* * *
As he neared his house, the sun was starting to dip. The sky was as purple as a hammered plum. Behind him, in the mirror, he could see zombies coming from all over, between houses, out of houses, down the road, moving swiftly.
He gave the truck gas, and then a tire blew.
The truck’s rear end skidded hard left, almost spun, but Calvin fought the wheel and righted it. It bumped along, and he was forced to slow it down to what seemed like a near crawl. In the rear view, he could see the dead gaining; a sea of teeth and putrid faces. He glanced at the dog. It was staring out the back window as well, a look of concern on its face.
“I shouldn’t have stopped for you,” Calvin said, and in an instant he thought: If I opened the door and kicked you out, that might slow them down. They might stop and fight over a hot lunch.
It was a fleeting thought.
“You go, I go,” Calvin said, as if he had owned the dog for years, as if it were a part of his family.
He kept driving, bumping the pickup along.
* * *
When he arrived at his house, he didn’t have time to back in as usual. He hit the garage remote and drove the truck inside. When he got out, Buffy clamoring out behind him, the zombies were in the garage, maybe ten of them, others in the near distance were moving faster and faster toward him.
Calvin touched the remote, closed the garage door, trapping himself and the dog inside with those ten, but keeping the others out. He tossed the remote on the hood of the pickup, pulled the pistol and used what ammunition was left. A few of them were hit in the head and dropped. He jammed the empty pistol in his belt, pulled the tire iron free, began to swing it, cracking heads with the blows.
He heard growling and ripping, turned to see Buffy had taken one down and was tearing its throat out, pulling it’s near rotten head off its shoulders.
“Good dog, Buffy,” Calvin yelled, and swung the iron. “Sic em.”
They came over the roof of the truck. One of them, a woman, leaped on him and knocked him face down, sent his tire iron flying. She went rolling into the wall, but was up quickly and moving toward him.
He knew this was it. He sensed another close on him, and then another, and then he heard the dog bark, growl. Calvin managed to turn his head slightly as Buffy leaped and hit the one above him, knocking her down. It wasn’t much, but it allowed Calvin to scramble to his feet, start swinging the tire iron. Left and right he swung it, with all his might.
They came for him, closer. He backed up, Buffy beside him, their asses against the wall, the zombies in front of them. There were three of the dead left. They came like bullets. Calvin breathed hard. He grabbed the tire iron off the garage floor, swung it as quickly and as firmly as he could manage, dodging in between them, not making a kill shot, just knocking them aside, finally dashing for the truck with Buffy at his heels. Calvin and Buffy jumped inside, and Calvin slammed the door and locked it. The zombies slammed against the door and the window, but it held.
Calvin got a box of .38 shells out of the glove box, pulled the revolver from his belt and loaded it. He took a deep breath. He looked out the driver’s side window where one of the zombies, maybe male, maybe female, too far gone to tell, tried to chew the glass.
When he had driven inside, he had inadvertently killed the engine. He reached and twisted the key, started it up.
Then he pushed back against Buffy, until they were as close to the other door as possible. Then he used his toe to roll down the glass where the zombie gnashed. As the window dropped, its head dipped inward and its teeth snapped at the air. The revolver barked, knocking a hole in the zombie’s head, spurting a gusher of goo, causing it to spin and drop as if practicing a ballet move.
Another showed its face at the open window, and got the same reception. A .38 slug.
Calvin twisted in his seat and looked at the other window. Nothing. Where was the last one? He eased to the middle, pulling the dog beside him. As he held the dog, he could feel it shivering. Damn, what a dog. Terrified, and still a fighter. No quitter was she.
A hand darted through the open window, tried to grab him, snatched off his Santa hat. He spun around to shoot. The zombie arm struck the pistol, sent it flying. It grabbed him. It had him now, and this one, fresher than the others, was strong. It pulled him toward the window, toward snapping, jagged teeth.
Buffy leaped. It was a tight fit between Calvin and the window, but the starved dog made it, hit the zombie full in the face and slammed it backwards. Buffy fell out the window after it.
Calvin found the pistol, jumped out of the car. The creature had grabbed Buffy by the throat, had spun her around on her back, and was hastily dropping its head for the bite.
Calvin fired. The gun took off the top of the thing’s head. It let go of Buffy. It stood up, stared at him, made two quick steps toward him, and dropped. The dog charged to Calvin’s side, growling.
“It’s all right, girl. It’s all right. You done good. Damn, you done good.”
Calvin got the tire iron and went around and carefully bashed in all the heads of the zombies, just for insurance. Tomorrow, he’d change the tire on the truck, probably blown out from running over zombies. He’d put his spare on it, the dough nut tire, drive to the tire store and find four brand new ones and put them on. Tomorrow he’d get rid of the zombie’s bodies. Tomorrow he’d do a lot of things.
But not tonight.
He found the Santa hat and put it back on.
Tonight, he had other plans.
* * *
First he gave Buffy a package of jerky. She ate like the starving animal she was. He got a bowl out of the shelf and filled it with water.
“From now on, that’s your bowl, girl. Tomorrow... Maybe the next day, I’ll find you some canned dog food at the store.”
He got another bowl and opened a can of chili and poured it into the bowl. He was most likely over feeding her. She’d probably throw it up. But that was all right. He would clean it up, and tomorrow they’d start over, more carefully. But tonight, Buffy had earned a special treat.
He went out and got the tree out of the truck and put it up and put ornaments on it from two years back. Ornaments he had left on the floor after throwing the old dead and dried tree over the fence. This plastic one was smaller, but it would last, year after year.
He sat down under the tree and found the presents he had for his wife and child. He pushed them aside, leaving them wrapped. He opened those they had given him two Christmas’s ago. He liked all of them. The socks. The underwear. The ties he would never wear. DVD’s of movies he loved, and would watch, sitting on the couch with Buffy, who he would soon make fat.
He sat for a long time and looked at his presents and cried.
* * *
Using the porch light for illumination, inside the fenced-in yard, he set about putting up the decorations. Outside the fence the zombies grabbed at it, and rattled it, and tugged, but it held. It was a good fence. A damn good fence. He believed in that tediously built fence. And the zombies weren’t good climbers. They got off the ground, it was like some of whatever made them animated slid out of them in invisible floods. It was as if they gained their living dead status from the earth itself.
It was a long job, and when he finished climbing the ladder, stapling up the lights, making sure the Santa and snow men were in their places, he went inside and plugged it all in.
When he came outside, the yard was lit in colors of red and blue and green. The Santa and the snowmen glowed as if they had swallowed lightning.
Buffy stood beside him, wagging her tail as they examined the handy work.
Then Calvin realized something. It had grown very quiet. The fence was no longer being shaken or pulled. He turned quickly toward where the zombies stood outside the fence. They weren’t holding onto the wire anymore. They weren’t moaning. They weren’t doing anything except looking, heads lifted toward the lights.
Out there in the shadows, the lights barely
touching them with a fringe of color, they looked like happy and surprised children.
“They like it,” Calvin said, and looked down at Buffy.
She looked up at him, wagging her tail.
“Merry Christmas, dog.”
When he glanced up, he saw a strange thing. One of the zombies, a woman, a barefoot woman wearing shorts and a tee-shirt, a young woman, maybe even a nice looking woman not so long ago, lifted her arm and pointed at the lights and smiled with dark, rotting teeth. Then their came a sound from all of them, like a contented sigh.
“I’ll be damn,” Calvin said. “They like it.”
He thought: I will win. I will wait them out. They will all fall apart someday soon. But tonight, they are here with us, to share the lights. They are our company. He got a beer from inside, came back out and pulled up a lawn chair and sat down. Buffy lay down beside him. He was tempted to give those poor sonofabitches outside the wire a few strips of jerky. Instead, he sipped his beer.
A tear ran down his face as he yelled toward the dead. “Merry Christmas, you monsters. Merry Christmas to all of you, and to all a good night.”
Jim Goad
I HOPE YOU HAVE SUCH A GREAT CHRISTMAS, YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODES
"AND SO,” AS John Lennon sang before eating four cold December bullets, "this is Christmas."
"And so," I ask in return, "what?" So fucking what? It's supposed to be Jesus's birthday, but I don't see anybody buying him any presents.
I will cook a goose tomorrow. A headless, mercilessly slaughtered goose. I will eat its flesh. I will teach my son how to eat its flesh. And then, possibly, I will nap. And that will comprise the entirety of my Christmas "celebration."
Hundreds of drunk assholes will die in car accidents this weekend, and I will not cry.
Thousands of babies will go hungry and toyless, and I will not care.
Bitter, morose nobodies will look back over their accomplishments during the past year, and I will not bother to listen to a single detail.
You have nothing to celebrate, and even if you do, I don't want to hear about it.
But as a demonstration of my boundless, needless, always unsolicited generosity, I'm tossing you two roasted chestnuts from Christmases past. Dine well upon them, my young, confused, imaginary cyber-friend—dine well.
CHRISTMAS EVE, WAITING FOR GRANDPA (1989)
A turkey's burnt carcass seasoned the dry, crackling air. Dad sipped egg nog and looked at his instruction manual. Winking at the kids, Mommy cut cookie dough into identical beige figurines.
Jolly cotton-cloud music floated from the phonograph. For one night a year, Johnny Mathis brought all the races together.
Friends called and offered cozy wishes. In furry footies, the little 'uns squealed at the blinking lights and talking plastic animals. Mommy flushed proudly as Dad crowned the tree with a flame-retardant angel. Everyone sighed.
It was time to wrap the present.
Dad rummaged through the closet, producing a long tube of gold foil and black velvet. He cut a strip of the pretty paper into a big square. Mommy then nimbly camouflaged Grandpa's surprise. She ran a scissor blade across shiny ribbon, making it recoil into tight, decorative curlicues. To everyone's delight, baby Gretchen applied the Scotch tape. The family looked out of the dark, snowy window and agreed: A MACHINE GUN is the greatest gift of all.
A VERY DUFFY CHRISTMAS
This holiday season marks the Silver Anniversary since the most dysfunctional Christmas scene I've ever witnessed. Somewhere deep in the dirty-brick Philly row-home jungle lived the Duffy family, which consisted of a whiskey-besotten li'l leprechaun of a dad, a silent mom, and a half-dozen or so spindly, rat-haired sons, each one more fucked-up than the next.
And as we were all enjoying a lively Yuletide party, Daddy Duffy began quarreling with one of the Baby Duffys. Within seconds, Dad charged his son and tackled him straight into the Christmas tree, knocking it flat and shattering ornaments onto the floor. I'll never forget the drunken Irish grimace on Daddy Duffy's face as he plowed his son over and through the pretty sparkly tree. Dad was reality and der Tannenbaum was a sad, hopeless wish waiting to be crushed.
Jesus was born merely to be crucified. Fuck you and yours this holiday season.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 132
