A Most Apocalyptic Christmas by Phil Williams

Author:Phil Williams [Williams, Phil]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: dystopian, dystopia, Post Apocalyptic, post apocalypse, christmas
Publisher: Rumian Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

I took a bit of a beating on the way back to the lodge, but I gave better than I got. I know how to take a punch as good as I know how to throw one, so even though five of these pricks got a tight hold of me, and laid in a few digs, I did leave two of them wheezing on the floor before we made it inside. Three more had piled in to help by then, though, so it was a small victory.

They were all over my arms and legs, weighing me down and clawing at me with their bony frames. Give me a chance, I knew, I could’ve snapped them in half, but it was too many all at once. They shoved me all the way back to their party hall, then up to the pole in the middle of the room, where Bloody McNaked Bloke was being cut down. Two mule-faced women in reindeer onesies got under his arms and carted him past me. He met my eye as he passed, expression the very definition of Oh Thank Fuck Now They’ll Hurt Someone Else.

I was still kicking at them, getting some hooks in, when they threw reams and reams of Christmas decorations around me, binding my arms and legs so I couldn’t move. In the fervour I kept my cool. I took a deep breath the moment they started tying and I held it well in, right until they’d knotted all their tinsel and fairy lights and taken a step back.

The partygoers made a ring around me then, looking at one another like they weren’t sure what came next. There was a commotion at the other side of the room and a bunch more of them bowled in dragging Linford squirming between them. They threw him to the floor as he pleaded, said he had done what he was asked, shouted that he was worthy, that he had the candy cane. One of his mates threw the stick of sugar down near him, though, snapped in two. On his hands and knees, Linford looked horrified.

“Party crasher!” a voice boomed, the deep jolly kind of a big fat bearded guy. I twisted on my pole to see someone pushing to the front of the guests. A tree of a man, well over six foot. He was bony as the rest of them, though, his Santa suit so loose it might’ve been a cloak. His beard was longer than most, and matted, his eyes wide, mad, black. A thousand years ago he could’ve been a medieval heretic waiting for some crusading soldiers to smoke out his mountain cave. He pointed a long finger at me and shook as he spoke, like he had too much emotion for his thin muscles to control, “You have sullied the holiday!”

The crowd cheered this award-winning speech. I did my best to look disinterested.

“How many were hurt by this monster’s intrusion?” Medieval Kringle boomed. There was a murmur of discussion, a bit of disagreement, no one quite sure how many loons I’d taken down.

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