“Because I am Santa Claus.”
The older boy snorted. “My ass you are.”
The younger boy followed suit with a snort of his own.
Santa remembered why he hated teenagers—they worked so hard not to believe in anything. Did their very best to spoil the magic for everyone else. “Go home.”
The teenager blinked. “Hey, this here’s a free country. You can’t go telling us what to do.”
“Is that a new bike?”
“Sure is,” the kid said with obvious pride. “Got it for Christmas. Fucking rad.”
“Would you please get off of it?”
“What . . . huh? What for?”
“So you will not be upon it when I toss it down the hillside.” Santa nodded to the steep incline on one side of the trail that bottomed into a ravine of broken rocks.
“Are you threatening me, mister?”
Santa grabbed the teenager’s bike by the handlebars, kicked his boot through the front spokes, and stomped downward, snapping off most of the spokes. The front rim collapsed.
“Hey!” the kid screamed. “Hey, you can’t do that!” He stood up and when he did, Santa snatched the bicycle out from under him. He lifted the bike over his head and chucked it down the hill. The bike tumbled, spun, bounced into the air, and crashed into the rocks below.
The two boys stood, mouths agape, staring down at the bike.
“I believe it would be a bad idea for the two of you to follow me any farther. What do you think?” Santa didn’t wait for an answer—he had urgent business at hand. He turned and headed quickly down the trail.
JESSE SHOT DOWN the highway toward Dillard’s house, his brow in a knot, his jaw tight. Without taking his eyes off the road, he leaned over, popped open the glove compartment, and dug out his pistol, laid it on the seat next to him. “Gonna get my daughter,” he said, said it loud, like he meant it. “Gonna shoot anyone that gets in my way.”
A mile later he pulled into the Gas’n’Go. “Fuck!” He picked up the revolver, glared at it. He heard Dillard again, You won’t do it, Jesse. I know this for a fact. You see, son, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking the measure of a man.
Jesse looked at the hole in his hand. “Gonna shoot the General, too,” he snarled. “Shoot every fucking one of ’em!” Only the words rung hollow in the cab, making him feel the worse.
He shut off his truck, got out, headed inside, and found the restroom. He ran warm water over his injured hand, washed the wound out the best he could. He opened and closed his hand. It was becoming stiff, the dark flesh around the wound beginning to swell. He wrapped it in paper towels and wondered if he’d ever be able to play the guitar again. Maybe the General’s done me a favor. Maybe I’m better off if I can’t play. If I just give up on my music altogether.
He climbed back into his truck and decided the best thing for now was to go home and try to figure things out. What’s to figure? he asked himself, and again couldn’t get Dillard out of his head: I’d shoot him dead regardless. Because that’s what a real man does.
Jesse got back on the highway and a few minutes later pulled into the King’s Kastle, splashing through slushy potholes as he drove up the hill, trying his best to clear his head. It was getting late in the day, Chet would be expecting him at the elementary school in a couple of hours, and if he didn’t show up, things would get bad right away. Can’t keep making these runs. Gonna end up in prison. Every way I turn is bad. What am I supposed to do? What the fuck am I supposed to do?
He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and fished for a smoke, but came up empty. He smacked the pack against the dashboard, knocking out a few crumbs of tobacco. “Perfect. Just perfect.” He wadded up the pack and chucked it to the floorboard. “Well, shit, look at that.” Two enormous birds were circling low over his trailer. At first he thought they might be buzzards, but as he drew closer he could see they looked more like crows or ravens. He glanced at his trailer. “What the fuck’s going on now?”
The door to his trailer hung open. He caught movement within; could just make out a hunched figure inside. It was digging through the boxes near the door, its back to him. It wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up and though Jesse couldn’t see its face he knew who his visitor was.
He drove past without even slowing, as though he lived farther up the road, hoping to hell it hadn’t seen him. It was a dead end, so Jesse had no choice but to turn around. He pulled into the Tuckers’ drive, then backed out as casually as he could, doing his best not to draw any attention to himself. That’s when he noticed another hooded figure. It shifted through the underbrush, over among the pine trees behind his trailer, its face low to the ground as though sniffing for something. Jesse glanced at the Santa sack on the floorboard and wondered if these creatures could smell it somehow. He grabbed the sack, intending to toss it out the window and just drive off, when the figure stood up, one clawed hand dangling from an outstretched wrist. It sniffed the air, then jerked its head toward him. It wore sunglasses even though the day was gray and overcast. It lifted up the shades and there was no missing those eyes: burning orange and staring at Jesse, following his truck as it crept up the road.
Jesse shoved the sack back down into the foot well and fought the urge to floor it. “Keep cool,” he whispered. “Just keep cool.”
The devil man headed toward the road. Jesse avoided looking its way, but could sense its eyes, those piercing orange eyes staring at him as he passed. Little farther now. Just a little farther. He kept it in his rearview mirror as it stepped out into the lane. It followed him at a fast clip. Jesse returned his eyes to the road and let out a cry. There, in the middle of the road, stood another one, one of the bigger ones, one with horns, all covered in fur and carrying a spear. “Shit!” Jesse yelled, cutting the wheel left.
It slapped a palm on the passenger window, jogging alongside the truck and peering inside, smiling, revealing dirty teeth.
Jesse gunned it. His wheels spun in the snow and gravel, giving him a second to regret pawning his good tires, then they gained traction and the truck took off, quickly picking up speed as it bounced and bounded up the rough road. Jesse glanced in his rearview—they were gone. A heavy thud hit his camper, followed by tromping on the roof of the cab.
The thing slid down the front windshield, gaining a perch on the hood. Again it gave him that crooked smile. Its eyes alighted on the Santa sack, grew wide, and blazed to life like a stoked fire. It set back its head and let loose a long howl, more of a wail, causing all the hair on Jesse’s arms to stand on end. Answering howls came from all around. The creature reared back and drove its fist into the middle of the windshield, punching a hole through the safety glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across the windshield. It yanked its hand free and reared back for another blow when Jesse cut the wheel sharply left, then right, jerking the truck back and forth across the road, throwing the creature from its perch. The creature slid down the hood, catching hold of the wiper.
Up ahead, two more devil men came loping toward the road. “Christ, they’re everywhere!”
The one on the hood began pulling itself up. Jesse swerved, purposely driving through a pothole. The jolt sent the devil man airborne, taking the wiper with him. The devil man hit the snow bank and tumbled from view.
The two ahead of him were coming fast, trying to cut him off. Jesse kept the pedal to the floor. The old V8 rattled and roared as the truck shot up the hill. “C’mon!” he shouted. “C’mon!” He thought he had it, when the forward beast leapt, flying across the snow, and slammed onto the passenger side of the truck. The whole truck rocked. It caught the side mirror, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.