by George Right
Standing behind a high pine, Nicolas studied his future prey, fixing the smallest details. It's very important to get a rapport at once, to cause reckless trust... It's a pity that no psychology could allow him to guess a name–this would have worked perfectly. However, the proper choice of a gift works wonders, too. So, the boy is obviously from an advantaged family–not rich, but advantaged. At the same time, both his parents most likely work and give him less attention than he would like. When he left home, nobody saw him off, otherwise his scarf would have been adjusted... There is for certain a computer in his house and most probably not only one, so a video game would not amaze him–he has plenty of them. His face is obviously not silly, and his inward life is complex enough for, taking into account the previous conclusions, the existence of some important misunderstanding between him and his parents; they think that they do the best for him, but actually it turns out to the contrary... He is not overweight, but his figure, gait, and general appearance demonstrate a lack of athletic skills, so hockey sticks and baseball bats are absolutely not for him. He's a typical four-eyes straight-A student–who is of course offended by his classmates–but not a cowed timid boy at all; oh no, the resolute air of this clever little face doesn't promise anything good to his enemies! If only he had a possibility for vengeance! Perhaps a real pistol would be the best gift for him, but it is, of course, not appropriate and, moreover, not in the interests of the good Santa. Toy weapons also don't suit–he is not one of those dreamers who could be content with illusion instead of reality. Soldiers, dinosaurs, and so on are also not right here–he still may have some liking for such toys, but improbably dreams of them. Here is obviously a scientific and technical mentality, an aspiration to accuracy and attention to details, a bent on logicality and validity, a desire that all be real or, at least, as close to real as possible. He undoubtedly likes to read, but at the same time he is too young to prefer books to toys. That indicates an exact model of some machine, and aggression, let's not forget how much aggression is hidden in this excellent student who cannot fight and is tormented by those whom he despises... A tank? No, a tank crawls, and he dreams to raise over his enemies whom he considers much below himself–so, of course, a plane, a heavily armed plane, a bomber!
"Good evening, young man!" No baby talk, no lisping–he hates it, but a solid adult reference should be pleasant for him...
And at this moment Nicolas understood that he had made some error in his judgment. Because in the eyes which turned to him, he read not only an expected surprise, but fear and hatred. And these feelings didn't disappear when the boy understood that it was Santa Claus before him. More likely, even to the contrary.
But anyway it was too late to back off. And there was no need for it. Even if Nicolas hasn't considered something, can't he easily cope with a nine-year brat?
Blades rhythmically whirred overhead. Outside the cockpit, it was dusk already; the pilot switched the illumination on, and the instrument panel lit up with soft amber light. Below the helicopter and very close to it, black trees on white snow ran back; from such a perspective one could see that they grew sparser than it seemed from the ground level. From above, low gray clouds hung even closer; periodically they, curling, surrounded the cabin, and then the whole world outside disappeared. Or snow pellets densely covered the windshield, which was not much better.
"Visibility as good as hell," the pilot complained, "and will be only worse further. I don't know how we'll fly to Malcolmtown. That is, we will–by instruments, but I don't know what you hope to accomplish out there."
"Is it possible to descend a bit more?" John asked without any real hope.
"Where? We're already flying almost on top of the trees. If we encounter a radio mast, it's bye-bye. We need either to climb over the clouds or to land and continue by car."
"It'll take two hours to get there by car," objected Douglas. "And he kills usually just at this time, at sunset. Every minute can cost lives."
"Oh yeah–ours," the pilot grumbled. "As you want, gentlemen–I'll deliver you to the place, but then I guarantee nothing."
"All right, we'll see then," Douglas waved away.
"That's what I doubt."
"You have come after all," Greg said.
"I always come to those who need me," Santa answered.
"You are not a disguised actor? Not 'an assistant?' You are indeed the real... magic Santa Claus?" Gregory faltered on a hated word.
"Absolutely real. And if you are so mistrustful, look what I have brought for you..."
"Do you swear on your life that you're telling the truth?" Gregory interrupted, ignoring the hand diving in the bag.
"I do," Santa smiled, and Greg internally rejoiced. Done! Now his position is faultless! If this creature has lied, he deserved death according to his own words. And if he has told the truth then a weapon can't harm a magic being, so an attempt is not an evil deed.
That's what he'll say, of course, if the weapon doesn't work.
Meanwhile Santa took from his bag a plane. With an air of triumph, he rotated the propellers of all four motors, moved the small barrels of defensive turrets, showing that they also turn, and offered the model to the boy.
"Strategic bomber Boeing B-29 Superfortress," skillfully stated Greg, examining the gift from all angles. "From such a plane a nuclear bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The bomb was called 'Little Boy.' 'Little Boy' killed 70 thousand people."
"You are very clever," Santa said. "And you know a lot. Much more than other boys of your age. (Greg couldn't keep himself from making a contemptuous grimace). And do you want to learn something more? I can show you my sleigh and explain how it works. After all it is interesting to you how it can fly, isn't it?
"Is it the truth?"
"Of course it is! Let's go, I landed in the middle of the park."
Greg followed Santa, thinking that if this being indeed would show and explain all this, the main plan should be postponed. But not canceled completely, certainly not. Simply it is necessary first to find out the enemy's secrets, as clever military commanders always do.
He was carrying the plane by the fuselage, and the wind, blowing in short gusts, rotated its propellers. Greg imagined how the motors of the "Enola Gay" roared approaching its target. It appeared to him so clearly that he really distinguished a sound coming from the sky... But it wasn't the even buzz of a bomber. It was the choppy whirring of a distant helicopter.
Santa, seemingly, heard this sound, too, and it perturbed him.
"Come faster!" he exclaimed, turning back over his shoulder. "There!"
The red mitten pointed to an arbor standing on a bank of the frozen pond. The arbor was big and old, with the peeled off stone columns and a crack meandering through the domed roof. No benches remained inside it. Sinking in the snow, Santa and the boy ran to it and dived under the roof just seconds before the helicopter rumbled deep-voiced over them, invisible in low overcast.
"Why did we hurry like that?" Greg exactingly asked, panting. The entire floor of the arbor had been covered by deep snow–a bit less in the center than along the edges.
"We had to," Santa conspiratorially winked, "I shouldn't be seen by adults now."
The noise of the helicopter gradually went away and at last completely faded out in the distance.
"Well, so when will we go to the sleigh?" the boy reminded.
"Later," Santa murmured, "the sleigh flies only when it is completely dark. And now..." he paused, listening, and, having heard no suspicious sounds, finished... "now you must undress."
"What?"
"Undress, be a good boy," demanded the voice which suddenly became hoarse, "you'll see, you will like it."
"Oh, just a minute," Greg answered with unexpected ease, though his heart beat already at some ultrasonic frequency and his fingers shivered when he unbuttoned his jacket. He carefully placed the plane on snow.
"Well, how long are you going to dawdle?" asked a dissatisfied voice.
"Just now
," mumbled Gregory, resting his chin against his breast, "my button is stuck..."
The being in red bent down to him, ready to tear off the hindrance if necessary. At the very same time the boy jerked open his jacket, snatching out from the left inner pocket a bottle from which he had already taken out the glass stopper. The colorless liquid with a caustic smell splashed directly in the red face bent over him. Hydrochloric acid from a set for young chemists (which was intended for older schoolboys, but Greg had persuaded his mom) was not very concentrated–but it got into Santa's eyes and was quite sufficient to make him howl wildly with pain, crawling both hands about his face. At the next second a keen knife jerked from the right inner pocket sparkled in the air–it was Greg's main weapon upon which he put special hopes. He understood that his childish strength–and the length of his self-made knife–may be insufficient to punch through the red jacket and the flesh to the vital organs. Therefore he raised his hand and slashed the throat of the blinded and howling enemy with the sharp edge. Blood jetted fanlike, sprinkling the snow, Greg's clothing, and his face. The boy grasped the knife in his other hand and slashed Santa's throat from the other side.
His opponent who didn't even howl, but now only squealed, still made himself move one hand from his eyes and tried to seize the boy. Gregory quickly jumped aside. The enemy heavily moved forward, blindly ran into a column, started aside and, having lost his balance, fell down from the arbor porch to the snow outside. Gregory leaped onto his back like a wildcat. The previous wounds were only superficial, but now Greg, having seized with one hand Santa's hair from which the red cap had fallen, with the full force of his other arm, pricked and cut the hated neck. The enemy vainly tried moving his hands back to get rid of the little devil tormenting him. When one of his hands, which already lost a mitten, brushed Greg's face, the boy with all his strength sank his teeth into the enemy's finger (his mouth was immediately bit by acid).
The prostrated enemy didn't shout any more but only rattled and gurgled. His movements became more and more languid. At last, having ascertained that the opponent was already weak enough, Gregory arduously turned the heavy body on its back and unbuttoned the blood-sticky red jacket. Under it there was a gray sweater; Greg cut it, then a T-shirt, and bared pale skin and the left nipple from which a long black hair grew. The heart, as much as he knew, was a bit lower. A cut throat is good, but the procedure should be completed. Not without reason he had refused his initial idea to use an ordinary knife and, using a hammer and a file, had made a thin silver blade from the biggest spoon in his parents fine dinner set (luckily his parents hadn't noticed its disappearance ahead of time). A wooden handle from a toy sword suited to this knife excellently.
Certainly, no books explained how to kill Santa Claus. But if silver helps against werewolves and vampires, why won't it help in this case also? Certainly, Gregory didn't believe in werewolves and vampires. But mum said that legends contains particles of the truth in a fantastic form. Stabbing the heart played an important role in these legends, too.
Greg felt in the snow his fallen eyeglasses and put them back on his nose. Then, having sat astride the belly of the dying enemy, he clasped the knife handle with both hands, raised them high over his head and plunged the knife into the naked breast. The body under him convulsively jerked and uttered one more rattling. The boy with an effort pulled out his knife and struck once again. And then again, and again, and again...
Then there were policemen running through snow, led by sergeant Jills; and two strangers in FBI jackets; and a doctor who hastily examined and palpated him right on the scene and clicked his tongue with astonishment, looking at the red-and-white corpse; and mum who nearly fainted and to whom several voices simultaneously hastily explained that the boy was unscathed and all this blood was not his; and some guys with a microphone and a videocam at whom all others shouted and tried to banish them, while they shouted back about the right of Americans to the information...
Blood was cleaned off Greg (at least as much as possible on the first try ), and they embraced him, squeezed, tapped on his shoulder, shook his hands and all the time spoke, saying that everything was OK, that everything would be OK now, that he was a good brave boy, that he had done perfectly well and that he shouldn't blame himself for the death of this man because he was a very-very bad man who had killed many children already...
Gregory Prime didn't listen to all this chatter. He understood the main thing–the real Santa Claus does not exist and so harmony returned to his soul at last. The pleasant feeling of this harmony was only amplified by two circumstances. First, his plane, his battle trophy, which miraculously wasn't harmed during the fight–and whatever one may say, the bomber was excellent. And secondly, while lovingly moving his finger on its wings and fuselage, he continued recalling how warm blood fountained from his enemy's throat, how his groans choked with rattle, how the knife elastically stuck into the hated body and how it, clamped by Greg's legs, convulsed under the blows...
Fake Santa was right–he liked it.
Oh yes, he really liked it.
CAVE OF HORROR
“A carnival is in town,” joyfully exclaimed Jane.
Mike received this news without any enthusiasm. Even in his childhood he hadn't been a fan of carnival rides, especially those that fling their passengers upside down, back and forth, and in other bone-rattling directions. Once, when his classmates dared him to go for a spin on a roller coaster, he very painfully hit his tailbone in the bottom point of the trajectory. There were, of course, calmer rides but Mike found them just boring; actually, usually only little kids rode them. Even an early age he preferred playing board games or assembling model cars or airplanes to visiting an amusement park. All the more he didn't see any sense in visiting a carnival now, at his respectable age of twenty-two.
His girlfriend, alas, had the opposite point of view. And therefore, having indifferently muttered in reply, "So what?" Mike already knew perfectly well what was coming next.
"Let's go there Saturday!" Jane met his expectations.
"Maybe we could go to the movies instead?" Mike offered without any real hope.
"We always go to the movies. And besides, what's playing? Are they showing anything interesting this week?”
"I don't know. I haven't looked yet. Maybe something good is on.”
"I'm sure they're showing the same old junk. Mikey, don't be so boring! I want to go to the carnival! We can go to the movies anytime, but the carnival is here for only a little while.”
"Where are they from?”
"Dunno. From somewhere far away. They must have rides we've never been on!”
"Aha, that's it–'from far away.' These traveling carnivals are even worse than stationary amusement parks. In each new place they put together all these rides, then take them apart them again. As a result, at some point something becomes loose, a screw isn't tightened and... Last year the newspapers reported there was an accident on a ride in Connecticut. Three people were injured and about twenty more dangled on the very top for two hours, waiting until they could be rescued from there.”
"So what, traffic accidents happen much more often–does that mean we shouldn't drive cars?”
"If we don't go by car, we'll have to go on foot. But if we don't climb on some doubtful rotating machinery, we can spend the money for something better.”
"Just admit that you are afraid," Jane continued to badger him. "And not of accidents. You're afraid of the rides!”
"Why do you say I'm afraid? I simply don't understand what pleasure it is to dangle upside down...”
"Well, don't ride with me. Just stand nearby and wait if you are such a little coward," she affectedly sighed. "You can hold my purse.”
"Listen to you being all brave! " Mike lost his patience. "Remember our trip to New York? You dragged me to Coney Island and there–to those, what were they called– 'Air races' with airplanes that flipped over... And who was vomiting even before that ride stopped?”
; "I shouldn't have eaten those cakes before I got on the ride," Jane waved away his complaint. "And I took it into account for the future. But does it mean that I should stay off rides the rest of my life because I got sick once?”
Mike had understood from the very beginning that resistance was useless and, as one could expect, two days later–11 a.m. Saturday–he and Jane entered the carnival area, which was enclosed by a high chain link fence.
Long ago in this not too cozy suburban place had been a meat factory combined with a slaughterhouse; however business was bad and it eventually burned out in the most literal sense: one night it was destroyed by flames. There was gossip that the fire had been set either by some animal rights fanatics or by the factory owner himself who decided to cash in at least on the insurance. It was also rumored that there were several casualties, though only one was known for sure–the night watchman. Possibly, rumors were promoted by the large number of charred bones found in the ashes–which was no wonder, considering the type of factory it had been. The burned-out buildings were beyond repair and for a time, despite the fence and strict “keep out” signs, they remained an attractive place for the town's boys who were looking for adventure, creepy stories and dismal souvenirs like chains and meat hooks or the aforementioned charred bones–until one of these boys fell down into the basement and broke his backbone. His friends were frightened and ran away and the boy lay there in dirty ice-cold water for almost a day before the search began. When he was finally rescued, he was still alive and conscious–but the way he looked made even hard-boiled police officers shudder: while the kid was lying there paralyzed and helpless, rats gnawed his face and almost completely chewed off his fingers.
