A Fantastic Holiday Season: The Gift of Stories

What better way to start a Fantastic Holiday Season than with a Kevin J. Anderson classic! Kevin’s something of a Fantasy and SF Father Christmas: He’s very passionate about the season, incredibly generous with his time and experience—and his marvelous stories just pour out of him like gifts from Santa’s bag!

Zombie detective Dan Shamble isn’t having a merry little Christmas, though. Santa Claus is coming to town … but he’s not feeling jolly. Something of Saint Nick’s just got nicked, and Dan’s got to find it—and the thief—before Xmas becomes
Ex
-Mas.

—KO

Naughty & Nice

A Dan Shamble, Zombie P.I. Holiday Story

Kevin J. Anderson

1

Santa Claus was an
unnatural
. That made perfect sense—I just hadn’t thought of it before.

The jolly bearded guy in the bright-red suit came into the offices of Chambeaux & Deyer Investigations, desperate to hire my services. It’s not often, I suppose, that Santa requires a detective—particularly a zombie detective.

“I need your help, Mr. Chambeaux,” Santa said.

I extended my gray hand … to shake his black-gloved one. “At your service.”

I assessed my client-to-be. Santa carried a voluminous cloth sack over his left shoulder; it was limp and empty at the moment, rather than bulging with brightly wrapped gifts. His bloodshot eyes were as red as his suit. His cheeks were pale, and his face seemed less plump than the pictures I had seen on a million Christmas cards.

“It’s a crisis.” He looked around with haunted eyes. “I’ve been robbed!”

In the Unnatural Quarter, we see all sorts of clients. After the cosmic supernatural event called the Big Uneasy, all manner of legendary creatures had reappeared: ghosts, vampires, zombies, werewolves, ghouls, and other creatures that go bump, growl, or thud in the night. Why not Santa, too? Somebody who can slip down billions of chimneys in a night—without incurring a single home-invasion charge—would fit right in.

“We’ll do everything we can to help, Mr. Claus,” said Robin Deyer, my earnest lawyer partner, as she came out to greet the new client. “Is this more of a legal matter or an investigative one?”

“Oh-ho-ho, I definitely need a detective, and I came here because Mrs. Claus and I have heard about Mr. Chambeaux.”

I was surprised. “We don’t even advertise up at the North Pole. How did you find out about Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations?”

“Actually, we’re local. My powers only manifest during the holiday season—it’s not a full-time gig up in the cold. The rest of the year Mrs. Claus and I run a nice little bed-and-breakfast in the Quarter. Everybody around town knows the zombie detective to call when they’re in a bind.”

When I first moved into the Unnatural Quarter, I was a regular human P.I., trying to make a living like anybody else. I catered to clients who, though they sometimes looked like monsters on the outside, still had very human problems. Even after I got myself killed on a case, I climbed out of the grave and got back to work, still with Robin as my partner. Most unnatural aren’t even bothered by the bullet hole in the middle of my forehead, and I’ve stopped being self-conscious about applying morticians’ putty to cover it up.

Sheyenne, our office assistant, flitted up to Santa, beaming her gorgeous smile. “May I take your coat, Mr. Claus?”

Not only is Sheyenne extremely smart, competent, and efficient, she’s beautiful on all counts. She’s also my girlfriend. On top of that, she happens to be a ghost, murdered in the same case that saw me dead. But even through all that, we stuck together. It’s a testament to the strength of our relationship.

Santa decided against removing his red coat. “No-ho-ho! It’s part of my traditional image. The coat is made of magical material that keeps me comfortable no matter the temperature. That way I never have to take it off until the season’s over. Traditions are important, and never more so than around the holidays.”

Sheyenne leaned closer and whispered, “For the record, I never stopped believing in you.”

He regarded Sheyenne with both wonder and mirth. “Strangely enough, I didn’t believe in ghosts—until a few years ago.” Santa sneezed, then turned back to me. “Mr. Chambeaux, I’m not going to kid you. There’s more riding on this particular Christmas than ever before, and I’m coming apart at the seams. I need you to find my stolen property before Christmas Eve, or there’ll be no joy to the world, no ho-ho-ho, no holly jolly, no Feliz in the Navidad, no Frohe in the Weihnachten, no Merry in the Christmas. You see how serious this is?”

“I think I do.” I really had no idea, but I didn’t want to look dumb in front of Santa Claus. “What exactly was stolen?”

“My list!” He was distraught—which was not at all the sort of attitude I expected from a man famous for his rumbling belly-laugh and infectious good cheer. “My
list
of who’s Naughty and Nice! Without that list, I won’t know which houses to visit, which Johnny deserves a model train set and which one gets a lump of coal, which Susie deserves a doll and which one gets a boring sweater. If I can’t figure that out, Christmas definitely won’t be the most wonderful time of the year.”

“Don’t you keep a photocopy?” Robin asked. “Or an on-line backup?”

Santa was horrified. “And break Christmas tradition? Millions of children believe in me and the way I do things, just so. They have dreams about Christmas, and it’s my responsibility to safeguard those dreams.” He shook his head again. “If I modernized, there’d be an uproar—not to mention countless bugs in the system—and then you can bet the Easter Bunny would hack into my database and start grabbing my market share. No, everything’s done by hand on a very long roll of parchment, the names of every single boy and girl written with a goose quill.”

That must have been the world’s largest two-column spreadsheet. “And how exactly was it stolen?”

“Someone broke into the offices of my North Pole headquarters. It’s our busy season, all of my helpers doing double shifts, decking the halls, dashing through the snow. Our packaging department is a madhouse, full of complete sets of lords a-leaping, partridges, pear trees—and everybody wants five golden rings. We still have an overstock of last year’s fruitcakes, and I don’t know what to do with the figgy puddings. I was sure there’d be a demand for those again.” He wiped a gloved hand across his forehead.

“It’s very hectic. I was taking a break with Mrs. Claus. She had made a fresh batch of eggnog, and this time of year she spikes it rather heavily. I slept like a baby … and when I went back to the office the list was gone!” He tugged on his beard. “It had to be an inside job.” He paced back and forth, scuffing his black boots on our all-weather carpet. “I checked with all the line supervisor elves and every single one of the toy builders. This time of year they work around the clock without even restroom or cigarette breaks. But everyone had an alibi.”

“Could you have been targeted by Homeland Security?” Robin asked. “Or some other law-enforcement organization monitoring your research as to who might be on a Most Naughty list?”

“I can see why they might want that,” I said.

“Not at all, I have a close cooperative relationship with government agencies, considering all that airspace I fly over—and my work has to be done in a single night, so I have no time to mess with clearances. I even let NORAD track me every year. No, that list is in the hands of someone who means no good, mark my words … and no human could have gotten through my security. It had to be an unnatural.”

He hung his head and seemed so sad that I wanted to sit on Santa’s lap and give him a hug. He continued, “That’s why I came to you, Mr. Chambeaux. If I don’t get that Naughty and Nice list in time, I can’t stop thinking about all those poor children who’ll be disappointed, all those broken dreams, all those undelivered presents. It’ll destroy their faith in Christmas … and they just might turn out to be naughty next year.”

I was determined to solve the problem. It’s not every day you get a chance to save Christmas—and not just because Christmas only comes once a year. “Don’t underestimate how relentless a zombie can be, Santa. I’ll find your list. If I have any questions or developments, how will I get hold of you? Do you have a business card?”

“Much better than that.” Santa reached into a pocket of his red jacket and pulled out a bright green ribbon with a jingle bell attached. “Just ring this, and I’ll be there. Even if I’m otherwise occupied, I have an answering service that can get hold of me.”

The pink had come back to his cheeks, and a droll smile lifted his lips. “Oh-ho-ho, if you solve this case, there’ll be something very special under the tree—for all of you.”

Relieved and encouraged, Santa slung his empty sack over one shoulder and prepared to go. He closed his eyes and touched a finger to the side of his nose.

When nothing happened, he looked around our offices. Finding no chimney, he chuckled. “Sorry, I’ve been so worried about Christmas being ruined, I forgot how I arrived!” He left through the front door instead.

2

Although I knew I might have to go to Santa’s North Pole seasonal offices to see the crime scene, I decided to search in the Unnatural Quarter first, which was much more convenient. (Riding up to the Arctic for hours in a freezing open sleigh sounded worse than flying in a middle seat in Coach.)

I started with someone who kept a similar list—primarily a Naughty list.

Officer Toby McGoohan is a dedicated beat cop, but his penchant for telling off-color jokes to the wrong people had gotten him transferred to the Quarter. McGoo is also my BHF, my best human friend. We help each other on cases. We commiserate about life and unlife over beers at the Goblin Tavern.

I found him outside one of the Talbot & Knowles blood bars, which are frequented by vampires who need their daily caffeine and hemoglobin fix. Some fanged customers drink straight blood, while others go for berry-flavored blood frappés or, now that the weather had turned colder, steaming cinnamon-spice hot clotties.

“Hey, Shamble,” McGoo said, tipping his blue cap. “What do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?”

“What?” I groaned in advance.

“Frostbite.” He persists in telling me jokes. I haven’t been able to convince him they’re not funny, and he hasn’t been able to convince me that they are. As a special favor, I did promise I would try to laugh at some of them. But only some. “What’s new and exciting in your world?”

“I just picked up Santa Claus as a client. Somebody stole his list of Naughty and Nice kids.”

McGoo’s eyes widened. “Well, that’s a miracle on …” he glanced up, looking for a street corner, “32
^nd
Street. If even Santa isn’t safe from criminal activity, we are living in troubled times indeed. What does the list look like?”

“Long roll of parchment, millions of handwritten names. Two columns labeled N and N.”

McGoo shook his head. “I’ll keep an eye out, but we’ve got real problems of our own in the Quarter.” He lowered his voice. “Kids are going missing, Shamble—a lot of them. We’ve received a rash of reports.”

A vampire couple came out of the blood bar, chatting away. One held a to-go carrier with four cups of blood drinks marked with Type A (extra hot), Type O negative, and two with Type B positive (and a hand-drawn smiley face).

McGoo called, “Excuse me, can I see those for a second?”

The vampires turned, surprised. “What is it, Officer?”

“Your blood drinks. I want to show my friend something.”

McGoo indicated the to-go cups, the first of which showed the printed picture of a young vampire boy who had been turned when he was maybe twelve years old. Big letters said “Have You Seen Me?” Printed below the photo were the vampire kid’s name, pre-turned age, and last-seen data.

The second cup showed a zombie boy with an incongruous smile beneath his sunken eyes. The third was a scruffy-looking full-furred werewolf, and the fourth showed a human girl in Goth makeup wearing an off-the-shelf gloomy expression.

After he thanked the vampire couple, they left. I shook my head. “That’s troubling, McGoo. I think I recognize the werewolf kid. He was part of the gang at the rumble a few months ago, Hairballs versus the Monthlies.”

“Yeah, he’s not the only rough one. Some of the missing children are straight off the Wikipedia page for Juvenile Delinquent. Not all of those photos were in a family album—a few are from mug-shot files.”

“Some of the disappearances could just be runaways,” I suggested. “Visiting some nice old lady’s gingerbread house in the forest.”

“For the record, Shamble, she wasn’t a nice old lady—I worked on that case,” McGoo said. “Not all of the missing kids have records. We’ve got grieving parents or foster-parents who want to find their missing little angels. I don’t know if the cases are related, or just a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” I said, wondering if this might also have something to do with the stolen Naughty and Nice list. “But I didn’t believe in Santa Claus either, and now he’s my client. Let me know if you get a lead on my case. I’ll do the same if I hear anything about the missing kids.”

McGoo nodded. “The Quarter’s getting nervous—put your mind to it, see what you come up with. You’ve got a lot of space in that big empty head of yours.”

I tapped the bullet hole in the middle of my forehead. “A little extra space maybe, but it’s not empty.” I tipped my fedora at him and left.

My first order of business was to figure out who would
want
to steal the Naughty and Nice list, and what anybody would use it for. In order to brainstorm, I invited Sheyenne to lunch.

3

Being a ghost, Sheyenne doesn’t eat, not even their special “ephemeral” plate, and I don’t need much sustenance. (I’ve avoided brains, because I don’t want to turn into one of
those
zombies who are an embarrassment to the rest of us.)

The Ghoul’s Diner, though, was a place to hang out, and Sheyenne likes it when we go out on lunch dates. Strolling down the sidewalk toward the Diner, we free-associated. Sheyenne wore a bright smile as always, and those blue eyes could make a man’s heart stop beating, or start beating, depending on which condition he started from.

I wondered aloud that maybe the Big Uneasy had made the Grinch manifest as well, but Sheyenne doubted he’d reached a worldwide cultural status similar to vampires or St. Nick. I disagreed, because I had grown up on the Grinch; still, I conceded that he seemed too obvious a cartoon villain.

I then postulated that the perpetrator could be a Lorax with self-esteem issues, upset that Arbor Day didn’t have the stature of Christmas, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, New Years … or even Kwanzaa, for that matter. I didn’t know if Loraxes were real, either. I seemed to be in a Seussian rut.