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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 said yes except for Ryan, who remained sitting in the same chair, and David, who had a nasty gash on his shoulder that Phyllis was bandaging with duct tape and paper towels.
"Well, we sure kicked some Santa ass. " Andy walked next to one of the fallen helpers and nudged him with his foot. "Try climbing down a chimney now, shithead. "
"It's not over. "
Everyone turned to look at Ryan.
"Did you see something, Ryan?" Irena asked.
