by Heide Goody
The mincer had stopped: the power cut.
“Bollocks,” said Nick.
“Language,” said another voice – one she remembered.
“Foolsh!” She climbed up out of the machine. “You thought you could minshe me?”
“To be fair,” said Nick. “It would have worked if the power hadn’t gone off.”
“I have finally come into my power. I am unshtoppable.”
“Unshtoppable?” said Tony, leaning in from the skylight and offering a hand to help his son up.
“Don’t mock me!” she roared. “Azh a werewolf I will reign shupreme.”
“Shupreme?”
Finn howled.
“Why antagonise the psycho?” Nick climbed through the skylight.
“Distraction,” grunted Tony, pulling him through.
“You said whisky wouldn’t burn.”
“I’m wondering where you ordered that stuff from.”
There was a clatter of roof tiles, a wiggle of feet and they were gone.
Idiots! Didn’t they know she could locate them in a heartbeat?
She stalked outside. Their scent was marginally clouded by the puddles of diesel fuel all around, but they were easy enough to hear – jumping onto the plastic tanker, to the ground – and easy enough to spot – running off like frightened rabbits, focused on getting away, no concern for where they were going.
She followed behind them and let out a deliberately bloodcurdling howl. A memory flashed into her mind.
Don’t play with your food, Finella!
Well her mother wasn’t in any position to tell her what to do any more and she was having fun. She swung through the trees, making sure Nick and Tony could see her silhouetted against the Moon as she circled them.
68
“Where are we?” panted Nick.
“The logging road,” said Tony, pointing ahead.
They had arrived at the massive pile of logs and the monster tree-felling machine. If they could keep following the track it would lead them out to somewhere eventually but Nick had seen how easily Finn ran rings around them. Literally.
“She’s just playing with us,” he said.
“She is,” agreed Tony.
“I dropped the silver knife. I don’t know what else works against werewolves.”
“Another werewolf probably,” said Tony.
Nick thought of the homeopathic silver tablets he had fed Tony. “We could use another werewolf right now,” he agreed.
Tony doubled over and retched.
“Dad?”
“It’s okay,” said Tony. “I’m just…”
He put his fingers in his throat and retched again.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Nick.
In all the craziness, Nick had forgotten how poorly his dad was. This was no place for a man to die, whether it was from cancer or werewolf. He climbed up on the steps of the logging machine, the Manitoba DX Harvester.
“We’re driving out in this thing.”
“What?”
“The Harvester.”
“Too slow,” mumbled Tony and threw up noisily. “Ha!” he said, pointing at the puddle of sick.
“What?” said Nick.
“The tablets.”
Nick stared. How much homeopathic silver had already entered his bloodstream? Would it make a difference?
The Finn-wolf creature dropped out of the trees beside them. “Feeling shick, Tony?” she said.
“Feeling better actually,” said Tony, straightening up.
“It’sh shilly to keep going, knowing you’re a dead man walking.”
Tony wiped his mouth and stretched. Nick squinted. Did his dad just grow three inches?
“It’s better to keep going than to give up.”
Nick watched Tony carefully. Was his face getting just a little bit fiercer-looking or was it anger at Finn’s taunts? Nick glanced at the logging machine next to him and wondered how much protection the cab would offer him.
Finn grunted. “If I wazh feeling kind, I’d kill you firsht. I’m not shure I am feeling kind though. Maybe I’ll make you watch while I shtake your shon out on the ground, peel his shkin off and get the boarzh to feasht on his mosht tender partsh. How would you like that?”
A low growling came from Tony’s throat and morphed into a roar. “Don’t you dare touch my shon!”
Tony sprang at Finn and pushed her to the ground.
“My dad’s a werewolf,” said Nick, unable to believe the evidence of his senses, and scrambled into the Harvester’s cab. He shut the door behind him. With a bit of luck, the door handle would be too delicate for Finn’s giant claws.
He peered ahead at the pile of logs and started the engine. The boom arm, currently holding an entire tree in its grip looked ideal for knocking aside the log pile, but the last time he tried it had cut out with a proximity warning. He ignored the boom arm and moved the whole Harvester forward. He reckoned the weight of the machine might be enough to topple the logs.
He glanced down. Tony was almost the same size as Finn, and bristled with newly-sprouted hair and teeth. They circled each other, snarling and raking the air with their claws. It had all the passion and showmanship of WWE wrestling. He was thrilled to see Pickles had joined the fight: transformed into full were-dog mode. She chomped down on Finn’s leg.
“Just keep her busy,” Nicked muttered.
The Harvester struck the base of the pile, the entire machine jolted violently. He steadied himself and ramped up the throttle. Nothing. An unstoppable force against an immovable object.
“Come on! Work with me!”
He wasn’t entirely sure how this plan was going to help, but he had faith in the powers of chaos. A giant avalanche of logs might provide enough of a distraction for his dad to get the upper hand as he slugged it out with Finn.
Nick risked another glance and was dismayed. Tony was on the floor, clutching an injured leg. He shook his head at Nick, a resigned weariness in his eyes. Blood poured from his thigh. Pickles still harangued Finn, but without Tony to distract her, she grabbed the wolfdog by her rear legs, upending and pinning her to the floor, ready to disembowel.
Nick forgot the log pile. He thumped the horn.
Finn glared into the Harvester’s head lights. Nick grabbed the boom arm controller and swung it round, tree held in the mechanical cutting claw like a club.
“Get away from her, you bitch!”
Finn bared her teeth and snarled.
Nick swung the arm like a baseball player winding up to hit one out of the park.
The upper branches of the tree snagged the wood pile, dislodging some key log. The pile sagged, something shifted and toppled. Once the pile started to give way, it created an avalanche of trees. As they rolled past, the Finn-wolf danced aside. Pickles sprang up and bounded away. Tons of lumber bounced, spun and slid off the roadside, taking down smaller trees and anything else in its path.
There was something awe-inspiring about destruction on this scale. Nick took the battle to Finn, tree-wielding claw like a raised sword leading his charge. If they could defeat her, or at least slow her down, they could make their escape in this vehicle. He no longer cared if it was slow: it was a protected space, that was the main thing.
Glass smashed; he screamed. A moment later he was being hauled down from the cab. So much for his faith in the complexity of the door catch; he should have known Finn was a blunt instrument, unbothered by such trivial concerns when she could simply kick the door in.
“Family reunion!” she crowed and threw him into the dirt next to his dad.
The Harvester sputtered to a halt and stalled, vertical tree-club poised on high.
Winded and aching, Nick rolled over to his dad.
“Shorry, shon,” said the increasingly wolfish Tony. “Guesh you can’t teach an old dog new tricksh.”
Despite the grim situation, Nick groaned. “Dad jokes. At a time like this?”
Tony peeled a paw-hand away from his leg. It was sticky wi
th oozing blood. He lifted his head and made weak yipping sounds. Probably warning Pickles to run while she still could. There was certainly no sign of the dog.
“I’m sure if I jusht have a minute, I’ll be fine,” said Tony. “The moonlight izh very…” He sighed. “Izhn’t it?”
From the edges of the trees, boars emerged.
The Finn-wolf laughed. “I’ve been watching thezhe boarzh. They have the table mannerzh of giant ratsh. Looksh like Tony izh going to be the firsht courshe. When they eat him from the inside out, they will be meshy, but effishient. Very shtrong jawzh. You’ll get to shee it all closhe up.”
The scent of blood seemed to be truly drawing them closer.
“Back off you hairy bastards!” Nicked yelled. “That’s my dad! Touch him and … and I’ll turn you into sausages.”
Shouting had no effect. These boars had seen explosions, murders, gunfights and dismemberings in their usually tranquil wood; perhaps it was no surprise they were more than a little over-excited. The nearest snuzzled at Tony’s leg and licked. Nick batted it away; it nipped at his fingers.
“Shee how the boarzh have the shcent of blood in their shnoutsh? Maybe I won’t even have to peel your shkin to pershuade them to eat you.”
Finn laid a huge claw across Nick’s chest and pressed him to the ground. She bent and whispered into his ear. A stage whisper, loud enough for Tony to hear. “The thing izh, I want to peel your shkin off. I want to hear your shcreams. I want to exshpozhe your flesh.”
Nick looked up at her. Very little of her looked human. Duct-tape hung off bristly muscle. Unrecognisable scraps of clothing hung off her, like she was some grungy nineties rock star. Her tongue lolled from her mouth as she contemplated her plans.
“A different shity for each full Moon. Nobody will ever catch me, becauzhe in between I can shtroll the world as an innoshent.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “People never shushpect women. I’m a role model for shtrong women. Doezh that make me a feminisht?”
“It makesh you a twat.”
Tony’s voice made Finn look up. She started to chuckle; it died quickly. The Tony-wolf had hauled himself a fair distance away, claw over claw. Blood trailed in the muck behind him, the greediest boars lapping it up. He was halfway to the Harvester, looking back at her from under the umbrella of tree roots dangling from the machine’s claw.
“No running out now, Tony,” Finn called after him. “I need you to watch thish.”
“No, thanksh,” he grunted. He dragged himself further away, making more yipping noises.
Finn huffed and followed him. She lowered her head to follow him under the uprooted tree. “Come watch your shon die, Tony. And then we’ll short you out. I promished you a shimple eco funeral. No fush.”
“Huh,” he said, dragging himself free of the roots. “I’m beginning to shee the attraction of a big fanshy funeral. After thish, I dezherve it. Yip, ruf, rwaaaar!”
There was an answering bark from the Manitoba DX Harvester. Pickles was in the cab, a doggy grin on her face.
“Hell, yes,” said Nick.
Her paw pushed firmly against a joystick. The boom arm creaked. Finn looked up. There was a rush of air as hydraulics ploughed into action. The tree clamped in the machine’s boom rammed into the earth, like a fencepost sledgehammered into the ground.
Mud, bark and soggy bits of werewolf sprayed out from the impact crater. Most of Finn’s body was an invisible, presumably messy pancake, six feet under. Boars shrieked and fled into the forest.
Nick scrambled to his feet. He dashed around the newly replanted tree, kicking aside a severed Finn-wolf claw en route. He dropped to his knees beside Tony.
“Dad!”
Tony rolled onto his back, exhausted. “She’s a good girl.”
“She’s a dead girl,” said Nick before realising who his dad meant. “Oh. Pickles. Yeah. She did a brilliant job.”
“And they shay you should never work with children or animalzh.”
Pickles barked proudly, and howled for good measure.
Nick looked at Tony’s injuries. “I still don’t know what to do, dad.”
“Welcome to adult life, shon,” said Tony. “You do know mosht of it izh jusht pretending you know what you’re doing.”
“But you do it so well.”
Tony coughed, in evident pain. He shuffled until he could reach the pocket of his shredded jacket to retrieve the tobacco tin. He held it on his chest like a dead knight clutching a sword. “I’ve had a lot of practishe, Nick. Now, shomeone mentioned getting a ride out of here…”
Nick slid an arm under Tony’s shoulder. Together they crab-walked over to the Harvester. “Budge over, Pickles,” said Nick.
With a lot of grunting and regrettable pain for Tony, Nick got him into the cab and into the driver’s seat. Nick squeezed in next, perching himself on the edge of the seat. He started the Harvester up again. They began the walking pace drive out of the woods.
“We’ll be home soon,” said Nick, knowing it to be a lie.
Tony gave a almighty deflating sigh. Nick looked back. His dad was slumped to one side, using Pickle’s shoulder as a pillow. His eyes were closed.
Without opening them he murmured, “We do make an amazing team,” and started to snore.
69
Two hours or more down the road, when Nick wasn’t watching, the Tony-wolf reverted to craggy old Tony Carver. Pickles also lost whatever wolfiness she had picked up in the night. Shortly after, the first light of dawn appeared over the mountains ahead.
Nick looked at both man and dog. They were very still. Dog-tired, he thought.
He carefully peeled back the blood-caked cloth pressed against Tony’s leg wound. The skin underneath was healed, entirely unmarked. Nick smiled.
Tony slowly opened his eyes. “You know when you said that thing to the woman.”
“What thing?”
“You said, ‘Get away from her, you bitch!’.”
“Yeah. Language. Sorry about that.”
“It was a line from that film. Alien.”
“Aliens. The second one.”
“Good film,” said Tony. “Now, I know there were definitely three of those films.”
“Er…”
“Come on. She died in the third one.”
Nick tallied mentally. “There’s been six. Eight if you count the Predator crossovers.”
“What?” Tony shook himself in irritation, waking Pickles. “But she died in the third one!”
“You of all people should know death doesn’t have to be the end.”
“Hmmm,” grumbled Tony. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” He nodded ahead. “Sun’s coming up. Everything’s back to normal for now.”
“For now,” agreed Nick. “Oh, wow.”
“What?”
They’d crested a shallow hill. A cattle grid ahead, near where the trees thinned, marked the edge of the Kirkwood estate.
“It’s an actual road. Look, actual tarmacked road,” said Nick. “Left or right?”
Tony gave a large, contented sigh. “Well, I can see a pub in the distance, down there to the right. I’d really like a fried breakfast. A fried breakfast with twice the recommended daily dose of bacony-meaty goodness.”
“With black pudding on the side.”
“Nice.”
“Might even be white pudding. We’re in Scotland, remember.”
“White pudding sounds even better,” said Tony. With a bark and some lip licking, Pickles indicated she was prepared to help out with any unwanted or possibly unattended meat products.
“Although, if you ask me,” said Tony, “you just can’t beat a good sausage. Ha! You should stick that on your advertisement poster.”
“Maybe I will,” said Nick. “Let’s go.”
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Clovenhoof by Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Charged with gross incompetence, Satan is fired from his job as Prince of Hell and exiled to that most terrible of places: English suburbia. Forced to live as a human under the name of Jeremy Clovenhoof, the dark lord not only has to contend with the fact that no one recognises him or gives him the credit he deserves but also has to put up with the bookish wargamer next door and the voracious man-eater upstairs.
Heaven, Hell and the city of Birmingham collide in a story that features murder, heavy metal, cannibalism, armed robbers, devious old ladies, Satanists who live with their mums, gentlemen of limited stature, dead vicars, petty archangels, flamethrowers, sex dolls, a blood-soaked school assembly and way too much alcohol.
Clovenhoof is outrageous and irreverent (and laugh out loud funny!) but it is also filled with huge warmth and humanity. Written by first-time collaborators Heide Goody and Iain Grant, Clovenhoof will have you rooting for the bad guy like never before.
F. Paul Wilson: "Clovenhoof is a delight. A funny, often hilarious romp with a dethroned Satan as he tries to adjust to modern suburbia. The breezy, ironic prose sets a perfect tone. If you need some laughs, here's the remedy."
US: http://www.amazon.com/Clovenhoof-ebook/dp/B008PYLULG/
UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Clovenhoof-ebook/dp/B008PYLULG/
Oddjobs by Heide Goody & Iain Grant
It’s the end of the world as we know it, but someone still needs to do the paperwork.
Incomprehensible horrors from beyond are going to devour our world but that’s no excuse to get all emotional about it. Morag Murray works for the secret government organisation responsible for making sure the apocalypse goes as smoothly and as quietly as possible.
