CRACKED: An Anthology of Eggsellent Chicken Stories J. Posthumus (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

pair of capybaras, named Bonnie and Clyde after they had escaped the zoo four weeks prior. The educational plaque by the fence had a photo of the South American rodents.

“They’re like hundred-pound guinea pigs, aren’t they?” Vivian said. “The official story is that one of the zoo employees didn’t latch the gate properly, and Bonnie and Clyde took the opportunity to escape.”

The tone of her voice prompted Mason to study Vivian’s face. He hunched his broad shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You think there’s an angle here. Not just that, you think there’s a weird angle. I know that look,” Mason said. Vivian was a blogger and freelance reporter, specializing in odd and unusual stories. “What, do you think ghosts stole the capybaras?” he asked.

“Come on, Mason, you and I saw a ghost together once. I don’t get how you can still be so skeptical all the time,” Vivian replied. Her wavy brown hair bounced as she shook her head, and she grinned. Mason was in the same line of work, minus the paranormal angle; he reported for the Cross-Canada Observer, one of the largest independent outlets in the country. She knew that no matter how annoyed he seemed, he’d be just as curious as she was to find the truth.

“But as it happens, no,” Vivian continued. “A ghost seems unlikely this time.”

She pointed to the ground near the fence. On the capybara’s side of the chain link, barely distinguishable in the dirt, were miniscule tracks that weren’t left by a capybara and certainly not by any ghost.

Mason hunkered down for a closer look. “Those are chicken tracks. And… tiny boot prints?” he said.

“The capybaras aren’t the only animals that have gotten out lately; they’re just the latest,” Vivian said as they walked to the main operations building in the middle of the zoo. “First, half of the chickens in the kid’s petting zoo disappeared in March. Later that same month, the peacocks were found at the bandshell halfway across the park. In April, they found the wallabies in the off-leash dog area. The zoo was able to keep it all quiet until the capybaras escaped in May.”

“Where did you hear that?” Mason asked.

“Sources in the zoo, and rumours from park-goers who arrived early enough to see the other escapees. I’ve gotten some tips and followed up on a few leads over the past two weeks,” Vivian said. “Plus, there have been sightings of the chickens all over the park, as well as zoo employees hearing clucking in back hallways of the zoo offices.”

“So, we’re looking for leprechauns, or some kind of chicken-people. Got it,” Mason said, rolling his eyes. He gestured to the information plaques they passed on the way. “Whoever’s doing this, they’ve got a pattern. They seem to be targeting successively larger animals every time.”

“Let’s just hope they stop,” Vivian said, jerking her thumb toward the bison enclosure. “Imagine the havoc if those big guys got out.”

A short blonde woman in a zoo uniform and large eyeglasses held up a hand at the entrance to the operations centre, next to the yak pen.

“Sorry, folks, no access to the public past this point. If you’re looking for washrooms, the nearest ones are ahead at the Grenadier Cafe or back by the Adventure Playground,” she said.

Vivian flashed a smile and extended a business card to the woman. “I’m Vivian Bacall, freelance journalist. I’m here to investigate some strange sightings, and—”

Eyes wide, the other woman never gave her a chance to finish. “Oh my goodness, it’s really you! How did I not recognize you from your blog?” she said, bouncing in place. “I’m such a big fan, I must have read everything you’ve written, and now you’re here. At my zoo. Well, not my zoo, but I work here. I wish it was my zoo. I’d love to own a zoo. I’m Claire. Vivian Bacall is at my zoo!”

“Er, yes,” Vivian said. “I was hoping to look around and ask some questions about the animal escapes over the past few months. And this is my assistant.”

“I’m not her assistant,” Mason said, reaching out for a handshake. “Mason Shaw, chief investigative reporter for the Cross-Canada Observer.”

But Claire had already turned away, leading Vivian into the building.

“We’re the largest independent news outlet in the country,” Mason said to a nearby yak through the fence. The yak remained impassive.

A few hours and several interviews later, the evidence was piling up in Vivian’s favour; cell phone photos of more tiny bootprints, blurry security camera footage of chicken-like shapes in dark hallways, and a triangular red flag smaller than a gum wrapper that had been found tied to a twig near the wallaby enclosure.

“That’s not all,” Claire told them in the main office. “When we found the peacocks and wallabies, they weren’t just hanging out where we found them. Both times, the animals each had one foot tied to something.”

“As if whoever put them there wanted to send a message,” Mason said. “But when they set Bonnie and Clyde free, the capybaras escaped. Are they sending a different message, or did their prank get out of hand this time?”

“I just hope they stop,” Claire said. “The animals haven’t been hurt yet or hurt anyone else, but if they start messing with the larger animals like the reindeer or Skippy the bison, that could change in a hurry. And if those chickens on the cameras are the ones from the petting zoo, they’re acting really weird. Too coordinated for normal chicken behaviour.”

Vivian stood in thought for a few moments. The capybara escape was almost exactly a month ago. If the culprits stuck to their pattern, they’d return to the zoo soon, and release larger animals when they did. Looking at Claire, Vivian realized she had an opportunity.

“Claire, can I ask you for a big favour?” she said with a smile.

“For you, Miss Bacall? Anything!” Claire answered immediately.

The park was quiet when Vivian and Mason returned after dusk wearing dark clothing