The stupidest angel: a heartwarming tale of Christmas terror

Barker.

    "Shut up, kid," Tuck said. "There's no way up to the roof."

    "Are we going to cut off his head now?" said Josh.

    "You have to sever the spinal column or they just keep coming."

    "Look," Theo said, playing his flashlight across the center of the ceiling. There was a trapdoor up there, painted over and latched, but it was definitely there.

    "It leads to the old bell tower," Gabe Fenton said. "No bell, but it does open onto the roof."

    Theo nodded. "From the roof someone could tell where they all were before making his move."

    "That hatch is thirty feet up. There's no way to get to it."

    Suddenly the high chirp of a barking bat came from above them. A half-dozen flashlights swung around to spotlight Roberto, who was hanging upside down from the star atop the Christmas tree.

    "Molly's tree," said Lena.

    "It looks sturdy enough," said Gabe Fenton.

    "I'll go," said Ben Miller. "I'm still in pretty good shape. If I have to make a run for it, I can."

    "Right there, that proves it," said Tuck, an aside to Lena. "No guy with tiny balls would volunteer for that. See how the dead lie."

    "I'm driving an old Tercel," Ben said. "I don't think you want me trying to make a run for help in that."

    "What we need is a Hummer," said Gabe.

    "Yeah, or even a friendly hand job," said Tuck. "But that's later. For now, we need a four-wheel drive."

    "You really want to try this?" Theo asked Ben.

    The athlete nodded. "I've got the best chance of getting out. Those I can't outrun I'll just go through."

    "Okay, then," said Theo. "Let's get that tree over to the middle of the room."

    "Not so fast," said Tuck, patting his bandages. "I don't care how fast Micro-nads is, Santa still has two bullets in his gun."
    Chapter 19 – UP ON THE ROOFTOP,
    CLICK, CLICK, CLICK
    This is what it's all been about, thought Ben Miller as he climbed into the tiny bell tower atop the chapel. It had taken ten minutes to saw through the painted-closed seams of the hatch with the bread knife, but finally he'd made it, thrown the latch, and crawled from the top of the Christmas tree into the bell tower. There was just enough room to stand, his feet on narrow ledges around the hatch. Thankfully, the bell had been taken away a long time ago. The bell tower was enclosed by louvered vents and the wind whistled through like there was nothing there at all. He was pretty sure he could kick through the vents, hundred-year-old wood, after all, then make his way across the steep roof, drop off whichever side looked safe, and make it to the parking lot and the red Explorer he was holding the keys for. Thirty miles south to the highway-patrol post and help would be on the way.
    All of the years after high school and college when he had continued to train, all the hours of roadwork, all the weights and swimming and high-protein diets, it all came down to this moment. Keeping himself in shape all these years when no one really seemed to care would finally pay off. Anything out there that he couldn't outrun, he could take out with a lowered shoulder. (He'd played one season as a jay-vee halfback in addition to his varsity track career.)

    "You okay, Ben?" Theo yelled from below.

    "Yeah. I'm ready."

    He took a deep breath, braced his back against one side of the bell tower, then kicked at the louvered slats on the opposite side. They broke away on the first kick and he was nearly launched out on the roof feetfirst. He fought to get his balance – turned around on his stomach and scooted backward out the opening onto the roof. Facedown, he was looking down the length of the Christmas tree at a dozen hopeful faces below.

    "Hold tight. I'll be back soon with help," he said. Then he pushed back until he was on his hands and knees on the peak of the roof, cold wetness cutting everywhere he touched.

    "Please, bitch," came a voice from right by Ben's ear. He jumped sideways, and started to slide down the roof. Something caught his sweater, pulling him back, then something hard and cold was pressed against his forehead.

    The last thing he heard was Santa saying, "Pretty fucking tricky for a jock."

    Below, in the chapel, they heard the gunshot.
    * * *
    Dale Pearson held the dead track star by the back of the collar, thinking, Eat now, or save it for after the massacre? Below him on the ground, the rest of the undead were begging for treats. Warren Talbot, the landscape painter, had made his way halfway up the pine-tree trunk that Dale had used to climb up on