CLAN

by Harry Shannon

  Case patted her shoulder. "You know something? After what you did for us last night, I believe you."

  "I want to hate the others, sometimes, but I can't," Jennifer said. Her eyes filled. "They're my kin as well as my curse."

  Case looked in the car Lips and Carlita had driven up the road. The keys were still in the ignition. "You'd better get moving," he said. "In fact, we'd all best get the hell out of Dodge before someone from the Park Service or the Fire Department comes to see what happened."

  Jake and Jennifer walked briskly into the trees, carrying their weapons and some water. They stopped once at the foot of the mountain and waved goodbye. Jennifer cupped her hands. "Where are you two headed?"

  "I don't know," Case called, as he opened the passenger door for Kelly. He smiled down at her. "But we've heard Switzerland is lovely this time of year."

  EPILOGUE

  Bear witness to an event, forever lost in time: The world is a rolling wave of achingly beautiful, sparkling white snow, hushed as the satin in a coffin. Nightfall approaches softly, on the paws of a black cat. This Alaskan wilderness has high peaks, ice cliffs, verdant valleys and mountains of tumbled, grey stone. A man can hike for days and not see another living soul. On this night, the moon is pie-plate full and swollen with an ominous light the color of bleached bone. The eastern flank of the valley is peppered with tall, green pine trees and white with a carpet of powder. Nothing moves here but the wind…

  Now. Look. See them, crouched there in the silvery shadows? A handsome young man, a beautiful young woman; their long dark hair flows down to their shoulders and is matted with earth and twigs. The male stands and ripples the muscles in his long torso; they contract and then expand again to become something more, perhaps less, than human. The dark hair ripples along his skin and rapidly covers his sleek flesh. His jaw juts forward to rapidly become a muzzle; his nose sniffs the scent of prey on the evening breeze.

  Behind him the female stretches herself like a ballet dancer. Her body transmogrifies and in a flash becomes that of a magnificent, grey timber wolf. She and the male circle each other, sniffing and exchanging tiny signals. She sits quietly, watching, as he runs off to hunt for the two of them.

  Jake vanishes into the trees, his passing marked only by the startled HOO of a night owl. The female stretches out on her blanket of pine needles to gently lick her swollen belly and distended nipples. She groans and prepares herself in dignified silence. Waits for his triumphant wail, and his return with fresh meat. Jennifer needs her nourishment.

  Her litter will soon be born.

  AFTERWORD

  Like most people, I remember my first time. Quite clearly, in fact. I was sober. I was curled up on the bed, with my head on the pillow and my legs extended. Some music was playing. I was probably wearing pajamas; most likely with some stupid-assed Howdy Doody and Buffalo Bob stuff printed all over them. Or maybe it was Rin Tin Tin, I can't say for sure. Not after more than fifty years.

  I was already a bookworm, though. I was devouring everything within sight by the time I was seven or eight years old.

  So this night I was maybe eleven, give or take. And I believe that first horror story I ever read was by H.H. Munro, who wrote under the name of Saki. The masterful little tale was of one angry and abused little boy with a vivid sense of outrage and an "imaginary creature" that was hiding in his room. The kid claimed he could summon it with a low, poetic chant. Adults mocked him. Of course it turned out to be quite real.

  That story was called "Srendi Vashtar." The last line, about a man's shoe lying at the foot of the stairs with part of a human foot still in it, sticks with me to this day.

  Anyway, that was my first time, and after that I was no longer innocent. I had been shocked into an appreciation for the macabre, and for the literary realm of horror and dark fantasy. Next came the astonishing Ray Bradbury, Ambrose Bierce, John Collier, Anthony Boucher, Richard Matheson, Roald Dahl, Robert Bloch, Robert Heinlein, A.E. Van Vogt, Andre Norton. So many gifted folks. And later on Stephen King, Peter Straub, Robert McCammon and a host of other pioneers.

  But first there was that one gory little tale by Saki.

  I suspect it was not an accident that the first story to grab me that way was one of flesh-rending violence. Few of us have genuinely made peace with both extremes of our nature; the beastly and the spiritual, the gourmet and the cannibal. The oldest cave paintings treat animals as deities who sacrifice their lives to feed us. They are likely just expressions of our guilt and deep ambivalence about being the earth's dominant predators.

  Our gargantuan base appetites tend to be counter-balanced with a reverence for life that makes the act of killing genuinely disturbing to our higher nature. It is a conundrum, to be sure. But whether we like it or not, that dark craving does exist. It is a deep down gnawing, gristle-rending lust for blood and bone. Just stop by a steakhouse and watch the patrons chewing away, minds in vapid rapture. Or pay really close attention to the audience at a football game. Folks, although CLAN (in its initial incarnation released as Night of the Werewolf in hardcover at Horrorfind in 2003) does indeed deal with these themes, it is first and foremost an entertainment. It's a B-movie, a tribute to the spirit of pure pulp and the glory days of horror fiction, but I'd like to think CLAN can stand on its own as a book solely designed to twist your knickers. You folks will have to be the judge of that.

  As many of you know, this novel has been out of print for many years. Medium Rare Books first published Night of the Werewolf as a hardcover (remember those?) back in 2003. It was the second book, after 2001's Night of the Beast, in a pulp horror series called The Night Trilogy. The third book was later published as Daemon. I've enjoyed success with all three, but have always had a soft spot for Night of the Werewolf. So I jumped at chance to bring it back into print as a revised limited edition, but especially as a more affordable trade paperback and ebook. The first version sold a modest number of hardcover copies. This one should be far more widely read.

  For those who are familiar with the material, you've no doubt noticed that although the basic story is the same, I've reworked a lot of the novel. Therefore, this is indeed the vaunted "Author's Preferred Version." You'll note that I've tried to tighten things and update CLAN without losing the essence of the original book. When I re-read it for the first time in years, I was pleasantly surprised at how well it held up. So in the end, I mostly tinkered around the edges, smoothed the prose, and removed a ton of needless italics. Although the plot remained the same, as you can see it's now a far better novel. By the way, I also changed characters originally named after genre authors. That was a cutesy trend ten years ago, mildly amusing at that time, but in retrospect the conceit only weakened an otherwise solid work.

  I really like this tale. And I'd love to see the movie made someday, now that CG is good enough to bring it off. Fingers crossed, because there is a screenplay already written.

  Almost time to go. Hope I caused you to consume an immense amount of popcorn while reading, and that at least a few of the scenes herein seriously disturb your sleep. Nothing would make me happier.

  One last thing. Any novel is a huge undertaking. CLAN was no exception. I'd like to thank some of the people who helped out. Authors Ray Garton, Tom Piccirilli, Douglas Clegg and Gina Gallo. Also author/editor Kealan-Patrick Burke, Mr. Gary Braunbeck for championing it when few others did, John and Shawn Turi for publishing the original hardcover, The Horror Writer's Network for awarding Night of the Werewolf (now CLAN) the 2003 Tombstone for Best Small Press Novel. And of course my lovely and talented wife Wendy and my daughter Paige. Without them I'm nothing but a bag of skin. Last but not least, many thanks to Norm Rubenstein for the edits and the support.

  I made this stuff up. Any mistakes are my own.

  Lastly, thank you for reading. A lot of people over almost a decade nagged me about bringing this novel back into print in a better produced and much more affordable way. I've wanted to please you. Nothing tickles me quite as much
as being read and enjoyed. So I hope you had one hell of a good time. I certainly did, even more this second time around.

  OOoooooOOoooooOOOooooooooo.......

  HARRY SHANNON

  Los Angeles, May 10th, 2003

  Again in Los Angeles, on February 12, 2011

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Publisher's Weekly has said that Harry Shannon has "impeccable pacing and an eye for the terrifying [that] will leave the reader shaken and unsettled." He has been a counselor, an actor, an Emmy-nominated songwriter, a recording artist, a music publisher, VP Music at Carolco Pictures and a Music Supervisor on films such as 'Basic Instinct' and 'Universal Soldier.' His books include Dead and Gone (a Lions Gate movie) and the four Mick Callahan suspense novels Memorial Day, Eye of the Burning Man, One of the Wicked and Running Cold. He wrote the collection A Host of Shadows as well as the novels The Pressure of Darkness and CLAN. Harry Shannon has won the Tombstone, the Black Quill, and has been twice nominated for the Stoker Award by the Horror Writer's Association. Harry has two new books coming out in Fall 2011: Kill Them All, part of the Dead Man series, and The Hungry, with co-author Steven W. Booth. He can be reached via his web site www.harryshannon.com or through Facebook and Twitter. Harry is also a member of Top Suspense Group www.topsuspense.com.

  If you liked Harry Shannon's CLAN,

  you might also enjoy this excerpt from the novel

  The Hungry

  A Novel of the Inevitable Zombie Apocalypse

  by

  Steven W. Booth and Harry Shannon.

  PROLOGUE

  The hoarse bellowing echoed down the polished tile corridors, bounced off metal doors and crawled through the pipes and air ducts. Tense soldiers both one floor above and below exchanged covert glances. Everyone within earshot knew something had spun out of control. The troops had seen the bloody rags and shards of broken glass in sealed plastic bins with red HAZMAT warnings. They'd seen the stricken men and women on gurneys and in cages. They were ordered to forget, and they tried their best, drowning their growing panic in every bar within driving distance. They knew of the evil, but had never spoken of it aloud.

  "Hold him, damn it!"

  Taylor and Sheppard glanced at each other. Their wide eyes passed a silent message: Who's he kidding? This motherfucker wants to kill us!

  "Yes, sir!"

  Sergeant Luke Taylor was red-faced, squat and buff. His partner Karl Sheppard inches taller, with a movie star face and gentle eyes. They'd worked together for months. The duo carefully approached the heavily tattooed subject. The man was stripped naked, his gym rat muscles strained to the breaking point. He reeked of sweat and fear. Taser leads protruded from his abdomen, their charge uselessly spent. The repeated shocks had only made the prisoner more enraged. Crouching in the corner, fists clenched, penis aggressively erect, he roared with a drug-induced fury. This one was clearly far more dangerous than the two highly trained soldiers who approached him.

  "Come on, dude," said Sheppard softly, soothingly. He used his warm eyes to calm the situation. "Everything is going to be all right." Holding an MP baton loosely at his side, Sheppard waved a chocolate bar in his right hand, thus distracting the subject just enough to give Taylor an opportunity to get closer. The tattooed man's head snapped up warily. He focused attention on the food. He bared his teeth, snarling like a cornered tiger, but reached out for the candy.

  It was enough of an opening. Taylor managed to get one gloved hand on the subject's bicep, the other on his wrist. Taylor wrenched the patient's arm behind him. The tattooed man lashed out with a left hook that missed its mark and glanced harmlessly off Taylor's helmet. Reluctantly, Sheppard slammed his baton down on the subject's head. It was a blow that should have knocked him out cold, but it merely startled the naked man. Taylor managed to wrestle the subject to the ground then seized his hands with the flex cuffs. Sheppard sat on the tattooed man's thighs and tied his ankles together. The two soldiers sat back, panting with exertion and heightened anxiety.

  "You okay, bro?" Sheppard sounded concerned. Taylor seemed out of sync and tired. That could make a bad situation even more dangerous. Taylor shrugged and nodded. Sheppard knew he was lying. The prisoner beneath them continued to writhe and scream.

  "Pick him up," said their team leader, Lt. Albert—ramrod stiff and buzz cut. "Put him back on the table and secure his ass."

  Together, Taylor and Sheppard heaved the struggling subject to his feet. They dragged him to the stainless steel exam table. Taylor dumped him unceremoniously on the cold metal. Working quickly, Sheppard and Taylor restrained him with large belts that stretched across the man's body, preventing him from moving more than a few inches in any direction. Just as efficiently, the two soldiers wired the patient for EKG and pulse-ox. His graphs were through the roof. The tattooed man screamed again, still in anger more than pain. He struggled against his restraints.

  "Shut him up," ordered Lt. Albert. He was a medical man gone wild. Men said Albert had once been a major. Rumor had it that he'd gotten busted down for multiple ethics violations. Others said he'd been screwing another officer's wife while his friend was away in combat. He'd fought his way back up the line by kissing ass and cutting corners. He was a screw-up and it showed.

  Taylor opened a refrigerated cabinet, withdrew a syringe. The needle was long and wicked. The screaming man saw it and jerked against the restraints. Sheppard stroked the patient's forehead, tried to catch his eyes to soothe him. Taylor didn't hesitate. He expertly injected the struggling man with the needle. A moment later, the good shit hit. The patient quieted down. He stared back at Sheppard with something like gratitude. The team leader approached the subject with a glowing UV lamp. Everywhere the light touched, the man's skin now fluoresced a garish green. The team leader shark-smiled, a rare event. Albert actually seemed to relax.

  "I thought it was supposed to take weeks before GFP became integrated into his entire system." Sheppard was fascinated. He wiped his face on a towel. He and Taylor were both still breathless from the fight. Taylor leaned against the wall, whipped.

  "Well evidently it works faster than we thought." Lt. Albert turned to Sheppard. "Make a note of this."

  Sheppard thought, Like you can't make your own God-damned notes you, arrogant piece of shit? But Sheppard did as he was told.

  Lt. Albert glanced at the clock. "And call it two hours, forty-three minutes from introduction of serum Two-Six-Alpha."

  "Yes, sir," Sheppard said. He carefully entered the notes on the electronic tablet that was linked to the facility's computer system. The mainframe had to be updated regularly, and so did the brass. Sheppard felt better that the subject was sedated and no longer violent. He looked up. Taylor was sweating and visibly shaking.

  "You okay, man?" asked Sheppard quietly, as Albert continued to examine the subject with the UV.

  Taylor glared at his partner. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Drop it, his expression said. Don't give that fucker an inch.

  Lt. Albert pulled a small, hand-held voice recorder from the pocket of his spotless white coat. "Subject Romeo-Two appears to have complete integration of green fluorescent protein system-wide. Showing signs of extreme aggressiveness, as predicted. No other side effects observed. Proceeding with second phase…" The team leader approached the refrigerator. He withdrew a small vial. He hunted for a sterile syringe, filled it, and approached the drugged, busily tattooed man, who followed his every step with wary eyes.

  Lt. Albert found a bulging vein in subject Romeo-Two's arm. He smoothly inserted the tip of the needle. He pressed the plunger and the clear, cold liquid coursed into the man's blood. Sheppard winced in sympathy. Poor bastard. Their brief respite was over.

  The tattooed subject's eyes became wide and wild. Searing pain blossomed from his arm into his torso and up into his brain. He began to convulse and choke, urine went spraying. He gasped, big fists clenching, hairy chest heaving. The EKG spiked. Machines beeped in alarm.

  "Sir, he's going into cardi
ac arrest..." shouted Sheppard. He started for the pads.

  "Shut up," ordered the lieutenant. "Stay where you are." Albert was angry at his own stupidity. He reached for a long, thin packet, stripped it open and tapped the air out of the tip of another large bore needle. Sheppard watched helplessly as Albert raised it like a weapon, plunged it deep into the dying man's chest.

  Every muscle in the man's body clenched, his bloodshot eyes bulged wide. He released one final shriek. His bowels voided. The sweaty body collapsed like wet clothing. A stench filled the room. The men stood still for a long beat, absorbing the eerie presence of death.

  Taylor and Sheppard, standing to the side, watched as the EKG flatlined. Sheppard said, "Sir, we shouldn't have..."

  "Shut the fuck up, Sheppard." The leader paced the room, mumbling. He stopped. Lt. Albert turned to the two men. "I want every drop of serum Two-Six-Alpha back. Clean this corpse like a crime scene. Do whatever it takes, for however long it takes. Cut him up and squeeze him like a lemon. Do it now, people, and report to me when you've finished." He palmed the door open and strode out. The metal panel closed behind him with a clang.

  Taylor and Sheppard looked at each other. Taylor's face collapsed. He was a mess. He turned toward the wall, bent at the waist like a paper clip and vomited violently into a trash can. Sheppard touched his friend's shoulder.

  "You all right, man?"

  "I'm fine." Taylor pinched his nose to cover the stench of feces, opened his mouth wide and took a few deep breaths. He regained control of himself. "I want to get the hell out of here as soon as humanly possible. Let's get this over with."