It was impossible to see, but I hoped the kid had got away once he tossed that grenade.
I looked to the bus, where the guard inside was skating back and forth, poking his gun out of the windows but not firing. There was a single flash inside, then, and he fell down. That was my cue. Pulling Mouth Braces with me, I made for the bus. As we jumped in, bullets peppered the metal around us, our pursuers catching up. I thrust the fallen guard’s machine gun into Mouth Braces’ hands as she fell flat against the floor and I told her, “Cover the door!”
The bandits were shouting at each other, trying to direct their efforts, but it was chaos. Guns were going off all over the place, people running. Someone screamed, “He’s in there! In the bus!” and the gun above stopped shooting. The gunner dropped down his ladder just in time to see my hatchet plunging into his sternum. He fell back, clutching at it dumbly, as the second gunner dropped down a few metres away. I kept hold of the axe hilt, trying to wrestle it free, but it was stuck there. The bandit scrambled to take a pistol from his holster.
“Fucking shoot him!” Granny’s voice cut through all the madness. The bandit turned to her, then a pistol went off and he dropped back into a seat, half his head spraying over the ceiling. Catching my breath for a second I saw Granny had wrestled the gun off Business Trip, who was staring in mute shock, too scared to have done anything himself.
I kicked at the seat they were attached to, breaking it from the floor so the chains came loose, then I shouted at Trip, “Get up top!”, pointing to the crow’s nest.
I made for the other turret myself. As I scrambled up the ladder, gunfire rung in the bus below, Mouth Braces opening up on someone trying to get in. She shouted, excitedly laughing, “I got one!”
I was up behind the armoured machine gun in a moment, took the weighty thing in both hands and spun it down towards the rooter wreckage. The rest of these idiots had taken cover there, bits of them sticking out around the overturned vehicle. I squeezed the triggers and the world lit up below, the enormous shots of this fuck off gun ripping the metal apart around them. The bits of bodies it hit seemed to vanish, the force blowing them to dust. One of the bandits peeled away, making for the church, and I followed him, still firing, tearing up the ground. He got behind the tower but the bullets tore right through it, shredding both him and the walls. The whole tower shifted.
I spun the gun back to the rooter and stopped firing. Smoke had risen all around me, the ring of the monster weapon hanging in the air. Everything was still, looked like all the bandits were toast. Then Laslo squirmed up from the side of the road, a small shape in front of him.
“That’s enough!” he yelled, “Throw down your guns or I kill the boy!”
Fat Walter, down below, shouted “Norman!”
Norman, I had to think, in this momentary impasse. Would never have guessed that.
17
Laslo came out into the open at a crouch, barely a bit of him showing past the boy. If I had a scoped rifle I might’ve picked him off, but this machine gun would tear the pair of them apart with a shot anywhere nearby. There wasn’t much room for finesse with a thing like that. He was creeping across the road, towards the church again. Beyond the rooter, I spied his battle car. He shouted, voice shaking “Take the bus, okay. Take the fucking slaves, whatever.” He had a hand on the boy’s chest, holding something. A box. He lifted it slightly, careful to keep the kid pinned in place, “This is all I need.”
It was the kid’s present. I twisted around to Business Trip and said, “Wasn’t he after you?”
He was staring at me like I was insane, his hands only loosely on the weapon in his possession. It had a longer, thinner barrel and a couple of pipes leading out of it: a great flame thrower. He hadn’t let off a shot, which was probably for the best, he might’ve fried us all.
I turned back to Laslo, catching sight of the horizon. Lights had appeared in the road. Watching them, I told Laslo, “I want the car, not the prisoners. But let the kid go and I won’t shoot you both.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, quietly, completely unsure. He said, “Just take the bus…”
Up the road, they were headlights, way off. A big set, top and bottom, probably the front of a lorry. Another pair came alongside it. Getting closer. The sound of their engines came over us, a threatening purr of vehicles. The church tower creaked painfully, whatever part of its structure still holding starting to feel the pain.
Laslo shot a look back up the road. He gasped, “Oh Christ they’re coming. They’re here.”
“All this firepower and you’re afraid of a few costumed clowns, huh?” I said.
“They’re all over this county!” Laslo yelled, “They’ve been taking out more travellers than anyone across the wastes! Hunting people when they’re sleeping!”
The engines were getting louder, roaring as they got closer.
“Oh my God!” Mouth Braces cried. “They’re everywhere!”
I spun and saw more lights in other direction. So much for securing the battle car.
“Walter,” I shouted, “You get this bus going, you hear?”
There was rapid movement below, the fumbling of keys. Laslo was shaking, watching the vehicles approaching, as he continued to hide behind the kid. For it all, the boy was completely still, taking it like a man, just looking up at me waiting for my solution. Laslo started weeping an animal noise like his last resolve was to make inexplicable sounds. Seeing as he was one more gun, and it looked like we’d need all the help we could get, I shouted down at him, “Get in the fucking bus then! Bring the kid and get in!”
The fleet of lunatics kept churning towards us as the bus engine coughed to life. Laslo panicked, lifting the kid and bolting for his own car. Granny and Mouth Braces began screaming at him to let the kid go. The headlights were coming down the road towards us. In the middle of them all was a big square of lights, the lorry, picking up speed ahead of the others. As it thundered closer, I turned the gun on it and started firing.
Fat Walter put his foot down below. We jolted forwards, I kept firing, a stream of bullets flying into the vast shape behind the lights. It lit up with sparks but kept right on coming. With the force of a train, it ploughed through what was left of the rooter and moved on. It clipped the rear of the bus as we moved out the way.
The bus veered to the side, spinning off the road and careering right into the church. As we smashed through the tower, the last of its foundations gave way and it tumbled down, listing with slow inevitability into the road. The bus moved under it, lumbering through the debris into the field beyond, as the vehicle that had struck us screeched and swerved.
I caught the impossible image of a Coca-Cola Santa on the lorry’s side as I followed it with the turret, firing all the while. It twisted and rolled. Its lights flashed all around it as it tumbled across the road, sound and devastation like you couldn’t believe. A handful of cars speeding at us from the other direction slammed into it, an almighty pile-up.
Someone must have radioed it in because the rest of the crowd were coming at us as we accelerated into the field, a menagerie of psycho waggons, all the weirdly painted, strangely shaped vehicles from the lodge. Elves and reindeer and Santas hanging out of windows swinging chains and screaming. The vehicles started to flank us, nipping at all sides like a pack of dogs, rocks and bricks being thrown up at us. I fired down into one of the cars, shredding it, but the gun clicked empty. I spun to Business Trip and yelled at him to shoot but he was scared stiff by what he was seeing.
He didn’t get a shot off. Something long and thin sprung up from one of the vehicles and speared him through the neck. He was dead in an instant and fell down, the weapon that had got him wedging into the roof and holding him there. Whatever it was, it’d been wrapped in glittering tape alternating green and white.
Another one flew past my head. I jumped down into the bus.
We’d cleared the buildings and were hurtling across the field, surrounded by the swarm. Mouth Braces and t
he Granny were shooting through the windows, doing what they could to hold the fiends off. Walter had his hands firmly on the wheel, shouting as he looked to the side. Laslo’s car was there, off in the field, similarly hounded by vehicles, the boy hanging out a window yelling for help. Laslo swerved from side to side, then his car suddenly jolted up into the air. As his lights spun through the night sky, something loud clattered onto the bus, near the front. It sounded like a mesh of chains. Without knowing exactly what was happening, I at least knew what was coming. At the top of my voice, I shouted a warning for everyone to hold on for our second crash of the night.
18
I opened my eyes to a hazy world, blurred lights flashing on and off, yellow, blue, red, green. There was laughter in the distance, there were bells ringing and people singing. Somewhere in the midst of it all an electronic Santa voice called out “Ho ho ho!”
I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees with a groan. Somewhere in the Christmas sounds, someone was screaming. The bus had fallen over or rolled or something, I don’t know. It was on its side, just as the rooter had been. Blood, metal, glass all over the place. Déjà vu. This time I was outside, though, the cold ground beneath me, grass frosty, almost like snow. Sure that I was freshly sobered up again, I sat back and put a hand to my pounding head. Checked there weren’t any open wounds on me. Across the field, men in grubby Santa suits were prowling round the bus, checking for survivors.
Fat Walter was being dragged across the field by a pair of Santa’s helpers. Cars were parked all around us, headlights pointed into a central gathering of them. This wasn’t a random group of psychos, it was a whole colony of them, united and organised under the great and horrible myth of holiday cheer. They had everyone there, two people a piece holding prisoners in place as they knelt on the grass: Granny, Mouth Braces, the kid. Laslo was pulled struggling and complaining into the light. At least they were all alive.
The freaks hadn’t seen me. I must’ve been thrown clear of the wreckage, and they were searching now. Some of them had novelty torches. Ones that cast star shapes, or Santa faces, and glowed like wands. I kept low and still, conserving energy in the knowledge that I seemed to be hidden from their view.
The searchers were distracted as someone walked through the middle of the crowd, barking orders, and Laslo was brought out into the open. They spread around him, forming a circle like a bloody cult. I saw, between the bodies, a bunch of them held Laslo up in a spread, clamped onto his arms and legs. Medieval Kringle walked out in front of him. Of course, who else. He paced from side to side, assessing the bandit leader. Former bandit leader. He put a hand under his chin like he was reaching a careful and ponderous conclusion, then screamed like a hyena, “Star of Bethlehem!”
There they went again, riotously happy about his nonsensical judgement. Before anyone could do anything more than scream in complaint, a couple of guys dressed as elves ran at Laslo, holding something high above their heads. The crowd were cheering as Laslo screamed like a trapped animal, but his voice went quiet as something was shoved into his mouth. They were chanting, another of their wild games, “Star of Bethlehem! Give him the star!”
The crowd broke away from Laslo, leaving him standing free. He stumbled forwards, legs and arms akimbo, rigid as though attached to splints. Something was alight at his extremities, hands and feet sparkling. Sparkles around his mouth, too. Mouth Braces was screaming behind him, while the rest of the crowd were celebrating.
The fuses around Laslo caught, as he tried to run, then the poor mug lit up. Half a dozen roman candles burst into life, flaring up along his arms and legs, across his belly and up in his face. Like a human star, he burned in a brilliant, blinding moment, twitching and smoking all over. The fireworks must’ve burnt through him instantly, because he stopped making a noise or struggling, just dropped back down to the ground. The crowd roared with delight as Medieval Kringle waltzed back into the middle of them, standing over Laslo’s smouldering, sparkling body. He threw his hands in the air and cried “Bring the child!”
Fat Walter roared in protest as the boy was dragged forward. Kringle started preaching again, “All those that walk through Holiday World must answer to the Court of Chrimbo, children who have been bad especially.”
“All children will be judged!” an overly excited woman shouted, giving a little clue as to the evolution of their society.
I pushed myself to my feet. Bar a few scrapes and bruises I was in reasonable shape. I rolled my neck, feeling it click, and felt a dull pain in my left side that might get a lot worse or just go away. It didn’t really matter. I’d had enough.
Medieval Kringle walked around the boy shouting more gibberish. He had everyone captivated. The cars nearby had their doors open, engines running, easy pickings. No one was looking my way, all I had to do was leave. I could outrun this crowd.
“For such bad boys,” he went on, “Santa reserves the sternest punishments.”
I had had enough.
I didn’t care that I was no longer armed. Didn’t care that there was a hundred or more of them. Didn’t care that somewhere out there was a bar I could drink in and forget all the bad of the world, a few moments at a time. In that instant I wanted only one thing, and it wasn’t to save the kid or the others, or to avenge the deaths I’d seen. All I wanted was to restore some kind of balance, and bring some kind of order back to a holiday that had once been happy. All I wanted for Christmas was to shut that stupid fucking Santa-wannabe up. And I ran at him.
I ran across the field with a roar, inviting them all to turn my way. I ran at them with all the force I had left in my body, all the speed and strength directed right at Medieval Kringle in the centre. I ran at them with the full strength of a man who’s been fighting for the majority of his life. Like a shooting fucking star.
The crowd turned towards me, elves and reindeer and snowmen looking my way with surprise. A couple peeled into my path, raising candy canes or sticks or god-knows-what. I was blinded by purpose, barely even saw them as I ran right through the first couple. I kneed one, punched another, shouldered a third to the ground, charging right into the centre of this madness, three, four, five people deep until I came upon Medieval Kringle himself.
I was unstoppable in my fury. He saw me coming with a welcoming madness in his own eyes, like this was the battle he was waiting for, claw-like arms stretched to the sides. He never stood a chance. Before he could even react, I had his head in both my hands, held in place for a second before I slammed my forehead into his. His frail stick arms flapped at me as I followed through with a series of punches. He caved, trying to laugh as his only defence. My fists spun into him in a dervish, pummelling relentlessly as I followed him down to the ground, bones cracking weakly under me. Then he wasn’t making any sound at all.
A hand caught my shoulder, someone trying to pull me off. Barely looking, I dragged them to the ground and gave them the same treatment. Then someone flopped onto me, using their weight to stop me, but I threw this next challenger back with one hand and landed a punch on their chin with the other. They stumbled a few steps away and did not return.
I spun back to Medieval Kringle, grabbed onto the motionless lapels of his torn and bloodied Santa suit, and I slammed my head into his again. Again. He was completely limp, but I didn’t stop. I stood and kicked down at him. Stomped on his nose. I don’t know how long it went on, but there was silence all around.
All was quiet.
I stumbled aside, threw a few more kicks into one of the others I’d knocked over. Pumped with angry energy, I wanted to do more, but the fighting had stopped. No one was coming at me. I turned on the spot and saw the lot of them staring like I’d done something unthinkable. These pricks who had been torturing and murdering people with party games, now the veil was lifted and someone had got beaten outside their rules, they were stunned still. Filthy-faced costumed weirdos looked back at me in all directions, even the ones who still wanted to put up a fight too afraid to come near me. Th
e whole circle spread further apart as I moved.
I spat at the mess of what was left of Medieval Kringle and asked them all “Where’s your fucking Santa now?”
Silence, still.
Mouth Braces, Granny, Fat Walter and the kid, they were all there, nearby, on their knees. I took a few steps towards them and the elves scattered, tripping over themselves to get away. My fellow bus passengers didn’t look much less horrified than the rest of them, seeing me approach. I held out a hand to the kid, said “Get up. We’re going.”
As they all started to stand, someone uttered something in the crowd. I didn’t hear it at first, but the freaks started to repeat it. The whisper got louder, “A king is born!”
It turned to a chant, like they chanted the names of their torture games.
“King of all the world!”
19
The dawn light gave an amber glow to the streets of Belleville, another city fallen to ruin. I’m no poet and wouldn’t know how best to describe it, but it was one of those sights that made you stop and appreciate the moment. There’s often a quiet kind of beauty in dead and empty places. Where nature, and life, takes over from humanity’s concrete and order. Green on the walls, flowers in the cracks. It was doubly beautiful that Christmas morning, after what we’d seen of the human condition, knowing we were on our way home.
As I pulled into a car park to start hunting for fuel, Fat Walter groggily asked, “Where are we?”
“Near St Louis,” I said, “With luck, we might make New Oak by the afternoon.” Spoken like I was a fucking rooter driver now, responsible for all them.
Mouth Braces yawned in the back, stretching in the small space she had. She asked what they had all probably been thinking for the past few hours. “Are we safe?”
A Most Apocalyptic Christmas Page 6
