by Brom
Jesse tugged the sack up and balanced it on his good leg. He held it in place with his left arm, careful not to let it bump his broken fingers. The men watched his every move. He swallowed. Okay, God, time to pick your team. He closed his eyes, thought of the guns, and inserted his good hand. No delay this time, the sack was still open to exactly where he’d last been; his hand hit the stack of cash, he patted over and bumped metal—one of the .45s. He opened his eyes, found everyone leaning in, all trying to see what he was up to. He pushed the safety off and slipped his fingers around the grip, licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He started to slide his arm out and felt Chet’s hand on his shoulder, his knife against his back. “I’m watching you.” And this time no one gave Chet a hard time, the mood had changed; Jesse could sense their nervousness.
Shit, Jesse thought, this won’t work. He almost pulled the handgun out anyway, just went for it, but stopped. No, if you do this right, you just might get out of here. He sat the .45 down, picked up as many bills as he could hold, and slowly inched his arm from the sack.
“That’s it,” Chet said. “Nice and slow.”
Jesse eased his hand out, revealing the rolls of bills. There came several audible gasps, and Jesse felt every bit the stage magician. He handed them to the General.
The General scrutinized the cash, shook his head, and smiled. “Well, slap me silly!”
Grunts and grins of approval, someone even clapped; Jesse wondered if he should bow. Instead he slipped his hand back in and pulled out another handful, then another, dropping the cash onto the floor, watching, waiting until they were all taken in by the trick, discussing, joking, and staring at the money. He felt the knife leave his back, saw Chet staring in stupid wonder. Now, Jesse thought and found the gun again, wrapped his hand around the grip, his finger on the trigger. He twisted round, bringing the handgun up quick, intent on dropping Chet before he could stab him. But the gun sight snagged on the lip of the sack, causing Jesse to fire before the revolver cleared the sack. There came two muffled reports, but the bullets didn’t punch through the velvet and Jesse understood with horrifying clarity that he wasn’t firing at Chet at all, but into the church.
“Oh, fuck!” Chet cried as Jesse shook the gun free. Chet drove his knife into Jesse’s back, shoved Jesse, chair and all, forward, toward the pile of money. Jesse landed face-first into the cash, Chet already on top of him, stomping down on his hand before he could raise the gun, crushing the weapon and Jesse’s fingers beneath his boot. The gun went off, two rounds hitting the concrete floor. Men scattered as sparks and ricochets bounced about the bay. Chet stomped again. Jesse heard his fingers snap, and on top of all his other pain, his brain found room to bear this fresh assault in full glory. Jesse screamed and lost hold of the gun. Chet kicked the weapon across the room.
Jesse lay in the pile of money, his legs still strapped to the toppled chair, cradling both his broken hands to his chest. Someone was yelling, but it was hard to make out over the ringing in his ears. Chet yanked the knife out of his back and Jesse gasped, choking as he struggled to breathe.
I’m dying, Jesse thought, and found great comfort in this.
“HOLY SHIT!” CHET yelled. “Holy freaking, fucking shit!”
The General sat on the stool staring at Jesse, at the sack, the cash, the gun, trying hard to make sense of any of it, of any of the strange events over the last couple of days. He wished Chet would shut up and stop stomping around. The General leaned forward, tugged the sack out from under Jesse. There was blood all over the sack. The General felt sure the kid was on his way out.
“What do you want to do about this turd?” Chet cried.
“Stop yelling, Chet,” the General said. “I’m right here.”
“Fucker almost killed me! Almost killed everyone!”
“Yep,” the General nodded as he pulled the sack open and peered into its smoking depths.
“Hey, you ain’t thinking about sticking your arm in there are yah?”
The General nodded absently. “I think I am.”
The men began to pick themselves off the ground, checking themselves for holes. Apparently, no one caught any of the ricochets and they gathered back around, all eyes glued on the sack.
The General slipped his hand in, all the way up to the wrist, waited. The air in the sack felt cooler, but other than that nothing happened. He pushed his whole arm in. His hand hit something. He gave it a light pat, knew exactly what it was. He pulled out a handful of hundreds. “If that don’t beat all.” He grinned. Shoved his hand back in, only this time his hand didn’t find any cash—instead, something found his hand. The General’s grin fell from his face. His eyes grew large. Something had a hold of him.
“What?” Chet asked. “What the fuck now?”
The General let out a yelp, tried to yank his arm free, when that something gave him a tug, pulled his arm, shoulder, and entire head into the sack. There came a blink of darkness, then he found himself face-to-face with . . . the devil. The General screamed. The devil pressed its nose right up against his, grinned, its hot breath coming through jagged teeth, its eyes, its red, glowing eyes staring right into him. The General screamed again, felt hands grab hold of his legs and waist, hauling him back into the bay. Only the devil didn’t let go; no, it held tight to his arm and came right along with him.
“What the fuck is that!” Chet yelled.
The devil was halfway out of the bag, halfway into the room, looking like a kid in a sack race. It let go of the General and stepped out of the sack.
The General tried to scream again, but had no air left in his lungs and emitted a pathetic squawk.
The thing stood to its full height, towering above them, at least seven feet tall, all wiry muscles and veins and black, glistening skin and fur. A wild mane of ink-black hair framed twisting horns as wide as its shoulders. It looked around at the men, grinning from ear to ear, its red, slanted eyes gleaming. It began to chuckle.
Everyone froze.
“Time to be terrible,” the devil said, and snapped its tail like a whip. The men stumbled back and the beast let loose a roar. The booming sound shook the steel walls.
Chet snatched the General’s snub-nosed pistol off the tool tray, but the beast moved almost faster than the General could see, slashed its claws across Chet’s chest, opened him up to the bone, and sent him tumbling into the men.
Men scrambled in every direction, into each other, into the tool carts, into chaos. A gun shot went off and another, but the beast was gone, leaping across the room. It hit the overhead fluorescents and the tubes exploded in a shower of sparks, throwing the room into the red glow of the Christmas lights. More gunshots, and in the muzzle flashes the General saw the beast tearing men apart, slashing and ripping. Men were screaming, crying, bawling.
The General crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, his hands slipping and sliding in the blood—in all the blood. He climbed over two bodies, his hand tangling in something warm and squishy—a man’s stomach, his very guts. A bullet caught the General in the leg. He let out a cry and crumpled. Someone fell atop of him—Ash, clutching his neck as blood spurted between his fingers. Howls echoed, coming from everywhere, crawling beneath the General’s skin. The General pulled his knees up to his chest, hugged them tight, squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, God, please, Jesus,” he whimpered. “Please, don’t let Satan take me.”
JESSE TRIED TO reach his ankles, tried to tear the tape off, but his broken fingers couldn’t do the trick. He grunted, let out a groan, and fell back. The pain in his stomach, legs, hands, back, it all made the slightest movement unbearable. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim glow of the Christmas lights, their shine casting long shadows across the dead and dying. He focused on the carnage, on Krampus, trying to push the pain from his mind.
Krampus straddled Ash’s quivering body. The Yule Lord was taller, larger, and so much more imposing than when Jesse had seen him last. His horns were now mighty weapons, unbroken and curling upwa
rd from his head, his eyes glowed boldly, his movements quick and powerful. Krampus punched his hand into Ash’s chest, cracking bones and tearing tissue, to come away with something Jesse guessed must be the man’s heart. Krampus held the organ heavenward and let out a triumphant howl. Squeezed the heart and let the blood run down his arm and drip into his mouth. His chest heaved and a deep growl full of strength, of vitality, of life escaped his throat.
The Yule Lord tossed the heart away, surveyed the room, the carnage, cocked his head this way and that to better take in the moans of the mangled and dying. And he was grinning; even in the gloom Jesse could clearly see that grin. His slanted eyes fell on Jesse. “It is good . . . good to be terrible,” Krampus said, licking the blood from his hand.
Jesse shook his head, focused on breathing.
The Yule Lord frowned. “You do not look well.”
“Been . . . better.” Jesse coughed. “Think I’m dying.”
Krampus walked over, knelt down next to him, looked at the growing pool of blood beneath him. “Yes, I believe you are.” He cut the tape loose with a quick slash of his fingernail, gently propped Jesse up against the tool cart. “You’ve been very naughty.”
Jesse nodded. “Yeah. I have at that.”
Krampus smiled. “You may be dying, but you still have your spirit.”
Someone moved behind Krampus—Chet, struggling to sit up near the door. He still had the snub-nose, held it in his shaking hands, trying to level it at Krampus. Jesse opened his mouth to utter a warning when the pistol went off with a deafening bang. The bullet hit Krampus in the horn. Krampus leapt to his feet. The gun went off again, the bullet sparking off the concrete floor several feet to their left. Chet’s arms fell; he slumped against the door frame, dropping the gun into his lap. Krampus strolled over, squatted before him.
“Fuck, fucking devil, fucker fuck!” Chet spat, blood running from his mouth. He tried again and again to lift the gun but couldn’t.
Krampus glanced over his shoulder at Jesse. “This one has spirit as well. Might make a good soldier.” Krampus plucked the gun from Chet’s hand and tossed it away. Grabbed hold of the man’s arm and bit him on the wrist.
Chet let out a howl, yanked his arm away. “You bit me! What the hell is that shit?” He stared at the bite. Even in the dim light Jesse could see the skin around the bite darkening, the stain spreading up Chet’s arm, and understood that Krampus had turned him.
“You are mine now. You will sit here and wait until I tell you otherwise.”
“Fuck you!”
Krampus left Chet leaning against the wall, rubbing his arm and slowly turning black all over. He walked to the sack and picked it up. “You deserted me,” he said to Jesse. “You broke your oath. I owe you nothing now.”
“I know.”
Krampus held up the sack. “You took something that did not belong to you.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I should kill you.”
“Too . . . late.” Jesse tried to laugh, but choked on his own blood.
“Yet, I bear you no grudge.”
Jesse shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I am being sincere. Your distractions have made the difference, for all I know they have made all the difference. See, I was trapped in a riddle.” He closed his eyes, his face falling into deep concentration. He inserted his hand into the sack. “There . . . the ship. All is burned . . . the bones, boards, masts, and treasure. And, and, yes.” He smiled. “The answer, so plain I could not see it.” He withdrew his arm and pulled out a spear, broken midway along its shaft and blackened from age and fire. “I was searching for an arrow all this time. So fixated I could see nothing else. Pushing the sack to find a thing that did not exist. But now you see . . . it was not an arrow.” He wiped the spearhead clean of the soot and grime and it gleamed gold, like the strange ore of Krampus’s chains back in the cave. He walked over to Jesse so that he could see the mistletoe leaves and berries delicately inlayed along the blade. “See . . . see the answer? It is a spear, not an arrow.” He let out a great sigh. “The answers to all riddles seem obvious once you know them.”
He turned the blade round and round, as though transfixed. “Baldr,” he whispered. “It is death I hold in my hand. Your death.”
Jesse tried to clear his throat, worked to breathe. Coughed and spat up more blood. The pain all but blinded him, forced him to nearly double over.
Krampus sat down next to him, lay the spear across his lap, and pulled the sack over. He reached in and a moment later held one of the ancient flasks. He tore off the wax.
“Odin’s mead I hope?” Jesse forced a smile.
“Yes, mead. Now drink.” He lifted it to Jesse’s lips. “It will not save you. But it will make the dying easier.”
Jesse drank, several deep gulps—the mead warm and soothing. His vision became fuzzy, dreamlike, his breathing easier, and the pain receded. His eyelids grew heavy, he leaned his head back against the cart, looked at all the dead men. Too bad, he thought. Too bad Dillard hadn’t been here. He forced his head up, clutched Krampus’s arm. “Dillard . . . he still has them!”
“Dillard?”
“He’s got my wife . . . my little girl. He’s a murderer.” Jesse tried to hold the thought, he needed to make Krampus understand, but things were becoming murky, his thoughts befuddled. “He’ll hurt them . . . I know it. We gotta do something, gotta stop him. Krampus . . . I’m begging you . . . go kill that bastard.”
Krampus admired the spear. “Perhaps one day,” he said distractedly. “But this day there is another villain that needs to be dealt with.”
KRAMPUS RAN HIS finger along the blade, watched the red Christmas lights flicker off its edge, thought of the high sorcery that went into the crafting of such a weapon. “Still as sharp as the day it was forged.” He held it out for Jesse to see. Jesse’s eyes were closed, his chin down. Krampus tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the spear.
Jesse’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”
“The blade, see. It still holds its edge.”
Jesse squinted at the blade. “That’s . . . fucking wonderful.” His words were slow, slurred.
“Soon, it shall put an end to this Santa Claus charade forever.”
“Why . . . why the hell you wanna go and kill Santa Claus for . . . anyhow?” Jesse muttered, his words barely comprehensible. “He’s fucking Santa Claus. Hands out presents to children . . . bunch of nice shit like that.” He coughed. “Fuck. Give me another swig of that stuff.”
“He is not Santa Claus,” Krampus said, lifting the flask to Jesse’s lips. “Santa Claus is a lie. He is Baldr. I told you that. Do you not remember?”
“Yeah, Baldr. Okay.”
“You do not understand. You know nothing of him, nothing of his treachery.” Krampus felt his blood rising. “His treachery to me, to all of Asgard. How he brought ruin to all.” Krampus fell silent, listening to Jesse’s labored breathing. “Are you not curious?”
“What?”
“Of Baldr’s treachery?”
“No . . . not so much.”
“Well, you should know. Everyone should know.” Krampus took a deep drink from the flask, wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “His villainy, his real villainy . . . it began when he came back, after his rebirth, just after Ragnarok swept through Odin’s realm, somewhere around eleven hundred years after the Christ child was born. Are you listening?”
Jesse shook his head.
“That was when Asgard fell beneath war and flame, when all the old gods perished. But no thundering apocalypse consumed the earth as foretold. No, mankind had their new gods by then and barely noticed the passing of the old. And us earthbound spirits found ourselves abandoned and alone in a world that had turned unfriendly to our kind. Over the next several hundred years, men were taught to fear us, to drive us or those who still worshipped us away. Our shrines were burned and desecrated. Without tributes and offerings most gave up, faded, were forgotten, and to be
forgotten is death . . . the only true death for my kind.
“My shrines were abandoned as well. By the early 1300s, a new tradition by the name of Christmas had wormed its way across the land and as more and more turned to celebrating this miserable holiday, Yule and Winter Solstice were becoming lost. I could see that soon I, too, would be lost.” Krampus took in a deep breath. “And I almost gave up. But as I walked amongst the winter nights, seeing the splendor of Yuletide perverted by the new religion, my blood began to burn. I was Krampus, the great and terrible Yule Lord, and I vowed that I would no longer suffer such insult, that I would remind them that I was still here, that I would make them believe. And thus began my rebirth. I humbled myself by traveling from house to house. Loki had left to me his sack and I brought it along, offering rewards to those who remembered, who honored me properly. But for those who did not . . . well, for those I was terrible.” Krampus grinned. “I would thrash them with birch rods and for those that would commit evil upon my fold, those I would put in Loki’s sack and beat them until they could not walk.
“And the name Krampus began to mean something again. And if Baldr had not come along, who knows . . . maybe it would be my face on all those cola ads, my balloon floating along on the Yule Day Parade, my Belsnickels ringing bells on the street, demanding tribute, or sitting in department stores and making promises to little boys and girls that will never be kept. Maybe, maybe, but only if I had not taken pity on that soulless creature.”
He glanced at Jesse. Jesse’s chin was back down on his chest. “Jesse?”
Jesse didn’t respond.
Krampus reached over and wiggled one of the nails protruding from Jesse’s leg.
“Ow, fuck!” Jesse cried. “Watch it. Goddamn, what’s wrong with you?”
“You still live.”
“Yeah . . . I still live. Lucky me.”
Krampus nodded. “Good . . . now, where was I? Ah yes, Baldr’s rebirth. It had been prophesied that Baldr would be reborn onto the earth realm after Ragnarok, an earth cleansed of darkness by an all-consuming fire, Baldr reborn a god of light and peace, a just god, to watch over the world of men. But of course there came no cleansing flame and the Baldr I found stumbling in my forests did not even know his own name. Draped in filthy rags, he looked lost, starved. And being that there were so few of us left from the old lineage, I felt a kinship, a responsibility. So I brought him into my domain, dressed him, fed him, plied him with drink. Yet never did I see him smile, not then. But there were times when I would catch him staring at me, his face dark, as though blaming me for all his woes. I should have taken heed to this, but the truth of it was I harbored guilt, guilt for what my mother and grandfather had done to him. I suffered under the delusion that my charity might in some way absolve my lineage of these crimes.
