paul.

How about the television and the vacuum-cleaner the day before?

Paul was weakening. He had one last attempt, I’ve never seen petrol in big drums! he said. It’s either in huge tankers for petrol stations, or put in those small plastic containers and left in car-boots in case of emergencies! There’s something not right, I smell a rat!

The mention of the rodents’ name got Walter Worm`s attention. Spasming with shock he asked, Did he say rat? Nudged Wilhelmina, You smell anything, see anything?

Only you, Wally, replied his wife nervously.

Satisfied that the immediate area was devoid of rodents, Walter continued eavesdropping on the humans.

Let’s open it, said Peter Hardcastle. He pointed an adjustable spanner at the big metal bolt, Put the bucket underneath. We don’t want to spill a drop.

Paul placed the large plastic container in place. Peter started unscrewing the bolt. All of a sudden, the steel cap cracked and a stream of rancid liquid spurted like a fountain. The fluid sprayed like a watering-can, the smell was awful, the odour sour.

Paul dived to one side. He was safe and dry.

Peter stumbled and fell, his feet showered with fluid. He squirmed in agony as the liquor burned and gouged weals into his skin.

It’s toxic! cried Peter alarmingly. Chemicals!

As the soaked man struggled to his feet, his brother took flight.

I’ll get some water! Paul shouted fearfully. Don’t panic!

Wait for me! screamed Peter, running after him.

The noise from the retreating brothers diminished as the twins made a fast exit from the field. Minutes later the land-fill became as silent as a graveyard. Nothing stirred or spoke.

Wally, asked Wilhelmina, are you sure that stuff is like water?

One-hundred-per-cent! replied Walter Worm. He was suddenly tired. It had been a long, eventful day.

It can`t be! she said adamantly. Water doesn’t hurt?

Honey! barked an irritated Walter. I said it was something like water!

Above their heads came the unmistakable sound of beating wings.

Walter bellowed frantically, Move, Wilhelmina! Roll your body out of sight! I hear a Sky Devil!

What’s that, Wally? replied Wilhelmina, engrossed with the antics of the humans.

Walter jerked to one side then wiggled manically towards the safety of long grass.

A moment later the ground shuddered as the falcon’s talons speared the juicy worm. Poor Wilhelmina shrieked in agony as she was torn apart and eaten. Walter Worm slithered away from the place as fast as he could. He reached the safety of long nettles and watched the bloodbath.

I don’t believe it! he mused. Married and widowed on one day! It has to be some kind of record His thoughts froze inside his head as faint, melodic sounds filtered through the night air. What was that? he uttered nervously. The distant noises sounded like drizzle. Walter looked up towards the leaden heavens. The night skies were devoid of rain.

A muffled thunderclap echoed across the land-fill. Then another. Distinct sounds grew in intensity. Noises that sounded like a surreal down-pour, a melodious shower that appeared to concentrate on one area of the dumping-ground.

Thunder and lightning? thought Walter, glancing at the murky sky. But there’s no thunderbolts and no falling moisture! He stuck his knotted head into soft soil and started burrowing. I`d better find some temporary lodgings before more birds come calling!

There was no thunder or lightning. No rain. Had the worm looked towards the recently deposited drums he would have seen the reason for the disturbance. One after another the rusting, metal containers were fracturing and cracking open. The drums hissed noisily, spitting and spraying liquid poison everywhere.

Life on the farm would never be the same.

Chapter Two

Four months later

It all started in the barn. Myrtle Mouse and her brothers, Podge and Wilbur, were in the loft near the open hatch. Two were resting. Podge, as usual, was eating. All three mice watched from the rafters as Moggy, the fat farmer’s cat, chased furiously after their mother, Beatrice. Round and round the floor of the old barn they ran like manic spinning-tops. A real life Tom and Jerry.

Why does he do that, Myrtle? asked Wilbur. Why does Moggy chase mother when he knows he can never catch her?

Moggy has been acting strange lately, replied Myrtle, ignoring the question. Something has definitely happened to her. She cries for no reason. Shouts. Chases her own tail … Perhaps she’s ill.

I’ve seen her vomiting, said Wilbur, nodding in agreement.

This chicken-leg is delicious! said Podge.

Myrtle’s fur suddenly bristled with alarm as she witnessed Beatrice, her mother, suddenly losing ground to the pursuing cat. She knew instinctively something was amiss as the chase became more frantic. Beatrice Mouse slowed, spasmed and started retching. In an act of desperation, she took evasive action as the wide fangs of the cat loomed closer. Lunging sideways Beatrice vanished into a mound of old hay stacked on one side of the barn. Moggy, yelping with savage delight, dived after her.

Did you see that? said Podge, his gaze alternating between the chase and the scrumptious chicken-leg. Mother was almost caught! With whiskers wet with grease and bits of meat and still gnawing heartily on the bone, he added, This is quite delicious!

Faint noises filtered from below and wafted towards the loft. There were sounds of an assault. A mouse pleaded for its life. A cat gloated and cackled wickedly.

An alarmed Beatrice Mouse shouted at the top of her voice, Don’t do that Moggy!

Straw and dust danced magically from the hill of hay.

Help me! shrieked Beatrice Mouse from inside the straw shelter.

Oh no! yelled a frantic Myrtle.

Did you hear that, Myrtle? said Wilbur. Tears welled in his eyes.

Wilbur stood on trembling legs as the growing mayhem unnerved him. He turned to his sister with dread in his eyes, his little mouth quivering with apprehension. He looked below at the quivering, wailing mound of hay.

Myrtle was not listening. She knew something was amiss. In a month of Sundays the ancient cat could never catch her mother. Beatrice was the fastest mouse in the whole farm because of her long legs. Those sleek pins made her seemingly invincible to all the other creatures. She had once outrun Reynard the Fox! Truly! Myrtle had witnessed the event from afar. Her mother had toyed and taunted the wily old fox as she darted here and there like a bullet from the farmer’s big gun. No one could match her mother’s prowess on the running field. Fast as lightning she was. Only mouse that resembled her was Myrtle whose legs seemed to run all the way up to her belly. No one could catch Myrtle’s mother.

Myrtle! said Wilbur, quaking with growing unease.

Shh! said Myrtle and whacked Wilbur with her long tail.

As Myrtle watched the bouncing hay her mind spun with images of past events. First Norman, her father, and then her big sister, Myra, had all mysteriously disappeared in the last week. Hours earlier her mother had spoken about the strange events unfolding around the farm. Herbert and Hannah’s - relations who lived in the byre, a family of twelve, five boys and five girls, plus their parents - had vanished overnight. Maurice Mole, an old friend, had detoured through the old byre knowing that enormous worms lived amongst the sludge and slurry. He found the place empty, not a single mouse anywhere. He saw numerous juicy worms and a multitude of maggots - all smelling horribly - but not one solitary mouse. Mole told the intrigued mice that he had heard cows moaning miserably, had seen one dead duck, four deceased wolfhounds and a dying sparrow-hawk! Maurice Mole, sensibly, had abandoned the pantry.

Norman, Myrtle’s father, decided to visit the byre. He was intrigued by the mole’s statement and curious that his eldest son, Herbert, had not paid a courtesy visit in days. That was the last they heard from Norman Mouse. Hours later and with tea prepared - thanks to the innovative, fearless Podge’s foray into the big fields beyond the barbed wire - Beatrice Mouse sent her oldest daughter, Myra, scouting for clues. She, like her father, never returned.

Myrtle! said Wilbur, his little head stretching to its limit as he scrutinised the world below. Where’s mother?

Myrtle ignored him, too busy staring at the barn floor. She glowered at the place, watching and waiting. Nothing moved below. It was so quiet it could have been the middle of the night. Myrtle scratched her underside. Normally she would have used her teeth to rid the bugs from her fur. Not today. Today she focussed on the silage and waited for Moggy, or her mother, to re-appear.

One of the humans appeared at the barn-door. The bloated one. The two-legs stood and stared around the interior of the barn. His features were misshapen and pitted with sores and weals. His breath was laboured. He sucked air as if it were his last.

Moggy! shouted the human, hoarsely. Come here, girl!

What does the two-legs want? whispered Wilbur, almost hidden behind the open hatch.

I think he searches for the cat, replied Myrtle, her voice almost inaudible.

The straw moved and the wily feline waddled triumphantly into view. In her mouth, hanging lifeless with eyes wide open and mouth agape, was Beatrice Mouse. Her lanky limps trailed the dusty floor; her long tail painting surreal patterns in the dirt.

The man wheezed, Moggy! Put it with the others!

Mother? whispered a disbelieving, dumbfounded Wilbur. He glanced at his sister, his small face echoed shock and heartache. Mother is dead!

Myrtle Mouse could only watch helplessly as her beloved mother was hauled away.

The human nodded, turned and walked across the yard towards the farmhouse. The slinking cat followed in his footsteps. Moggy reached the open door, paused momentarily and looked into the rafters high above the ground. She saw the audience and faked a smile but her weary features only grimaced through bloody, clenched teeth

All of a sudden Podge groaned in anguish, his grey eyes rolled in agony as his chubby body began to convulse and jerk.

Podge! shouted Wilbur, angry at his greedy brother. How can you eat at such a time?

Podge Mouse fell to his knees and moaned in agony, My stomach hurts! he said, gasping.

Mother is dead and still you snack! snapped Wilbur, miffed at his brother’s