Claus Encounters of the Fourth Reich

To General Schmidt, the duration between Reichs resembled the unfathomable distance dividing the stars – a cycle he intended to soon expedite. The besprinkled void of space laid spread before him through the bridge window of the U-boat. With the idling of its alien anti-gravity core, the eight hundred tonne submarine drifted smoothly in high orbit. The painted red, white and black swastika on the conning tower faced the sun. Below, swirling frost over Earth’s crown shimmered from the solar radiation.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like…Gleichschaltung,” Schmidt remarked. Alongside stood one of his lieutenants, nodding with pride. Two guards kept watch. “Long has it been since our forefazhers left ze planet. Down below, zey move on, zey forget. Meanvile, ve grow stronger, ve infiltrate, ve prepare.” Schmidt turned to the other man. “Ze time is now at hand. But, success vill require a level of, uh, severity in our tactics zat some may not be able to stomach, like ze ones who hang stockings on Christmas Eve.”

Suddenly, the guards grabbed the lieutenant from behind and in one move his arms were twisted and snapped. Schmidt found his shrieks amusing. The lieutenant’s legs gave out and he hung by broken arms in the grips of the stone-faced guards. He blathered an apology, mostly unintelligible.

The general glared down his nose at the wretched man. “I know of your Christmas tree. Ze tinsel. Ze milk and cookies. I vill not allow sympazy for zat jolly old fat man.”

Still in hysterics, the lieutenant was dragged to an emergency airlock and tossed inside the tiny compartment. Within seconds, its outer seal parted and the lieutenant was ejected to empty space. Into the void he cartwheeled, gasping for absent air.

Schmidt watched from the window. “Time to deck Santa’s halls,” he declared.

*

“You had better watch out!”

At this warning, the young man glanced over his shoulder at the toppling tower of boxes but hesitated to move. In a flash, the old man was next to him, catching the packages before any harm could be caused.

“Whoa! That was close!” the young man exclaimed. “Thanks Nick.”

The white-bearded, round-bellied old timer who called himself Nick returned a smile. “Not a snowflake’s worth of trouble.”

The boxes were restacked and the truck’s back door was shut. Shivering from winter chill, the young man and two other warehouse colleagues bid good night to Nick and ribbed him for his seemingly superhuman delivery times. Nick wished them and their families well, mentioning each of their immediate relatives by name and asking after the ill and infirm.

The role of Nick, the plain-clothed owner-operator of an independent freight forwarding outfit, was made necessary in Santa Claus’s off-season to bankroll the toy workshop at the North Pole and his annual delivery operation. Gone were the days when toy manufacturers extended generous partnerships to keep Santa financially afloat. Nowadays, he was just another customer, lucky to purchase anything wholesale. In their ceaseless pursuit to wring revenue from every inch of the supply chain, corporate executives learned that the cost of Christmas could be passed onto Saint Nicholas himself, for the alternative was to disappoint the world’s children, which their hollow hearts could tolerate but they knew Santa never would.

Further still time has marched into even stranger terrain, a future behind illuminated glass where toys were made virtual and gifts were just money, also virtual, until nothing was real or tangible except maybe the insane profit margins awarded to a select few. Every year, the battle for the holiday’s soul ceded another inch of ground to avarice and class exploitation. Yet, Santa plodded on, keeping his promise to spread joy across the world for as long as he lived.

He sat in the truck’s cab, alone, surrounded by letters, drawings and knickknacks given to him by children, scotch-taped or tacked over every inch of interior. He removed his scarf – a novice attempt at crochet, mostly red like his famed cap, with one end done in white and sewn with buttons meant to be his face. It was a gift, folded next to a plate of sugar cookies and a little girl’s note during one of those marathon Christmas deliveries. The note detailed her concern, given the treacherous Arctic climate, over Santa’s usual lack of neckwear. On a night when so many others were fixated on the sizes of their gift piles, her thoughtfulness shone like the moon on new-fallen snow. Every gift from a child touched Santa’s heart and was kept and cherished for always.

The freight truck was driven several miles to a secluded dead-end road. The secret behind Nick’s extraordinary shipping speeds lay in the same power used to deliver presents across the globe in a single day and it needed to be employed in private. However, the dark and the haze promised to complicate take-off. “I swear the reindeer union schedules these fogs,” mumbled Santa.

The truck’s wheels floated off the pavement via Santa’s will conducted tactually to the vehicle, readying for the jump into the sky, raising slowly until assurance that high-speed travel would be clear of flying bats and other obstructions. Then from seemingly nowhere, the truck’s sensors detected movement in front. By the time he recognized the shape, it was too late.

The drone, hovering mere yards away, shot a mini-Hellfire missile straight for his windshield.

“Holy sugarplums!” shouted Santa. The truck dodged the strike just in time, then thrust forward in rapid acceleration through the air, ramming its grill at the drone and splitting it into a thousand bits of plastic and metal. The missile dropped into the nearby woods and exploded with harm only to the trees.

“By Frosty’s pipe, I’ll find the chimney lickers who did this!”

A drone pilot had to be near but no camouflage stood a chance against Santa’s heightened awareness of any living soul close by, asleep or awake. His truck soared over the wooded backcountry in widening circles until he sensed it: a quickened heartbeat, not unlike that of a sleepless child who hears reindeer hooves on their roof.

Below him, a black van came into view, parked casually on a gravel shoulder beneath a clump of conifers. As the flying truck dove from above, the van’s wheels kicked up gravel and it took off down the road.

Santa pursued, but as their distance closed, the van blew apart with a deafening blast, consumed by a ball of fire brighter than summer sun. The shock wave tossed Santa’s truck and it landed sideways on the asphalt with a bang.

The driver’s door opened like a floor hatch. From the overturned cab Santa emerged, mildly bruised, illuminated by the van’s frame burning in the road. There were no other survivors. Santa figured the poor driver didn’t even know their vehicle was laced with remote-controlled explosives.

He urgently made a call on his phone but the line kept ringing and ringing. He hung up and tapped the contact for “Mama” but the voicemail answered. With the scarf around his neck and a bowlful of worry in his gut, the old man touched the side of his nose and in the blink of an eye he launched like a rocket into the clouds.

*

It was a devastating scene at the North Pole. The Claus’ home and workshop had been firebombed into ruins. The reindeer barn, now mostly collapsed, was ablaze, as was acres of evergreen in the Christmas tree farm. Dead elves lay everywhere, mangled and charred in their fur-trimmed red outfits. Other elves dug through smoldering rubble for survivors but found only more corpses, complete and partial, which they stacked on pull-along red wagons and carted to the cemetery. For the first time since the workshop’s erection so long ago, the pole had become barren of any Christmas cheer.

From the sky dropped Santa, landing on his boots before the smoking pile of wood and brick that had been the source of so much happiness in the world. The sight brought him to his knees. The elves all rushed to him and they hugged and together they wept.

“Oh, Santa! It was horrible!”

“All of a sudden the satellite comms went out—”

“We were outside and saw flying saucers—”

“They dropped bombs everywhere—”

“And shot anyone who tried to get away!”

“Only some of us made it to the bunker in time—”

“And none of the reindeer!”

“It is so sad!”

Santa looked around. “Where is Mrs. Claus?” No one knew.

He leaped upon the wreckage. Children’s handwritten letters blew past in the wind. He lifted wood beams and furniture and needed no effort to toss them aside. Elves crowded around and helped sift through plaster and broken toys.

Eventually Mrs. Claus was uncovered but she had been crushed and no pulse registered. Santa carefully pulled her body free and cradled it in his arms. With tenderness he brushed her eyes closed. A heavy tear rolled down his white beard. “Mama,” he whispered softly.

Minutes passed before the desolating silence was cut by an elf’s question. “Santa, who did this? Was it Space Nazis?”

Santa didn’t look up. “Yes. It was those cotton-headed Space Nazis.”

Murmurs of shock and bewilderment suffused the elves. Someone asked, “Did Santa just say the c-word?”

After some time, Santa spoke again to ask about his sleigh which, like his plane and the entire hangar, remained surprisingly intact. “Prepare the nuke,” he instructed one of the others.

The storm intensified as Santa and the elves, caked in snow, dug graves into the ice shelf within the cemetery grounds. The bodies of Mrs. Claus and the others were laid within and covered with tinsel and ornaments, then topped with ice. Santa spoke words of respect for the dead although he struggled through the sobs.

“Christmas may never be the same again,” he warned. “But we shall worry over that later. Our paramount order of business lies with the Nazis. They shall have to be settled down for a long winter’s nap.”

*

Many, many years before, a younger Nicholas, rusty haired and bare faced and disoriented inside a raging blizzard, took a step he expected would be his last. He had fallen forward in the waist-high drift and discovered his well of vitality and resolve had finally run dry. He could no longer stand. The black night and curtain of snow denied any visibility. A numbing cold pierced his bones. The homecoming trek to his Arctic village would end right there in the dark forest. People would discover his body after the spring thaw, if the wolverines hadn’t first.

A snowy grave was swallowing him, but oddly, the sky brightened though not by sun or moon – first a muted glow, then increasing until the whole hillside basked in an impossible warm light unlike any torch he had seen. Above him, a dark silhouette divided the light and for a glorious moment he was sure an angelic escort had come for him. But as the shape turned, clarity befell its features: a ghoul of uncanny figure with large, black insect eyes whose stare could be felt like an icy hand. Overwhelmed by exhaustion and fear, unconsciousness claimed Nicholas.

It felt like only minutes had passed when he awoke except warmth suffused him and his clothes were already dry. The surrounding space looked strange and his mind struggled for references to comprehend these visions: hanging spheres and polygons with shiny colors, sparkling metal poles wrapped in pulsing organic ribbons, holly branches covered in false snow that alternated color, candles illuminating without fire. He seemed to be inside a small cave that smelled of iron and vinegar, lying on a wooden slab, observed from the center of the room by the bug-eyed creature.

Startled, Nicholas recoiled. The creature was an eerie sight, covered in sickly gray skin, its enormous, bald head balanced atop a gaunt child’s body. It stood human-like, naked but lacking genitals. Its eyes – so large – stared right through him. Two tiny slits substituted a nose and its tiny mouth never opened though Nicholas heard it clearly speak in his native language.

“You have not seen something like me.”

The voice sounded unnatural, like a polar gust through a chamber of tin. It filled Nicholas’s head but not his ears – felt more than heard.

He realized he had been given a question. “Are you a demon?” he asked in response.

“You need no fear of me.” The creature stepped closer. The young man’s fists stayed clenched. “You were saved after succumbing to elements. Elves took notice. They warned of a trespasser and offered to kill it. That is not our way. Our way is mercy, compassion and generosity.”

It went on to describe a race of beings – the Greys – that came from a much different land far among the stars where they had learned to overcome limitations of the physical universe. Their creations exceeded the imagination’s bounds. Some of these beings had crossed the immeasurable distance to Earth seeking new opportunities to exploit. Hoping to counter their negative influence, this Grey and others of its kind followed.

Stories of clever imps fooling humans with fanciful lies haunted the mythology of Nicholas’s culture so he treaded carefully. “How can I be certain to trust you?”

The Grey, with awkward gait, walked to a pile of colorful objects against the rock wall. It lifted a particular red patterned one, almost taller than itself, then slowly approached Nicholas and handed the thing to him. He was puzzled by the surface’s strange shape and crinkly texture. The Grey told him to tear the outer material like paper and so he did until exposing a wooden runner sled, polished and unmarked by use.

“It will aid the travel to your home,” said the Grey and it detailed for Nicholas the direction to his village.

But the young man, feeling some return of his boldness in that festively lit cavern, was reluctant to leave. “I have many questions that will gnaw at my sanity for eternity if left unanswered.”

This eagerness pleased the Grey and it told him to revisit in springtime, but alone, and knowledge of astonishing marvels would be shared, for the Grey sensed a serenity within him that characterized good company. It then pushed against a slab of wall to open into the stormy night.

At last Nicholas registered that the being had saved his life and was helping him journey home to no ulterior benefit. “Thank you,” he said. “Death would have claimed me if not for your help. I am very grateful. Happy Christmas to you.”

The Grey’s eyes somehow grew even bigger. Its own kind held holidays in high regard, so once winter melted away and the thrushes’ songs again filled the hills, their early meetings were passed with Nicholas’s tales of celebrations, magnificent feasts, music, townsmates and kin playing and dancing and a communal optimism that peace always lay one Christmas miracle away.

*

Misiones Province, Argentina. Present day. Beneath a climbing sun, tactical trucks rumbled through jungle mud, trampling lush undergrowth until halting at a makeshift checkpoint. The soldiers aboard the trucks and the guards all shared the same nondescript uniform and a pale complexion not native to the humid Región Mesopotámica. Once cleared, the convoy proceeded to a tunnel at the foot of the mountain. Above, a flying craft, top-hat-shaped and wobbly, lowered into a rusted hatch on the mountain summit that creaked when it closed.

The base was built in the 1950s by what remained of the Third Reich following their military collapse and exile to South America. From there, they completed the flying U-boat program and oversaw construction of their lunar base. Since most personnel were now stationed on the moon, Misiones had become their primary arsenal.

Silence returned to the jungle. The guards settled into alert postures in accordance with their elevated readiness status. Parakeets and toucans hidden in trees resumed their chittering. Then the calm was broken by the blast of a mortar shell against a rocky outcrop on the mountainside, blowing a puff of rubble and boulders.

The men jumped in surprise. Through the clamor of tumbling rock and panicked birds, they scanned for the source of this sudden threat. One guard noticed movement in the distance – bright white contrasting verdant foliage, hopping briskly from tree to tree. Once more it bounded into the air, high up this time, beyond the mountaintop. The guard fired his weapon but still missed the thing before its huge, fluffy weight crashed upon him.

The Easter Bunny, in a cornflower blue blazer, pink bowtie and a shoulder-slung AR-15, landed on the man, squishing him in the muck, innards bursting from his sides like a stepped egg. Before the other guards could take aim, Easter Bunny spun a roundhouse kick with his giant hind leg to send them screaming over the tree line and deep into the bush. More soldiers teemed out of the mountain so he bounced back to his mortar and delivered another painted, egg-shaped bombshell to the mountainside.

Although occupied with his own holiday preparations, Easter Bunny always had Santa’s back, indebted to him after so many decades of the man’s unconditional support. Transitioning from woodland critter to an anthropomorphized folk hero had extracted a hefty toll from the rabbit’s mental stability and only Santa truly empathized.

Right on time, a glistening red and white wonder appeared in the sky and it was Santa Claus, decked in his traditional red suit and hat, driving his sleigh in circles over the Nazi base. Soldiers swore in German and shot futilely into the air. The sleigh lapped round and round and ever upward into the clouds, furiously whipping them like cotton candy in a blender. Faster he went and soon that mass of precipitation thickened and froze. Now a half-mile wide snowball, its weight tugged it earthward, gently at first, then plummeting. Before any person within its vast shadow could escape, the whole mountain was crushed beneath a deep quilt of snow and ice, burying everyone outside and blocking all access points.

Santa’s sleigh touched down next to Easter Bunny. The old man was triumphant but exceptionally joyless. “That ought to keep these Space Nazis busy until the cocoa cools, which is all the time I need. Thank you, Peter.”

“Glad to lend a paw,” replied Easter Bunny.

“How are things, old friend?”

“Oh, everything is just egg-celent.” Easter Bunny fiddled with the gun’s strap.

“Well, I must make haste to Antarctica. Do take care, Peter.”

“Leprechauns, huh? Be careful. And, um, I’m really sorry about what happened.”

Santa, in his sleigh, gazed upon the snow-covered peak, lost in thought. “Without Mrs. Claus, all I can look forward to are Christmastime and punching Nazis in the teeth. Well, bad news for Nazis, because it is only January.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Easter Bunny.

Santa realized the rabbit’s AR-15 was pointed at him. He raised his white-gloved hands. “Peter—”

“Nothing personal,” Easter Bunny explained. “It’s just that I have some, um, debts and the Nazis are helping me. They just want you to tie yourself up. No one needs to get hurt, alright?”

“You are my friend—”

Easter Bunny tossed a pack of ribbons at him. “Pick your favorite color and tie your ankles and wrists.”

Santa pleaded, “But what of the children? Think about how they will feel.”

Easter Bunny toggled the gun’s safety. “Santa, don’t make me shoot.”

Santa kept his hands up and didn’t waver an inch. Easter Bunny’s gun never shifted its aim from the old man. The two icons of holiday magic locked eyes, waiting for the other to act.

Santa’s defiance dared Easter Bunny to accept the consequence of his threat, an order that proved too tall for even the desperate rabbit. He lowered his gun. “Damnit. Just go. I’ll tell them, um, that you overpowered me.” Ashamed, his eyes followed the gun barrel’s path to the ground.

Santa spoke solemnly. “Your change of heart is for the better and I appreciate your courage. Nevertheless, Peter Cottontail, you have much work ahead to straighten out your life and restore your integrity. Until then, I am sorry to say, your name will have to be stricken from the Nice List.”

The sleigh lifted off, trailing sparkles through the air, until it drove out of sight. In the mud below, Easter Bunny hung his head in disgrace.

*

The Grey’s dwelling was unlike anyplace in the world, stocked with curiosities of uncertain function, and here Nicholas spent much time over the years in its company. The creature’s soundless voice recounted for him tales of its native land fashioned artificially from metal and exotic organics, its long journey through the stars fraught with skirmishes and sickness, regrets over injustices of its own credit and its ultimate defection. It eventually joined a clan of other Greys who came to Earth, committed to impart their altruistic beliefs upon a human civilization suffering the corruption of their alien brethren’s secret machinations.

One day, a matured Nicholas with patches of red whiskers visited the Grey only to find it lying on the same wood slab on which he awoke during his first visit. A paleness now suffused the Grey’s skin. Its huge eyelid pads drooped. Nicholas rushed to its side.

It sounded no weaker, yet pauses punctuated its speaking. “My body is expiring…I will soon be collected…We will not again see each other, I regret.”

Emotion gripped Nicholas and welled in his eyes. In spite of the Grey’s bizarre nature and unsettling image, a friendship had been kindled that grew to thaw his heart, chilled by his tours as an infantryman and the memories tormenting him. His soul felt at ease learning from the Grey that a grander design existed beyond the trappings of human imprudence.

The Grey was likewise saddened, imperceptibly, by their final farewell and it praised the man’s decency and companionship. “A last gift I bestow to you…A chosen few of Earth’s inhabitants are given unearthly abilities to perform deeds of goodwill…The rabbit on Easter Island given strength and immortality is but one example…You also must be a hero to your kind…This is both privilege and burden and befalls only those with purest intent…Promise to serve goodness only, extend charity to the needful and inspire happiness in the young…Avoid association with other Greys and any human who enters into business with them…Be an antidote to the poisons of greed and subjection…Carry yourself full of spirit…I wish I would not be denied witness to the achievements of your future…Fortune delivered to me the greatest example of a man when under the snow you were discovered.”

The Grey’s words tossed in Nicholas’s mind but their full meaning found no purchase until he arrived home, weary and dejected, whereupon nudging open the door, its hinges ripped from the frame.

*

High above the frigid South Atlantic waters, Candy Cane One, the red and white striped airplane, took wing on its final flight. It typically shuttled supplies for the workshop or vacationing reindeer and had served Santa well over the decades. He was sorry about opting to lose it but his plan’s success depended on its fuel reserves and its cargo bay filled with heavy explosives.

Santa caught up to the airplane, flying his sleigh alongside, his favorite scarf at his neck. The elves at the cabin windows cheered. Together they crossed into the Antarctican continent, caked in familiar ice like their antipodean home except blanketing a rocky topography through which mountain ranges poked to bask in uninterrupted summer sun. Miles and miles of tundra passed below until they reached a cluster of peaks obscuring a military installation and arena-sized launchpad. Floating above, to Santa’s surprise, was a U-boat, dispatched from space earlier than he expected. It faced their direct bearing as if taunting Santa’s exposed agenda. He gulped.

“I have not seen this much trouble since the Cabbage Patch Kid doll riots.”

From behind the mountains rose a pair of silver flying saucers, teetering on invisible spires, and they lurched forward to charge their attackers. Gun barrels anchored on their brims fired large-caliber rounds that sunk into Candy Cane One’s fortified exterior but the plane stayed on course.

Santa promptly grabbed his shoulder-mounted tinsel cannon, placed one of the saucers in its crosshairs and blasted. Globs of electrically charged plasma with stringy silver tails fanned out through the air. Enough of them caught the saucer to pock its aluminum hull like Swiss cheese and set it into freefall.

With the other saucer occupied by Santa’s assaults, elves parachuted from the side of the plane, carrying anti-gravity guns fashioned from PVC piping and wearing gas masks in case chemical agents had been loaded into the Nazis’ weapons. They landed in the snow and gathered into formation.

Suddenly, the permafrost around them erupted. From snow-concealed foxholes sprung dozens of tiny bodies in snow camo. The leprechaun ambush opened fire with German MG 3s perched on bipods spraying fat rounds like firehoses. The white earth became red-splattered from elf bodies exploding. Elves still gliding in parachutes were mowed down before landing. A few elves found themselves unscathed and fired back with anti-gravity rays, sending orange-bearded leprechauns into a reverse fall, screeching madly, rising skyward to eventual asphyxiation and ebullism.

The animosity between leprechaun and elf dated back millennia. When sprawling human settlements forced both races out of Europe, elves emigrated to the Arctic but banished their genetic cousins on account of their ingrained mischief, impossible to tolerate or correct. The leprechauns’ sole choice for a home became the Antarctic. There they lived in solitude until the twentieth century when the Third Reich offered a deal: their coveted gold in exchange for a tract of frozen land. In time, the Nazis’ devilish schemes became a magnet to the leprechaun disposition and a sinister alliance formed. Still, a leprechaun platoon defending a Nazi stronghold was unprecedented.

The last elf to jump from Candy Cane One was the pilot after he locked the aircraft into a kamikaze nosedive toward the buildings below. However, the U-boat was ready. A missile fired from its torpedo bay, hitting the plane dead on, incinerating it before posing any threat. The on-board explosives joined with a twin detonation that rocked the valley with the sound of its squandered chances. Fiery debris rained down like an infernal blizzard and some caught the pilot’s parachute, igniting it into tatters and hurtling the elf down to the ice in a juicy, red splat.

Santa’s face glowed crimson with rage. Dogged by the saucer, he fired more plasma charges but it proved too nimble for a blow to land. Then, coming from over the horizon and closing in quickly, five more flying fedora shapes barged into the battle. Santa’s mistake was quickly realized. Chills of dread ran up his spine.

Two saucers passed over the remnants of the elf advancement and shredded them into pieces with artillery fire to the cackling taunts of leprechauns. The other saucers joined the chase for Santa’s sleigh. Together, they forced him to lower altitude until he feared being run aground. Above, one saucer’s service door opened and, from inside, Nazi soldiers tossed unusual red grenades. Some of them directly hit Santa and his sleigh but, instead of deadly blasts, they shattered like glass and ooze from within doused their targets. This ooze hung heavy but it was actually imbued with extreme gravitation that at once drew Santa the remaining distance to the ground, pinning his torso and limbs and crushing the sleigh beneath him. Moving became impossible; an invisible avalanche felt to be on top of him.

The saucers landed nearby on telescoping struts. Soldiers in snow gear poured out with guns ready. One of them, keeping a safe distance, shot a tranquilizer dart that struck Santa’s exposed neck where the scarf had slipped. As consciousness clouded and dimmed, he watched a crew of leprechauns tie him up with steel chains while the others danced a jig in celebration, for at last Santa Claus’s end was nigh.

*

The door flew open and the young woman fled into the dark. Eyes wet, shivering from fright and cold, her boots kicked up the span’s depth of fresh powder from the lane. Not another soul stirred at that late hour. Cloud cover shredded and wafted away to expose winking pinpricks of stars and Orion with club and shield hunting the winter cosmos.

Nicholas caught up with her at the cemetery. “No!” she cried, crossing into the open grounds. A stubby gravestone, concealed by snow, tripped her foot and she landed on her side, cursing the pain. Nicholas outstretched his hand in a diplomatic gesture. With a shaky voice she rebuked him.

“Do not touch me! You…you are unnatural! You are cursed!! Get away!!” Her eyes darted about, afraid to meet his. “You were…driftitng in the air like a witch! My own eyes saw it! A cursed witch!!”

Breathing a sigh, he plunked down next to her. She scooted away a bit and resumed rubbing her ankle. They were both coatless and the deep freeze soaked through to their bones.

Nicholas spoke, patient as ever. “Is that what you take me for? A witch? Do you suppose that evil lays hold inside of me?”

At last she looked at him, studying his face, this man whom she had come to know through and throughout or so she had thought. His wholesome facade couldn’t reconcile with her mind’s picture of the eerie sorcery he had just divulged.

“Do you still wish to marry me?” he asked. She offered no answer, too lost in a maze of shock to find her words.

He continued while stroking his full red beard. “In all truth, I do not understand the nature of these abilities. They are far too fantastic for belief. Nonetheless, I possess them all the same. I cannot hide them – I should not – for now I know to what purpose they must be devoted. Tremendous challenges lay ahead, however.” His hand found hers in the snow. Finally disarmed, she let him grasp it for warmth. “It upsets me so much to see how the children look these days – miserable and downtrodden. No child should live a life so lacking in spirit. Therefore, I would like to do something that will bring joy to their faces and put wonder in the hearts of all. There is a certain temper missing amongst us, one of kindness and goodwill toward others, and perhaps I can help to restore it, but the task cannot be completed alone.”

A full moon poked through the clouds, casting a luster of midday to the village below. Headstones with snow caps poked through the field of white to remind the couple of their mute company. The woman wished their ancient wisdom could advise the trust Nicholas had built in her and then shaken.

“You wish to do good?” she asked. “You wish to help the children?” He smiled, that twinkle-eyed smile she noticed whenever he did a good turn. “This is all so much to absorb. Am I supposed to receive the news that you can fly with the same composure as learning you can fiddle? I am unsure what to think.”

“Do you trust me?”

She squeezed his hand. “You are a good man. Yes, I trust you.”

“Good. Look down.”

Although still seated, somehow the pair of them were hovering a full foot above the ground. Startled, she began to tumble backward but was held up by Nicholas’s grip.

He giggled. “Careful. Let go of me and you will fall.”

She gaped in awe at the snow cover lying below them but not touching. Alarm yielded to a creeping exhilaration. She remarked with amazement, “We…we are floating.”

“Hold on to me.”

Nicholas stood, lifting her with him. Their feet seemed to balance in midair on some unseen floor. At his whim, their bodies moved laterally, slowly, circling over the graves, then rising to the rooftops. She gasped and embraced him for dear life as if standing at a cliff’s crumbling edge.

“Not that I mind,” he said, “but there is no need to hold on so tightly. I only need to touch a small part of you, even just a thread of your clothes.”

“I do not wish to let go,” she replied, nestling her head on his shoulder. “I wish to hold onto you forever.”

Higher they soared under the moon’s melancholic stare. “Forever.”

*

Consciousness stirred and waned. Dreamy scenes flashing past: swallowed by a submarine hatch; tied to a steel-reinforced gurney; crossing an immense landing bay through a bustle of uniforms; a space station of sterile white; an aching notion, distant in his mind, calling with a forgotten urgency.

Santa awoke with fogged cognition, facing the ceiling of some well-lit room. A discomfort nagged at his nerves and he realized that, around his body, limbs and head, steel braces were holding him to a table with an oppressive overtightness. A leather belt from chin to crown cinched his mouth painfully closed. Chains and massive weights anchored the table to the floor as well as the IV pole whose tube ran through a piece of mounted lead pipe to a cannula in his arm, bound with a complete roll of duct tape. Other meticulously secured electrodes and biosensors on his head connected around the room to machines blinking and beeping. His coat, scarf, hat, gloves, boots, wool socks and suspenders sat piled in a corner next to the toy sack taken from his sleigh.

Above him hung a familiar face: pale skinned, clean shaven, thinning blond hair, wearing a field-grey uniform with red collar, an Iron Cross pinned at the throat and a smile scaffolded by ego and derision. “I’m dreaming,” sang General Schmidt, “of a white Christmas…”

Flanking him were two pairs of serious-looking soldiers, carbines in their grips. Also present in the windowed room were two scientists in white lab coats, a woman and man, quietly pushing buttons and analyzing machine tape printouts. Visible through the windows was the landing bay buzzing with uniformed men who scurried in various directions all leading to the two parked U-boats and the apparently nefarious preparations of some imperative.

“Is your head full of fruitcake, I vonder?” said the general. “Zey say Santa is vatching alvays. He knows everyzing. Yet, how come Santa buried my men inside a mountain but he left a gigantic rabbit who could dig zem out? Rabbits are excellent in snow, you know. My men got out in no time as I am sure you realized as ze extra saucers arrived to take you down. And once my men got out, zey repaid your junkie friend by executing him. Oh, vhat a shame. No more Easter Bunny for ze poor little iPad children.” The grin never faded.

Infuriated, Santa grumbled and struggled within his bonds but only inflicted more agony on himself. Schmidt laughed. “You need to say somezing? Oh, too bad. Your days of speaking are over. Your days of flying around in magical sleighs are over. Now zat you are caught in our trap, Herr Claus, your entire life is effectively over.”

Schmidt explained. Generations ago, his Nazi ancestors traded gold to the Greys in exchange for the anti-gravity tech that enabled their post-World War II moon getaway. Yet, their dealings failed to secure the same biological powers conferred upon Santa and his folkloric ilk. Even decades of research brought them no nearer to an understanding of that alien science which, if decrypted, would guarantee their dominion over all of Earth. To make any further progress, they needed a sufficient research subject – not some silly hybrid creature like Easter Bunny but a real man and a true warrior, preferably of European descent, of course. Like Santa.

“Our assassination attempt vas a ruse. Striking ze Norden Pole vas meant to cripple your enterprise but also to provoke a response of impulse and make you act carelessly. According to our plan, zat rabbit should have captured you, but as backup, our Antarktis base vas fully prepared.

“You shall be held in zis lab, Herr Claus, for as long as ve need you, kept alive intravenously, so your extra special attributes can be studied and reverse-engineered. Once our goal is accomplished, vhatever remains of you shall be ejected into outer space, unless you have already atrophied. Instead of toys and ho ho ho, your legacy vill be as progenitor of a race of superhuman Nazis – a perfect breed of men vielding your great might.

“You cannot do anyzing about it. As you see, ve took every precaution to prevent escape. You cannot move. You cannot control ze table or any tubes attached to you. You cannot reach ze lever to release your shackles. You cannot lay a finger aside your nose. A boring life from now on, I dare say, compared to flying from house to house vit reindeer, but it shall be punctuated by my regular visits vhen I update you on ze rise of our new Reich as my super soldiers march across ze globe and I am made fuhrer. Every person on ze planet shall cuckold zemselves to my dominance and vorship me – ze man who defeated Santa Claus.”

Schmidt nodded to the scientists waiting at their machines. One of them dialed a knob, unleashing sustained voltage over their prisoner’s body. For several seconds Santa convulsed violently, groaning and gritting his teeth. Directed by another nod, the torture was switched off and his body eased, reeling from lingering pain.

Schmidt’s smile returned. “Zat is not part of testing. I just vanted to see it.”

He was circling the room and, upon noticing the heap of Santa’s belongings, picked up the jacket. With amusement he slipped on the red bulk and scarf over his uniform. “Perhaps I can be ze new Santa Claus.” He placed his hands in the pockets and, with annoyance, pulled out fistfuls of children’s letters and trinkets, throwing them to the floor. “Instead of toys, I shall deliver propaganda to advance our cause among children. Zey consume anyzing you give zem: a toy, a device, tales of ze superiority of our race… Speaking of toys…”

He picked up the sack and looked inside. “Empty? You have let me down, Herr Claus.” He nodded and, for another several seconds, electricity jolted Santa with terrible anguish. The scientists jotted data on their clipboards.

Admiring his new look, Schmidt noticed the scraggy scarf on his shoulder. “Vhat is zis…a Schal? Really?” He chuckled. “Ze most powerful man on ze planet and he dresses like a bum! Did blind elves make zis? Mein Gott… Look at me, at my uniform. Zis is how a real man dresses. Not vit rags. Vhat an embarrassment. Here. You keep it.”

As Schmidt tossed the scarf to Santa, it unfurled completely and so it was that the ends came to touch both men simultaneously, even if for a brief instant, which is all Santa needed. His kinetic resolve traveled across the fabric, seizing Schmidt and slamming him with concussive force against the ceiling. As the general dropped, that end of the scarf dove below the table, wrapped itself around a lever’s handle and yanked. The steel braces popped open right as Schmidt landed on top of Santa who promptly grabbed the nine millimeter pistol from his captor’s belt and emptied the clip at the other Nazis in immediate succession.

The four soldiers and one scientist spontaneously sprouted red poinsettias between their eyes and collapsed to the floor. But before the job could be finished, Schmidt roused from his stupor and wrestled Santa for control of the gun. They rolled off the table and landed hard, punching and grappling and grunting. The pistol was dropped and Santa kicked it underneath a machine. Schmidt caught hold of the electrode cabling and wrapped it around Santa’s throat. The remaining scientist cowered against the wall at first, but realizing Santa’s preoccupation, he twisted the pole from the IV stand and swung it at the old man.

Santa’s face turned a ripe purple before his neck muscles broke through the wires and split them. At the same time, the belt finally snapped and fell from his head. Struggling against his two assailants, he soon recovered his footing and gained some space. Severed electrode wires hung from his forehead. He swung great haymakers with bare fists but, still woozy, he missed and almost lost balance.

From his trouser leg, Schmidt produced a bayonet, pointed it at Santa, then thrusted a close jab. As Santa threw another hook, Schmidt sliced his arm and spun the blade back around to stab him in the round belly. Santa’s eyes widened. He withdrew and blood poured from several deep inches of gash. At the harm he created, Schmidt’s eyes gleamed. He lifted the bayonet for the final blow.

Santa, mustering every last drop of strength from that otherworldly spring within him, drew back his arm. Faster than Schmidt could plunge his weapon, Santa’s fist punched straight through the Nazi uniform, through the flesh and rib cage and organs, busting out the other side, dripping with gore. Schmidt went limp. His mug froze in astonishment.

The scientist backed away with his pole, apologizing in German. Santa’s bloody hand snatched the pole from him and, despite the dead Nazi still attached, whipped it through the scientist’s neck at remarkable speed. His head tore off and thumped against the floor followed by the body, its now worthless blood spraying like a faucet.

The windows had become crowded with soldiers watching in horror and anger but unable to shatter the ballistic glass with their guns’ stocks or budge the locked door. Taking notice, Santa dropped the pole and slid the general off his arm, tossing aside the fresh corpse. He found the toy sack and, coughing up blood, he rummaged through it in a feverish hurry.

Every child knows that Santa’s sack of toys is virtually bottomless, but unfortunately for General Schmidt, that knowledge was too erudite. Reaching in past his shoulder, Santa hoisted out a rugged black knapsack. On front, a yellow and black, three-bladed radiation symbol served as caution and omen. The top folded open to reveal a panel of switches and buttons which he flipped and pressed in the order rehearsed.

Outside, the pounding persisted. The door handle rattled and then clanged when it dropped to the floor. Santa knew the room was surrounded on all sides with only one exit soon to be breached and obviously no chance of a chimney escape. Against a stationful of armed Space Nazis, even the most powerful man in the world held no hope.

The only possible way out, a simple round button atop the backpack nuke, begged the operator with blinking red for the final push.

Many Yuletides had passed through Santa’s life and he celebrated each by spreading the spirit of giving with much sweat and devotion. But perhaps the world was moving on without him, he reckoned, and the final chapter in the book of Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick had been written. Still, his heart swelled with love for mankind and with hope, however rare in the world, for its eventual salvation from all evil.

So to that end, his parting gift for every child and adult, naughty or nice, would be the Nazi army’s final and complete annihilation.

Santa took one last look at the scarf on the floor. His crudely buttoned face returned its stare. That girl’s little hands must have knitted for hours, joining every thread with innocent care. Children like her kept the torch of Christmas cheer alight and would pass it down for generations hence, he thought with satisfaction.

The door, finally dislodged, tipped inward and fell with a heavy bang to the soldiers’ roars. Santa faced them.

Pressing the red button, he exclaimed, “And to all a good night!”

Thank you for reading! This story is from my debut novella Vile Aliens, free for a limited time. Visit keithvile.medium.com for more info.