Continuing its serialization of Tommy Hancock's THE ADVENTURES OF NICHOLAS SAINT featuring Santa Claus and company viewed through a Pulpy prism, Pro Se Productions proudly presents Day 4 of this novella, featuring stunning art work by David L. Russell!
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| Logo by Perry Constantine |
CHAPTER THREE
FIRST, FROST
Jack Frost hated surprises.
He’d despised the phenomenon of being caught unawares
vehemently from the first time he’d opened his eyes. Not birth mind you, Jack had no memories of that. Or childhood. Or much of anything before the pale white lids hiding his
nearly translucent blue eyes fluttered and opened back in 1890. His entire body
drenched in freezing water, remnants of the spit of ice he’d somehow been
frozen in clinging to his skin like barnacles on a ship hull. The array of faces he on his back found
himself staring up at had been a rather pleasant surprise for his first one.
What followed, however, was as far from pleasant as he was from his true
origins.
There were many things Jack did not know, even to this
day. Who he actually was or why he’d
been in the ice or how he’d ended up dressed in the garb of a Colonial American
soldier. He had no understanding
of how people he’d met, even on that first day, had memories of meeting someone
like him, name, face and all, in the past, but someone altogether different in
other ways. A whirlwind of
confusion and conundrums, that’s what Nicholas Saint had called it after
chasing Jack halfway around the world. Through warzones, bars, and nearly literal hellholes,
Saint had pursued Jack, a man lost in a world with only a land deed shoved in
his pocket that gave him his name and a single memory that that name was indeed
his. As hard as Jack pushed in
that first year of living again in a world he neither wanted nor remembered,
Nicholas Saint fought just as hard to keep him alive. To make him want to live. And to give him purpose. That had impressed…and surprised Jack. Enough that he threw what little lot he
had in with Saint and Bette and even that crotchety old sprig of aggravation
and irritation, Hieronymus Virginia, among others.
So, Frost mused as he pulled the 1932 Phaeton Touring Car
into Caruthersville, apparently not all surprises were patently evil.
The one he’d received just a few hours ago, however, was at
the least disconcerting and inconvenient. After a long day in New York City of bringing orphans
as much joy as a blue eyed gentleman with hair and skin the color of pure snow
bearing handcrafted toys could, Jack had decided to enjoy the company of others
in need. Particularly a rather
young, extremely intriguing widow, her dear departed husband lost in a plane
crash somewhere over Africa. And
enjoying his evening with her he was indeed doing when the rather unique,
exquisite watch that adorned his wrist began to hum, the crystalline face of
the timepiece glowing a bright white.
Excusing himself from the widow’s embrace, knowing that she’d be tasting
the strange coolness of his pallid lips on her cherry red cupid’s bow mouth for
hours, Frost cursed his bad luck, renewed his hatred for unexpected
interruptions, and excused himself.
What he learned when he reached the street and used the pine
cone shaped device Bette had given him to contact the Village via radio only
added fire to Jack’s thoughts on revelations and bombshells. It also pushed him as if the Devil
himself were on his heels to the nearest air strip. One of the thousands around the world that dropped
everything when someone dropped the name ‘Nicholas Saint.’
Jack saw the Caruthersville Court House rise in front of him
as he drove into the downtown area.
He remembered the last time he’d been in this rather nice, humble little
town. The last time they’d all
been there. The day the children
vanished.
Wary in part because it was his nature to be so, but also
keenly aware that he was one of a handful whose rather unique face would not be
welcome in Caruthersville, Jack turned right onto a side street before actually
breaching the town square.
Caruthers Park spread out on his left and Jack pulled the car into the
graveled parking lot there and killed the motor.
He’d picked up the Phaeton at the T. Nash Auto Garage in
Cleveland. Another benefit
of working with a man like Saint was the ability he had to create a whole chain
of garages that wound its way across the United States just so he, Jack, and
others would always have a place to go and acquire transportation of the four
wheeled variety. He’d enjoyed the
trip to town in the Phaeton, its convertible ragtop down, the crisp winter air
teasing Jack’s skin. Nothing
felt better to Jack Frost than the cold, not because he particularly remembered
always liking it, but more to do with some sort of response to being encased in
ice like Nature’s own museum display for Providence knows how long.
Climbing out of the car, Jack took a moment to absorb the
surroundings. He shoved his black
gloved hands into the deep pockets of the pitch black trench coat he wore over
a tailor made suit, fedora, vest and tie included, of the same color. Bette Saint had only told him
that the only townsperson in Caruthersville that hadn’t wished them dead ten
years ago had used a radio device Nicholas had left with helpers often, one far
beyond its time and of his own invention, and had sent a ‘jingle’, a summons
for help. He was closest, Bette
had explained, and therefore reconnaissance and information gathering fell to
him until Nicholas arrived. Jack
was content with that, knowing that he’d be far more effective than that filthy
dolt Peter. So, he was in town now and, as always with towns like this one, the
best place to start would of course be the heart of the settlement. Main Street.
A wave of
unwanted nostalgia washed over him like dirty water as he walked deeper into
the tiny wooded enclave near the heart of the city. He’d almost forgotten, he realized, that Caruthers
Park was where he and the others had retreated to that day. The last time they were in
Caruthersville. As he passed the
cobblestone circle at the center of the park ringed with wrought iron park
benches, Frost closed his eyes. He
could still see them, Nick, Bette, himself…all of them back to back and
surrounded by those benches. And
scores of murderous, mindless children.
It was early so it was no surprise that he was alone in the
park. What did startle Jack a bit,
though, was the sight that greeted him when he exited the manmade thicket onto
Main Street, just across the street from the Courthouse.
People.
Not early morning shoppers rushing for that last Christmas gift or
modern Bob Cratchitts desperate to get to work to please their versions of
Scrooge. A crowd, a massive throng
filling the yard and steps and even the street in front of and around the
courthouse. Faces mingling
together into a blanket of sparkling eyes and odd smiles, all looking the
general direction of the courthouse steps, at the bottom. All adult faces, Jack Frost sadly
noted.
Atop the stairs was a face Jack recognized. Mayor P. Paul Plumley, a man whose
appearance fit his name. Pear
shaped, Plumley’s egg like head sat on no obvious neck, just seemingly buffeted
back and forth between two meaty shoulders. His wide bulbous blue eyes perched on chubby cheeks, his
mouth turned up into a wild grin.
Four strands of faded red hair wrestled each other atop his speckled
pate as the wind teased his scalp.
Something was off, Jack knew it right away, about the Mayor. It was his clothes. A tacky red and green plaid suit,
loud enough to serve as a Christmas tree in any department store. The suit Plumley wore ten years
ago. The one he swore he’d never
wear again the day that every citizen except one swore off Christmas
forever.
Feeling an odd sensation of sudden warmth on the back of his
neck, his own personal warning system, Jack walked toward the courthouse. He gently pulled his right hand from
his coat pocket and tugged his fedora down to hide his face more. He then slid his black gloved hand
inside his coat. It was an
instinctive reflex anytime a situation felt out of the ordinary. And this one qualified even more
as Jack looked around, his eyes taking in the Main Street businesses, the
streets, everything.
Empty. No cars at all. No one crowding the stoop or filling
the oversized spittoon outside Garrett’s Barber Pole or bustling into McAfee’s
Family Discount Store. No
one anywhere else other than the courthouse. Most of the population of Caruthersville flooded about the
courthouse, a sea of murmuring humanity.
“-day would never come,” whined Mayor Plumley as Jack
reached the outer edge of attentive listeners, all eyes front. “When we, nearly a decade ago to the
day, watched as our children were spirited away! Our hearts were shattered, our lives destroyed, our town
forever changed! And all because
of Christmas!” Jack winced at the barbs he knew were coming next and suddenly
felt very conspicuous. Plumley did
not disappoint.
“I know many of us,” he woefully whimpered, ”blame ourselves
for placing our faith in people who claim to represent hope, good and purity
only to learn that they were the very reason tragedy struck our humble
village!” Rumbles rose from the gathered citizens. “I will admit that even I did not believe until the end,
until our very future marched into nothingness before our eyes, that our
supposed saviors were indeed the reason for our despair!” Plumley’s eyes darted to whatever was
at the base of the steps below him and Jack noticed his smile grew even wider
and more intense. “And now,” his
voice became filled with genuine emotion, strangled with tears, “as if a
present for our willingness to shun the lie of Christmas, to punish those who
truly caused our great sadness, our children have returned!”
Plumley’s impassioned words nearly brought Jack Frost
leaping into the crowd to unravel the mystery, his mind struggling to grasp
what he’d heard. That impulse was
quelled, however, more by the roiling assembly of cheering and clapping
onlookers pushing back toward him than by any sense on his part. The crowd parted, opening
up a view of the snow covered foot of the courthouse steps, so everyone could see
what Plumley, still talking, was touting as ‘a true miracle’. And what Jack Frost saw chilled even
his icy blood.
Lined up in four rows stood people in gray militaristic
uniforms in front of the courthouse steps. Young men and women, some probably not even over eighteen
yet Jack estimated. Some skinny,
some muscular, some with short hair, some with long. But all clothed in the same style of uniform and all wearing
a blank, almost doll like expression on their faces. Faces that even ten years later Jack Frost recognized,
primarily because he saw them almost every time he slept, haunting his
nightmares.
And every single of one of them stared straight ahead, their
glazed eyes focused, staring straight ahead as they lifted their arms, each one
extending an accusing finger. All
aimed at him.
Jack Frost hated surprises.
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