The Elf

by Max Dune

  Chapter Eleven

  We arrive at the lab just in time. Peeking around the corner of the gray building, we spot the scientists as they depart through the front entrance, chatting amongst themselves as they head to the cafeteria for lunch. Two guards were stationed at the door, but one takes off with the scientists. Whether it’s to ensure their security or to fill his stomach with tostadas, I don’t know or care; I’m just glad his partner will be guarding solo for a while.

  “You ready to do this?” I ask Zeb.

  He stands beside me, holding a radio-controlled helicopter. He looks determined and focused. “I’ve been ready since the day I popped out of my mother’s ya-ya.”

  I wince. “Fantastic,” I tell him, trying to forget the image he put in my mind. “Let’s do this then.”

  He places the helicopter on the ground, then fiddles with the controller. In seconds, the helicopter hums to life and rises twenty feet. Zeb carefully guides it around to the front entrance. The guard’s head turns. He spots it. Just like we want him to.

  Zeb guides the flying toy, keeping it in the guard’s line of sight, straight into a pine tree. It disappears under the snow-covered branches. “Go time,” the Zeb says, then runs over to where the guard can see him. He looks around frantically, scratching his neck, then calls out to the guard, “Excuse me! Did you see where my helicopter went? I was doing a field test and lost it.”

  “It’s stuck in that tree,” the guard responds, pointing to the fir.

  Zeb groans. “Okay. Thanks, sir.” He walks to the tree, puts the controller down in the snow, and begins to scale the trunk.

  The guard shrugs and lights up a cigarette, watching the tree-climbing elf with mild interest.

  Zeb continues scurrying up the bark and disappears behind the shadows of the thick branches and boughs. A minute later, he gives a loud cheer. “Woo-hoo! Found it!”

  But his joy is short-lived.

  Suddenly Zeb lets out a terrified shriek and tumbles down the tree, hitting several slapping twigs and hard timbers along the way. His body slams onto the snowy ground with a loud thud.

  I bite my lip. Geesh. He really sold it...maybe a little too well. The guard rushes over. “You all right?” he asks, staring down at the writhing Zeb.

  Zeb moans. “It’s broken. I know it is! My left ankle’s just...shattered!” For dramatic effect, he twists it and cries out in pain. “Can you help me get to the hospital, sir? I-I don’t think I can walk by myself.”

  The guard stands there a moment, glances back at his post, then looks back down at Zeb. Finally, he nods and helps Zeb stand up. Together, they amble away, Zeb leaning heavily on the bigger man’s shoulder.

  As soon as the coast is clear, I race to the door and peek through the glass door. Inside, the laboratory is an almost completely white space, from the linoleum floor to the high walls. It is brightly lit, well organized, and has a modern aesthetic that carries onto the casework and chairs, exactly how I imagined a laboratory would be—except for that smell floating around in the air. I expected the harsh chemical and acid odor, but all my nose detects is a roasted-nut fragrance, something like really strong coffee.

  I stop by a table covered with a variety of scientific equipment. My mouth hangs open as I marvel at the beakers bubbling over, the Bunsen burners, the microscopes with slides on them, and the vertical maze of glass tubes.

  This place is so cool.

  To the left are several beakers on an ivory countertop, all full of what appears to be the same brown liquid. On a whim, I pick one up and sniff it. Mmm. Now I know where that delightful smell is coming from...but can it really be coffee? I take another whiff. Sure smells like it. Then I decide to do something I know I’ll probably regret later: I take a sip and swirl it around my tongue, letting my taste buds do their own investigation.

  It’s coffee all right. Strange. Why are they making coffee with lab equipment? Wouldn’t it be more convenient to use—I don’t know—an actual coffee maker?

  Curious, I grab the stack of papers near the glassware and start flipping through the sheets, but I struggle to make sense of my find. It’s laden with scientific jargon like “vibration-rotation spectroscopy” and “diatomic molecules” that might as well be hieroglyphics. There are illustrations to emphasize their findings, but the graphs and equations are just as enigmatic.

  I put the reports back and keep moving. I must hurry. It won’t take long for the guard to return from the hospital. At the back of the room, I make another discovery. Dozens and dozens of mice, squeaking and squirming inside metal cages, all stacked on top of each other. I draw closer to inspect the small rodents. Right off the bat, I notice that they are in varying stages of health. The best-off ones run tirelessly on their exercise wheels—agile, vibrant super mice. The sick ones are crumpled on the bottom of their cages, twitching and convulsing. My chest fills with pity as I stare at the fuzzy creatures, pressing my face up against their cages.

  I make two observations. First, their water bottles are filled with the same nutty, brown liquid that’s being cooked in the beakers. I take one off, smell it, and taste it, just to be sure. It’s coffee. Huh.

  My second observation freezes my blood. Another examination of the ill mice tells me they display very specific and sickeningly familiar symptoms. Several are bleeding from their pointed white noses. Others just sit there, their front paws trembling. Still others tremble and shake all over, having miniature seizures—all macabre suggestions of the virus.

  I suck in a breath. Comprehension dawns, and the blood leaves my head in a rush. I step back, breaking into my own version of shakes and shivers. These scientists aren’t searching for a cure. They’re creating the very thing that is killing us—then feeding it to us.

  I stumble back against a table and try to hold on to the edge for support. Frost was telling the truth. There is no virus.

  “B-But why?” I mutter to one of the tiny animals, who just twitches his white nose and blinks his eyes at me in response. Why are the scientists trying to kill us? How could our deaths possibly serve their purpose? And what about the shippers who’ve been embezzling toys? Are they all working together or what?

  A barrage of questions pound my head, and I can’t answer any of them. None of it makes sense. I realize I must talk to Frost again, allow him to explain himself. Perhaps I wasn’t ready for the complete truth before, but I’m ready now.

  I take out the tracking device and press the one button, summoning our presumed enemy to come find me. I head for the door. I have to leave this place—immediately. He can’t very well land in the middle of Santa’s Village, can he? But where?

  I think about this.

  The forest! That has to be the safest option. We’ll be able to speak freely there, hidden by the foliage from any prying eyes.

  Opening the door, I gasp.

  Zeb stands before me, held hostage by the guard he left with, a gun pointed right at his temple. Behind them is Oleg, offering a murderous stare. Every muscle in my body tightens with tension.

  He knows. We’re dead.

  “Everyone inside,” Oleg growls.

  All three enter the laboratory, and I take several steps back.

  As soon as Oleg angrily slams the door, the other guard shoves Zeb toward me.

  “You’ve been a busy little elf, haven’t you, Lucian?” Oleg sneers.

  I glare at him. “I knew you had to be behind this. I knew it.”

  “Oh, did you now?” He smirks, seemingly amused. “Given your remarkable detective work, I’m not the least bit surprised.”

  He takes out a small tablet and plays a video for us. It’s a recording of me in the mailroom, reading the letters and pilfering a large pocketful. Then the clip skips ahead, to when I approached Zeb at his workstation to ask for his help. Everything I’ve done has been recorded.

  “You didn’t know about the security cameras?” Oleg asks smugly, pulling the tablet away. “They are everywhere.”

  “Is that how
you keep your whole operation secret?” I respond. “By spying on people so you know if anyone’s on to your schemes?”

  “It certainly helps us weed out any possible insurgents.”

  “And then what? You kill them with...” I gesture at the glassware. “With poisoned coffee?”

  “Not quite. The process is more elaborate than you think.”

  I shake my head, seething. “It doesn’t matter. Sooner or later, the others will find out.” I pause. “Santa will find out, and when he does, you’re going to jail for the rest of your miserable life.”

  Behind us, someone speaks. “Don’t be so sure.”

  Zeb and I spin around to see Santa entering from another door. He’s dressed in a white lab coat just like the scientists wear. In his large hands is a beaker full of clear liquid. He places it on a burner, adds several drops of another liquid, and gives it a shake. He goes through the motions with practiced ease—no hesitation or doubt whatsoever—as if he’s done this hundreds of times before.

  Then Santa turns to us, taking in our bewildered expressions in a calm manner. There is a disturbing glimmer in his eyes I have never seen before. “Hello, boys,” he says. “Come to check on our progress, have you?” He glances over at the cages. “As you can see, it’s been pretty tough on the mice as well. But our experts are doing their best to narrow down the vectors.”

  My mind wars relentlessly with itself. “But...coffee? I don’t understand.”

  Santa looks at me and lets out a long sigh. “You got me there,” he finally admits. “I guess I can’t keep lying to you anymore, can I?”

  My words are barely audible. “You... You’ve known all along, sir?”

  “Of course I have,” he says simply, then sweeps an arm across the lab. “This entire operation was my idea.”

  I’m sure I heard him incorrectly. Either that, or I’m experiencing a brief bout of insanity. I have to tell myself that, because it’s a whole lot easier for my brain to believe.

  Sadly, Zeb confirms the awful reality when he speaks next. “So Frost isn’t responsible for any of this? Y-You’re the one trying to kill us?”

  Santa winces at the accusation. “Kill you? No, no, my dear boy! I only want to energize you all, so you can work longer shifts and make more toys.” He taps the now-boiling beaker. “That’s why I created this. I call it Accusol.”

  “What is it?” I ask, horrified but curious as well.

  “A genetically engineered alkaloid stimulant,” Santa announces, wearing a disturbingly proud grin. “It’s much more effective than caffeine. It increases alertness, attention, and energy to astounding levels. It has increased our toy production exponentially.” For a brief moment, his face becomes frustrated. “Mind you, my creation does come with a few...side effects.”

  I am bitter. “Like dying?”

  He nods, his expression blank and his voice flat. “Extended consumption has proven to adversely affect the central nervous system. It also stimulates the adrenal glands to go into overdrive, releasing higher amounts of epinephrine. Accusol is very potent. We tried weaker variations, but none offered comparable results. We also tried giving the workers medication to counteract the negative effects, but that didn’t help either. It only resulted in even worse side effects.” He explains it so matter-of-factly, as if the value of our lives is on par with that of the lab mice.

  Rage surges through me, mixing with my fear. “We trusted you. No, we worshipped you!” I cry out. “How could you do this to us?”

  “It was never personal, Lucian,” he states, unaffected. “It’s for the greater good. In any successful business, there is always some collateral damage.”

  My hands clench into fists. “Collateral damage?” I spit, taking a brave step forward, emboldened by my fury. “Is that all my parents were to you?”

  Oleg raises his gun in my direction.

  Zeb grabs my arm and pulls me back gently. “Lucian, don’t.”

  I scoff in disgust. Any power Santa had over me is now meaningless. “You’re a monster! You don’t care about us or the children, do you?”

  My words clearly hit a nerve. Santa’s face is overcome by a dark glower, one that sends fear rippling through me. “The children?” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Oh, it’s all about the children, those precious little angels, isn’t it? Ha! Have you been on Facebook lately? Twitter? YouTube? If so, you know they are nothing short of self-aggrandizing, falsely entitled, spoiled, lazy bullies and brats!”

  I’ve never heard him talk like this. So angry. Resentful. How is this even possible?

  Zeb and I exchange a confused look.

  “You don’t know?” Santa asks. “Hmm. Perhaps you should.”

  He turns to a table that holds a computer. His thick fingers dance over the keyboard, pulling up a program. He gestures us over.

  We slowly draw closer, with both guards pointing their guns at us.

  “Naughty Tracker Pro,” Santa says. “This software program was developed long ago to help me keep track of which children are being naughty or nice. The program is ingenious. It connects with all major social networking sites and search engines, analyzes comments, posts, searches—everything—then places each child in the appropriate category. Allow me to show you.”

  He goes to YouTube and plays a video of school fight, featuring two kids. Then he clicks the scan button.

  “Now, the program will scan all the comments on this particular video, flagging any that contain swear words or encouragement. The commenters who post those things will be added to the naughty list.”

  I am overwhelmed. “How were you able to create such a program?”

  “I didn’t create it, my boy. I have, however, hired many brilliant elves to work here over the years,” Santa boasts. “Including some who’ve worked for the NSA. Their background in surveillance has proven very useful for this project.” His tone hardens. “When the reports came, I was gutted. I didn’t expect so many children to be on the naughty list.” He pauses to look at me.

  I close my eyes momentarily in disappointment.

  “Seventy percent, Lucian,” Santa says, with no pleasure in his voice. “Well over half the children in the world are naughty...and the number rises every year.”

  Despite myself, I feel for him. I sympathize. I feel the disillusionment he’s radiating. Then I remember there is still a gun barrel pointed at my head, and I’m pretty quick to shake off the empathy.

  “But there are still some nice kids,” I try to reason. “Tens of millions of them.”

  “Not enough for my taste, I’m afraid,” he offers with a callous shake of his head.

  Zeb chimes in. “Is that why you stopped delivering toys?”

  “Partly, yes,” Santa admits.

  “Well, what are you doing with them?” My head is still reeling from his admission. “Just throwing them away?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Lucian,” he says, sounding insulted. “I would never do anything so wasteful. I sell them to toy manufacturers.”

  I just stare at him. “You sell the toys?”

  “Of course,” Santa confirms. “I’ve made a fortune already, thanks to you and the rest of my dear, devoted elves.”

  “You’re...evil.” I don’t mean to let the words tumble out, but I’m too shattered to stop them.

  He smiles but shakes his head. “I prefer...entrepreneur. Now, gentlemen, if you will kindly excuse me, I have work to do. Oleg, I trust you can take care of them.”

  Oleg nods. “As you wish, Boss.”

  Santa leaves through the same door he entered.

  I look over at Zeb. In spite of the situation, he seems relatively composed. I’m sure he’s just as much of a mess as I am on the inside though.

  “So you’re going to kill us now?” I ask Oleg.

  “You? Yes. Zeb? No,” Oleg says. “He’ll be kept alive until New Year’s Eve, when his replacement arrives.”

  “What!? You’re crazy,” Zeb cries. “Do you expect me to k
eep working for you while I’m on death row? Why would I? You might as well kill me now too.”

  I watch in horror as Oleg stomps over to Zeb, pulls out a knife, and presses the serrated blade into his throat.

  “You will work until we don’t need you, stupid elf...or I will chop Pepper and Lily into bits with this. And I’ll do it very, very slowly. Understood?”

  Zeb shoots daggers of his own at Oleg with his eyes but finally nods. He knows he is outmatched.

  The other guard still keeps his gun trained on me. There’s nothing I can do—except keep myself from making any stupid moves that will get any of my friends killed.

  “That’s what I thought,” Oleg barks. “Now give me your wrist.”

  Zeb does as told, without so much as a grunt.

  Oleg straps on some sort of gadget that looks like a high-tech watch. “We’ll see and hear everything you do and say, so don’t try any heroics.”

  Behind me, I hear the other guard’s footsteps approaching. I try to ignore him. What difference will it make? A bullet in the chest or in the back of the head.

  Zeb must sense my fate too; he faces me, his eyes glistening. “Lucian, I-I’m sorry,” he says in a half-gurgle, half-whisper.

  “Don’t be.” I sigh, feeling more guilt than fear. “I’m the one who should apologize. I never should’ve involved you in this.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve got your back, man...always.”

  Then I see Zeb’s eyes go wide. I start to turn around, but I’m hit hard in the side of my head. I crumple to the floor. The room spins. I look up and see both guards grinning down at me before the blackness swallows me whole.

  Chapter Twelve

  I awake the second I hit the ground. My face sinks into the soft, cold snow. I slowly push myself to my knees and look around. We are no longer in the lab but on a seaside cliff, several miles west of the village, dangerously close to the edge. The side of my head is pounding. I feel dizzy. Oleg is off to my left, perched on a snowmobile, his hard gaze fixed on me. There’s a gun in his hand.

  Wait, I think. Isn’t this where...? Yes, it is.