by Adam Ingle
His footsteps echoed loudly in the stark, bleached white hallways. So loudly he just knew someone would hear him at the guard post on the other side of the thick glass doors that lead to the R&D department. Up until he opened those doors, he could always turn back. Once he was in, there was no calling it off; he would be punished whether or not he stole even so much as a stapler.
Only the highest ranking Angels in the Heaven Inc. hierarchy were allowed inside the department. Whatever they did in there, it was not for mortal eyes or rank-and-file Angels like Leviticus. Even those who worked in R&D were allowed only severely limited and monitored access to the general population of Heaven for fear of letting secrets slip. Most mingled, married, or fooled around within the R&D pool, which created a semi-incestuous, House of Plantagenet-style twisted but elite circle. How Mestoph had learned about the Secure-Signed Prophecies was beyond Leviticus—and probably beyond Mestoph, for all he knew.
His thoughts had taken him all the way to automatic sliding-glass door that lead into the R&D department. He punched the code Mestoph had given him into the keypad, and the magnetic locks released and the door slid open. Leviticus was pretty sure he didn’t want to know where or how Mestoph had gotten the code. Now, only a manned security booth and a second set of doors stood between him and labs. The security guard, who had been watching some weird Japanese game show that involved being blindfolded and sticking your head into a box of bugs or Jell-O or something else equally pointless on one of the security monitors, glanced at Leviticus and turned back, nonplussed. It was a second or two before the guard turned back around, the perplexing image having taken a while to register in his rather simple brain. Leviticus stood in front of the security guard wearing the now foggy gas mask and paper bunny suit and was carrying the fire extinguisher in one hand and the hose in the other. Leviticus pointed the hose at the guard before he could push an alarm, pull a gun, or scream, and released a thick, white gas that quickly filled the anteroom.
The guard had been trying to stand, and the noxious Halon chemicals finally suffocated him just as he reached his full height. He crumpled back to the ground in a sad little arc. Leviticus reached over and turned off the monitor with the annoying game show. At the same time the guard’s soul, wispy and mostly transparent, rose from his body and up to eye level with Leviticus.
“I was watching that, asshole,” said the guard just before he faded away.
If the guard had been a decent person, he would be back in Heaven and on the job in no time, but Leviticus decided not to think too much about that now. He dropped the fire extinguisher, stepped over the body of the guard, and stared at an array of buttons at the security console. After poring over the buttons, none of which were labeled, he finally found a buzzer underneath the desk. Hedging his bets that it was more like a pawn shop in a seedy neighborhood than a silent alarm in a bank, he hit the button.
The second glass door slid open. The door quickly whooshed closed again after he stepped through, leaving Leviticus to suddenly wonder how he was supposed to get back out. He would have to worry about that on the way back.
After he had walked around a few corners, he ripped the long, trailing hose off of the gas mask so that he could finally get some air that wasn't hot and damp. He would keep the mask itself on in hopes that he could hide his identity from the security cameras and any staff who might be hanging around to get in some late night brown-nosing or just stealing office supplies. If he actually did run into anyone, he was almost certainly screwed since he knew he wasn't supposed to be there, and they definitely knew he wasn't supposed to be there. Leviticus wasn't much of a fighter and didn't figure he could take out anyone in hand-to-hand combat—and wasn't sure he wanted to—before they pulled an alarm or just shot him themselves. For all he knew, everyone in R&D was an ex-Swiss Guard, carried an SG 552 Commando assault rifle, and was just itching to spill some holy blood.
He tried to put such thoughts out of his mind as he navigated his way through the maze of hallways, offices, and conference rooms that made up the enormous Research and Development wing. Mestoph had sketched out a relatively accurate map for him, but it only had the direct route he needed to reach the Prophecy Research Lab. He passed by doors with seemingly innocuous signs on them such as Origami Papal Hat Development, God's Glorious Light Tanning Bed Testing, and one rather long sign that read: Completely Innocent Stuff That Couldn't Possibly Harm Anyone But You Should Still Stay Away Research. Then there were the more ominous or confusing ones like Time-Traveling Monkey Paradox Reduction, Wildlife Weaponization Foundation, and Vaginal Exorcism Training.
Along the walls were various trophy cases with awards for All-Saints Softball tournaments, Angels of the Month, and Wii Bowling League—the kind of thing that probably littered the trophy cases of any large company on Earth. However, there were also certificates of congratulation and small plaques of merit covering a wide range of oddities. There was one that said Least Number of Resurrections, which had a bronze Angel holding his own severed and haloed head while giving a thumbs up. Another said Most Fatal Wounds Caused By Non-Standard Office Supplies; that one had a giant bronzed carrot comically impaling an Angel. Next to that was a Best Satan-So-Fat Joke award with a morbidly obese, bronzed Satan atop a small wooden base. There was even a Best Use of Skylab Before It Crashed award, which had a small caption that indicated the winning idea was a Kegerator.
There were also safety-oriented signs and banners that listed the number of days since an unintentional Apocalypse had been averted (which currently read one, though the record was in the triple digits). Another sign showed the number of days since the last Transporter accident (also at one) with a tally of total accidents underneath that had been covered up with cardboard. Leviticus took that to mean it either could no longer count high enough or the number was just too embarrassing. Finally, there was an odd one that was a small chalk board on an unlabeled door that said "Number of Days Since Santa Rampage" (it was at thirteen, with the previous record being twelve) that looked like it got erased relatively frequently.
After a while Leviticus stopped reading the signs and plaques because they seemed either too ridiculous or too disturbing to be true—or so he told himself.
He looked down at his sketchily sketched map of the R&D department and realized he was at the X that marked the spot. In front of him was a stark white, unmarked door, but on the map it was labeled as the lab he was looking for. He looked at the map again and retraced his route, just to be sure. He was hoping he was wrong.
The stark door was stark in its starkest possibility. In fact, at this moment it wasn’t even a door, just a white, solid metal rectangle. There was no knob, handle, keyhole, lock, latch, keypad, button, or even a drive-through speaker to yell at. It was at this point that Leviticus considered abandoning the plan—the plan that had passed the point of no return ten minutes prior—and going home to await his impending arrest. Then he heard a noise that told him he wouldn’t have to do much waiting. Echoing down the hallway, though how far he couldn’t tell, was the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Leviticus froze. He’d been fairly convinced he’d get caught to begin with, and this just proved his suspicion. As the footsteps got closer, his survival instincts kicked in and he began to look for a place to hide. He went down the hallway, trying several doors before one finally opened and he slipped in, closing the door and locking it behind him.
He looked around the long, narrow room that seemed to stretch out further than the eye could see. It was filled with row after row of thick-glassed vats containing a nearly transparent blue liquid that looked like a thick version of the cleaning solution barbers stuck their scissors and combs in. Suspended within the liquid of each vat, of which there had to be thousands, was what appeared to be a living and breathing Santa Claus. Running to each vat were various tubes, some with fluids flowing in and some with fluids flowing out. In one tube was a single wire that every so often would arc with electricity, which in t
urn would cause the Santa Claus to twitch mildly.
Although they all wore the trademark red clothes and hat, no two Santas appeared to be alike. They were all of varying size, build, and color. A few had what seemed like randomly substituted appendages: snakes instead of arms, a toaster instead of a head, pogo sticks instead of legs. One looked more like a Swiss Army knife than Santa Claus, with its left hand being a corkscrew, the right a can opener, its legs a fork and spoon, and in place of its head was the empty spot where a pair of tweezers or toothpick should've been—but, like most Swiss Army knives, it was missing. Leviticus wondered where it could have gone since it wasn't anywhere in the vat.
He listened at the door for the footsteps. Instead, as he put his ear to the door, the handle jiggled. Leviticus jumped back, startled, and assumed a fake karate pose. Behind him, one of the more normal although rather short Santas began sloshing around in his tank. Leviticus could hear keys in the door now, and he began looking around for some place to hide. A few rows away was an enormous, muscular Santa wearing red Santa pants and typical Santa hat but without a shirt so as to show off his incredibly ripped abs. Leviticus ran for that vat and slid behind it, hoping the bulk of the Santanator would hide him. The door opened and a guard dressed in what looked like riot gear walked through; several of the Santas twitched as he came in. Leviticus noticed that he carried a large, futuristic looking rifle that was probably devised specially for the R&D guards.
The guard walked in and looked around, eyeballing several of the Santas with an oddly pleased smile on his face. He locked the door, set his riot helmet and rifle against the wall, near the door, then turned back toward the rows of Santas as he rubbed his hands together in a look of glee that made Leviticus nervous. He was about 5' 10" with a build that suggested he had been in excellent shape about ten years ago but had let things go recently. He had a short, but not quite buzzed, haircut that was typical of military types, but with a goatee and mustache of deep reddish brown that showed he was a little more lax than your average special-ops wannabe. Despite having lost his ripped physique, he still had the habit of walking with his arms and chest puffed out like a bulldog as he drifted from one vat to another. He was probably the kind of guy who, while he was alive, spent all his time talking about what a big shot he had been in high school. The guard tapped a vat at random, causing an eagle-headed Santa to flinch.
Leviticus suddenly recognized the creepy smile as that of a kid who enjoyed torturing neighborhood cats and dogs. The guard made what seemed like a well-rehearsed tour of his favorite Santas, tapping and knocking on the glass as he passed. He, of course, stopped in front of the massively muscular Santa behind which Leviticus was hiding. Leviticus slid down, trying make himself smaller and hid in the tangle of tubes. The Santanator twitched and jerked more rapidly as the guard approached. The guard pulled a pronged baton out of a holster on his belt. He hit a button built into the handle and a loud, clicking arc of electricity shot between the prongs, sending Santanator into a slow, sloshy fury.
All of the vats were secured to the floor by four large bolts, one at each corner of the base. As the Santanator moved in the thick liquid, the vat jostled slightly, and Leviticus noticed that the bolts had loosened considerably, probably a result of a long history of the hulking Santa being teased and tortured by the guard. Leviticus tried to twist the nut off the bolt with his bare fingers. It was still tight enough to make it difficult to unscrew bare handed, but in between rounds of taunting and sloshing he was able to get one and then a second nut unscrewed.
The guard’s taunting escalated, and the thick blue liquid began to slosh out of the top of the vat where it was open to the air. The guard stuck the tip of the stun baton into an overflow pipe. An enormous and sickening smile grew on his face, and then he pressed the button to send a jolt of electricity into the highly conductive fluid. The Santanator let out an eerie, bubbly scream, braced against the walls of the vat, and jerked back and forth.
Leviticus wasn’t sure how far this game would progress and what would happen when the guard tired of taunting this particular Santa. He felt this was his only window of opportunity to take matters into his own hands. He decided to give chance a little help and timed a full-shouldered shove against the vat.
The movement caught the attention of the guard who let out a dumbfounded "Whuh?," but his sudden attention to detail was too late, as Leviticus and Santanator had pushed the vat past the tipping point. It began a free fall that seemed to happen in slow motion. As a wave of thick blue liquid spilled over the edge of the vat, Leviticus thought it was an image of David and Goliath in reverse. A sick, sadistic David and a tortured, genetically altered Goliath in red velvet pants and a fur-trimmed hat.
Leviticus shook the image from his mind as the vat hit the hard tiles and shattered, leaving a slick-wet monster Santa Claus covered in glass shards curled up on the floor. Leviticus looked down at the Santanator and then up at the guard, who followed suit by looking down at the hulk and then up at Leviticus.
"What have you done?" said the guard, scared, confused, and outraged all at once. His swirl of emotions didn't last long as Santanator stood up, grabbed the guard by his head, lifted him off the ground, and then smashed him against the next nearest vat in rapid succession. Leviticus heard a sickeningly wet thump-crush and then a piercing shattering as the guard’s head collapsed and the vat of the Swiss Army Santa spider-webbed and shattered, sending another wave of the blue stuff out across the floor.
Leviticus jumped back, bumping into the vat behind him, and stared at the unfolding scene. Santanator turned to look at Leviticus and paused for several seconds, which seemed eternities each, and then smiled.
"Merry fucking Christmas!" it said and then took off running toward the door, taking it off its hinges with a shoulder and continuing down the hall. Leviticus stood as still as possible as the Swiss Army Santa began to jump and jitter on the ground where it landed, trying to get up. Since it had no real arms or legs, it skittered as the various tools swung and flailed until finally, by pure dumb luck, it managed to jump upright on its fork and spoon legs. Instead of walking, it rolled around like a cartwheeling child, bumping into anything and everything as it went. Leviticus couldn't tell if it could see where it was going or if it was blindly moving around the narrow room. Finally, the Swiss Army Santa built up some speed and rolled toward the door; however, it missed by several feet, and the sharp-hooked can opener arm impaled itself into the wall, where it struggled to free itself.
The sound of an alarm brought Leviticus out of his paralysis. Santanator had no doubt finally brought the attention of security down on him. Feeling his chance to steal the Prophecy being yanked away from him, Leviticus came up with a quick plan. He pulled off the easy to remove pieces riot gear from the body of the former sadistic security guard, which was mostly just the vest, tactical cargo pants, and a thin navy blue jacket with "Security" written on the back in big yellow letters, replaced the hoseless gas mask with the riot helmet, and grabbed the futuristic rifle.
As Leviticus picked up the futuristic rifle, which hummed with a subtle vibration as if it were purring softly, Swiss Army Santa managed to leverage its spoon leg against the wall and jerk itself free. It dislodged with enough force to throw it backwards into the nearest Santa vat, shattering the glass and freeing yet another Santa. It revved up its cartwheeling and this time made it out of the door, missing Leviticus by only inches. Left standing in the shattered remains of the newly broken vat was a tiny Santa with the disproportionate body of a dwarf but the head of a normal-sized human. Slapped somewhat crooked on that head was a mouth at least three times larger than normal. It was currently smiling at Leviticus.
After a minute of the two staring each other down, the tiny, cartoonish Santa opened its mouth, which seemed to suddenly take up more surface than it had head for. Hidden inside was a jet engine. This was not immediately apparent to Leviticus, because he had never expected to see a jet engine within the mouth
of anything, let alone a two-foot dwarf Santa Claus. As the rotor within the Santa's mouth began to turn, the concept became much clearer and more frightening, and Leviticus expected the diminutive Santa to hurtle forward at some insane speed nearing that of light, or sound at the very least. Instead, the opposite began to happen as tiny bits of debris near the Santa were sucked up and into its mouth. The tiny engine quickly gained speed, and soon larger items were being pulled toward the nexus of swirling debris that disappeared into the mouth of the Vacuum Santa.
By the time the danger that he was in finally dawned on him, which was easily excusable considering the absurdity of everything that had happened in the last several minutes, Leviticus was already sliding toward the Santa's mouth on the slick blue liquid all over the floor. He managed to grab onto one of the tubes leading into a vat with one hand as his feet were swept out from under him. The suction had grown to the point where the tube had gone taught, leaving him flailing wildly in the air. The tube was slippery with vat goo, and Leviticus could feel himself slowly sliding closer to the turbine Santa.
Not knowing how much more suction the Vacuum Santa was capable of, and even less sure of his ability to continue hanging on to the slippery tube, Leviticus did the only thing he knew to do—he killed Santa Claus. Leviticus leveled the rifle and pulled the trigger. He squeezed his eyes shut as he squeezed the trigger and had a brief moment of disappointment when he heard absolutely nothing. Not pew-pew, nor bang-bang, nor even a Heaven-shattering kaboom. Instead there was silence, absolute and complete. Not even the sound of the roaring engine of Vacuum Santa could be heard.