The December Awethology - Dark Volume

by The Awethors

  He slid the sandwich into a plastic bag, pulled on his thick coat, and headed back to the corner mart. As he passed the fence, the boy bounded to his feet again.

  “Good evening, sir. I…”

  Walter raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong boy? Cat got your tongue?”

  “I guess you don’t need any help.” The boy toed the ground.

  “Here.” He held out the sandwich. “I’m not going to eat this and thought you might want it.”

  The boy raised his eyes and grinned. “Really?”

  “Well take it before I change my mind.”

  After a moment, he took the bag and shoved a bite in his mouth.

  “Got a name, boy?”

  “Joshua. Thanks… sir.”

  He grunted, then continued into the store. A turkey dinner was just what he needed, but so late in the day, chicken might have to do. He stowed the walker at the front and slid onto one of those power carts the manager always tried to get him to use. New-fangled machines.

  After the better part of thirty minutes, he found everything he needed and paid. The manager ambled over. “Mr. Johnson. Do you need some help with your groceries?”

  “Just bag them and put them out on the porch. I’ll manage.”

  “Not a problem. I can call you a taxi.”

  “The porch. Quite simple. No need to carry on.”

  “Yes, sir. And Happy Holidays.”

  He pursed his lips. Happy Holidays. The manager celebrated Christmas. Why not just say it? He shuffled out the door and glanced around. Joshua hurried over from his place by the fence.

  “Let me help you down.”

  “I can manage just fine, young man. Besides, you have work to do.”

  Joshua stepped back and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, there’s enough food in those bags for an army and I sure as heck ain’t going to eat it all myself, much less carry it.” He shook his head and muttered, before starting down the sidewalk.

  He heard some rustling noises behind him and a short time later, Joshua was walking beside him wearing a backpack and carrying the bags of groceries.

  “I’m not sure what to say, sir.”

  “I got work to be done and you need a job. It’s a business arrangement.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Tree to be brought down. Decorations to be put up. Meal to be cooked. Lots of things.”

  “But why me? You could hire someone else.”

  Walter stopped and faced him. “What’s wrong with you? Man offers you a job, you take it. Outside of needing a shower and laundry, you seem like a good lad.” He resumed his walk. “And who knows, boy. If you’ve been good, maybe Santa will come tonight.”

  “That’s okay, sir. I think he already has.”

  The Christmas Assassin

  James Quinn

  Christmas Day, 1934

  There is an art to hunting a man to the death. But for the gunman and the assassin that was the game they were both playing now, so they cordially accepted the rules and the results without complaint.

  The gunman sat and waited in the darkness, only a faint glow of the ambient light from the other room was visible. Such were the constraints of close quarter fighting that darkness was the accepted environment for this kind of battle. The pistol in his hands was slick with sweat and he was desperate to use it, desperate to confront the man stalking him, desperate to pull the trigger of the revolver and escape.

  He was crouched down, resting on one knee, behind an old table that gave him concealment if not cover. He had been this way for... how long... minutes? Maybe five at most, but in this type of fighting minutes counted. He could feel the assassin approaching, knew he was near. He couldn’t hear him—yet, but he could sense him, in the same way that a cat senses an interloper in its terrain.

  He knew the assassin carried a weapon that was superior to his own. The assassin had a lever action rifle. Good for distance, for sniping, but not for taking down someone in face to face combat. The gunman’s own weapon was a shiny steel six-shot revolver. He had been given it earlier that day, before he had been approached about his mission. He had practised with it and he trusted it. It was loud when it fired, but it was reliable and it would do the job.

  He heard a creak from the other room, something that sounded like a door being slowly pushed open. The assassin was on the move and the gunman knew that he would be here soon. The time of minutes was long gone; now he was dealing with seconds....And yet despite the threat of danger and the inevitable violence, there was a rush of excitement running through the gunman’s body. He felt alive; he had never felt so right. He was born to do this, he didn’t know HOW he knew that, just that it felt natural to wait in the darkness, armed to the teeth and ready to take down a killer just as ruthless and cold as he was himself…

  ~~~~

  The assassin stalked his prey. He knew where his quarry would be; had known all along. This entire charade, all this theatre was just playing with his opponent, teasing him, toying with him, all calculated so that he would make a mistake and give the assassin an edge.

  He held the lever action rifle out in front of him, his finger on the trigger, ready to eliminate his foe. The assassin was older than the gunman by a good few years and had learned a thing or two along his path...nothing dramatic, just a few simple tricks that could wrong-foot his enemy.

  He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe, winced as he heard it creak, a fog horn blast in the silence. He paused and listened, eager to hear for any clue...and then there it was—a noise, a faint exhalation of breath from somewhere deep in the darkness...a corner, he guessed, over to his right. The assassin led with the barrel of his rifle, pushing the door open and searching the gloominess of the room. The table! It was where he was sure his target would be, hiding behind it like a child hiding from the bogey-man. How very apt...

  The assassin moved quickly, far too quickly for a man of his age. He stumbled over something on the floor, some kind of box, but by then it was too late! He knew where his enemy was; he was within reach. He brought the rifle up to fire, but even then he was too slow. The shadow hiding behind the table was on the move, bringing up his own weapon of steel to fire...

  ~~~~

  The gunman jumped out from his hiding place, his shooting arm already in motion, the revolver up and ready, one handed. He saw the large frame of the assassin in front of him, a huge black mass in the darkness of the room, and the gunman opened fire. The trigger worked fast, 1,2,3,4,5... no pause...

  Each gave out a loud bang! He heard the cry from the assassin, of pain and terror, and watched as the dark body collapsed to the floor, dropping the rifle in the process. The gunman didn’t need to ask for a second chance...he stepped forward and fired the final shot downwards—BANG!

  Remarkably the assassin still moved! The gunman could see the body of his enemy curl up into the foetal position, trying to protect himself. The assassin was down but not out. With this killer, the gunman couldn’t afford to take any chances. Instantly he flipped his revolver up and caught it one-handed so that the butt of the handle was prominent. The gun had now been turned into a cudgel. The gunman jumped onto the assassin’s body, the butt of the revolver raining down heavy blows, beating faster and harder with each downward arc. Smash, smash, smash! With each strike the gunman yelled to give more weight to the blows, until finally he heard another yelp of pain and the gunman knew in that instant that the assassin was finished...he just needed one more killing blow and then his mission would be completed...he raised the revolver one more time and aimed for the top of the assassin’s head...

  “JACK DUNCAN GRANT!”

  He heard his name called in the darkness. The room was illuminated by the ceiling light as it was flicked on. He froze, his eyes wincing from both the light and the voice. The sparse Christmas tree stood in the corner, a few baubles and tinsel scattered about it. Opened boxes and shredded wrapping paper that had once contained meagre pr
esents were littered around the base of the tree. It was a scene from a working class house on Christmas Day. The gunman turned towards the voice that had halted him in his tracks. The voice had power and authority. It had stopped him from taking down the most ruthless assassin that he knew...

  “Mein Gute!! What on earth are you doing to your father!! Get off him for heaven’s sake,” said his mother. She held a tea-towel that she had been using to dry the dishes from their Christmas lunch several hours earlier. Mama had that disapproving look on her face that said that they had both overstepped the mark.

  “Oh the boy was just playing, dinna fash yourself woman,” said the pretend assassin that was his father, his broad Scottish accent coming through, both loud and joyful.

  Jack Grant watched as his mama shook her head, exasperated at the pair of them, and turned to her kitchen domain, but not before giving out her final command.

  Please GO and wash up before we have to go and visit your uncle Ron and auntie Marnie. I don’t wish to be late!”

  Little Jack Grant, the four-year-old boy with the short blond hair that was the gunman, twirled the toy-cap gun revolver one-handed and slipped it back into the cowboy holster that he wore over his brand new Christmas clothes. He watched as his father picked up the toy-lever action rifle that had come as part of his cowboy set—hat, waist coat, sheriff’s badge, holster, revolver and rifle.

  Dad fumbled his grip, watched as it fell to the ground and his father had to make a hasty effort to pick it up. Jack sighed... Poor Dad; he would show him how to use it properly later on today.

  “Come on now, little Jack, we’d better do as Mama says,” said his father, straightening his cardigan and correcting his tie that had gone askew when he had been pistol-whipped by his little boy. “We have to catch the next bus to Ealing and we still have presents to deliver!”

  The boy looked up and smiled at his father. He loved this big man.

  “Can we play tomorrow, Dah? Maybe go hunting each other out in the park? Please!”

  The father, who only moments before had been a ruthless assassin, looked down and smiled at his boy. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy and pride. He loved the fact that his son had retained the Scottish lilt of his place of birth.

  “Of course we can, Jack...you little monkey.”

  A Christmas Tale

  Paul White

  I paid for the whisky, said goodnight to the shopkeeper and walked out into the darkness of the night.

  The streets were busy, people bustling about getting those last minute Christmas gifts; the stocking fillers and trinkets. The atmosphere was one of excitement and joyfulness, enhanced by the impromptu choirs and the street performers entertaining the steady stream of shoppers as they passed by.

  I think the lights in the city were better this year too. I am certain there were more than the previous years, or maybe it was the displays themselves, the vibrant, pulsating multitude of twinkling colours which reflected off the snow laden footpaths? I am not sure, but I do know the entire city looked wonderful.

  This year I had also made an extra effort at home. For once I suppressed the scrooge in myself, the ‘bah humbug’ of scorn and distain about the dreadful commercialism of the season. This year I was ready.

  I had my tree in place and the house was fully decorated with garlands and baubles by midday on the first of December. The majority of gifts were wrapped, under the tree and awaiting their recipients. I just needed a few last gifts and I was set.

  I shall admit to you now, I was actually enjoying myself. For the first time in years I felt the Christmas spirit within me.

  It could be because I had settled into this house now, or because my new neighbours were kind friendly folk, or perhaps, just perhaps because I was in love.

  I had only known Claire for six months. We had met in the supermarket where the fresh salad vegetables are kept on those chilled counters.

  Claire dropped a cucumber. I think the condensation caused it to slip from her fingers. I was standing near her so, like a gentleman, I stooped to retrieve it from the floor.

  That was when our heads clashed.

  As I bent down Claire was beginning to straighten up. The back of Claire’s head gave me a harsh crack on the bridge of my nose. The result was a nose bleed, a bloodied shirt, and a string of apologies from Claire.

  The following day Claire arrived at my home carrying a brand new shirt. I told her that it was not necessary for her to replace my shirt, the head banging incident had been a pure accident.

  Claire told me to put the shirt on. She said she wanted to make sure it fitted correctly. I took off the tee shirt I had on at the time, ready to slip the new shirt on. That was when it happened.

  The next thing Claire and I were kissing passionately and then undressing, leaving a trail of clothing leading to the bedroom. That was about six months ago. I think that is why I was looking forward to Christmas this year. You see Claire is coming to stay with me. She has planned to stay until the New Year.

  Besides the whisky I had just purchased I was weighted down with two large bags of groceries; actually they were Christmas treats. I had assorted nuts, chocolates, tangerines, dates, candied fruits and a large bag full of Claire’s favourite, Crystallised stem ginger pieces.

  The handle of the shopping bag in which I was carrying the ginger snapped as I rounded the corner of Mason Avenue. I stopped, catching the bag with my foot as it fell to the ground. I stood cursing for a moment. I would have to make do. I would fill the pockets of my coat with as much merchandise as I could. The remaining purchases could stay in the bag. Once I twisted the broken handle around a few times I could grip it, I could hold it together for the last few hundred yards or so to my home.

  It was while I was rearranging my shopping he came up to me. I knew who he was immediately. I know my blood ran cold because I shivered. Not a shiver caused by the chill of winter, but a shiver of apprehension.

  “I am sorry, Mark’ he said ‘but it is your time.”

  He was standing so close I felt his breath wash over me as he spoke, it had a hollow scent of yew trees and damp grass. It was the smell of a graveyard. Yet even as close as he was I could not see his face, there was just the shadowy hint of inevitability visible under his cowl.

  I shall not say that fear did not enter my consciousness because it did. I felt it flutter over my heart. But the Reaper was practised. His scythe whistled through the air so fast I only caught a momentary glimpse of the festive lights glistening on the finely honed steel of the blade.

  They say a car ploughed into me as I stood on the corner of Mason Avenue picking up my fallen shopping.

  My death was reported as instant.

  I would not have called it instant because I heard the Grim Reaper speak my name.

  The Lamb's Gift

  Patrick Elliott

  Falling snow clears the mind. Darkness brings great inspiration. Walking through the pre-Christmas drift leads to thinking on par with men like Tesla.

  But not tonight.

  My thinking is done. My mind has never been so purely focused. My thoughts are already in order. They have never been so clear.

  So, amidst my meandering, I listen to carols so stale it is hard to believe they come from a can. The sounds of purchased joy wash over me like the cold blanket of snow that wraps my body. Having come to the correct decision three days ago, on my birthday, I have time for deeper thoughts.

  Like, how people say the stupidest things around the holidays.

  Things like... it's the thought that counts.

  People who say that, or rather, people who believe it, have never had to explain to their six year old sister why she won't get even the cheapest doll for Christmas. They've never had to figure out how to convince a girl too young to understand such things, that when it comes to the choice between not enough food and toys, not enough food is more important. Never had to see more water than the house ever produces, before it gets shut off for non-payment, cascade
from her eyes.

  And, of course, they've never then gone searching through hypodermic infested dumpsters to find a doll, stained with blood, coffee, and less savory fluids, that is missing an eye and half its stuffing but has all of its hair frozen in a postmodern do. A doll cast off by the careless child of some family rich enough to afford food stamps. They've never had to hunt for that so there is some quantum of joy in a child's heart on a day that steals hope from the downtrodden.

  They've never had to swallow their shame while their sister, six years younger than them, looked at them like they were a god for delivering such a piece of crap when their parents couldn't even provide a proper holiday dinner.

  Some people also say... It is better to give than to receive.

  I'm pretty sure those people didn't grow up in a family like mine. A place where the pain was not defined by the stark, utter lack, but by the abundance. You can get used to having nothing. I think people say that too, but them I agree with. The only people who say that have had to live their gospel.

  It's harder to get used to having too much of a bad thing.

  When you start to realize, at three, that Christmas at your house is never going to be like those movies everyone else claims are defining stories. The ones you watch for stolen moments through thick, barred glass keeping your kind out of even the lowest end pawn shops while your mother waits on the corner for her next "date", who she sincerely hopes doesn't have a badge. Badges are bad. They mean weird uncle Otis will be reciting half remembered fairy tales to you on the bench that makes your butt hurt. He'll do that while dad fills out the paperwork and pays the fine again. The fine that means it's another year without not only presents, but meat too. Those movies and special episodes of shows people like me will just never understand.