A Most Apocalyptic Christmas

by Phil Williams

  Grabbing the kid’s hand, I ran. We sprinted around the building as more screams and battle cries rose up behind us. They were piling out of the windows and doors. One elf jumped out ahead but ducked immediately back inside when he saw the gun.

  We pounded back to the road, the din of a chaotic charge behind us, and I clocked the cars up ahead. Maybe better than the truck, certainly closer, but difficult to get started since I never got the keys. There was another option, though. I snatched the bag back off the kid, just realising he’d been carrying it, and I rolled another bomb under one of the motors as we passed them. We kept on sprinting as the thing lit up behind us. The kid turned back to look but I pulled him on.

  From the sound of it, the car flipped into one next to it, another slid across the tarmac with a screech, and a few shouting pursuers went silent, hopefully hit by flying car parts. For good measure, another vehicle’s alarm went off. All we needed in that violent din, with the shouts and screams and charging masses, was that insufferable beeping and flashing lights.

  We’d put enough distance between us and them by then, though.

  I got a few minutes respite, driving in silence, while the kid tried to regain his breath. He had started hyperventilating when we got into the truck, so I shoved his head into the backpack and told him to breathe into it like I remembered people being advised to do with a paper bag. I don’t know which part of my intervention helped, the method itself or the force of making him do it, but he stopped. Then he looked at me kind of angrily. He rested in his seat, trying to handle the mash of emotions he must’ve been feeling. All I said to him, then, with a grin on my face, was “Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?”

  There was that angry look again.

  I drove as fast as the old wheels would take us. The morons hadn’t counted on us running to a motor ourselves, and had kept on chasing on foot, so we had a healthy head-start. They turned back to the lodge when I got the engine going, though, so they’d be coming. I swerved down a country road heading north, made for a group of trees and pulled over, down into the shadows. I killed the lights and looked back over my shoulder. Watched the road.

  “Why are we stopping?” the kid asked. I didn’t answer.

  A minute later, the cars started tearing past. They were speeding on down the endless interstate. A couple at first, then a whole crowd of them. Big cars, small cars. A truck or two. A whole god-damned fleet. Thirty people my arse.

  A couple of lights turned up our road. I shoved the kid down below the window but watched myself as they hurtled towards us. They drove right on by, never suspecting we might’ve stopped somewhere. I decided to join in the chase, then, brought the truck back to life and followed their rear lights. I caught up quickly, the kid watching like he still wanted to ask but didn’t dare.

  Neither of the vehicles slowed, not realising the headlights behind them weren’t friendly. I got right up behind one of them, close enough to see what we were dealing with. It was a VW bug, maybe fifty years old, only two people inside. The passenger had something big across his lap, pointing up out the window. A rifle maybe, though just as likely a broom or a missile launcher with this crowd. Ahead of the bug, a little to its left, was an estate car of some sort, more people inside.

  We ran out of road before we got far. The brakes came on both vehicles and someone leant out the estate waving a hand to the bug, shouting something back to me too. Trying to organise the chase. The estate swung left and the bug swung right. I followed the bug. I could hear someone in the estate kicking up a fuss, but they were heading off in the other direction, so whatever. The bug trundled on ahead as the other car’s lights faded into the distance.

  The bug slowed again, and the passenger leant over his broom, waving a hand out the window at me. Trying to point to the right. Another turning ahead. No chance I was heading south again, so as the bug spun a left, I put my foot down. I warned the kid a little bit too late, “Hold on!”, just as we slammed into the side of the turning bug. Our truck, old and tired as it was, had been built by someone that thought crumple zones were for cowards. The little vehicle spun through the air, off the other side of the road, as we screeched to an unscathed stop to avoid going off the road, too. Its headlights rolled out into the darkness. My beams caught the wreckage as we turned past it. It was upside down, crumpled, the guys inside not moving. Leaving them there, I headed left again. North. Back towards Interstate 62, the road we’d been on with the rooter.

  The kid was staring at me. I tried to ignore him, figuring it probably wasn’t so much anger he was feeling now.

  15

  I soon found a sign for 62. At the crossroads, the choice seemed pretty damn clear. Left, towards New Oak City, right, towards the scene of our ambush. I could’ve kept on driving, the kid wouldn’t have even known we were going the wrong way for his dad. He helped me out of that shit storm and wanted me to make a promise, though, and that made me hesitate, at least long enough to let him make a case. I was usually good for my word. Not always, but usually. And besides, those freaks had got me pumped and ready for more.

  “Those bandits sent us south knowing there was a colony of psychos that way,” I told the kid, laying our cards on the table. “Hoping it’d kill me. Meaning that they needed a good reason to come this close to the Chrimbo Clowns. As in, someone might’ve hired our Laslo. Making it more complicated than just rescuing your dad.”

  The kid looked angry again.

  “And there might be dozens of carnival vehicles out trying to hunt us down,” I went on, “So the less time we spend in this area the better.”

  “You promised,” he replied, simple as that.

  I stared at him for a moment, all my instincts screaming so what? but something in me unable to actually say it. I asked, “What’s left in the bag?”

  He opened it up and showed me. A couple of pistol clips, with bullets that would fit the SMG I’d stolen. One more grenade, looked like a smoke bomb. And my spare t-shirt, at least that was still with us. I reached over and felt for the front pocket. There was a foldable hatchet in there, always good for an emergency. That and my knife left me in fairly good shape for a fight.

  “If you had saved them at the start,” the kid said, “We never would have gone to that place.”

  I gave him a look. He was pretty damn astute for a brat, and there was no arguing it. It would’ve been easier to take a ride from Laslo, and all we’d ended up with was an old truck with an indeterminate amount of fuel and a hunt of lunatics after us. I said, “That doesn’t make it a good idea now.”

  He huffed at this, folded his arms again to demonstrate frustration. He wasn’t going to get hissy and cry, I could see, but he definitely wanted me to feel the guilt. I kept staring at him, unable to reconcile this very simple choice within myself. Part of me wanted a fight, still, to be able to put that hall of clowns down for thinking they could behave that way. Part of me, seeing Christmas characters mutilating one another, felt there was something especially wrong about this whole scene. I wasn’t sure how easy it’d be to drink the next day with these confused images in my head.

  “Should’ve checked for alcohol before we left,” I murmured to myself.

  The boy looked at me for a second, then turned in his seat, leant into the back and rummaged for something. He planted himself back down as I frowned, wondering what he could have possibly stashed back there. He held it up to me, said in a mumble “I found you a present. But…you can have it for payment instead.” I was dumbstruck. He had a bottle. He shook it at me, said, “Take it!”

  I did and looked at it with awe. A little dusty, but otherwise perfectly preserved, bottle of ale. I asked, “How the fuck did you get this?”

  “In the town hall,” the kid. “I thought you’d like it.”

  I bit the bottle-cap off in a heartbeat, spat it across the car and had a good hard swig. With the exhaustion of the running and fighting, and the madness I’d seen, that moment was like visiting heaven, via a perfectly crisp,
malty bottle of salvation. I must’ve drunk half the bottle in two gulps, before I stopped and grinned at the kid. He stared back at me, coldly.

  “You’re alright,” I told him, then rolled my neck, getting ready.

  I’m not a superstitious nut or anything like that, but I know better than to neglect a sign from the heavens. If there was any question before, it’d gone now. The kid had brought me beer, it was Christmas fucking Eve, I was going to save his dad.

  I slowed down when I saw lights in the road ahead. It had to be the rooter and the bandits, certainly the right place for them. I gave the kid a glance, noticed he’d picked up the box his dad had left him. Knowing things might get worse before they got any better, I told him, “Open it. Must be past midnight already.”

  The boy wasn’t convinced.

  “Your dad’d want it,” I told him. “In case you don’t get a chance later.”

  He nodded, as though that wasn’t a horrible thing to say, then started peeling off the shoddy wrapping paper. Underneath was another cardboard box, like the one I’d torn open earlier. I dreaded what hideous stuffed animal Fat Walter might’ve hidden in this one. But the boy frowned at the contents, and I had to take a closer look myself to figure out what it was.

  A hunk of metal, threaded at one end, rigged with small ins and outs in the middle.

  “I don’t understand,” the boy said, touching it gingerly.

  “Your dad really loved his job, huh?” I said, and the kid looked at me for an explanation. “That’s something from his work. See that,” I tapped its engraving, some numbers after the letters B.V.I. “It’s from the power plant.”

  “Maybe it was for his new job,” the kid said, not sure himself. “They’re making a new plant. Auntie Lee said she wouldn’t ship our things separately.”

  “What the fuck was Auntie Lee’s problem?” I snorted at this. I wasn’t sure who was worse, though, the monster aunt or this deadbeat dad who saved a mechanical part, of all things, as the one present his kid got to keep. I took a breath and said “Don’t worry about it. We make it through the night, I’ll get you a real Christmas present.” I was thinking of something alcoholic, but I didn’t tell him that.

  I looked ahead to a blue light in the road, again. Must’ve been a blow torch, the punks stripping the rooter’s remains for parts. I patted his head as I revved the engine, quietly considering that the little brat was probably about to die anyway.

  16

  Leaving the truck down the road, I stalked through shadows until I was level with the bus. Their great war vehicle was parked askew, blocking the road behind the rooter’s wreckage, a couple of guys in the crow’s nests and another inside. Four of them were around the rooter, blazing away at it with blow torches, and another two, one on each side of the road, were walking back and forth watching the surroundings.

  There was no sign of Laslo.

  One of the road guards made a comment about the cold, amusing himself by watching his breath come out in a cloud. He turned back towards the bus to share his discovery with the others, and I got a hand over his mouth before he could make a sound. Dragged him back into the ditch by the road and ran a knife across his neck. Quick and messy.

  I hung back there a moment, watching them watching the area.

  No one seemed to notice he was gone.

  It was a short distance to the bus, then. I kept low and rushed across, up through the rear door, and stayed below the windows as I crept in. There were Fat Walter, Granny and Business Trip, trembling, chained together in the middle of the aisle, ready for transport. The bandit in the bus was looking out towards the church, yawning. I gave a little hiss to the prisoners, getting Business Trip and Granny’s attention. They both nearly started from their seats when they saw me.

  I put a finger to my lips, then mouthed, “Where’s Mouth Braces?”

  Last thing I needed was a hostage situation.

  Granny nodded, ever so slightly, towards the church. I considered my options for a second, then leant over to Business Trip, the closest to me, and stretched my pistol in his direction. As he took it, all eager and panicky, I said as quiet and firm as I could, “Wait.”

  He nodded and shoved it under his butt, hiding the gun from view.

  I gave the guard one last look, then dropped back into the road. Going round the back of the bus, I was pretty much clear from view. I headed to the other side of the road, waited for the other guard to pass, then darted across and made for the church. Round the back of it, I was in cover again. I headed for a gap in the church wall and paused when I heard the shit’s voice.

  “We live like kings,” he was saying. Trying to be persuasive. “The tributes keep us more than comfortable.”

  “So why travel this far?” Mouth Braces.

  I peeked through the gap in the wall. A henchman was loitering near me, watching Mouth Braces and Laslo having a little pow-wow in the middle of the near-empty hall. They were sitting on wooden chairs out in the open like it was a private AA meeting. She wasn’t bound and he seemed, if anything, to be trying to lay on the charm.

  “Before all this,” he told her, waving that flamboyant pistol again, a permanent extension of his ego, “I was a roaming accounts manager. I was the best because I went the extra distance. I still am.”

  Jesus. It was pretty clear why Laslo’s Merry Men was such a sausage fest. He’d probably been a creep before, and embraced the opportunity when society crumbled. He leant in close to Mouth Braces. “I can make you very happy.”

  She flinched away from him, too intimidated to respond.

  I had a dilemma. Get her out of there and alert the others or get the others out of there and alert him. Either way left people under bandit watch. And if I’d decided to help the kid, then I needed to help the girl too. Otherwise what good was I for anything. I sat back, thinking the best option might be to wait, let them all get back together before I did something. The problem was that I’d just killed one of them. And that caught up to me pretty quick.

  “Frankie’s down!” a shout came from the road.

  “Watch her!” Laslo’s voice. He ran out from the church, shouting, “Rap it up! Get moving, now!”

  I peered back in. The guard moved closer to Mouth Braces as she watched him. Past him, she saw me, and her face lit up. Giving the game away again. He followed her surprised expression and turned towards me. No time to think, I had my knife out and flung it at him full force. I’m no knife-thrower, so it predictably slapped into his arm with a slash that didn’t do much to stop him. He shouted, but Mouth Braces was up on his back in a moment. She got her forearm over his mouth, smothering him and knocking his gun from his hand. Muffled, he swung madly from side to side as I vaulted in and charged. I swept the knife up off the floor and jammed it into his gut, just as he threw Braces into a pew.

  I went down with him and kept stabbing between the panels of his armour, until his gurgling stopped. When I stood up again, Mouth Braces was straightening herself out, staring in horror but quiet this time. Finally learning. We both paused and listened. With the commotion outside, no one had heard all this.

  “Didn’t see is not good enough!” Laslo was shrieking, “This is what they do!”

  I grabbed Mouth Braces’ arm and took her back the way I’d come, but as we reached the gap in the wall the floorboards creaked behind us. A voice shouted, “In here! In here!” I spun back, looking to the dropped gun, but a bandit was in the space between the hall and the tower, gun of his own already on us. He didn’t fire, seeing Mouth Braces standing in my way.

  Laslo charged back into the room with another of his men. When he saw me his face filled with relief. He whooped, slapped his thigh and said “Oh thank God.” He shouted over his shoulder to his boys in the road, “It’s that tough guy. It’s not them!” He aimed the pistol at me, “Stop hiding behind the girl, you fucking pest.”

  Mouth Braces took a step closer to me, making sure to block his path. What a trooper. She replied forcibly, “You want
him you go through me.”

  Laslo looked conflicted. She’d somehow made an impression on him. I had to wonder what’d been going on here in my absence, but I doubt it could’ve been more interesting than the shit I went through. I said, “You know what’s out there, they’re coming.”

  This great bandit leader, coward that he was, started looking nervously around, instinct taking his frightened eyes places that wouldn’t help him. He shoved the bandit close to him and said, “Get everyone together, we need to go.” Then he turned back to me and said, “As for you....”

  “Yeah?” I replied. I rose my voice, loud as I could make it, “Shall we get this party started?”

  Everyone went quiet, surprised at the loud echo of my voice. A few silent seconds passed, bordering on awkward. Laslo was about to say something when the church shook with a bang. The bandits all turned in the direction of the small explosion, somewhere out in the road, as I grabbed Mouth Braces and pulled her back through the gap in the wall. We were clear of the building by the time they started shooting.

  I ran around the edge of the church, back towards the bus, as gunfire sounded in the road. Laslo was screaming at his men, heading in a different direction. The cannon on top of the war bus let rip with a thundering roar. I ducked around the church to see it turned the other way, firing into the field. The bandits around the rooter were firing in that direction too, taking cover around the wreckage. One of them was lying motionless on the road, black and smoking, so I guess the blast got at least one person.