Krampus: The Yule Lord (23 page)

“I got twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the General said. “I watched the tapes, and from the time I left till the time I came in the next morning, weren’t no one anywhere near this place, let alone in my office. That safe weren’t broke into and nobody knows that combination but me. So tell me Jesse . . . tell me how you done it?”

Jesse opened his mouth, tried to come up with something, anything.

The General tapped the nail gun against his knee. “Now think real hard before you answer, because you want to get this right the first time. Trust me on that.”

“I used the Santa sack.”

The bay fell dead quiet.

Chet let out a snort.

“Come again,” the General said.

“The sack. The fucking Santa sack. The one in my truck.” Jesse’s voice kept rising. “I used it to empty your safe. It’s magic, all right?
All right!
” he yelled.
“You can fucking believe me or fucking not!”

The nail gun hissed. Jesse felt the kick as the piston drove the nail deep into his kneecap. A half-second later the pain hit.
“Fuck!”
Jesse cried.
“Fuck!”
The General bounced the nail gun up Jesse’s thigh, hit the trigger again, and again, and again, driving three more nails into Jesse’s leg. Jesse screamed, bucked, would’ve knocked the chair over backward had Chet not caught him and set him up straight.

The General grabbed the cow’s head by the ear, tossed it aside, shoved the nail gun hard into Jesse’s crotch. Jesse groaned.

“Jesse, do you really want to spend the entire evening doing this? I know I don’t. I just want some answers. Want to know about this gang you been running with. Who they are? Where they live? So here’s the place where I give you one more chance. You work with me here, and this can all be over. I can go home and watch some TV and you can be dead. Now tell me Jesse. How’d you get into my safe?”

“Look . . .” Jesse said, barely able to get the words out. “Just . . . bring me the sack. I . . . can show you.”

The General shook his head, pulled the trigger. Jesse felt the nail tear into his groin.
“No!”
Jesse screamed as the General punched two more into his gut, the nails penetrating deep into his lower abdomen.

“Oh, God!”
Jesse screamed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop! Stop it!”
He swooned, almost blacked out. “Listen,” he gasped, trying to get the words out between sobs. “Listen . . . hear me out. You want your fucking money back, right?” He gritted his teeth, tried to focus through the pain. “I can . . . get it back. Your drugs . . . all of it. Right now. But you gotta hear me out. God, what the fuck you got to lose? Just hear me out.”

No one spoke; the only sound in the bay was Jesse’s groans. Jesse watched the blood darkening his pants along his leg and crotch. Tried not to think of the nails inside his gut, the holes they’d punched into his lower intestines. He’d always heard a gut wound was the worst way to go, slow and painful, he could certainly attest to the pain.

“Okay, son. Shoot.”

Jesse raised his head, tried to blink away the tears, tried to hold the General’s gaze. “Your drugs . . . are still under . . . fuck . . . under the front seat of my truck. Exactly where your dumbass nephew . . . left them. I can get your money back . . . but I’ll need the sack. I know you think I’m full of shit. Look . . . look at me. Do I look like I’m fucking around?” Sharp pain made Jesse squeeze his eyes shut, he let out a deep grunt, opened them again. “What the hell do you have to lose? Just bring me the goddamn sack and I’ll show you.”

The General paused, seemed to mull it over, and Jesse dared to hope that he just might have a chance. The sack was open to the church, the money was there, but more important, so was the rest of the General’s guns.

“Chet, go get that stupid sack.”

“What? Really, I mean how the fuck can a sack—”

“Shut up and just go get the damn sack.”

“Ash,” Chet said. “Go get that damn sack.”

“No, Chet,” the General said. “I told you to get it. I’m the one that gives the orders around here.”

Chet gave Jesse a dark look, then headed toward the side door.

“And the drugs,” the General called. “See if the drugs are there.”

The men waited, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking at the tools, at the overhead fluorescents, at the flickering Christmas lights over on the stairs, anywhere but at Jesse, at the nails protruding out of his leg and gut.

Jesse fixed on the sack, trying to push the pain from his mind by thinking about what he’d do if he could just get a hold of one of those guns.
God, if you were to grant me a last wish. Please, give me the chance to send as many of these motherfuckers to Hell as I can.

“Praying ain’t gonna save you, son,” the General said.

Jesse started, wondered for a second if he’d been thinking out loud.

The General sat the nail gun down. “The truth. That’s your only salvation.”

Chet came in, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the packet wrapped in duct tape. “Well, I’ll be damned. He weren’t lying about the drugs. Here they are.”

The General’s brow tightened. “That don’t make no sense. Why—” He paused. “Shit, ain’t nothing making sense. Here, hand me that blasted sack. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this nonsense, and right now.”

The General held the sack, seemed to weigh it. “Not much to it.” He laid it on the floor, stepped on it, watched it slowly reinflate. “Tell me that ain’t strange.” He pulled it open. All the men stepped forward, leaned in, trying to get a look. “Can’t really see nothing.” He pulled the mouth of the sack open as wide as he could, tried to angle it so the overhead fluorescence would illuminate the insides. “Kinda smoky, huh?” The General looked up and the other men all nodded.

“Chet, here. Reach in and make sure he’s not hiding nothing in there.”

“Are you fucking nuts? I ain’t sticking my hand in there. No telling what’s in there. That smoky stuff could be some sort of poison.”

The General scratched his beard and looked around; there were no volunteers. “Well, it is a bit creepy I guess.” He held the sack upside down and shook it. Nothing fell out. He took the sack and pushed the air out of it, folded it once, started rolling it up, tighter and tighter, until it was as tight as a bedroll. “Don’t think you could hide any sort of weapon in that. Couldn’t hide much of nothing.” He set hard eyes on Jesse. “This better not be a game. If it is . . . I can guarantee you’ll regret it something awful.” He dropped the sack on the ground in front of Jesse. Everyone watched as it slowly regained its shape.

“Now, tell me how to make it work.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“No, it won’t work for you. It’s like a magic hat, you have to know the trick. I have to show you.”

The General squinted at him. “You’re trying to tell me you used a magic trick to steal from my safe.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a bunch of bullsnot,” Chet put in. “He’s just trying to make us look stupid.”

“You’re telling me if I let you stick your hand in here,” the General continued, “you can pull out my cash?”

Jesse nodded.

“Well,” the General said. “That’s one magic trick I wouldn’t miss for the world. Cut his arms loose.”

Chet let out a disagreeable grunt but slipped his knife out from the holster on his belt and slit the tape. Jesse freed his arms, cradled them to his chest, careful to avoid touching his lap or leg.

“Don’t you try nothing,” Chet said and pressed the knife against his neck.

“Hell, Chet,” Ash said. “What’s he gonna do, get blood on your shirt?” Ash snickered. “Christ, if you don’t sound like a little girl sometimes.”

The men chuckled and Chet turned red. “Fuck you, Ash. Hell, if you don’t sound like a little bitch when you’re choking on my goddamn pecker.”

“Both of you shut up,” the General said. “And Chet put that knife away before you hurt yourself.” The General picked up the sack and sat it beside Jesse. “Okay, son. We’re all waiting.”

Jesse tugged the sack up and balanced it on his good leg. He held it in place with his left arm, careful not to let it bump his broken fingers. The men watched his every move. He swallowed.
Okay, God,
time to pick your team.
He closed his eyes, thought of the guns, and inserted his good hand. No delay this time, the sack was still open to exactly where he’d last been; his hand hit the stack of cash, he patted over and bumped metal—one of the .45s. He opened his eyes, found everyone leaning in, all trying to see what he was up to. He pushed the safety off and slipped his fingers around the grip, licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He started to slide his arm out and felt Chet’s hand on his shoulder, his knife against his back. “I’m watching you.” And this time no one gave Chet a hard time, the mood had changed; Jesse could sense their nervousness.

Shit,
Jesse thought,
this won’t work
. He almost pulled the handgun out anyway, just went for it, but stopped.
No, if you do this right, you just might get out of here.
He sat the .45 down, picked up as many bills as he could hold, and slowly inched his arm from the sack.

“That’s it,” Chet said. “Nice and slow.”

Jesse eased his hand out, revealing the rolls of bills. There came several audible gasps, and Jesse felt every bit the stage magician. He handed them to the General.

The General scrutinized the cash, shook his head, and smiled. “Well, slap me silly!”

Grunts and grins of approval, someone even clapped; Jesse wondered if he should bow. Instead he slipped his hand back in and pulled out another handful, then another, dropping the cash onto the floor, watching, waiting until they were all taken in by the trick, discussing, joking, and staring at the money. He felt the knife leave his back, saw Chet staring in stupid wonder.
Now,
Jesse thought and found the gun again, wrapped his hand around the grip, his finger on the trigger. He twisted round, bringing the handgun up quick, intent on dropping Chet before he could stab him. But the gun sight snagged on the lip of the sack, causing Jesse to fire before the revolver cleared the sack. There came two muffled reports, but the bullets didn’t punch through the velvet and Jesse understood with horrifying clarity that he wasn’t firing at Chet at all, but into the church.

“Oh, fuck!”
Chet cried as Jesse shook the gun free. Chet drove his knife into Jesse’s back, shoved Jesse, chair and all, forward, toward the pile of money. Jesse landed face-first into the cash, Chet already on top of him, stomping down on his hand before he could raise the gun, crushing the weapon and Jesse’s fingers beneath his boot. The gun went off, two rounds hitting the concrete floor. Men scattered as sparks and ricochets bounced about the bay. Chet stomped again. Jesse heard his fingers snap, and on top of all his other pain, his brain found room to bear this fresh assault in full glory. Jesse screamed and lost hold of the gun. Chet kicked the weapon across the room.

Jesse lay in the pile of money, his legs still strapped to the toppled chair, cradling both his broken hands to his chest. Someone was yelling, but it was hard to make out over the ringing in his ears. Chet yanked the knife out of his back and Jesse gasped, choking as he struggled to breathe.

I’m dying,
Jesse thought, and found great comfort in this.

“
H
OLY SHIT!
”
CHET
yelled.
“Holy freaking, fucking shit!”

The General sat on the stool staring at Jesse, at the sack, the cash, the gun, trying hard to make sense of any of it, of any of the strange events over the last couple of days. He wished Chet would shut up and stop stomping around. The General leaned forward, tugged the sack out from under Jesse. There was blood all over the sack. The General felt sure the kid was on his way out.

“What do you want to do about this turd?”
Chet cried.

“Stop yelling, Chet,” the General said. “I’m right here.”

“Fucker almost killed me! Almost killed everyone!”

“Yep,” the General nodded as he pulled the sack open and peered into its smoking depths.

“Hey, you ain’t thinking about sticking your arm in there are yah?”

The General nodded absently. “I think I am.”

The men began to pick themselves off the ground, checking themselves for holes. Apparently, no one caught any of the ricochets and they gathered back around, all eyes glued on the sack.

The General slipped his hand in, all the way up to the wrist, waited. The air in the sack felt cooler, but other than that nothing happened. He pushed his whole arm in. His hand hit something. He gave it a light pat, knew exactly what it was. He pulled out a handful of hundreds. “If that don’t beat all.” He grinned. Shoved his hand back in, only this time his hand didn’t find any cash—instead, something found his hand. The General’s grin fell from his face. His eyes grew large. Something had a hold of him.

“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.