Against All Odds (8 page)

B
oney spied through the kitchen window before entering the house. His uncle was sitting at the table, reading the paper, a big hole in the front page where Boney had ripped out the picture of the Itchy clone. His aunt was fussing about, rattling some pans on the stove. Boney gazed at the kitten purring in his arms. He knew his uncle would let him keep the pet, but his aunt was another story. She wouldn’t allow the kitten to stay unless he came up with a very good reason, which he didn’t have the energy to do at the moment.

“I’ll just hide you for the time being,” Boney said, tucking the kitten under his T-shirt and folding his hands casually across the resulting bump on his stomach. He turned the knob on the door, and then refolded his hands over the bump as he stepped into the house.

“It’s about time, young man!” his aunt scolded
immediately. “I practically screamed myself hoarse calling for you.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Boney turned his back to her as she continued her tirade. He tried to conceal the kitten while pushing his sneakers off with his feet. But his aunt wasn’t that easily fooled.

“What have you got there?” She sniffed, walking toward him.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you clutching your stomach?”

Boney froze. “I don’t feel well.”

His aunt leaned in to take a closer look. “Your stomach looks all bloated. Do you have a fever? Let me feel your forehead.”

Boney jumped back. “NO! It’s okay. I just have to go to the washroom really badly.” He hopped lightly from foot to foot to show his distress. The kitten began to squirm beneath his shirt.

His aunt stared in horror at the wiggling lump. “Good heavens!” She turned to Boney’s uncle. “Robert, get the ipecac. I think William has worms.”

“It’s not worms,” Boney said. “I just need to go to the washroom.”

“Don’t move,” his aunt ordered. She rummaged through the cupboards until she found the bottle of medicine she was looking for, and then she got a tablespoon
from the cutlery drawer. Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, she walked toward Boney, filling the spoon with gruesome yellow liquid.

Boney grimaced, struggling to contain the squirming kitten. “Really, Auntie, I’m okay — I think it’s just food poisoning.”

His aunt recoiled as though bitten. “Food poisoning? Not from this kitchen.” She turned to her husband. “Robert? How’s your stomach?”

“Huh?” Boney’s uncle sputtered through his moustache, fluttering his newspaper absently.

“Maybe I got it from something I ate at the clubhouse,” Boney said, the kitten becoming more and more agitated.

“Well, it won’t hurt you to take a little medicine.” His aunt raised the spoon of jiggling syrup.

Boney jerked away from the spoon. “Auntie, please!” he howled, the kitten screeching from his shirt and landing between his feet with a loud plop!

The sight of the kitten caused his aunt to shriek and faint. She collapsed on the kitchen floor, the ipecac syrup fanning from the bottle in a putrid yellow arc across the room.

Boney’s uncle leaped to his feet and trampled through the sticky syrup, leaving yellow footprints across the linoleum. He knelt at his wife’s side, flapping his folded
newspaper in her face. Boney grabbed the terrified kitten and held him to his chest.

“Can I keep him, Uncle?” he begged. “I promise I’ll take care of him. You won’t even have to pay for food or anything.”

Boney’s uncle continued to fan his wife with the newspaper. “You’d better take that kitten up to your room,” he ordered. “We’ll discuss this in the morning— once your aunt has had a chance to recover.”

Boney rushed upstairs with the kitten. He could hear his uncle helping his aunt up the stairs, her wails echoing through the house. He waited until things settled down, then searched his room for an old cardboard box for the kitten’s litter, cutting the edges down to the proper height. When he was sure his aunt was safely stowed in her bed, Boney snuck downstairs with the makeshift litter box and crept outside to get some soil from the rose garden. Looking over his shoulder for clones, Boney quickly filled the box with his hands, brushing them off on his jeans before sneaking back into the house.

In the kitchen, the table was still set for dinner, pots and pans abandoned on the stove. His aunt had never been this upset before. He would never hear the end of it. Desperate to make amends, Boney grabbed the dishcloth from the sink and furiously scrubbed the yellow
ipecac syrup from the floor, rinsing the cloth several times until the kitchen was clean. As he replaced the cloth in the sink, Boney’s stomach growled loudly. Despite everything, he was hungry. He cautiously peeked into the pots: Brussels sprouts and one of his aunt’s famous soup-can recipes. Boney screwed up his face at the sprouts, slapping the lid back on the pot. He found a fork in the cutlery drawer and began wolfing down big mouthfuls of casserole, barely chewing between bites.

When he was satisfied, he covered the pot and got a cereal bowl from the cupboard. After filling the bowl with milk, Boney quietly took it and the litter box upstairs for Tiger. The kitten sniffed at the bowl and began lapping the milk. Boney sat back, rubbing his forehead.

Squeak called over the Tele-tube. “Are you there, Boney? Over.”

Boney uncovered the tube. “Boney here.”

“Just wondering how your aunt received the kitten,” Squeak said.

“She fainted.”

“What? What happened?”

Boney rested his chin in his hand. “I tried to hide Tiger under my shirt, but he squirmed and fell out. I guess my aunt was … surprised.”

“Oh. I see.”

“She thought I had worms,” Boney explained. “She tried to give me ipecac.”

Squeak stared at Boney from his bedroom window. “Ipecac? Isn’t that an emetic?”

“What do you mean?”

Squeak made a barfing sound through the tube. “It’s used to make people throw up.”

Boney groaned. “Yeah. There was no way I was going to take it.”

“Why would your aunt think that was a good idea?” Squeak wondered. “I’ve never heard of using ipecac for worms before …”

“Who knows? She probably read it in one of her women’s magazines.”

“Fascinating,” Squeak said. “I’m assuming you’re grounded?”

Boney saluted. “Roger that. I’m in for the night. But what about you? Is your dad going to let you keep Spock?”

“Unknown. He’s working late, as usual.”

“Ah.”

The tube fell silent.

“Boney …” Squeak finally spoke. “Do you think we’ll be able to solve this clone problem?”

Boney rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. But I hope so.”

There was another pause before Squeak spoke again. “Sam is pretty cool, isn’t she?”

“Yeah … she’s smart. Almost as smart as you.”

“Smarter, I think,” Squeak confessed.

“I don’t know if that’s possible.”

“She beat me at the Flying Fiends Competition.”

“You didn’t know her entry would be armed and dangerous,” Boney said.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Squeak said. “I was losing anyway.”

“Well—” Boney started to speak, but there was a sharp rap on his bedroom door.

“Get to bed,” his uncle commanded.

“Gotta go,” Boney whispered. He threw the towel over the end of the Tele-tube and picked Tiger up, holding the kitten in the air for Squeak to see. Squeak nodded and held his kitten up as well. “Eight a.m.,” Boney mouthed.

“Eight a.m.” Squeak’s voice floated through the tube.

W
ith nothing to entertain him, Boney changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed, placing Tiger next to him. The kitten curled on top of the blanket and began purring loudly. Boney’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier, the kitten’s purring lulling him deeper and deeper. He drifted off to sleep, only to be woken several hours later by the sound of the kitten hissing and growling ferociously at the foot of the bed. Boney jerked awake, just in time to hear his bedroom window slowly scraping open.

His voice quavered through the dark. “Who’s there?”

The sash flung open with a bang, and a tangled mass of red hair popped in.

“AaaaaAAAAhhhhhaaAAAAhhhhHH!” Boney screamed as the demonic white face of an Itchy clone snapped into view. Jumping up, Boney grabbed the pillow from his bed. He swung it like a Viking, hitting the
clone over and over as he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Get out of here, you red-headed freak!”

The clone clawed at the pillow, trying to wrench it from Boney’s hands. Boney swung wildly, knocking the clone’s head from side to side like a punching bag. The clone scrabbled to get in the room and was nearly through the window when Tiger launched himself from the end of the bed. The kitten flew through the air and landed in the clone’s hair, snarling and scratching like an enraged wildcat. The clone shrieked and waved its hands, trying to pull the hissing kitten off its head. It lost its footing and fell back, the kitten jumping safely into the room as the clone crashed to the ground.

There was a loud knock on the bedroom door. “What’s going on in there?” Boney’s uncle demanded.

“Nothing,” Boney called back, his voice shaking. “Just a bad dream. I’m fine now.”

There was the sound of shuffling outside the door, and then the hall grew quiet. Boney pushed the window shut and engaged the lock, his chest still heaving as he peered through the glass at the clone lying scrambled on the ground. But the creature rose, as though pulled by strings, like a marionette, and stood glaring at Boney, its horrible face a pale spectre in the night. It was soon joined by another clone, and then another and another, until a dozen white faces glared up at his
bedroom window. Boney watched in terror as the clones moved in unison toward the rose trellis on the wall of the house. They were just about to start climbing when a whistle pierced the darkness. The clones turned as one, marched from the yard, and were gone.

Boney collapsed on the end of his bed, Tiger slinking around his feet. He reached down, picked the kitten up, and hugged him. “You saved my life,” he whispered into the kitten’s fur. Hands trembling, Boney raised the Tele-tube to his lips. “Are you there, Squeak? Over.” He waited a few seconds and then leaned toward the Teletube again. “Come in, Squeak, it’s urgent. Over.”

Nothing. Boney threw the Tele-tube down and covered it with the towel. He rechecked the lock on the window and then stared down through the glass one more time, convinced the clones would reappear.

But the yard was empty. A shiver ran up Boney’s spine. What if the clones were trying to get in through another window in the house? And just how many were out there?

Kitten in hand, Boney slowly opened the door to his room and crept out. He stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, listening. The house was unusually quiet. He began walking down the stairs, hesitating with each step as he scanned for alien marauders. When he reached the landing at the bottom, he paused again.
Heart racing, he checked and double-checked the locks on the front door. Then he slunk through the rest of the house, hiding behind chairs and curtains before testing the locks on the windows and doors to make sure everything was secure.

When he was positive there were no more clones trying to break in, Boney crept back upstairs with the kitten and closed his bedroom door behind him. Fastening the lock on his window a third time, he finally climbed into bed. He lay there, too frightened to sleep, glancing at his alarm clock every few minutes. It seemed the faster his mind whirled, the slower time crawled, until he picked up the clock and held it to his ear, convinced it had stopped ticking altogether.

The kitten didn’t seem to care about clones, though. He was curled up on the blanket as before, his head tucked neatly into his tail. Boney wished he could be so relaxed. He wished he had a jawbreaker, too, but he was too afraid to get out of bed to search for one in the sock drawer of his dresser. Despite the overwhelming heat in his room, he pulled the sheet up under his chin, watching as the small metal fan on his desk whirled languidly from side to side. He could barely breathe, but he wasn’t about to open his window for fear the clone would show up. So there was nothing to do but lie there, wondering why Squeak hadn’t answered his
call over the Tele-tube. Boney’s mind began to race, spinning frightful scenarios in which the clones had captured and tortured his friends. This held him captive for a bleary-eyed hour until exhaustion overcame him and he fell into a fitful sleep.

B
oney woke with a start to the sound of his aunt’s voice hollering up the stairs. “William Boneham! Get down here this instant!” Kicking the sheet off his legs, Boney sprang out of bed, careful to avoid the kitten. But Tiger was already up, exploring the room. He’d found a marble under the dresser and was happily batting it back and forth, scrabbling noisily after it when it escaped his paws.

Boney checked his clock. Seven-twenty-nine. He would need to hurry if he was going to be on time for the eight a.m. rendezvous at the clubhouse. Retrieving a box from under his bed, he opened it. Inside was a full set of camouflage army fatigues. He jumped into the fatigues, then pulled an olive-drab toque from the box and slipped it on his head. Next, he fished a pair of shiny black combat boots from under his bed and put them on, lacing them with practised precision. When he
was finished, Boney walked over to his dresser and took a small tin from his sock drawer. Opening the tin, he smeared camouflage on his cheeks and forehead, taking a moment to admire himself in the mirror before replacing the tin in the drawer.

“William!” his aunt called again.

“You’d better stay here,” Boney said to Tiger as he opened the door to his room. “Auntie is in no mood for antics.”

But Tiger had other plans. He darted from the room and was padding merrily down the stairs, tail up, before Boney had a chance to stop him.

“Kitten!” Boney hissed.

Tiger slipped into the living room.

“Hey! Get back here!” Boney whispered.

Trotting carefully down the stairs, Boney chased the kitten into the kitchen where his aunt stood scowling, red gingham tea towel fixed over her arm.

“William Boneham,” she started in. “You have some nerve bringing a cat into this house. I suppose you thought you could hide it?”

Tiger purred and smiled, rubbing himself against her legs. She tried to shoo the cat away with the gingham dish towel.

“I’m sorry —” Boney began to apologize, but his aunt cut him off.

“I have never had use for a cat in the past, nor will I in the future. I’m of a mind to—”

But her lecture ended with a sharp shriek when a moth flew out of nowhere and swooped drunkenly at her head. Whipping the tea towel into action, she screamed and hopped around like a terrified chimp, attacking the moth as though it were a venomous killer. In her terror, she stumbled over a kitchen chair, tumbling to the floor with a shout, her skinny legs kicking at the air, the gingham tea towel cracking like a bullwhip.

“It’s just a moth!” Boney yelled. But he couldn’t be heard over his aunt’s cries, which were so hysterical his uncle came crashing into the room as if the house were on fire.

“What’s going on here?” he blustered.

Boney’s aunt screeched, “Get it, Robert, get it!”

All at once, the kitten sprang. He sailed across the kitchen like Pegasus, arcing over Boney’s aunt and snagging the moth in mid-air with his front paws. Tucking into a ball, he rolled across the kitchen floor, eating the moth before sliding to a stop in front of the stove.

“Wow!” Boney shouted. “Did you see that?”

His aunt blinked from her position on the floor.

His uncle snuffled through his moustache. “Well, that takes care of that.” He reached down and helped his rattled wife to her feet.

Boney picked Tiger up and beamed, putting on his most endearing face. “See how useful he is? Can we please keep him, pleeease?”

His aunt straightened her skirts and her hair, then folded the gingham tea towel over her arm. She cleared her throat and played with the button at the top of her blouse, her lips pinched. “Well … I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble …”

“He’s no trouble at all,” Boney assured her. “And I’ll pay for his food and everything.”

“Fine,” his aunt finally croaked. “But if I find him scratching at the furniture …”

“He won’t, Auntie, I promise.” Boney crossed his heart.

Boney’s uncle stepped in. “He’ll have to go to the vet.”

“We can take him whenever you want,” Boney said. He noticed the time. Seven-fifty-eight. He had two minutes to make his meeting at the clubhouse! “Uhhh … I have to go now. I’m late for a meeting … but we can talk about this later.”

“What meeting?” his aunt asked. “And what about breakfast?”

“Gotta go!” Boney dashed out the door with the kitten. He raced to the bottom of the tree house, looking around for any suspicious activity before climbing the
rope ladder. Slowly raising his head through Escape Hatch #1, Boney could see Henry sleeping peacefully in his box at the other end of the clubhouse. “Must be safe if Henry is okay,” he said to Tiger as he climbed the rest of the way in.

Moments later, there was noise at the base of the tree. Boney looked out the window and saw Squeak and Sam climbing up the ladder with their kittens. Squeak’s camouflaged face peeked through the escape hatch opening.

“It’s okay,” Boney said. “The coast is clear.”

Squeak signalled to Sam, and the two pulled themselves up into the clubhouse. They were both dressed in full military style: boots, fatigues, toques, camo, and kitten clone-detectors. Sam held up a box of kitten chow and a shallow bowl.

“I brought food for our clone-detectors—and cat litter with a box.” She placed her kitten on the clubhouse floor, arranged the litter box, and filled the bowl with chow.

The sound of the kibble woke Henry from his slumber. He cocked his head and eyed the food, jumped from his box, and ruffled his feathers. Boney and Squeak placed their kittens by the bowl. Henry swaggered over and gazed at the kittens, then pecked at the chow.

“That’s so cute,” Sam cooed. “I wish I had my camera.”

Squeak pulled his Polaroid from his messenger bag. “I’ve got mine.” He took a picture and handed the photo to Sam so she could watch it develop.

“You are sooo sweet!” Sam squealed.

A delirious giggle escaped from Squeak’s lips, but he quickly composed himself when he saw the horrified look on Boney’s face.

Sam grinned at the photo as the image emerged. But then she grew serious again. “Where’s Itchy?”

Squeak sighed. “He’s often late.”

“Let’s just hope he’s okay,” Boney said.

Squeak raised an eyebrow from behind his goggles. “What do you mean?”

Boney hesitated. “A clone broke into my room last night.”

“What?!” Sam and Squeak exclaimed.

Boney sat in his comfy chair. “I tried to call Squeak on the Tele-tube to warn him, but he didn’t answer. And then a whole bunch of clones were in my yard, so that blows our theory about clones travelling alone.”

“Maybe they’re starting to panic,” Sam said. “They know we’re on to them and they’re trying to get as much done as possible before they all get caught.”

“But why would they break into my house?” Boney asked.

“Maybe they remembered you from before,” Squeak said.

“But why would they only break into Boney’s house?” Sam wondered.

Squeak rested his chin in his hand, then his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. “Maybe it’s the food!”

“The food?” Boney said. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you said your aunt gave the clones cookies, right?” “Yeah …”

“And the newspaper said the Itchy clones were caught stealing pies and doughnuts.”

“So …?”

“So it must be the food they’re after,” Squeak said.

Boney puzzled over this for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible … Anyway, if it wasn’t for Tiger, I would have been toast. He kicked that clone’s butt.” He nuzzled the kitten.

“Good thing you had him with you,” Sam said.

“What about your aunt?” Squeak asked. “Is she going to let you keep him?”

Boney smiled. “As it turns out, Tiger is not only an expert clone fighter, he’s an amazing bug catcher, too.”

“Ah.” Squeak turned to Sam. “His aunt suffers from an uncontrollable phobia of insects.”

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.” Sam tossed her hair. “It’s actually quite a common fear.” She was about to elaborate when they heard a noise at the foot of the tree.

Everyone froze. Henry raised his head and glared around the clubhouse.

A mop of red hair rose slowly into view. “What’s for breakfast?” Itchy asked, his head popping up through Escape Hatch #1.

Squeak and Sam exhaled with relief.

Boney growled, “Get in here. You’re late, as usual. And why are you wearing my Superman T-shirt? We agreed last night: full regalia!”

Itchy looked down at his shirt. “I was in a hurry and I had nothing else to wear. And how should I know what, ‘full regalia’ means?”

Boney gestured at Sam, who was dressed to military precision, including a military-issue camouflage vest and knapsack. “Sam knew what it meant.”

“Well, goody for Sam,” Itchy grunted.

Squeak raised an eyebrow. “I question the wisdom of dressing exactly like the clones we’re trying to defeat.”

Itchy shot him a wry look. “Thanks, Army Spock. I preferred it when you had a crush on Leonardo da Vinci.”

“Who has a crush on da Vinci?” Sam asked.

Squeak spoke through clenched teeth. “He’s being totally illogical. And he’s evading the question.”

Itchy rolled his eyes. “Well, excuse me, Your Royal Spockness, but my mom hasn’t done laundry yet.”

“So … you couldn’t have worn a different dirty shirt?” Boney said, jumping up from his chair. “We won’t be able to tell you apart from the rest of the clones.”

“This was the least-dirty shirt I have right now. It doesn’t stink.” Itchy sniffed his armpit as proof.

Boney grimaced with disgust. “I could have lent you something else.”

“And have you harassing me for the rest of my life? No way.”

“You could learn to do your own laundry,” Sam suggested. “It’s not that difficult.”

Squeak looked at her with surprise. “That’s what I’m always telling him.”

Itchy pouted. “Why don’t you all just gang up on me.”

“We’re not ganging up on you,” Boney said.

“Yes, you are!”

“I have a fun surprise.” Sam swung her knapsack off her shoulder and unzipped it. Reaching in, she pulled out a handful of purple-checkered material and handed the boys a small bundle of cloth each. “There’s one for everyone.”

“Thanks,” Squeak said, before he even knew what it was.

Itchy held the article at arm’s length as though he had just dug it out from the garbage. “Uhhh … What is it? Underwear?”

“Field dressings?” Boney guessed.

“Kitten holders!” Sam said. “I made them last night. You wear them like a sling.” She demonstrated by pulling the sling over her head and slipping Fluffy in, adjusting the cloth until the kitten was comfortably situated.

Squeak slipped the sling over his shoulder and placed his kitten inside. “Neat.”

“This way we can carry our kittens and have our hands free,” Sam explained.

“Cool.” Boney put on his sling, tucking Tiger in.

Sam turned to Itchy. “Yours is slightly bigger to accommodate Henry.”

“They’re a little loud, don’t you think?” Itchy complained. “They clash with your camouflage.”

“It was the best I could do with the materials I had on hand.”

“We may as well wave a red flag,” Itchy grumbled.

“Purple,” Squeak joked.

“Just put it on,” Boney ordered.

Itchy put on the sling and placed Henry inside. The
rooster fluffed his feathers and nestled down, his head poking out.

“Ingenious,” Squeak said.

Itchy patted Henry on the head, then pulled a cheese sandwich out of nowhere and began to eat. “So what’s the plan?”

“The same as last night,” Boney said. “We go back to the warehouse and scout around. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the Mother Ship.”

Itchy bobbled his head. “If we’re lucky?”

“You know what I mean. Maybe we can catch them off guard.”

“Catch them off guard …?” Itchy repeated. “That’s your plan?”

Boney gave him an irritated look.

Itchy turned to Squeak and Sam. “Seriously? That’s really your plan?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Boney asked.

Itchy took a bite from his sandwich. “I’m just saying … it doesn’t sound like much of a plan to me.”

“It’s all we’ve got right now.”

“Fine.”

Boney shot him another look and continued. “As I was saying … We’ll follow the train tracks the way we did before. Everyone remember to stick close together— and no heroics.”

Itchy smirked. “No problem there.”

Boney addressed Sam. “Do you have the Disruptor and the electro-node-a-metre?”

Sam touched a little leather pouch on her belt. “Locked and loaded.”

“Good,” Boney said. “Then let’s go.”