The fog swirled thickly around his ankles as he stood in the dim light of the streetlamp. He was too exposed here, but the boss had told him to watch the back alley, so watch the back alley he did. The door to the boss’ office was at his back as he looked left and right periodically, keeping all of his senses alert to anything that would cause issues if the gang needed to escape.
The walls bore down on him as the time passed, his eyes playing tricks, finding shapes in the discarded waste that littered the floor. Behind him came a loud bang; a gunshot rang out. He started as another gunshot, then more followed. Screams filled the small alleyway with dread. Something had gone horribly wrong.
His curiosity and his eagerness to help pulled him towards the door, but it was tempered by the boss’ words in his ears.
“We might need to get out in a hurry, slick,” he had said, “watch this alley like it’s your only reason for living”.
The implication had been clear; watch the alley, or it’ll be a bullet in the back of the head for disobedience.
His hand paused at the handle as the door burst outwards towards him.
He narrowly dodged as its sharp metal edge sliced past his face.
Douglas was at the door, holding his stomach with one hand, a leather-bound book in the other.
Drops of blood covered almost every inch of him, from his face, all over his shirt, but the worst of it poured around his hand and ran down his trousers.
“Slick,” Douglas gasped, “you’ve got to get this out of here”.
Douglas pushed the leather-bound book into the bewildered man’s hand, not waiting for him to accept.
“If he gets a hold of this, everyone is dead,” he continued, blood beginning to run onto the floor below him, “do you understand me?”
He didn’t understand, he didn’t have time.
“Run and don’t stop, Slick,” Douglas shouted, “get it to our guys at the docks.”\
It hadn’t set in yet; he just stood there holding the book, dumbfounded.
Movement behind Douglas caught his eye, followed by the sound of a shotgun cocking.
“GO!” Douglas bellowed, turning to face the sound of the shotgun firing.
The taste of Douglas’s blood in his mouth got his legs moving. It was all over him; painting his shirt, coating his arms, but worst, it had sprayed all over his face and into his eyes and mouth. He turned, picking a direction without calculating the fastest way to the docks. That could come after he put some distance between him and, whatever was happening inside the office.
Halfway down the alley his heart was pounding now, filling his ears, threatening to jump out of his chest. The adrenaline drove him forward, faster than he had ever run. Was everyone dead?
Clipping a discarded crate, he stumbled, catching a glimpse behind him.
Under the dim light of the same streetlamp he wished he was still under, counting down the hours of his shift, until he could see out another uneventful day, was a giant of a man.
He didn’t have time to drink in any more than a vague outline of someone staring after him.
Were his eyes red?
“After him,” he heard a voice boom behind him, “get me that book!”
He reached the end of the alley, turning south towards the docks. The streets were empty this late at night, rows of cars lined up, dormant while their owners slept, partied, or gambled their money away. He knew he couldn’t go straight there; he had to lose them. Whoever was pursuing him just massacred the most brutal gang in the city; they would find him, so he had to get there fast.
Footsteps echoed behind him, lots of them. Whoever this was brought lots of men.
He knew these streets, so he knew where someone could get turned around. Ducking left, he slipped into another alley, narrower than the last. Washing lines adorned the windows, cut haphazardly into walls, while dumpsters and discarded furniture cluttered the slick floor. People lived here, and he didn’t want to die here, weaving around obstacles, leaping over anything which blocked the way. His legs burned. The echo of boots on stone still followed him. Were they closer now? He couldn’t turn back to check.
He ducked into the back door of a 24-hour laundrette, slipping past the annoyed attendant, and out of the front door.
“Hey,” he heard the short man shout, his voice barely audible over his own ragged breathing.
This street was busier, traffic flowing in both directions. There was no time to wait; either the cars killed him or his tail did. He burst out into traffic, successfully finding a gap in the first lane of cars, having to slide over the bonnet of a car to get to the other side. Not able to resist, he looked back.
There he was, the giant of a man on the other side of the road; his eyes were not red, but they were locked on him.
The man must have been at least 8 feet tall, wearing a green jacket turned red with the blood of his employers.
A snow-white beard, slick with blood, was the only other thing he noticed before the giant spoke.
“You’re on my naughty list, Slick,” he bellowed, “give me the manifest and I will make your death a fast one.”
A piece clicked into place; the book was a manifest, it contained a list of all the dealings the boss had with the other families.
“If he gets a hold of this, everyone is dead,” Douglas had said.
The giant was surrounded by men who looked like children in comparison.
“Are they children?” he asked himself.
There was no time to wonder as the men launched themselves across the road.
Panic had set in now, and he felt like his heart would finish him before this giant could. Every sinew of his body screamed for him to stop, but he turned and ran. The docks were close; he could see the tightly stacked containers cresting above the tops of the warehouses.
Left, right, left, right; he weaved through the side alleys. Tiredness rolled through him, seeping in from his extremities. How long could he run for? His pursuers were close; their footsteps echoed shortly after his. There was no time to look back; he was almost there.
The last street before the docks, he could hear the horn of a departing boat. This was a rarely used service road, so there was no traffic to dodge. Relief began to blossom in his mind as his foot clipped the corner of a pallet, tripping him. Falling hard, he landed wrong on his arm.
Sprawled on the ground, he looked back and saw them.
A swarm of short men in stained green hats, surrounding a man like the wake of a boat.
“Stay here,” the man boomed, “leave him to me.”
The school of fish, surrounding their leader, stopped at once. The giant emerging between them reminded him of a shark closing in on its kill. The kill was him.
Struggling to his feet, still clutching the leather-bound book, he disappeared amidst the containers.
A “Ho, ho, ho,” echoed around him, “I see you when you’re sleeping, Slick.
I know when you’re awake.
I know when you’ve been bad, Slick.
And you have definitely been very bad.”
He darted around containers, but he had lost his bearings. Dread was setting in; his pulse pounding in his ears, it was deafening. Breath so hot it condensed in the cool night air. He leant against a container, just for a moment, just for a second. Moving again seemed impossible.
It was only a moment as a giant rounded the corner, staring down at his quarry.
“There you are, Slick.
I was beginning to think you didn’t like me,” the giant beamed through his blood-stained beard.
“What are you?” the exhausted man wheezed, sliding down the side of the container, knees giving out.
“Why, I’m Santa,” the giant laughed triumphantly, “and you’ve been naughty.”
Santa reached down and grabbed him by his shirt, lifting him back to his feet, then off of the floor. He dangled like a marionette; legs with nothing left to give hung below him. Santa hurled him at another container, his body crumpling to the ground from the impact, but he gripped the leather-bound book with all his remaining energy. The air was driven from his lungs; he had never known pain this intense.
There, to his left, glinting in the moonlight, a scrap of metal.
He let himself fall in its direction.
“Time for your present,” Santa said, as he lifted the ghost of a man back up, “and there’s only one present I give to naughty little boys.”
He could see the boat over Santa’s shoulder; they were beginning to stow the gangway.
Santa placed his other hand around his prey’s neck and began to squeeze, it was over.
Suddenly, Santa let out a gasp, dropping the man to the floor; the metal scrap protruded from his stomach, blood already pouring free.
Not waiting for permission, he summoned strength he didn’t know he had and pulled himself to his feet. Ducking around Santa’s flailing arm, he bolted for the boat; he wasn’t as fast now, this was it, his last chance.
The gangway had been pulled up and the ropes untied; the boat began pulling away under its own steam.
There wasn’t time to wait and explain, so he leapt, giving everything and more to grab onto the railing that ran the perimeter of the vessel.
“Jesus and Mary,” a deckhand yelled, startled by the sound of his body colliding with the side of the hull.
The man ran to him, helping him up and over the edge.
“Slick, is that you?” the deckhand asked, “you look like hell.”
He felt worse than hell.
He rolled on the deck and looked back towards the docks.
Between two containers he could see his pursuer looming.
Even from here he could tell that Santa was glaring directly at him.
“Until next year, Slick,” he heard Santa boom, his voice carried on the wind.
Rolling onto his back, he was done; he had no more to give. Over the sounds of the boat he could have sworn he heard bells. Consciousness slipped from him, and he sailed silently into the night.