A Very Zombie Christmas

A man plagued by guilt that he cannot give his daughter a proper Christmas embarks on a dangerous journey through undead territory to a toy store where not all is as it seems.

A Very Zombie Christmas
"You can't go".
The words echoed off the cold walls and down the narrow rug stained corridor. Snow drifted, blanketing the crashed cars and scarred bodies in the street outside of the abandoned hotel. It was a white apocalypse. A ray of sun glinted off the sleet clothed town, making it gleam with countless diamonds. A gust of wind slapped against a dark and dirty window panel on the second floor of the building. Inside was the faint flicker of candle light.
"Brenda, I could make it there and back again twice before it gets dark. It is only a couple of blocks away, we know all of the safe routes."
Except for the dim glow given from the wax and wick fueled flame, the room was cloaked in darkness. Their warmth breath would hang in the frigid air for mere seconds before vanishing like phantoms. Thick sheets and blankets were tacked across the windows in desperate attempt to repel the winter onslaught outside. This also made mobility and stealth more accessible when gazing out on the dead town.
Two human shaped figures were outlined against the wall, only illuminated by the solo singing flame. While one shadow was frantically packing gear and stuffing objects into a backpack, the other, a more slender figure, disapprovingly stood across with arms locked and foot tapping.
"Damnit John, Christmas is a thing of the past. A life we no longer live. The sooner Annabelle realizes that the better. We can't afford to be weak. The weak get sloppy, and all it takes is one slip to be torn apart and eaten alive."
There was a brief moment of silence, even the steady tapping had ceased.
Then, "I know that, really, I do. But she is just a child. If we give up on these little things, what are we really giving up on? I want our daughter to be happy, I don't want her to live in fear."
"She is going to live in much more fear if her father is no longer around to defend her from those things outside."

"That is not going to happen Brenda."
John was trying to pack as efficiently as possible. But the cold cramped his fingers, and he was fumbling in ways that almost made him seem unnerved. Pack too little, and he wouldn't be mobile enough to maneuver. Pack too heavy and he would be weighed down. Everything was weighed, measured and balanced in a grim life or death equation that must be solved with every outing.
"I will use the same route we take for supplies, maybe even pick up fuel for the furnace as well if it is safe enough. You know we fixed all the spots we had problems with before". John was aware that not all of the problems had been fixed, and he wasn't exactly planning on sticking to the original path. A scheme he had no intention of informing his dear wife about.
"It is a f*****g teddy bear John. You are going to get your neck chewed through for a bag of stuffing."
"Listen, I will be fine honey. You know I love you and Annabelle, and want your approval of everything I do. I wouldn't be going if it wasn't worth it." He knew it was life or death if he went, or life and death if he stayed. "We must try to hold on to the old ways of merriment. I don't know what is worse, to lose our daughters heart to indifference or to lose it to the virus."
With that, John stood up and slung his pack on his shoulders. Taking a deep breath of the cold air he suddenly wished he had a cigarette; he quit smoking 10 years ago. He felt stiff. He postured and shifted, allowing his body to re-adjust. He wasn't much older than 30, but he could still feel unwanted aches and pops settling in all the wrong places. Stepping into the glow of the candle, he picked it up by its grail and revealed his aging face. His facial hair had grown to an untamed and untrimmed length, covering his jaw and neck with a couple inches of dark growth. His forehead had adopted frown lines that had not been there before the world went to hell. Dark brown hair brushed his wide shoulders in thick mostly unkempt waves. John was a heavy built man, in a former life he might have been a professional football player or a flannel wearing lumberjack posing on the cover of Time Magazine for an article on the timber industry and its devastating effects on the planet.
His hands, callused and hard, held the candle up high. With the casting out of the final shadow, Brenda emerged. Her slim body against his often made her think of those broadway performances of Beauty and the Beast, where the actors stand face to face in an inhuman embrace; one a giant beast and the other a frail flower. Her hair had grown long, and traveled midway down her back. Her lips, chapped from the cold dry air, trembled with emotion. A tear rolled from her moist eyes, tasting her skin it slid down her unwashed cheek in a wet line and rested on a scar that extended from her lips to her left ear. The tear collected and fell, trickling to the cold dirty floor and freezing.

She spoke softly, "I can see you are set on this. I can't change your mind. Once you get set in your ways, nothing can stop you".
There was another moment of silence. They were hugging in a lovers embrace. Silence. Silence was the new voice of the world. Even the gulls by the bay had grown silent. Silence was the first tongue the Earth spoke, then it became noisy. The noise steadily increased until it became a ballad of chaos reaching a crescendo and crashing all the way down to the silence of infancy again. Brenda and John were quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because those things were listening. The bumps in the night, the howls in the street, the moans in the dark, the monsters in the shadows...the zombies. Whatever foul power had transformed them and decayed their bodies into savage damned creatures, had corrected the balance by enhancing their hearing. Silence was the new song of the world, the new key to life. Many zombies had found their putrid mouths shut on the flesh of humans who couldn't keep their mouths shut.
They stood there awhile, holding each other. The wind rattled the windows on their hinges, piercing their bubble of security and reminding them of harsh reality.
With only a look in her eyes and a nod that spoke more than words, John handed Brenda the candle and walked out of the room.

Bundled for the weather, John wore a wool scarf, a thick brown leather jacket and thermals under his carhart jeans. Below his backpack was a makeshift utility-belt he never left without. Resting in two home-made holsters were a Colt 45 and a Glock 17, one named Coke and the other named Pepsi. These names were derived from the brand of soda cans fashioned for gun mufflers on the ends of each barrel. Strapped to the back of his belt was an 8 inch dagger that had saved his life on more than one occasion. As his boots clicked down the hallway he paused at the last door on the left, open just a crack, he peaked in. Sleeping gently in a run down bed with worn fabric lay young Annabelle. Johns warm light in a weary world.

She was his muse, and John gathered his strength. Walking quietly to the bottom of the stairs, he removed the barricade and stepped through to the ruined lobby. The floor was littered with trash and broken furniture, the windows had long been boarded up. The shriveled body of the receptionist still lay dead and motionless over the counter, one hand eternally resting on the "ring for service" bell, and a screwdriver shoved through her head pinning her rotting corpse to the splintering desk.

Paying no attention to the scene, John paced across to the boarded door and unlatched it. He tugged on the handle, immediately a force of air shot through the cracks as though a dragon were blowing icy gales on the other side. Stinging his eyes, the flurry danced around the room like a dog off its leash. As the snow and dust settled, John grabbed his wide-brimmed hat with the soft crown off the coat rack, stepped outside, and closed the door.
Squinting in defense against the sharp light, John took a moment to review his journey ahead of him: follow the alley between Forrest Hardware and Silver Jewelers, take the fire escape ladder above the car littered streets of Bentley ave, go through the broken window of Molly's Inn but be cautious of the stragglers (most of the zombies were confined to the top floors where a group of desperate survivors tried to make their stand), then take the back service exit and the Duncans Toy Shop would be across the junction.
Probably less than a mile, all things considered. But these days there wasn't much difference between a mile or ten. The same hazards applied, the same wages gambled. "Jesus" John muttered to himself. Was he crazy? He was risking his life for a stuffed bear. Why this bear? the world was his for the taking. He could waltz into any one of these houses and grab whatever he wanted from the deceased owners. 'A bear is a bear' he kept trying to tell himself. But this bear was different, special. This bear was Annabelle's.
With a deep sigh, he started crunching the freshly fallen powder as he walked toward Forrest's Hardware shop. He wasn't prancing, and he wasn't striding. Trying to be stealthy and quiet, John looked like the behemoth butler Lurch Addams, or a crazed Hunchback of Notre Dame. His stiff body crouched down and straddled forward with awkward intent. While in open view it was better to look like a fool than to be seen by a zombie -or something worse-a human. He was still tall, despite his best efforts. His utility belt jingled in rhyme, whispering against his thighs with each step he took, he had to remember to get it better insulated with padding.
He made it to the fire escape with ease. The alley was clear, but while climbing the steel John noticed it wasn't just his body aching and groaning. The metal had become hostile, corroded and rusted, each rung of the ladder threatened him. He knew soon he would have to find a new safe-route. While the ladder and John groaned in a duet, it was turned into a trio by the echoing moan of a distant third party. That noise was unnatural, but strangely human. No matter how many times it was heard, it always turned your blood white. It was a sad sound of pure rage and misery, savagery overtaking reason. It was the cry of the undead. John wasn't sure if there was any trace of humanity left in those creatures, and frankly, he didn't care. It was kill or be killed, just as it always had been, and just as it always would be.

Overlooking Bentley ave. always took Johns breath away. It captured the embodiment of the apocalypse. Cars, as far as the eye could see. Ambulances, firetrucks, SUVs, patrolcars, minivans, bicycles and the list went on. Dead chunks of dirty metal covered in snow extended in both directions like a giant mechanic snake. He wasn't sure where they all thought they were going, or if they were thinking at all. Fools. Everyone lining up for their deaths hoping the car in front of them had a plan. Like sheep to the slaughter they all sat in their hot metal boxes, choking on exhaust, and allowing themselves to be swallowed by the virus. John forced himself to take his eyes away from the industrial graveyard and keep moving, the way he did every time he took this crossing.

In a few minutes he was taking shelter inside the Molly. He had slipped through the broken window with ease having removed all the shards of glass long ago. He could hear the bumps and thumps coming from the floor above him, he paid no mind to it. To him it was just another day in the life of the zombie apocalypse. The scariest thing was how quickly he had gotten use to no longer being top of the food chain. It wasn't natural for the predator to become the hunted with such a smooth transition. He warily made his way through the back door with the broken 'EXIT' sign amd a bag of trash sitting next to it with a note that said 'Julian, please take the trash out'. John had a feeling Julian never got the memo.

He could see it. Shielding his eyes from the dying sun as it shot through the D in the giant DUNCANS sign, he had no time to waste. The sprinters would be waking up soon. He jogged the remaining distance, balancing his speed with stealth as to not alert any unwanted business. He caught his breath and composed himself. In the chaos of the world dying most places had already been broken into and burglarized. This made entry and exit much more convenient while trying to keep a low profile. But, unfortunately, no one was thinking about toys while their loved ones were being torn to shreds or being eaten alive from the inside out by an apocalyptic virus. John had prepared for this. Instead of breaking a window and alerting everything within a three block radius, he removed his lockpick set from a pouch on his utility belt and went to work. In his younger days John made a less than perfect criminal record and he knew how to use a pickset better than a toothbrush.

A blood curdling howl cut through the wind and stopped John dead in his tracks. Hands still clutching the lock set, he turned in the direction of the intrusion. Four figures emerged from the snowy veil of wind, and stumbled in his direction. He was lucky, they were slugs and not sprinters. They moved forward at a slow but steady pace. Continuing to stare a second or two longer than he should, unknowingly looking like a deer caught in headlights, John finally snapped from the stupor. He knew they couldn't have seen him yet, but if the wind changed direction they would be able to smell him. As if the thought had summoned it, a rank sour odor hit John like a brick wall. The sweet salty smell of rotten flesh and dried blood invaded his senses. Pushing through the menace of decay, John went back to work on the lock. He knew he only had a minute, probably less, before they would notice him and he would be forced to engage. He had both chambers locked and loaded, but ammo was more precious than water and he could not afford to use them unless having no alternative. Despite the frigid temperatures John began to sweat. He could hear them, louder with each second, stomping and plowing through the snow, moaning and groaning through their dry hoarse throats.
Thwomp. Plop. Swoosh. Thwomp. Plop. Swoosh.

His hands desperately worked the pins and tumblers of the lock, but the cold cramped his muscles and the stress clouded his motor functions.

He dropped the pick.

John scrambled to pick it up, digging frantically with one hand in the snow while holding the other piece still in the lock. He was sure that they must have seen him by now, he was taking far too long. Just then his numb fingers brushed against the cold metal under the snow and his heart sung with triumph. He slapped it back in the lock, cranked it to the side and popped the lock. The divine click of the opened lock had never sounded sweeter to his ears. He thrust the door open and fell inside the store. Laying on the floor he rolled over and kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. A bewildered look crept onto his face when his eyes finally adjusted to the room. He stared for a moment in confusion. Laying on his back and staring up he was baffled at the sight before him, his brain was trying frantically to process it. His sight was slowly digesting it all; brown furry boots, crimson red suit, the bushy beard, and a silky hat topped with a round fluffy ball on the end. All being worn like a suit of armor by a man with a big nose. The pair of eyes gazed down and met Johns. John was staring at Santa Claus. A faint glimmer shimmied across the surface of the eyes of the Man in Red like a ripple in a lake. He smiled. John couldn't see his lips through the beard, but he could tell he was smiling.

"What the f**k?" was all John could get himself to say.

"HO-HO-HO" was the last thing John remembered before the boot came down and everything went black.

Christmas lights. Christmas lights...Christmas lights? When John woke up, his eyes were blurry with the red white and blue of Christmas lights. The entire room had been decorated with them. He couldn't make sense of it. Like a jigsaw he slowly pieced together the events that occurred. Argument with wife...dead receptionist...a note for Julian...the locked store. Had there been zombies? Why does Santa keep popping into my head? What are these lights? The power had gone out months ago, they must be using a generator. His eyes focused. There was the teddy bear, sitting on the shelf like a holy goblet. To John it looked like some golden chalice from an Indiana Jones movie. His goal, his mission, his ticket home and out of this confusing nightmare. He tried to move, but found he was restrained. Tight ropes were holding him to a wooden chair, digging into his flesh and cutting his circulation. He was sitting in a bright light centered in the middle of the room. He looked out the store window and saw the sun was almost completely gone. 'How long was I out?' he asked himself. He screamed. Not out of terror, and not out of pain. But out of rage and defiance. In the darkness a booming deep voice retorted.
"Calm yourself now child, you are in good hands. Ha."
John strained against the ropes, testing them against his might. Eyes wild, he responded "who is there? show yourself"

"Why, it is I child. Father Christmas." The voice hit deep in his chest, the voice of a father to a child.

"F**k you" he fought the ropes harder.

"You won't get out of those ropes. Fisherman's ropes they are. Meant to hold barrels and boats. You have no chance. Ho."

"What do you want?!" John was seething. Trying to disguise his intents as purely vehement, and not thoroughly laced with despair.

With that, the man in red stepped in the light. He was a bellowing man, matching St. Nick in every detail. Round jolly face, calm eyes under bushy white brows, broad shoulders, big belly, legs like tree trunks and of course the big nose. All this wrapped up in the most detailed and authentic Santa suit John had ever seen.

"Why, son, I just want to do my job. To give presents to all the children on Christmas. HOHOHO." His sentences were cut in half by insane laughs and hoots. "But the question remains, have you been a good boy, or am I giving you a lump of coal? HAHAHA

"Gimli, fetch me my list dear elf".

On summon a black man came out of the shadows, he was no dwarf -truthfully he looked taller than John- but he was wearing festive green and with every step he took the bells he had tied to his shoe laces jingled. John grimaced when he looked at Gimli's face, half of it had melted away. He had a beard but only on one side as it was frayed and cut off into a charred stubble at the cleft of his chin. His left eye lid was melted to his chin, and his ear was missing entirely. The right side of his face growled and scowled at John as he handed a list to the Man in Red.

"Ohhhh dear Johnny...this does not look good my son"

"I am not your goddamned son, and how the hell do you know my name? Let me out of this chair you sick f**k"

"Now now Johnny my boy, you are not helping your case. I know everything in this town. This is the North Pole. Did you think you could piss in my snow and I wouldn't know? The elves and I see you when you're sleeping. You were coming for my toys, and that is a very naughty thing to do". This was the first time John had heard him speak without the ever irritating banter of "ha's and ho's". A very serious look had crept into his once Jolly face.

"Just let me go and we don't have to let this get ugly"

"HOHOHO" it was back. "Ugly you say? The only ugly gifts given on Christmas are to very bad boys. Everyone deserves what is hanging in their sock above the fireplace son. Y'see, you break into my house, try to steal my toys, you get coal. What do you do when you catch the dog that keeps shitting in your backyard Johnny? You put it down. You, Johnny, are on the naughty list." He then began folding up the list, spun on his heel and walked back into the cover of darkness.

Johnny struggled mightily, blood trickled down the solid wood from the burn of his flesh against the ropes. His flesh tore and singed. The chair creaked but held firm.

"I can't kill you Johnny, that just wouldn't be in the holiday spirit. I have an army in the dark with me locked and loaded but I will give you your present in a more festive manner. After all, it is the season of merriment." A loud snap of his fingers echoed in the room. For a few seconds there was no noise. To John it felt like hours. He kept waiting for some terrible demise, some horrible monster to come out of the shadows and eat his head of with a swift chomp. Just when a tinge of panic struck, he heard movement and a 'click' noise of a record being put into a player. The P.A. speaker system overhead keyed on with an unsettling loud squeal. The dead air pushed stronger and stronger as someone was turning the volume up. He could faintly hear Santa laughing under his breath.

After a few seconds of ticking from the record needle, Amy Grant began warming up her pipes and it all became horrifyingly clear to John. He was being fed to Santas 'reindeer', and this was their dinner bell. Soon the piano chimed in at a very uncomfortably high level and Grant began her number over the speakers of the whole store. It hurt Johns ears, but he didn't notice. Panic made it hard to breath. He knew the sound would travel for miles. He almost thought he could still hear St Nick laughing to his own jokes. But this would have been impossible under this volume. The song kicked in.

'SLEIGH BELLS RINGGG, ARE YA LISTENINNN'?

He slammed into his chair harder than ever but it wouldn't budge. The light outside had died. He was a singing glowing Christmas carol for every undead nightmare to come and snack on. He was taking the attention of every zombie for miles, and, just as he knew he would hear, there came a smacking at the window. They found him. First just one hand pounding. Then two.

John screamed. He felt like his arms were about to break. Delusional thoughts of Annabelle flooded his mind, in tune with the music it was as close as possible to feeling himself going physically insane.

'A BEAUTIFUL SIGHTTT, WE'RE HAPPY TONIGHTTT'

Santas alarm clock had woken the sprinters. Just as the first sprinter slammed into the glass panel, John had thrown himself into his chair so hard it tipped over and made a satisfying CRACK. He felt the splinters shoot into his arm, pain screamed through his whole body. He didn't care, he used this as fuel.

"WALKIN' IN A WINTER WONDERLANDDD"

Nicky was right, he couldn't break the ropes. But he managed to break the arm of the chair, this finally let his hand loose of the fiery chains holding him to his fate.

Another slam against the window, a chunk of glass shot across the room and landed next to Johns head.

His belt. They had left his belt on him.

The lovely Ms. Grant kept on singing.

He maneuvered his bruised and swollen arm out of the rope and reached behind him. The dagger was pinned between his back and the chair. He wrapped his grip around the hilt as hard as he could and tugged. It budged but was still wedged against flesh and wood.

"GONE AWAYYY IS THE BLUE BIRDDD"

SMACK. SMACK. SMASH.

The first window panel shattered, allowing a flood of decaying flesh to topple in like a foul river of blood, puss and rot. The sprinter jumped over them and landed on his feet, twisting his head this way and that at an inhuman speed- a predator looking for the kill. Dried blood had trickled down from his eyes, ears and nose. Bubbles and boils had festered all over his grey peeling face, his eyes glazed over with a crimson infection. John, concealed by the floor, now tried more desperately than ever to retrieve his knife.
"HERE TO STAYYY, IS THE NEW BIRDDD"

Luckily for John the sprinter saw Santa first. It bolted like lightening across the room, toppling chairs, dolls and tea sets to the floor. Just as he reached the light his head exploded like a watermelon. Santas sawed off shotgun was sticking unwaveringly out of the darkness, bellowing smoke.

"HO-HO-HO"

John could hear him jacking the shell out and refilling the chamber. The rest of the room echoed with uniformed sounds of locking and loading. John presumed it was the rest of Santas fucked up elves.

Another sprinter dove through the shattered opening, one of the elves put him down before he got to the spotlight where John was wiggling like a worm. The crawling wave of slugs were halfway to him now. The sprinters were over-frantic and kept missing him entirely, but the slugs could see him clearly and made no attempt to hide their hunger. Salivating their brown rotten teeth and clacking their diseased jaws together they struggled to gain their footing. The zombies on the bottom of the heap were crushed like rotten fruit. The undead had no chance of reaching Santa, but for John he felt like a child caught in a dog fight. He cemented his hand to the blade and pulled so hard he snapped his pinky finger and shaved the flesh off against the wood, triumphantly knocking the blade loose. Holding it firmly, he ignored the hot coals burning inside of his shattered finger and started weakly slashing at his other restrained arm.

"IN THE MEADOW WE CAN BUILD A SNOWMANNNNN, THEN PRETEND THAT HE IS PARSON BROWNNN "

Another window shattered. The other side of the street had come to join the party. John was slashing. He knew he was mostly slashing his own flesh, but more importantly he was cutting rope. All he could hear was that f*****g woman's singing, the whizzing of bullets by his head, and the screaming of the damned. In the end he didn't cut the rope, but he made his arm bloody enough to slip out of the clasp like a bar of soap. Moving on instinct, he didn't even process removing the rest of the bondage. Just as he stammered to his feet and tried to reach for one of his sidearms he was slammed to the floor. He couldn't breathe. The weight knocked the wind out of him. Jesus, had he ever been hit like that before? He didn't recall, but he knew he had played a lot of college football.

On top of him a sprinter screamed and clawed and spit, it was all John could do to hold it back. It was like trying to restrain a 300 pound man having a seizure. Its body flailed against his own, trying with all its might to sink its teeth in. Still holding his grip, John buried his dagger deep in the creatures eye immobilizing it like a bucket of water on a flame.

The beautiful female pipes drowned the streets in holiday cheer, and the zombies lined up in response. The sleigh bells and piano kept pace with every verse she sang. The speakers screamed in glorious song for all the world to hear. John kept fighting, Santa kept hooting, the zombies kept howling, and the lovely Grant kept singing.

"HE'LL SAY ARE YOU MARRIED WE'LL SAY NO MANNN"

John pushed the body off of him, the blade slowly slid out of the socket as if it was stuck in an orange filled with maple syrup. Sheathing his blade, he jumped to his feet and pulled his pieces Coke and Pepsi. No longer caring for stealth, he aimed wildly and pulled the triggers. Heads disintegrated like tissue paper against a cannon. The muffled zing of each shot stung the air and pierced flesh with holy fire. He focused on the undead. To turn his aim against Santa would mean certain death. Nicky gave a promise not to shoot him, and though the man was clearly insane John had a feeling he was a man of his word. The elves also knew the punishment for disobedience, the Man in Red would have his head on a candy cane platter. But letting the undead kill him? Well...

The red mist. The room was suffocating in it. The windows looked like meat grinders, pushing pink ground goop. A tongue of a recently blown up zombie landed on Johns shoulder with a meaty thud. He brushed it off, giving it no special attention. He was conserving ammo. He didn't have the armory of the Man in Red. John had only a few shots left in each pistol. There was no way he could kill them all and he knew it. Both soda cans were now burnt black with the heat and powder of gunfire. Another sprinter dove through and charged John. He missed his shot as the creature began pummeling him, crushing the red cola can with the cute polar bear on the front. John fired again, this time finding his mark, the gun gave a glorious unmuzzled roar. Sweet thunder rolled out of the barrel and rearranged the deranged features of the vile creatures face. It was raining red, and John was careful to shield his face from the contaminated fluids saturating him.

He had one shot left. Three of the slugs had got to their feet and were stammering toward him. He raised his gun, but it was knocked out of his hand. He raised his glock with the Pepsi attachment- CLICK- empty. He had no time to plan, he shoved the gun back in its holster, pulled the dagger and dove on top of the trio. He slew the first one before it hit the ground, quickly pulling the blade and scrambling the mushy brains of the second. Before he could retrieve the bloody dagger the third one grabbed him and sunk its filthy teeth into his left index finger. John screamed so loud he was sure his throat was bleeding. The pain shot up his arm like lightning, almost making him faint.

"WE'LL FROLIC AND PLAYY, THE ESKIMO WAYY"

He forced his broken finger into a fist and punched the zombie off of his hand. He continued punching and punching until the skull of the zombie caved in. John was sure he had broken more bones in his hand. Half of his finger was still in the zombies mouth. In shock, his heart raced like a horse at full gallop and his brain processed with deadly speed. Calculations. Everything was calculations. He pulled his blade from its sheath. Wiping the blade down on the rim of his hat he paused for a second, took a deep breath, and thrust the blade down on his infected finger with full force.

John made a noise like a man makes when he stubs his toe. An irritated "HUMPH" grunt. Then he stood up. The gun was only a few feet away. Bullets zinged by his head in all directions, gunfire on his left, zombies on his right. The gun was now at his feet. He was shoved by another sprinter. He went sprawling over a table and knocked over a sign "insane discounts up to 40% off!". Scrambling to his feet he saw the zombie screech in rage at him, John postured up and screamed back. The zombie was a black woman with dreadlocks, she had been reduced to rags and had red foam dripping from her mouth. She leapt. He kicked. His boot found a home in the middle of her chest and she went flying into a rack of toy soldiers. She jumped to her feet instantly and was charging again. He grabbed a metal tea pot and smacked her head with it.

She stumbled back.

He swung again, this time the handle on the pot broke. She slammed him against the wall with inhuman strength.

"LATER ON, WE'LL CONSPIRRRE. AS WE DREAM, BY THE FIRRRE"

He kicked again, this time lower and snapped her leg at the knee cap. She fell to one leg and dug with all her strength at his crotch. John kneed her so hard it crushed the bone in her jaw to dust. She wiggled on the ground trying to open her mouth like a snail under a salt shaker. One more stomp and the floor boards were painted with the gushing of her brown and black brains.

The band was taking a saxophone solo.

John finally grabbed his gun, aiming it into the darkness he roared the barrel.

-silence-

For a brief moment the world was on pause. The music came to an abrupt end, the speakers squealed for a second before shutting down completely. The elves stopped firing. Santa wasn't laughing. Even the horde of undead seemed to have an unsettling calm about them. The record player was destroyed.

John wasted no time. He bolted, running at a pace he no longer thought he possessed he dove through the last remaining window and landed face first in the icy streets. For a moment the world rocked and tilted, threatening to go dark again. To keep himself glued to this world, John shoved his bleeding and pulsing nub into the frigid cement of the street. Pain shot through him as dirt and rocks buried its way into his wound. Like a pail of cold water thrown in the face of the weary, he jumped to his feet and was awake. The zombies were focused on Santa and the elves with their booming guns. He didn't remember rolling his ankle, nor did he remember going back through Molly's Inn. The next coherent thought he had was when he was climbing down the ladder and was reminded by the grinding metal pins and screws to proceed with caution.

The next moment of clarity: he was standing at the foot of his daughters bed. She was laying on her stomach playing with her dolls and unaware of the events that had unfolded. Brenda tried to ask John what happened, but he ignored her and limpted by in a trance. Here, standing at the foot of her bed, he reflected on the child. Without a word he slowly crouched to one leg, and opened his backpack.

Amidst the chaos at Duncans, he had grabbed the teddy bear off the shelf and shoved it in his bag. Not a drop of crimson on it. He had the bear, the special stuffed animal. Across its warm belly the word 'Annabelle' was firmly stitched.

"Daddy, are you okay?"

John pulled the toy from his ripped and tattered bag, managed half a smile and said

"Merry Christmas sweetie".