“What?” Chet asked. “What the fuck now?”
The General let out a yelp, tried to yank his arm free, when that something gave him a tug, pulled his arm, shoulder, and entire head into the sack. There came a blink of darkness, then he found himself face-to-face with . . . the devil. The General screamed. The devil pressed its nose right up against his, grinned, its hot breath coming through jagged teeth, its eyes, its red, glowing eyes staring right into him. The General screamed again, felt hands grab hold of his legs and waist, hauling him back into the bay. Only the devil didn’t let go; no, it held tight to his arm and came right along with him.
“What the fuck is that!” Chet yelled.
The devil was halfway out of the bag, halfway into the room, looking like a kid in a sack race. It let go of the General and stepped out of the sack.
The General tried to scream again, but had no air left in his lungs and emitted a pathetic squawk.
The thing stood to its full height, towering above them, at least seven feet tall, all wiry muscles and veins and black, glistening skin and fur. A wild mane of ink-black hair framed twisting horns as wide as its shoulders. It looked around at the men, grinning from ear to ear, its red, slanted eyes gleaming. It began to chuckle.
Everyone froze.
“Time to be terrible,” the devil said, and snapped its tail like a whip. The men stumbled back and the beast let loose a roar. The booming sound shook the steel walls.
Chet snatched the General’s snub-nosed pistol off the tool tray, but the beast moved almost faster than the General could see, slashed its claws across Chet’s chest, opened him up to the bone, and sent him tumbling into the men.
Men scrambled in every direction, into each other, into the tool carts, into chaos. A gun shot went off and another, but the beast was gone, leaping across the room. It hit the overhead fluorescents and the tubes exploded in a shower of sparks, throwing the room into the red glow of the Christmas lights. More gunshots, and in the muzzle flashes the General saw the beast tearing men apart, slashing and ripping. Men were screaming, crying, bawling.
The General crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, his hands slipping and sliding in the blood—in all the blood. He climbed over two bodies, his hand tangling in something warm and squishy—a man’s stomach, his very guts. A bullet caught the General in the leg. He let out a cry and crumpled. Someone fell atop of him—Ash, clutching his neck as blood spurted between his fingers. Howls echoed, coming from everywhere, crawling beneath the General’s skin. The General pulled his knees up to his chest, hugged them tight, squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, God, please, Jesus,” he whimpered. “Please, don’t let Satan take me.”
JESSE TRIED TO reach his ankles, tried to tear the tape off, but his broken fingers couldn’t do the trick. He grunted, let out a groan, and fell back. The pain in his stomach, legs, hands, back, it all made the slightest movement unbearable. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim glow of the Christmas lights, their shine casting long shadows across the dead and dying. He focused on the carnage, on Krampus, trying to push the pain from his mind.
Krampus straddled Ash’s quivering body. The Yule Lord was taller, larger, and so much more imposing than when Jesse had seen him last. His horns were now mighty weapons, unbroken and curling upward from his head, his eyes glowed boldly, his movements quick and powerful. Krampus punched his hand into Ash’s chest, cracking bones and tearing tissue, to come away with something Jesse guessed must be the man’s heart. Krampus held the organ heavenward and let out a triumphant howl. Squeezed the heart and let the blood run down his arm and drip into his mouth. His chest heaved and a deep growl full of strength, of vitality, of life escaped his throat.
The Yule Lord tossed the heart away, surveyed the room, the carnage, cocked his head this way and that to better take in the moans of the mangled and dying. And he was grinning; even in the gloom Jesse could clearly see that grin. His slanted eyes fell on Jesse. “It is good . . . good to be terrible,” Krampus said, licking the blood from his hand.
Jesse shook his head, focused on breathing.
The Yule Lord frowned. “You do not look well.”
“Been . . . better.” Jesse coughed. “Think I’m dying.”
Krampus walked over, knelt down next to him, looked at the growing pool of blood beneath him. “Yes, I believe you are.” He cut the tape loose with a quick slash of his fingernail, gently propped Jesse up against the tool cart. “You’ve been very naughty.”
Jesse nodded. “Yeah. I have at that.”
Krampus smiled. “You may be dying, but you still have your spirit.”
Someone moved behind Krampus—Chet, struggling to sit up near the door. He still had the snub-nose, held it in his shaking hands, trying to level it at Krampus. Jesse opened his mouth to utter a warning when the pistol went off with a deafening bang. The bullet hit Krampus in the horn. Krampus leapt to his feet. The gun went off again, the bullet sparking off the concrete floor several feet to their left. Chet’s arms fell; he slumped against the door frame, dropping the gun into his lap. Krampus strolled over, squatted before him.
“Fuck, fucking devil, fucker fuck!” Chet spat, blood running from his mouth. He tried again and again to lift the gun but couldn’t.
Krampus glanced over his shoulder at Jesse. “This one has spirit as well. Might make a good soldier.” Krampus plucked the gun from Chet’s hand and tossed it away. Grabbed hold of the man’s arm and bit him on the wrist.
Chet let out a howl, yanked his arm away. “You bit me! What the hell is that shit?” He stared at the bite. Even in the dim light Jesse could see the skin around the bite darkening, the stain spreading up Chet’s arm, and understood that Krampus had turned him.
“You are mine now. You will sit here and wait until I tell you otherwise.”
“Fuck you!”
Krampus left Chet leaning against the wall, rubbing his arm and slowly turning black all over. He walked to the sack and picked it up. “You deserted me,” he said to Jesse. “You broke your oath. I owe you nothing now.”
“I know.”
Krampus held up the sack. “You took something that did not belong to you.”
“Sorry about that.”
“I should kill you.”
“Too . . . late.” Jesse tried to laugh, but choked on his own blood.
“Yet, I bear you no grudge.”
Jesse shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I am being sincere. Your distractions have made the difference, for all I know they have made all the difference. See, I was trapped in a riddle.” He closed his eyes, his face falling into deep concentration. He inserted his hand into the sack. “There . . . the ship. All is burned . . . the bones, boards, masts, and treasure. And, and, yes.” He smiled. “The answer, so plain I could not see it.” He withdrew his arm and pulled out a spear, broken midway along its shaft and blackened from age and fire. “I was searching for an arrow all this time. So fixated I could see nothing else. Pushing the sack to find a thing that did not exist. But now you see . . . it was not an arrow.” He wiped the spearhead clean of the soot and grime and it gleamed gold, like the strange ore of Krampus’s chains back in the cave. He walked over to Jesse so that he could see the mistletoe leaves and berries delicately inlayed along the blade. “See . . . see the answer? It is a spear, not an arrow.” He let out a great sigh. “The answers to all riddles seem obvious once you know them.”
He turned the blade round and round, as though transfixed. “Baldr,” he whispered. “It is death I hold in my hand. Your death.”