Holiday Magick (36 page)

He turned to the door when he heard a thump. Then another thump. He twisted around to see the zombie stand, awkwardly grab its head, and reattach it before reattaching its arm.

So much for the sword working.

Christopher scampered over to the gun in such haste that he tripped over something—bones. All that remained of the witch. Or was this Gregory? Or Jeremiah? Whoever it was, the zombie had filled its belly.

His fingers brushed against the gun as the zombie plowed into him, knocking him onto the deck. It lifted his pant leg but, before it could bite him Christopher yanked himself free and kicked the zombie in the face.

The zombie staggered back, and Christopher grabbed the gun. He fired a shot. Although most zombies were known for being slow-moving, this one moved surprisingly fast and Christopher missed. His hands were shaking too much. He used both hands to aim, and fired again. He missed that time as well.

Cursing, Christopher backed up and fired a third time. Straight through the zombie's left eye. The zombie's knees buckled, and it fell onto itself, collapsing into a heap. Christopher waited a minute before breathing easier. This time, he had—

The zombie lumbered to its feet, its left eye gone. It lunged toward the captain.

Now Christopher was filled with even more fright. He had no more weapons and no means to kill the hungry monster before him.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment before opening them. He would not die a coward's death.

A small cask of gunpowder caught his eyes. It was foolish, risky, and could kill them all, but he wasn't willing to die yet, not without exhausting all possible solutions.

He aimed and fired. The gunpowder exploded, and the ship caught fire. The zombie paid the fire and the smoke no heed.

Christopher grabbed the zombie and shoved it back into the flames. The tongues of fire licked its body, charring its flesh to the bones. The zombie opened and shut its mouth but if it screamed, Christopher didn't hear it. Its flesh melted off, but it wasn't dying.

Fire wasn't working either.

The zombie stalked toward him. Christopher ran from the flames and the fiery zombie to pound on the door. No one opened it. They had probably abandoned ship as soon as the fire started. He could only hope that one of the other ships had seen the fire and rescued the crew.

The zombie grabbed him. Thankfully, the fire had burned off of him, although the ship still burned brightly. Christopher could scarcely breathe as smoke filled his lungs and darkened his vision.

He could see the white of the zombie's teeth as it opened its mouth in preparation to bite him. Christopher remembered the king's words: “If you are successful in this venture, your name will go down in history, I will see to that.”

Will he tell everyone of my failure as well? Christopher wondered. He did not want to fail.

He punched the zombie. It staggered back but came at him again. This time, Christopher bent his knees, arms out. When the zombie lunged toward him, Christopher pressed his fingers through the now-exposed bones in the zombie's chest. He ripped the ribs open and grabbed its heart. He yanked it free and squeezed. Black blood dripped down his arm.

The zombie dropped to the ground. It twitched twice and moved no more.

It was finally dead.

Christopher coughed and choked and gasped as he pounded on the door, but it never opened. Stumbling, he crawled toward a hole that the explosion had blown in the side of the ship. Finally reaching the opening, he dove through.

Cold water engulfed him. Disoriented from the smoke, his lungs barely full of air, he swam toward the surface. His arms and legs ached, his lungs burned, he couldn't see, and he wasn't at the surface yet.

Unable to last any longer, he opened his mouth to breathe. Water rushed in and flooded his mouth. Dark spots threatened to engulf his vision as he struggled not to breathe in the liquid. Terrified that his death was imminent, he gave one last kick toward the surface and opened his mouth again. Water sputtered out, and wonderful, clean air filled his lungs. He coughed out smoke, and slowly, his breath returned to him.

Glancing around, he saw that his ship was almost entirely engulfed in flames. Nearby was another ship. He swam toward it and was soon helped aboard.

He collapsed into bed and slept for three days.

Fortunately, most of his crew had also escaped the fire and were now scattered on board the other two vessels, neither of which had any zombies on board. His sailors would never again bring another woman on a ship, Christopher was certain.

The rest of the trip was, thankfully, uneventful and every bit as successful as Christopher had hoped. He found several territories, including an island he named San Salvador, that would be a grand locale for a new Spain. After his terrifying experience on the boat, he spent much time exploring the land to ensure that no zombies or other monsters were about. Over seven months after he had left Spain, he finally returned, confident in his triumph and in the payment that would be his reward.

The royal couple greeted Christopher warmly, and then informed him that they would not be relocating.

“Why not?” he demanded. He had lost good men
and
a ship on the journey. To learn it had been for nothing infuriated him.

“Priests have discovered that holy water kills zombies. As we speak, our priests are doling out holy water to their congregations. Soon, all Spaniards will be adequately armed to protect our land from the undead horde, and their numbers will dwindle until they are completely vanquished. We have no more need to move,” the king explained.

“We are most appreciative that you have risked so much for us,” the queen rushed to assure him. “And we did have every intention of going with you. We still have yet to unpack all of our belongings. The priests only discovered their cure-all a fortnight ago.”

Christopher's jaw dropped. Had he not taken the time to do one last check of the island for zombies, he would have arrived a month earlier, in time to save everyone. “What of my payment?” He brought his hands to his hips, his fingers finding the weaponless sheath at his side. A slight movement from the left caught his attention. A guard. Christopher relaxed his posture, even as his temper flared within him.

“Since you will not be bringing us to a new land, I see no need to pay you,” King Ferdinand said.

“You commissioned my mission. To not pay me what I am owed is…” He trailed off. He had learned long ago that sometimes it was better not to speak one's mind.

Queen Isabella smiled kindly at Christopher as she said, “He has a point. That hardly seems fair. After all, we planned to go all along. He risked his life to find us a new Spain. Surely that is worth something.” She turned to her husband.

“And I lost crew members and—” he started when the king cut in.

“So be it. We will pay you.” The king pursed his lips, obviously not pleased with his wife. “Do not worry, I am sure your name will still go down in history. You opened the way for a new trade route, and maybe some people would still like to go live in this new land you found.”

Christopher bowed stiffly and stomped away. Priests as zombie slayers—how absurd! He had saved most of his crew from a zombie, and without a drop of holy water. He did have to admit, though, it made sense that something created in darkness would be destroyed by something religious.

Christopher ended up making several more trips to the lands he had found, but squandered his money and died a poor man. However, the King of Spain had been right—Christopher Columbus's name
did
go down in history, and thousands of Spaniards did move to the New World. To this day, we celebrate Christopher Columbus Day. He had not found a new way to the East Indies. Instead, he had discovered a whole new world, unknown to Europe until his fateful voyage to save the Spaniards from the zombies.

The scariest thing about the holiday we call “Halloween” is that it's a flat-out lie.

We are told that Halloween is short for “All Hallows' Eve” and that it should be observed every year on October 31st. We are told, in many countries, that the best way to celebrate this holiday is to dress up in costumes, go tnck-or-treating, watch horror films, carve pumpkins, and make harmless mischief. We are encouraged to have fun by putting on masks that disguise our beautiful human faces and make us look like all sorts of foul demons. And they tell us that we should have fun doing it.

But we are told these things because they just don't know the truth.

They just don't know.

So…why
do
we wear masks on Halloween, and how did that start?

Church bells rang in the distance.

“Maybe we should just stay in, Elden.”

“Don't be silly. We won't get another chance until next year. And who knows what will happen before then?”

Bet's hand slipped down the wooden doorframe. He rubbed his sweaty palm on his shirt, leaving a streak of dirt. “Mother and Father said they would strangle us with our own intestines if they found out we left.”

Elden looked at Bet with the kind of haughtiness only an older brother could manage. “C'mon, Bet. Look at how much you're shaking. You need this just as much as I do.”

Bet puffed out his little chest. “I'm not shaking! I'm just—”

Elden clamped a hand over his brother's mouth, bright fear in his eyes. Their little house only had two rooms and their parents were asleep behind thin walls.

Elden leaned in close, still smothering any potential sound. He gave Bet a fiery look, as if to say ‘you better keep your voice down.'

Bet nodded and Elden released him.

“I'm not shaking,” Bet whispered. “It's just cold out.”

“You know, for nine years old you're still quite childish.” Elden rapped his knuckles on Bet's head. Then he gently shut the door and paused for a moment, examining Bet. “Still shaking.”

“AM N—” Bet remembered to control his volume. He looked down at the floor. “—not.”