The Undead That Saved Christmas

by ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics

  Five seconds ago, he was dead. But now he was standing and his blood-ringed eyes looked around the room; Mike could see past the flaps of his dad’s neck right through to his blood-smeared spinal cord. His dad was alive.

  No, Mike’s mind quickly corrected itself. He’s not alive. You know what he is.

  “No fucking way,” he muttered, and the zombie’s eyes rolled to focus on him. “Dad?”

  “Dave?” Uncle Rebar said to Mike’s dad—his best friend—and now those eyes fell on him and, no doubt since Rebar was closer, elicited a screech from Mike’s dad and sent the thing reaching and scraping over the table at him.

  “He’s a zombie, Uncle Rebar! Grandma must’ve—” Mike said, but then remembered that Grandma had vanished after her fall. “What happened to Grandma?”

  Now that he listened more closely, he could hear a second snarling, choking roar, coming from the kitchen doorway, right where Grandma had fallen. He peeked around the table and saw his grandmother writhing there, trying to pull herself toward the living people in the dining room, desperate to get at that meat.

  Her hip, Mike realized. She’s so old even as a zombie she broke her fucking hip.

  Mike couldn’t move, frozen with horror at the thought of old age.

  “Sir, help is on the way,” the 911 operator said from the phone Mike had forgotten he still held. “Sir?”

  “M-My Grandma needs medical attention. I think she’s... hurt.”

  He stood there in a daze, listening to the clicking of a keyboard on the other side of the line and watching his zombie dad attack Pervy’s uncle. “So your grandmother and your father are both in need of medical attention?”

  “Yeah. They’re dead and now they’re killing everybody else.”

  At that, the thing that was Mike’s dad locked his ravenous eyes right on him.

  3 French Hens

  Mike’s mom and dad excused themselves from the table, and Mike, being closest to the kitchen, could just hear them talking in hushed tones on the other side of the door.

  “I think she’s gone, Jacquelyn,” his dad said. “I can’t hear the respirator any more.”

  “Honey, why don’t you go and check, put your mind at ease?”

  “Too obvious.” He sighed. “Even if she did just die, I don’t want to tell everybody right in the middle of Christmas dinner.”

  “I guess, if she passes tonight—I mean, if she already passed—we’ll just tell the kids in the morning?”

  “They’re teen-agers; once they see the police car and ambulance with no lights on, they’ll know what’s up. They can come downstairs and we’ll have a group hug and cry it out,” Mike’s dad said with a loving tone in his voice.

  “Okay, honey.” Mike could hear the little smack of their old married kiss. “You’re being so good with all of this.”

  “I’m just glad she’s finally at peace. It’s been so long coming.”

  So that was it, then. Grandma, so long wasting away in the room down the hall, was dead. Christmas wish DENIED. Thanks, God or whoever.

  Hearing them heading back into the room, Mike scrambled to rejoin Uncle Rebar at the table, and he had to admit that despite the sadness in the air over Grandma Adele dying in the back room and all, the brown and glistening holiday bird on the table—already carved by Mike’s dad and ready to serve—smelled fantastic, and he hadn’t eaten lunch in anticipation of this feast. His stomach gurgled loudly—growwwl—making Uncle Rebar grin at him.

  “Sorry about that, everybody,” Mike’s dad said as he stood behind his chair, his back to the hallway leading to Mike’s grandmother’s room. “Okay, let’s… wait, where’s Claire?”

  “And Purvis?” Uncle Rebar said, seeming to notice for the first time that his nephew wasn’t there. “I hope that boy isn’t upstairs jerking off, as usual!”

  “Rebar!” Mike’s mom scolded, but she was laughing. Rebar was always making salty jokes, even on solemn occasions.

  “Oh, I bet it’s about the new video game,” Mike said. “She said she had to give him the manual.”

  Growwwwwl. Uncle Rebar laughed now. “Boy, your stomach—”

  “That wasn’t me this time. I heard it come from Dad’s direction.”

  Mike’s dad raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it wasn’t m-”

  GROWWWWWL!

  The sound definitely was coming from Mike’s dad’s direction. But not from him—from behind him. He turned around and said in a small voice, “Mother?”

  GROWWWWWWLEEEEEEEEEAAAAGHHHHHHHH! ripped forth from whatever was on the other side of Mike’s dad, and he was thrown against the table by something small and ferocious squelching into him like a badger digging through mud.

  “HOLY SHIEEEEEEE—” Mike’s dad screamed as Grandma—Grandma!—dug her mouth into his neck and released a torrent of blood and muscle that shot up onto the ceiling.

  “MICHAEL, CALL 911!” Mike’s mom yelled. “GRANDMA’S SICK!”

  His heart racing as he jumped up and back away from the table, Mike’s mind flashed the thought: Sick? Isn’t she dead?

  2 Turtle Doves

  “Purvis, don’t you need to get your thing out?” Claire asked as soon as her and Mike’s mom and dad had gone into the kitchen to discuss God knew what. “You know, the, um, Christmas thing? Out of my room?”

  “Oh, right!” Pervy said very quickly.

  “We’re getting ready to eat,” Uncle Rebar protested, but they were already up and headed for the stairs.

  “It’ll just take a minute. Come on, Perv, I’ll give you a hand.”

  And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

  “There. All twelve days.” Mike’s dad gingerly placed the little brown ornamental bird at the very top of the Christmas tree, above the rings of turtle doves, maids a-milking, and all the rest. Then he bent over to Mike and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just like your mother demanded.”

  Mike laughed at his dad’s joke, mostly to show his dad that he was happy and everything was great even though Grandma was dying, really dying at long last, not fifty feet from where they stood. Not that Mike could blame him, but his dad had seemed so gloomy all day; Mike just wanted to help him feel a little better, bring him a little happiness. He couldn’t imagine losing him or his mom, no matter how old he got, even if he was thirty.

  He was glad Pervy and Perv’s Uncle Rebar were there—their own family gave them up so they could help Mike’s dad through this Christmas Eve. “Done with that job?” Rebar said. “Then it’s time for your next one, son—your wife told me to tell you to bring that bird out here so we can eat.”

  Mike’s dad chuckled and clapped Rebar on the back as they walked back toward the kitchen. Everyone took their seats—even Mike’s mom, who with Claire had done all the hard cooking work but now left the unveiling to Mike’s dad—and out came the browned and beautiful bird. It was greeted with the usual oohs and aahs.

  Mike’s dad led them in a prayer, but his voice broke in the middle of it and after a few awkward seconds of silence, Mike’s mom mercifully said, “Amen.”

  Mike’s dad cut a couple of juicy slices and then stopped, like he heard something. He remained standing there, unmoving, for a full minute, the carving knife in his hand, just staring at a spot in the middle of the table. Uncle Rebar started to get up, saying, “Hey, pal, I can…”

  “No, no. I’m good. It’s all good. Sorry, guys, I—I need to speak to Mom for a second.” He made a couple of deft cuts into the goose and pulled something free. “Claire, you mind if Purvis and Mike get the wishbone?”

  Mike knew his sister would also do anything to make their dad feel better, so she shook her head with a little smile.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Mike’s dad said to Claire, and tossed Pervy the wishbone and winked. “It’s Christmas, boys—make it count.” Then, his own smile suddenly vanishing, he took Mike’s mom by the hand and led her into the kitchen.

  Mike knew what was going on. At the same time his dad had suddenly stopped c
arving, Mike had heard the respirator stop, too. It created a silence in the house that they hadn’t had for weeks.

  Pervy held the wishbone out to Mike with a brace-filled grin. “I’m not saying this has been tampered with, but if it happens to break right down the middle, we both get our wish.”

  That was classic Perv. “I know what you’re wishing for,” Mike said quietly as they leaned in to break it. “Same as every year: That somebody other than yourself will finally touch your dick.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny these rumors, or else I might not get anybody else to finally touch my dick.” They laughed and each took an end. “What are you gonna wish for?”

  “Can’t tell you, dude,” Mike said lightly, and as his fingers closed down on the slippery wishbone, he closed his eyes with true seriousness and wished as hard as he could: Please, God, don’t let Grandma be dead.

  Don’t let anybody be dead on Christmas Eve.

  Story Art Cover

  By Nick Hallard

  http://njhallard.wordpress.com/

  Dedication

  To my husband, who is a zombie coo-coo.

  Author Bio

  Mandy Tinics is the book reviewer for

  www.Vampires-Bite.com

  This is Mandy’s first attempt at writing zombie fiction. She is currently working on her first vampire novella entitled, Darkness of Night. She plans on releasing it in October of 2010. Mandy lives in Southern California with her husband and daughter.

  The Santa Epidemic

  By Mandy Tinics

  “Mrs. Claus, the strangest thing happened. I was laying by the pool at the resort relaxing before I had to start making a list and checking it twice, when out of no where a man came at me. I thought the man was mad or had escaped from an asylum. But when I got up, he came charging me. I ran as quickly as I could, but he kept gaining on me. When I reached my room, I fumbled with the keycard. I finally opened the door. Just as I was going to close and lock the door, an arm blocked the way. Fortunately, I used the door to hit him hard enough to fall back, but not before he scratched these deep gashes into my arm." Santa lifted his sleeve and Mrs. Claus gasped.

  "Oh my, those are infected, come, we must get that cleaned." The edges were grey as if the tissue was dying, and pus was coming out of the wounds. "Santa, didn't you think to clean them before you left?"

  "I didn't exactly have time. Everyone was going crazy and attacking each other. I got dressed and decided I had to get to the roof to call the boys. I waited until there was silence before I opened the door. I poked my head out and looked from left to right, then right to left and then again. I ran to the door that read stairs. I figured that was my best bet because if the elevator doors opened on a floor where one of those rabid people were, I wasn't going to make it to the roof. It took me awhile because I'm not exactly in shape unless; you count round as a shape,” Santa chucked at his joke, then continued. “When I reached the top, I was weak and out of breath. When I was finally able to speak I shouted, ‘Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen we have to dash away right now!’ Then from nowhere they came like a flash. They didn’t slow down so I had to jump on. When I looked down it seemed as if everyone was going nuts.” He shook his head. Christmas was going to be pretty bleak he thought, as he watched Mrs. Claus clean his arm.

  “It looks as though it is getting worse right before our eyes,” His wife said. “We need to get you to the elf hospital so they can clean it properly.”

  Knowing better then to fight, Santa got up and went to the sleigh. He was feeling very ill and really wanted to get the show on the road.

  “My dear wife, Will you please hurry up?”

  “I’m coming don’t get your knickers in a bunch.”

  Not realizing it, he dozed through the ride to the hospital and only woke up when he heard Mrs. Claus holler stop. He didn’t have the strength to get up so she went in and asked for assistance to help Santa in. The elves were frantic because in all their years of working for the big guy, he had

  never been sick. Magic surrounded this place so nothing could get in. But when they saw how pale Santa was, they rushed around trying to figure out what was happening. When they pulled back his shirt from his fingers to his elbow the skin was rotting as if it had been dead for a long time.

  “Santa, move your fingers.”

  He tried and there was nothing.

  “I feel my body shutting down. It is my time to go.” The elves began prepping for surgery to remove the arm, to see if the infection stopped spreading through his body.

  When they finally put him under, they went to work cutting off the arm. They were sewing him up when he went in to cardiac arrest. They tried and tried to resuscitate him, but in the end Santa died. The elves all bowed their heads for a moment of silence. They covered him and together with Mrs. Claus, they began spreading the news and making plans.

  Since they were going to have the service for him that night they didn’t think to put him in the morgue. They left him in the room unattended. Spending the next few hours getting everything ready for the funeral, they all decided to meet at the hospital to dress him in his Santa suit, then put him in his final resting place, the snow globe that was made for him. When someone died at the North Pole they were placed in a snow globe and sealed in with magic.

  Santa Claus’ head elf followed Mrs. Claus home. He was to help ready Santa’s suit to dress him as everyone would want to remember him. The head elf’s name was Eldan. Eldan wanted to make sure that Mrs. Claus didn’t see Santa in his current state. He went ahead to clean the big guy up and reattach his arm. When Eldan arrived, everything was exactly the way it was when he left. The young elf quickly got to work.

  When he finished with his task, Santa looked as if he was just sleeping. He admired his handy work while he waited for help to get Santa loaded on to a special sleigh that would pull him through town. After Santa made his last tour around the North Pole, he was to be taken to the snow globe that awaited him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Eldan saw something move. He could have sworn that Santa had just twitched. He stared at the big guy’s hand. Nothing. It must have been one of the lights flickering that created the illusion of movement. Then he heard a low groan mixed with a gurgling noise.

  “Santa, are you alive?” Eldan asked.

  Santa’s head turned in the direction of the voice, but the eyes that looked at Eldan were not Santa’s. There was a milky film over them, and they no longer twinkled. The thing that used to be Santa reached for Eldan like he was hungry.

  “Santa it’s Eldan. What can I do to help?”

  An unintelligible grumble came from Santa; he began gnashing his teeth together and trying harder to get a hold of Eldan. Panic began at the base of his spine and was slowly working its way.

  Eldan didn’t want to think that Santa was anything but Jolly ol’ Saint Nicholas. This thing looking at him was no longer his boss. As he began to make his way to the door Santa rolled off the table with a loud thud. Eldan turned to see him struggling to stand because he only had one good arm. Eldan didn’t wait to see anymore; he ran out of the room not thinking of anything but to get the heck out of there.

  He told the nurses at the station that Santa had gotten up, and it wasn’t him controlling his body. No one believed the elf; he sounded like a raving lunatic talking about things that didn’t happen at the North Pole. Everyone that had been listening just blew him off and went to investigate for themselves. Everyone knew Eldan was talking crazy and that Santa would be lying on the table.

  Eldan heard screams as he ran out of the hospital. He shook his head, wishing that they had listened to him. He ran to city hall in the center of town and told the council everything that he had seen. But again they laughed at him and went to go see what the entire fuss was about. Eldan finally realized that he was the town’s only hope. He was not going to let the North Pole be overrun by a dead Santa.

  The Elf thought about his trips w
ith Santa, when they checked on the kids who were on his lists. He remembered finding a boy watching a movie with rotting humans walking about eating people. What was that movie called? Something zombies, or dead walking, he thought to himself. Could this really be happening in the North Pole, where we don’t even get colds?

  He needed to figure out what to do. He could sit upstairs and watch through the window. As he changed course, he saw a group of elves gathering on a street corner. Eldan was not going to go outside and take the chance of running into Santa.

  Eldan ran around his house making sure all the windows were covered and locked, then he went upstairs. It was getting dark. He sat in the corner where he could see everyone outside, but they could not see him. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Eldan awoke to shrieks coming from outside. He peered carefully through the window not to be seen. To his horror, Eldan saw elves that he had once talked to eating other elves. The Elf ducked and ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. This was not happening, he thought, I’m still sleeping and I need to wake up. He shook himself but nothing happened. Eldan made his way back to the window, his legs shook as he peered down at the chaos that once was a merry little town.

  He had to make a plan, but he didn’t even know what was going on. He went to his computer in the corner and turned it on. When it was finally loaded, he typed in ‘walking dead’. So much popped up that it overwhelmed him. He was right the night before, thinking that Santa was a zombie, but why was everything around him turning into one? He began reading everything that he could. To kill them completely he had to destroy the brain.