The Warrior Sheep Go West by Christopher Russell Page A

our sheep, Gran?”
    Gran tried to sound more confident than she felt.
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine,” she said, “but I’m sure they’re fine.”
    She shivered and pulled her thin cardigan around her shoulders. Tod immediately began gathering together all the dry sticks he could find.
    â€œHave you got any matches?” he asked.
    Gran poked about again in the bottomless pit that was her handbag and dredged up a matchbox with one live match in it and thirty dead ones. Tod crossed his fingers, then uncrossed them again, struck the live match, and held it to his little pile of kindling.
    â€œPhew…” he said as it lit.
    There was a newspaper in the bag of groceries. Tod handed it to Ida.
    â€œHere, Gran, read this while I get some more wood.”
    When he returned with an armful of broken fence posts and branches, Gran was engrossed in the newspaper.
    â€œIt’s this week’s,” she said. “Not terribly useful, though. Nearly all about football. American football. Seems like there are two local teams slugging it out just now to be top of the league. One group comes from Aries End. Guess what their nickname is?”
    Tod shrugged. “Don’t know.”
    â€œThey’re called the Rams,” said Gran. “How about that? The other lot come from a place called Fort Wilmot and they’re the Prairie Dogs.” She grinned. “And can you guess what their nickname is?”
    Tod shook his head. “Nope.”
    â€œIt’s a funny one,” said Gran. “They call themselves Red Tongue.”

10
    Sandstorm
    Everyone agreed: deserts were rubbish.
    â€œFirst we get fried,” complained Jaycey, “then we get flooded. Now we’re getting frozen.” She counted on her hooves. “That’s three Fs all in one day, Sal, and only one of them was in the prophecy.” She nibbled fretfully at her once-beautiful fleece. “Just look at my ends. I feel like a moldy haystack. And you,” she said to Oxo, trying to shove him away as he settled closer beside her, “smell like one.”
    On her other flank, Links gave her a nudge.
    â€œO’ course we’s gonna smell, if we’s been in the river,
    â€™Cause we is fleeced up, man, but it helps us not to shiver.
    Would you rather be an ovine?
    Or a human with no wool?
    â€™Cause they is really cold, man, and not just
    Sheeply cool.”
    He nodded at Cameron and Phoenix. Their shirts and jeans still damp, the boys had snuggled close to the sheep as the sun had set and the temperature plummeted. Finally, the sheep had formed a complete ring around them, a warm woolly nest, and they were both asleep.
    â€œLike lambs,” cooed Sal. “Strange they’re not in the prophecy.”
    â€œThere’s a lot of things not in the prophecy, eh,” said Links. “Like Jaycey says. Starving’s another one, ’cept it don’t begin with F.”
    â€œAnd Fort Wilmot and Las Vegas and Aries End…” said Wills.
    â€œThe reason Aries End is not in the prophecy, dear,” said Sal, “is that Aries will never end.”
    She snuggled closer to her human lambs and fell asleep.
    ***
    Professor Boomberg was warm enough in his car and comfortable too, but there was no time to rest. He was on his way back to base. He didn’t phone his wife. She could catch the sheep on her own. He didn’t doubt that she would and when she did, everything else needed to be ready. He glanced at his wrist computer.
    â€œOne hundred and seventy thousand seconds and counting…” he murmured.
    He smiled his gleaming smile in the darkness. It was going to be tight but they would make it. B-Day would happen.
    â€œI’ll show them all,” he said aloud. “They won’t be calling me mad in a hundred and seventy thousand seconds’ time!”
    Holly Boomberg wasn’t nearly so warm. The open-sided golf cart wasn’t