A Most Apocalyptic Christmas

by Phil Williams

  A MOST APOCALYPTIC CHRISTMAS

  A Faergrowe Novella

  PHIL WILLIAMS

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  1

  My fellow passengers slumped staring at our transport, the armoured rooter, like they thought it might come back to life, but our ride through the wastelands was nothing more than another damned monument to the world’s decay. Still, at least they were quiet and halfway calm. Their Christmas cheer might return in time for midnight.

  The Granny was the one I least expected to climb out of that truck, but she had been the first one up and urging the others on their way. She was tall and thin, wrapped in a woollen coat that barely hid her frailty, and she calmly ushered the young lady with pigtails out. The driver shoved past them, then Mouth Braces emerged with Fat Walter and his kid. Business Trip came last, in his cheap suit, clutching his briefcase and checking the shadows like someone was gonna mug him. The guard was dead, the guy in the dungarees hadn’t made it, and the gore spread across the road belonged to the young lad who’d been singing carols half the journey.

  My curiosity as to who had survived satisfied, as they planted themselves down on the side of the road, I checked on one of the prats who’d ambushed us, lying behind the vehicle. I’d only clipped his leg, but his surprised, glassy eyes said that was enough. Small price to pay for keeping me from my local, in my opinion. If I’d been a bit more sober I might’ve shot straighter and just injured him, let him suffer for longer.

  I took his gun and looked for their ride.

  There was an off-road buggy hidden in the trees beyond the church, adorned with spikes and a roll-cage. It might carry three people at a push, for a nauseating ride over a long distance, but it would do. Leaving that for a moment, I gave the rest of the area a quick once over. The church was empty other than the lookout’s supplies, up the tower. The buildings behind it, a couple of single-storey houses, looked decades untouched. A jeep sat by one of the garages, overgrown with weeds, hood open and engine missing.

  This was no camp. The three ambushers must’ve crowded into that buggy to get here. Mr Rocket Launcher had enough equipment in the tower to say they’d suspected someone was coming this way, so someone had got wise to our rooter driver’s supposedly safe path through the wastes.

  Back in the road, everyone was watching me, waiting for my assessment. Fat Walter nodded to the rooter and said, “Is it safe?”

  This gave me pause. Seems he had something worth saving. The truck was smoking, but not about to explode, so I checked it out. A suitcase had split open and sent girly clothes everywhere, all burnt and bloodied now. Bits of one of the young dead guys’ head painted the walls, putting me off an extensive search, but I at least got hold of a stuffed holdall. I threw it out onto the road and opened it up. My prior sense of purpose seemed to have been keeping the others from freaking the fuck out, but seeing me raiding his stuff made Walter snap. He came towards me, holding up an angry hand.

  I lifted the dead man’s rifle as a warning and he stopped.

  That shattered all their expectations of me being a saviour. Seven losers stared at me with shock, still not getting that bad things can happen on Christmas Eve.

  I told Fat Walter, “Sit your arse back down.”

  He stood firm, though, and said the most pathetic thing I’d heard this side of the war: “Please. They’re presents. For the kids. For Christmas.”

  In the bag, the box on top was wrapped in greaseproof paper, like an old kebab. I ripped it open, revealing a soggy cardboard box containing a stuffed bear that could’ve been spat out by an animal. I told him “You’ve got a real lucky family.” I looked at the kid, “You enjoy Christmas?”

  The kid was so surprised at being spoken to he froze stiff.

  “It’s his first Christmas with family,” Walter quickly tried to explain. “We got stuck in our neighbourhood last year. There were riots in the Pitts.”

  I could imagine his drooping sap of a tree in the corner of an unlit room, windows and doors boarded up while they whispered Christmas carols to each other and listened for thugs in the streets. The first Christmas after the war, someone went round Stone Meadows with an oil truck filled with booze, drunk morons following down the street knocking over signs and smashing windows. The sort of japes I’d been hoping to get back for in the Shack. I told him, “That shit happens in New Oak City, too.”

  “My sister-in-law’s in Lakepointe,” Walter confided, “It’s safe there.”

  “Fuck. A. Duck. And you’re out here riding a rooter across the country? With this crap for presents? They didn’t want to wire you some cash?”

  “They did,” Walter said, looking at the fallen truck.

  “You’re gonna make me cry,” I said, then moved onto the higher priority, “You got any alcohol in there?” He shook his head, so I addressed the others, “Any of you brought booze?”

  A lot of nervous heads were shaking. Everyone except Business Trip, who was playing a game of if-I-can’t-see-you-you-can’t-me. That rarely works. I asked him, “What’s in the case?”

  “Nothing,” he said in a liar’s mumble.

  Fat Walter rushed over to his holdall bag and started zipping it up, protective of the junk inside. I gave him a look as he fumbled it over a shoulder, then turned back to Business Trip and said, “Shall I take a look?”

  He insisted, scared now, “It’s nothing, I swear.”

  I didn’t get to find out. A radio went off in the shadows, crackling as a man asked, “Did you get him?”

  2

  The ambushers had hidden other treats in the bushes, it seemed. I found an old two-way radio near the buggy, the sort kids play with. The sort you have to use in the wastes, where there’s no signal towers for your PK device. As I picked it up the voice came again, “Loper? What’d you get?”

  I pressed transmit, “He got a bullet in the thigh and a whole lot of dead.”

  Silence on the other end as that sank in. Then, “Who are you?”

  I answered, “The last person you wanted to fuck off out here in the bleak midwinter. Who the fuck are you?”

  He sniggered, then answered like it was a resume, “Laslo Mayer. Of Mayer’s Plunderers. We own Indiana.”

  “Think up that name yourselves did you?”

  He waited a second, didn’t bite, then said, “You the guard?”

  I walked back around the truck, thinking the other passengers might want to hear what was coming next. “I’m no guard. Just a guy that likes to fight and got damn good at it.”

  “Alright, tough guy. Were there any survivors? We can make a deal.”

  “Not your mates. But I guess that’s not what you meant.” A host of frightened eyes fixed on me as I asked, “Who’s your target?”

  “They’re all worth something. I’ll give you a thousand a head.”

  So he didn’t want to share the truth of it. I already had the idea that one of the passengers was important to someone, important enough for them to stake out roads in Southern Indiana and important enough for this guy to hide his real intentions behind being a slaver. The lowest of the low.

  Now, there’s people in this world who always know the right thing to say, or not say. Me, words just fall out like my tongue’s on the lookout for a fight. Which I can’t complain about, because looking for fights has taken me to some wild and interesting places. I told him, “Thing is, chief, I get paid to hurt people. Slavers, though, I’d hurt for free.”

  His voice tightened, but he gave me one last s
hot, “What the hell, it’s Christmas. I can make it a thousand five. Take it or we come for you too.”

  “I’ll gut you when you do.”

  “Okay,” he answered, calmly, and clicked off the radio.

  Business Trip jumped to his feet and ran, letting out a trail of frightened murmurs as he fled. The others watched him in startled silence, then they looked at me.

  If he was the one they were after, he’d be worth something. But I’d earnt enough money that week, I wanted a loud drink, not a manhunt. Especially not with him running the wrong way. I shrugged and told the others, “Any of you want to survive,” I screwed a thumb back over my shoulder, “Go south. That’s the only direction they’re not gonna come from.”

  3

  “What are we going to do?” Pigtails asked. She was a good looking girl. Cutesy, hair dyed pink, a little fur-lined coat, all looks over practicality. Exactly the sort of person to think Christmas comforts were back.

  “You can protect us, can’t you?” Mouth Braces chimed in. She looked better equipped, goggles pushed up into her short hair, a thick leather coat worn as much to resist a knife as to keep warm.

  “What for?” I answered.

  “What’s that mean?” Pig-Tails again. “You just said-”

  “It means we can’t pay him,” Granny explained. “Even if we had money, he would just take it. He’s no better than the others.”

  I agreed, “True enough.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Fat Walter reminded me, holding his kid in front of him in a picture postcard moment for me to feel bad about. Wobbly dad and his mute child. His kid was more stoic than him, skinny little bastard with scruffy sandy hair, hadn’t said a word since the rocket hit. Walter pleaded, “I told him it’d be just like before the war-”

  “It’s not,” I said, “This holiday is same as it’s ever been, people taking advantage of twats like you lot who think it’s special. All it’s good for is getting a few extra drinks in, and as you’ve all pretty well established you ain’t got any, I’m going home.”

  I walked over to the buggy and they all followed, trying to argue as I ignored them. The keys were in a box on the back of the vehicle. I started the engine and the petrol gauge showed it half full. Enough to get me fifty miles, maybe. There’d be other cars by then, maybe another rooter.

  “There’s room,” Granny said. “At least take the boy. He’s just a child.”

  I looked at the kid, staring at his dad hopefully. His sallow face and needy little eyes didn’t exactly endear me to helping. I said, “He’s got his presents right here, hasn’t he?”

  “Don’t be a fucking animal,” Granny snapped.

  The potty-mouthed old maiden surprised me, there was strength in her ancient eyes. I bet she used to be important. I laid it out for her, though, “That fuel lasts half the distance if I take passengers. For what? To preserve another mouth the world can’t feed?”

  “I’ll pay you double,” the driver took his turn now, pushing through the group. This bulbous waster had the air of someone that congratulates himself on cheating people out of pennies they don’t even care about. “And I can give you more work out of New Oak.”

  “What work?” I scoffed at him. “You’ve got no ride.”

  “The rooter’s replaceable, I can pay well -”

  “Queen of Sheba right here,” I said. “Got rich avoiding toll roads, did you?”

  The driver looked at me hatefully. He said, “I found the safest route. You’re lucky I gave you the price I did, don’t blame me for where it brought us.”

  In the face of this gumption, putting his life ahead of a kid after dropping us all in the shit, I was half tempted to take the kid just to fuck him off. Half wasn’t quite enough temptation, though, so I just settled myself into the buggy, getting ready to leave as their voices rose in complaint.

  The driver was the worst. He started calling me racist names, all the terms he had for various European nationalities, some accurate, some way off. Then he launched at the buggy, pushing Mouth Braces out the way so she fell on her knees. As he clambered, I shoved him back and got back out. I knocked him onto his arse. He was bigger than me, bulky with fat, and resisted, getting a thump into my ribs with his flapping manatee paws. He wanted nutting, so I cracked his nose open with my forehead and he dropped, bleeding and blubbering.

  Standing over him I said, “I lost my booze and my buzz in that crash and it’s your fault, mate. You oughta be thanking me for leaving you here and not doing worse.”

  A great, biting hiss cut off my speech.

  I spun back to the buggy.

  The pigtailed shit of girl had jammed a knife into one of the tires and the air was rushing out of it. She looked triumphant as she said, “Now no one goes!”

  I looked the group over as they erupted into furious chastising, Pigtail’s satisfaction quickly fading. I fought the urge to react in any way myself, the only acceptable reaction, let’s be fair, being slamming her in the face. And you just don’t do that to a pretty young lady. Wary of Laslo Mayer’s imminent approach, I just said, “I assume some of you know how to shoot a gun?”

  4

  Keeping my pistol and a rifle to hand, I doled out the rest of the weapons I’d found. That buggy would still move, but it’d be slow enough that I needed some insurance. These idiots were it. Fat Walter protested, even as he took a shotgun from me, “You want to fight them?”

  “I’d be fucking delighted to,” I said, “But no. Just in case it comes to it.” I pointed across the road, to the south and a dense thicket of trees that might go a few hundred yards or a few hundred miles. “Going that way. Follow me on foot if you like, but I’m not waiting.”

  Walter said, “There’s another interstate north.”

  “The fact that you’d so predictably head north,” I told him, “Is why we can’t.”

  “But I heard-”

  “Heard bandits were running people off the road?” I cut in, “People disappeared down here? In case you hadn’t noticed, by us getting hit by a rocket and me having to kill three men, we’re in it and it’s not getting worse. You think there’s some other fairy tale monster prowling out there in the shadows? Jog on.”

  With this little team of ineffectual nobodies armed, I went back to the overgrown jeep, thinking I might be able to use its wheels to help move that buggy. Some of the crowd followed me, and in my stupid hurry I didn’t think to keep an eye on the others. I had the buggy keys, and they seemed scared enough not to try anything else. The Granny hounded me, trying to make conversation with the others, thinking if I heard their stories I’d be more likely to save them all. She asked Mouth Braces, “What are your plans? In New Oak City?”

  I could feel Mouth Braces smile as I crouched by the jeep’s wheel, “Amanda’s got friends we know through the PK, they’re having a party. A feast.”

  I almost laughed. Granny looked at me like I oughta play nicer. I said, “A party got you out here, on Christmas Eve?”

  “You’re travelling too,” Fat Walter said defensively.

  I said, “Thought it’d be a laugh, didn’t I? Get pissed on an unregistered ride while it runs a gauntlet of midnight shittery on Christmas Eve.”

  Granny said, “Christmas does mean something, it brought respite, togetherness, even during the war. And I don’t believe for a moment that you came on this ride looking for trouble.”

  I was about to reply with what she deserved, but the sound of an engine cut that off.

  I swore and ran back through the buildings. The dumbass driver was tearing away in the buggy, bumping across the road, just quicker than running pace. As he bounced off the road into the field, skirting the trees. I raised the dead man’s rifle, but Mouth Braces forced my hand down, shouting “You’ll hit Amanda!”

  I got a last glimpse of Pigtails hanging off the back, shouting “We’ll come back for you!”, before the buggy turned past the trees and became obscured from view. I glared at Mouth Braces. Her face was ashen, left hangi
ng by her treacherous little friend.

  I said, “Call her a mate, do you?”

  “Why would they…” Mouth Braces asked the world, weakly.

  “There’s no accounting for bastards,” I told her.

  I would’ve ditched them all too, of course. And I’d have said the same thing to explain it.

  The sound of the buggy’s engine occasionally filtered back towards us as we walked through the trees. At least the driver had taken my suggestion and gone in the right direction. I told the others to keep their lights off as they followed me. There was just enough moonlight to navigate, and the last thing we needed was to draw attention to ourselves. With any luck the buggy would create a distraction if the bandits came searching.

  “You enjoy Christmas, don’t you?” the Granny said as we walked, still trying to connect.

  I gave her a look, said “I take my dad’s philosophy. Christmas helps you get extra drunk. That’s all. The last good cheer to all men I saw was in 2033 when a crew of Africunts slaughtered a hundred men who’d laid down their guns to celebrate.”

  “That was the war. Things are improving,” Walter countered, quiet but keeping an eye on his concerned little son. The boy was skipping along with a single brown box, the one present his dad had deigned to save. Walter insisted, “You’ll see.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “The Ghost of Christmas Future assumes you’ll live that long?”

  On cue, the engine of the buggy was cut off by a wave of explosive sound. Through the trees I could just make out a ball of fire, ending our sweet thoughts of Yuletide. The sound of another engine came way off to our right. I got in a parting comment, no idea how right I was, “Starting to think this Christmas might give our war stories a run for their money.”