by Brom
He cut his eyes to the Santa sack, gave it a hard look as though it had betrayed him somehow. Without slowing, he leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. He jerked the sack from the floorboard and shoved it out the window. It bounced along the blacktop and tumbled into the ditch.
He was done with Goodhope, done with West Virginia, done with crazy devil men and their burning orange eyes, done with the General, done with all the bullshit. And if Linda wants to marry that bastard Dillard so goddamn bad, wants his big house, his big fancy car . . . then she can just have him. Can just have all of it!
He tried to hold on to that, to not think beyond it, but there was more to all this, something he couldn’t turn away from, and deep down he knew it. He focused on the road, on the yellow stripes zipping past, tried his best not to hear her name, her voice . . . Daddy. Jesse clenched his jaw, clutched the steering wheel so hard that the hole in his hand began to throb.
You heard the General. You heard him good. He’s gonna put Abigail in a box.
“He won’t do it. No way.”
What if he does? Can you live with that?
Jesse let off the accelerator.
The truck dropped down to forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . ten.
No easy way out. Not for you, Jesse. Never is.
He came up on an empty used car lot and pulled in beneath the tattered streamers. Faded letters proclaiming GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE were flaking off the showroom window. He got out of the truck and slammed the door. There was a huge dent in the passenger door, the side mirror was gone, he had one wiper left, and, of course, that fist-size hole in the front windshield. He noticed Millie Boggs’s little plastic Jesus wedged between the back of his cab and the front of the camper shell. The baby Savior appeared to be looking directly at him and smiling.
“You having yourself a good time?” Jesse shouted up at the doll.
Baby Jesus didn’t answer.
“Not exactly sure what it is I ever done to you. Judging by the way things is going must’ve been something awful.” Jesse kicked the door. “Y’know, it’s not like I didn’t have enough bad shit going on already.”
Jesse’s eyes dropped back to the hole in his windshield and he let out a long sigh. “That needs fixing.” He went around to the back of the camper, dropped the tailgate, and lifted up the camper latch. He shoved aside his guitar, the bags of video consoles, and crawled in. His sleeping bag, a canvas bag full of work clothes, and the few odds and ends left in the truck after his father had died were crammed up against the cab. All the junk being too old and beat up to sell or pawn. He pulled aside a toolbox and a fishing rod, then hefted the old man’s hunting rifle. He’d wrapped the rifle in oily rags to keep it from rusting and figured he could use those rags to plug up the hole for now. He unwrapped the gun, piling the rags in his lap, then just held the rifle, a lever-action .22, running his hand along the worn grip and stock. It felt like an old friend and took him back to roaming the woods as a youth, hunting squirrels and rabbits—a time when his only worries seemed to be avoiding the game commission.
A semi roared past and Jesse glanced out. He noticed that it was edging toward dusk and his chest tightened. They’d be expecting him at the school soon and if he didn’t show, he’d have more than the devil men after him. “Whatcha gonna do, Jesse?” He patted the rifle. Just go back and shoot ’em all and be done with it. He grinned but the grin lacked any humor, because he knew what he really had to do, and knew the doing of it wouldn’t be easy. You’re gonna have to go get Abigail then get the hell out of here and that’s all there is to it. Head down to Mexico or maybe Peru, somewhere where the General and his crew will never find you. He had no idea how exactly, especially having only four dollars in his pocket. He shook his head, set the rifle down, and it dawned on him that maybe the General was the solution. When Jesse made a run, he also picked up the payment on the other end, usually in the range of two or three thousand dollars. Just take the cash and run. He nodded. Should be enough time to take care of things before the General catches on. Just need to make sure Dillard’s out of the house. He bit his thumb. That shouldn’t be too hard. Set a Dumpster on fire, or better yet smash in a storefront window. Jesse felt a twinge of hope. A chance, no matter how small, was better than none at all. Snatch up Abigail while Dillard’s out chasing ghosts.
“And Linda?” His brow furrowed. Linda’s gonna be a problem. A big problem. He shook his head. Maybe once I tell her everything she’ll see it my way. She’ll have to. Another thought struck him. Maybe if I can find that photo of Ellen. He nodded, his heart speeding up. If she were to see that picture, maybe she’d even come along.
Except?
“Except what?”
Whatcha gonna do once you get down to Mexico? He looked at the two bags of game consoles. Wouldn’t be too hard to sell those things down in Mexico. He thought of the sack lying on the side of the road, just lying there where anyone could come along and take it.
“Shit, need to go get that sack.”
Jesse scooted out of the camper, slammed it shut, ran around, and jumped into the cab. He stuffed the rags into the window, cranked up the engine, and headed back up the highway.
A minute later, he plucked the Santa sack out of the mud, surprised that none of the mud stuck to it, it wasn’t even wet. A screech drew his attention upward; two large birds circled above. It took Jesse a second to realize they were the same type of birds he’d seen circling his trailer, maybe even the very same ones. He shoved the sack into the passenger seat and the birds began cawing. The approaching dusk cast the woods in dark shadows. Jesse thought of the devil men, of their eyes. He climbed back in the truck as fast as he could and headed into town.
JESSE PASSED THE NO DRUG ZONE sign, slowed down, and pulled into the Sunny Hills Elementary School parking lot. He cruised around to the back of the cafeteria and parked near the Dumpsters. He noticed his fuel light was on, thumped it twice, watched the light flicker, and made a mental note to inform Chet that if he wanted him to make it to Charleston and back, he’d better spot him some gas money.
Jesse turned off the engine and stared at the monkey bars. He’d spent many a recess hanging about in that playground, back when he attended Sunny Hills, back when he still had dreams of becoming a big-time, guitar-strumming fool.
He glanced up the road. Where the hell is Chet? Jesse didn’t much care to be sitting in any one place for too long, not with those things out there somewhere. He wanted a cigarette, something to calm his nerves. He scanned the woods for any sign of their orange eyes. It was almost full dark and every shadow and bush looked as though it was creeping up on him. He picked his pistol up off the seat, popped open the chamber, double-checking that the revolver was fully loaded. He wondered if bullets would do any good against something like them, wondered if you needed silver bullets, or holy water, or some such. He slapped it shut and slid it into his front jacket pocket. He noted the Santa sack sticking up and tried to shove it deeper into the foot well.
If I can just pull this off, he thought. Get Linda and Abigail out of here, then things could be really good. Live someplace where it’s warm, near the beach, somewhere nice for a little girl to grow up. Maybe even carve out a little space to play my songs. It wouldn’t be Memphis, but it wouldn’t be Boone County neither. I’d have my family, and I wouldn’t screw things up this time. No, sir, not this time.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and did something he’d not done since he was a little boy. “Lord, if you got a moment I’d appreciate you giving me a listen. I know I don’t deserve your consideration, but if you could maybe ease up on me just a bit, just this once, for Abigail’s sake, I’d be mighty grateful. And if you do . . . I swear I’ll make it up to you, somehow, someway. I swear.”
He heard a caw, snapped his eyes open, and sat up, his heart drumming. He rolled down his window and peered up. The ravens, both of them, were circling above. “Oh, that ain’t right. Not at all.” He reached for the ignit
ion and noticed two pairs of headlights heading his way.
Dillard’s patrol car pulled in and parked at the top entrance of the school parking lot to keep an eye on things, make sure no one interfered. Chet’s late-model Chevy Avalanche, black with tinted windows, pulled into the lower entrance and drove over to where Jesse was parked.
Jesse sucked in a deep breath. “Play it cool, Jesse. Don’t fuck this up.”
SANTA’S LONG STRIDE ate up the ground as he cut across the parking lot of the Goodhope Methodist Church. He was grateful for the approaching dusk, keenly aware of the odd looks he’d been getting. As he approached the church, a young woman carrying a cardboard box came rapidly around the corner. The large box blocked her view and she crashed into him, which knocked the box from her hands. Several bags of New Year’s Eve’s hats and horns spilled onto the walkway.
“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I am so sorry, I—” She did a double take and suddenly seemed at a loss for words. She glanced back over her shoulder to the man coming up behind her, an older, wiry man with stern, penetrating eyes. The man also carried a box of party supplies.
Santa Claus, stooped, raked the contents back into the box, handed it to the lady, then set off on his way.
“Hey, mister,” the lady called. “Excuse me. You dropped something. Here.”
Santa turned. The woman held his horn. He returned and she handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, and started to leave.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
This brought a slight smile to his face. “Merry Christmas.”
The man next to her looked him up and down, frowning at his trappings. He shook his head. “Today is Jesus’s birthday. Just pointing that out, brother, on account that some folks get a bit confused this time of year.” He laid a light hand on Santa’s arm and grinned. “They think it’s Santa Claus Day.”
Santa met his eye and held it.
“Reverend,” the lady said. “Don’t you even start.” She looked at Santa apologetically. “Just ignore him. He’s a bit impractical when it comes to Christmas.”
“Darn straight I am. Santa Claus and all his little presents tend to get in the way of God’s message.”
“As can religion,” Santa replied.
The reverend squinted. “Well, don’t think you can argue that the world needs a whole lot more Jesus and a whole lot less Santa.”
“God has many servants.”
The pastor addressed the woman. “See, this here’s just what I’ve been going on about. People get confused, especially children. Santa Claus is a fairy tale. Folks tell their children any different, why, they’re flat-out lying to ’em.”
“What makes you so sure Santa Claus is not real?” Santa asked.
“Ain’t ever laid eyes on him, have you?”
“Have you set eyes on Jesus?”
The reverend hesitated. “Jesus is in my heart.”
“Is there not room in your heart for both? They both spread peace, charity, and goodwill.”
“Only Jesus can save your soul from eternal damnation.” A smug smile spread across the reverend’s face. “Can Santa Claus do that? Don’t think so.”
Santa let out a sigh. “We all serve God in our way.” Then, almost to himself: “Sometimes whether we wish it or not.”
The pastor gave him a puzzled look, continued on, something about salvation, but Santa didn’t hear a word, listening instead to the distant cawing. He searched the sky, caught sight of the ravens circling far down the way. They have found it! They found the sack!
Santa set off quickly, leaving the pastor and the woman exchanging concerned looks.
ISABEL PUSHED BACK her hood, removed her sunglasses, and searched the sky. She found no sign of the ravens. All five of the Belsnickels stood on the bluff, scanning the valley, the small township of Goodhope sprawled out below them. Darkness was slipping in fast beneath the dense, low-lying clouds. They all hoped the man in the truck hadn’t gone far. All too aware that if the man had left the area then there’d be little chance of finding him before Santa or his monsters did.
Makwa gestured north, and they all looked that way.
“You see them?” Vernon asked.
Makwa jabbed his finger impatiently. He could speak English, all three of the Shawnee could, but doing so seemed to annoy them. Makwa referred to English as the ugly tongue. Isabel had given up on learning Shawnee, figured if she couldn’t pick it up after all these years then she never would. So between the Indians’ stubbornness and her lack of language skills, they were all, more often than not, reduced to grunts and pantomime.
“Well, I don’t see a thing,” Vernon snapped. Isabel couldn’t either, but that didn’t mean the giant birds weren’t out there. Makwa had been with Krampus a long time; Isabel guessed at least four hundred years, and the longer you were around Krampus the more his magic rubbed off. Makwa looked at them as though they were simple-minded, then took off down the trail followed by the two brothers, Wipi and Nipi. Isabel and Vernon shrugged and followed.
All five of them raced through the woods. There was no need to hide their faces in the growing darkness, and Isabel reveled in the winter wind blowing through her hair. Krampus’s blood ran through their veins, increasing their strength and endurance noticeably. Isabel could sprint faster, leap farther, and run endlessly without tiring. But his blood did more than that; it also opened their senses to the wildness of the world in a way no ordinary mortal could ever know. She could smell the spice of rotting leaves beneath the frost, the fish in the creek, could hear a family of squirrels nesting high above in the treetops, could actually sense the pulse of life running beneath all things. Ancient forces, she thought, older than the very dirt. And when she ran like this—leaping and dashing through the woods like a deer, her heart and soul open to the spirit of the land—she found she could almost forget all that had been stolen from her.
They followed a creek beneath the highway, skirted a cluster of homes, then climbed up an embankment, coming out of the trees into a field behind the high school. The school looked the same to Isabel as it had when she’d attended over forty years ago. She stared at the dark windows and wondered if her son had gone there as well.
Makwa held up his hand and they stopped. He pointed toward the dark clouds. This time Isabel made out two specks circling about a mile away, near the elementary school, caught their distant calls. Her heart sped up. “He’s still here!” Isabel felt her hopes rise. This time they knew the make of the man’s truck, knew what he looked like. He wouldn’t get away.
Makwa shook his head, looking troubled.
“What?” Isabel asked. “What’s wrong now?”
“They call him. Call Santa Claus. He must be near.”
The two brothers nodded their agreement.
“Oh, wonderful, that’s just wonderful,” Vernon said, his voice edging toward hysteria. “What do we do now?”
“We beat him there,” Isabel stated.
“That’s all well and good, but what if he already has it?”
“Then we take it from him,” she said, not the least bit happy about it.
And that was the end of it; they all knew what she meant. Krampus had given them a direct command. He possessed them; the same blood that gave them the ability to run like deer also dominated their will. If Krampus should demand they chew open their own wrists while humming a tune, they’d be powerless to do anything but. They’d been commanded to bring back the sack at any cost, and so they’d expend their last breath trying, even if it meant going into the jaws of Santa’s monsters to do it.
“We’re wasting time,” Isabel said, and dashed away. The Belsnickels followed.
She ran all out, and as she ran she took note of the beauty around her, the thousand shades of blue and purple, savored winter’s twilight in its entire splendor as it fell across the mountains, knowing too well it may be her very last.
CHET CLIMBED OUT of his truck. “Why, I knew we could count on you, Jesse.”
He walked up to Jesse and gave him a slap on the back. “You’re the man.” Chet did a double take on Jesse’s truck then tilted his head sideways. “What the fuck happened to your pickup?”
Lynyrd got out from the passenger side of Chet’s Chevy and came up behind Jesse, grabbed him by the collar.
“Hey,” Jesse cried. “Get your goddamn hands off of me.”
“Cool it,” Lynyrd said, and proceeded to pat Jesse down. He found the pistol in Jesse’s jacket pocket and fished it out.
“What? You gonna take my gun? What the fuck?”
“Just calm down, man. You can have your shitty shooter back once we’re done.” Lynyrd sat the pistol on the hood of Jesse’s truck. “Just wanna be sure you don’t do nothing you’re gonna regret.”
“How’s the hand?” Chet asked, and smiled.
Jesse glared at him, pressed his back up to the camper so he could keep an eye on both of them as well as the trees behind them.
“You nervous about something, Jesse?” Chet asked.
“Let’s just get this over with.”
“Well, damn. You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“I got better things to do then hang out with you two pricks.”
Chet glanced over at Lynyrd and raised his eyebrows. “Jesse, I’m gonna ignore that on account you’re too stupid to know better.”
Jesse thought he caught movement in the bushes behind Lynyrd. Chet followed Jesse’s eyes into the trees. “Relax,” Chet said. “Nobody’s out there. Besides, your good buddy Dillard’s got us covered.” Jesse sucked in a breath and fought to keep his nerves under control, did his best not to think about burning orange eyes.
“Oh, and hey,” Chet said. “Thought you’d like to know . . . my nephew went batshit-crazy over that video game machine you gave me. I mean you should’ve seen his face. Thought he was gonna turn blue and piss himself right there on the carpet.”
Jesse thought he was gonna piss himself if things didn’t get moving. He wanted to scream at Chet to shut the fuck up and get on with it already before they were all eaten alive.