65 Proof (58 page)

“I don’t think so. I mean, maybe I saw him talking on a cell phone. And maybe there was someone in a Santa suit a few cars behind me on the expressway…”

A shrill whistle cut Weston off. It sounded like a teapot.

But it wasn’t a teapot. It was an alarm.

“They’ve found us.” David’s voice was quavering. “They’re here.”

“Battle stations!” Irena cried, causing everyone to scurry off in different directions.

Scott hurried to the coffee table, pushed the machine aside, and pressed a red button on the wall. An iron gate slammed closed across the entry door, and three TV monitors rose up on pedestals from hidden panels in the floor.

“Jesus.” Phyllis squinted at one of the screens. “There have to be forty of them.”

Weston looked, watching as the cameras switch from one view to another around the church. Santa’s helpers, dozens of Santa’s helpers. Wielding bats and axes and swords. They had the place surrounded.

“We need to call the police.” David’s voice had gone up an octave.

Irena already had the phone in her hand. “Line’s been cut.”

“Cell phones?”

“We’re in a basement. No signals.”

Scott knelt before the trunk, removing the top section and revealing a cache of handguns underneath. He tossed one to Weston, along with an extra clip.

“Are guns safe to throw?”

“Safety is on. Ever used a 9mm before?”

“No.”

“Thumb off the safety on the side. Then pull back the top part. That’s the slide, loads the bullet into the chamber. Now all you have to do is pull the trigger. Those red suits they’re wearing are Kevlar, so aim for the face.”

Weston had more questions, but Scott was too busy distributing the guns.

“Place your shots carefully, people. We don’t have a lot of ammo. Ryan! Can you fire a weapon?”

Ryan remained sitting, staring into space.

“Dammit, man! We need you!”

Ryan didn’t move.

“Can’t we escape?” Weston asked Irena.

Irena worked her slide, jacking in a round.

“That’s the only door.”

“But those are steel bars. They can’t get through it.”

“They’ll get through.” Phyllis pointed. “See?”

Weston checked out the monitor, saw a group of Santa’s storming down the stairs with a battering ram. The first
CLANG!
made everyone in the room jump.

“The table! Move!”

Weston helped Andy and Scott push the cafeteria table in front of the door. Then the group, except for Ryan, huddled together in the back of the room, guns pointed forward.

“I hope we live through this,” Weston told Irena, “because I’d really like to ask you out.”

“I’d like that too.”

“Living through this, or going out with me?”

“Both.”

Another
CLANG!
accompanied by a
CREAK!
which shook the table.

“Wait until you see the whites of their beards, people.”

CLANG!

CLANG!

The table lurched forward.

CLANG!

They were in.

The room erupted in gunfire. It was louder than anything Weston had heard in his life, and he’d seen Iron Maiden in concert when he was seventeen. The kick of the gun surprised him, throwing off his aim, but Weston kept his head, kept sighting the targets, kept pulling the trigger.

The first Santa only made it a step inside.

The next three only made it two steps.

Then it got bad. A dozen of Santa’s helpers burst into the room, swinging their weapons, their
HO HO HO!
warcries cutting through the cacophony of gunfire.

Weston fired until his pistol was empty. He tried to tug the empty clip out of the bottom of the gun, but it didn’t budge. He wasted valuable seconds looking for the button or switch to release it, and then a helper tackled him.

His eyes were crazed, and his breath smelled like cough syrup, and Weston knew that this was the Santa who threatened him on the street corner in Naperville.

“Naughty boy! Naughty boy!” he screamed, both hands clasped on a curved dagger poised above Weston’s eye.

Weston blocked with his elbows, trying to keep the knife away, but the crazy old elf possessed some sort of supernatural strength, and the knife inched closer and closer no matter how hard he resisted. Weston saw his terrified expression reflected in the polished steel blade as the tip tickled his eyelashes.

“Hey! Santa! Got some cookies for you!”

Weston watched, amazed, as someone jammed a gun into the Santa’s snarling mouth and pulled the trigger. Psycho Santa’s hat lifted up off his head, did a pirouette in the air, and fell down onto his limp body.

Weston followed the hand that held the gun, saw Irena staring down at him. She helped him to his feet.

“Thanks.”

She nodded, taking his pistol and showing him the button to release the empty clip.

“Where did you learn how to shoot?” he asked.

“I teach high school.”

Weston slammed the spare clip home and pulled the slide, firing six times at a Santa’s helper swinging, of all things, a Grim Reaper scythe. The neck shot did him in.

“Hold your fire! They’re retreating!”

As quickly as it began, the attack stopped. The gun smoke cleared. Weston winced when he saw the piles of dead Santa’s helpers strewn around the room. At least two dozen of them. A Norman Rockwell painting it was not.

“Everyone okay?” Scott asked.

Everyone said yes except for Ryan, who remained sitting in the same chair, and David, who had a nasty gash on his shoulder that Phyllis was bandaging with duct tape and paper towels.

“Well, we sure kicked some Santa ass.” Andy walked next to one of the fallen helpers and nudged him with his foot. “Try climbing down a chimney now, shit head.”

“It’s not over.”

Everyone turned to look at Ryan.

“Did you saw something, Ryan?” Irena asked.

Ryan pointed to the monitor.

They all stared at a wide angle shot of the parking lot and watched eight reindeer racing down from the sky and using the blacktop like a landing strip. Behind them, a massive sleigh. It skidded to a stop and a hulking figure, dressed in red, climbed out and stared up at the camera.

“It’s Santa Claus,” Ryan whispered. “He’s come to town.”

Weston watched, horrified, as Santa headed for the church entrance, his remaining helpers scurrying around him.

“My God,” Phyllis gasped. “He’s huge.”

Weston couldn’t really judge perspective, but it seemed like Santa stood at least a foot taller than any of the Salvation Army volunteers.

“Who has ammo left?” Scott yelled.

“I’m out.”

“Me too.”

“So am I.”

Weston checked his clip. “I’ve got two bullets.”

It got very quiet. Scott rubbed his neck.

“Okay. We’ll have to make do. Everyone grab a weapon. Kris Kringle is a lot more powerful than his helpers. Maybe, if we all strike at once, we’ll have a chance.”

From the sound of Scott’s voice, he didn’t believe his own words.

Andy didn’t buy it either. “David is wounded. Ryan is sitting there like a pud. You think three men and two woman can fend off Kringle and his Satan’s Claws? He’s going to cut us into pieces!”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“But I don’t want to get sliced up!” Andy said. “I’m too pretty to die like that!”

“Calm down, son. You’re not helping the situation.”

Andy knelt next to one of the helpers and began undressing him.

“You guys fight. I’m going to put on a red suit and pretend to be dead.”

Weston locked eyes with Irena, saw fear, wondered if she saw the same in him.

“There’s a way.”

It was Ryan again, still staring off into space.

“You actually going to get up off your ass and help?” Phyllis asked.

Ryan slowly reached into his pants pocket, pulling out five tiny vials of liquid.

“I’ve been saving these.”

Andy grabbed one, unscrewed the top. “Is it cyanide? Tell me it’s cyanide, because I’m so drinking it.”

“It’s a metamorphosis potion. It will allow you to change into your therianthrope forms, while still retaining your human intellect.”

Scott took a vial, squinting at it.

“Where did you get these?”

“I’ve had them for a long time.”

“How do you know they work?”

“I know.”

“Guess it can’t hurt to try.” Irena grabbed the remaining vials. She handed one to Weston, and one to David. She also held one out for Phyllis.

“But I’m not a therianthrope,” Phyllis said. “I’m just a furry.”

“You’re one of us,” Irena told her.

Phyllis nodded, and took the vial.

“Are you taking one?” Scott asked Ryan.

Ryan shook his head.

Scott shrugged. “Okay. Here goes nothing.”

He downed the liquid. Everyone watched.

At first, nothing happened. Then Scott twitched. The twitching became faster, and faster, until he looked like a blurry photograph. Scott made a small sound, like a sigh, dropped his gun, and fell to all fours.

He’d changed into a turtle. A giant turtle, with vaguely human features. His face, now green and scaled, looked similar to his human face. And his body retained a roughly humanoid shape; so much so that he was able to push off the ground and stand on two stubby legs.

“I’ll be damned.” Scott reached up and tapped the top of his shell. “And I can still think. Hell, I can even talk.”

Irena had already drunk her vial, and her clothes ripped, exposing the spots underneath. While in final werecheetah form she retained her long blonde hair, and---Weston could appreciate this---her breasts. He could suddenly understand the appeal furries saw in anthropomorphic costumes.

“You look great,” Weston told her.

Her whiskers twitched, and she licked her arm and rubbed it over her face.

An oink, from behind, and Andy the wereboar was standing next to the overturned table, chewing on the cardboard donut box.

“What?” he said. “There’s still some frosting inside.”

“This sucks.”

Weston turned to David, who had become a greenish, roundish, ball of coral. Weston could make out his face underneath a row of tiny, undulating tentacles.

“I think you’re adorable,” Irena told him. “Like Humpty Dumpty.”

“I don’t have arms or legs! How am I supposed to fight Santa?”

“Try rolling on him,” Andy said, his snout stuck in the garbage can.

“I guess it’s my turn.” Phyllis drank the potion.

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

“Well, shit,” Phyllis said. “And I don’t even have my hippo suit here. At least give me the damn gun.”

Weston handed it to her, then looked at his vial.

“You’ll be fine,” Irena said.

She walked a circle around him, then nuzzled against his chest. Weston stroked her chin, and she purred.

“Better hurry,” Scott was eyeing the monitor. “Here comes Santa Claus.”

Weston closed his eyes and lifted the vial to his lips.

It was kind of like being born. Darkness. Warmth. Then turmoil, sensory overload, a thousand things happening at once. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t tickle either. Weston coughed, but it came out harsh. A bark. He looked down at his arms and noted they were covered with long, gray fur. His pants stayed on, but his clawed feet burst through the tops of his shoes.

“Hello, sexy.”

Weston stared at Irena and had an overpowering, irrational urge to bark at her. He managed to keep it in check.

“Remember,” Scott said. “He’s wearing armor. It’s claw-proof. Go for his head and neck, or use blunt force.”

They formed a semi-circle around the door, except for the immobile David and the still-seated Ryan. Then they waited. Weston heard a licking sound, traced it to Andy, who had his nose buried between his own legs.

“Andy,” he growled. “Quit it.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t think I’m ever going to stop.”

Then the crazed Santa’s helpers burst into the room, screaming and swinging weapons. Weston recoiled at first, remembered what he was, and then lashed out with a claw. It caught the helper in the side of the head, snapping his neck like a candy cane.

Andy quit grooming — if you could call it that — long enough to gore a helper between his red shirt and pants, right in the belly. What came out looked a lot like a bowlful of jelly.

Phyllis fired twice, then picked up the scythe and started swinging it like a mad woman and swearing like a truck driver with a toothache.

Scott had two helpers backed up against the wall, using his enormous shell to squeeze the life out of them.

Even David had managed to get into the act, snaring a helper with his tiny, translucent tentacles. Judging from the screams, those tentacles had stingers on them.

Weston searched for Irena, and saw her hanging onto a helper’s back, biting at his neck.

Two more Santa’s helpers rushed in, and Weston lunged at them, surprised by his speed. He kept his arms spread out and caught each one under the chin. His canine muscles flexed, tightened, and their heads came off like Barbie dolls.

And then, there
he
was.

Kris Kringle was even bigger up close than he was on the TV monitors. So tall he had to duck down to fit through the doorway. When he entered the room and reared up, he must have been eight feet tall. And wide, with a chest like a whiskey barrel, arms like tree trunks. His long white beard was flecked with blood, and his tiny dark eyes twinkled with malevolent glee.

But the worst thing were his hands. They ended in horrible metal claws, each blade the length of a samurai sword. One of his helpers, the one Irena had bitten, staggered over to Kringle, clutching his bleeding neck. Kringle lashed out, severing the man into three large pieces, even with the Kevlar suit on.

It was so horrible, so outrageously demonic, that Weston had to laugh when he saw it. In spite of himself.

Scott waddled over to Kringle and pointed his stubby fingers at him.

“Your reign of evil ends today, Kringle.”

Kringle laughed, a deep, resonating croak that sounded like thunder. Then his huge black boot shot out, kicking Scott in the chest, knocking him across the room and into the back wall. Scott crashed through it like a turtle-shaped meteor.