Sausagey Santa by Iii Carlton Mellick

wicked snowmen. We get in a little closer before all the zombies start to howl. They scream with their rotten frozen lungs as if some kind of signal.
    “Tentacle bombs,” Santa tells me. “Push it. Quickly, lad.”
    But I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
    Santa groans and pushes the button himself. Bombs drop out of the bottom of the sleigh. As the bombs hit the ground they burst open and large black tentacles explode out of the containers. The tentacles swell and stretch, wrapping around the zombies and crushing their throats. Their howls subside.
    “We don’t want them warning the others,” Santa says.
    “I thought they all had one consciousness,” I say. “If one of them saw us wouldn’t all of them see us?”
    “Nay, me laddo,” he says. “Once they split they become separate entities. They don’t share their minds until the coffee is brought back together into one pool. If we tread carefully we might still be able to catch them by surprise.”
     

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    THE GRINDING STATION
     

 
     
    “There it be,” Santa says. “Frosty’s domain. The grinding station.”
    Ahead I see a large black structure. It is a mess of grinding machinery. Gears and spikes and blades and cylinders chew at the air like metal jaws. Steam pours out of horns on its head.
    “My kids are in there?” I ask.
    “Aye,” he says. “But we’ll get them. Ye shall see, me boy.”
     
     
    A massive icicle shoots out of the black metal structure like a harpoon and impales a starfish ship on our left. The icicle is attached to a chain that quickly retracts, ripping the ship back into the grinding station. The elves shriek as they are eaten alive by the machine’s crushing jaws.
    “Attack!” Santa screams.
    He launches five wreath-shaped missiles that spin through the air like Frisbees and explode in the mouth of the grinding station. No visible damage.
    Several icicle harpoons are launched at us. Santa jerks at the reindeer and they dodge out of the way. The harpoons catch two more elf ships and reel them in. The elves jump from their seats and fall to their deaths to avoid being eaten by the grinding station.
    Santa fires toy train-shaped missiles at it. No effect. More icicles are launched. Dozens this time.
    “Retreat!” Santa cries.
    A harpooned clam-shaped ship smashes into us, ripping through the side of the sleigh and slamming into the reindeer, as it gets reeled in by the grinding station.
    The sleigh is going down.
    We spiral out of control as the clam ship is crunched into the machine. Santa and the elves wail into my ears, even Decapitron cries out, as we descend.
     
     
    The sleigh slams hard into the snow at the foot of the grinding station. The elves are grunting and groaning in the backseat. I look up to see the last couple of elven ships fleeing from the harpoons and escaping the frozen city.
    Santa straightens himself and widens his ear holes at the air. I hear it, too. There is a leaking sound. Like someone is going to the bathroom. Then I see it. One of the reindeer. Its belly has been torn open and it is leaking fluid. By the smell of it, I’d say the fluid is gasoline.
    The olive-eyes on Santa’s face grow so wide the pimentos almost pop out.
    “Run!” he cries.
    We jump out and run in opposite directions away from the sleigh. Once I’m at a safe distance, I turn around. The reindeer just stands there casually for a few minutes, huffing and stomping its hooves, as it leaks gasoline from its guts.
    Then the reindeer explodes.
     
     
    It causes a chain reaction and each of the reindeer explode one at a time.
    Santa stands above me with tears pouring down his cheeks. As the reindeers detonate into balls of flame, he names them off one by one, crying, “Now, Dasher. Now, Dancer. Now, Prancer and Vixen. On, Comet. On, Cupid. On Donner and Blitzen,” until the explosions reach the sleigh.
    When the sleigh explodes, lightning spiders into the snowscape all around us. It crawls up the