You wake up on the beach. Your tummy hurts. The pebbles are so cold against the holes in your clothes. The A weak light slips through the perennial fog, and the sea and the land are lost. But the sun is rising. You cannot stay here by yourself. Where do you head: [[To The School House]] [[To the Bonfire]] [[To the Pub]] A sign is made of a piece of driftwood, the words 'School House' written on in oily paint. The building is lit by three sputtering latterns that do little to dispel the dark. Against the far wall the electronic machines are shoved against the wall, dead and covered in dust. On the walls are pictures scarred into wood. There are only five children, wrapped in rags and blankets like everyone else. They are spotty, rashy, tired. The schoolteacher stands in front of them, back bent, one ear a messy rag of ripped cartiledge and skin. She glances at you, and smiles. 'Are you here to speak to the children?'she says. Do you: [[Say you have come to speak to the children]] [[Say you have come to look at the pictures]]The Major repeats his daily speech. His battered straw hat is at a rakish angle, and he stands near the roaring flames, hands on the lapels of his weathered jacket. It will be longer today, because today is a holiday. The crowd stands around him, the usual crowd of the old and the young dressed in rags and blankets and shawls. The Major is a good showman. His words are measured but enthusiatic and clear. "And on this, our special day, we continue on against those who would do harm to us. Though today we remember the fallen, this bonfire reminds us that we keep going, that we have survived another night." The sun has risen further, breaking through the clouds, but still not quite enough to dispel them. You stomach is a ball of lead weight, aching to get out. Do you: [[Continue to listen]] [[Speak to one the people]] The door is almost wired shut through the damp of the sea. The building sits in what would have been the seafront, but now it leans to one side. You manage to wench open the door, and the smell of mould and salt envelopes you. There are only 8 eight customers in the pub, huddled around rotting tables lit by candles in various dying states. They huddle round their tables, some talking in low whispers, other staring into foggy drinks. The lady behind the bar is anywhere from thirty to fifty, with thick red hair matted to their head. You approach her, and she speak through a poker face. What do you want? [[Beer]] [[Sherry]] [[Food]]The Major continues. He has practised this many times before. "and as the light rises for another day, I say to you my friends, we must continue or fight. I know at times it may seem hopeless, but with our eternal bonfire burning bright, we will continue until the light clears the land once again." No-one in the audience responds. they are more interested in warming themselves by the fire, which is built from old driftwood still encrusted with seawood. The sun is rising higher, almost visible as a pale, grey ball. And whatever is causing your stoamch to hurt gets worse, and stretches across your belly. The Major raises his hands above your head. "So I ask you, my friends, to join me in prayer, on this, our holiday, and thank the light for rising once again." Do you: [[Join in the prayer]] [[Try and rest your stomach]]You shamble over to soomeone in the crowd. He is taller than you, and stocky, with a long nose. Although most of his clothes are rags in grey and black, there is one red slash of satin across his chest. 'What's going on?' You say. Excuse me,you say. What is this about? The man looks at you with pure fury in his eyes. Though the red satin is tatty, there is a badge of a small engraved wave that shines out like it was bought yesterday. Another ripple of pain rolls across your stomach, enough to make you clutch your sides. The Major requests everyone to join him in prayer. Do you: [[Ask the man again what is wrong]] [[Join in the prayer]]The crowd raise their hands with the Major, though their faces remain unmoved. You try and raise your arms with them, but another bolt of pain shoots across your stomach. You cry out, and fall to one knee. The Mayor's eyes whip to you lightning sharp. 'If you have had too much to drink friend, the pub is the right place for you, not here for our celebration." You try to get back up, and raise your arms. You know how important the holiday is. But all you achieve is losing balance, and falling onto your face. The pebbles are ice cold. Now the crowd back away from you. The major looks frantically around, as if looking for an exit. Do you [[Try and call out for help]] [[Clutch at one of the crowd for support.]]You wrap your hands around your stomach to try and dull the pain, but all it seems to do is shift something hard to ther other side of your guts. Your legs fall out from underneath you, and the pebbles graze your knees. Something red shoots through the sky. Before you can focus, the Major [[pauses his speech.]] You try and call out for help, but something is lodged on your throat. It is like a large piece of driftwood. 'It's inside the belly! Drown it in the sea!' The Major says. 'Throw it on the bonfire! Do it now!' You turn to stocky man who is anywhere from forty to seventy, with hair down to his shoulders, and try once again to speak. When nothing comes you try to scream, and something rips deep down in your belly. The man scoops you up under both arms, and drags you towards the bonfire. The smoke stings your eyes, and the heat and pain makes your drip sweat. 'Faster! Get him in!' Yells the mayor, his army background rising to the surface. [[But you don't reach the bonfire.]]You reach out to the nearest member of the crowd, an old woman with one clawed out eye. She screeches, but you gain a strong grip on her leg. The pain is excruciating now, and you dig your fingers in. The screeches again. 'Get him! Get in the sea now!' The Major says, one bony finger pointed at your face. The crowd descends on you, and the woman tries to break away from your grip. All this achieves is her falling on top of you. She smell of rot and earth. When she lands on you, something in your stomach rips. A great cold sensation starts to rush across your body. The faces of your crowd surround you, and their cold bony hands pinch your skin, attempting to lift you from the pebbles. 'In the sea! In the sea!' The mayor continues to scream. 'Get that Rudolph in the sea!' The sun is at its peak, or as much as it ever gets now, and without a free hand to cover your face, you are blinded. [[Then it all goes wrong.]] A great black cloud spills from your mouth, cutting out the light from the sun. The crowd recoils, then scastters, fleeing in all directions across the beach. At last you are alone. Well, not quite. Out here on the pebbles you hav e the perfect view of the horns ripping through your kidneys, and the monster inside you greeting the world, and flying into the air, droplets of the blood falling like snow. Something about the heat makes the pain in your stomach expand. A single spike stretches out from your guts, and the agony focuses into one sharp point from your belly. Finally the skin bursts, and a bloody antler pokes through. Your vision blurs, and something with hooves, and bloody matted fur crawling out of your belly, stumbling towards the horrified crowd. The school teacher claps with delight. 'Children, we have a treat for you today. We have one of our veterans here to discuss the war with you. Obviously this was a big part of history, so listen carefully to what they have to say.' Most of the children do not react to your prescence, execept for one with ginger hair, a snotty nose and broken glasses, who stares up with hope and excitement. The problem is, you do not know you what she is talking about. Your memories before you woke up on the beach are as foggy as the weather outside. But the teacher looks at you expectantly, and though most show little interest, a dozen sets of eyes gaze up at you. The pain in your stomach expands, and you have to lean on the table. Do you: [[Try and remember something.]] [[Be honest, and say you weren't a part of it]]The schoolteacher's smile flips to a frown. 'Oh. I thought you would know about it by now. Well, they are over there.' You stroll over to them, through the children, who don't even look at you. The school teacher carries on with her lesson behind you. Your stomach pain gets worse, like a balloon is expanding in your stomach. Do you: [[Continue to the first panel]] [[Ask the school teacher for help.]]'Umm..Ummm.' Your voice sounds thick and rusty, like you have a bad head cold. You try and remember anything beforehand, and all you have is a strong image of walking along the beach, annd a shadow in the fog. But it is more than that. You cannot even form a fake memory, or bluster through a couple of sentences of introduction. There is only stuttering. A whisper goes through the children, and the schoolteacher raises her voice. 'Now children, you know our veterens have been through a lot. This is why we let them look at the pictures whenever they want. So please, give our guest a few moments to compose himself.' You barely hear these last words. Something shifts in your gut, and agony fills your stomach. Do you: [[Make one more attempt to speak.]] [[Ask the school teacher for help.]]Your shrug your shoulders, and through a huge effort, you manage to say- 'Wasn't there.' A single tear runs down the schoolteacher's cheek. 'I know you were there. I saw you.' There must be a coherent argument, something which we will end this. But the pain is too much. You stagger to the back of the room, looking for somewhere to lean. [[You collapse over the machine.]] You try one more time to bring out one memory, something that might get you through this. But now words are impossible. Whatever is in your stomach is now pressing against the back of your lungs, and your manage one last croak before stumbling back against a table. From here you see the electronic machines, and recognise them as pinball machines.Every one is covered in a thick coat of dust. You played on them a lot as a child, when they still lit up and rang with noise. You know this for certain, but still you cannot remember what happened even yesterday. The children rise from their chairs, and point at you, some with screams erupting from their mouths. 'It's one them!' They cry. 'It's a Rudolph!' Two chubby hands grab your shoulders. The school teacher, who is surprisingly strong for a woman of her age and conditition, spins you towards the door. Her voice is tired. 'I know you don't have a choice,' she says. 'But you don't have to do this near the children.' Do you: [[Stumble back outside.]] [[Fight her grip.]] She cries, and says she would have once. The words are hard, but you managed a gargled ‘help please,’ and shrug your shoulders. Tears roll down her face. ‘I would have once,’ she said. ‘But it’s too hard now. She points at one of the images, everyone round a bonfire, holding hands. ‘They will help you,’ she says. [[Continue to the first panel]] You stagger back outside, somehow warmer outside in the freezing fog than in the schoolhouse. There is no specific plan of what to do next, and you don’t have time to plan what to do next. A lump juts out through your shirt, and with the noise of a spot popping a gore-splatted nose pokes through your chest. The children have their noses pressed against the glass, leaving snow and condensation on the pane. They watch you fall apart, excited for the first time in years.It pains you to have to attack her. Her wrists are so thin. But whatever causes you such terrible agony kicks survival mode into full gear. You shove her against the wall with one push; On the way to the exit, you learn that the children can take care of themselves. They pull out the sharpened white and red candy canes, and advance towards you. In seconds your belly is full of holes and sores. A single limp hoof falls out of your intestines, and the world goes black. You collaspe over the machine, and something in your stomach shifts over. Beneath the glass is the face of a clown. It's nose once lit up, but now it sits in the darkness. Chilled smoke erupts from your mouth, and hides the machines from view. Behind you are the cries of the children, some thinking of their parents, and the similar fate that befell them. 'Excuse me, why won't you talk to me?' 'Shut. Up.' The man says. His voice is baritone and comannding Now the others are turning to look at you. And the Major has stopped his speecb too, and glares at you. 'My friend,' he says. 'This is our special day. We are all very grateful for your help in bringing it about, but please, let us finish the speech.' Do you [[Remain silent]] [[Insist they tell you more]]You bow your head a little, and decide to wait for the moment to protest. But the Major [[pauses his speech.]] You know you have some power, some authority. But when you try and shout your demands, a freezing jet of smoke rolls out your tongue like a ice cold dragon. The Major opens his mouth, and perhaps he shouts instructions. But they are lost when the first blows hits you in the stomach. You feel an organ inside you rupture, perhaps your appendix, or one of oyur kidneys. There is one moment of exquisite pain, and then a horn bursts out of your stomach. Your world ends to the sound of the crowd shouting 'Christmas Present.'Now everyone is looking at you. The crowd has turned to face you, and the Major I'd staring at you, his straw hat clutched in one hand. You try and ask what is going on, but the words are locked in your throat. The crowd gasps. The man with the satin stripe grabs your legs. His grip is remarkably strong, and he flips you onto your back with little effort. The pebbles sting the back of your head, and you realise your lower back is burning. 'Hes one of them! He's a Rudolph!' The satin man says. At once the crowd starts roaring. The man slides you along the freezing pebbles, and the pain in your belly grows. Do you: [[Let him slide you away from the crowd]] [[Fight to get out of his grasp]]The man slides you across your pebbles. A lot of your body has gone numb now, but heat radiates from around your stomach, the contents of which churns with every bump. The crowd is lot in the fog, now nothing more than a babble, with the Major shouting for order over the top. 'I'm sorry my friend,' the man says. But you know the sea is the only cure.' You try and ask him for what, but your lungs can barely get a breath in. Now you are near the water's edge, and the man does not stop. 'It won't take long,' he says. Do you: [[Let him drag you in]] [[Fight to get out of his grasp]]If there is one advantage to the pain in your guts, it does seem to literally weigh you down. With a twist to the right, the top of your shirt rips, exposing a swollen belly. You land a decent uppercut to the man’s jaw, and his grip loosens. Taking your chance, you skitter across the pebbles. The crowd hesitate, their arms reaching out. Now silent, the Major balls his hand into fists, but hangs back. You run across the stones, hoping for salvation. But your stomach tears open, and everything below your kneecaps goes numb. Within seconds you are back on the ground, something wriggling in your guts. Do you: [[Try and crawl away]] [[Grasp onto whatever is coming out]]Let him drag you in: If you thought the outside was cold, the weather is nothing compared to the absolute ice blast of the water. Every part of you shoots througb with numbness. The water had a horrific taste of salty pennies, and stings your teeth. Only your stomach continues to burn, as if unaffected by the water. Whatever is inside presses against the lining of your stomach. The man pushes your head underwater, and your world becomes cold and dark, and lacking oxygen. [[Or it would have been...]]Or it would have been: Or it would have been, until something fights against your stomach, and rushes up your throat. You hear something bubble up through the the water, and somehow the sea become even colder. The tight grip of the man slips from your shoulder, ands water goes red. You burst into wonderful oxygen filled air. A scarlet monster the size of a housecat has your attacker between a pair of sharp jaws. Your wound is too great, and you sink back below the icy waves. Beer 'No beer left I'm afraid,' the woman says She points to three beer bottles, all different sizes, all with different labels. The labels are yellowed, and peeling off. 'Those three are for the party tonight, but I don't think you will be high enough status for that, are you? So unless you fancy scavanging out there. But the collectors won't go any more.' 'The fog is too thick,' Says one of the men. 'You won't say that when the sherry runs out,' says the woman. 'So, what will it be? [[Sherry]] [[Food]] The sherry bottle has a peeling crust around the top, and the label is spattered with old soup. She unscrews the bottles, and pours into a dirty glass. No charge for a veteren on a holiday of course.....but theres a limit...of course. Of course. You are still not sure what is going on, but you decide to swallow the whisky, and take it from there. The liquid is cold as if stored in the fridges. Not that there are no fridges any more. Still the burning characteristic of sherry assaults your throat. But this is more than that. The burning descends into a burning pain when it gets to your stomach. Your try and spit it out, but it is long vanished down your gullet. There is a squirming pain in your belly, like something is trying to rip itself from the inside. There is no time for a second to compose yourself. You are on the floor, the agony taking over until you black out. [[Then Wake up.]]Food 'Some food,' you say, although the words sound like someone else saying it. 'No charge for a veteran of course,' the lady says, with no change of expression. She pulls a chipped bowl from below the counter, and from a pot with a good smattering of rust on it, pours a milky stew with some grey lumps of meat floating in it. She slides it towards you. 'No spoons I'm afraid,' she says. Do you: [[Eat the stew anyway.]] [[Send it back.]] Eat the stew anyway. You pick the bowl up. The stew only radiates a bit of heat, no more a used teabag You raise the bowl to your lips, and a likewalm skin of salty broth coats your lips. The meat is virtually unidentifiable. You could believe it was cat, if all the cats hadn't died a long time ago. 'Venison, of ocurse.' The barlady says. From the last present.' Something about that last word makes you choke on It is only when it hits your stomach that there is trouble. Something twists and turns in your belly, and sends a jolt of appendix pain though you. Do you: [[Continue to eat anyway]] [[Send it back.]] You put the bowl down, and manage to gesture that you don't want any more. In your weakened state your knuckles knock against the porcelain rim, and sends the mixture splashing to the ground. The man next to you slams down a dirty pint glass. 'That was the last turkey. The very last one.' ‘Only a Christmas Present wastes good food,’ another says. Several members of the crowd stand up. One of them fetches the sherry bottle off the shelf. ‘This will sort him out,’ he says: [[Try and eat the stew off the floor]] [[Fight them]]The more you eat, the more a delicious taste comes to life. Something like turkey, with potatoes and carrots in there too, gravy, and stuffing. Despite the pain in your stomach, you wolf it down, pick up the bowl, and drain it until the juice runs down your chin. A cheer erupts round the bar. There are lots of drinks offers, and even a slap on the back. It is the slap on the back that does it. That extra few pints of liquid in your stomach is too much, and with the ripping sound of cloth a hoof tears through your belly. You stumble back against a table, beer and sherry bottles flying everywhere. The surface turns into a birthing pool, and hooves first, antlers after, and a spotty tail last. Even through the pain, you can taste the delicious meat and crunchy vegetables. What a lovely Christmas dinner that was. And wake up. The mattress is damp. Not a little bit damp, but properly soggy. The blanket over you is full of holes, and is a token gesture that does nothing to keep out the cold. But your stomach is silent for the first time in a long while. The organ is deflated, calm and small. The priest sits near the bed. Of course his robes are red and white. He stares at you with blue eyes, like he has been waiting for you to wake up for several hours. It is always such a shame, he says, a big grin on his face. Always such a shame we lose one of ours brave soldiers. You start to remember. Dont worry, we got him out. Would you like to see him? [[Yes.]] [[No.]] Yes The priest bursts into an even bigger smile. He grunts, and pulls out large glass jar, plugged with a mossy cork from under the bed. Inside is a small mammal, its body and legs squeezed together like a featus, a pair of nub like horns on top. It has been a while since you have seen a reindeer, but all the memories come back. A frown slips across the priests face. 'Even now, I hate seeing them. You were lucky. A Christmas present they called you. In the olden days. Before we said no. And they took it all back.' 'Anyway,' he says, and claps his hands together. 'Time for the party.' [[Off to the party you go.]]The priest lips goes thin. 'Still feeling queasy eh? Perhaps you had better wait here' she says. 'We'll save some of the leftovers.' The priest slips a green and red velvet cloth over the jar, looks at you one more time with concern, and closes the door. You lie back on the bed. It is a shame you will miss the party tonight, but you have had such a lucky escape it is probably better you rest, and [[sleep until midnight.]]The darkness rules, and the whole population of the town squeezes into the pews of the church. Someone has even found some sprigs of holly, and evergreen branches from somehwere, but goodness knows where. There are lots of whispers between everyone as you enter. You definitely hear the words "Rudolph" and "Christmas Present" mentioned at least twice. You decide to smile. You are feeling so much better. The Major stands up on the alter, the Priest just to his right. He is beaming. 'My friend. My friend! Though the Man in Red can try and ruin our holiday, we have shown him once again that we will never bow to his tyranny. Never again we will drain our resources in his honour. And when the summer comes, and the world is ours once again, we will make sure this time his pets cannot return.' The whole town rises and applauds. You smile again. What a lovely Winter Holiday this has been.It can't be the light that wakes you, but still you wake up. The curtains in the room are thin, and are open just a crack. It is just enough to spot the red light in the sky. You pull back the curtains. The only other light is from the church, the warm light of candles spilling from the windows. You look only at the red light. Maybe it is your imagination, but the light gets closer. Again, it is probably your imagination, but you think you see him. The Red Man, shooting through the aie with his pets, one of whom managed to get inside you. You close the curtains, suddenly paranoid about him seeing in. And though you know the party is going on, you know in the end there is nothing we can do. The wound across your stomach stretches across in a crimson smile. You crawl into the fog, away from the crowd, and along the seafront. With a wheezing sound, and the smell of pennies, whatever was inside you tears free, and clatters over the pebbles on greasy hooves. You leave a snail trail of blood behind you. Maybe you black out for a while. But still you carry on, further into the freezing mist. There is a crunch of snow encrusted boots. The Red Man appears. He is thin, and a long, grey beard goes runs past his knees. He stares at you, thousands of wrinkles curling around his eyes. Maybe behind him is a large red vehicle. Maybe a dozen beasts stomp and huff nearby. But you wound turns your vision fuzzy, all you can do is wrap your arms around his legs, and think of old times. One advantage of the six of the gash is you grasp the creature inside you. The beast is wet and slippery from your insides, and not much bigger than a house cat. But you slip your hands around its neck, amazed by its strength. In seconds the monsters drags you across the pebbles, unaffected by your weight. With a hop you are in the air, and head towards the murky sky. The ragged remains of your beachside village are a sad scar on the landscape. Still the creature keeps going, higher and higher, antlers washed clear of grot from the precipitation and moisture in the air. With a whoosh the Red Man and his carriage shoot past you. You crane to see if he is how you imagined, and you lose your grip. Soon the Red Man is nothing but a dot, lost in the fog as you whistle to the ground towards oblivion. There are only four panels, but they are intricate and detailed. You stare at the first one. There is a snowy town, and happy people around a large tree. The second has the man in the sky, and a group of small reindeers creeping up on the group. Then the third shows the tree snapped and on the ground, and legs and hooves sticking out of people's mouth's. The man in the sky trashes buildings, dropping square boxes onto them like bombs. Finally there is a group of figures around a venison and corpse bonfire. Under this one are the words ‘Never Again.’ That last image fills you with great sadness. Do you: [[Carry on staring]] [[turn back to the class]]Something about that last picture sticks with you. That image of hands holding around the bonfire, the flames licking around the reindeer and the bones. Something stirs in your memory. A vague memory of the land before, and sunny days by the seaside. Blowing into your hands with the winter drawing in. Crunching wrapping paper under your foot. And for the first time, you know you can [[turn back to the class]] , and let them know the truth. Something in those pictures stirs your confidence. You turn back to the waiting schoolchildren, confident that you can deliver some kind of lecture. You think you can complete some kind of aerodite speech, but all that comes out is a a freezing cloud of steam, made only colder by the temperature of the room. Something hard and cold pokes out your mouth, and at the top through your lips a hoof emerges. Previous generations would have panicked, but these children know what to do. They are on you like furious gremlins, their stick digging into your arms, your legs, your chest. You knew the words were in you somewhere. Given a drink of water, and some time, this crowd was yours. Instead they pull the reindeer from your stomach, and cheer. This will be your holiday legacy. The stew has only been on the floor for a second. Perhaps if you lick some up, this will placate them. You kneel, or rather fall to the floor, and bury your face in the cold stew and china. The taste of delicious meats and vegetables is in their somewhere. But all you can get is salt and sawdust. And of course, you are now in a perfect place for a kicking. The first rotten hobnail boots hits your kneecap, and the next one hits your breast bone. Whatever is inside you struggles The last thing you see before the boots come down is a glistening piece of metal, wrapped around the pole of the bar. You know there is strength in you somewhere. Despite the pain in your belly, your muscles are rock solid, shown by the first punch you land to your opponents jaw. The bar lady ducks down, like she has seen this all before. You manage to take down another two, before someone wraps a hand around your neck. Another forces the sherry bottle to your lips. The liquid burns you through, and it feels like whatever is inside you kicks and struggles, but then settles. For the first time you since waking you are relieved. Your head is starting to clear, and you remember patrolling the fog, and the package falling from the sky. Thank goodness for the sherry. You are about to explain to everyone that everything is OK, when the base of the bottles smacks into your forehead. You are on the floor in seconds, one eye blind with blood, and the crowd are upon, defending their right to a Happy Holiday. Happy Holidays By Dylan Spicer Part of Thebuttermouse.com [[Where are you?]]