The Undead That Saved Christmas Vol. 2 (9 page)

“Hmmm,” Catherine said. “I guess she didn't go to the coast after all.”

* * *

That evening they allowed Tiny Mikey to open his first present. His hands shook as he tried to tear away the wrapping. Catherine had to help him. The poor kid tried to show the excitement he should have felt, but he just didn't have the energy.

Harry and Catherine's eyes shone with tears. Mikey thanked them, actually thanked them! How many children do that? It all became too much for Catherine and she went out to the kitchen to fix dinner. Mikey wasn't eating much those days; his body was shutting down, but boy did she put on a spread. Cheeses, cold meats, pickles, sauces. Just to see it all laid out would make one's mouth water.

This kind of dinner was Mikey's favorite. He could dispense with the old inhibiting knife and fork, and use his hands. On any normal day, he would build stacks and towers out of layers of crackers and his favorite fillings, to see how high he could build it and still fit it in his mouth. And he tried, he really did. They even let him have a dribble of wine in the bottom of a glass – it had always fascinated him, those shiny glasses, that stuff that Mammy and Daddy loved so much – but he was fading from them. Fading fast.

Countless times Harry was tempted to get up and rip down Christmas, cancel it all, and just let him go. What is Christmas anyway, if the children can't enjoy it? But then he would look at Catherine and it would all somehow seem worth it. It gave her something to work for, a purpose that took her mind off the inevitable, even if it was only for a few minutes a day. Harry didn't know how he and Tiny Mikey would have fared out through all this, if it hadn't been for her.

After dinner Mikey chose his favorite Christmas movie and Harry got up to put it on. When he stood up from the TV he got a sudden head rush. The room suddenly felt very warm and it seemed like all the blood in his body ran to his cheeks.

“Is it hot in here?” he asked, whipping off his jumper on the way back to the sofa, where the rest of his family were snuggled up.

As soon as he sat down he was cold again. Oh good Lord, if he caught that bug that was going around Catherine would have his guts for garters.

About halfway through the film Mikey threw up. A vile, yellowish-green substance that smelled like acid. While Harry took care of the carpet, Catherine tended to the child. And then they decided to call it a day. The poor thing was worn out and there was no point in using up all his strength on the twenty-third.

Harry bundled his son into his arms to carry him to bed. As he was crossing the hallway to the stairs there came a knock on the door. Well, more of a persistent hammering actually. Catherine came out behind them and opened it.

On the porch stood a gaggle of carol singers, led by The School Mistress Miss Brigsby. By the light of the lanterns they all looked pale, almost grey, and their eyes were darkly shadowed and rheumy. Nonetheless, the family paused for a while to listen to them warble, and before long there wasn't a dry eye in the Kinsey house.

When the rendition of the usual suspects was over, and they had closed the door again, Catherine tutted.

“Well that wasn't half as good as last year,” she commented, leading them up the stairs. “I think they could have done with more practice.”

Harry laid his little heir in the bed and tucked the covers around him. Tiny Mikey was just a shadow of his former, cheerful self; pale, sunken cheeks made his eyes look huge, a thin body that looked like it might snap if handled too roughly. They were like two separate people. It broke his heart.

“I agree,” he croaked, switching out the lights. He had come to hate that part of the day, and he sensed Catherine did too; they always forced some mundane conversation to try and ride over it. They never knew, as they turned to leave, if they would come back to find their only son flown from his shriveled vessel. “Very drab. There was no heart in it. It was like they were only doing it for the sake of it.”

Catherine left the door open a crack, and Harry turned on the light in the hall, so Mikey wouldn't be left in darkness.

“Must be that damn bug,” she said and went off to get herself ready for bed.

As if on cue, a red hot shiver snaked up Harry's back. He swallowed hard, feeling like a kid with a guilty secret. He walked around the house, turning off lights and plugging out model trains and various other Christmas doo dahs that Catherine had running all day. As he switched out the porch light he happened to glance through the glass panel in the front door. The carol singers were still there, standing in their line, their lanterns held aloft. How creepy.

He looked around for Catherine.

“Honey, those carolers are still out there.” It had been a perfect day. Spending some quality man time with his son, followed by Catherine's scrumptious dinner, and then all of them gathered together around the tree. “I'd swear they haven't moved.”

One could have almost believed it had been a normal day just like any other, had it not been for the sounds of Catherine's solitary sobs coming from behind the bathroom door.

* * *

Christmas Eve. When Tiny Mikey had not woken by noon, they went in to wake him. They approached the bed with trepidation, neither of them knowing what to expect. They had checked in on him of course, throughout the night and that morning, but they had not wanted to disturb him; that night was the big one, and he needed his rest.

But to their relief, he woke up, crying. He was a very sick little boy indeed. They tried to get him to stay in bed, but he wanted to be by the tree, he wanted to see his cartoons. And then he had to be carried; his legs simply wouldn't hold him up.

Harry honored the mini man’s wishes, and got him set up in the sitting room. Catherine went to phone Doctor Shelborne. It took forever before his secretary answered.

“Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office,” she greeted, in her usual monotone.

“Hi, this is Ca...”

Her relieved rush of words were cut off by the secretary's banal voice repeating the same practiced phrase, “Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office.”

“Yes, I'm calling on behalf of...”

“Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office.”

Catherine stared at the receiver in confusion, then slowly brought it back to her ear.

“Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office. Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office. Hello, Doctor Shelborne's office.”

Over and over and over it was repeated.

Catherine slammed the phone down, and stared at it, her arms crossed tight across her chest, as though she was afraid to touch it again. Just then Harry came out into the hall.

“Something's wrong at Doctor Shelbornes,” she told him.

“It doesn't matter,” he replied, hurrying to the front door. “I just saw him walk down the street.”

He yanked open the door and leaned out, only vaguely registering the line of carol singers on the doorstep. There was a layer of frost on their lanterns and their song sheets were crispy with it.

“Doctor Shelborne!” he called.

On the sidewalk, Doctor Shelborne whipped around to the sound of Harry's voice. Harry recoiled in shock. Even from across the street he could see that something was very, very different about the usually quite sophisticated medicine man. His eyeballs looked like they had been injected with black ink. There was no color or life in there whatsoever. His teeth were bared in a crazy snarl, and what looked like blood frothed at the corners of his lips and on his chin.

“Eh,” Harry stammered, “can you come look at Michael?”

Doctor Shelborne seemed to hover for a moment before stepping off the footpath and crossing the road. His movements were wrong, leaden. The bits no longer worked in conjunction with each other; his shoulders drooped, his arms hanging by his sides as if they had been dislocated. He feet were turned inwards at an awkward angle.

“He's very unwell today,” Harry said as the man shambled closer with his creepy gait. Doctor Shelborne didn't reply, so Harry continued rambling. “We know... we know nothing can be done, but I guess we just want to be sure there's no,” he choked on the word, “pain.”

As Doctor Shelborne came up the path, Harry stood back from the door to make room for him to enter. He had yet to utter a single word.

“He's in the sitting room,” Harry said, as the doctor stepped in. “He insisted on...”

Doctor Shelborne launched himself at Harry, pinning him up against the wall.

“What the...” It was as if the doctor was trying to
bite
him.

On instinct, Harry locked his elbow into place and planted his palm against Doctor Shelborne's forehead, holding him back. He was snarling. Spittle and blood was flying from between his gnashing teeth as he tried to maneuver around Harry's hold.

Harry's elbow quaked. His muscles were straining. His other arm was braced against the man’s throat, turning the horrible snarls to even more horrible gurgles. There was an inhuman strength in the man. It was as if he was being driven by some savage instinct that made him insensitive to pain. Everything around him ceased to exist, except for that one goal. And now, that goal was Harry.

There was no give. Harry put so much into keeping the man off him that he had nothing left in reserve to actually gain ground. Doctor Shelborne kicked and thrashed, like a steam engine on a one way track.

Harry couldn't hold him back any longer. His arms were aching; his shoulder blades felt like they had melded into the wall. His elbow buckled. Those teeth clashed, just inches from his cheek.

His muscles jerked, running on empty. He turned his face and actually felt the doctor’s lip brush his ear. So this was it? This was his number? Being eaten alive by the village doctor in his own hallway... now that was a death worthy of inscription on his tombstone.

The man’s foul slaver dribbled onto his temple and carved a slimy track down his face until it dripped onto his collar bone. Harry gritted his teeth, groaning under the strain. He closed his eyes and was about to give in when the force was suddenly gone.

His arms felt as light as air with the abrupt freedom. He heard the door slam and he opened his eyes to see Catherine standing before it, wielding a heavy rolling pin, clotted with ingredients of mince pie and doctor. Harry's jaw dropped in surprise.

Catherine shrugged. “I've only just had the carpet shampooed.” She had barely even broken a sweat.

* * *

In between watching Tiny Mickey, they watched through the windows as the whole world went crazy. One by one the singers who had set up vigil on their doorstep the night before, reanimated and shambled off. They saw Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher, stagger up from the town. The street lights had come on, and they shone on his shiny pate. As he passed their gate, his missus blundered past him on the other side. Neither of them paid any attention to each other. It was as if they were perfect strangers.

They were all the same. There were no lights behind their eyes. They just lurched along with no apparent purpose other than to find someone uninfected, and attack. They came and went, and came again. In four hours Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher passed six times, Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door, four, The School Mistress Miss Brigsby, five. Young Stacey Smith came on the scene later on, probably reanimating later than the others.

“There's obviously some part of their brains still human,” Harry observed in a whisper. “See how Old Mrs. Crawford From Next Door keeps stopping to kneel by her shed, like how she would every evening to call the cat for dinner.”

“Like how Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher had the orders ready for collection,” Catherine added.

“And the carolers.”

“And Doctor Shelborne's secretary.”

It was not until the evening that they saw someone who still showed signs of normal life. The street was empty, the hordes of walking dead doing their rounds in some other part of the village. A young lady appeared from the shadows at the end of the road. Unlike all the others who were only intent on their one, never ending course, she was walking cautiously, her head whipping from side to side, peering into all the gardens and alleyways. They recognized her as Elizabeth Gordon, the youngest daughter of The Old Widower Gordon Who Owned The Big Farm On The Edge Of Town. She was due to be married any day, having being betrothed to a young man of good prospects from out of town.

Something startled her from behind, and she screamed and started to run. From the shadows came her father, The Old Widower Gordon Who Owned The Big Farm On The Edge Of Town, ambling after her, his arms out in front of him to catch her. At the other end of the street, Mr. Prior The Bald Butcher was making his way back. He spotted her, and suddenly he was filled with purpose, altering his course to meet hers.

Elizabeth screamed again and ran into one of the gardens nearest, stumbling as her high heels stuck in the lawn. At the corner of the house, her beloved appeared. For a moment she faltered, then she ran to him. She threw herself upon him and he wrapped her arms around her as she sobbed in relief.

He bent to kiss her cheek, and came back with a chunk of her skin. Blood sprayed from her face and drowned her screams. Her father came up from behind and bit into the back of her head. A large hunk of scalp and hair tore away from her skull. She whipped around, screaming and crying and bleeding; pleading with the two men who should have protected her. Her fiancée's teeth clamped down on her shoulder and her knees gave way. She fell onto the cold grass, as Mr. Prior The bald Butcher came to join the garden party. They were all starting to come back now, and they headed straight for the sounds of screams and feasting.

Harry pulled Catherine away from the window and closed the curtains.

“What is going on?” he whispered, bewildered and horrified.

Catherine was barely holding on to her sanity. “I don't care Harry!” she shrieked, “Fix it! We. Are. Having. Christmas.”

She strode away, back into the sitting room where the pretty lights winked and the presents glittered. Where their son lay dying on the sofa. Harry risked a glance back at the carnage and was sickened to the stomach. They were gathered around her, like hyenas on a carcass. And that was all that was left of Elizabeth Gordon; a carcass.