Santa Claus

  Something was wrong with the reindeer. They’d been sluggish throughout the night, movements erratic. The sun was peeking over the horizon, a blazing threat of impending failure. 

  “Just one more present to deliver, then we’ll get you all help,” Santa said. 

  Rudolph dipped his head low, then twisted his body, freeing himself from the harness. He looked back at Santa, eyes filled with sorrow and blood. Then he fell from the sky. 

  “Rudolph!” Santa screamed. 

  The rest of the reindeer did as they were trained to do. They followed Rudolph. Each got free of their harnesses, then dropped. Tears filled Santa’s eyes as he watched them fall. 

  “What have I done?”

  Christmas must be completed, but never before had the cost been this high. He vowed to get to the bottom of what disease had claimed the reindeer, but his immediate attention turned to the fact that his sleigh was now losing altitude. 

  A roar sounded below, and Santa looked over the edge of the sleigh. In the clouds he saw a passenger airplane. Doing fast calculations, he made a snap decision. Santa reached into the back, scooping up the last remaining present. Then he pitched himself over the side of the sleigh. 

  The air tore at him as he fell. Squinting, he did his best to keep the commercial airliner in site, trying to use his body to adjust the direction of his descent. The plane was approaching, almost directly underneath him now, but was he falling too fast? 

  He tucked the present under his arm and closed his eyes as he slammed into the fuselage. The impact sent a shock of pain through his body. He bounced to the left, landing on the wing. The ripping wind started to push him off, but Santa clutched desperately at the metal, fighting to find a handhold. Just as his legs slid off the wing, his fingers caught the edge of the flaps, keeping him from falling. He pulled himself up onto the wing. 

  Passengers in the plane screamed as they pressed their faces against the windows, watching Santa approach. He gripped the valve on the emergency hatch and ripped it open. An explosion of pressurized air hit him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Gritting his teeth, Santa pressed forward, stumbling inside.   

  Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling and passengers screamed. Santa held up his hands. 

  “It’s okay. I’m commandeering this aircraft for a short time.” 

  A bulky man in plain clothing stood up. In one hand he raised his air marshal badge. In his other hand was a gun.

  “Oh no you don’t!” the Air Marshal yelled. 

  He fired twice, catching Santa in the chest. Santa pitched backward, hitting the ground hard and rolling. He used the momentum to swing his legs around and stumbled back to his feet. Blood flowed freely from his bullet wounds, but he bit back the pain. He barreled toward the cockpit and lowered his shoulder, hitting the door with all of his might. It buckled and swung open. Santa rushed inside, met by the shocked stares of the pilot and co-pilot. He slammed the cockpit door shut, then pulled off his belt and used it to tie the door closed. Satisfied it would hold, he turned to the pilots. 

  “Sorry about this boys.” 

  Santa reached for the controls and shoved the flight stick forward. The nose of the plane pitched down severely. The pilot tried to pry Santa’s hand away, but couldn’t. 

  “You’ll kill us all!” the co-pilot shouted. 

  The plane shuddered as it descended at an accelerated pace. Alarms began to shriek and multiple lights began to flash on the panels of instruments. Metal creaked and groaned, the plane dealing with a maneuver it wasn’t designed to endure. Santa kept watch on the instruments as they dropped. 15,000 feet. 10,000. 5,000. 3,000. He brought the flight stick even, pulling the nose of the plane up. Glancing out of the cockpit, he surveyed the suburban sprawl below, squinting. 

  “Which one is Henderson street,” he muttered. 

  His eyes lit up as he recognized a neighborhood. He leaned back and kicked the cockpit glass, causing it to explode outward. The pilots yelled as air whipped at them. 

  “You’re just five miles from Teterboro. Get this thing safely on the ground,” Santa said. “I believe in you, you’re good boys.” 

  Before the stunned pilots could reply, Santa dove through the broken glass. The morning sun glared at him, taunting his tardiness. 

  “I haven’t failed yet,” Santa said as he plummeted toward the houses below. 

He spread his arms wide, trying to slow his descent. He twisted his body, putting himself on course for the correct house, approaching fast. At the last second, Santa tucked himself into a ball and squeezed his eyes shut. He exploded through the roof, wood and shingles ripping at him as he shot through. He blew through the attic and broke through the ceiling. The family dog barked as Santa crashed into the kitchen. He hit back-first on the counter, bouncing high before smashing through the kitchen table. A firestorm of pain engulfed him as he smacked the tile floor and tumbled out into the living room. His body slid to a stop, and for a moment he blacked out. 

  Santa’s eyes popped open. He heard voices. Upstairs. They hadn’t seen him yet. Hadn’t seen the bare Christmas tree yet. Every child deserved a present on Christmas Day. Blood pouring from his head, Santa tossed the present. It landed perfectly beneath the tree. He used the coffee table to get to his feet, then stumbled to the front door. His back was wrecked, and he was pretty sure he had broken ribs. He left the house just before the occupants came downstairs. 

  Santa fell off the porch into the bushes. He pulled his legs up, making sure he was hidden from view. At last, he smiled, whispering something as he slipped into unconsciousness. 

  “Merry Christmas to all.”