Krampus

Chapter Four Devil Men

Santa Claus glanced back over his shoulder. The two boys on their BMX bicycles were still tailing him. Santa had found a string of power lines late in the morning, had been following the trail west. That had taken him past a double-wide mobile home; the two boys had been out jumping on a trampoline when he’d marched by. They’d stared at him until he was out of sight. Now, a couple miles later, here they were, peeking around a thicket, watching his every move.

They will need a little discouragement. Would not do to have children watch dear old Santa hack Krampus and his abominations to death, after all.

A distant screech came to Santa’s ear, a most welcome sound. He searched the sky, found only heavy clouds. He plucked the horn from his belt and gave it one short blast. A second later he was rewarded with another cry and the sight of two dark shapes flying down out of the clouds toward him.

They alighted upon the twisted branch of a fallen oak—the two great ravens, Huginn and Muninn. The magnificent birds were as large as any eagle, their black feathers sleek and shining. They peered at Santa with curious, ageless eyes.

“You remember Krampus? Yes, I know you do. It seems he did not die in darkness as he should have. Somehow he has crawled out from beneath his rock to make mischief, and mischief he has indeed made. Now my Christmas sack is lost—is somewhere out there amongst the near town.”

The two great birds cocked their heads, questioning.

“Search for his beasts, his abominations, the Belsnickels. For they will be on the hunt as well. When you find them, stay with them like a dark omen, lead me to them with your cry . . . for my sword thirsts for their blood.”

The ravens squawked and nodded, nodded as any person might.

“Go my pets, make haste. Find them and show me the way.”

The giant ravens leapt into the air, the wake of their great wings kicking up the frozen leaves as they flew away down the hill.

Santa heard a clink, turned, found that the boys had dared venture closer, much closer than was wise, sitting on their bikes and staring at him. Santa walked up to them. The younger boy looked about to flee; he glanced anxiously over at the older boy. The older boy, a teenager, maybe thirteen or fourteen, looked unsure as well, but held his ground.

“Whatcha wearing that getup for?” the teenager asked.

“Yeah,” the younger boy chimed in. “Why you dressed up like Santa Claus for?”

“Because I am Santa Claus.”

The older boy snorted. “My ass you are.”

The younger boy followed suit with a snort of his own.

Santa remembered why he hated teenagers—they worked so hard not to believe in anything. Did their very best to spoil the magic for everyone else. “Go home.”

The teenager blinked. “Hey, this here’s a free country. You can’t go telling us what to do.”

“Is that a new bike?”

“Sure is,” the kid said with obvious pride. “Got it for Christmas. Fucking rad.”

“Would you please get off of it?”

“What . . . huh? What for?”

“So you will not be upon it when I toss it down the hillside.” Santa nodded to the steep incline on one side of the trail that bottomed into a ravine of broken rocks.

“Are you threatening me, mister?”

Santa grabbed the teenager’s bike by the handlebars, kicked his boot through the front spokes, and stomped downward, snapping off most of the spokes. The front rim collapsed.

“Hey!” the kid screamed. “Hey, you can’t do that!” He stood up and when he did, Santa snatched the bicycle out from under him. He lifted the bike over his head and chucked it down the hill. The bike tumbled, spun, bounced into the air, and crashed into the rocks below.

The two boys stood, mouths agape, staring down at the bike.

“I believe it would be a bad idea for the two of you to follow me any farther. What do you think?” Santa didn’t wait for an answer—he had urgent business at hand. He turned and headed quickly down the trail.

JESSE SHOT DOWN the highway toward Dillard’s house, his brow in a knot, his jaw tight. Without taking his eyes off the road, he leaned over, popped open the glove compartment, and dug out his pistol, laid it on the seat next to him. “Gonna get my daughter,” he said, said it loud, like he meant it. “Gonna shoot anyone that gets in my way.”

A mile later he pulled into the Gas’n’Go. “Fuck!” He picked up the revolver, glared at it. He heard Dillard again, You won’t do it, Jesse. I know this for a fact. You see, son, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking the measure of a man.

Jesse looked at the hole in his hand. “Gonna shoot the General, too,” he snarled. “Shoot every fucking one of ’em!” Only the words rung hollow in the cab, making him feel the worse.

He shut off his truck, got out, headed inside, and found the restroom. He ran warm water over his injured hand, washed the wound out the best he could. He opened and closed his hand. It was becoming stiff, the dark flesh around the wound beginning to swell. He wrapped it in paper towels and wondered if he’d ever be able to play the guitar again. Maybe the General’s done me a favor. Maybe I’m better off if I can’t play. If I just give up on my music altogether.

He climbed back into his truck and decided the best thing for now was to go home and try to figure things out. What’s to figure? he asked himself, and again couldn’t get Dillard out of his head: I’d shoot him dead regardless. Because that’s what a real man does.

Jesse got back on the highway and a few minutes later pulled into the King’s Kastle, splashing through slushy potholes as he drove up the hill, trying his best to clear his head. It was getting late in the day, Chet would be expecting him at the elementary school in a couple of hours, and if he didn’t show up, things would get bad right away. Can’t keep making these runs. Gonna end up in prison. Every way I turn is bad. What am I supposed to do? What the fuck am I supposed to do?

He pulled the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and fished for a smoke, but came up empty. He smacked the pack against the dashboard, knocking out a few crumbs of tobacco. “Perfect. Just perfect.” He wadded up the pack and chucked it to the floorboard. “Well, shit, look at that.” Two enormous birds were circling low over his trailer. At first he thought they might be buzzards, but as he drew closer he could see they looked more like crows or ravens. He glanced at his trailer. “What the fuck’s going on now?”

The door to his trailer hung open. He caught movement within; could just make out a hunched figure inside. It was digging through the boxes near the door, its back to him. It wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled up and though Jesse couldn’t see its face he knew who his visitor was.

He drove past without even slowing, as though he lived farther up the road, hoping to hell it hadn’t seen him. It was a dead end, so Jesse had no choice but to turn around. He pulled into the Tuckers’ drive, then backed out as casually as he could, doing his best not to draw any attention to himself. That’s when he noticed another hooded figure. It shifted through the underbrush, over among the pine trees behind his trailer, its face low to the ground as though sniffing for something. Jesse glanced at the Santa sack on the floorboard and wondered if these creatures could smell it somehow. He grabbed the sack, intending to toss it out the window and just drive off, when the figure stood up, one clawed hand dangling from an outstretched wrist. It sniffed the air, then jerked its head toward him. It wore sunglasses even though the day was gray and overcast. It lifted up the shades and there was no missing those eyes: burning orange and staring at Jesse, following his truck as it crept up the road.

Jesse shoved the sack back down into the foot well and fought the urge to floor it. “Keep cool,” he whispered. “Just keep cool.”

The devil man headed toward the road. Jesse avoided looking its way, but could sense its eyes, those piercing orange eyes staring at him as he passed. Little farther now. Just a little farther. He kept it in his rearview mirror as it stepped out into the lane. It followed him at a fast clip. Jesse returned his eyes to the road and let out a cry. There, in the middle of the road, stood another one, one of the bigger ones, one with horns, all covered in fur and carrying a spear. “Shit!” Jesse yelled, cutting the wheel left.

It slapped a palm on the passenger window, jogging alongside the truck and peering inside, smiling, revealing dirty teeth.

Jesse gunned it. His wheels spun in the snow and gravel, giving him a second to regret pawning his good tires, then they gained traction and the truck took off, quickly picking up speed as it bounced and bounded up the rough road. Jesse glanced in his rearview—they were gone. A heavy thud hit his camper, followed by tromping on the roof of the cab.

The thing slid down the front windshield, gaining a perch on the hood. Again it gave him that crooked smile. Its eyes alighted on the Santa sack, grew wide, and blazed to life like a stoked fire. It set back its head and let loose a long howl, more of a wail, causing all the hair on Jesse’s arms to stand on end. Answering howls came from all around. The creature reared back and drove its fist into the middle of the windshield, punching a hole through the safety glass. Cracks spiderwebbed across the windshield. It yanked its hand free and reared back for another blow when Jesse cut the wheel sharply left, then right, jerking the truck back and forth across the road, throwing the creature from its perch. The creature slid down the hood, catching hold of the wiper.

Up ahead, two more devil men came loping toward the road. “Christ, they’re everywhere!”

The one on the hood began pulling itself up. Jesse swerved, purposely driving through a pothole. The jolt sent the devil man airborne, taking the wiper with him. The devil man hit the snow bank and tumbled from view.

The two ahead of him were coming fast, trying to cut him off. Jesse kept the pedal to the floor. The old V8 rattled and roared as the truck shot up the hill. “C’mon!” he shouted. “C’mon!” He thought he had it, when the forward beast leapt, flying across the snow, and slammed onto the passenger side of the truck. The whole truck rocked. It caught the side mirror, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open.

Millie’s garbage cans and nativity scene were just ahead. Jesse jerked the wheel hard right, toward the cans. The devil man and the passenger door slammed into the cans. There came a few surreal seconds when everything seemed to go by in slow motion. Jesse saw the devil man, Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus as they all flew through the air accompanied by Millie’s garbage.

The devil man smashed into Millie’s picket fence and tumbled across her yard.

Jesse raced away down the hill toward the highway, the potholes and bumps tossing the truck from one side of the narrow lane to the other. He clipped a row of mailboxes near the bottom of the hill, swerved into a ditch and shot up the other side onto the highway. He slammed the brakes and his rear tires ended up in the ditch on the far side of the road. Jesse found himself looking back the way he’d come, saw all five of them running and leaping as fast and agile as deer toward him, and their eyes—those eerie eyes, blazing and locked on him.

“Crap!” He hit the gas, his wheels spinning in the mud; there came a second when he knew he was stuck and it was all over, but the old Ford came through, the tires bit into the asphalt, and he squealed away.

He caught one more glimpse of them far back down the highway. They showed no sign of slowing, or giving up, and at that moment Jesse understood that no matter how far he ran, he’d never escape those burning eyes, that they would be chasing him through his nightmares for the rest of his life.

JESSE WAS DOING near eighty, oblivious to the cold wind and wet snow drizzling into the cabin through the hole in his windshield. The old V8 roared and whined, threatening to blow a rod. Jesse’s heart still raced. He was ten miles out of town, heading south, would be coming up on the state line soon, and that suited him fine. He didn’t plan on slowing down until he was in Kentucky, or maybe Mexico.

He cut his eyes to the Santa sack, gave it a hard look as though it had betrayed him somehow. Without slowing, he leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. He jerked the sack from the floorboard and shoved it out the window. It bounced along the blacktop and tumbled into the ditch.

He was done with Goodhope, done with West Virginia, done with crazy devil men and their burning orange eyes, done with the General, done with all the bullshit. And if Linda wants to marry that bastard Dillard so goddamn bad, wants his big house, his big fancy car . . . then she can just have him. Can just have all of it!

He tried to hold on to that, to not think beyond it, but there was more to all this, something he couldn’t turn away from, and deep down he knew it. He focused on the road, on the yellow stripes zipping past, tried his best not to hear her name, her voice . . . Daddy. Jesse clenched his jaw, clutched the steering wheel so hard that the hole in his hand began to throb.

You heard the General. You heard him good. He’s gonna put Abigail in a box.

“He won’t do it. No way.”

What if he does? Can you live with that?

Jesse let off the accelerator.

The truck dropped down to forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . ten.

No easy way out. Not for you, Jesse. Never is.

He came up on an empty used car lot and pulled in beneath the tattered streamers. Faded letters proclaiming GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE were flaking off the showroom window. He got out of the truck and slammed the door. There was a huge dent in the passenger door, the side mirror was gone, he had one wiper left, and, of course, that fist-size hole in the front windshield. He noticed Millie Boggs’s little plastic Jesus wedged between the back of his cab and the front of the camper shell. The baby Savior appeared to be looking directly at him and smiling.

“You having yourself a good time?” Jesse shouted up at the doll.

Baby Jesus didn’t answer.

“Not exactly sure what it is I ever done to you. Judging by the way things is going must’ve been something awful.” Jesse kicked the door. “Y’know, it’s not like I didn’t have enough bad shit going on already.”

Jesse’s eyes dropped back to the hole in his windshield and he let out a long sigh. “That needs fixing.” He went around to the back of the camper, dropped the tailgate, and lifted up the camper latch. He shoved aside his guitar, the bags of video consoles, and crawled in. His sleeping bag, a canvas bag full of work clothes, and the few odds and ends left in the truck after his father had died were crammed up against the cab. All the junk being too old and beat up to sell or pawn. He pulled aside a toolbox and a fishing rod, then hefted the old man’s hunting rifle. He’d wrapped the rifle in oily rags to keep it from rusting and figured he could use those rags to plug up the hole for now. He unwrapped the gun, piling the rags in his lap, then just held the rifle, a lever-action .22, running his hand along the worn grip and stock. It felt like an old friend and took him back to roaming the woods as a youth, hunting squirrels and rabbits—a time when his only worries seemed to be avoiding the game commission.

A semi roared past and Jesse glanced out. He noticed that it was edging toward dusk and his chest tightened. They’d be expecting him at the school soon and if he didn’t show, he’d have more than the devil men after him. “Whatcha gonna do, Jesse?” He patted the rifle. Just go back and shoot ’em all and be done with it. He grinned but the grin lacked any humor, because he knew what he really had to do, and knew the doing of it wouldn’t be easy. You’re gonna have to go get Abigail then get the hell out of here and that’s all there is to it. Head down to Mexico or maybe Peru, somewhere where the General and his crew will never find you. He had no idea how exactly, especially having only four dollars in his pocket. He shook his head, set the rifle down, and it dawned on him that maybe the General was the solution. When Jesse made a run, he also picked up the payment on the other end, usually in the range of two or three thousand dollars. Just take the cash and run. He nodded.Should be enough time to take care of things before the General catches on. Just need to make sure Dillard’s out of the house. He bit his thumb. That shouldn’t be too hard. Set a Dumpster on fire, or better yet smash in a storefront window. Jesse felt a twinge of hope. A chance, no matter how small, was better than none at all. Snatch up Abigail while Dillard’s out chasing ghosts.

“And Linda?” His brow furrowed. Linda’s gonna be a problem. A big problem. He shook his head. Maybe once I tell her everything she’ll see it my way. She’ll have to. Another thought struck him. Maybe if I can find that photo of Ellen. He nodded, his heart speeding up. If she were to see that picture, maybe she’d even come along.

Except?

“Except what?”

Whatcha gonna do once you get down to Mexico? He looked at the two bags of game consoles. Wouldn’t be too hard to sell those things down in Mexico. He thought of the sack lying on the side of the road, just lying there where anyone could come along and take it.

“Shit, need to go get that sack.”

Jesse scooted out of the camper, slammed it shut, ran around, and jumped into the cab. He stuffed the rags into the window, cranked up the engine, and headed back up the highway.

A minute later, he plucked the Santa sack out of the mud, surprised that none of the mud stuck to it, it wasn’t even wet. A screech drew his attention upward; two large birds circled above. It took Jesse a second to realize they were the same type of birds he’d seen circling his trailer, maybe even the very same ones. He shoved the sack into the passenger seat and the birds began cawing. The approaching dusk cast the woods in dark shadows. Jesse thought of the devil men, of their eyes. He climbed back in the truck as fast as he could and headed into town.

JESSE PASSED THE NO DRUG ZONE sign, slowed down, and pulled into the Sunny Hills Elementary School parking lot. He cruised around to the back of the cafeteria and parked near the Dumpsters. He noticed his fuel light was on, thumped it twice, watched the light flicker, and made a mental note to inform Chet that if he wanted him to make it to Charleston and back, he’d better spot him some gas money.

Jesse turned off the engine and stared at the monkey bars. He’d spent many a recess hanging about in that playground, back when he attended Sunny Hills, back when he still had dreams of becoming a big-time, guitar-strumming fool.

He glanced up the road. Where the hell is Chet? Jesse didn’t much care to be sitting in any one place for too long, not with those things out there somewhere. He wanted a cigarette, something to calm his nerves. He scanned the woods for any sign of their orange eyes. It was almost full dark and every shadow and bush looked as though it was creeping up on him. He picked his pistol up off the seat, popped open the chamber, double-checking that the revolver was fully loaded. He wondered if bullets would do any good against something like them, wondered if you needed silver bullets, or holy water, or some such. He slapped it shut and slid it into his front jacket pocket. He noted the Santa sack sticking up and tried to shove it deeper into the foot well.

If I can just pull this off, he thought. Get Linda and Abigail out of here, then things could be really good. Live someplace where it’s warm, near the beach, somewhere nice for a little girl to grow up. Maybe even carve out a little space to play my songs. It wouldn’t be Memphis, but it wouldn’t be Boone County neither. I’d have my family, and I wouldn’t screw things up this time. No, sir, not this time.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and did something he’d not done since he was a little boy. “Lord, if you got a moment I’d appreciate you giving me a listen. I know I don’t deserve your consideration, but if you could maybe ease up on me just a bit, just this once, for Abigail’s sake, I’d be mighty grateful. And if you do . . . I swear I’ll make it up to you, somehow, someway. I swear.”

He heard a caw, snapped his eyes open, and sat up, his heart drumming. He rolled down his window and peered up. The ravens, both of them, were circling above. “Oh, that ain’t right. Not at all.” He reached for the ignition and noticed two pairs of headlights heading his way.

Dillard’s patrol car pulled in and parked at the top entrance of the school parking lot to keep an eye on things, make sure no one interfered. Chet’s late-model Chevy Avalanche, black with tinted windows, pulled into the lower entrance and drove over to where Jesse was parked.

Jesse sucked in a deep breath. “Play it cool, Jesse. Don’t fuck this up.”

SANTA’S LONG STRIDE ate up the ground as he cut across the parking lot of the Goodhope Methodist Church. He was grateful for the approaching dusk, keenly aware of the odd looks he’d been getting. As he approached the church, a young woman carrying a cardboard box came rapidly around the corner. The large box blocked her view and she crashed into him, which knocked the box from her hands. Several bags of New Year’s Eve’s hats and horns spilled onto the walkway.

“Oh, Lord,” she said. “I am so sorry, I—” She did a double take and suddenly seemed at a loss for words. She glanced back over her shoulder to the man coming up behind her, an older, wiry man with stern, penetrating eyes. The man also carried a box of party supplies.

Santa Claus, stooped, raked the contents back into the box, handed it to the lady, then set off on his way.

“Hey, mister,” the lady called. “Excuse me. You dropped something. Here.”

Santa turned. The woman held his horn. He returned and she handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, and started to leave.

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

This brought a slight smile to his face. “Merry Christmas.”

The man next to her looked him up and down, frowning at his trappings. He shook his head. “Today is Jesus’s birthday. Just pointing that out, brother, on account that some folks get a bit confused this time of year.” He laid a light hand on Santa’s arm and grinned. “They think it’s Santa Claus Day.”

Santa met his eye and held it.

“Reverend,” the lady said. “Don’t you even start.” She looked at Santa apologetically. “Just ignore him. He’s a bit impractical when it comes to Christmas.”

“Darn straight I am. Santa Claus and all his little presents tend to get in the way of God’s message.”

“As can religion,” Santa replied.

The reverend squinted. “Well, don’t think you can argue that the world needs a whole lot more Jesus and a whole lot less Santa.”

“God has many servants.”

The pastor addressed the woman. “See, this here’s just what I’ve been going on about. People get confused, especially children. Santa Claus is a fairy tale. Folks tell their children any different, why, they’re flat-out lying to ’em.”

“What makes you so sure Santa Claus is not real?” Santa asked.

“Ain’t ever laid eyes on him, have you?”

“Have you set eyes on Jesus?”

The reverend hesitated. “Jesus is in my heart.”

“Is there not room in your heart for both? They both spread peace, charity, and goodwill.”

“Only Jesus can save your soul from eternal damnation.” A smug smile spread across the reverend’s face. “Can Santa Claus do that? Don’t think so.”

Santa let out a sigh. “We all serve God in our way.” Then, almost to himself: “Sometimes whether we wish it or not.”

The pastor gave him a puzzled look, continued on, something about salvation, but Santa didn’t hear a word, listening instead to the distant cawing. He searched the sky, caught sight of the ravens circling far down the way. They have found it! They found the sack!

Santa set off quickly, leaving the pastor and the woman exchanging concerned looks.

ISABEL PUSHED BACK her hood, removed her sunglasses, and searched the sky. She found no sign of the ravens. All five of the Belsnickels stood on the bluff, scanning the valley, the small township of Goodhope sprawled out below them. Darkness was slipping in fast beneath the dense, low-lying clouds. They all hoped the man in the truck hadn’t gone far. All too aware that if the man had left the area then there’d be little chance of finding him before Santa or his monsters did.

Makwa gestured north, and they all looked that way.

“You see them?” Vernon asked.

Makwa jabbed his finger impatiently. He could speak English, all three of the Shawnee could, but doing so seemed to annoy them. Makwa referred to English as the ugly tongue. Isabel had given up on learning Shawnee, figured if she couldn’t pick it up after all these years then she never would. So between the Indians’ stubbornness and her lack of language skills, they were all, more often than not, reduced to grunts and pantomime.

“Well, I don’t see a thing,” Vernon snapped. Isabel couldn’t either, but that didn’t mean the giant birds weren’t out there. Makwa had been with Krampus a long time; Isabel guessed at least four hundred years, and the longer you were around Krampus the more his magic rubbed off. Makwa looked at them as though they were simple-minded, then took off down the trail followed by the two brothers, Wipi and Nipi. Isabel and Vernon shrugged and followed.

All five of them raced through the woods. There was no need to hide their faces in the growing darkness, and Isabel reveled in the winter wind blowing through her hair. Krampus’s blood ran through their veins, increasing their strength and endurance noticeably. Isabel could sprint faster, leap farther, and run endlessly without tiring. But his blood did more than that; it also opened their senses to the wildness of the world in a way no ordinary mortal could ever know. She could smell the spice of rotting leaves beneath the frost, the fish in the creek, could hear a family of squirrels nesting high above in the treetops, could actually sense the pulse of life running beneath all things. Ancient forces, she thought, older than the very dirt. And when she ran like this—leaping and dashing through the woods like a deer, her heart and soul open to the spirit of the land—she found she could almost forget all that had been stolen from her.

They followed a creek beneath the highway, skirted a cluster of homes, then climbed up an embankment, coming out of the trees into a field behind the high school. The school looked the same to Isabel as it had when she’d attended over forty years ago. She stared at the dark windows and wondered if her son had gone there as well.

Makwa held up his hand and they stopped. He pointed toward the dark clouds. This time Isabel made out two specks circling about a mile away, near the elementary school, caught their distant calls. Her heart sped up. “He’s still here!” Isabel felt her hopes rise. This time they knew the make of the man’s truck, knew what he looked like. He wouldn’t get away.

Makwa shook his head, looking troubled.

“What?” Isabel asked. “What’s wrong now?”

“They call him. Call Santa Claus. He must be near.”

The two brothers nodded their agreement.

“Oh, wonderful, that’s just wonderful,” Vernon said, his voice edging toward hysteria. “What do we do now?”

“We beat him there,” Isabel stated.

“That’s all well and good, but what if he already has it?”

“Then we take it from him,” she said, not the least bit happy about it.

And that was the end of it; they all knew what she meant. Krampus had given them a direct command. He possessed them; the same blood that gave them the ability to run like deer also dominated their will. If Krampus should demand they chew open their own wrists while humming a tune, they’d be powerless to do anything but. They’d been commanded to bring back the sack at any cost, and so they’d expend their last breath trying, even if it meant going into the jaws of Santa’s monsters to do it.

“We’re wasting time,” Isabel said, and dashed away. The Belsnickels followed.

She ran all out, and as she ran she took note of the beauty around her, the thousand shades of blue and purple, savored winter’s twilight in its entire splendor as it fell across the mountains, knowing too well it may be her very last.

CHET CLIMBED OUT of his truck. “Why, I knew we could count on you, Jesse.” He walked up to Jesse and gave him a slap on the back. “You’re the man.” Chet did a double take on Jesse’s truck then tilted his head sideways. “What the fuck happened to your pickup?”

Lynyrd got out from the passenger side of Chet’s Chevy and came up behind Jesse, grabbed him by the collar.

“Hey,” Jesse cried. “Get your goddamn hands off of me.”

“Cool it,” Lynyrd said, and proceeded to pat Jesse down. He found the pistol in Jesse’s jacket pocket and fished it out.

“What? You gonna take my gun? What the fuck?”

“Just calm down, man. You can have your shitty shooter back once we’re done.” Lynyrd sat the pistol on the hood of Jesse’s truck. “Just wanna be sure you don’t do nothing you’re gonna regret.”

“How’s the hand?” Chet asked, and smiled.

Jesse glared at him, pressed his back up to the camper so he could keep an eye on both of them as well as the trees behind them.

“You nervous about something, Jesse?” Chet asked.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Well, damn. You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“I got better things to do then hang out with you two pricks.”

Chet glanced over at Lynyrd and raised his eyebrows. “Jesse, I’m gonna ignore that on account you’re too stupid to know better.”

Jesse thought he caught movement in the bushes behind Lynyrd. Chet followed Jesse’s eyes into the trees. “Relax,” Chet said. “Nobody’s out there. Besides, your good buddy Dillard’s got us covered.” Jesse sucked in a breath and fought to keep his nerves under control, did his best not to think about burning orange eyes.

“Oh, and hey,” Chet said. “Thought you’d like to know . . . my nephew went batshit-crazy over that video game machine you gave me. I mean you should’ve seen his face. Thought he was gonna turn blue and piss himself right there on the carpet.”

Jesse thought he was gonna piss himself if things didn’t get moving. He wanted to scream at Chet to shut the fuck up and get on with it already before they were all eaten alive.

“Gave another one to his cousin. Did you know you can link those—”

“I’m so fucking happy,” Jesse broke in, forcing a broad smile across his face.

“What?” Chet cut his eyes to Lynyrd. “Is it just me or is Jesse plain weird tonight?”

“Jesse is always weird,” Lynyrd said.

Chet squinted at Jesse again, studied him like something escaped from the zoo. “Yeah, you’re right on that one.” Chet pulled out a tin of chew, twisted it open, dug out a plug, and stuffed it into his cheek. Jesse felt like the man moved in slow motion.

“Okay, sugar britches,” Chet continued. “Here’s the deal. Like I was telling you before, quick run up to Charleston. Same place as usual. It’ll be Josh meeting you this time—his brother got another DUI and is still in jail. His wife won’t pay his bail neither.” Chet snorted. “I think she’d just as soon he stay in there, to tell you the truth. Anyhow Josh will be expecting you at nine. Do us all a favor and make sure you’re on time. I don’t want him bitching at me. I swear that man can carry on like an old woman sometimes. So don’t be—”

“I’ll be there on time,” Jesse said, his eyes darting about in the shadows.

“Yeah . . . all right then.” Chet paused. “You jacked up or something?”

“No.”

Chet didn’t look convinced. He nodded at Lynyrd, and Lynyrd unzipped his jacket, pulled out a large brown packet wrapped in duct tape.

“Josh will have six grand waiting for you.”

“Six grand?” Jesse said, unable to hide his surprise.

Chet eyed Jesse, spat a wad of tobacco juice onto the snow. “Yeah, six grand. Don’t you go getting any funny ideas. Just remember what the General said about your daughter. I mean it, Jesse. For her sake, you fly right.”

Jesse’s jaw tightened.

Chet jabbed a thumb toward Dillard’s patrol car. “You’re to follow Dillard as far as Leewood. Martin said he’s on duty tonight. So the interstate shouldn’t be a problem. He knows the make of your truck. So if you happen to notice the state patrol tailing you, don’t sweat it none.” Chet slapped Jesse on the shoulder. “See there, guitar man, we got you covered. And the General’s bumping your bit up to three hundred. Y’know, to show there’s no hard feelings on that there hole in your hand. That’s three hundred bucks for doing just about nothing. You can send him a thank-you card if you want.”

Lynyrd stepped up to the passenger side of Jesse’s truck and popped the door open. The Santa sack tumbled out onto the ground. Loud cawing exploded from somewhere up above.

Lynyrd reached for the sack.

“Hey, leave that alone!” Jesse cried and leapt toward the sack.

Lynyrd had a big buck knife out in a heartbeat, had it pointed right at Jesse’s chest. Lynyrd wasn’t the biggest of the Boggses, but he was fast, scary fast. Jesse stopped, put his hands up. “Just getting the sack out of the mud.”

“Why don’t you just leave it be ’till I’m done,” Lynyrd said.

Jesse backed off.

“Hell, Jesse,” Chet said. “You need to calm the fuck down.”

Lynyrd shoved the packet up under Jesse’s seat.

“What the fuck is wrong with them birds tonight?” Chet said to no one in particular.

Lynyrd picked up the Santa sack and tossed it back into the cab without a second look.

“Hey,” Chet said. “Is that a Santy Claus bag? It is. What the hell, Jesse? You been playing Santa?” He walked over for a closer look.

“Leave it be,” Jesse said.

“Okay, sure. Relax, man,” Chet said. “No one wants to steal your stupid Santa bag.” Chet took a closer look at Jesse’s face and seemed to reconsider. He squinted at the sack. “Whatcha got in there, anyway?” Chet patted the sack. “That’s weird.” He poked it. Watched the way the sack slowly reinflated. “Lynyrd, did you see that?”

Lynyrd grunted.

Chet pulled the sack back out. The cawing grew louder. “Fucking birds have done lost their minds?”

“Let it alone,” Jesse said, taking a step forward.

Lynyrd grabbed him, shoved him up against the camper shell, flashed his knife in front of Jesse’s face. “You’re sure a slow learner, boy.”

Chet whistled. “Look at him, man. He’s all worked up. Must be something really good in here.” He loosened the gold cord and peered in.

“Well?” Lynyrd asked.

Chet looked puzzled.

“What?” Lynyrd asked.

“That’s really weird. It’s like there’s some sort of—”

A shadow slid from the trees and sprang for Chet. It was one of them—one of the devil men. It snatched the sack out of Chet’s hands and knocked him sprawling across the snow.

Lynyrd reacted without a second’s hesitation, launching himself at the creature, slashing out wildly with his big buck knife, catching the creature across the back of its shoulder. The devil man spun insanely fast, looking like some sort of rabid pillow-fighter as it swung the sack around in a tight arc, catching Lynyrd full in the chest and knocking him across the hood of Jesse’s truck. Lynyrd snatched Jesse’s pistol up off the hood, wheeled about, firing away. The first bullet went wild, the second caught the creature in the side of the face. The creature stumbled back and fell, but didn’t let go of the sack.

Before Lynyrd could get off a third shot, a spear flew out of the dark, struck him in the chest, followed a half-second later by two more of the devil men. They leapt from the brush and smashed right into him, slamming him into the side of the truck with enough force to rattle the whole frame. One of them opened Lynyrd’s throat with a quick slash of its knife, while the other tore the gun from his hand. Lynyrd crumpled to the ground, clutching the spear as blood gushed from the wide gash in his neck.

Two more of the devil beasts ran up, looking from the blood to the sack with wide, orange eyes. One of them grabbed the wounded devil and helped it to its feet, while the other took the sack.

“Who the fuck are you guys?” Chet cried from where he lay sprawled upon the ground. He glared up at Jesse. “You set us up! You fucking set us up! You’re dead! Your whole family’s dead!”

The ravens were right over their heads now, jumping around in the branches, cawing and cawing.

“Santa Claus. He is here,” one of the devil men said, the tall one wearing the mangy hide. He pointed and they all looked across the street to a sloping field. Jesse did, as well, but saw nothing.

“Oh, dear God!” another of the devil men cried. He carried a busted-up shotgun but still looked scared to death.

Chet took the moment to scramble to his feet and run, sprinting for Dillard’s patrol car, waving his arms, and screaming at the top of his lungs, “IT’S A SETUP! IT’S A SETUP!” None of the devil men gave him so much as another look, their orange eyes locked on the something across the way. They all seemed frozen in place.

“Get in the truck, now!” the one with the pistol shouted, and judging by the voice and slight build, Jesse guessed this one to be a woman or girl.

They moved.

She pointed the gun at Jesse. “You. Drive!” When Jesse didn’t move fast enough, she shoved him in through the passenger door, sliding in next to him. “Get us out of here fast or we’re all dead.”

Jesse glanced at Lynyrd’s body lying in the blood-drenched snow, knew these creatures, whatever they were, weren’t to be toyed with. He cranked up the engine while the devil men piled into the camper with the Santa sack. He hit his headlights and saw a stout shape running toward them across the playground. It looked familiar.

“Go!” the devil woman shouted. “Go!”

Jesse hit the gas, heading for the lower exit of the parking lot.

A pair of headlights flashed on, blinding him. It was Dillard. The patrol car’s big engine revved as Dillard accelerated to cut them off.

“Oh, fuck!” Jesse cried. Things were not going as he’d planned, not at all.

A gunshot rang out, then another, and Jesse’s remaining side mirror shattered. Jesse gunned it, tried to press the pedal all the way through the floorboard, but there was nothing for it—Dillard would win the race.

Jesse caught sight of Dillard’s mad grin, caught a muzzle flash, and a finger-size hole punched through the door frame and exited out the front windshield, followed a millisecond later by the report. Jesse knew this was just what Dillard wanted, probably sat there praying for—a chance to shoot him dead.

A man dashed into the beams of Jesse’s headlights. The Santa man, eyes wild, teeth clenched in a fearsome grimace, carrying a sword and running directly for them. “Hey!” Jesse cried, and swerved, trying desperately not to hit the man. The Santa man swung the sword, striking the front of the truck, taking out the driver’s-side headlight. The blade raked down the side of the truck as they barreled past, sending up a shower of sparks. The Santa man spun away and ended up directly in the path of Dillard’s speeding cruiser. There came a tremendous wallop as the cruiser collided with the man, sending the vehicle veering away into the ditch and knocking the Santa man tumbling across the parking lot.

Jesse spun out onto the road, hit the brakes, looked back over his shoulder, hoping, praying, that he’d see Dillard’s brains splattered onto the windshield of his cruiser. It just seemed fair that if everything else had to go so completely wrong, maybe this at least could go his way. Jesse had seen what a deer could do to the front end of a car, but the front of Dillard’s cruiser was a step beyond that, more like what hitting a cow might do. He noticed the deployed airbag and his heart sank. “Dammit.”

“Is he dead?” the devil woman asked. “Is he?”

Jesse realized she was talking about the Santa man, not Dillard.

“No,” answered one of the devil men. “Don’t think so.”

Jesse scanned the parking lot, searching for a mangled body, was surprised to see the Santa man climb right back to his feet looking no worse for wear. The ravens squawked and swooped overhead. The Santa man turned, looking at something far up the road.

“They come,” the tall devil man said. “See . . . see them!”

Jesse saw two dark shapes galloping toward them. He had no idea what they could be. They looked like shaggy dogs, wolves maybe, only huge, nearly the size of bulls, less than a hundred yards out and closing in fast.

“Go!” the woman shouted, they all did, “Go! Go! Go!”

Jesse got the message; whatever those things were, he had no desire to meet them up close. He pressed the accelerator firmly to the floorboard and the truck took off. The V8 roared and pinged, as the speedometer crept up: twenty . . . thirty . . . forty. “C’mon!” he shouted at the old F150. “C’mon, baby! You can do it!”