A Zombie Christmas Carol

by Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens

  “And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.

  “As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”

  Bob’s voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

  His active little crutch was heard upon the floor, and back came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his stool before the fire; and while Bob, turning up his cuffs—as if, poor fellow, they were capable of being made more shabby—compounded some hot mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and round and put it on the hob to simmer; Master Peter, and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits went to fetch the goose, with which they soon returned in high procession.

  Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought a goose the rarest of all birds; a feathered phenomenon, to which a black swan was a matter of course—and in truth it was something very like it in that house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes with incredible vigour; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple-sauce; Martha dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah!

  There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last! Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows! But now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room alone—too nervous to bear witnesses—to take the pudding up and bring it in.

  Suppose it should not be done enough! Suppose it should break in turning out! Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back-yard, and stolen it, while they were merry with the goose—a supposition at which the two young Cratchits became livid! All sorts of horrors were supposed.

  Hallo! A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered—flushed, but smiling proudly—with the pudding, like a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top.

  Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

  At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. The compound in the jug being tasted, and considered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the table, and a shovel-full of chestnuts on the fire. Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meaning half a one; and at Bob Cratchit’s elbow stood the family display of glass. Two tumblers, and a custard-cup without a handle.

  These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then Bob proposed:

  “A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us!”

  Which all the family re-echoed.

  “God bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

  He sat very close to his father’s side upon his little stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

  “Spirit,” said Scrooge, with an interest he had never felt before, “tell me if Tiny Tim will live.”

  “I see a vacant seat,” replied the Ghost, “in the poor chimney-corner, and a crutch without an owner. If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, the child will die as will all the family here.”

  “No, no,” said Scrooge. “Oh, no, kind Spirit! say they will be spared.”

  “If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race,” returned the Ghost, “will find them here. What then? If he and the rest are like to die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.”

  Scrooge hung his head to hear his own words quoted by the Spirit, and was overcome with penitence and grief.

  “Tell me Spirit, why will they die? I see that Tiny Tim is frail and vulnerable, but the rest of his family appear strong and they care for themselves as well as they ought.”

  “Man,” said the Ghost, “if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! to hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!”

  Scrooge bent before the Ghost’s rebuke, and trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them speedily, on hearing his own name.

  “Mr. Scrooge!” said Bob; “I’ll give you Mr. Scrooge, the Founder of the Feast!”

  “The Founder of the Feast indeed!” cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening. “I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it.”

  “My dear,” said Bob, “the children! Christmas Day.”

  “It should be Christmas Day, I am sure,” said she, “on which one drinks the health of such an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man as Mr. Scrooge. You know he is, Robert! Nobody knows it better than you do, poor fellow!”

  “My dear,” was Bob’s mild answer, “Christmas Day.”

  “I’ll drink his health for your sake and the Day’s,” said Mrs. Cratchit, “not for his. Long life to him! A merry Christmas and a happy new year! He’ll be very merry and very happy, I have no doubt!”

  The children drank the toast after her. It was the first of their proceedings which had no heartiness. Tiny Tim drank it last of all, but he didn’t care twopence for it. Scrooge was the Ogre of the family. The mention of his name cast a dark shadow on the party, which was not dispelled for full five minutes.

  After it had passed away, they were ten times merrier than before, from the mere relief of Scrooge the Baleful being done with. Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five-and-sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tremendously at the idea of Peter’s being a man of business; and Peter himself looke
d thoughtfully at the fire from between his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular investments he should favour when he came into the receipt of that bewildering income. Martha, who was a poor apprentice at a milliner’s, then told them what kind of work she had to do, and how many hours she worked at a stretch, and how she meant to lie abed to-morrow morning for a good long rest; to-morrow being a holiday she passed at home. Also how she had seen a countess and a lord some days before, and how the lord “was much about as tall as Peter;” at which Peter pulled up his collars so high that you couldn’t have seen his head if you had been there. All this time the chestnuts and the jug went round and round; and by-and-bye they had a song, about a lost child travelling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it very well indeed.

  There was nothing of high mark in this. They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker’s. But, they were happy, grateful, pleased with one another, and contented with the time; and when they faded, and looked happier yet in the bright sprinklings of the Spirit’s torch at parting, Scrooge had his eye upon them, and especially on Tiny Tim, until the last.

  A loud clattering came from outside, quickly by a loud banging on the door. Bob Cratchit looked in the direction and then back at his family. Miss Belinda made to move but he gestured for her to stay. He stood up and made his way to the door though he paused for a moment to check for anything suspicious. As he waited, a desperate banging came from a house further down the road. Mr Cratchit pushed open the door and stepped outside.

  “Mr Cratchit, something evil approaches, it is attacking every house, run!” cried a boy as he rushed past.

  “Evil?” he asked as he looked carefully down the street.

  He concentrated watching for movement. Then he spotted the vanguard of the horde as it made its slow, methodical progress through the city. A series of screams came from a house just a few streets away. He was about to turn away when he spotted a young woman being chased. A person in ragged clothing grabbed her and knocked her to the ground. Mr Cratchit had seen enough and turned inside the house.

  “Miss Belinda, the poker from the fire, quickly my child, have a care not to burn yourself!” he cried.

  The child was quick and in moments handed the still hot poker, wrapped in a wet cloth at one end to him.

  “Thank you, now lock the door behind me and do not open it unless you hear my voice, understood?” he said.

  The young girl nodded and stepped back, pushing the door behind her. With a satisfying clunk, he heard the bolt as it slid carefully into place. He turned and checked on the state of the young woman, she was still on the ground and fighting for her life.

  Rushing forward Scrooge reached the group and without hesitation, he struck the first in the chest. The blow was mighty and it sent the person stumbling backwards. As Mr Cratchit stepped forward to help the girl the man staggered forwards, him arms out in front, trying to grab him. With a deft movement he stepped to the man’s side and swung the poker into the man’s arm, it broke almost instantly with a sickening crunch.

  “Leave us!” shouted Mr Cratchit.

  It then simply turned towards him and that is when he finally saw the terrible face. It was the body of a man but the face of a corpse. The skin was pale white and the arms were scarred, and damaged.

  “Lord save us!” cried Mr Cratchit as he stabbed the poker into the creature’s chest.

  As it howled, Mr Cratchit bent down and grabbed the young woman, helped her up and then rushed back to his home.

  “Thank you, mister,” said the woman as she tried to keep running.

  As they reached the door, they both turned and looked back. The man was standing in the middle of the road with another dozen vile people not far behind. They watched in astonishment as he looked down at the metal spike in his chest and then looked back at Mr Cratchit. With a pathetic groaning, the thing started to stagger as though it was a corpse being dragged towards them.

  Mr Cratchit knocked on the door in a particular sequence and called out, instantly it flew open to reveal his wife and children, all armed and waiting for danger.

  “Inside!” ordered Mr Cratchit.

  The two rushed through the door and as they entered the room Mrs Cratchit stepped forward and barred it shut.

  “What’s happening out there, Father?” asked Miss Belinda.

  “I do not know, there is a group of evil men in the street, they were attacking this kind lady,” he explained.

  Martha looked at the woman, her face already pale.

  “She does not look well, does she?” asked Tiny Tim.

  “No she doesn’t, help her to the table. Belinda, clear some space so we can lie her down. I will check her for wounds,” said Mrs Cratchit.

  With great effort, the little group moved the poorly woman to the table and lay her down carefully. As they looked at her, the front door started to shake.

  “Children, watch the windows, I will guard the door,” explained Bob Cratchit.

  As they rushed into their positions one of the windows shattered and two scruffy men started to pull themselves inside. Miss Belinda rushed forward, bravely striking the first man with a pan. Tiny Tim joined in but their attacks seemed to do little to the foul figure. The first man already had one leg inside when Mr Cratchit arrived. In his hand he carried the carving knife and with precision that surprised them all forced in directly through the man’s forehead.

  “Oh, Lord!” cried Martha Cratchit as she covered her eyes.

  The children recoiled at the violence but Bob, spurred on by his desire to protect his family, continued his attacks and managed to push them both out of the house.

  “Tiny Tim, get some hammers and nails, we need to block the windows!” shouted Mr Cratchit.

  The Spirit started to draw away from the home and with him Scrooge.

  “Wait, we can’t leave them like this!” said Scrooge.

  The Spirit said nothing and in seconds, they had left the home and returned to the street. As they reached a distance from the evil scene, the unearthly creature pointed out into the distance. Scrooge strained his eyes but could see well enough to spot whatever calamity he had found.

  “They grow closer and each step brings that family closer to death,” he said with a chill that made Scrooge shudder.

  By this time it was getting dark, and snowing pretty heavily; and as Scrooge and the Spirit went along the streets, there was no sign that anything untoward was happening or that any foul calamity would befall the inhabitants of the city. The brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms, was wonderful. Here, the flickering of the blaze showed preparations for a cosy dinner, with hot plates baking through and through before the fire, and deep red curtains, ready to be drawn to shut out cold and darkness. There all the children of the house were running out into the snow to meet their married sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts, and be the first to greet them. Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour’s house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter—artful witches, well they knew it—in a glow!

  ”What of the darkness though, these people will soon be under the grip of this evil tide!” cried Scrooge.

  “Indeed, this is the price many will pay on this night if there is nobody that cares strongly enough to do something about it,” said the Spirit.

  The happiness and joy found by Scrooge helped to calm his mind and in just minutes he had forgotten about the darkness spoken of by the Spirit and was already enjoying the festivities and joy around him.

  But, if you had judged from the numbers of people on their way to friendly gatherings, you might have thought that no one was at home to give them welcome when they
got there, instead of every house expecting company, and piling up its fires half-chimney high. Blessings on it, how the Ghost exulted! How it bared its breadth of breast, and opened its capacious palm, and floated on, outpouring, with a generous hand, its bright and harmless mirth on everything within its reach! The very lamplighter, who ran on before, dotting the dusky street with specks of light, and who was dressed to spend the evening somewhere, laughed out loudly as the Spirit passed, though little kenned the lamplighter that he had any company but Christmas!

  And now, without a word of warning from the Ghost, they stood upon a bleak and desert moor, where monstrous masses of rude stone were cast about, as though it were the burial-place of giants; and water spread itself wheresoever it listed, or would have done so, but for the frost that held it prisoner; and nothing grew but moss and furze, and coarse rank grass. Down in the west the setting sun had left a streak of fiery red, which glared upon the desolation for an instant, like a sullen eye, and frowning lower, lower, lower yet, was lost in the thick gloom of darkest night.

  “What place is this?” asked Scrooge.

  “A place where Miners live, who labour in the bowels of the earth,” returned the Spirit. “But they know me. See!”

  A light shone from the window of a hut, and swiftly they advanced towards it. Passing through the wall of mud and stone, they found a cheerful company assembled round a glowing fire. An old, old man and woman, with their children and their children’s children, and another generation beyond that, all decked out gaily in their holiday attire. The old man, in a voice that seldom rose above the howling of the wind upon the barren waste, was singing them a Christmas song—it had been a very old song when he was a boy—and from time to time they all joined in the chorus. So surely as they raised their voices, the old man got quite blithe and loud; and so surely as they stopped, his vigour sank again.