by Max Dune
Their visitation time ends too soon, and Doc has to kick them out.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, my love,” Lily says, kissing my cheek before she leaves.
Zeb gives me a fist-bump. “Later, bro.”
Doc turns off the lights as he leaves.
In the somber darkness, all alone, I look at the blinking lights and listen to the buzzing and clicking of the medical machines, like busy insects. I turn to look over at the other elves. They’re lying in the beds around me. Still unresponsive. Wrapped in the arms of unconsciousness. They have no idea Santa was even there, just a few feet from them. I close my eyes, shut everything off, and let my mind drag me away, perhaps to wherever they are.
Chapter Nine
I can tell I’m dreaming. The glossy sheen covering the tall, gray buildings as I cross the village is a dead giveaway. Not only that, but everyone, myself included, moves differently. There’s a kind of sluggishness to our walking and even in our talking, as if someone pressed a slow-motion button. Part of me doesn’t mind it. Actually, I prefer it. It’s much more peaceful this way, less rushed. With all the extra time, I am able to notice details I couldn’t before.
“Merry morning!” a passing elf says to me. In our slothful reality, it takes him twice as long to say it.
“Same to you,” I drawl back. I smile. How silly we sound. Am I the only one who notices it? I suppose it doesn’t matter. Then I wonder what time it is and glance at my watch. My brows furrow in confusion when I see that the hands and numbers are blurred. Still, the rising eastern sun indicates that it’s morning.
Lily and Zeb pop back into my head, and I suddenly have a strong urge to see them. Where would they be right now? The cafeteria, most likely. And that’s exactly where I find them.
Zeb catches sight of me first. He puts his fingers to his lips, then calls me over with a high-pitched whistle. Lily covers her ears and smiles an apology to the startled elves sitting around them.
I walk over, stifling my own laughter, and sit down. My waffles have already been served. A wisp of steam swirls from the syrupy strawberries covering the golden squares. My coffee is waiting, too. A perfect blend of tartness and sweetness.
Looking up from my food to my friends, I can’t help but beam. We laugh constantly throughout the meal, as if we haven’t a care in the world. In this reality, all the nonsense about the virus, death, and danger is nonexistent. Happiness abounds as soothing carols play from the wall speakers. I wish I could stay here forever.
The lighting suddenly changes, and my attention shifts to the windows. What happened to the sun? Within seconds, the blue sky has been swallowed by dark moody clouds. No one else seems to notice or care; only my alarms are going off, but I know something is wrong—very wrong.
I rise from my seat and walk to the windows. I want to get a better look. Behind me, Lily calls out my name, but I ignore her. This is important. I have to figure out what’s happening outside. When I finally reach the window, I press my hands against the cool glass and gaze out curiously.
A horrified gasp escapes me.
Even from this distance, I can see the tornado. The swirling mass of black destruction fights its way through the outlying forest, ripping trees from the ground with terrifying ease and tossing them aside like toys. And it is heading toward us. Fast.
I turn around, still in slow-motion, and call out. “Lily! Zeb! We have to get—”
It happens in a flash. The roof breaks off, flying straight up into the sky like a giant, misshapen Frisbee. Time returns to normal speed, and the air pressure drops so violently that my eardrums feel close to shattering. The soft carols are replaced by shrill screams as elves fly up into the rotating column of air outside. Nearby, I spot a radiator, firmly attached to the floor. I dive for it and hold on for dear life.
Now that I’m somewhat secure, I remember my friends. Panic courses through my veins. Looking around, I quickly spot Lily and Zeb, lying flat and gripping the floorboards with all their might, watching helplessly as tables and chairs take to the air and disappear into the ominous darkness above them.
“Guys!” I shout. “Over here!”
By some miracle, they hear me over the howling draft and attempt to crawl over on their elbows, keeping their bodies as flat as possible so they won’t be swept up like so many others. Freezing gusts tear at me, but I focus on how close my friends are. Four yards...three...two... Come on! Hurry! Hurry! I think, desperate for them to reach me.
Suddenly a microwave smashes into the wall I’m pressed against and drops at my feet. Its long cord gives me an idea. I reach out, grab the cord, and fling it to my friends, then hold the wayward appliance with my free arm. “Grab it!” I yell.
Being the closest, Lily reaches out and wraps her fingers around it.
Zeb makes a try, but a harsh gust shoves him just out of reach. His eyes dart to mine, his face plastered with fear. He opens his mouth to yell something, but before he can form any words, he is sucked up into the dark sky, disappearing from view. He’s gone.
My eyes widen. “Nooo!”
Five more seconds. That’s all I give myself before I return to Lily. It isn’t too late for her, and I can still save her. My voice is strong as I cry, “Come on! I’ve got you!”
“I’m trying!” she wails.
I know she is, because I feel her pulling. The problem is the suctioning effect of the high winds, jerking her away from me. It’s such a horrible feeling, not being able to help her. I’m tempted to release the radiator and use both hands to reel her in, but it’s too risky—for both of us. My strength is already waning as I try to battle the twister.
I continue watching Lily. She pulls herself closer, inch by inch. Whew! Another two yards. Please let her make it. Please, please, please...
Just as my hope rises, so does Lily; her body literally lifts off the floor. She screams over and over again, floating in midair, her clothes rippling, her hair whipping about her head. The only thing holding her down is the cord.
If she let’s go, even for a second... “Just hold on!” I tell her.
She gives me a quick, hysterical nod.
I try not to cry, try to remain calm, hoping that will give her the strength she needs now, the will to fight.
I have no idea how much time passes. Maybe it’s a minute, maybe longer, maybe less. As she dangles in the air, her eyes lock on mine, telling me she is doing all she can. I know she’s trying, but I feel her weakening, her grip loosening, her body sliding farther and farther away.
“Lucian!” she says, sobbing.
My voice shakes. “Hold on!”
All I can see are her eyes, those dazzling, green eyes. Even in the midst of her own turmoil, they gaze at me with so much love.
Then just like that, my Lily is gone too.
Just gone.
* * *
“No!” I jump up in bed, panting and sweating. I take a frantic look around in the dark. “Just a dream,” I say, letting out a shuddering breath and trying to control my trembling. It felt so real, losing Lily. The devastating sense of loss still burns within me. How much worse will it be when...? No! I shake the thought away.
I don’t even want to imagine it.
I get up and rummage through my clothes. My fingers settle on something small, smooth, and cold. It’s still there! I take out the glass vial and look at it. If Frost was telling the truth, this is Lily’s salvation. It could completely heal her, but then again, it might not. I have to consider the source. What if the potion is intended to kill her instead? Or, worse, what if the vial contains a deadlier version of the virus, one far more potent—and possibly airborne—designed to kill us all with greater precision? There is no way for me to know.
I stare out the window and frown. Well, that’s not entirely true. I could do as Frost instructed and do a little investigating, in the old mail room and the laboratory. He told me to start there if I want to find answers for my most burning questions. I tap my foot on the floor as I debate
the matter, not sure what to do.
After several minutes, I get up and change out of the backless robe and into my own clothes. I have to check out early, whether the good doctor likes it or not. I need those answers now. Lily’s life depends on it.
While sneaking out of the hospital, I make a quick stop at the nurses’ station to borrow some paperclips and tweezers from the desk. Should the windows be unavailable, I can use them to pick the lock on the door, a nifty skill I was forced to pick up thanks to Zeb, who has a never-failing knack for losing our room key, regardless of how many copies I make.
At the entrance, I stop and peek outside. I spot no guards. From what I’ve seen, most of them are stationed near the dormitories, factories, and warehouses. The most densely populated areas. There’s usually only one guard on post at the hospital, and at the moment, he’s nowhere to be found. I figure he’s either patrolling the hospital perimeter or dozing off in the waiting room. Since it’s three a.m., it’s probably the latter. I tiptoe across the hall to confirm my suspicions. Sure enough, I see the guard sprawled over a comfy leather couch, snoring his lungs out.
My jaw tightens. Glad we hired such dedicated sentries.
I return to the entrance, take one deep breath, then step out into the frigid night air. I instantly head toward the mailroom. It’s on the far west side of the village, near the dye plant, where the pigments used for our plastic toys are formulated. Clouds cover the sky tonight, severing moonlight from the village. I use that to my advantage, slinking through the darkness, shadow to shadow.
Halfway to my destination, I come across several guards and stop dead in my tracks. The three Russians are smoking outside a building. They talk gruffly in their native tongue. Thankfully, my black clothes camouflage well against the building I’m leaning on. The instant they finish their cigarettes, the trio shuffles back into the foyer, anxious to escape the blustery air.
I continue moving through the shadows like an alley cat and soon find myself standing right in front of the mailroom. The two-story building hasn’t been used in years, ever since Santa adopted an electronic mailing system to streamline the work process and improve efficiency. Gone are the days of printed letters and postage stamps. In this new digital age, email reigns supreme.
As I suspected, the windows aren’t a feasible option, as they are well above my reach. I pull out my makeshift lock-picking kit, and, after several attempts, convince the stubborn doorknob to turn. I stride inside with a big smile on my face, feeling like a spy in a James Bond movie. The interior—vast, dark, and mysterious—only magnifies the fantasy. Endless filing cabinets line the walls, full of children’s letters to Santa. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling and corners, swaying back and forth in the gust that sneaked in behind me. A thin layer of dust covers every visible inch of the place.
I let out a low whistle. How long had it been since anyone’s been here? From the lack of footprints in the dust, I’d guess a long time.
I begin my investigation by walking through the entire building, searching one room after another, looking for anything amiss. I find nothing out of the ordinary. The break room, the bathrooms, and the office all appear normal. There are no cryptic artifacts taped under chairs, no magical amulets stashed in the toilet, and no dead bodies hidden in the janitorial closet. I don’t find any hidden panels, vaults, or even another locked door. But why would there be? They never stored anything of monetary value in there. The sole purpose for the building is exactly what its name implies: a mailroom, and nothing more. “It’s just...letters,” I mutter to myself, frustrated for having wasted so much time.
Wait! Is that what I’m supposed to be checking? The letters? It must be. There’s nothing else for me to do here.
I search the walls, noting the chronological order of the labels on the filing cabinets. When I locate the cabinet for the most recent recorded year, still some time ago, I open a drawer and extract three letters from it. I start to read them, trying to disregard my guilt over perusing words meant only for Santa:
“Dear Santa, all I want is the same thing I asked for last year and the year before that. A kangaroo. Also, some body armor. I heard they kick pretty hard and I don’t want my little brother to get hurt. See? I’ve changed! I am nice now! Oscar M.”
“Hi Santa. My parents say you’re dead and that’s why I haven’t gotten any presents from you in forever. If that’s true, say hi to Jesus for me in heaven. But if you’re still alive please send me a new bike. I’ve been waiting for three years for it. Thanks! Jon B.”
“Screw you, Santa! It’s been five years and still no iPad. And don’t give me any crap about being naughty, okay? I’ve been nice, sugary nice to everybody, all year long—even that weird chick on my bus who smells like salami. And all for what? Nothing! Suffer and die you worthless tub of lard. Alex P.”
Yikes. Somehow I doubt that last kid is going to make it onto the nice list. I can’t believe anyone would be so direct and rude to Santa. It leaves me rattled. I keep reading letters and find that I just can’t stop. It’s like gorging myself on forbidden fruit. Some are even more angry than Alex’s, while others tug at my heartstrings, even bringing tears to my eyes. Yet there is one trend I quickly begin to notice—all kids are complaining about not receiving presents. For several years, it seems. I read letters from the previous year. Same complaint. Toy-less and frustrated. And the year before that? No toys either.
I stop reading, utterly confused and lost. If nobody’s getting their toys, why do our production quotas keep increasing, to the point where work shifts are doubling in some departments? Why are we working ourselves to the bone? It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing does. I’m starting to think that maybe Jack Frost was telling the truth about traitors in our midst. My mind sifts through a list of possible suspects. The readers? No. Even if the kids didn’t get precisely what they asked for, they would have gotten something, and they certainly would have let Santa know about it.
It doesn’t take long for me to arrive at the most logical conclusion: Shipping. Who else? The shipping department is directly responsible for loading toys into the drones that now do all our deliveries, and they program the landing coordinates into the drone GPS before departure. It has to be them. The shippers. I still don’t understand how the virus plays into this mess or why they’re shipping the toys incorrectly.
But it isn’t my job to sort it all out.
For the moment, I determine that I have only one responsibility in the matter: I have to tell Santa. He’ll figure this out. He’ll fix everything, just like he always does.
I stuff several letters in my coat and leave the building. Outside, I resume my covertness and creep through the village, careful to avoid the few patrolling guards I pass along the way. I stop in front of the modestly sized house before proceeding. Even though I have every right to speak with Santa, a clear duty to do so, I’m still nervous about storming his house while he’s asleep. I tell myself Santa will understand and won’t be too disgruntled by my visit. After all, this is bigger than me or even him. With newfound resolution, I step cautiously toward his front door.
A hand grips my shoulder. Releasing a panicked gasp, I whirl around. Apparently I’m not alone.
Chapter Ten
Startled, I look into the beady eyes of Oleg. A sudden stab of terror immobilizes me, and my heart starts pounding uncontrollably. Out of all the guards that could’ve found me, it had to be him. I fight to stay calm. He had crept up behind me with such stealth.
“What are you doing here?” he demands icily.
I toy with the idea of telling him the truth. Don’t, comes the order from the recesses of my chaotic mind. A whispered warning that stops me before I can open my mouth. No. There’s no way I’m confiding in him. For all I know, Oleg could be part of this conspiracy.
He grows impatient at my silence. “Answer me.”
“I-I need to see Santa,” is all I can think of.
His dark eyes narrow. “This late?”
I take a deep breath to gather my nerves. Keep it together. Don’t lose control. “I have an important matter I must discuss with him.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I can’t. It’s...very personal.” My mind skims a list of lies he might believe. What can I tell him? What excuse will satisfy him? Changing my voice to a longing whisper, I add, “It has to do with my deceased parents. I need Santa’s counsel.” Yes, better to play that angle. Let him think my problem is grief-related.
He studies me, long and hard. “Well, I’m afraid it will have to wait. Santa has left on a trip. He won’t return until next week.”
“Next week?” I ask, a note of hysteria entering my voice. “No, no, I can’t wait that long. Can I talk to him over the phone? As I said, it’s very urgent.”
“Afraid not. He asked not to be disturbed during his trip.”
I sigh in deep frustration.
Oleg’s hard features smooth, and his voice softens. “If it’s that important to you, I can pass your message along. But you’ll have to be more specific.”
Had I missed the look of calculation that flashed across his face, I might’ve been fooled, but I didn’t. “It’s fine,” I murmur dejectedly. “I’ll wait.”
He straightens, sliding back into his usual austerity. “Suit yourself. You should return to the hospital. It isn’t safe out here.”
I nod at him, then walk away, relieved that I didn’t receive any real punishment. Using the mourning card might have conjured pity in him. If Oleg is capable of such an emotion, that is. Still, that stroke of luck didn’t erase the problem. Santa will be unavailable until next week. What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Go back to work and pretend like everything’s normal? Sit back idly, watching as Lily slowly dies before me?
I shake my head. I don’t think I can do that.