Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  The first thing he saw as he entered the grotto was the train on the tracks above his head. It had been derailed and now hung down like a limp member, flaccid and useless. There was a break in the tracks, ragged pieces sticking out where the blast had hit it. Mal crept further inside, his forehead dripping with sweat - partly due to the change in temperature and partly to his anxiety at what he might find in here.

  It was like a snapshot from some kind of nightmare, the Aladdin's cave transformed into a hellish underworld. Bullets had riddled the brightly coloured walls, the fluffy bears and the mock presents on display. Parts of the scenery had been almost shredded in half by the gunfire, baubles on trees shattered. Mal saw an elf helper propped up against some steps, holding her arm. A stark redness was pouring through her fingers, dripping down her lime green costume. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw a glimmer of hope in them.

  Then a hail of gunfire splattered the wall behind him. Mal ducked, rolling over on his shoulder and spreading himself down on the ground flat. He tried to work out the position of the shooter based on where the bullets had come from…It was all but impossible; the whole thing had happened too quickly. From his place on the floor he could see more bodies, feet upon feet. He couldn't tell whether the people they belonged to were just injured, like the elf, or… And he could hear children crying, adults half-screaming and half whimpering with fright. Jesus, who would do something like this?

  Mal crawled along on his belly, wriggling like a snake. His hostage and siege training flashing through his mind. He should try to engage this person in conversation somehow, get them talking. At least then they wouldn't be shooting anyone. But who was to say this guy even wanted to talk? Only one way to find out…

  "Hey," shouted Mal. "Hey you!"

  Silence.

  Mal tried again. "Hey, I want to talk to you."

  Stupid…What a stupid fucking thing to-

  "Don't want to talk," came the answer in a voice that was deep, gruff, and on edge. It was capped off by another shot.

  Mal flinched, but persevered. "Then just listen, okay?"

  Nothing.

  "You can't be doing this…Look, put down your weapon and we'll sort all this out peaceably, okay?"

  "You can't sort anything out. No one can!"

  Good, thought Mal, you've engaged him…keep going… "Why, what's the problem? There's nothing that can't be fixed…"

  "That's what you say."

  "So, tell me about it. What is it, money, your job? Something more personal?"

  "My job! Hah! That's a good one…"

  Okay, so it's his work…He's lost his job or something…Maybe his family too? That's enough to set anyone off…at any time of year…

  "It can't be as bad as all that, can it?"

  "It's worse…They…they never stop coming…"

  "Who, who doesn't stop coming?" Mal raised his head slightly, figuring he just about had an angle on the direction of the voice. Over on his far left. And then he saw the gunman, and it turned his blood colder than a winter's day in Lapland.

  There, by the side of Santa's golden throne he stood; bottle of whiskey in one hand and a rifle in the other. By his feet was a sack of other weapons - Mal saw a machine-gun poking out of the top - and tucked in his black belt were two automatic pistols. "The letters," said Father Christmas. "The children, the presents…"

  "Oh my God," Mal whispered under his breath. It was the same man who'd been bouncing Lauren and Brad up and down on his knee, who'd winked at them as they left. Mal couldn't believe the turnaround though, from a happy, gentle fellow to raging lunatic, eyes wild, buttons undone half-way down his scarlet tunic.

  "I just can't take it anymore," shouted the man. "It's the same every year…They never stop coming…never…"

  "Listen…What's your name?"

  "You know my name, my names."

  He couldn't be serious, surely. "No, your real name."

  "You know that as well, deep down…"

  "Right, okay…Listen, it's only once a year. It's just a job…"

  The man laughed. "Once a year, but for sooo many years, so many decades, so many centuries. On and on, never-ending… And it's not just a job; you can't quit, there's no way out. No way. It's too much for me, too much. I can't stand it any more…"

  "Look, I can help." Or at least get you some help… thought Mal.

  "No, no you can't. It's too late for that, much too late."

  Mal raised himself up a little so he could see the Santa, but duck down again quickly if need be.

  "Ha! I know you," said the man, waving his bottle in Mal's direction.

  Mal was surprised he remembered, given the amount of people who must have passed through here… "Er…yeah, I was in with my children..." Talking about Brad and Lauren made him look around for the other kids in the grotto. There were several hiding behind a mock-up of Father Christmas's sleigh, some more at the rear of a particularly large present. They looked terrified.

  "No, I mean I know you, Malcolm."

  How did he know Mal's name? Must've mentioned it when he was here, that's the only thing he could think. "I don't think so."

  "Oh yes, I know you. Remember that year you went on and on at your folks for that toy garage? Yes, the one with the little orange car wash and bell. They told you they couldn't afford it and you cried. Still arrived though, didn't it? You got your wish."

  "What the f…How did you know about that?"

  "I know a lot of things, Malcolm. So many things… I know what a naughty boy you've been in your time as well. Haven't you?"

  "Naughty…?"

  "Does Wendy know about Officer Kelly? No, I don't think she does, does she?"

  Mal's mind was reeling. This was impossible, nobody knew about the fling he'd had with Kelly, not even Norm.

  "And that druggie. Wasn't your fault, though. You did what you had to…"

  "Shut up."

  "Just like we all do."

  "I said shut up." Mal stood and raised his pistol, aiming straight for the man's head.

  "Go on, do it then…" said the Santa. "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

  The crying got louder and now there was more screaming. "I mean it," shouted Mal. His hand was shaking, finger twitching on the trigger.

  "Can't you see? All this," Father Christmas nodded at the grotto, "All this is bullshit. The world's changed, son. You know it, I know it. Everything's gone bad."

  "Including you."

  Santa didn't answer him, but Mal could see a tear trickling down his cheek, heading for the forest of white below.

  "It really isn't too late, you know," said Mal.

  "Isn't it? You really believe that? You really believe in anything anymore…?"

  Mal fell silent.

  "Thought so." Santa raised his rifle, ready to shoot. Mal briefly saw a picture of the drug addict he'd killed all those months ago, and froze. He heard the crying of the children - of the adults - in that store. Did he really want to do this in front of them? Time was running out and he had to make up his mind.

  There was a shot. And Santa dropped his gun and his whiskey. Another blast echoed around the room, then the man was falling over, toppling against the golden throne. He raised a bloodied hand to clutch at the chair arm, but it slipped off, too wet to find purchase.

  Mal looked down at his pistol, expecting to see the telltale smoke rising from the barrel. But then he realised he hadn't been the one who'd fired. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Norm there, along with a number of SWAT officers and, unless he was mistaken, a few Feds too.

  They swarmed in, checking on casualties, ushering the children to safety, securing the area. Mal moved forwards with Norm and the SWATs to find the man dressed as Santa keeled over on the floor. They snatched the handguns from his belt, kicked away his rifle, and trained their own weapons on him. Somebody called for a paramedic, and Mal noticed that a number had already entered the grotto to treat the wounded. He feared it would be too late for this p
articular one, though.

  Father Christmas coughed, and smiled at Mal. "Ho…ho…ho…" he wheezed. Then he winked from behind his pair of cracked half-moon glasses, before closing his eyes forever.

  "You alright?" Norm asked his partner.

  Mal nodded. Physically he was fine, if maybe a little shaken up.

  "Jeez Louise, look at the hardware in that sack," said one of the SWAT guys. "Guess not everyone wants computer games for Christmas…"

  Mal turned and started to walk away.

  Norm jogged up alongside him. "Hey, where are you going?"

  "Home," said Mal.

  "What about the report? Hey…Mal, hey wait up…"

  But Officer Malcolm Docherty was already on his way out of the den.

  * * *

  It began snowing while Mal walked the streets, but he barely even noticed. And it was close to midnight by the time he arrived back home. Mal let himself in, heading straight for Lauren and Brad's rooms first. They were fast asleep, their innocent faces as pale as angels on the pillows.

  Mal left them in peace (heavenly peace…?) grabbed a Bud from the fridge, and walked into the lounge. The TV was on - the end of some stupid Christmas special featuring a variety of "Z list" celebs. Wendy was dozing on the couch; she only stirred slightly when Mal came in. He took a gulp from the bottle just as a news flash came up on the television.

  "…in Crosby's tonight. The shootings left several people injured but only one person dead, the gunman - who has since been identified as a Mr. Christopher Cringle. A spokesperson for Crosby's said 'He has only been in the employ of this store for the last month, and his credentials seemed very impressive…"

  Mal switched off the set and took another swig of the beer. The clock on the mantle chimed twelve. His eyes were drawn to the tree in the corner of the room, and the wish lists below it. He wondered whether those wishes would ever be granted, now that…

  No, he didn't want to think about it. Didn't even want to consider the outrageous possibility that one of the last shining lights, one of the last symbols of hope was no more. That He'd been tainted by this world, driven mad by the demands placed upon him…

  Cringle had just been some guy in a Santa suit, just another person who'd lost it and gone ape with America's favourite adult toys.

  "I know you…You've been a bad boy…"

  Mal took out his notepad and pen, and scribbled something down. He walked over to the tree, bent over, and left the note there. Then he joined his wife on the couch, slumping down beside her, and waited till morning to see if his wish would come true.

  Megan Powell

  DOCKING BAY THREE

  "OPEN THE POD bay doors, Hal."

  "I'm sorry, Dave, I can't do that."

  Dave smiled. The computer's response had "Marianne" written all over it. She'd been the one to suggest the computer's nickname in the first place. She'd also been the one to program its plain English capabilities, and it seemed that every other week someone found a new Easter egg.

  "Computer, open Bay Three doors."

  "Unable to comply."

  That was not an Easter egg. Dave frowned. There was probably nothing serious, just a mechanical glitch. He maneuvered over to Bay Two. "Computer, open Bay Two doors." After the normal pause, the doors began to slide open. Dave piloted his one-man craft inside and performed the shutdown procedure.

  His schedule was light and he was naturally nosy, so he proceeded down the corridor to Bay Three's inner door. There was no sign of a maintenance technician, though that didn't mean much. A glitched docking bay, when they had more than enough space in alternate bays, wasn't likely to be a high priority.

  "Computer, open Bay Three doors."

  "Unable to comply."

  Dave frowned. "Computer, what is the location of David Lebrowski?"

  "David Lebrowski is in the main corridor outside of Docking Bay Three."

  So the computer didn't think he was outside the station. Dave was relieved, because that sort of sensor problem would be a bitch to fix. Not to mention potentially dangerous. "Computer, why are you unable to open Bay Three doors?"

  "The external door is open."

  Shit. So much for a minor glitch. "Computer, I requested that you open the exterior doors-" he checked his watch "-fifteen minutes ago, and you were unable to comply. Why?"

  "The internal door was open."

  Well, that would explain it. There was a glitch, and one of the technicians had been working on it. The computer was doing exactly what it was supposed to do; an accident of timing just made things seem suspicious.

  All the same... "Computer, display Camera Three-E on screen."

  The viewscreen beside Bay Three's door was small, but it clearly showed the exterior of the station. Equally clear was the fact that the doors of Bay Three were closed.

  Closed to the naked eye, Dave reminded himself. Maybe they hadn't mated properly. Maybe...

  "Computer, what is the location of Marianne McHugh?"

  "Marianne McHugh is in the cafeteria."

  Dave headed in that direction. He was hungry anyway, he reasoned. And not at all panicked. Or superstitious. Marianne had named the station computer after a fictional computer that turned into a homicidal psychopath, but so what? Life didn't have to imitate art.

  Marianne wasn't in the cafeteria. Brad Jacobs was sitting in a corner hunched over a reader. It was even odds whether it currently displayed technical schematics or pornography.

  "Hey, Brad, have you seen Marianne?"

  Brad shook his head. "Not since breakfast. Why?"

  "Nothing." Appetite gone, Dave left the cafeteria. Brad tended toward obliviousness. Marianne could have been in the cafeteria up until a minute ago. "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?"

  "Marianne McHugh is in the gymnasium."

  The gym was clear on the other side of the station. Dave frowned and headed in that direction. She might have been in the cafeteria, unnoticed by Brad, until after he'd last asked the computer for her location. She could easily have made it from the cafeteria to the gym... "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?"

  "Marianne McHugh is in the gymnasium."

  He was about halfway there. If she left the gym, it was even odds she'd turn left down the corridor, in which case he'd run into her. If she turned right, he'd still be able to catch up with her. It wasn't as though she had any reason to avoid him. Ten meters from the gym, he asked for her location again.

  "Marianne McHugh is in hydroponics."

  Hydroponics was near the gym, though he couldn't think why she'd go there. Marianne claimed to be suspicious of carbon based life forms. The gym was empty. "Computer, what is Marianne McHugh's location?" he asked outside the gym.

  "Marianne McHugh is in the cafeteria."

  Dave swore. It was physically possible. But it didn't make any sense for her to run from the cafeteria to the gym to hydroponics and then back to the cafeteria.

  He almost hit the intercom in the hallway. But then he remembered the damn movie. That Hal had even been able to read lips.

  He continued down the corridor. Hydroponics was empty, which under normal circumstances wouldn't have seemed especially sinister. Dave picked up his pace. A circuit of the main ring, he decided, was perfectly reasonable. If he couldn't find anyone, then he could check personal quarters and some of the harder-to-reach parts of the station.

  What if everyone was gone? What if Hal had gone as crazy as its namesake? Were there even now vented bodies drifting alongside the station? And what might the computer have planned for him?

  No. Brad had been okay as of a few minutes ago. A homicidal computer would surely have been more thorough. Dave approached the cafeteria again, relieved by the prospect of human contact. "Hey, Brad, have you-"

  The cafeteria was empty.

  Dave swallowed. It was important not to panic. "Computer, what is the location of Bradley Jacobs?"

  "Bradley Jacobs is in the gymnasium."

  Hah! Ge
tting Brad to fulfill the required exercise regimen was like pulling teeth; damned if he'd voluntarily go to the gym. "Computer, what is the location of Cassidy Chase?"

  "Cassidy Chase is in the gymnasium."

  "Computer, what is the location of-" Dave bit off the words. The gym. They were all in the gym. Or hydroponics. Or wherever he wasn't.

  He wondered if the people on the Mary Celeste had disappeared all at once, or if they'd been taken one by one.

  His watch beeped, and Dave nearly leapt out of his jumpsuit. He glanced down at his wrist and frowned. He didn't have any appointments this afternoon. At least, none he'd made himself. But the computer had access to the data in his watch; the computer ran the nightly synch; the computer...

  All crew meeting. Docking Bay Three.

  Dave swallowed. "All crew meeting" normally implied a boring time sink. But he'd happily listen to Greta Hanson and Miles Greenberg snipe at each other, just so long as everyone was all right. Just so long as he'd be all right, himself.

  The watch beeped again, and Dave acknowledged the reminder. He headed toward the docking bays. The alternative was running in circles, chasing after crew members who'd always be one step ahead of him.

  He stood once more before the Bay Three doors and took a deep breath. He didn't know what "the worst" might be, but he should be prepared for it. "Open the pod bay doors, Hal."

  Hal complied.

  "Dave!" Marianne called, and the greeting was echoed by the rest of the crew. He was so relieved to see them that it took a moment for the contents of the bay to register.

  "What's the matter?" Marianne asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "The Ghost of Christmas Past," Miles chortled.

  The docking bay had been cleared of all movable equipment. One of the cafeteria tables had been brought in. Assuming that the labels on the bottles were correct, someone had broken a dozen or so regulations about the quantity of alcohol that could be brought on station and served at one time. Christmas lights were strung up around the pod bay doors.

  Most surprising of all, what appeared to be a real pine tree stood in the corner. Another strand of lights adorned its boughs, as well as small bits of metal which, on closer inspection, proved to be nuts and bolts from a repair kit.