The absurdity of barnyard animals providing perimeter surveillance never occurred to me. I focused on positioning the other animals around the church grounds and neighboring cornfields, a job akin to herding squirrels. Everyone, except the pig, kept leaving their posts to ask me inane questions like, “What should we do if it rains?” or “Can we eat the corn?” Once I finally got them set, I suppressed my worries, for the others would be far from the action. The human agents would handle the raid, though I couldn’t fathom what dangers lurked inside the country church. If not for the half dozen cars in the gravel parking lot, I would have assumed the church to be abandoned. The wood siding of the hundred and fifty-year-old church needed a fresh coat of white paint two decades ago. Moss grew on the shingles of the steeple-less roof. From the outside, only the stained-glass windows differentiated the tiny church from a farmhouse.
I shifted my focus to my next assignment: reconnaissance. Crouching outside a giant stained-glass window, the best a cow can do, I took a deep breath, rose, and peered inside. No one sat in the pews or roamed the aisles. I stretched my neck to view the empty altar.
I trotted behind the church, enjoying the sun beating on my leathery back. A whiff of the corn’s floral greens, underscored by a hint of natural fertilizers, harkened me back to my days of grazing on lush pastures. My new life left no room for such leisure. I checked the rooms behind the sanctuary. The pastor sat in his office studying his laptop screen, while a small group of gray-haired ladies occupied the neighboring classroom.
“Cow, do you have a visual on the church interior?” asked Agent Orange, the director of Global Intergalactic Bureau of Defense, commonly known as GIBOD.
To respond, I needed to tap my earpiece. Easy for Agent Orange and the human agents to do, but not me. I scrunched my shoulder up but came nowhere near my ear. I lifted my right front hoof, but it only stretched to my knee.
“Cow! Do you copy?” asked Agent Orange.
I smacked the side of my head against the windowsill. “Thhir, I’m here.” Dr. Hash Browns provided me and the other animals with a multitude of amazing enhancements, but he never completely got rid of my lisp. He blamed my enormous tongue.
“Give me your report.”
I positioned myself between the windows of the classroom and office. “I’m not sure what you expected to find inside a church on a Tuesday afternoon. The pastor is at his desk and there’thh a group of old ladies knitting.”
“How many old ladies are there?”
“Five or thhix.” Dang that lisp.
“Cow, I need an exact count.”
“They’re old ladies. What difference doethh it make how many?”
“Need I remind you this is a training mission? Your performance is being evaluated. Now, give me an exact count on the old ladies.”
I pictured the red marks on our evaluation form. Shut up and take orders. That’s how he trained us. Luckily, the other animals didn’t understand English. They would be unaware of my blunder. Except the pig. He’d know.
I raised my head and took another look inside the classroom. “Five. There are five old ladies knitting.”
“Cow, return to your position on the side of the church. Agents, it’s time.”
I made my way back to the large stained-glass window as oversized military trucks roared to life and lurched down the quiet country road. It’s a mystery how no one inside the church heard them coming. For that matter, they should have seen them coming. Flat cornfields and grazing pastures spread out for miles in all directions, without a tree or a building to provide cover.
The trucks approached from opposite directions and simultaneously turned into the church parking lot like Shriners in a parade. Agents in black military uniforms poured out of the trucks. Agents Burgundy and Maroon positioned themselves outside my window, while others paired up outside the other windows of the church. A dozen agents lined up on either side of the giant wooden front doors.
Agent Burgundy raised an eyebrow. “Cow, why aren’t you invisible?”
“That’s your one superpower. That’s why they sent you to case the joint,” said Agent Maroon.
“It only lastthh a few minutes,” I lied. I had forgotten to activate it. “It must have worn off.”
“Cow, go invisible. And everybody cut the chatter,” said Agent Orange, as I glimpsed his black Suburban pulling onto the church’s front lawn.
In a hushed tone, Agent Burgundy asked, “How is he hearing us?”
Agent Maroon pointed to my earpiece.
“Thhorry,” I said, as I smacked my head against the windowsill to turn off my mic. I closed my eyes, let out a deep breath, and concentrated on activating my invisibility. With the buzz of a moth frying in a bug zapper, my cloaking power expanded across my hide.
Agent Maroon cocked his head as he stared at me. “Do you realize your outline is still visible?”
“It’thh more of a cloaking power. It’thh better if I stay still.” Immobilizing my torso had never been a problem, but I struggled to keep my ears from twitching and my tail from swishing.
Agent Maroon held up his index finger. “You remind me of the Predator.” He clicked off the safety of his weapon as he turned to Agent Burgundy. “Remember that movie?”
Agent Burgundy cocked his head in the same manner as Agent Maroon but added a chin scratch and an eye squint. Eventually, he mimicked Agent Maroon’s finger point and said, “You’re right. She does look like the Predator. That’s pretty cool.”
“Thankthh,” I said, with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. The rabbit and duck had brought this movie up at least a dozen times.
“Of course, the Predator could go fully invisible,” said Agent Burgundy as he readied his weapon.
“What are you talking about, bro?” asked Agent Maroon, both verbally and facially. “The Predator had an outline, just like hers. You saw the movie, right?”
“The outline was a cinematic convention, so the viewers saw the Predator. In reality, it could go completely invisible.”
“Bro, your argument makes no sense. In reality, the entire movie is made up.”
Agent Orange thankfully put an end to the conversation, before I quoted the rabbit’s argument, that the reactions from the other characters clearly indicated they didn’t see the Predator, not even an outline.
“Agents, if you’re not in position, get there now,” said Agent Orange, getting out of his military-grade Suburban. He surveyed the troops through his dark sunglasses. He and his number one, Agent Periwinkle, were the only agents dressed in black dress suits. The others wore black military uniforms. The rabbit and duck insisted GIBOD was actually Men in Black, arguing Agent Orange could easily pass as Agent K. He was a middle-aged white man, with short black hair, who walked as if he was in a military parade, never smiled, and spoke with a tone which made even casual conversation sound like a command.
On the other hand, the gray-haired, wrinkled faced Agent Periwinkle, whose feet never shuffled an inch off the ground, was no Agent J.
“This might not be the best time, but I’ve wanted to talk to you about your lisp,” said Agent Burgundy as he peeked into the church. “I’ve noticed it’s not consistent. Sometimes you pronounce your s’s just fine.”
“What’thh your point?” I asked, annoyed he’d brought this up now.
“You blame it on your enormous tongue, but I think it’s more mental than physical.”
“I had a lisp when I was a kid,” said Agent Maroon. “After some coaching from a speech therapist, I got rid of it.”
Agent Burgundy gave Agent Maroon a nod. “Exactly. With a bit of therapy, you can lick this.”
“Thankthh, guys. I’ll take that under consideration.” I had no intention of taking it under consideration. They had no idea how much “therapy” Dr. Hash Browns had put me through in his attempt to correct my lisp. “We better focus on the mission.”
Agent Orange tapped his earpiece. “Agents. On my mark… Advance!”
Windows and doors on all sides of the church flew open, as agents poured in.
Knitting needles clinked on the tile floor.
Pews skidded into each other like a multi-car pileup.
A man screamed.
The old ladies watched the tiny red dots bounce around their chests and bob up and down their faces, as agents herded them across the stage toward the choral risers in the back. One lady sat down on the first step of the riser with her knitting bag resting next to her and returned to knitting her shawl.
“ON YOUR KNEES!” said Agent Crimson as he whacked the needles and shawl out of her hands.
The old woman smiled at Agent Crimson as she flexed and stretched her fingers. “Honey, I don’t know what this is all about, but I haven’t been able to get down on my knees since the Clinton administration, and I ain’t about to start now. So, I’m going to sit right here until you boys finish up whatever it is you came here to do.” She picked up her needles.
The eyes of the tiniest old lady darted from Agent Crimson, to her friend knitting, to the red dots that danced on her blouse. “Marjorie,” she said, “I don’t think it’s wise to provoke these gentlemen.”
“Oh, relax, Blanche,” said Marjorie, as she reached for her knitting bag. “I’m sure these fine men and women are not here to arrest the evil Town and Country Baptist Church Knitting Club.”
Agent Crimson narrowed his glare and raised his weapon as she fumbled through her bag. He lowered it once she pulled out a new ball of yarn. Marjorie returned to her knitting while the rest of the ladies gasped. A pair of agents dragged the pastor out of his office and deposited him by the altar. Behind them, agents streamed into the back rooms like a mob of looters.
I remained at my post outside the stained-glass window as Agent Orange strutted up the altar steps.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the middle-aged pastor, running fingers through his hair. A pointless act, since despite being dragged out of his office and tossed to the floor, his hair remained perfectly groomed. He raised to his knees and straightened his back. “This is a place of worship. What could you possibly want with us?”
I had the same question. A briefing on mission objectives would have been nice, but Agent Orange insisted the information was classified.
“Yes, a place of worship. What a perfect cover.” Agent Orange paced to the organ next to my window to play an ominous cord.
Agent Orange strolled up to the pastor’s prone position and lorded over him. “Pastor Johnson, would you care to explain why a tiny church in the middle of farm country needs three enormous satellite dishes?”
I ducked as the director gestured toward my window. The three industrial-sized satellite dishes formed a Charlie’s Angels-like pose on the edge of the church grounds, visible from the window I cowered under. I felt ashamed for not noticing them earlier. An agent must be fully aware of their surroundings and note any out-of-place objects. If Agent Orange knew of this lapse in observation, it would be another red mark on my score card.
The pastor cleared his throat. “We have no right to restrict God’s message of salvation to Earth, so we beam our sermons to the cosmos for intelligent life-forms across the universe to hear.”
“You’re not fooling anybody,” said Agent Orange. “We know those satellites are used to communicate with the intergalactic terrorist organization known as the Havarti Travel Bureau. We intercepted the transmissions. Transmissions you will decode for us.”
“This is some kind of joke, right? Where’s the hidden camera crew?”
I peeked into the church to see the pastor scanning his ransacked sanctuary for a camera crew.
“I assure you, Pastor Johnson, regarding matters of the Havarti Travel Bureau, I do not joke.”
“Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about. We broadcast into space. We don’t receive messages.” The smugness had drained from the pastor’s face and his shoulders slumped.
A door at the back of the sanctuary sprang open. Everyone turned to watch a teenage boy stroll up the side aisle, absorbed in the glow of his smartphone. He controlled it with one hand and adjusted his earbuds with the other. He stopped a step away from my window. His eyes looked up from the device. His perpetually drooped mouth shifted to a gape. He yanked an earbud out. “What the–?”
“Nick,” said the pastor, with pleading arms extended. “You’re part of the tech team. Tell them we’re not receiving any messages on those satellites.”
The boy’s eyes darted around the sanctuary. He took a single step in multiple directions before backing up against the wall. “I, um…, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes rested on the emergency exit door.
The agents stopped flipping pews and raised their weapons.
His eyes popped wide open as red laser dots danced on his chest. He raised his arms above his head.
A faint pew-pew came from the choral risers. So faint, it would have gone unnoticed, if not for the fireworks-level explosion that followed. The blast obliterated the church organ, spraying wood and ivory splinters across the church like an exploding volcano. The last cords wheezed out of the pipes as organ shards rained to the floor.
“You’re gonna die,” cackled a little old lady. “You’re all gonna die.”
I searched the gang of old ladies, stunned that one of them carried a weapon of such destruction, but found no bazooka or rocket launcher.
Pew-pew. Pew-pew.
Juicy explosions, like microwaved tomatoes, preceded the pastor shrieking like a teenage Elvis fan. Agents dove behind the toppled pews, but Agent Crimson had no time to find cover. His headless body crumpled to the floor.
“He’s dead now.” It was Marjorie, the little old lady who had returned to her knitting. She had dropped her knitting needles and held what resembled a toy water gun. She grinned as she aimed the tiny gun at Agents Burgundy and Maroon, who had the boy cornered. “Now you’re all gonna die.”
The pew-pew came before I could verbalize words of warning. I ducked just in time to avoid a face full of Agents Burgundy and Maroon’s brains. Spitting up cud from my first and second stomachs is a normal part of my digestion, but the sight and sound of the agents’ heads splattering across the stained-glass window like the contents of a pail of slop, coupled with the stench of their laser-roasted brains brought remnants from my third and fourth stomachs. I spit the nasty bile flavored cud out on the church lawn.
She had me believing in her catchphrase. What were we thinking? We’re a bunch of misfit lab animals who should have stayed in our laboratory. Why did we want to be special agents? We’re all gonna die on our training mission.
Marjorie broke from her catchphrase. “What are you waiting for? Run, Nick, run.” She hadn’t looked at the teenager as she lined up her next target, Agent Orange.
The boy’s shadow panned over me as he sprinted toward the emergency exit.
Pew-pew.
I contemplated sprinting for the cornfields, yelling it was every animal for themselves.
BLAM! BLAM!
The old woman winced.
Agent Orange marched toward her with his pistol aimed at her head. “Don’t even think about picking that weapon up,” he said, kicking her laser gun off the altar stage.
She responded with a mild groan and clutched her wounded hand.
The exit door flew open.
“Cow, it’s time for your team of animals to put your training to use. I want that boy alive.”
The team had trained hard for this moment and desperately wanted to showcase their skills. I couldn’t run away and let them down. I took a deep breath and smacked my ear into the side of the church. “We’re on it, thhir. We won’t let you down.”
Barnyard Heroes: The Havarti Travel Bureau Conspiracy or How I Learned to Stop worrying and love the cow Zombie Apocalypse
Chapter 1: We’re All Gonna Die