A corpulent man dressed in a red suit with an ermine collar stepped off the sleigh onto the roof. The full moon shone brightly on the new-fallen snow and he walked in semi-midday luster to the chimney. He paused at each of his reindeer to give them a pat of reassurance. ‘Another Christmas old pal,’ he seemed to be saying. He stroked the neck of his incandescently snouted team leader.
Despite his wide girth, the besuited elf slid down the chimney with ease. He landed in the living room of the Anderson family to find the house dark but for the lights illuminated on the Christmas tree. A hush of labored breathing followed by a soft groan turned his attention to the dining room where in the dim light stood Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. They fixed their attention on Mr. Claus and he could see the telltale hunger, nay the lust, for human flesh in their eyes.
“Seems the Andersons have been naughty this year!” The elf reflected. Quickly Santa pulled a rather large candy cane from out of his pack. Snapping the tip off on the fireplace mantle, he formed a sharp crystal of candy goodness on the end of the cane. Mr. Anderson was first to reach him and Mr. Anderson dropped to the floor as the barbershop poled confection entered his brain cavity in the front and exited it out the back of his head.
"Ho, ho, ho mother Fletcher!” Santa stood over the twice dead man. One down.
Mrs. Anderson followed close behind her husband. Having lost his grip on the candy cane when the mister fell, he grabbed the poker from the fireplace toolset and made Mrs. Anderson a new breathing hole where her frontal lobe used to be. He pulled the iron bar from out of Mrs. Anderson’s head and gave her his best samurai impression with karate-chopping hands.
No time for celebrating, Sarah Anderson still clad in her cheerleader uniform, rounded the corner and attacked. Clutching the poker tight, the agile fat man swung the tool in baseball bat style and with a mighty swoosh, of which even the Babe would be proud, severed Sarah’s head from her body. The body cartwheeled as it squirted dark black blood all over the walls and ceiling.
“Stuck the landing!” Claus was three for three.
The red-suited warrior straightened to beg his leave. No toys needed to be left here. Suddenly, little Timmy Anderson leapt from the stairway onto his back. He tried to shake the boy off like a prize Brahma bull at the rodeo but Timmy had really sunk his teeth into the collar of his coat, his braces locking into the fur. Nimbly Father Christmas removed his coat and swinging it and Timmy over his head like a bolo, threw them both into the Christmas tree. There was no need for further action, the ornament Timmy had made in third grade protruding from his eye socket.
Santa removed his coat from the newly re-dead fifth-grader, and fluffing the ermine to undo the matting the teeth marks had caused, he buttoned on his coat. Flamboyantly, he placed his middle finger beside his nose, and giving a nod he ascended to the waiting sleigh on the roof.
“I think we may have brought too many presents.” He absent-mindedly patted Blitzen on the back.
The Zombie apocalypse was very frustrating for Santa. He longed for the days when he had thought 300 million presents a chore to deliver. These days there were 7 billion people and most of them were pissy like the Andersons. He was weary already and his run had virtually just begun! He was running low on candy canes so he directed Rudolf to head for the Guns and Ammo shop on route 37.
Guns and Ammo had no chimney so they opted to use the front door. Santa walked right through the unlocked door to the chiming of the someone’s here bell on the door. “An angel just got its mother freaking wings!” Santa was in a foul mood.
Trapped behind the counter, ambled an undead store employee. “Where do you keep the good stuff?” Santa didn’t expect an answer. He knew they must have illegal weaponry that actually would be useful in his situation.
The clerk was unresponsive, the white-bearded zombie hunter checked the back room. Jackpot! A vast array of automatic guns and explosives presented themselves. He picked up a sniper rifle and, loading a cartridge, fixed his aim on the undead store clerk all the way in the other room. The red mist and exploded brains pattern on the Rambo poster behind the clerk confirmed the weapon’s accurate sighting. Santa loaded the sleigh with the booty from the back room, throwing most of the toys out to make room.
Onward and upward the magic sleigh and its commander flew. House to house they went, dropping toys to people huddled in the corner of their house afraid of their own shadows, dropping whoop-ass on those who were undead. The night was long, longer than it needed to be and no one, and he meant no one, was laying out any kind of milk and/or cookies.
He’d gotten some claymore mines, and so if there was an obvious Zombie presence at a house he didn’t even bother with the down the chimney nonsense he just dropped a few of the claymores down the chimney. The RPGs proved useful also, he could torch a house across the street without even having to visit their roof. These were the little shortcuts he would take this year, he figured it was his due as he was doing an insane amount of overtime.
Finally, they arrived at the last house, the Hoovers of Hooverville. S. Claus checked the Uzis on his belt holsters to make sure the clips weren’t empty. He checked his shotgun too, he didn’t want a repeat of that house in Utah with the guy having four wives and eighteen children. That had gotten desperate at the end. Down the chimney, he slid into the Hoover’s living room.
To his great relief, Santa found the husband and wife dead at the dining room table. Looked like a murder-suicide. They had blown their brains all over the roast beast. Confident, no toys were needed here he turned to leave when upstairs there came a small little voice, “Mommy can I come out now?” It was Cyndy Lou Hoover.
The weary elf climbed the stairs to find a small girl hiding in her bedroom. “Santa!” the girl screamed with delight. “Is it OK for me to come out now? Are Mommy and Daddy done with chores?” Santa crouched down in front of the shaking little one.
Santa wiped his brow. He hated this part. Every year some little kid would surprise him while he was doing his ‘thing’ and he’d have to make up some crap about them obeying their parents or some such. He exhaled in that way that people do when they want you to know they are exasperated.
“Your Mommy and Daddy have gone to heaven.” There was no way to sugarcoat it.
Little Cyndy started to cry. Not the wailing kind of cry, but the I’m going to be brave kind. First, there was a little tear in the corner of her eye then her nose crinkled then the waterworks flowed. Santa was annoyed. He was so close to wrapping this nightmare up and heading back to base camp for all of the pamperings that awaited him there.
He placed his relatively massive arm around the tiny child and patted. “There, there. They are happy now and they said that they will wait for you there for when it’s your time to go.” Cyndy seemed inconsolable.
Well, this wasn’t his job. He was for presents delivery, not a nursemaid. He reached in his bag and found a Sissy Talks A Lot doll that looked like what she would want. At least she would have something to talk to. “Here kid.” He handed her the present and got up to leave.
He almost made it. He was by the chimney, middle finger erect and one nod away from done when his conscience started talking. It sounded awfully suspiciously like a mix of Mrs. Claus and his Mom. ‘Are you really going to let one little Zombie apocalypse change you like that?’ The words cut through him like a sword. He growled a sigh of irritation and climbed the stairs. Taking off his coat he wrapped the little angel in it to prevent her from seeing the tragedy in the dining room. Up on the roof, he sat her to his right on the sleigh.
“Where are we going? Are we going to the North Pole? Am I going to get to see Mrs. Claus? Will the elves be there?
Are we there yet?”
Little Cyndy Lou Hoover was full of questions. Santa was sure he’d be getting more of the same all the way home.
Up from the Hoover’s roof, the sleigh rose into a crystal dark blue night, the sleigh bathed in the orange glow from the numerous house fires all around. And if you listened closely, ere they drove out of sight, you might have been able to hear Santa exclaim, "Effing Zombies!”
