Terror In Tinsel Town by krazydiamond 

He was too out of shape to run for his life. This was the unfortunate revelation Willy Whitman had as he fled for his life, clutching the merchandise to his chest as he huffed and puffed down the sidewalk. The chill December air didn't help, harsh and bitter in his pinched lungs, each gasping breath felt like a chestful of itty bitty razor blades. He couldn't keep up this pace, not with the fuzz on him nipping at his heels like a terrier and he was the rat. He needed to stash the goods somewhere until he could shake the heat and double back from them. Willy started looking, realizing he'd taken an odd turn somewhere when he saw the candy cane stripes and tinsel dripping from every available surface. So confused by the shiny shreds, he plowed into a waist high obstacle that sent him flipping over to land face first in the slush. Only a last minute instinctual cringe up caused him to shift the canister and prevent it from exploding beneath him. A true disaster in the making, considering what he carried. What the hell wiped him out? Willy struggled to his feet, glaring down at a little person in an unfortunate elf costume. A stubby middle finger was extended in his direction.

"Watch it, asshole," snarled the elf.

"Yeah Merry Christmas to you too buddy," Willy retorted, opening his mouth to say more when barking cut him short. Shit, he forgot they had dogs. He scurried off, ignoring the grousing dwarf in the snow. Stash the goods, stash the goods, it played like a mantra in his head. He dodged around another couple surly looking elves, clusters of snot nosed children, an actual reindeer who appeared to have an intestinal problem if the smell was any indication...

There! A small building in the middle of everything, surrounded by quiet, appearing empty when he burst through the doors. Willy wasted no time darting through the rows of picnic tables, ducking through swinging double doors into what appeared to be a kitchen. Perfect! All those spices clogging the air might give him a brief moment of respite from those mutts. He dove into the kitchen supply closet, crouching between bags of flour and sugar. He could hear the dogs barking outside. Should he risk staying? The stitch inside was unbearable. What if he stashed the stuff and came back for it later.

Refusing to let himself over think, Willy shoved the canister onto the spice rack, surprised how similar the canisters were. Not like he would lose a canister of what his contact called 'Psycho Dust', a drug so potent it made pcp look like a sugar high. Trace amounts of it were supposed to set off a trip so strong it was the stuff of urban legends, and the side effects were so violent and unpredictable no drug dealer in their right mind would push it on the streets. That said something when even the crack dealers refused to move it. But Willy had an interested buyer, a possibly foreign military buyer but he didn't care if the money was good.

The canister stashed and the stitch in his side abating, Willy slipped out of the food closet and crept out of the kitchens. The dogs were nowhere near him, which gave him the window he needed to slip away unnoticed into the crowd.

***

Margaret straightened her apron as she exited the bathroom, still regretting the Indian buffet she went to for lunch. She was so behind after that half hour bathroom break from hell. She should really go home but she could already hear Mitch grousing about trying to get coverage for her. She didn't know anyone who hated Christmas as much as Mitch and the guy worked in freaking Tinsel Town. She shook her head, yanking out ingredients to get the cookies and nog going for the pre parade toast later. She had everything she needed except....where was the fricking nutmeg?

"Nutmeg, nutmeg, oh for the love of--tell me they freaking restocked my spice rack!" Margaret wanted to kick something. Her mistake was trying to fob the list off on Mitch. Steven was the responsible one, the one who actually enjoyed the holiday, and his job, and paid attention when the employees needed something. Muttering under her breath, she shoved spices aside, praying for a Christmas miracle when she saw an unmarked cannister shoved toward the back. "Please be nutmeg," she begged, unscrewing it. It certainly didn't smell like nutmeg, but it had the right coloring. Maybe it was just really weak store brand crap. That would be something Mitch would buy. Shrugging and not having the time to over analyze, Margaret dumped the unmarked spice into the punch bowl vat of eggnog, making sure to mix it the ladle. If anyone complained about the lack of nutmeggy taste, she'd throw Mitch the Grinch under the bus in a heartbeat.

***

Steve leaned back on his heels to catch a whiff of gingerbread on the air. This was his favorite time of year. He loved Christmas. The traditions, the decorating, the spirit of good cheer, even the food, though too much nog made his lactose intolerance ramp up to the nth degree. Still he loved it, even the copious amounts of tinsel that clung to his clothes every night, it was why he was ecstatic to get a job here, Tinsel Town, USA, Maine's own little Santa's Village on crack, as his co-worker Mitch referred to it.

Mitch, now there was a walking conundrum. Steve didn't understand anyone who hated Christmas so much working here.

"I swear to god, if another kid pukes in line I am wiping the brat's nose in it like a naughty puppy," he snarled behind Steve. The statement made the man cringe as three sets of horrified parents stopped and stared.

"He didn't mean it. Just having a bad day. They are serving the nog and cookies right now in Santa's kitchen, don't miss out!" Steve kept the smile on his face until the families scurried away before turning a glare on Mitch. "What the hell are you doing in here?"

"Painting the roses red," snapped Mitch with a loud shuffle of paperwork. "Those friggin' cops, with their friggin' dogs, did you know one of them took a shit right behind Santa's chair? Not that they found squat. Least watching them drag some criminal psychopath out of here would have brightened my day."

Steve smiled bright for the grandmother who slowed her steps walking by, staring into the office with twitch in her rheumy eyes. "Sorry ma'am' he's a bit cranky this time of day. Did you partake of the nog and cookies?"

She blinked slowly at him, her eyes cloudier than he first thought through her thick glasses. "Bathrooms...please," she mumbled a bit of filmy drool pooling from the corner of her mouth. Steve frowned in concern. "Just over there ma'am, do you need an escort?" He placed a gentle hand on her elbow when she threw him off with surprising force, staggering off toward the bathroom. He debated following her to make sure this wasn't a 911 situation when a high pitched scream cut through the normal squeals of glee and enjoyment that filled Tinsel Town.

He jerked around as more screams filled the air. What the hell was going on. Mitch burst out of the office, looking back and forth between Steve and the commotion. People were running, fleeing, falling to the ground. At first he thought they slipped in the snow except many began to thrash and convulse. He took a step toward a woman twitching on the ground when Margaret burst out of the crowd, her face white and sweaty, eyes bulged in panic. The was something wrong with her apron, covered in blossoming splotches of dark red.

She was screaming bloody murder, the words garbled but he swore it sounded he heard 'nutmeg' just as one of the twitching bodies, a woman, on the ground rose up and tackled her legs.

"Whoa, catfight," said Mitch, giving a little asshole laugh next to him. Steve didn't think so, something was wrong, very wrong, a feeling confirmed when the woman leaned and sank her teeth into Margaret's face, biting down hard and vicious. Both men cried out as the woman snapped back in an arc of blood, half of Margaret's face in her mouth. She turned around at their cries, though only her head turned, a full 180 spin that put the exorcist to shame and filled Steve's mouth with bile.

Her eyes were clouded over, blood and chunks of flesh dripping from her mouth as stood, twisting the rest of her body forward with a nasty crackling sound. She took a step toward them.

An explosion went off next to his ear, nearly making him piss his pants as a bullet plugged the crazed woman's forehead. She went down like a ton of bricks next to the bleeding out Margaret. Steve turned to gape as his partner.

Mitch spun the gun on his forefinger and blew the non existent smoke from the barrel.

"What is wrong with you!" Steve snapped.

Mitch snorted. "You're kidding right? Clearly the zombie apocalypse has started or did you miss the face gnawing moment." He inhaled deep, checking the ammo in his clip. "I was made for this."

Steve didn't know what to believe, turning back to the screams that were giving way to snarls and feral growls. He saw a fat middle aged bald man scuttle by with three 'elves' chasing him, their little faces smeared with blood. A woman ran out of the crowd, clutching her toddler tight to her chest when she abruptly stopped, screaming as the child turned vicious in her arms and bit her neck.

"Oh my god," said Steve, trying to break himself out of the shock. Blood and bits were flying through the air, coating the silver tinsel in streaks of sinister red. Mitch sidled up next to him, a shot gun in each hand. Steve gaped at him. "Where did you get those?"

"From the gun locker while you were busy gaping at the carnage," said Mitch, handing him one. "Now come on, slick, we need to see if there are civilians to save." His voice dropped an octave as he spoke. Steve stared at him, noting the glee in Mitch's face. Somewhere, he'd picked up a pair of mirror sunglasses, which looked absolutely ridiculous on him, and he had a toothpick dangling from his lips, trying to imitate an Eastwood character.

Steve snatched up the gun, feeling disgusted. "If I hear you say 'do you feel lucky punk', I am shooting you myself."

"Fair enough," Mitch nodded. The two of them dashed toward the melee.

It was full on carnage. Steve tried not to focus on anything for more than a few seconds but images seared into his mind for later nightmare fodder, if he managed to survive this night. The 'zombies', no, no he couldn't think of them like that, but it was hard not to. They ran after people in packs, falling on them, ripping them apart. Not really eating them, though their might have been some nibbling. He swallowed hard, averting his eyes from the family of four that were nibbling on the remains of half of Tinsel Town's resident reindeer.

"Poor Comet," he murmured, trying not to think of where the other half went. Mitch grabbed his arm, making him jump and yelped. He would be eternally grateful to his bladder if it lasted through all of this.

"Over there!" Mitch pointed with the barrel of his gun to Santa's throne. Old Saint Nick himself advanced on a cowering family behind the chair, frothing at the mouth, his red suit wet with blood, pieces of viscera matted into his beard. Mitch lead the charge, using his handgun to plug Santa right in the left ass cheek.

This apparently made him angry.

Santa spun on them, charging like a wounded bull. "Santa, noooo," the little girl of the hiding family screamed, reaching for him even as Steve and Mitch both shot him in the chest. The old man with down, struggling, choking on blood until Mitch walked up and put him out of his misery.

Both men looked at the shocked family, the little girl weeping in her mother's arms.

"We are so on the naughty list," said Steve.

Mitch looked between him and the family, his foot still planted on Santa's corpse. He seemed to realize his faux pas, holstering his handgun to hold up a hand to the family. "Oh, don't worry sweetie. This wasn't the actual Santa," he said. "Santa's not real."

Steve resisted the urge to slap his forehead as the parents glared at Mitch. "What you really want to reinforce that myth after she saw all this?"

The father sighed, clambering to his feet to help the others up. "Thank you for saving us. We don't what happened, one moment, our little Janie was clambering onto Santa's lap for a photo shoot, the next moment everybody went crazy." He had his arms around his wife and daughter, the family splattered with blood but otherwise unharmed. "What now? We need to get out of here."

"We do need to get somewhere safe. Behind you Steve," said Mitch.

Steve whirled around, smashing the butt of his shotgun into the rabid elf's face. "Oh, god, I just committed a hate crime."

"It's only a hate crime if the midget didn't have it coming," said Mitch, missing the shocked expression of the family next to him. "They closed the Tinsel Town gates right before the evening parade, which means this shit storm is contained from the rest of the town, but who knows how long those gates are going to hold. Our best bet is to hole up somewhere for the rest of the night and attempt escape at dawn when the zombies are sluggish."

"Excuse me, zombies?" said the father.

"Uh, Mitch, why don't we try for somewhere like the office or the kitchens, somewhere with a phone. Get a call out for help?'

"When the world's descending into madness?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's it. Come on, least in the kitchen's it's heated." Unlike their shitty office with the space heater.

Mitch went ahead, brutally clearing a path while Steve stayed with the family, the Masons, Ron and Lucy and poor mentally scarred little Janie. She sobbed quietly in her mother's arms the whole way to the kitchen, not that Steve could blame her, he felt like sobbing himself. They made it inside without any great incident, Steve and Ron Mason shoving flipping picnic tables to block the door while Mitch secured the rest of the building. The room with littered with empty crumb filled plates and half filled glasses of eggnog. Odd, and that was a startling moment of perspective from the events of the evening, but the sight of all those half filled glasses of eggnog was odd. If there was one thing Tinsel Town was famous for it was their delicious eggnog, something Steve mournfully could never take part of because it made his intolerance act up something awful. Why had nobody finished their nog. He looked over at the huddled Masons.

"You guys have any of the nog tonight?"

"What?" Lucy Mason stuttered. "No, we're vegan."

"We are all clear, though it stanks like ass in the kitchens. Margaret must have burned something," said Mitch, sitting on top of a table. He swiped up a half glass himself, lifting it up for a drink when he jolted back in disgust. "Whew, never mind. The nog has turned. Damn that is ripe."

Steve grabbed a glass himself, taking a whiff. From the many times he'd longingly inhaled eggnog never to partake he smelt how off it was, but it wasn't spoiled, no there was a distinct chemical tinge to the smell that made his stomach roll.

"It's not spoiled, it's been spiked with something," he said. "Something drugged the nog." He and Mitch stared at each other for a long moment before the latter spun and kicked the wall, swearing profusely as he dug out his cell phone.

"What is wrong with him?" Lucy Mason asked.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I think disappointment."

"Disappointment over what?" Lucy continued, her voice rife with incredulity.

"That this isn't a true zombie apocalypse," Steve muttered too low for the family to hear.

***

It took the CDC barely two hours to mobilize.

By the time they called out to Steve from the other side of the barricaded door, it was well past midnight, little Janie Mason fitfully sleep in her mother's arms.

The CDC came in with tranq guns and anti-psychotics for the survivors and a surreal explanation of what happened. The nog of Tinsel Town was laced with something they called 'Psycho Dust', a drug with legendary potency. A trace amount was supposed to be all it took and everybody got five times the dose in their celebratory nog. No wonder everyone went batshit insane.

To Steve and Mitch's great surprise, the body count was relatively low despite all the apparent carnage. Only a handful of people were fatally wounded, including Santa. You just can't shake off a head shot. Even Margaret survived the night though she would need reconstructive surgery for her face, on the company's dime.

Mitch slumped next to him, surprisingly not in handcuffs since they cleared his gun happy activity as acting accordingly to a threat. "Man, this was almost the best Christmas ever," he said, chewing on his toothpick. Somehow it was still dangling from his lips, but thank god he lost those stupid mirrored shades.

"I don't get it," said Steve, "how did the drug even get into the nog?"

Mitch made a 'pfft' noise. "Have you seen the extent of Margaret's cooking skills?"

***

Willy couldn't believe his shit luck. Not only had it taken him hours to lose the fuzz, but when he finally made it back, the place was crawling with Feds and suits. What the hell happened here? Was that blood splattered all over the place? Trying to blend in, Willy sauntered around the perimeter, making his way to the kitchen. Just retrieve his shit and go, his buyer was waiting. He turned down the narrow alley outside the kitchens when something skittered in the corner of his vision.

He stopped, looking around, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he tried to convince himself it was nothing. He'd just managed to when it came shuffling out of the shadows, it's tattered little hat sitting at a jaunty angle on its head. It stared up at him with dead filmy eyes, blood smeared across its chin. It took him a long moment to react, too long, too long to turn and run as the elf caught him around the ankles. He tried to scrabble for purchase in the wet snow but he felt the thing crawling up his body, seconds before teeth sank into his belly.

Willy screamed into the night.