The Undead That Saved Christmas

by ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics

  Baker looked at Myer, and then smiled. “We’re this close to Christmas. This is no time for jokes.”

  “No joke, Mister Baker. He fell over dead about two minutes ago.”

  “And how do you know he’s dead? He might just be sleeping or exhausted.”

  “Mister Baker, he is D-E-A-D. We checked. No pulse. Nothing.”

  Baker called over his floor supervisor, handed him the clipboard and then grabbed Myer by the arm. “Show me.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Baker, Myer and another one of the stable hands, Jerry, stood in the large hay-lined paddock looking down on Rudolph’s corpse.

  “Well, he’s dead alright. How’d this happen?” Baker asked.

  “No one knows. I came in here to play one last reindeer game with him, and he was just lying there like that,” Jerry said.

  “This is not good at all. Who else knows about this?” Baker asked.

  “You, me and Jerry here,” Myer told him. Baker looked over at Jerry.

  “There’s – there’s no one else to guide the sleigh,” Jerry said. “What are we going to do?”

  A fair question. There wasn’t another Rudolph. Any hope of getting another reindeer with a nose that glowed like a light bulb went out the window around the time that people started hanging their Christmas lights. Baker stood determined that this would not be one of those dire emergencies.

  “What are we going to do, Mister Baker?” Myer asked, gently stroking Rudolph’s light brown fur. “I mean, we’re just a few hours before Santa needs to get in the sleigh and go.”

  Baker stood up, walked toward a nearby window and stared at the deep blue horizon. He looked out past the North Pole, past the workshop boundaries, toward the dark icy area elves are told never to go. “Myer and Jerry? You stay here and keep the paddock door closed. No one in. No one out. Get a few of the other stable elves to keep the other eight reindeer entertained. Keep a lid on this until I get back.”

  “Where are you going, Mister Baker?” Myer asked as Baker walked toward the paddock gate.

  “I’m going to see my brother,” Baker said and walked out.

  * * *

  Baker had few friends in the Workshop. Only Santa knew that Baker came from a family of dark elves, who were bound by contract to remain in the darkest corners of the North Pole, mining coal and ensuring that, “bad boys and girls had a sizeable lump of coal in their stockings.” As he left the gated workshop compound and mounted the snowmobile for the short journey across the snow, Baker saw the glow of the moon dim and the cold creep like tentacles into his winter gear.

  Despite the amount of time Baker had been away from his dark elf roots, he realized there was more to his ancestors than mining coal. Much more. Though long hidden, those black crafts were what Baker hoped would serve him successfully tonight – or many people around the world would suffer for years to come.

  He pulled through the ramshackle entrance to the dark elf compound and parked in front of his brother’s dank, rundown cottage. He hesitated before he knocked.

  “Who is it?” asked a voice behind the door.

  “Your brother.”

  “Baker?”

  “The same.”

  The door swung open. “Well, you’ve got some nerve.”

  “I need your help.”

  “I don’t know that I want to give it to you.”

  “May I come in, Linus?”

  Linus nodded and closed the door. The two elves sat down.

  “We have a situation that jeopardizes both of our futures. It could cut out the mining business completely and put a big dent in toy production and distribution.”

  “What? Someone’s killed Christmas?”

  “In a way …”

  “Please be serious. Why are you here, Baker?”

  “It’s Rudolph. He’s dead.”

  Linus raised his eyebrows. “Someone did kill Christmas. Well now …”

  “Yes. I know. And here we are,” Baker checked his pocket watch, “mere hours before Santa settles in for the big delivery run.”

  “And what is it you think I can do to help you? Get you another reindeer?”

  Baker frowned. “You know you can’t.”

  “So?”

  “Reanimation.”

  Startled, Linus jumped up out of his chair. “Shhhh! Baker, are you crazy? None of us have done that in hundreds of years. It’s … it’s just not even discussed.”

  “We’re discussing it now.”

  “Santa would banish us both to the deepest part of the mines if he even thought we might do something like that!”

  “Linus, I need you to come over and reanimate Rudolph right now or Christmas may be closed for the foreseeable future.”

  “And I’m telling you this sort of thing is just not done, Baker! It’s part of the deal with Santa and his elves! If we break the contract, it puts us back into the same league as warlocks, demons, gnomes and gorgons. It puts us out of business and makes us criminals.”

  “Just this time. You know how to do it. Father taught only you the craft. No one even knows Rudolph is gone yet,” Baker pleaded. “Besides, you run the coal mines. You know how important this is to everyone who works there. This is about business, too.”

  Linus growled. “You should have stayed with us! I would have taught it to you and you could have done this yourself.”

  “There’s no time for this discussion. You and I are the only elves in this room. We can handle this,” Baker said. “Please. For Christmas.”

  Linus stood silent for what seemed like hours, and then walked out of the room. Baker started to walk out, thinking he had failed. Then there was commotion and Linus returned with a large black satchel. He grabbed his heavy coat and stared straight into Baker’s eyes.

  “I’m only doing this because we have a mutual interest -- Christmas,” Linus said.

  “Thank you, brother,” Baker said as they walked to the snowmobile.

  “Don’t count your reindeer until they’ve flown, Baker,” Linus barked. They hopped on the snowmobile and sped back to the Workshop.

  * * *

  As requested, Baker found the stable closed off. He walked his brother toward Rudolph’s paddock where they met Myer.

  “Who is this?” Myer asked. “A dark elf? Here?”

  “Myer, this is someone who’s going to take care of this for us,” Baker said. “You never met him. He is not here.”

  “Um, okay,” Myer said. He stared at Linus’ much darker skin and his white-on-white eyes from working in the mines.

  “He needs to leave,” Linus said, pointing at Myer and then unfastened the black satchel. “Are there any reindeer in these adjacent stalls? If so, they need to leave, too.”

  Baker motioned to Myer and he sped off. He returned a few minutes later, saying that he moved Donner and Dasher to the reserve stalls. Baker dismissed Myer and turned toward Linus.

  “Now what?” Baker said.

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  Linus placed several quartz stones around Rudolph’s carcass. Then, with a flick of his hand, he showered the dead reindeer with a fine red powder that glittered.

  “Are you making a cake?” Baker joked.

  “Quiet.”

  From the satchel, Linus removed something spongy, gruesome and wet and set it on a pewter dish near Rudolph’s head. He then wrapped himself in a black robe stitched with purple runes. Baker felt the paddock grow colder.

  “You need to get out of here now,” Linus said.

  Baker walked out and shut the gate behind him. He peered through the slats of wood, watching his brother lower himself into an awkward, painful looking position in front of Rudolph’s head. Linus poured something into a brass decanter that looked like blood and set it near the plate of goop. He then pulled the robe’s hood over his face and began chanting.

  For better than thirty minutes, Baker listened to his brother make croaks, wheezes, clicks and growls, each one different, some for lo
nger periods than others. At times, there were two or three sets of voices in the room, some distant and some directly in Baker’s ear.

  Twenty more minutes passed. Just as Baker felt he should be back on the manufacturing floor, the quartz stones surrounding Rudolph’s body rose and glowed. When they started spinning, a deep, rattling thrum grabbed Baker in the chest and filled the stable. He looked around as the other eight reindeer poked their heads out to see what was going on.

  “Back in your stalls,” Baker cried out. “It’s almost time to fly.”

  He turned back to see Rudolph’s paddock alight with some sort of magical fire. Tendrils of blue smoke flowed out between the fencing near his feet. Linus screamed. Baker turned away just as something that sounded like a cannon fired, the concussive wave belting him across the stable. He gathered himself and sat up.

  There was silence.

  “It’s done,” said the tinny, hoarse voice across the stable. Baker rushed over to the paddock and looked in. Rudolph stood, head bobbing and moving his legs. Linus closed his satchel and walked over to his brother.

  “He’s not going to know what he is for about another two hours,” Linus said.

  “What … is he?”

  “Rudolph’s soul was somewhere in between. He’s undead now and that’s the way he’ll stay. Whatever part of his soul remains in him needs to find its way back. You’re not going to know what you get until then. But right now, he’s nothing but a shell.”

  Baker scowled at him. “Fine … but two hours? That’s when we leave!”

  “I did what you asked me to do, Baker. I’ll show myself out,” Linus said. He put on his heavy coat and left.

  Baker went back into the stall. From behind, he could see the glow of Rudolph’s nose much brighter than before. Well then, he thought, this might be just another Christmas then.

  As Baker walked around to greet undead Rudolph, a horrific reality set in. Instead of his nose glowing and soft features greeting Baker, Rudolph’s eyes shined a furious crimson from hollowed out gouges in his skull, radiating like bright headlamps on an automobile. Tinged saliva dripped down from jagged fangs surrounded by pale gums and dying tissue. Parts of the reindeer’s jawbone and skull were exposed. By any measure, Rudolph did not look like Rudolph. Instead, Baker realized, Rudolph looked like some beast conjured to eat the children rather than deliver their presents.

  Baker angrily swung open the gate to the paddock, yelling in the direction of his departed brother. “Yeah, thanks!” Baker cried. “Now I have a reindeer makeover problem!”

  He called Myer and Jerry back into the paddock and devised two plans. The first dealt with how to get Rudolph to fly. The second dealt with keeping a zombie reindeer under wraps.

  * * *

  About two hours later, Baker stood in a room with the other Workshop department heads talking to Santa as he donned the red suit that made him famous.

  “Toys are done! As always Baker, an exemplary job. And we’re ready to fly?” Santa said, fastening the chrome buckle on his patent leather black belt.

  “Just one small glitch sir but nothing that will affect the flight,” Baker said.

  “Oh? And what’s that?” Santa said, turning toward Baker with a broad, warm smile.

  “It’s Rudolph, sir,” Baker said. “Nothing that won’t prevent him from flying.”

  “Well?” Santa asked, leaning down toward Baker’s face, still smiling. “What is it?”

  Baker swallowed. “Strep throat.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Rudolph has a terrible case of strep throat.”

  “Reindeer get … strep throat?”

  “All the time.”

  “So, how many of the other reindeer have had …”

  “Strep throat? Just Rudolph.”

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Santa laughed “I think someone is pulling Santa’s leg.”

  “He’s fine to fly. He’ll just have something on his head so he doesn’t … spread it.”

  “Like what?” Santa asked.

  “A bag.”

  “A bag?”

  “Well, like a bag. But more … Christmas-ish. Like a Christmas-ish … bag.”

  “But won’t that look …?”

  “No one ever sees him but us. Children all tucked in their beds and all that.”

  “Ah yes. I suppose. We don’t want him to show up in any children’s books or Christmas literature with that bag on his head,” Santa said with a hearty laugh. The others in the room laughed in unison. “So long as he can fly. I need him to guide that sleigh tonight!”

  “And he will do just that! Everything is ready,” Baker said.

  Santa pressed his cap onto his head. “Then let’s go deliver some presents!”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Santa and Baker walked toward the sleigh. Baker realized what remained of Rudolph’s soul would be popping into his zombie shell within minutes. While Baker had no idea what that meant, that would be just enough time for the reindeer to get oriented and lead the sleigh. He figured that it was still Rudolph’s soul and that was enough to get things moving zombie or not.

  Santa stopped walking. “I should talk to Rudolph and cheer him up a bit.”

  “No, Santa. Really. He feels bad enough as it is. He’s raring to get out of the gates and get the flight started,” Baker replied.

  “Oh. Alright then. We’ll get going. Lots to do!”

  Baker followed Santa onto the sleigh sitting in front of the massive sack of goods. The sky cleared up nicely for the takeoff. The waxing moon gleamed off on the shining sled. The entire Workshop staff gathered around the sleigh sipping hot drinks and wrapped in warm clothes.

  Santa leaned into Baker and gave him a wink. “This is my favorite part,” he whispered, then looked toward the crowd and bellowed. “Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer, and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! On Rudolph, let’s go! You lead the way! And on this great night, guide our wonderful sleigh!”

  Santa snapped the reins. The crowd cheered.

  And nothing happened.

  Baker sat nervously as Santa tried again. “Okay, Rudolph! Let’s go, my friend! Up in to the sky! The children await! Ho, ho, ho!”

  Still nothing.

  Baker turned toward Santa who, while still jolly, seemed disturbed.

  “Let me go check on him,” Baker said.

  Baker walked to the front of the team. He was running out of ideas and they needed to leave. He lifted the decorated covering above Rudolph’s head and did the only thing he could think of.

  “Rudolph! It’s time to go. Wake up. Wake up and let’s go, you dumb zombie!”

  Rudolph didn't budge.

  Baker looked back at Santa.

  “Strep throat still botherin’ him?” Santa asked.

  “A bit. Should be just a minute.”

  “Well, we’ve, uh, got to go! Ho, ho, ho!”

  “He’s being a little … self-conscious.”

  Baker leaned under the hood again. “Listen to me, you undead prima donna! It is time to fly. I’m not going to have you ruin this because you are …”

  Baker couldn't finish his sentence. In one swift motion, Rudolph kicked him out of the way and ripped off the costume hood, loosing an unholy squeal and breaking free from the rigging holding the once red-nosed reindeer to the rest of the sleigh team. Zombie Rudolph rose onto two legs and lurched toward Prancer, jaws open wide and oozing the stuff of undead hunger.

  “Oh my!” Santa yelled. “Everyone, run away! We don't want anyone to get strep throat!”

  Rudolph’s jaws came down on top of Prancer’s head. Baker covered his eyes. He heard growling and crying; shrieks of horror on Christmas Eve night. When Baker got brave enough to look again, he saw Prancer fall limp, Rudolph finishing off the last bits of the reindeer’s grey matter. Rudolph turned toward the other reindeer, which were helpless to free themselves from their sleigh team bindings. This is it, Baker thought. Here comes the carnage.
>
  Then, something wonderful happened. In what Baker could only describe as a Christmas miracle, Rudolph calmly settled onto the snow. The red light shining from his eyes looked a bit more like Santa’s cheeks instead of fear.

  “Wow,” Rudolph said. “What – what happened?”

  Santa climbed out from his hiding position behind the sleigh and cautiously joined Baker near Rudolph.

  “You … you have strep throat.”

  “No, Santa. Actually, it’s a bit more severe than that,” Baker said, He knew he had to come clean with Kris Kringle. Baker explained what happened.

  “So, I’m … a zombie?”

  “But you’re still our Rudolph!” Santa said, surprising Baker. A half-smile crossed the jolly old man’s face. “Can your undead, glowing red eyes help me find my way through the fog again tonight?”

  Santa took time to calm the Workshop employees and make spirits right. Elves quickly cleaned the blood and entrails off the sleigh-team rigging and carriage while others dragged Prancer around to the back of the stable. Another set of elves reequipped Rudolph and his eight companions for the night ride. Fireball took Prancer’s place.

  Santa and Baker took their seats on the sleigh bench again. Baker started to feel like everything would be alright. Then Santa looked down at him.

  “Strep throat?” he said.

  Baker shrugged his shoulders. “Best I could do on short notice.”

  “We’ll talk more about this later.” Santa snapped his whip and the sleigh leapt up into the night sky to applause and good cheer from the reformed crowd. “Let’s off, my red-eyed, zombie friend! Lead the way!”

  Baker felt uneasy about an undead Rudolph. Would he try to feed on the other reindeer’s brains again? And what might become of the newly dead Prancer? Then he stopped and reminded himself that it was still Christmas Eve.

  Zooming over the first few countries on their ride, Baker grabbed his clipboard and a pen and rewrote the lyrics of a classic: