Holiday of the Dead

by David Dunwoody; Wayne Simmons; Remy Porter; Thomas Emson; Rod Glenn; Shaun Jeffrey; John Russo; Tony Burgess; A P Fuchs; Bowie V Ibarra

  Too afraid to go downstairs and meet the man face to face, I silently crept down the hall. Taking a seat at the top of the stairs, I listened to the front door creak open, then gently shut. The sound of scraping followed, as I assumed that Santa was wiping his feet on the carpet near the entry, laid out for just that purpose.

  When I heard him walk across the hardwood floor, with a soft creaking in the floorboards every few steps, my heart began to race. The sound of his bag slumping to the floor almost made my heart jump straight out of my chest. Then I heard a soft chuckle, and then a clunk. When I heard the blaze of the fire in the hearth begin to crackle and sizzle, I knew that the jolly old man had added a fresh log to the fireplace.

  By the sounds that followed, I could tell that Santa had begun to set the contents of his hefty bag around our tree. While he went about his business, he whistled. It was a familiar tune. I believe the words to it had something to do with being naughty or nice, making a list, checking it twice, or something like that.

  After about fifteen minutes, but really, it felt more like an eternity, everything went silent. I sat there at the top of the stairwell, straining my young ears to hear something, anything, in the silence. Then Santa chuckled once more, before opening the front door and disappearing back out into the cold winter night.

  In a dash, I was on my feet and down the stairs. I ran to the window and peered through the curtains, just in time to see Santa boarding his sleigh. With a crack of the reigns and a shout, the horses took off. Santa and his sled pulled away. I watched until he was completely out of sight.

  When I turned around, grinning from ear to ear, I was amazed to see all the colorfully wrapped gifts he had placed under the tree. Then my eyes fell upon the table where we had set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. The plate held not a crumb, and the glass had been drained bone dry; not a trace that either had held anything.

  More excited than ever, I dashed back up to bed, but I was way too anxious to sleep. I waited until I heard the others awake, then I went downstairs, as well. When I told everyone my story, no one believed me, except for my wide-eyed younger sister, and of course, my mother and father. My older brothers, twins they are, kept saying that I had been dreaming, because Santa was make believe, and only small children believed in him.

  In response to their mean words, I stuck out my tongue and called them liars, then said that they were jealous because I had seen Santa, and not them. It had gone on like that all day, until my father finally got tired of it and told us all to shut up, or we would all get a switching taken to us in the barn.

  I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Mom was standing in my door and whispering, "Wake up, Carol! You can come downstairs, now!"

  "Did Santa finally come? I was up all night, but for this last hour, and I never saw him," I explained to my mother, but she never answered and went to wake the others.

  I quickly donned my robe and slippers, then went out into the hall. I almost ran into my little sister, Carmen, who was stumbling her way sleepily toward the staircase; one hand rubbing her weary eyes, the other clutching her favorite rag doll. When she saw me, she took my hand, and together, we began descending the stairs.

  As the sky had just begun to lighten on the horizon, it was still pretty dark inside the house, so I had grabbed the kerosene lamp from next to my bed, before entering the hall.

  Once we were halfway down the stairs, however, I no longer needed it to see. When Sis and I were on the last few steps, we could see that Mom had lit all the candles on the tree. It was so pretty with all the wrapped presents spread out beneath.

  It looked just like one of those picture postcards from long ago that Mother had stowed away in a dusty old shoebox under her bed.

  With excitement in our hearts, we ran the last few yards over to the shimmering tree, where my mother and the twins were already beginning to huddle upon the floor, and we knelt down beside them. The boys were craning their necks with squinty eyes, each attempting to get a peek at the names on the tags to see which of the packages belonged to them, of course.

  When they began arguing over who had the most, you can bet that Cadence Piper put an end to it. My mother slapped them each upside the head. "Now, behave! Or, I'm gonna send the both of you to your room! No presents! And no dinner! You got it?" my mother scolded them. And when Mother scolded you, you got the evil eye; the one that informed you that she meant some serious business.

  Now the twins, my brothers Billy and Willy, were four years older than me, and they were fidgety boys. They found it hard to resist the urge each had to push and shove the other, spewing graphic verbal insults meant to get a rise out of one another. They were big boys who liked to rough-house and wrestle to see which one could get the other on the ground.

  When they were younger, the boys were much smaller than the other kids their age. Billy handled it well, but Willy had been teased much more, and was branded with the nickname, 'Wee Willy Wanker'. My brother never forgot that, so when he got a little older and got much bigger from working out with Billy, they both got their revenge on all those others who had taunted them in the past.

  Well, even though they were some big boys now, with a lot of meat on their bones – very little fat – Mother did not let them intimidate her. It was she who now took the boys out to the barn for a god switching, when they needed it. Father refused, as he said they were now men. I think he was just a little afraid one of them might hit him back one day.

  Once again, Mother raised her voice to the twins to get them settled down. My eyes wandered to the table; the one we always put the milk and cookies out on. The glass remained two-thirds full, and the plate of cookies still held the two large ones that had been placed there, with a single bite taken from just one.

  Something was wrong. I could feel it. Santa never left anything behind, other than the gifts. The plate had always been clear of even the tiniest of crumb, and the glass always drained to clarity, as if milk had never touched the inside of it.

  Mom told us that we would have to wait until after dinner to open the gifts. My brothers sighed and guffawed in unison, whining aloud, "Why not? Huh, Mom? Can we … pleeeaassssse?"

  Instead of scolding the twins, Mom said, "I will let you have your stockings! But, only if you promise to be good all through dinner, and then we can open the gifts."

  With that, she got up and went over to the fireplace, pulling down each of our stockings, handing them out to the each of us. Greedily, we all shoved our hands inside, hastily pulling out their contents. There were a variety of candies, shiny little trinkets found on father's excursions, and best of all, fresh-made beef jerky.

  I could tell by its thick smoky aroma that it had been cured quite recently. I took a bite, immediately tasting the freshness. Now this was a real treat. It had been months since there had been any meat to be had, and our stores had nearly run dry of the potatoes and apples picked from our fields, before winter had set in.

  As we all sat their chewing on the beef treats, I thought about how it used to be, back before the plague had come. We led a simple farm life, and had simple family values, but we were aware of what was going on in the big cities. I mean, we did have cable, at least before all the electricity went dead everywhere.

  The epidemic had begun two-and-a-half years previous, and had spread across the country like a brush fire. People were dying left and right as the result from the bites. Creatures that had once been human, like us, attacked anyone living with frenzied rage. The crazy thing was, those that had fallen dead, then began to get back up and walk around. But they were not living. They had become monsters, just like the ones that had bitten them.

  Father said that we were safe in the country, so we had stayed, and never really had much trouble. The only time they came around at all, was in the warmer months, but there were never many. Father and the twins would use them for target practice, killing them dead with hunting rifle blasts to the head. In the winter months, when it w
as harshly cold, they never appeared at all. Father had started saying, 'If the monsters don't get us, we'll all die of starvation!' It scared me to think that he might be right.

  Then it hit me. Father had not yet returned from one of his many foraging hikes. Sometimes they lasted for weeks, but he had always made it home for Christmas Eve, even when the world had been normal.

  I asked my mother, "When will Father return?"

  "You will see your father, soon, Carol! Now finish up, everyone! Dinner is almost ready!" Mother then disappeared into the kitchen to finish preparing for dinner. For the first time since I had turned nine, my mother did not ask for my help.

  Not giving much more thought to it, I went back to snapping off another bite of jerky, while giving closer inspection to each of the little trinkets from my stocking. The twins and Carmen were also doing the same, while we all waited for mother to return.

  When next she came into the dining room, carrying a large silver platter, Mother made the announcement. Each of us dashed over to the table and took our places, Mother setting the platter in the centre. By its sheer size and the strain that Mother had looked under while carrying it, there had to be something bountiful hidden under the shiny lid.

  Mother finished placing a bowl of sliced apples, then another with steaming boiled potatoes, upon the table, and then she spoke. "We have been blessed this year, my children! Eat it up while you can, for who knows when next we will meet such good fortune! At least with what's been smoked, we're sure to see the coming of spring alive and well!"

  Mother smiled, then leaned over, clutched the handle, and pulled the lid off of the platter. What lay before us was startling. With a loud gasp, my siblings and I were shocked to see our father; or what was left of him, anyway. His arms and legs were missing, but the rest of him was there. The skin was blackened and charred, cracked in places, the pinkish juicy meat bubbling within. Where Father's eyes were supposed to be, there were empty sockets, but for some residue of gooey looking gelatin.

  The room was silent as we all looked at each other. Then finally, Carmen said, "Can we eat now?"

  As hard as we tried, none of us could hold back a smirk, which soon turned to laughter. Pretty soon, we were acting just as normal as any other day. When my mother began carving off pieces of meat from Father's torso, and placing them on our plates, we took them willingly, and then began to eat as if it were normal to be feasting on your father for the holidays. It had turned out to be a good Christmas, after all, and we still had gifts to unwrap.

  I later found out that Father had been stricken down with a heart attack, and died several days earlier while on his way home from delivering gifts to some of the neighbors in the outlying area around us. Mother had found him in the woods on the edge of the property, dead in the snow and all dressed up in his red suit and shiny black boots. I was unsure whether to be more sad about Father's heart attack, or the fact that Santa really was make-believe.

  Anyhow, she told me she had thought she had heard someone calling her name off in the distance, sometime earlier that morning. She thought she was hearing things, but had finally decided to go investigate, just in case. Then when she found his dead body, quickly made up her mind what she was going to do about Christmas dinner.

  That was four years ago, just shy three days. And, what I think happened was that Mother had finally cracked. True, we all ate from our father, but I have a feeling his death was no accident. Three years ago, we had Willy for the holiday meal; the next year, Billy. And I saw mother take the axe to his head from behind, though she had told Carmen and I that he had slipped and fallen on the ice, cracking his head clean open, dying as a result. Last year, however, I took the initiative, and got to Mother before she could get me, or my little sister.

  When she least expected it, I snuck up behind her and smashed the back of her head in with an iron skillet. I made sure she would never get up again before I stopped pounding her pulverized skull with the heavy pan. With Carmen's help, I dragged her body into the smokehouse, and hoisted her onto the big hook hanging from the chain fastened to the rafter above.

  By the time Christmas Eve came around three days later, we had the feast of our lives. With Mother's head propped upon a plate so she could join us, Carmen and I gorged ourselves on her steamy cooked flesh.

  I knew that once this winter had come, that I was going to dread the coming of this day. There are four days left. And as I clutch my little sister's hand tightly, my mind is on tomorrow night, when I must stick her lifeless body inside the smokehouse, hoist it upon the hook, and secure the door shut. She will be ready in two nights’ time, after that. And just in time for Christmas Eve dinner, too. So now, a Merry Christmas to you all, and to all, a good night.

  THE END

  CROSSOVER

  By

  Tony Burgess

  There are two things on this stink-ass planet that I hate. I hate goddamn teenagers and I hate what the Dead have done to us. The Dead problem used to be worse, of course, before we figured out how to deal with them. One zap with a taser and they don’t get up again for twenty four hours. All you gotta do is put a taser in every household and real incidences of fatal attacks by the Dead are reduced to a statistic lower than shark attacks. It’s a waste disposal problem now. The Dead don’t die; you can’t kill them, so you gotta isolate them. For a while we did that by stickin’ ’em in arenas and then pits and then weighing ’em down in the Pacific. The problem with the Dead is you get new ones every day. People cross over every fuckin’ day. So now we load ’em into these giant barges, shoot ’em up into space and dump ’em into orbit. Bring the barge back and load it up again. Right now it’s estimated that there are over 800, 000,000 dead up there circling the Earth. The thing that messes with me is that they’re still animated. They float up there flapping their arms and rolling their eyes. Gives me the creeps. In fact, the sight has been deemed too disturbing by the authorities, so no images of this crazy outer space death party are made public. Personally I think that makes it worse. It means you can’t stop thinking about it. You shiver when the sun comes up because you know what it’s lighting up.

  Why do I hate teenagers? Because teenagers will fuck with anything. They think they’ll live forever. And that is precisely the problem right now. They call them crossover parties. A bunch of like-minded assholes get together, get high, hand out the guns and, at the appointed hour, they all blow their brains out. Not because life’s too hard, but because they want to go to outer space. They want to be immortal and scare the shit out of everybody. It’s tragically misguided, but that’s what makes it irresistible. It’s so grotesque that the media won’t report on it for fear of spreading the idea. Same with schools. But despite that, crossover parties are here to stay and, thanks to e-society, they spread. In fact, the vacuum created by ignorance around these things has been filled with some pretty dangerous ideas. Many teenagers think that you are alive up there. That it’s a party that never ends. That it’s Heaven.

  So it has become a waste management problem. That’s where I come in. I work for WasteCo. I used to work for private security firms. The kind that the military hires to go in and do dirty jobs. It’s ironic really; I used to infiltrate terror nests to kill and now I interfere with suicide parties. And I’ll tell ya, I had more respect for those bastards committed to a desperate war than I do for assholes using death as a drug. I fuckin’ hate teenagers. I think we should throw a few up there still alive. Scare ’em straight.

  Before this dumb fucking gig with WasteCo, I lived in hot spots all over the world. I’ve smoked entire families at prayer in Peshawer. I wore a burqa for a month in Iran, so I could off a troublesome officer in the revolutionary army. I even helped make IEDs in Iraq, so I could get closer to a circle of mad clerics. The things I’ve done are dirty. Ugly. To keep western leaders and their shining armies on the highest road possible, I have slit the throats of children in their beds. Doesn’t sound good, I know, but it was hardcore and it shifted the ground
under superpowers. You felt potent. Now I sneak into suburban neighbourhoods, living out of a fuckin’ suitcase in some of the most bland hotels ever built. I spend a lot of time pretending to be a teenager online. I hunt for a specific profile. Ring leaders. Usually an intelligent kid, artsy type you could say, who reads from a list of books we know that equate crossing over with native spirit quests. Of course, that’s bullshit. The real allure in this culture is drugs. It’s a major high they seek, and somehow, the fact that this is achieved by ending their life on Earth is part of the pitch. It’s fucked up. And it has parents so scared that authorities have tasked me, not with rounding up these kids and making sure they’re safe, but to identify the local shamans and put bullets in ’em. That’s the part of my job that makes sense. That’s the thing I like. Find ’em online, pretend I’m some gloomy thirteen year old chick clutching a unicorn stuffy in one hand and a swearlodge manual in the other, then I go meet him and surprise him with a .45 calibre slug in the head. He goes to the big party and the local suicide party get’s sent to counselling or detention or who knows what the fuck. And I get to fire a weapon on a teenager. Everybody’s happy.

  Right now I’m in Playland, Ontario. Snow Valley. Blue Mountain. It’s the beginning of March break and lots of fucked rich kids are making their annual migration away from cushy mansions to gin-soaked chalets. These are perfect conditions for a rash of crossovers. I’m in the small town of Dingwall, hunting a particularly nasty local douche known online as Starfucks331. This guy’s supposed to have sent more than 900 kids to live in the space junk and all of them rich kids. He’s running a lucrative con here. Some shamans are true believers and they cross when you cross. Others, like Starfucks331, take the money and run. WasteCo has given me an address for Starfucks331. Dingwall, Ontario. Tractors and churches and Main Street and henchman for a devil somewhere in one of these basements, probably, cookin’ up death on a laptop, while his parents sit upstairs watching TV. I’m gonna find you fuckwad and I’m gonna toss your mind up against a wall.