F. Paul Wilson - Legacies

And then he heard a deep voice.

"Ho-ho-ho!"

The Nail looked up and saw this fat guy with a white beard in a red suit standing on top of the truck.

The guy did his ho-ho-ho thing again, then shouted, "So you're the one who stole the toys I was putting aside for the AIDS babies! No one steals Santa's toys and gets away with it!"

Aw, man. This asshole thinks he's Santa Claus!

The Nail raised the pistol and plugged a round into his heart.

Santa fucking Claus flew backward off the top of the truck like someone had yanked a leash wrapped around his neck.

No one steals Santa's toys and gets away with it?

Shit, yeah. I steal anybody's fucking toys and do what I damn well fucking please, asshole!

The Nail hurried around the side of the truck. Time to put another slug in Santa Hole…

But he wasn't there.

"What the fuck?" The Nail said aloud.

And then something red and white popped up from the shadows behind a garbage can and slammed a white-gloved fist into his face.

The Nail had heard about seeing stars, but he'd never believed it. Now he did. He heard his nose go crunch as his face erupted in a star-studded explosion of pain. He staggered back, caught the heel of his shoe on some alley shit, and felt himself falling backward.

He windmilled his arms, trying to keep his balance, but he was out of control. He went down hard.

And when he looked up, Santa was leaning over him.

"You think you can stop Santa Claus with a bullet? A mere bullet ? Think again, sonny!"

The voice wasn't quite as deep and strong as it had been a moment ago, but the guy was still standing. And there, not two feet from The Nail's face, was a bullet hole in the red fabric of his suit. Right over his heart.

Shit! What was going down here? The fucker should be dead, man.

Unless of course he really was Santa Claus.

But that was crazy.

But so was the guy in the red suit! The Nail saw his eyes gleaming between his white beard and the furry brim of his hat. Whoever he was—hell, maybe he really was Santa Claus—he was pissed. Royally pissed.

The Nail started to raise the pistol for another shot, but Santa stomped a foot down on his arm.

"Don't bother trying again, sonny! You can't kill Santa Claus!"

The Nail levered himself up and reached across, trying to grab the gun with his free hand, but Santa clocked him again with a brain-jarring right, rocking his head back against the pavement.

Santa had a punch like a fucking mule kick.

The Nail felt the gun ripped from his hand, heard it skitter across the asphalt. After that, things got fuzzy.

And painful.

The Nail remembered getting flipped over onto his belly, grabbed by his collar and his waistband, and hauled off the ground.

"I checked my list," Santa said. "Checked it twice, in fact. It says you've been naughty, sonny. Very naughty!"

Then Santa started using him like a battering ram.

Slam ! Headfirst against the bumper of the truck.

"Know what happens when you steal from Santa Claus? This !"

Slam ! Headfirst into a bunch of trash cans lining the alley.

"If I decide to let you live, spread the word: Don't mess with Santa Claus!"

The Nail was spun around and flung face-first against one of the alley's brick walls.

He let out a puny groan of agony as he slid down the wall, feeling like a splattered egg oozing toward the ground.

But it wasn't over. Not by a long shot. The Nail felt his consciousness fading over the next ten minutes as Santa used him like some sort of rag to wipe up the alley.

Finally Santa released him. The Nail dropped to the ground, a puddle of agony on the broken pavement. He felt his breath bubbling through his bloody mouth. He was sure his jaw was broken. And his ribs—every breath was a dozen stab wounds. Was it over? He hoped so. He prayed it was over.

Just leave me be, he thought. Just take the toys, take the whole damn truck and go. Hitch your fucking reindeer to the bumper and you and Rudolph take off. Just don't mess me up anymore. Please.

But just as he finished the thought, he felt hands go under his armpits and lift him.

"No," he managed to groan past his shattered teeth. "Please… no more."

"Should have thought of that before, sonny. Stealing from defenseless little sick kids puts you on Santa's ultra-naughty list."

"I'm sorry." It came out a faint whine. Totally wimpy.

"Well, good. I'm glad to hear it. And I'll take that into consideration next Christmas. But you complicated things by trying to kill Santa. That's very naughty. Santa doesn't like to be shot. It makes him cranky. Very cranky."

"Oh, no…"

Something rough and long slithered past The Nail's cheek, and true panic set in. Rope ! Oh, fuck no. Santa was going to string him up!

But then he felt the rope snake under his arms instead of around his neck. That was a relief. Of sorts. It still hurt like all hell when the rope tightened around his shattered ribs. He was lifted and seated on the truck's rickety bumper, then tied there.

"Wha—?"

"Quiet, sonny," Santa said in a low voice that had lost all its heartiness. " Don't say another word."

The Nail looked up. Everything—Santa, the alley, the whole fucking world —was mostly a blur… except for Santa's eyes. He'd always thought Santa had blue eyes, but these were brown, and The Nail shriveled up inside when he saw the rage bubbling behind them.

Santa wasn't just pissed. Santa was bugfuck nuts.

The Nail closed his eyes while Santa taped something to his head. By the time it squeezed through to his battered brain that he shouldn't let Santa—even this homicidal psycho Santa—tie him to the front of a truck, it was too late. He tried to wriggle free but the rope that lashed him to the grille crisscrossed his body around the shoulders and between the legs. His legs and his arms were free, but all the knots were somewhere behind him.

With a cold sick certainty, The Nail realized he wasn't going nowhere. Not under his own steam, anyway.

He stiffened as he heard the old engine rumble and shudder to life against his back. He began to blubber as the truck lurched into motion.

Santa was going to run him into the wall!

But no. The truck bounced out of the alley onto the street. After that it was a nightmare ride through the Lower East Side with people staring, pointing, some even laughing, then crosstown on Fourteenth with the truck swerving from lane to lane, running lights, screeching to a halt, inches— inches !—from rear bumpers and fenders, then roaring into motion again.

All that was bad enough, man, but when the westbound lanes weren't moving fast enough, the truck swerved into the oncoming traffic and played chicken with a banged-up yellow cab. The Nail knew fuck sure ol' Santa wasn't going to back down, and for the few screaming, terror-filled heartbeats that it looked like the cab wasn't going to either, The Nail lost it. Literally. Warm liquid spilled down his left leg.

But the cab lunged out of the way at the last second and the truck got back on the right side of the street and began accelerating.

A cop! The Nail had never dreamed he'd be in any circumstance when he'd want to see a cop on his tail, but here it was. And where were they? Why wasn't there ever a fucking cop around when you needed one?

The truck fishtailed into a wide, screeching turn onto what The Nail thought might be Seventh Avenue, but he couldn't be sure because he closed his eyes as they scooted within a hair of a horn-blaring bus. Then the truck jumped the curb and scattered terrified pedestrians before skidding to a halt on the sidewalk.