Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

by Dane Hatchell

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  *

  The Last Noel

  *

  It Just Doesn’t Taste Like Christmas

  *

  Dane Hatchell

  These stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed PRESS

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d’État

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Table of Contents

  The Last Noel

  It Just Doesn’t Taste Like Christmas

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  The Last Noel

  Santa drove his herd of reindeer through the cool night air on yet another Christmas Eve. He remembered how the world’s population hadn’t been nearly as large as it was today. Times were simpler then. There were fewer children to care for. His methods of gift delivery had been cruder too.

  All in all, he was proud of the improvements he had made over the years. The recombinant DNA treatment had the reindeer flying ten times faster. The increased number of his robots and the added technical sophistication kept the number of elves at a manageable level. Room at the North Pole would have run out long ago if the elves were the only producers of gifts. Plus, he didn’t know how he would go about feeding a larger number than he had now. Those little bastards sure could eat.

  Keeping up with the electronic revolution had been challenging. Fortunately, his secret method for Christmas gift manufacturing had always been able to match the changing times. The teleportation device delivering toys from his shop in the North Pole to his flying sleigh had never failed to keep him supplied with presents.

  Santa looked over at the elf, Parko, who earned the right to sit by his side this year and help deliver the gifts to all the good girls and boys. His little eyes were wide as saucers, absorbing the thrill of every second only few had shared. The innocence in the little elf’s face warmed Santa’s heart. He was elated someone other than himself could appreciate the magic of the season with him. Santa wished more could share in the satisfaction of unselfish giving.

  The next stop on his trek was the tiny town of Central. The reindeer actually knew the route better than Santa. New streets and developments sprung up all the time. It was the reindeer’s duty to discover these additions during the year, whenever they had time, and weren’t busy playing silly reindeer games.

  Rudolph’s nose blinked three times, and being the lead reindeer, took a turn to the east, diving down in a long winding spiral. Buildings in the town came into view as the sleigh broke through the cloud cover and neared the town below.

  An unusual amount of activity in the town’s center piqued Santa’s interest. It was more than last minute shoppers taking advantage of midnight madness sales to save a buck. More than a group of diehard carolers having no one else to annoy with their off key voices. Even more than a bunch of college kids getting their drink on; with the guys trying to get the girls inebriated enough to slide down the skin chimney stack.

  The scene came into focus, portraying a full-blown riot on the streets. People ran to and fro. Some committed incredible acts of violence. Fires burned in a few of the buildings while the wails of fire trucks cut like a razor through the jingle of bells draped across the sleigh. Santa and Parko turned to each other, each puzzled by the fray.

  “What on Earth is going on down there?” Santa said, a scowl twisting his fat face.

  “I’m not sure, sir.” Parko wished he had some explanation. He didn’t come along just for the ride. He wanted to be useful to Santa, and wanted Santa to be proud of him. All elves sought Santa’s, their surrogate father, highest approval.

  “I had no foreknowledge of this,” Santa said, stroking the white hairs of his curly beard. “Never have I not been aware of the obstacles facing me on the Eve of Christmas.”

  Parko had never seen Santa in such a state. Santa was always confident, always ready with an answer when faced with the most difficult of problems at the North Pole. He didn’t want Santa to bear the burden alone. If there was a hard decision to make, he wanted to take some responsibility too.

  “The situation is too dangerous for us to land. I think we should skip this town and head for the next. We can’t risk getting you hurt, Santa. The kids will eventually get over it. If you are injured, you might not be able to finish the night. Think how much worse it would be if half of the world’s kids woke up without a Christmas, compared to these few hundred below.”

  Santa swelled with indignity, looking past Parko with the ancient eyes of the immortal that he was. “To deny Christmas to one deserving child is to deny Christmas to them all.” The words came out slow and forceful.

  Parko felt his bowels rattle, and his face flushed a pale white.

  “I am bound by my creation to reward the deserving children of the world. In times past, when I was known by names other than Santa Claus, I was never derelict in my duties. Neither disease nor wars have prevented me from bringing the joy of giving.”

  Parko scrunched his body lower in his seat as Santa continued.

  “Even in 1944 when the Germans had launched V2 rockets upon the innocent peoples of Great Britain, I did provide Christmas gifts for the morn. The danger not only came from the deadly rockets, but from British Spitfire fighters and antiaircraft fire that peppered the air. Volumes of my heroic deeds could be written on how I stared adversity in the eye and won. Never did I blink. I shant blink this time either.” Santa’s voice trailed upward in pitch. “By what chance or what evil has clouded my vision on this sacred night I care not. I am The Santa Claus, and my mission will not be compromised!”

  Santa’s voice echoed in Parko’s head. Never had he seen Santa so serious, so passionate, so driven. The words also stoked a fire in his tiny heart, giving a glimpse inside of Santa’s soul, that few, if any, had seen before. Santa’s words were power. He sat upright in his seat as Santa gave his mental command to Rudolph to bring the sleigh to land, that Christmas might begin in the town of Central.

  The sleigh came to rest behind a small house in a neighborhood filled mostly with beginning families of working class people. Snow kicked up behind the thirty-two hooves as reindeer dragged the shiny red sleigh to a halt. Parko handed Santa an empty sack, and the two entered the house the mysterious way only known to Santa himself.

  The living room served as the area for celebration. The real Christmas tree sat in the middle of one wall in front of a bookcase. The aromatic scent from its needles filled the air.

  Santa smiled. Seeing the tree with the hanging silver tinsel and glass ornaments pushed the sordid tho
ughts of the riot out of his mind. This humble house, making do with its modest discretionary budget, had captured the true spirit of Christmas. Candles of red and green set on the fireplace mantle next to holiday cards from friends and family. The spirit of love abounded with greetings of best wishes, inviting all in the common hope to share the happy occasion. Oh, that it could be Christmas every day of the year, Santa thought, as he took the time to read each card. The handwritten notes and photographs of family members brought a small tear to his eye. “This is why I do this,” he said to Parko.

  Finding the switch, the tree came alive with tiny lights all in white. Shining as tiny stars giving a warm glow to the green bristles of the branches, and life to the colored ornaments of glass.

  The empty sack by Santa’s side swelled with presents for the two children, teleported from the larger sack on the sleigh. Little Jenny and Johnny were both going to get one of the nicer gifts from the list they had mailed to the North Pole. Santa was proud to put two extra gifts in each of their stockings that hung nearby.

  Parko was at the kitchen table, a plate of cookies set next to a pitcher of milk. Some of the cookies were homemade, cut into shapes of Christmas trees, Santa faces, snowmen, all covered in red and green colored sugar. The other cookies were vanilla and chocolate cream filled elves.

  Parko studied them with great curiosity. He knew he should consider it a compliment for his kind to be honored in the form of a cookie, but the cookies were to be eaten. There didn’t seem anything honorable about being eaten. And not just elves, what of the cookies resembling Santa? Why would anyone want to eat Santa? Wouldn’t that be the greatest insult? Parko then realized that he had a lot to learn about humans.

  Santa’s hand reached down past Parko, grabbing one of the Santa shaped sugar cookies. He bit off the ‘head’ and munched it down, the sugar crunched loudly between his teeth.

  Parko watched in disbelief. Santa gave him a wink, finished the cookie, and poured himself a glass of milk. Parko picked up a chocolate cream elf cookie and nibbled on the feet. Something still seemed wrong about eating it.

  Santa wiped the milk from around his mouth with the back of his hand and rubbed his fingers together to brush off the crumbs. Shuffling noises of little feet coming down the hall gave him a start. Santa had detected no one awake in the house. One of his many powers was the ability to sense if someone were sleeping or awake, as everyone knows from the song. What dark power has befallen this town? he thought. The people riot and my immortal powers are clouded.

  In his confusion, the two children coming down the hall discovered him before he was able to make an exit. Santa rarely allowed children to see him. Exceptions were made from time to time, only for those suffering from a terminal illness. Just before he and Parko made their mysterious escape, Santa caught the faces of the children in the warm lights of the Christmas tree.

  A little girl four years of age walked in front of a slightly bigger and slightly older boy. Each dressed in matching Christmas pajamas. The tops displayed tiny reindeer against a red backdrop. The pants were solid red in color. The insulated footies designed to look like snowshoes.

  Santa lifted his eyebrows and almost let out a cry. The children had a ghastly expression marring their faces and dark black circles around their eyes. Even in the dim light he could tell their skin was pasty gray in color. But most frightening, was all the blood that dripped down their chins, staining the festive nightwear.

  Parko let out a squeal of alarm jumping three feet high in the air like a scared cat. This had not been part of his training. He learned navigation and basic toy repair to be of some usefulness to Santa on this night. He wasn’t prepared to handle blood-soaked, sick children.

  “Holy reindeer shit,” Santa said aloud. The children continued the slow shuffle toward him. Their eyes as black as the coal he left in the stockings of bad children. Parko darted behind Santa, peering around his knee as the two approached.

  Santa’s mind raced at the speed of a supercomputer, searching the organic data bank for a clarification of the situation. This was an unknown. Even though he was repulsed at the sight of the stricken children, with open arms he squatted down to receive them.

  The little girl and boy walked side by side, stopping in front of Santa as he gripped the outside shoulder of both. “Children. Oh, you poor children. What in Yule’s name has come upon you?” He knew they needed medical attention, but wanted to offer them comfort first.

  The two said nothing and made no movements to indicate they understood or even heard a word said. The icy grip of death reached down Santa’s throat and grabbed his spine. With a gasp, he realized the children were dead, right before their mouths widened, and sank crimson stained teeth into each of his forearms.

  Instinctually, Santa jerked his arms away, leaving red fabric dangling from the two youth’s mouths. His white insulated underwear showed through the holes of his torn suit. The children were trying to bite him, almost succeeding in puncturing his flesh.

  Then it struck him. The gray skin, the emotionless faces, the spirit of death, the blood, and the craving for . . . flesh. It was an ancient memory. A memory so hidden Santa couldn’t tell if it was from this world, or another.

  The children pushed the fabric out of their mouths with sickly gray tongues, and then advanced on Santa. He gave them both a shove, sending the two falling down on their backside. The little boy came within an inch of biting Santa.

  Once again, Parko found Santa in need and was determined to do something for him to be proud of. He left his hiding spot behind Jolly St. Nick and ran into the kitchen, pulling out a large carving knife from a wooden block. He then went to the hall and snuck up behind the boy, and plunged the eight-inch blade in his back.

  There was no scream. There was no blood. The girl continued her advance on Santa. The boy turned and attacked Parko.

  Parko fell to his back with the boy lying on top. The zombie child’s teeth clacked up and down just inches from Parko’s face. He strained with all his might to keep the gnashing teeth at bay.

  Time went into slow motion for Parko. Each time the zombie’s mouth opened and closed the teeth seemed to move closer. His eyes gazed directly into the abyss of the boy’s mouth, each tooth an ivory picket of destruction. Parko turned his face to the side and pushed with strength he didn’t know he possessed. The boy’s mouth now was close to his ear. The chomping sounds rang through Parko’s head. Fear crept like cold ants climbing the back of his neck. The teeth snapped closer and closer, until Parko felt a sting of pain.

  Santa was still pulling his blows with the little girl. She was unrelenting in her need to eat living flesh. When he realized Parko was losing the struggle with the boy, he picked up the girl and threw her against the wall. The boy still on top of Parko, the knife still firmly embedded, he grabbed by the shoulders and threw against the wall. The boy landed on the girl. Their eyes were wide with hunger.

  Santa went to Parko’s side, who now sat rubbing his face with his hands trying to wipe off the stench. The two children untangled themselves and pulled back up to their feet. A zombie shows no quarter.

  “What do we do?” Parko said, taking his position behind the bulk of his master.

  Santa left abruptly and headed to the fireplace, leaving Parko alone, exposed as the zombie children closed in. Selecting the iron poker from the tool stand, he ran behind the two children. The poker rose and fell as hard and as fast to the extent of his ancient muscles, crashing the heavy metal into their small skulls. The sounds akin to bursting melons made Parko weak-kneed as he watch the heads of the children cave in and the grey matter of brains squirt out.

  Santa didn’t know if the children could still feel pain, even though the boy gave no reaction to being stabbed by the knife. If there were even the most remote chance that they could feel on some level, he wanted the end to come swiftly.

  The two children thumped onto the floor. Two small frail angels of god, with blood stained pajamas, and bashed in
heads.

  Santa wept.

  Parko gazed around the room in disbelief. All the adornments of the season shouted, ‘Peace, good will toward men’. But now, in the center of the room lay two dead children. Two children who would walk no more. Taken down by the hands of the greatest giver on Earth.

  The familiar sound of feet shuffling came again from the hall. The heads of Santa and Parko swung around in shock that the nightmare was still not over.

  The mangled bodies of the children’s mother and father dragged themselves into the living room. Both had large chucks of flesh missing from their throats. The mother had most of the meat stripped from her left arm. The father had his left calf muscle eaten, exposed by the bloody and tattered pajama leg. The mask of the living dead covered their faces. With arms outreached, teeth masticating thin air, they proceeded in the relentless quest for human flesh.

  Shaking, Parko said, “Let’s leave now Santa—the kids. Yes! The kids! The kids of the world need us. We still have half the world to deliver our presents to.”

  Santa composed himself, staring intently as the dead approached. Christmas was being threatened. The existence of mankind’s most treasured holiday was in jeopardy. Santa’s main mission in life was to give. Equally as important, was to preserve. In order to fulfill his purpose to give, he had to preserve that venue by which the whole world identified. This was a challenge that would define him from this day forward.

  The empty sack that lay in front of the fireplace swelled in size. Santa dashed to it while removing his red coat. Emptying the sack to the floor, he moved the rifle aside, quickly strapping on the thorium power-pack vest. He buckled the straps securely in front, and picked up the ominous looking black rifle. Santa pushed the power button on the vest, and plugged the cable from the stock of the rifle into the power-pack. The rifle hummed to life.

  Parko watched in amazement, as the most loving and caring person the world has ever known, transformed into a warrior of modern times.