by Vincent Daemon
The exhausted beast looked down at the crowds forming, the laughter of children coming off as horrendous squeals to its hyper-sensitive hearing. So many sizes from which to choose, so many things on which to feed, so many scents...the beast felt a certain satisfaction, even in its disoriented, breathless, exhausted chill of a current existence.
Chapter XI
Funeral Procession
The exhausted beast looked down at the crowds forming, the laughter of children coming off as horrendous squeals to its hyper-sensitive hearing. So many sizes from which to choose, so many things on which to feed, so many scents...the beast felt a certain satisfaction, even in its disoriented, breathless, exhausted chill of a current existence.
The hustle and bustle was that of a typical small town, wholesome, family friendly affair. Neon red and green hollies hung from lampposts, along with electric white candles, blinding to the sight. The parade of course was caboosed finally by a Santa—high up on his float for all the onlookers to see, the children waving and laughing at and bellowing their Christmas expectations and desires to—who threw handfuls of peppermints and Dum-Dum lollipops to the happy revelers, both young and old alike.
Eight month to ninety-eight year olds indulged in childhood belief or aging nostalgia of far better times along with the other force-fed joyous seasonal cheer. There was the ever incessant loop of old Nat King Cole Christmas classics blasting away, loud and resounding enough to be heard two towns over echoing in the nearly impenetrable bramble of woods known as Diabolos Hills.
This Santa, a sweet old drunken but harmless local yokel, loved the adoration, being the ultimate outcome and pride of that silly Doltonwood Parade. He was a kindly old man who loved taking on the character, loved to make the children and the people happy, and looked forward to the often trying “Sit With Santa” pics after his big coupe de grâce.
Cloudy and moderately snowing, the sky that tone of bright pre-snow grey, it was the perfect day for such a celebration. Spirits were high, people cheerful, even if holiday-forced, for but a few hours this Christmas Eve morning.
Corman actively pouted the entire drive there, wishing his weird and unhealthy animals were the centerpiece of the parade, the apparent massacre meaning nothing to him more than lost profits and a dead career as a petting zoo scam artist.
Doc Chorn had turned the corner just in time to catch the ever so important Santa Float, stopping the Hummer right in front of it, putting an immediate and uneven halt to the parade. He jumped out and began to yell, sounding very much the madman, “everyone get inside RIGHT NOW!”
Some onlookers recognized an apparent looney and ignored him entirely; the Santa couldn’t hear him over Nat King Cole; and within moments, a dark, ominous shadow began to loom in the air, covering over Santa, the Hummer, and the crowd. A wave of nothing more than hushed confusion silenced the mob into what was a non-reactive state of something akin to mass-hypnosis, affecting ages eight months to ninety-eight alike.
Doc Chorn immediately got back in the Hummer and shut the doors.
Locked in the Hummer together, they could still hear ol’ King Cole belting out “Silent Night.”
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Chapter XII
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