This is a story entered for the The 2013 Post Apocalyptic Book Club Christmas Short Story Competition. The theme was a Post Apocalyptic Christmas story, based on "A Visit from St. Nicholas" by Clement Clarke Moore - hence the doggerel at the start of the story. Poetry never really was my forte.
The frozen turkey cannons were a half remembered idea purloined from a long forgotten board game called Sleigh Wars. The idea of rival Santa Clauses battling it out over the rooftops using festively-themed weaponry was almost too good not to use. Xmascette, anyone?
…For outside on the grass was a funny wee chap,
Dressed in army fatigues and a little pointy cap
He begged ‘Let me in, Sir, and to the cellar make haste
Before The General attacks, laying your village to waste!’
It was dark, yet cosy – almost festive – in the cellar. The children had had a few of their friends over for ghost stories yesterday evening, so there were plenty of blankets and snacks to go round. As we settled, the little man seated himself next to the Hurricane lamp and introduced himself. His voice was quiet and nervous.
’Thank you,
kind Sir, kind Madam! Thank you indeed for
allowing me to take shelter in my hour of need! My name is Tommo, and yes, erm… I’m an elf.
Until half an hour ago I was a private in The General’s army helping
with his seasonal offensive but then I erm…
Accidentally forgot to get back on the sleigh. You see…
And The General doesn’t like elves who... Forget to get back on their
sleighs.’ He grabbed my arm tightly. ‘You won’t tell him where I am, will you?’
‘Don’t worry,
old chap!’ I replied cheerfully. (I’m
always a bit effusive when I’m merry.) ‘I
understand completely. Christmas Eve is jolly
hard work for the likes of you. I don’t
mind you staying here a while to get some rest.
I’m sure Old St. Nick won’t miss you for a couple of hours.’
Tommo’s face
grew ashen. ‘If I was still working for
The Old Man, then I would agree with you.
…But The General is in charge now and all the other Santas are trying to
overthrow him and it’s Christmas Eve and…
WHY WON’T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?’
‘I’m sorry? Other Santas? ’ I queried.
‘Oh… There’s lots of Santas now. There’s Banality Claus, Anti Claus, Auntie
Claus, Sancti Claus, Indemnity Claus … Lots of them.’
‘Really? When did that happen?’
‘Well… The Old Man came into money when Coca Cola
set up that sponsorship deal. No more making
wooden toys for him! He invested wisely and made a ton of
money. Then his wife Mary ran off with Black
Peter. That was not a good time to be an
elf, I can tell you; no-one was on the Nice List that year. Well, obviously he couldn’t do everything by
himself – he wasn’t getting any younger after all - so instead of getting some
new hires in, he decided to buy up a biotechnology company and got them
investigating erm… cloning and
cybernetic augmentation. Soon he had a
whole army of Santas, just like him.
Well, almost like him. They could
do cool stuff like supersonic flight, high precision present throwing from
sleighs, time dilation – all sorts. Suddenly
the workshop was full of jolly fat men, laughing merrily all bloody day long. You have no idea how… upsetting that was. Then the Old Man bought Christmas Island,
made it a tax haven and went on holiday, leaving the other Santas to mind the workshop.
‘
‘…Except it
didn’t quite work out the way. You
see… The clones weren’t perfect and they
started to develop… quirks. Most of the
Santas were harmless, if a bit, well... odd.
Like ‘Sancti Claus’ – or ‘Dave’ as he
insists on calling himself. His
speciality is the ‘Goat Voucher’. If
you want to see a five year old cry, tell them that some other kid has been
given a goat on their behalf and they can never see it. …But you try telling THAT to
Dave. If you like lectures about the
crass commercialism of Christmas and how it is directly responsible for the
death of at least a thousand Emperor penguins on an Antarctic ice floe every
hour on the hour between Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, then complain about the
goat voucher. Go ahead. I dare you.’
Tommo looked
at me. I could see that the poor elf had
indeed had had words with Dave about goat vouchers. Many times.
He sighed
then continued. ‘Some of the Santas were
a little less, erm… Festive. Like The
General. He seemed pleasant enough at
first, a bit brusque perhaps, but he liked to be in charge and we elves… sort
of let him. We liked being led by
someone who looked after himself, someone who didn’t go out in a red dressing
gown and keep snacks in his beard. …Even if he does have a bit of a medal
fetish. He's got a crack squad of elves
for that, you know, raised on a strict diet of Valerie Singleton, sticky backed
plastic, gold top milk bottle tops and ribbon.’
‘…But then he
stopped taking orders. Obviously The Old
Man wasn’t happy at all about this, so he got his remaining faithful elves and
Santas to make ‘arrangements’. …And I don’t
want to be around when these ‘arrangements’ meet The General. I’m really, really sorry. You may want to consider moving in the New
Year. If there is one.’ Tommo curled up under the cellar table and
sang ‘Silent Night’ quietly to himself.
--
Ten minutes
later there was a loud knocking on the cellar door, followed by someone
clearing their throat in anticipation of making an inconsiderate amount of
noise.
‘PRIVATE! …AH SAID PRIVATE!’
Clearly this
was someone used to giving orders and having them followed.
‘There’s
no-one here,’ whispered Tommo.
Suddenly
there wasn’t a cellar door. Instead
there was an enormous muscled buzz-cut of a man in red, fur-lined army fatigues and mirrored
shades. He raised his voice from a reasonably
unfriendly bellow to a slightly less reasonable shriek.
‘GREETINGS,
AH SAID, GREETINGS TO YOU MERRY GENTLEMEN! AH BELIEVE YOU ARE A-HARBORIN’ ONE OF MAH
ELVES!’
‘How dare you
barge in like that, Sir!’ I countered, finding a hitherto unexpected reserve of
courage. (It must have been that last
brandy.) ‘I kindly yet firmly request
that you leave immediately.’
‘DON’T YAH
UNNERSTAND ME, BOY? AHM GENERAL NICOLAS
ZEE FER ZACHARIAH CLAUS III, PRESIDENT FAH LIFE OF THE DEMOCRATIC ELVEN
REPUBLIC! AND AHM MISSIN’ AN ELF FROM
MAH SLEIGH. YOU SEEN HIM, HAVE YAH BOY?’
Oh dear. Hammy overacting is obviously no hindrance to
a career in the military. ...And poor old Tommo
- he didn’t stand a chance. The General
grabbed him from his hiding place, bundled him into the hessian sack he was
carrying and then threw it over his shoulder.
Then the General turned to me.
‘AH NEED
SOMEONE TAH GUIDE MAH SLEIGH. YOU GOT
THE NOSE. GIT, BOY!’
Well, how
could I refuse?
--
Parked
outside my house was a sleigh unlike any I had seen before. Yes, it was big, red, shiny and loaded with
presents. It also had lots of dangerous
looking armaments jutting out at inappropriately lethal angles. And instead of reindeer the sleigh had wings,
over-sized jet engines and a complete disregard for how many miles it got to
the gallon. I didn’t think Dave would
approve.
The General
noted my nervous admiration.
‘BEAUTIFUL, AINT
SHE?’ he bellowed. ‘THE SLEIGHSLAYER 9000 COMES WITH DOUBLE SELF
GUIDIN’ FROZEN TURKEY CANNONS, PLUM PUDDIN’ BOMBS AND ADVANCED EGG NOG ANTI
AIRCRAFT WEAP’NRY. AND AH’VE ADDED A
LITTLE SOMETHIN’ EXTRA…’ He patted a
large squishy globe on the rear of the sleigh – it looked like a Christmas
Pudding about the size of a pony. ‘A
LITTLE INSURANCE, IF YOU KNOW WHAT AH MEAN…’ he grinned.
--
The General
emptied Tommo out of the sack and instructed him to prepare for attack. The elf loaded the turkey cannons with
Norfolk’s finest then took cover amongst the presents. He was singing ‘Silent Night’ to himself again;
he had the thousand yard stare of someone who had seen far too many Christmas
seasons.
Soon we were
flying high above the rooftops of the village, flurries of snow swirling
seasonally around the heavy artillery. As
a young boy I had dreamed of being on Father Christmas’ sleigh - I had so
wanted to experience the magic of this wonderful night first hand. I wasn’t expecting Foghorn Leghorn crossed
with Colonel Kurtz on a flying festive fortress, but… I was indeed profoundly exhilarated.
The General tapped
a glowing panel on the front of the sleigh then snarled…
‘IT’S UP
AHEAD, BOY.’
On the
outskirts of the village I saw what looked like a young, rather slender woman, only
she was roughly 100 feet tall and made of metal. She was wearing what appeared to be beige
undergarments and precious little else. Being
the gentleman I am I tried to avert my eyes, but there was something almost
horribly pernicious and compelling about her.
She noticed us then wrenched a
fully grown Scots Pine from the ground, roots and all. Then her hips started to move suggestively. And her tongue was lolling from left to
right, like a bulldog licking an ice cream cone. Then the singing started…
Dear Reader,
I cannot describe the true insanity of the monstrosity I saw before me, quite
apart from the fact that I am rapidly running out of words and this is a family
friendly story. Needless to say, her
voice was shrill and tuneless, the tongue was like a bloated, elongated slug and
her hypnotic hip movements were most unbecoming. And certainly, to my dying day, I will never,
ever be able to admire the arboreal diversity of the Glens without recalling
what she did next with that poor tree.
‘THAT, BOY...
IS THE TWERKBOT!’ yelled The General.
‘IT LOOKS LIKE THE OLD MAN IS IN LEAGUE WITH THE MOUSE!’
I didn’t
understand what he meant, but it can’t have been good.
The General pressed
several buttons on the panel. Three
hundred pounds of frozen poultry crashed into the side of the Twerkbot,
knocking her off balance and into the Rectory.
The Vicar wasn’t going to like that.
Rising to her feet, the Twerkbot picked up her tree and tried to swat
the sleigh. Again she lost her balance
and crashed posterior first into the Village Hall. The General unleashed more frozen turkey to
little effect, followed by a couple of equally ineffective plum pudding bombs. And
so it continued – the Twerkbot would try to hit us with her tree then fall over
and we would unleash a volley of Christmas fare, leaving her unscathed. It occurred to me that, despite being
inherently a bit unsteady on her feet, the Twerkbot was utterly impervious to
the firepower of the Sleighslayer 9000.
The General
had realised this too. ‘DAMMIT! AHM GONNA HAVE TO DESTROY CHRISTMAS TAH SAVE
IT!’ he bellowed. He pressed another
button on the sleigh. Nothing
happened. The General climbed over to
the back of the sleigh and started pushing against the giant Christmas Pudding
with his feet, all the while using language that would make a sailor blush.
Suddenly
there was a strong smell of burning brandy and a loud whooshing noise. Below The General was riding the Christmas
Pudding towards the Twerkbot, hollering like a cowboy.
Then
everything went white.
--
A few hours
later I woke up. Christmas Morning!
I appeared to
be in the cellar. Except the cellar
didn’t have a ceiling. Or walls. Fortunately my family had sheltered under the cellar
table; singed, but otherwise unharmed.
I examined the
blackened remains of my vegetable patch.
There were lumps of charred Christmas pudding everywhere, hissing gently
in the traditional festive drizzle. I
realised that this year Christmas dinner wouldn’t be that different after all.
--
Later, a big
jolly man in sandals and a red ‘Save The Aardvark’ t-shirt rode up to me on a
battered bicycle, smiling expansively.
‘Helloooo…. Sorry about the garden. And the village. And most of the country too I’m afraid. Never mind, Christmas Pudding is great for
growing radishes. Here – this’ll help
with the old post-apocalyptic self-sufficiency thing. Merry Christmas and remember… Hoe hoe hoe!’
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