Krampus: The Yule Lord (44 page)

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.

C
HIEF
D
ILLARD 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.

S
ANTA
C
LAUS 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.”

“I am not your friend. And I do not seek an excuse to prostrate myself such as you. I am a lord, I kneel for no one. You, you are but a pathetic ass, and shall always be a pathetic ass, one who suckles upon the end of your god’s cock like a gutter whore. I will kill you as many times as need be to be shed of your stench. Now, come hither. I hunger to taste your blood.”

Santa shook his head, a contemptuous sneer upon his face. “Sadly, you still do not see what is right in front of you.” He nodded to the two angels. They drew their swords, shimmering blades of silver light, and came for Krampus. The wolves shot forward, snarling, leapt for the angels. The angels’ movements were quick, precise, their swords but blurs of silver. The blades passed through the wolves; there came no blood, no wounds, only a loud yelp, and a second later both wolves lay dead upon the ground.

“More death, more murder!”
Krampus cried. “How much blood does it take to placate your god?”

“Krampus?” Isabel called. She stood on the porch, clutching the door frame, her eyes wide and terrified. Vernon and Chet leaned out the door behind her. There came a wild cry, and Wipi and Nipi pushed through them, running for the angels, spears raised.

The angels faced the Belsnickels.

“Wait!” Krampus shouted, raising his hand to Wipi and Nipi. “Stay back.” The Shawnee halted, poised, glaring at the angels. “There is nothing here for you but death.”

The Yule Lord pointed his spear at Santa. “So, the son of the great Odin shows his true face at last, hides behind the skirts of angels. Come, coward.
Face me!
” Krampus came for Santa Claus, tried to dart around the angels. The angels intercepted him, brought their swords up and down in a great arc. Krampus made to block the silver blades, but the swords passed through his spear, through his arm, and down his torso. Searing, biting cold followed their path, yet they clove nothing, not spear, arm, nor torso. Still, the pain was beyond his experience. He grit his teeth, glared at the angels, determined to keep his feet.

The angels exchanged troubled looks.

“I still stand!” Krampus taunted, letting loose a mad laugh. “Seems your great god is not so great!”

They struck him again.

Krampus roared, his voice thundering across the icy landscape, shaking limbs and knocking snow from the church eaves. The sound blocked out the song of the angels. They flinched as though struck. Krampus rushed them, driving into the foremost angel, knocking one into the other, knocking them to the ground.

He headed for Santa, his breath bellowing out in blasts of steam and spittle. “You will never be shed of me,” Krampus snarled. “Not so long as a single man still lives . . . for I am the wild spirit that dwells within their breast. And there is nothing, nothing you nor your god can ever do to change that!” He stumbled onward, spear leveled at Santa’s chest.

Santa Claus backed away, his contemptuous sneer replaced by dread. He stumbled, fell, but before Krampus could close the distance, the angels were upon him. They struck the Yule Lord again, and again, their swords carving paths of numbing cold through his body. The world began to fade, to lose its color and density, sounds muffled as though coming from behind a wall. Still he pushed onward, one step, another—each step harder than the last as they continued to strike and stab.

The Yule Lord dropped to one knee, then to his hands, panting, the world now ghostly shades of gray. Yet he persisted, crawling, one hand after the next, determined to put the spear through Santa’s heart.

Krampus collapsed. The angels did not relent.

“Wait,” Santa called, climbing to his feet and stepping forward.

The angels stopped and Santa Claus knelt, prying the spear from Krampus’s fingers. He stood, slid a boot beneath the Yule Lord, and flipped him onto his back. Krampus glared up at him.

“You are a most mulish beast,” Santa spat. “But your time is done.”

With supreme effort, Krampus managed to laugh—a wild, mocking laugh.

Santa raised the spear high and drove it into Krampus’s heart.

All the pain disappeared. Krampus found himself light as the air. He began to drift. The world now so faint he could barely see the outlines of the figures around him, their voices came as from far down a tunnel.

Wipi let out a wild, mournful howl and attacked.
“Stop!”
Krampus shouted, but his voice was small, only an echo. No one heard him.

The angels cut Wipi down, came for Nipi.

Krampus didn’t see what happened after that, the gray shapes, the voices, all of it faded away, leaving nothing.

J
ESSE HIT THE
highway and raced north toward Goodhope. Until that very moment, his focus had solely been on getting away, but now he realized he wasn’t getting away, he was going somewhere and that somewhere was Dillard’s house.

He had no idea how much time he had. Was he on Santa’s death list? Had God condemned him for his role? How did one escape the wrath of God? He had no answers, he only knew he was still alive, and so long as he was breathing, he might still have a chance to do something about Dillard.

With the General gone, it was only between them now.
Am I gonna shoot him?

Jesse thought back to when Dillard challenged him to do that very thing. How many times had he wished for that chance again? If he did get the chance, what would he do?
One thing’s for certain, gonna see to it he never hurts Linda or Abi again.
Abigail’s scream echoed in his mind, the terror in her eyes.
I’ll at least blow his knees out . . . take him down a notch or two. Hard to beat a woman from a wheelchair. Hell yes, it is.

Jesse drove fast, but not recklessly. It was early Sunday morning, so other than the occasional big rig, the road belonged to him. He made good time, hitting the edge of town just as dawn’s glow began to spread across the eastern sky. This time he slid up the river road that ran behind Dillard’s house, hiding the vehicle in the trees.

He killed the engine, started to get out, stopped.
Slow down. Don’t fuck this up again.
Jesse slipped out the Colt, double-checked that it was fully loaded, and shoved it into his pocket. His eyes fell upon the velvet sack; he stared at it for a long moment.
What am I supposed to do with that? Fuck, for all I know it might lead Santa and his monsters right to me.
He shook his head.
Have to figure it out later.

He quietly pushed the door shut, moved quickly from tree to tree, toward the back of Dillard’s house, stopping every dozen yards or so to look and listen. He held the gun out, finger on the trigger—steady and ready. Jesse wasn’t counting on God or luck this time; he was counting on himself.

The kitchen and dining room lights were on. His heart sped up—someone was home. He followed the hedges around the shed then up to the garage. He peeked around the front of the house. No sign of the cruiser or the Suburban. Linda’s sad little Ford Escort still sat in the drive and, judging by the clumps of snow around it, hadn’t been moved in a long while.