Clovenhoof 04 Hellzapoppin'

by Heide Goody

  “Lord. Peter. Not. Woman,” roared a scrowfrog as it burst through the call centre door.

  Rutspud led the group onward, keeping to a low scuttle to hide behind the cubicle partitions. They could not help but catch tiny, one-sided snippets of conversations going on around them.

  “That mess on your lawn? Your neighbour knows all about how it got there. Pop it through his letter box, that'll show him.”

  “Who would ring a call centre to ask about that?” Stephen whispered to Rutspud as they crept across the floor.

  “It doesn't work that way. People who utter curses and profanities are put through here. They hear the conversation in their head, as if it's their own thoughts,” said Rutspud.

  Whitehouse had paused to whack an operator with her handbag, so Rutspud pulled her quickly away.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “He said a rude thing. A very rude thing!” she protested.

  “There. You. Are!” bellowed a scrowfrog.

  “All of you, down the stairs!” shouted Rutspud. “Now!”

  The stairs led to a level of the fortress with which Rutspud was utterly unfamiliar.

  The walls were a softer shade of Hellish red than the rest of the building, and gentle music played, the muted screaming of souls that was clearly designed to lull. There were long rows of cots on either side of the room.

  “What are you doing?!” hissed Rutspud.

  Potter and Cartland looked guiltily up from the babies they were pulling silly faces and cooing at. Jessie was giving each of them a friendly sniff. Nightingale was investigating the medical charts on the end of the cots.

  “They all have distinguishing birthmarks,” she said. “Curious.”

  “Look, they have the number 999 upon their heads,” said Potter.

  “You're looking upside down. It's 666,” said Tesla.

  “The sign of the beast,” moaned Shipton.

  Whitehouse gave an exasperated sigh.

  “There was a series of wholly gratuitous films on the subject, back in my day,” she said sharply. “Quite, quite dreadful.”

  “Never imagine you’d watch The Omen,” said Stephen.

  “I didn’t watch it!” said Whitehouse. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

  “So this is an antichrist nursery?” said Stephen, looking around. “Does that mean that each one of these babies has the potential to become the most evil person the world has ever known?”

  “That’s the plan,” said Rutspud absently, looking around frantically for the most appropriate exit.

  Stephen stood in frozen contemplation.

  “I feel as though I should do something about this,” he murmured to himself. “It’s like that whole travel back in time and shoot Hitler conundrum.”

  “They’re dreadful creatures,” said Wilde. “Just waiting to pollute the world with their evil.”

  “No,” decided Stephen. “We can’t judge them. They’re not antichrists yet. They’re just babies.”

  “Vewy, vewy sweet lickle babies!” said Cartland, putting her tongue out and getting a squeal of delight from a chubby infant.

  “I know,” said Wilde. “As I said, dreadful creatures. Vomit, wailing, yuck!”

  “But where are the mothers?” asked Tesla.

  Heavy and clumsy footsteps sounded from the stairwell.

  “We need to go!” yelled Rutspud.

  “But this one has an elevated temperature,” said Nightingale. “I should monitor it.”

  “No! Come on everyone, through that door, now! That door!”

  “And what are these dog kennels for?” asked Tesla as they bustled out.

  “Not dogs, those are jackals,” said Whitehouse with a shake of her head. “I'll tell you later.”

  “You said you never watched that film,” said Stephen slyly.

  “What I watched on TV after Ernest had dozed off on the coach is neither here nor there,” she said, a twinkle in her eye.

  “I’m going to feel a proper fool if this leads us nowhere,” said Bastian.

  “Have faith,” said Manfred.

  Manfred and Bastian had followed Father Eustace right across the island to the rockiest part of the shore. A blustery corner of land, too exposed and inhospitable for even the suicidal yellow-crested Merlin stilt to nest in. Bastian and Manfred stood in wary silence as Eustace clambered down to the shoreline, under an overhang of rock, and disappeared.

  “I must admit, I’m not sure why we’re here,” said Manfred.

  “I can see the headline now: Two Idiot Monks Watch Lunatic Abbot Drown.”

  Eustace’s head popped out between two rocks and he beckoned for them to follow.

  “My mistake,” said Bastian. “Lunatic Abbot Leads Two Idiot Monks To Their Deaths.”

  The two of them climbed down carefully toward the sea, and Manfred was surprised to find that there was a cave just above the tideline. It was a smelly cave, with poor light, but definitely a cave nevertheless.

  Bastian attempted to keep his habit off the damp floor. “Stinks in here.”

  “I think I can guess why,” said Manfred, and pointed.

  The source of the smell was a decomposing human body on the floor of the cave.

  Bastian choked and coughed. Manfred pressed a spotty handkerchief over his nose and kneeled down to take a closer look.

  “He’s a monk,” said Manfred, gently prodding his green, sea-sodden habit.

  “Another dead monk,” said Bastian. “I’m starting to think this line of work has unseen risks.”

  “This man was also, I think, on the rather large side. And do you think these wisps could have been a beard? A red beard?”

  “Eustace Pike?” said Bastian.

  “Didn’t kill him,” said Father Eustace suddenly.

  Manfred rocked back on his heels.

  “No,” he said gently. “It was stormy when he attempted to cross – surprising he even got this far. I suppose he must have drowned.”

  “And when we saw the abbot’s boat,” said Bastian, “and this chap on the shore …. we put two and two together …”

  “And came up with five,” agreed Manfred.

  “Seven!” shouted Eustace.

  “Of course, that leaves us one pressing question,” said Bastian.

  The two of them turned to Father Eustace.

  “Who is this man and how did he suddenly appear – naked, I should add – on our island?”

  “… Shipton … Bernhardt … Lickspear and this foul furry beast makes fourteen of us,” said Rutspud. “In! In!”

  Rutspud swept the gang in through the swing doors and down into the Places office of the Infernal Innovation Programmes R&D laboratory. Dante, Dore and Escher sat at their draughtsman’s desks. Belphegor was puttering through in his poop-powered wheelchair.

  “Ah, the prodigal son returns,” croaked the purple demon. “I know this place is shrine to labour-saving devices and other forms of laziness, but you do actually have to turn up to work now and then.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Rutspud. “Got some friends I need to show around.”

  “Friends, Rutspud? When did this happen?” He peered at them from beneath wispy eyebrows. “Well, make sure they don't touch anything,” he said.

  “They wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Although, if any of them fancy giving my despairatron a test drive, I’d be interested in the results.”

  “Did you fix the blowing-up-all-of-creation problem?”

  “Not sure, but what’s life without a little risk?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rutspud, and hustled the gang onward. “Oh, and sir, if you see any scrowfrogs, then we didn't pass this way.”

  “Scrowfrogs? What would they be doing down here?”

  “Oh, you know, boss. Causing a ruckus, using their brawn instead of their brains. Trying to show that might makes right.”

  “Well, we’ll soon see about that!” grumbled Belphegor.

  Rutspud directed the
gang through to the Particulars’ office but, to his dismay, before the last of them were through, a pair of scrowfrogs burst through the entrance. Actually, they squeezed through, side by side, putting dents in the doorframe as they did. Rutspud shrank behind the doorway to Particulars.

  Dore, Dante and Escher wisely hid under their desks, but Belphegor remained as he was and Rutspud realised that, though Lord Belphegor might be duke of Hell, he was still essentially a blob with arms, a wheelchair-bound blob with arms.

  One of the scrowfrogs growled and knocked over a bookcase with a casual flick of his claw.

  “What in the name of the Great Hoofed One do you think you're doing?” demanded Belphegor, and squared up before them, his chair puffing and clacking as he manoeuvred around.

  “Search. For. Escaped. Demon. Rutspud,” grunted a scrowfrog viciously.

  “Well, he’s not bloody here, so you can sodding well hop it!”

  The scrowfrog leaned forward and prodded Belphegor in his belly with his massive claw.

  “Don’t. Take. Orders. From. Legless. Cripple,” it laughed.

  The scrowfrogs pointed at Belphegor and laughed openly.

  Belphegor pulled a small lever on the side of his chair and a blade swung out from the chair, scything out in a wide arc at knee height and back again before disappearing again with an efficient ‘snick’. The two scrowfrogs stared at each in confusion and then dropped to the ground, leaving their amputated feet exactly where they had been.

  “Sorry, who’s legless?” said Belphegor. “Hm, nice to field test these devices once in a while,” he added, slapping the side of his chair with satisfaction. “On your way now, Rutspud.”

  “Thanks, chief.”

  The two scrowfrogs, undeterred by the lack of legs or the fact that they were bleeding all over the floor, rolled about and called after Rutspud.

  “No. Escape.”

  “You. Will. Pay. And. Your. Cripple. Friend.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Belphegor and pulled the lever again. The blade flicked out again at knee height, except of course that it wasn’t the scrowfrogs’ knees that were now at knee height. The scrowfrogs made wet sounds and then were silent.

  “Brilliant device,” said Belphegor. “Where did we get the idea from, Rutspud?”

  “Boudicca,” said Rutspud. “She had them on her chariot. I think it was to clear away the crowds when she went to the shops.”

  There was a scream from the Particulars’ office. Rutspud raced off to find the rest of the gang. Shipton was on her knees, quivering with fear as she pointed at one of Bosch's creations.

  “Foul demon,” she screeched, “like unto a Scottish wolf but with the dead eyes of a halibut!”

  “Thank you,” said Bosch, wandering over. “It's one of my personal favourites. I do try.”

  “It's not real, dear,” said Cartland, placing a hand on Shipton's arm.

  “It’s like something out of Dr Who,” sniffed Whitehouse.

  “Did you not approve of that either?” said Stephen.

  “Tea-time brutality for tots,” she said.

  Jessie growled at the feet of the inert monstrosity.

  “And what is this?” said Bosch. “It has the head of a hound attached to the body of a hound. Most strange!”

  There were fresh bellows of anger from other rooms, multiple rooms.

  “They’re closing in on us,” said Potter tersely.

  “This way,” said Rutspud and ran forward into Lewis’s workshop area, not even pausing to give a wave of greeting to Torquemada on his rack.

  “Woah,” said Stephen. “Why has Hell suddenly turned into IKEA?”

  Wardrobes lined the walls and almost every unoccupied space. Lewis looked up from a workbench at which he was planing a piece of timber.

  “Everyone, hide in the wardrobes!” yelled Rutspud.

  “I hardly think that's going to help,” said Wilde. “First place they'll look, surely.”

  “You’ve got a better idea?”

  Mama-Na let out a throaty yell as she opened a door and a large male lion roared at her from inside. She lifted her club, but Lewis sprang forward to stop her.

  “No!” he said, and then rounded on the beast. “Calm down, Alan. The nasty lady isn’t going to hurt you.”

  Potter opened a door that revealed a lush green forest.

  “Interesting,” she said. “Slightly unbelievable, though.”

  “This from the woman who wrote about talking rabbits in waistcoats,” said Rutspud pointedly. “Just get in. Bernhardt! Tesla! Nightingale! Shift it!”

  Lickspear opened a wardrobe.

  “Neat!” he marvelled. “This one leads to a magical land that looks just like the inside of a wardrobe!”

  Whitehouse pulled open another wardrobe and screamed out something most unladylike.

  “Swear box!” shouted Boudicca.

  The wardrobe opened onto a corridor within another part of the fortress, one along which were coming a dozen or more scrowfrogs.

  “You built a wardrobe to another level of the fortress,” shrieked Rutspud.

  “Short cut to the vending machines,” argued Lewis.

  “Forsooth, snacks!” said Lickspear.

  “Hide!” screamed Rutspud.

  Stephen grabbed a door.

  “Not the wardrobe to Atlantis!” yelled Lewis.

  Jessie barked in warning but it was too late.

  Stephen had already turned the handle. The wardrobe door shot back and was blasted off its hinges by a torrent of water that burst forth with such pressure, it was more like a foamy green wall. The initial blast picked up Stephen and slammed him against Lickspear and Wilde, and then bundled the three of them into an open wardrobe. The continuing surge of seawater rocked the Atlantis wardrobe onto its back, and the water now spouted upwards, pounding the ceiling with its titanic force.

  Water quickly filled the workshop, spinning all around in a violent maelstrom. Rutspud (who was really not at home with swimming of any sort) flailed and sputtered his way to an overturned wardrobe that Stephen, Lickspear, Wilde, the furry dog and a bedraggled Whitehouse were using as lifeboat. Mama-Na, Shipton, Cartland and Lewis were similarly using another wardrobe to stay above the tide. Lewis leaned over the side of his vessel and plaintively called for Alan.

  Stephen helped Rutspud over the side and into their wardrobe.

  “Can people die in Hell?” asked Stephen fearfully.

  “Dunno,” said Rutspud. “I think we might find out.”

  The surging tide, which Rutspud noted appeared to also contain various fish, squid and misshapen things from the deep, had burst out through the doors of the Particulars’ office and was no doubt flooding the remainder of R&D. Nonetheless, the swelling waters were constantly rising. The high ceiling was frankly not high enough, and they would soon be crushed against it.

  “There!” Wilde waved a damp cuff across the way.

  Rutspud looked. Water was pouring down and out through a large opening. Another of Lewis’s wardrobes.

  “It’s our only exit,” Rutspud agreed and, with Stephen’s assistance, snapped off one of the doors and used it to scull their way towards it.

  “But where does it go?” shouted Stephen.

  “Out!” replied Rutspud. “And out is good!”

  They did not have to get far before the wardrobe was pulled into the plughole opening. Screaming, they slammed down and were suddenly rafting along a corridor high up in the Fortress of Nameless Dread. Scrowfrogs and demons of all sizes bobbed in the surf about them.

  “That’s a bring down!” shouted Lickspear.

  “What is it, demon?” said Wilde.

  “We overshot the vending machine.”

  Nero ran breathlessly into Lord Peter’s office.

  “Lord …” he panted. “There is a raging wall of water coming directly towards your office!”

  Lord Peter frowned and looked at his diary.

  “Does it have an appointment?”

&nb
sp; “No, Lord?”

  Lord Peter gave him a look.

  “Then tell it to come back another time.”

  Scabass moaned and thrashed in anguish under Flayshard's expert ministrations. And they really were expert ministrations. While every fibre of his being contorted in agony, a tiny portion of his mind was able to reflect with some admiration at the attention she was putting into every single moment of the torture.

  Flayshard straightened up.

  Scabass opened one eye (the one without the spider’s eggs in it).

  “Why have you stopped?”

  “This is very bothersome,” she said.

  “What?”

  She consulted her notes.

  “It says – you said, dear – that I was to employ a lion to rake the flesh from your shins, but we don’t have any lions in at the moment.”

  “None at all?” said Scabass.

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you have any other wild animals? Bears? Hyenas?”

  Flayshard nodded.

  “We do. But this was a specific request for a lion and I do want to get this just right.”

  Scabass could not help but smile, a smile in what he could now see in the mirrored ceiling was a bloody and toothless mouth.

  “Mistress Flayshard?”

  “Yes, Scabass?”

  “Can I just say …?”

  “Yes?”

  “The efforts you go to and the commitment you have to your work is just so very deeply impressive that I think I must say …”

  “Yes?”

  “I … I think you are …”

  An ominous grinding sound silenced Scabass. A quake ran through the room.

  “Excuse me,” said Flayshard and went to open the office door to see what was going on.

  “Well, really!” she said and turned to Scabass. “You know you had ‘crushed by a billion gallons of water’ on your list?”

  “Yes?” said Scabass uncertainly.

  “Do you think we could skip to that bit now?”

  Hodshift was on the roof of Infernal Furnace #235, checking the temperature measurements. The temperature gauges had evaporated into metal gases days ago, but he was a man of routine, who took comfort in making sure all the boxes were ticked. He looked up as he heard a strange sound. His head was covered in ears; he had a thing for noticing strange sounds.