Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  When we reached the city, I was ready to throw all caution to the wind, unconcerned with being spotted as we dove down out of the sky and into a subway tunnel. Rudolph's glowing nose was more than a match for the underground gloom, and the entire team's nimble flight found a free path through the hastily-constructed barricades blocking the way for the shambling threat I now knew must rule this city. We followed the abandoned tracks deep under the city until finally we reached the small, unmarked and unknown door that lead to the cluster of rooms Roy and Stacy were using as their home. The reindeer set down silently in the dark, and I could feel their unease at being so far from the sky without their having to make a noise. I felt uneasy as well, though it had more to do with a genuine fear that this might really be the last Christmas I would ever see.

  I had to do what I could to make it a good one for all the good little girls and boys who were left. I reached for the magically unlocking handle, opened the door, and went in with my big, red sack over my shoulder. The booby traps and alarms in the first room went magically untriggered as I walked by, and when I reached the inner chamber both Roy and Stacy were still fast asleep. They had set up no tree, though considering their urban circumstances, I understood why. The two children were bundled up on one end of the room, and there were stacked cases of canned food and bottled water filling another corner. I went to the remaining corner of the smallish room and began creating a bit of Christmas magic for them as I stacked their bright and shining, crisply-wrapped gifts into a virtual mountain of future joy.

  At some point as I was assembling their Christmas morning from the contents of my sack, Stacy must have woken. When I'd finished up and turned around, her eyes were open and looking right at me. Not wide, like Mrs. Page's had been, but as though she thought she might still be dreaming. She spoke in a whisper, "Santa?"

  I nodded, smiled, and laughed a low "Ho ho ho," and the smile that slowly spread across her unwashed face did much to erase my own doubts due to the realization of the zombie plague. Stacy excitedly leapt up and ran across the room to wrap her arms around me in a wonderful, tiny bear hug. I lifted her up into my arms, returning the hug. I saw a large and humble chair just begging me for the privilege, and I obliged its wish, sitting down and settling Stacy down onto my lap as I did. "Merry Christmas, Stacy," I began, "Have you been a good little girl, this year?"

  She nodded enthusiastically, and I knew it was true. I also knew she was the shy sort of little girl who was slow to speak and easy to overlook.

  "Good, and what would you like for Christmas this year, Stacy?" I asked her, as though I hadn't already unloaded a mountain of gifts for her and her brother, all the things they wanted most that could be wrapped up and put under a tree.

  Stacy looked over to her brother for a long moment, silent, and I recalled her greatest wishes, wondering if she would be able to put them into words. "Could you make sure Roy doesn't get hurt, Santa? I don't want him to..." Stacy's already quiet voice paused, dropped almost below a whisper, "I don't want him to... To get hurt, like Poppa did." I tried to hold back my tears. "He's a good brother, Santa. He keeps me safe from the bad men."

  I thought about the sort of gifts the elves had prepared for Roy and I nodded. "I'll do what I can, Stacy. You'll have to wait and see what I've left for him, over there." I looked over to Roy and saw that he was beginning to wake. "Now get your brother up so he can have a turn," I told her. She gave me another big hug, then ran over to Roy and dragged him out from under a heap of blankets. I took the opportunity to be sure my eyes were dry.

  "Roy, wake up! It's Santa Claus! Wake up!" Roy stumbled over to me and was shoved into my waiting lap by his excited younger sister. He looked up at my bearded face, unsure what to say.

  "Merry Christmas, Roy. Have you been a good little boy this year?" I knew exactly how he'd been behaving, and I fully expected him to try to lie to me about it, as though I wouldn't have known he was lying. When he lowered his head in shame, he took me by surprise. Humility was not what I'd expected from a thirteen-year-old serial murderer, burglar, and all-around-naughty boy.

  "No, Santa," he finally, sheepishly admitted. "Not since the zombies killed Mommy. Pop and I had to break into stores and steal food, and to break into strangers' houses to try to keep safe. Then Pop got bit, and I had to..." I could see that Roy didn't want to admit what he'd done. I'd known that Roy had committed patricide since he'd first crossed my mind; it topped a long list of reasons I'd put him on the naughty list. It wasn't until I heard him explain it, as though in a confessional, that I began to realize my mistake. "I waited as long as I could..." Roy's voice was cracking, as you'd expect any thirteen-year-old boy's voice to do under stress. "I mean, I couldn't do it before he'd turned, I just couldn't! But then he got back up and he went right toward Stacy and I..." I knew the basic idea of zombies; I'd delivered enough zombie movies and zombie books and comic books and zombie action figures to know my way around the concept. "He was the first one I killed. Then it was really hard, for a while. Then I sort of... I guess I got used to killing them." Hearing his story first-hand, rather than boiled down to a list of naughty behavior or a dreamt-up scary story, the idea of a zombie outbreak -and of Roy's part in it- fell under a new light. "...it isn't so bad down here," he continued, "under the city. It doesn't get as cold down here, and most of them don't make it past the gates and turnstiles, so we're safer. I can leave Stacy by herself sometimes, when I have to go out for supplies." He met my eyes again, the importance of confession pressing on his soul. "And I wouldn't steal if I didn't have to. I know it's wrong, even if everyone's dead up there. But I have to..." The tears I'd been barely keeping from leaking from my own eyes were streaming down Roy's face. "...I have to, for Stacy... It's my responsibility now... Pop said..."

  "It's all right, Roy," I said, trying to keep him from breaking down any further. "You've been a good son, and a good brother to Stacy. When you wake up in the morning and open your presents, I hope you'll begin to believe me. I don't give such wonderful gifts to naughty little boys as you’ll find with your name on them over there. Just wait and see how good you've been, Roy." I gave Roy a big hug and from the way he squeezed back I knew he needed it more than anything else I'd brought for him. I let him hold on to me as long as he needed, his little sister joining us in a big, warm group hug before long. Then, with a twinkle in my eye and a plan forming in my mind I said, "Now you two head back to bed for now. No opening your presents until the morning. All right?"

  "All right, Santa," they both said in disappointment, reluctantly releasing me and returning to their heaps of warm covers.

  "Merry Christmas, Roy. Merry Christmas, Stacy. Have a good night, you two." I grabbed my empty sack and retreated from their tiny island of safety and warmth. Again their traps and alarms ignored me as I made my way out, magically paused like the fire in a fireplace, and their door was secure when I'd closed it. The reindeer, glad to see me finally return, had turned themselves and the sleigh around in anticipation of a rapid getaway. I did not disappoint them, practically vaulting myself up into my seat and gently whipping them into motion with my urgency. "Back to the workshop! Make haste!" I shouted to the reindeer as soon as we were out of hearing of the children's door. I'd had a realization, and I'd formed a plan.

  In a few seconds, I could be back at the North Pole. In a few minutes, I could rally the elves quickly to work. At their normal pace of work -unexercized as yet this Christmas season- they would have plenty of time. In a few hours, they could produce rifles for every family member of every living child on Earth, and ammunition to last a year. As few children as were left, they could do it without breaking a sweat. I tried to work out a timeline in my head for all the deliveries as I drew near to the workshop, and the reindeer were so eager to see what I had up my sleeve that they made their approach with untempered speed. I knew the sun was already up over Japan and half of Asia, but figured I still had time to make a few deliveries there before most people woke; it wasn't like anyon
e had been expecting to wake up early to find a joyous Christmas morn. Then the sleigh seemed to heave to the side, drawing my attention back to the present moment.

  The reindeer, in such a hurry and expecting the elves to behave in their regular ways, had made a mess of the landing. They seemed to have come down right on top of a few of the elves, hundreds of whom seemed to simply be milling about outside the workshop. I looked over my shoulder as the sleigh came to a stop and saw the snow marred red by a ghastly display of carnage I hadn't expected from a simple trampling. A sound like nothing I'd heard before drew my gaze back to the front of the sleigh, and I realized the reindeer seemed to be screaming, in terror and in pain. The bloody display I'd seen behind the sleigh seemed to fill the scene in every direction; elves, snow, and workshop walls had all been mangled or bloodied before I'd arrived. The nearest of the elves were attacking the reindeer, tooth and claw, and the reindeer, reigned in, were helpless to escape the onslaught. Soon the infected, undead elves were overtaking my sleigh. As the blood-drenched head elf leapt for me, teeth bared in a ghastly grin, I thought of Marion, and of gifts left undelivered.

  I'd known something was wrong as soon as I'd begun making my list; I'd just never dreamed it would all end like this.

  Guy De Maupassant

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  “THE CHRISTMAS-EVE supper! Oh! no, I shall never go in for that again!” Stout Henri Templier said that in a furious voice, as if some one had proposed some crime to him, while the others laughed and said:

  “What are you flying into a rage about?”

  “Because a Christmas-eve supper played me the dirtiest trick in the world, and ever since I have felt an insurmountable horror for that night of imbecile gayety.”

  “Tell us what it is?”

  “You want to know what it was? Very well then, just listen.

  “You remember how cold it was two years ago at Christmas; cold enough to kill poor people in the streets. The Seine was covered with ice; the pavements froze one’s feet through the soles of one’s boots, and the whole world seemed to be at the point of going to pot.

  “I had a big piece of work on, and so I refused every invitation to supper, as I preferred to spend the night at my writing table. I dined alone and then began to work. But about ten o’clock I grew restless at the thought of the gay and busy life all over Paris, at the noise in the streets which reached me in spite of everything, at my neighbors’ preparations for supper, which I heard through the walls. I hardly knew any longer what I was doing; I wrote nonsense, and at last I came to the conclusion that I had better give up all hope of producing any good work that night.

  “I walked up and down my room; I sat down and got up again. I was certainly under the mysterious influence of the enjoyment outside, and I resigned myself to it. So I rang for my servant and said to her:

  “‘Angela, go and get a good supper for two; some oysters, a cold partridge, some crayfish, hams and some cakes. Put out two bottles of champagne, lay the cloth and go to bed.’

  “She obeyed in some surprise, and when all was ready, I put on my great coat and went out. A great question was to be solved: ‘Whom was I going to bring in to supper?’ My female friends had all been invited elsewhere, and if I had wished to have one, I ought to have seen about it beforehand, so I thought that I would do a good action at the same time, and I said to myself:

  “‘Paris is full of poor and pretty girls who will have nothing on their table to-night, and who are on the look out for some generous fellow. I will act the part of Providence to one of them this evening; and I will find one if I have to go into every pleasure resort, and have to question them and hunt for one till I find one to my choice.’ And I started off on my search.

  “I certainly found many poor girls, who were on the look-out for some adventure, but they were ugly enough to give any man a fit of indigestion, or thin enough to freeze as they stood if they had stopped, and you all know that I have a weakness for stout women. The more flesh they have, the better I like them, and a female colossus would drive me out of my senses with pleasure.

  “Suddenly, opposite the Théâtre des Variétés, I saw a face to my liking. A good head, and then two protuberances, that on the chest very beautiful, and that on the stomach simply surprising; it was the stomach of a fat goose. I trembled with pleasure, and said:

  “‘By Jove! What a fine girl!’

  “It only remained for me to see her face. A woman’s face is the dessert, while the rest is ... the joint.

  “I hastened on, and overtook her, and turned round suddenly under a gas lamp. She was charming, quite young, dark, with large, black eyes, and I immediately made my proposition, which she accepted without any hesitation, and a quarter of an hour later, we were sitting at supper in my lodgings. ‘Oh! how comfortable it is here,’ she said as she came in, and she looked about her with evident satisfaction at having found a supper and a bed, on that bitter night. She was superb; so beautiful that she astonished me, and so stout that she fairly captivated me.

  “She took off her cloak and hat, sat down and began to eat; but she seemed in low spirits, and sometimes her pale face twitched as if she were suffering from some hidden sorrow.

  “‘Have you anything troubling you?’ I asked her.

  “‘Bah! Don’t let us think of troubles!’

  “And she began to drink. She emptied her champagne glass at a draught, filled it again, and emptied it again, without stopping, and soon a little color came into her cheeks, and she began to laugh.

  “I adored her already, kissed her continually, and discovered that she was neither stupid, nor common, nor coarse as ordinary street-walkers are. I asked her for some details about her life, but she replied:

  “‘My little fellow, that is no business of yours!’ Alas! an hour later....

  “At last it was time to go to bed, and while I was clearing the table, which had been laid in front of the fire, she undressed herself quickly, and got in. My neighbors were making a terrible din, singing and laughing like lunatics, and so I said to myself:

  “‘I was quite right to go out and bring in this girl; I should never have been able to do any work.’

  “At that moment, however, a deep groan made me look round, and I said:

  “‘What is the matter with you, my dear?’

  “She did not reply, but continued to utter painful sighs, as if she were suffering horribly, and I continued:

  “‘Do you feel ill?’ And suddenly she uttered a cry, a heartrending cry, and I rushed up to the bed, with a candle in my hand.

  “Her face was distorted with pain, and she was wringing her hands, panting and uttering long, deep groans, which sounded like a rattle in the throat, and which are so painful to hear, and I asked her in consternation:

  “‘What is the matter with you? Do tell me what is the matter.’

  “‘Oh! my stomach! my stomach!’ she said. I pulled up the bed-clothes, and I saw ... My friends, she was in labor.

  “Then I lost my head, and I ran and knocked at the wall with my fists, shouting: ‘Help! help!’

  “My door was opened almost immediately, and a crowd of people came in, men in evening dress, women in low necks, harlequins, Turks, Musketeers, and this inroad startled me so, that I could not explain myself, and they, who had thought that some accident had happened, or that a crime had been committed, could not understand what was the matter. At last, however, I managed to say:

  “‘This ... this ... woman ... is being confined.’

  “Then they looked at her, and gave their opinion, and a Friar, especially, declared that he knew all about it, and wished to assist nature, but as they were all as drunk as pigs, I was afraid that they would kill her, and I rushed downstairs without my hat, to fetch an old doctor, who lived in the next street. When I came back with him, the whole house was up; the gas on the stairs had been relighted, the lodgers from every floor were in my room, while four boatmen were finishing my champagne and lobsters.

 
“As soon as they saw me they raised a loud shout, and a milkmaid presented me with a horrible little wrinkled specimen of humanity, that was mewing like a cat, and said to me:

  “‘It is a girl.’

  “The doctor examined the woman, declared that she was in a dangerous state, as the event had occurred immediately after supper, and he took his leave, saying he would immediately send a sick nurse and a wet nurse, and an hour later, the two women came, bringing all that was requisite with them.

  “I spent the night in my armchair, too distracted to be able to think of the consequences, and almost as soon as it was light, the doctor came again, who found his patient very ill, and said to me:

  “‘Your wife, Monsieur....’

  “‘She is not my wife,’ I interrupted him.

  “‘Very well then, your mistress; it does not matter to me.’

  “He told me what must be done for her, what her diet must be, and then wrote a prescription.

  “What was I to do? Could I send the poor creature to the hospital? I should have been looked upon as a brute in the house and in all the neighborhood, and so I kept her in my rooms, and she had my bed for six weeks.

  “I sent the child to some peasants at Poissy to be taken care of, and she still costs me fifty francs64 a month, for as I had paid at first, I shall be obliged to go on paying as long as I live, and later on, she will believe that I am her father. But to crown my misfortunes, when the girl had recovered ... I found that she was in love with me, madly in love with me, the baggage!”