Santa aimed the rifle at the zombie dad. A tiny red dot appeared on his forehead. With the squeeze of the trigger, steam rose from the top of his head, and the dead man walked no more. Santa swung the rifle toward the zombie mom and ended her miserable existence.
Ashamed in victory, Santa stood with the dark rifle at a forty-five degree angle across his chest. “Snap to it, Parko. The time left for us this Eve of Christmas is waning. We must take care of the good town of Central, and then the rest of the world.”
In a flash, Santa, and Parko, were back on the sleigh. Rudolph and the other reindeer received mental communications from Santa informing of the dire situation.
Santa set a tuning in his mind to detect the living dead. Now he knew if you were sleeping, awake, or undead. The two made haste in setting out the presents in each house. No time to enjoy the ambience of the season or goodies left for them to eat.
Santa acted with the speed of a storm trooper frying the brains of all the zombies found in the houses. Parko would leave gifts for those unaffected, if there were any, while Santa eliminated all threats.
With the last gift delivered, Santa and Parko took high in the sky and passed over the town’s center. Pandemonium still ruled as the walking dead wandered up and down the streets, seeking the warm flesh of a breather.
Circling overhead, the reindeer leveled out at a height for Santa to get his best aim. It was equivalent to shooting ducks in a barrel, with the aid of a headset equipped with night vision and automatically focusing binoculars. The zombies simply fell to their knees as whatever it was that reanimated them in their brain vaporized. Sometimes his finger would linger too long on the trigger and the head would burst into flame.
Santa lost count at the number of living dead he released back into the prison of death. Certainly, it could have been even worse, but now he feared there would be other towns where the dead walked too.
He wasn’t defeated yet. With all the confidence that he would be able to handle what obstacles fate or some other diabolical source unleashed, he commanded Rudolph to head to the next town.
Parko’s little heart beat unusually fast. He wished he had brought a flask of rum-nog to calm his nerves. His left eye started itching, so he rubbed it gently. The skin on the side of his face felt sensitive. He touched the side of his head with his fingertips, and over to the back of his ear. It felt warm. As his fingers followed the outside of his ear, a little scab had formed where the tip had been nipped off by the undead boy.
* * *
To Santa’s and Parko’s relief, the neighboring towns and the rest of the world were free from the plague of the living dead. Santa shifted into high gear, pushing the reindeer to full speed, and driving little Parko until he collapsed while shoving the final present under the last tree.
Now back at the North Pole, Parko was lying on a bed moved to a room in Santa’s workshop. Santa was not far from the foot of the bed, working feverishly for a cure for his friend.
There were no doctors in the North Pole. Human doctors weren’t able to treat elves anyway, as their physiology was alien to humans. Elves were immortal, and immune to harmful bacteria and viruses. No elf ever knew what it was like to get a cold or to be stricken with a disease.
On the occasion of an industrial accident, or just basic clumsiness, when an elf was injured, Santa would bring them to the Matrix Room. The Matrix Room was off limits to everyone, even Mrs. Claus. The few that needed healing over the years brought back stories of large computers lining the walls, humming and clicking. Robots of living metal roamed the hall and maintained the power facility of the North Pole. Energy came from the hot magma of the Earth itself. The robots obeyed the mental commands from Santa, while the injured elf would sit in a chair inside a clear tube. After a few minutes of treatment, which amounted to colored lights filling the tube, the elf would exit fully healed.
Parko lay unmoving. The treatment had failed. His face had turned a pale gray, and dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes. Scores of his friends gathered around his bedside, fretting and wishing they could do something to help.
Santa could feel their eyes pleading with him to do something. A probe inserted in the back of Parko’s neck sent information through the air to a computer that Santa monitored. Parko’s vital signs had become alarmingly low. Santa was powerless to do anything to stop the elf’s DNA that had mutated into something unidentifiable.
A monotone alarm from the computer announced Parko’s vital signs were no more. Santa’s eyes welled with tears. When he turned to say goodbye to his departed friend, all the elves eyes focused on him. Their expressions saying, Do something.
He was Santa Claus, wasn’t he? In all the years of their existence he had been their leader, provider, and father. Now one of his own was lost to death. Now the other elves felt that they too were no longer safe from the cold clutches of the Grim Reaper.
Parko sat up straight in bed.
Yips of surprise went up from the elves.
Parko’s eyes darted left to right. His teeth clattered together like a pair of toy, windup, chomping choppers. He sprang to his feet, still on the bed, and ran in place while spinning around.
The elves backed away as their reanimated friend acted as one crazed. Santa could only watch. His mind raced for a solution.
Parko leapt from the bed and on top of two elves, knocking them to the ground. His teeth sawing and gnawing at whatever came in between. Blood splattered in the air, on the walls, and floor. The other elves screamed and ran out of the room, taking Santa down at the knees as they haphazardly crashed into him.
Santa picked himself up and adjusted his right pant leg to clear it from the back of his boot heel. As Parko fed in Christmas day gluttony on his brethren, Santa reared back his leg and kicked the zombie elf in his tiny ribs. The little bugger bounced off the wall and hit the floor running, heading straight for Santa.
Whatever it was that made the zombie humans slow and lumbering had mutated in Parko, making him fast and furious. Santa again forced the elf to taste the might of his boot.
Parko’s head flew back as Santa’s boot connected. His tiny feet lifted off the ground, and his body tumbled backward and spun through the air. When he hit the ground and jumped back up, his head dangled upside down behind his shoulder blades. He had to turn backward to face Santa, and gazed at him with obsidian eyes and teeth clacking in unholy rhythm.
Santa took the elf down at the back of the knees as he attacked, sending him to the floor. Bringing his heel down fast and hard, he managed to crush the head of the elf with one powerful stomp. Brains shot out of Parko’s ears and nose, leaving a horrid mess of his beloved friend.
Santa looked down at Parko, at the gore that covered his boot heel, and what had squirted up his pants leg, before vomiting. Parko had been so bright and worked so hard to please him. Killing the humans had been hard enough. Killing someone he worked with and loved was almost more than his heart could bear.
Snapping sounds of teeth interrupted his spiral of depression. Santa lifted his head and saw the two elves that Parko had been feeding on come back to reanimated life. They too started running in place and spun around wildly, only to speed past him and out the door into the North Pole complex.
The complex was enormous. Almost 30 acres square and hidden underground below one hundred feet of North Pole ice. It was a unique construct that mimicked the more habitable portions of the surface world. An artificial sun would light the day. In the night, holograph images of stars would speckle the black velvet ‘sky.’ The industrial area with its flat, hard ground covering was separated from the living area by a crystal clear, warm water river. The living area had real dirt, green grass, and trees. Elf huts dotted the rolling hills.
The two zombie elves darted to the industrial streets outside. Word had traveled that something strange had happened to Parko, and a large number of elves had gathered in concern. The elfin zombies descended on the awaiting crowd like guided missiles hitting a target,
taking down the closest to fill their hungry mouths with fresh meat.
Most of the elves screamed in panic and ran for safety. A few, the brave, tried to pull the undead off their terrified brothers. Bloody toothed snarls met any attempt of rescue. Once within striking range, the zombie would leave an old victim for one new.
Within minutes, eight more elves laid on the street, dying with various parts and pieces of their bodies missing. The cold hard floor was covered in blood. The grayness of reanimated death consumed their bodies, and one by one, each returned to life as one of the walking dead.
Two had become ten, and now ten would become a hundred, or more.
Santa exited the workshop and saw the squad of zombies run in all different directions. There was no way he could singlehandedly stop this madness from spreading. His heart pulled him to stay and help, but his head told him he couldn’t do this alone. The situation had to quickly end if there were any chance for victory.
He ran as fast as he could to the Matrix Room, arriving out of breath. He might have been an immortal but he still was out of shape. Santa gathered the six organic-metal robots with a mental command and opened a door that hadn’t been open since the robots’ creation. Proton beam rifles hung from the wall. Santa and the robots each took rifle, powering it up with the push of a button.
The OM robots had been fashioned after the most athletic of human men. Clothed only around the loins, the garment hid little of their perfectly sculptured body. To an elf, their god-like statuesque struck awe and reverence. Santa knew only brute force would end this plague. The robots would command no respect from the undead.
The seven left the Matrix Room, proton rifles in hand, with orders to fire at will.
To Santa’s left, a zombie elf greedily fed on the back of a female. He took sight of the target and pulled the trigger on the rifle. The proton gun read the target from Santa’s eye and automatically aimed itself, discharging its beam of death. The zombie elf dropped to the ground, dead and unmoving.
The six OM robots spread out in all directions. Santa watched as one was overwhelmed by a hoard of the gray pointed ear elves. The robot took several down, but eventually some got close enough to attack. The zombies tore at its skin with bare teeth. It was a futile attempt. Even though the skin of the robot was as pliable as human skin, the organic metal was as strong as the hardest steel. Teeth broke and ground down to the gums. The robot used its superior strength and speed to fight the elves off with one hand, as it fired the rifle with the other. Removing the final undead elf from its leg, the robot tossed the body straight up in the air. The rifle found its target, and the elf dropped to the floor with smoke pouring from its ears.
Santa left the robots to fend for themselves. He had no worries for their well-being, but he could not stand up to such an attack. He considered calling the robots back for protection. He so wanted to go to his home and be with Mrs. Claus. But that would be selfish. The robots needed to save as many of the elves as possible. “I am The Santa Claus, damn it!” he said with a roar, fighting his way to the bridge over the river that led to the living area. His proton gun blasting all the way.
Santa was near exhaustion when he arrived at his house. Elfin zombies surrounded the outside, teeth chattered, and tiny nails scraped on the windows and doors. They were too distracted with what was inside the house to notice him. With a blink and the press of a button, each fell one by one as fast as his eye could focus and his finger move.
Death took them all once again. Santa’s heart beat rapidly in his chest out of concern for the safety of his wife. Had he arrived in time? He sprinted to the front door, hopping over dead elves in his path.
He quickly entered his house and scanned the living room for Mrs. Claus. An elf with a bashed in head poked down from the chimney in the firebox. But where was Mrs. Claus?
Santa cautiously moved to the kitchen and saw her standing in front of the stove holding a rolling pin covered in elf brains. Santa felt a weight lift off his chest. The woman that he loved through the ages was safe.
Mrs. Claus turned toward him. Her face had become lifelessness gray. Her teeth started clacking for warm flesh.
Santa’s heart sank. “Oh, honey. Not you too?”
She lunged for him. It took the proton gun a little longer to fire because of the tears in his eye, but it found its target in time, and dropped her to the floor.
“Sleep in heavenly peace, my love.” Santa left with head held down. He didn’t want to remember her this way.
Rudolph staggered by outside the house in the front lawn. “Rudolph, my child. Come see Santa,” he called. Rudolph’s head hung low, his walk uncertain. Santa took the reindeer’s head in his hands, seeing the pain in Rudolph’s eyes. Believing he was overwhelmed with grief over the dead elves, Santa put his arms around his neck, and patted the reindeer on the back.
“There, there, my child. We will get through this together.” Santa’s thoughts were still with Mrs. Claus, as blasts of the proton guns sounded in the distance.
Rudolph let out a sigh. Santa didn’t even notice when Rudolph’s eyes turned black.
“Ouch!” Santa stepped back, feeling a hole in his neck, and warm blood pouring out. Rudolph gulped the chunk of meat down and leaped forward for more. Santa fell on his back, pleading for Rudolph to stop. Rudolph had his hooves on Santa’s chest, pinning him down, and chomping away at exposed flesh.
The blast from a proton gun ended Rudolph’s ravenous attack. He collapsed to the ground. Santa didn’t move, but lay still, trying to catch his breath, but never did.
Zombie Santa shot up from the ground like a geyser. He ran in place, with teeth chewing the air until they could connect with live flesh.
The OM robot hesitated for only a moment, and brought death to The Santa Claus. It looked down on him with no emotion, as feelings weren’t part of its programing. Still, the death of an immortal didn’t compute.
Then, somewhere from inside, a new subroutine triggered by Santa’s death began to run. The robot shoved its hand into Santa’s chest and pulled out a small, blue crystal embedded in his heart.
* * *
In the Matrix room, the OM robots had the collection of the life crystals of all the immortals of the North Pole that had died. Only a handful of elves had survived the attack, and waited patiently as each crystal was placed on the conveyer belt and sent inside a mysterious machine. The crystal contained the DNA record of its owner and had all the data stored in the brain until the time of death. The mysterious machine returned all the memories to the blank consciousness of the newly created bodies.
One by one, every elf, every reindeer, and even Santa and Mrs. Claus came back to life, welcoming everyone with hugs and tears.
It was Christmas day on the North Pole. The magic of Christmas had returned life to all, and the world could be sure to know again the love and joy of Christmas.
Santa and Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, even the OM robots gathered in North Pole Circle and sang songs in thanks.
An OM robot stood next to Santa. His perfect body glistened in the artificial sunshine. No one had noticed a small tooth sticking out from an imperfection in its organic-metal skin on its left calf. No one noticed as the skin turned sickly gray around the tooth, and started to spread up its leg.
The End
Dreaming of an Undead Christmas
It Just Doesn’t Taste Like Christmas
Little Freddy Purple’s most favorite time of the year was Christmas. The house became a cozy refuge adorned with the spirit of the season. The electric candles in the window, the Christmas tree in the living room, and the purple colored lights strung with precision across the front. The house became a shiny shrine; a modern way to celebrate the winter solstice. A time of love he and his whole family would share.
When he would look out of the window, at all the snow and lifeless trees, it would be the fireplace that would bring him hope. It was secure, a refuge during the frozen emptiness of winter. The sizzlin
g flames would make the wood crackle; ejecting blue, orange, and yellow sparks in the firebox. Freddy could sit and watch it for hours.
The fresh cut Christmas tree stood proudly in the living room. Uniquely lit by strands of purple light bulbs, with purple ornaments hanging from the branches. The purple theme matched the purple colored mailbox in front of the house. Freddy’s dad, Dan Purple, used every venue possible highlighting the family name.
The scent of pine from the Christmas tree put magic in the air. That and the pine scented air spray his mom, Beth, would use after Thanksgiving. Sometimes he would pick a few needles from the tree and break them in half just to smell an extra burst of the aromatic fragrance. One time he made the mistake of spraying the pine scented air freshener in his nose. It burned and made him gag. He vowed never to do that again.
When Freddy was three, his dad had videotaped the Christmas family gathering. Freddy was dressed in red flannel pajamas, with jolly Santa Claus faces printed from top to bottom. He was having such a happy time, scurrying around the room from one family member to another.
Uncle Barry calmly sipped on his eggnog when Freddy ran up to him and pointed at the cup. Barry turned and saw the red light on the camera, and lifted his glass to Dan in a mock toast.
Freddy pointed to the cup, and said, “I want that.”
Barry shrugged his shoulders and carefully placed the cup to Freddy’s mouth, tilting it enough for him to get a taste.
Freddy took a sip and backed away with a bewildered look on his face, smacking his lips the whole time.
“What’s the matter, you didn’t like it? You don’t like eggnog?” Dan asked.
Barry laughed, but to his surprise, Freddy came back for more. So he gave him another sip, and then another, until the cup was empty.
“Say, little man. You do like eggnog, don’t you?” Dan asked, to which Freddy nodded with approval. “What’s eggnog taste like? Freddy, what’s eggnog taste like?”
Dreaming of an Undead Christmas Page 2
