There came a sound, soft and low, yet it blocked out all others, a chorus of a thousand voices joined together in a hymn. Krampus held his ground, pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders back, eyes clear and resolute.
The orb alighted upon the snow between two apple trees, the golden glow fading away, revealing three figures. Santa Claus stood in the center, dressed in heavy white robes trimmed in thick fur. His long beard and hair loose of braid fluttered in the light morning breeze. He was framed on either side by two winged men, or maybe women, impossible for Jesse to tell, as they shared features of both, their faces stern, beautiful, and terrible at the same time. A slight golden aura surrounding each of them, thin, wispy robes fluttered loosely about their lithe, elegant frames and white wings spread out from their backs. Long swords hung in gold scabbards strapped across their chest. Jesse wondered if they were angels, wondered what else they could possibly be.
One of them set eyes on Jesse, cold, penetrating eyes that weighed his very soul, that promised his due. Jesse’s fingers bit into the velvet sack as a chill shot to his core, his throat constricted as though icy hands were about his neck. He stumbled away, struggling for breath, back around the church, out of sight of the terrible angels. The chill faded. He gasped, trying to regain his breath. What the fuck was that?
Go! Go! He heard Krampus’s voice in his head. He didn’t need to be told again, sure that things were going to end badly and there was nothing he could do other than get himself killed.
Jesse sprinted for Chet’s truck, yanking the door open and throwing the sack into the passenger’s seat. He hopped in, fumbled for the truck keys, jammed them into the ignition, and fired up the engine. Jesse shoved it into gear and stomped it. The big wheels spun in the icy mud, caught, and the pickup lurched forward, fishtailing back and forth, spraying mud as it plowed up the small drive.
He could still feel the chill on his neck, still hear that hymn, a thousand voices pursuing him. Jesse focused on keeping the vehicle out of the ditch as he careened onto the gravel road. He floored it and raced away, shooting down the road as fast as he dared, trying to push the voices from his head, wanting only to escape those terrible angels.
CHIEF DILLARD NOTICED the sun peeking at the horizon and glanced at his watch; it was just after seven A.M. Shit, never gonna get out of here. The fire crew was still hosing down parts of the church, which was just a waste of time, in Dillard’s book, at least at this point, as the structure appeared a total loss. He would’ve left several hours ago, if not for the pileup. Seems Billy Tucker had tail-ended some teenage girl’s jeep and then Johnny Elkins came along and plowed into the both of them. None of which would’ve happened if the three of them had been watching the road instead of the fire. Noel had been rushed off to the emergency room after sustaining burns along his arm while trying to keep Mrs. Powell from going back in the church after some precious hymn book. This left Dillard to take care of the mess, all while trying to keep the scene secure.
The sheriff had been no help, leaving a couple of hours earlier, him and his deputies out scouring the area for Jesse and that gang. Fuck, that son of a bitch’s probably snooping around the General’s compound this very minute. And on top of that Dillard still had Linda and Abigail to deal with. Least they ain’t going nowhere . . . least I hope not. He felt his chest tightening. Calm down . . . no way they could’ve gotten out of there. Shit, just too many loose ends . . . too many loose ends. Dillard knew he didn’t do well when things got out of his control and he couldn’t remember things ever being more out of his control. He took off his hat, rubbed the side of his head. Wished he’d brought along a few of those pills.
The fire chief, John Adkins, came walking over. “You seem out of sorts, Dillard. Something bothering you?”
“Yeah . . . got a darn headache that just won’t let up.”
John looked at the burn mark on Dillard’s face. “You ought to get that looked at.”
“I will.”
“Looks like all the bystanders are gone home,” John said. “Don’t see much reason for you to be standing out here in the cold. Why don’t you head on home and get some sleep. A bit of shut-eye is the best thing I’ve found for a headache.”
Shut-eye, Dillard thought. Won’t be getting any of that for a while. Not until I’m done with Linda and Abigail, anyway. “Well, all right, if you think everything’s under control.”
“Looks that way to me.”
Dillard bid the fire chief a good one, got in his patrol car, started up the engine, and got the defrost going, warming his hands up in the heater. He dropped it into gear and started home. Gonna have to make it quick, just get in there and get this mess over and done with.
SANTA CLAUS STEPPED forward. “Krampus, I gave you fair warning. Told you there would be no place to hide. You did not listen.” His voice calm, almost melancholy, contrite even, no hint of anger or malice.
“The dead should not speak, for their words smell of rot,” Krampus replied.
Santa shrugged. “It seems the gods do not wish me dead. It appears my destiny is bound to their whims and I am eternally condemned to play my role.”
“Do not dare blame the gods for your own misdeeds. You have sold your soul. Sold it cheap.”
“Cheap?” Santa replied, his voice somber. “The cost has been more than one can bear.”
Krampus leveled the spear tip at Santa Claus. “How many times is your god willing to resurrect his little dancing dog? Come closer, my spear would like to find out.”
“No, my friend, I will not be the one who dies, not this day. God will not allow it. Maybe one day my servitude will be finished, but until that time my sacrifices are for her glory.”
“Stop playing the martyr, it does not suit you. You, Baldr, you are the villain in this fable. You have committed foul deeds, have stolen that which does not belong to you . . . betrayed all who have aided you. Fate will punish you.”
“Fate? God? What is the difference? Either way, I am afraid it has already doled out plenty of woe. Once, I was as you. I thought I could build my own kingdom. Build it right under the noses of the gods. Instead all I have built is a prison. One from which there is no escape . . . not even through death.”
Krampus snorted. “Should I shed a tear?”
“Death has taught me many things. But here is the truth, the only one that matters. God takes on many faces . . . many guises. But no matter which guise, she is always . . . always before, always after.” Santa laughed harshly. “And that is the joke . . . on me, on you, on all of mankind. There is only the One God, has always been only the One God. All the gods that have been and that are, they are the same, all part of the One God. We are but pawns in her great game. We all serve her . . . even you. Beyond that, there are no answers . . . for that is the only one that matters.”
Krampus mulled this over, then shook his head and spat loudly. “What absolute, utter dung. Losing your head has not been good for you. Go on, concoct tales to try and placate your own guilt, but do not try and sell me your fantasies. The truth, the only one that matters, is that you are a buffoon, a nitwit, a puppet, a tick upon God’s wrinkled scrotum.” Krampus laughed. “How can you even hold your head up? Where is your shame?”
Santa let out a long sigh. “Krampus, my dear old friend, there is no reasoning with you. There never has been. Your arrogance, your single-minded stubbornness makes you blind. All my efforts to save you were wasted, because you cannot leave the past behind, and thus have condemned yourself to extinction. And even now, in the face of all your failings, you are still too bullheaded to know when to call it a day.”