Krampus

Chapter Thirteen Tweekers

Dillard sat in his recliner, a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring at his flat-screen television. The set was off, but he stared at it anyway—staring and staring at that big, dark screen. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his head starting to hurt. He’d tried to sleep, but got tired of lying there in that big bed—alone. Linda slept in the room with Abigail. She’d locked the door.

He’d tried to talk to her again, but might as well have been talking to the wall. Finally, he’d had to leave the room, because if he hadn’t, if he had to bear her grief-stricken face, listen to her sobbing over that fuckup for even one more second, he would’ve lost it again, would’ve done whatever it took to make her see it was Jesse, not him, that got Jesse killed.

He took another swig and wiped his mouth. It’s done between us . . . over. You know it. You can see it in her face. She’s gonna leave you the first chance she gets.

Things had been going so well. He’d come along at the right time, helped her out of a tight spot, and Linda seemed to really appreciate him. He liked that, liked the way it made him feel—like a knight in shining armor. It had been easy with her, easy to keep his temper, easy to be the good guy. But Jesse couldn’t leave things alone.

Should have made that boy disappear when I had the chance, before this shit-storm, before everything got fucked to hell. If I had, if I had listened to my instincts, then Linda and me would be upstairs in that big warm bed together right this minute.

He thought of his wife, Ellen, Ellen’s sweet, kindly face. Ellen had been a good woman, had done her best to please him. Why had I been so hard on her? What is so wrong with me? “Ellen, baby,” he whispered. “God, how I miss you.”

His police radio squawked and Dillard started, almost spilling his whiskey.

“Chief, copy.”

Dillard checked his watch; it was going on three A.M. “Fuck, what now?”

A youthful voice cut through the static. “Chief, copy.” It was Noel Roberts, the new officer; just a kid, as far as Dillard was concerned, started back in October. Dillard still wasn’t sure how he felt about him. Noel asked too many questions, wanted to do everything by the book, didn’t understand that in small towns sometimes you had to bend the rules. Dillard hoped that changed soon, or things wouldn’t be working out for Noel, not in Goodhope.

Dillard picked up the radio and hit the mic. “Go ahead, Noel. What now?”

“Code sixteen, possible code thirteen. Two locations, copy.”

“Noel, how many times am I gonna have to remind you you’re working for the fucking Goodhope Police Department, not the NYPD? Knock the academy bullshit off and just talk to me like a human being, all right? Now are you trying to tell me there’s been two break-ins tonight?”

“Ten-four, chief.”

Dillard rolled his eyes. “Mind giving me the whereabouts?”

“One on Second and Beech. Break-in occurred approximately oh-two-hundred hours. The other break-in occurred shortly thereafter at the residence at the end of Madison.”

“End of Madison? Ain’t that out where Doctor Ferrel lives?”

“Affirmative. Doctor Ferrel reports various acts of vandalism. Suspect smashed in his television.”

Dillard smiled at that. In his book, Doctor Ferrel was a conceited asswipe—the man spoke to him as though he were addressing a ten-year-old, going on and on in that snooty upstate accent of his, telling him what he should and shouldn’t be eating, drinking, and thinking, for that matter. And as far as Dillard was concerned, anyone that felt it proper to prattle on about the finer points of fly-fishing while giving a prostate exam deserved to have his television smashed in anyway. “Well, that’s just a doggone shame,” Dillard said. “Probably another meth freak. Did you get a description on the suspect?”

“Ten-four. Group of African-American males, wearing colorful costumes and disguises.”

Dillard stood up fast. That sounded like Jesse’s boys. “How many? What kind of weapons? Any injuries?”

“No report on weapons. Not sure how many. No one was injured. And chief . . . the odd thing is nothing was reported stolen. Just harassment and vandalism.”

That don’t make any sense, Dillard thought. Why would they break in and not steal anything? What the hell were they after?

“And also . . . the sheriff called.”

Dillard stiffened. Sheriff Milton Wright was a straight shooter and had been known to come sniffing around Goodhope whenever he found an excuse. Dillard made a point of keeping both the man and his nose out of his town and out of his business. “Well, just what did our good friend Sheriff Wright want?”

“Informing us to keep an eye out. Apparently they’ve had at least a half-dozen similar calls. Breaking and entering, harassment. Descriptions match our suspects.”

“Oh, shit,” Dillard said without punching the mic. “What the fuck is going on?” He hit the mic. “Noel, I’ll handle the home on Second.” And, thinking how little he wished to talk to a man who’d had a finger up his ass, “Gonna let you take care of the good doctor. Copy.”

“Ten-four, chief. En route.”

Dillard went upstairs to get dressed, found his cell phone, gave the General a call—got no answer. Shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Dillard couldn’t help a growing sense of unease. He finished getting dressed, tugged on his belt, holstered his gun, and headed out the door. “Something’s just not right,” he said, shaking his head, “not by a long shot.”

JESSE WATCHED THE lights of Goodhope disappear behind them, eclipsed by the dark mountainside. They headed east, deeper into hill country, leaving Krampus’s gift of Yule cheer in over three dozen homes spread about as many neighborhoods all along eastern Boone County. Most of the visits went smoothly, as smoothly as one could hope for any home invasion carried out by a host of costume-clad devils. As the evening progressed into the a.m. hours, most occupants were already fast asleep, making the going much easier. Jesse, Vernon, and Isabel urged Krampus to use the keys, to slip in instead of knocking, and found this to be better for all involved. While Krampus was busy traumatizing the children, they’d mastered getting quickly to sleeping parents and making sure they stayed asleep with a quick dusting of the sand. And in one instance they found out that sleeping sand was equally effective on Shawnee, when an overzealous handful found its way into Nipi’s face. Vernon claimed the incident to be an accident, but Jesse had his doubts. Nipi ended up sleeping it off in the sleigh for the next several stops.

“What is that?” Krampus asked, pointing below.

Jesse peered beneath them, but found only forest and great stretches of strip-mining.

Krampus drifted downward until they were flying along the rim of a vast land removal project. He stared at the devastated landscape, his face stricken, and Jesse realized that Krampus meant the miles of open earth and blasted mountaintops.

Krampus set the sleigh down upon a plateau overlooking the man-made crater. The faintest traces of dawn spread along the horizon, exposing the bald, angry scar upon the land. “Why, it goes on as far as one can see.” The Yule Lord’s brows tightened as though he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Men did this?”

Jesse nodded. “Yeah, they did.”

“They did this on purpose?”

Jesse nodded.

Krampus fell silent. “Why would they destroy the forest, the mountains . . . the very land?”

“For the coal. They blast the tops off the mountains to get to the coal.”

Krampus shook his head, his face bewildered. “It is like cutting off one’s own arm to feed one’s self.”

Jesse had never really figured it that way, but yes, he thought that was as good a way of looking at it as any.

The Yule Lord’s shoulders slumped. “Soon there will be no place left for the spirits to dwell . . . the earth will become a soulless land . . . a place of ghosts, just like Asgard.” He touched his cheeks, his fingers sliding downward, contorting his face into a mask of despair. “Does mankind truly hate itself?” His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “How can one surmount such irreverence?”

Krampus looked away, stared into the salmon-colored glow growing on the horizon. “I believe it is enough for one night. Let us return.” He snapped the reins and up they went, heading down the valley, back toward Goodhope.

“LOOK!” ISABEL POINTED to a house coming up below them. “Is that a little girl?”

“Where?” Jesse asked.

“There. What’s she doing out all by herself this time of the morning?”

Jesse saw her standing in the snow in the middle of a large field. A house and a single-wide mobile home sat together farther up the hillside; the only homes Jesse could see for miles around.

Krampus dropped down to tree level, and the girl looked up at them as they flew over. Jesse thought she couldn’t be older than six or seven.

“Krampus,” Isabel said, and clutched his arm. “Please land.”

Vernon leaned forward. “If we’re putting this to a vote, count me against.”

Krampus didn’t appear to want to, either; he’d been silent since discovering the strip-mining. But he grunted and put the sleigh down between the girl and the house.

The girl watched them land, watched them climb out and walk down the slope toward her. She didn’t run, didn’t look scared at all, not even particularly surprised to see them. She wore a ragged flannel jacket much too large for her, with the hem of her nightgown poking out below. Her legs were bare to the cold from the knees down and Jesse realized she had only socks on her feet. She looked far too thin, shivering, dark circles under her eyes, her hair greasy and matted to her skull. She held a shovel, the tool looking huge in her small hands. Jesse could see a patch in the snow where she’d been trying to dig up the frozen earth.

Isabel bent down, took her hand. “Why, you’re freezing. When’s the last time you had something to eat?”

The little girl wiped her nose across the back of her arm and looked up at Krampus. “Are you Satan?”

“No, I am not. I am Krampus, the Yule Lord. And who might you be?”

“Have you come to take my daddy to Hell?”

Krampus shook his head. “No, child. Why do you speak so?”

She didn’t answer, just turned and headed up the hill, dragging that big shovel behind her. She left the shovel against the side of the house, climbed the steps onto the porch, and disappeared into the house.

“They’re cooking,” Chet said, pointing to a generator and several portable propane tanks sitting just outside of a basement window.

“Cooking?” Isabel said.

“Meth,” Jesse said.

She still didn’t appear to get it.

“Drugs,” Jesse added. “Bad drugs.” Jesse looked the place over, didn’t like what he saw. The field appeared not to have been tended in years, fall’s corn all dried up and still in the husks. Large sections of the vinyl siding had fallen off the house, lying in twisted heaps upon the ground, exposing the tar paper and weathered plywood beneath. Plastic sheets and tarps were duct-taped over the windows, and several had come loose and were flapping in the light wind. An overgrowth of dead weeds and blackberry vines from previous seasons pushed up against the house and tangled along the porch. The mobile home was set off from the house by about twenty yards. The blocks on one side had given way, and the trailer leaned to port like a listing ship, darkness peeking back at them through the broken windowpanes.

The place gave off a bad vibe, more than just neglect—something foul, and vile. Jesse couldn’t remember ever feeling anything quite like it. He wondered if it had anything to do with his heightened senses, with Krampus’s blood in his veins. Regardless, he didn’t particularly wish to go up there. He glanced over at Krampus and could see the Yule Lord felt it, too.

“Looks like it’s been a long spell since anyone gave much of a damn around here,” Jesse said.

“Tweekers,” Chet said, and spat. “Meth, crank, probably huffing, too. Y’know, whatever they can get their hands on. Bet my ass on it.”

“Now there’s a prize no one wants to win,” Jesse said.

Chet’s face soured. “Being a dickhead just comes naturally to you. Don’t it?”

“Someone needs to go see about that little girl,” Isabel said.

“We don’t need to be going up there,” Chet said. “Ain’t nothing good waiting up there. Folks that’s cooking is dangerous, folks that’s using is dangerous, folks doing both are about as much fun to be around as nitroglycerin.”

Isabel didn’t wait around to hear more; she headed up the slope on her own. They watched her climb the porch and enter the house.

“I’m telling you,” Chet said, “we got no business up there.”

Krampus let out a sigh. “It appears my little lion feels otherwise.” He started up after her. “Come.”

A dog crawled out from under the porch as they approached, shaking and skittish; Jesse could count every rib. Krampus rubbed its head and it wagged its tail. They skirted around a scorched recliner and a pile of burned blankets, and mounted the steps. The front door stood half-open, the house dark. Krampus entered and they all followed. Jesse noticed he wasn’t the only one on edge, both he and Vernon clutched the sleeping sand, and the Shawnee had slipped out their knives.

The dim morning glow filtered in through dingy shades, giving just enough light to see that the front room had caught fire at some point, leaving the paneling and most of the ceiling burned and blackened. The smell of damp, charred wood hung in the air. A man lay on a sofa against the far wall, half-covered in a blanket, his eyes heavy and bleary. With twitching hands, he scratched absently at the sores dotting his face, didn’t seem to even notice the pack of Yule demons staring at him.

Krampus stepped over, poked the man once in the ribs. The man looked up at the Yule Lord, seemed to focus on him for an instant. The man’s face twisted into a mask of terror; he moaned, rolled over, and pressed his face into the sofa.

“This is a . . . tweeker?” Krampus asked. “He has the sickness?”

Chet nodded. “Yeah, he’s got the sickness alright. Addicted to crystal meth. Craves it. Y’know, has to have it or goes all batshit crazy?”

“I understand addiction. It is like those who are enslaved to the opium.”

“Yeah, like that, ’cept worse. These folks, they make this shit out of whatever chemicals they can get a hold of. They don’t eat, don’t sleep, and it slowly chews away at their brains.”

“This plague, it is prevalent throughout the land?”

“Yeah,” Jesse put in. “Thanks to douche bags like Chet here, it sure as shit is.”

“What the fuck, Jesse?” Chet barked. “Your hands ain’t exactly clean.”

Krampus shook his head, left the man on the sofa, and continued into the kitchen. Jesse flipped the light switch, but the light didn’t come on. In the dim morning glow they could see someone had removed all the doors from the cabinets, that there was nothing left on the shelves but a few packets of instant oatmeal and a box of Froot Loops. The place smelled of mildew, of meat gone rancid. Dozens of plastic garbage bags lined the far wall. Some toppled over, spilling out their contents, others had holes chewed into them where the rats had been at work. Stacks of unwashed dishes and pans cluttered the sink, counters, and stovetop.

“Fuck,” Chet said, holding his nose. “How do people live in this filth?”

Jesse peered down the hall, searching for Isabel. The house was quiet, eerily quiet. He felt as though he were in a spook house, sure some horror was about to jump out at him from every shadow. A clang came from somewhere, possibly the basement, difficult to tell. “Oh, Good Lord,” someone said, it sounded like Isabel. Jesse made his way down the dark corridor, trying not to trip over all the trash.

He found Isabel and the girl in a back bedroom. A man lay tangled in a sheet upon a bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling. His waxy skin and sunken eyes left no doubt that he was dead . . . long dead.

“Well, now that’s a shame,” Chet said over Jesse’s shoulder. “Looks like Boone County’s got one less dumbshit ice-head to hand food stamps out to.”

Isabel spun around, set angry eyes on Chet. “Shut your fool mouth,” she hissed. “That’s her daddy you’re talking about.”

Chet flinched, looked at the little girl. “Didn’t realize . . . hell, sorry.”

“Her name’s Lacy.”

The little girl didn’t turn around, didn’t even seem to hear, just stood there staring at the dead man. Isabel bent down and pulled the sheet up over his head. Krampus and the others stood at the door. No one spoke.

“She says he’s been dead a long while,” Isabel said. “Maybe four or five days. That’s what she was doing out there in the cold, trying to dig a grave for her daddy on account no one else would.”

“This one,” Krampus asked, pointing at the corpse. “The sickness? The meth?”

Chet nodded. “Yeah, body can only take so much, y’know. Probably enough chemicals in his veins that they won’t have to even bother with the embalming juice.”

Isabel took the little girl’s hand. “We need to get her someplace warm. Get her something to eat.”

“You planning on just taking someone’s kid?” Chet asked. “You sure you wanna be doing that?”

She looked at Krampus. “I ain’t leaving her here.”

Krampus nodded absently, his face unreadable, staring at the body.

Isabel kneeled down next to the girl. “You wanna come along with me? Get something to eat?”

The girl wiped her nose and nodded.

“Well, that’s all I need,” Isabel said, and led Lacy through the Belsnickels and out into the hall. The Belsnickels stood unsure, watching Krampus, waiting for his next move.

A shrill cry cut the silence, “Who the fuck are you?”

Jesse pushed out of the room, saw a silhouette back toward the kitchen blocking Isabel’s path. A woman, gaunt, with long, stringy hair, looking as close to death as a living person could, stood in front of the open basement door. She reeked of chemicals.

“What you doing here?” She spotted Lacy. “What you doing with my little girl? What the fuck are you doing? You get away from her, you hear me!”

Isabel let go of Lacy, grabbed the woman, and shoved her into the wall. Clutched her by the jaw, twisted her face, and forced her to look at her little girl. “Look at her. Look! Your little girl is starving to death. She’s got no shoes on. She’s so cold she can’t stop shivering. What kind of mother are you? Tell me, huh?”

The woman blinked. Her eyes filled with pain and horror. It was as though she was seeing her daughter clearly for the first time in a long while, and Jesse guessed she probably was.

Isabel let her go and she slid down to her knees. “Oh, sweetie,” the woman’s voice broke, she began to sob. “I’m so sorry. Let’s get you something to eat.” She reached for the girl with a boney hand that looked more like a claw. “C’mon . . . mama’s gonna fix you a grilled cheese. C’mon, shug.”

The little girl backed away, tried to hide behind Isabel.

The woman’s brow furrowed, her voice became taut. “Sweetie, come here . . . now.”

The little girl shook her head and stayed put.

The woman began to tremble, her face twisting into something miserable and grotesque. She saw Krampus, got a better look at the Belsnickels. Her eyes began to twitch, her lips to quiver. “Demons,” she whispered. “Someone has let demons into my house.” She stood, jabbed a finger at them, and shrieked, “Devils! Oh, God, save us! C’mere, baby, don’t let ’em touch you!”

She leapt forward, catching Isabel by surprise, shoved her backward. Isabel stumbled and fell over a clump of trash. The little girl tried to run, but the woman caught a handful of her hair, yanked her around, started to drag her away. Jesse dashed forward, caught the woman by the arm. Vernon was ready; he rushed up and dashed a pinch of sleeping sand directly into her face. The woman let out a shout, wiped at her eyes, losing hold of the child. Isabel gained her feet, snatched Lacy up, and hustled her down the hall, disappearing into the kitchen.

The woman stopped struggling for a moment, looked confused, sneezed, blinked, then caught sight of them again. “Devils!” she screamed and began slapping and clawing at Jesse. Vernon tossed more sand into her mouth and nose. She stumbled back, spitting and wiping at her face, sneezed again, and sat down hard on her ass. Even so, she still held on to consciousness, glaring at them as they passed.

“Damn,” Vernon said. “Did you see that? A whole handful and she’s still kicking.”

“It’s the crank,” Chet said. “She’s so jacked up, nothing’s gonna knock her out.”

They left the woman in the hall, passed through the kitchen and into the front room. The man, whoever he was, had not left the sofa. He had the blanket pulled up to his nose; his haunted eyes following them as they exited the house. They tromped down off the porch and rounded the house, caught up with Isabel in the yard. Isabel pulled the panda cap off her own head and tugged it down over Lacy’s. The little girl sobbed, pressing her face into Isabel’s shoulder.

Isabel turned as they approached, and all at once her eyes grew wide, she let out a cry, and Jesse caught sight of Lacy’s mother. She came running up behind them, seemed to appear out of nowhere. She clutched a shotgun and her eyes meant business. Before anyone could move, do more than shout, she leveled the weapon at Krampus and pulled the trigger—the blast deafening at such close quarters, echoing up and down the valley. The buckshot caught Krampus across the back of his left shoulder, spinning the Yule Lord around and knocking him to the ground.

The kick hammered the woman back a step. She straightened up and slid the action, ejecting the spent shell and loading a fresh one. She brought the barrel to bear, aiming for Krampus’s head. “Devil!” she shrieked. Makwa threw himself between the muzzle and Krampus. Another deafening boom and Makwa’s chest opened in a spray of blood and flesh. The big Shawnee hit the ground hard, tumbled to Krampus’s feet.

Krampus moved then, faster than Jesse thought possible. Before the woman could get another shell chambered, he was at her. He let loose a thunderous roar and swung; an upward thrust of his claws caught the woman in the lower bowels, ripping her wide open, and flipping her completely over. She slammed into the side of the house, spattering blood and gore across the vinyl siding. She landed in a heap, one leg twisted behind her back. She looked at the great wound running up her midsection, at the steam rising from her exposed entrails. She raised a hand and pointed at Krampus, tried to say something but couldn’t. Her arm fell, her eyes frozen on the Yule Lord.

Isabel covered the little girl’s eyes, picked her up, and walked quickly down the hill toward the sleigh.

Krampus stood, glaring at the dead woman, eyes aflame, chest heaving, great gusts of breath billowing from his nose and mouth in the winter air, his tail snapping back and forth. He stepped toward her, clenching and unclenching his clawed fingers as though about to tear her body to pieces, oblivious to the blood trickling down his back from the wounds peppering his shoulder. Makwa let out a weak moan and coughed, spat out a mouthful of blood. Krampus stopped, turned, his eyes found the big Shawnee and the fire left them, replaced by a profound sadness. “No,” he whispered.

Krampus came to Makwa, dropped to both knees. He stared at the terrible wound across the man’s chest, at the spreading pool of red melting into the snow. Makwa struggled to draw breath, taking in big gulps of air, a thin wheezing sound coming from his chest.

Krampus clasped the man’s hand between both of his, looked him directly in the eye. “Makwa, my bravest warrior.” His words were earnest and measured. “The great spirits call. It is time for you to go to them, to be honored for your loyalty and bravery. Mishe Moneto has gathered all your great fathers and they all await you with a magnificent feast. Go to them with your chin held high. Take your rightful place.”

Makwa’s eyes focused on something beyond Krampus. He nodded, and smiled. “I . . . see them, Lord Krampus.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “They . . . come. I see . . .” He said no more, his eyes frozen on the heavens. The big Shawnee’s eyes slowly changed from orange to dark brown. The wind kicked up, a flurry of dry snow and corn husks spinning about them and then drifting away, across the field, disappearing into the forests.

Krampus smiled. “Makwa rides with his great fathers.” He slipped his arm beneath the big man, lifted him as though he weighed nothing, climbed to his feet, and headed to the sleigh.

Isabel awaited, the girl in her lap, her face pressed into Isabel’s shoulder, crying quietly. The Belsnickels took their places and Krampus handed the body off to Wipi and Nipi.

Krampus climbed aboard, gently popped the reins, and the goats tugged the sleigh into the air. It began to snow again, and no one spoke as they drifted silently over the hills and hollows back toward Goodhope.