Wolfsbane and Mistletoe Page 0,83

pressed a red button on the wall. An iron gate slammed closed across the entry door, and three TV monitors rose up on pedestals from hidden panels in the floor.

"Jesus." Phyllis squinted at one of the screens. "There have to be forty of them."

Weston looked, watching as the cameras switched from one view to another around the church. Santa's helpers, dozens of Santa's helpers. Wielding bats and axes and swords. They had the place surrounded.

"We need to call the police." David's voice had gone up an octave.

Irena already had the phone in her hand. "Line's been cut."

"Cell phones?"

"We're in a basement. No signals."

Scott knelt before the trunk, removing the top section and revealing a cache of handguns underneath. He tossed one to Weston, along with an extra clip.

"Are guns safe to throw?"

"Safety is on. Ever used a nine millimeter before?"

"No."

"Thumb off the safety on the side. Then pull back the top part. That's the slide, loads the bullet into the chamber. Now all you have to do is pull the trigger. Those red suits they're wearing are Kevlar, so aim for the face."

Weston had more questions, but Scott was too busy distributing the guns.

"Place your shots carefully, people. We don't have a lot of ammo. Ryan! Can you fire a weapon?"

Ryan remained sitting, staring into space.

"Dammit, man! We need you!"

Ryan didn't move.

"Can't we escape?" Weston asked Irena.

Irena worked her slide, jacking in a round.

"That's the only door."

"But those are steel bars. They can't get through it."

"They'll get through." Phyllis pointed. "See?"

Weston checked out the monitor, saw a group of Santa's storming down the stairs with a battering ram. The first CLANG! made everyone in the room jump.

"The table! Move!"

Weston helped Andy and Scott push the cafeteria table in front of the door. Then the group, except for Ryan, huddled together in the back of the room, guns pointed forward.

"I hope we live through this," Weston told Irena, "because I'd really like to ask you out."

"I'd like that, too."

"Living through this, or going out with me?"

"Both."

Another CLANG! accompanied by a CREAK! which shook the table.

"Wait until you see the whites of their beards, people."

CLANG!

CLANG!

The table lurched forward.

CLANG!

They were in.

The room erupted in gunfire. It was louder than anything Weston had heard in his life, and he'd seen Iron Maiden in concert when he was seventeen. The kick of the gun surprised him, throwing off his aim, but Weston kept his head, kept sighting the targets, kept pulling the trigger.

The first Santa only made it a step inside.

The next three only made it two steps.

Then it got bad. A dozen of Santa's helpers burst into the room, swinging their weapons, their HO HO HO! war cries cutting through the cacophony of gunfire.

Weston fired until his pistol was empty. He tried to tug the empty clip out of the bottom of the gun, but it didn't budge. He wasted valuable seconds looking for the button or switch to release it, and then a helper tackled him.

His eyes were crazed, and his breath smelled like cough syrup, and Weston knew that this was the Santa who'd threatened him on the street corner in Naperville.

"Naughty boy! Naughty boy!" he screamed, both hands clasped on a curved dagger poised above Weston's eye.

Weston blocked with his elbows, trying to keep the knife away, but the crazy old elf possessed some sort of supernatural strength, and the knife inched closer and closer no matter how hard he resisted. Weston saw his terrified expression reflected in the polished steel blade as the tip tickled his eyelashes.

"Hey! Santa! Got some cookies for you!"

Weston watched, amazed, as someone jammed a gun into the Santa's snarling mouth and pulled the trigger. Psycho Santa's hat lifted up off his head, did a pirouette in the air, and fell down onto his limp body.

Weston followed the hand that held the gun, saw Irena staring down at him. She helped him to his feet.

"Thanks."

She nodded, taking his pistol and showing him the button to release the empty clip.

"Where did you learn how to shoot?" he asked.

"I teach high school."

Weston slammed the spare clip home and pulled the slide, firing six times at a Santa's helper swinging, of all things, a Grim Reaper scythe. The neck shot did him in.

"Hold your fire! They're retreating!"

As quickly as it began, the attack stopped. The gun smoke cleared. Weston winced when he saw the piles of dead Santa's helpers strewn around the room. At least two dozen of them. A Norman Rockwell painting it was not.

"Everyone okay?" Scott asked.

Everyone