10 Days: Undead Uprising Read online

  Michael Evans knelt on his bed as he peered out of the bedroom window. He observed the clear night sky as the moonlight illuminated his blissful smile with its milky glow. Michael stood four-seven with a lean physique. He had vibrant brown eyes glowing with youth and enthusiasm. His elephantine ears protruded from beneath his long, curly black hair. He wore baby blue flannel pajamas.

  As he stared at the inexplicably hypnotizing moon, Michael whispered, “I hope you visit me tonight, Santa, I've been very good...”

  Leaning on the doorway with his arms and legs crossed, Henry Evans interrupted, “What do you think you're doing up this late?”

  Michael's body straightened and he stiffly tipped over onto his bed – Timber! Henry chuckled as he moseyed into the room. Henry stood five-eight with a strapping figure. He had kind brown eyes, shaggy black hair atop his dome, and a clean-shaved face. He wore a gray t-shirt and blue flannel pajama bottoms. His bare feet thudded on the hardwood floor with every step. Henry sat on the bed beside his son, then gently shook Michael. Michael pretended to snore like a bear, keeping the innocent facade afloat.

  Henry sighed, then said, “You should have been sleeping hours ago, kiddo. It's almost time for sunrise. You're going to be exhausted in the morning...”

  Michael turned in his bed and eagerly explained, “I wanted to stay up for Santa. I haven't seen him in years.”

  Henry nodded and said, “I know, I know, but Santa doesn't like to be seen when he's delivering presents, remember? He especially dislikes it when naughty boys open their gifts before Christmas morning. He doesn't tolerate it, kiddo.”

  Michael pouted, then said, “I wasn't going to open anything, I promise. I was just going to take a peek at him. That's all.”

  Henry chuckled, then said, “Good. Santa won't be the one arriving if you're bad. He sends Naughty Santa for that. You remember what I told you about him, right?”

  Michael sighed and slumped his head towards his lap, then said, “Yeah...” He lifted his head and gazed into his father's kind eyes, then asked, “When's mom going to get here?”

  Henry responded, “She'll be back with the entire family before breakfast, I promise. You'll see your mama, your cousins, your uncles, your aunties... everyone's going to be here in the morning. It's going to be great.”

  Michael tilted his head as he absently stared at his bare feet. A conniving grin materialized across his face as he rolled his eyes towards his father. He turned towards his father, then delivered the notorious puppy eyes and pout – a lethal combination for any parent.

  Michael asked, “Can I please open one present before everyone gets here?”

  Henry laughed and smiled as he shook his head. Henry responded, “No. We've been through this a million times. If you open a present or even try to scrape the wrapping paper like last year, you know what's going to happen. Naughty boys meet Naughty Santa. You know, instead of milk and cookies, I hear he eats bad boys and drinks their blood.”

  Michael crossed his arms and scoffed, “Yeah, right.”

  Henry nodded and continued, “Really. Naughty Santa eats people. He really likes to eat naughty boys that open their presents without permission. He places them in his gift bag, then takes them to the North Pole. He pours their blood into a big cup, then cooks the meat in the oven...”

  Michael scrunched his face as he tightly shut his eyes and placed his palms over his ears. He shook his head like a dog out of a bath and pouted. Henry's crackling chuckle echoed through the dark room, bouncing off the vacant navy blue walls.

  Henry smiled as he said, “You see, I warned you. You better not test Naughty Santa, Michael, he will come and get you.”

  As he continued to press his hands to his ears, Michael threatened, “I'm going to tell mom.”

  Henry joyously smiled and said, “Okay, okay. Enough scary stories for now. It's time for bed. I mean it this time. Trust me, if there's anything that will make Christmas come faster, it's sleep. I know this from experience, kiddo. If you sleep, you'll be opening presents in no time.”

  Michael opened his eyes and nodded as he glanced at his father – the words were genuine. He lifted his legs towards his chest, then slipped into his fuzzy blue comforter. Henry gently patted Michael's chest, then planted a kiss on his untamed hair. The bed squeaked as Henry stood. The floorboards creaked as Henry slowly departed, dragging his tired feet across the desolate hardwood floor. He stopped at the doorway, then glanced at his son.

  Michael glanced back at his father and asked, “Dad, do you think I was good this year?”

  Henry smiled and nodded as he said, “Yeah, you've been great, kiddo.”

  Michael inquired, “You don't think Naughty Santa will visit me, do you?”

  Henry chuckled, then reassured, “No, no. If he does, I'll be waiting for him. No one punishes you but me. Besides, we've got some unfinished business to handle.” Michael laughed as he turned on his bed and faced the bedroom window. The door squealed as Henry slowly shut it and said, “Good night, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning.”

  Michael hopped and squirmed like a fish out of water. The anxiety and excitement blending within was overwhelmingly powerful. The rush of euphoria conjured by the unexpected and anticipated was irrepressible. Michael tightly shut his eyes as his head swayed left-and-right and as his feet kicked and wiggled. Seconds turned into minutes as sleep evaded Michael's grasps at every turn. Suddenly, a muffled bang echoed through the home and into Michael's room.

  Michael's eyes widened as he stared at the empty ceiling. He whispered in a dubious tone, “Santa Claus?”

  ***

  Michael eagerly sprung up from his bed with protuberant eyes. He turned towards his window, then weaved and bobbed his head around like a walking pigeon. Alas, there was no sign of the legendary sleigh or the jingling bells. Slowly, Michael turned towards his sealed bedroom door. He tilted his head and placed his index finger behind his dangling earlobe. Muffled footsteps reverberated through the home, dwindling with every step.

  Michael grinned and said, “It has to be him. It's Santa...”

  Michael stood from his bed, then hurriedly scampered across his room on his tiptoes. The door creaked as he slowly and carefully opened it. He protruded his head into the measly crack, then looked to his left and right. The master bedroom awaited to the right. To the left, there was a door leading to the guest bedroom, then another door leading to the bathroom.

  There was a posh arch entrance leading into the living room across the bathroom door. The Christmas lights in the living room seeped into the hallway through arch entrance. The vibrant lights cycled between a blood-red and a forest-green every five seconds.

  Michael deviously smirked as he whispered, “I have to see him. I have to.”

  He slipped out of his room like a sly fox. He tiptoed down the hall with his shoulders high and head slumped. He cautiously peeked towards the master bedroom with every other step while meticulously stepping over the creaky floorboards. Michael stood at the arch entrance, gripping the wall as he peered into the living room.

  To the right, the room seamlessly transitioned to a dining area and a kitchen. The dining area had a gargantuan rectangular wooden table with ten seats ready for the celebration. The kitchen opened up via an arch entrance. The kitchen had a small bar with tiled counters, linoleum flooring, and textured white walls. The enormous living room to the left of Michael's position had hardwood flooring and walls. Two three-seat black leather sofas sat perpendicular to each other towards the center of the living room. A pristine glass coffee table sat between them.

  On the parallel wall from the arch entrance and directly across the adjacent sofas, there was a 60-inch flat-screen television. In the corner to the left of the television, a giant and dazzling tree awaited. The lush tree was decorated with sparkling ornaments and vibrant, cycling lights. The walls were cluttered with family photographs and Christmas lights – dressers and console tables hugged the walls beneath them.

  As he caught
a glimpse of the towering silhouette by the elegant tree, Michael's eyes widened and he whispered, “It really is Santa. He really came to visit me...”

  The mountainous man shambled forward in the dimly-lit living room, absently crashing into the tree and rustling the stiff leaves. With a scheming grin plastered on his innocent face, Michael tiptoed towards the kitchen bar. He carefully inspected the white ceramic plate and translucent plastic cup as he agilely hopped onto a stool.

  The stool loudly creaked like the squeak of a rat in an empty auditorium. With wide eyes and a clenched jaw, Michael glanced over his shoulder and towards the man. To his utter surprise, the man was oblivious of Michael's presence – he was seemingly too concerned with the piles of gifts. Relieved, Michael turned towards the matter at hand – Santa's iconic meal. The plate was filled with freshly-baked cookies and a cup of tantalizing milk.

  Michael furrowed his brow as he whispered, “He didn't eat the cookies or drink the milk...” He glanced towards the hulking man, then said, “I'll bring them to him. I'll prove I've been good this year. I'll prove I haven't been naughty.”

  Michael smiled as he grabbed the plate and cup, then leaped off the stool. He strolled towards the man with the milk and cookies in his wavering hands. The distrait man continued his bizarre attack on the festooned Christmas tree.

  As he approached, Michael announced in a soft tone, “Santa, I've brought you some milk and cookies.” The inattentive man grunted and groaned. Michael protruded his arms forward and explained, “I know you like them. My dad told me they're your favorites. Maybe you don't remember him. I hope this...”

  Suddenly, the living room lights illuminated the darkness. The ominous shadows were whisked away with a single flick. The decorative Christmas lights continued to cycle. Michael turned towards the arch entrance leading into the hallway. His eyes widened, his mouth dangled, and his body shuddered.

  Michael looked towards the floor, but to no avail – he couldn't fall to the ground and pretend to sleep without making a mess or shattering his skull. He glanced back towards the arch entrance with a nervous smile. Henry stood at the archway as he rubbed his tiresome eyes with his left hand and tightly gripped an aluminum baseball bat with his right.

  As his vision focused, Henry squinted towards Michael and the mysterious man, then asked, “What the hell is going on here?” He glared at the man and asked, “Buddy, what the hell do you think you're doing in my house?”

  Michael's bottom lip trembled as he explained, “I–I... It... It's Santa Claus, dad. I was just bringing him his cookies, like you said. I wasn't going to open anything, I swear!”

  Henry furrowed his brow and stretched his head forward as he inspected the baleful intruder. He gazed at Michael with worrisome eyes as his arms trembled and his legs wobbled. His stomach turned and sweat trickled from every gland as he turned back towards the daunting man in the red suit. He bit his bottom lip as terrifying thoughts stampeded through his mind.

  Baffled and frightened, Henry murmured, “Santa Claus?”

  ***

  Henry clenched his jaw as he glared at the intruder with a soul-penetrating stare. His eyelids twitched and his body trembled as he gazed at his confused son. Henry beckoned at Michael, swaying his head and the bat towards the archway, but to no avail. Michael simply furrowed his brow and shrugged as he watched his distraught father. He struggled to comprehend his father's sudden consternation.

  Henry stomped his foot and demanded, “Michael, come here. Now.”

  Michael shook his head and said, “No, I can't. I have to give Santa his milk and cookies. I have to show him I was good.”

  Henry glared at his son and sternly said, “Come here, Michael. This isn't a game, okay? I need you to listen to me for once.”

  Michael pouted and shook his head, then said, “No, I just want to...”

  Seething from the boiling frustration, Henry shouted, “That is not Santa Claus, Michael! Come here! Now!”

  Suddenly, the floorboards howled as the colossal trespasser slowly turned. The man stood a towering six-four. He wore a red coat trimmed with white wool on the wrists and from the collar down to his protruding belly. He had a black belt fastened over his blood-red coat. He wore red pants with white wool trimmed at the bottom. His filthy black boots were covered in mud and soot.

  His dome was veiled by a matching hat with a red body and a plush white brim with a white pom-pom on top. His eyes were completely whitened and the skin on his face was gray and droopy. Most his jaw was obscured by a fake white beard drenched in blood. Awed, Michael began to tremble uncontrollably. The cookies slid and crumbled while the milk whirled and rippled from the quake.

  Michael helplessly stuttered, “Na–naughty Santa?”

  Henry slowly trudged forward as he inspected the blood on Santa's plush, grand beard. Henry walked towards the sofa and waved towards himself with the bat. Michael slowly stepped in reverse, his body was dominated by fear. Santa groaned and moaned as he absently stared forward. He senselessly gnawed on a plastic gingerbread man tree ornament.

  As Santa took his first step forward, Henry roared, “Michael, run!”

  Henry leaped over the sofa, then agilely maneuvered around the coffee table. He yanked the baseball bat back, then swung with all of his might. Clank – the dreadful clash between aluminum and skull echoed through the living room. Santa groaned as the laceration at the left side of his head spurted blood like an open faucet. Like if the blow was utterly useless, Santa shambled forward and grabbed Henry's arms.

  Henry shoved Santa back towards the tree as he tried to restrain the powerful intruder, but to no avail – Santa was burly and strong, pushing two steps forward for every step lost. Michael stood at the hallway archway, then glanced at the front door and windows in the living room. The beaming morning sunlight seeped through the cracks and blinds of the home, caressing the violent scuffle with its warmth.

  As he wrestled, Henry glanced at Michael and shouted, “Get the hell out of here, Michael! Call the cops and run, damn it!”

  Michael was frozen in place, unable to move or conjure a single word. He could only croak and grunt as his muscles and joints locked. Fear had struck his gentle heart and paralyzed his body, like a deer caught in the headlights. A cold sweat drenched his slim torso, seeping through his flannel pajamas. Suddenly, Santa overpowered Henry. The pair tumbled over the glass coffee table. The glass shattered into dozens of sharp shards. Blood from Henry and Santa dripped and streamed across the living room floor like crimson rivers.

  Santa wheezed, then snarled. He bared his bloody, sharp teeth. Henry grunted as he helplessly tried to squirm away. Abruptly, Santa chomped into Henry's face. Michael clasped his hands at his ears as his father's blood-curdling screech reverberated through the home. Santa callously pulled his head away, savagely tearing Henry's nose off his face.

  As he watched the violent attack with somber eyes, Michael stuttered, “N–No... I'm–I'm sorry...”

  All of a sudden, the front door swung open and Henry's mother, Julia Evans, strutted inside with wide eyes, a charming smile, and her arms extended towards the ceiling. Julia Evans stood five-four, five-seven with her glossy black heels. She wore a black skirt down to her kneecaps, a black a-line shirt with sleeves down to the middle of her forearms, and a lustrous pearl necklace. She had vibrant brown eyes and her beach blonde hair was tied in a neat ponytail.

  In her squeaky voice, Julia announced, “I'm home, sweetie! Time to...”

  She abruptly stopped upon spotting the bloody onslaught in the living room. Santa continued to gnaw at Henry's face. Julia turned towards Michael with a furrowed brow as her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes immediately swelled with tears. Michael was speechless. His pajama bottoms were soaked in urine. His bare feet squirmed in the puddle. Julia looked outside the front door and frantically shook her head and waved her arms.

  Julia lifted her hand to her ear like a phone and whispered, “Call 911. Now.” She turned towards Michael and be
ckoned to him as she instructed, “Come here, Michael. Everything's okay. Please, just hurry.”

  As Michael took his first step towards his mother, Santa stood from Henry's ravaged corpse. He continued to nibble on a piece of flesh – Henry's cheek. He slowly turned towards the entrance, then glared at Julia. Julia walked in reverse until her timid back collided with the hardwood wall. The photograph frames bounced from the impact. She indistinctly yammered as her bottom lip trembled uncontrollably.

  As she caught a glimpse of Santa's diabolical eyes, Julia shrieked, “No!”

  Suddenly, Santa lunged towards Julia. Julia bellowed as Santa chomped into her neck. Paralyzed by the attack, Michael watched in awe. As Julia was overwhelmed by Santa's attack, Henry's torso miraculously surged upward. Henry sat up as he absently inspected his surroundings. He staggered to his feet as he groaned and moaned, then stared at Michael.

  Michael inspected his father with a scrunched face of disgust and terror. Henry's nose was torn off. His right cheek was shredded, his teeth were visible through the abnormal opening. There was a vicious slit across his lips. Blood spurted and oozed from every brutal laceration. His eyes were completely whitened.

  As Henry stepped towards him with menacing eyes, Michael asked, “Daddy? Daddy, are you okay?”

  Day 4 - December 26 th, 2015

  Crime and Justice

  The nighttime gloom swayed with the cool breeze. The melancholy shadows in the darkness danced with the wind as they caressed the unusually vacant streets. The quaggy puddles rippled and splashed as the black-and-white police cruiser careened to the left. Officer Lawrence Lopez tightly gripped the helm as he struggled to control the swerving vehicle.

  Lawrence stood five-eleven with a sturdy physique. He had buzz cut hair atop his egg-shaped dome. He had a stern face with sharp brown eyes – eyes sharp enough to pierce through the darkest abyss. He wore a standard navy blue police uniform – a long-sleeve navy button-up shirt, navy trousers, black gloves, black insulated boots, and a utility belt.