Ho Ho Oh?!? - 1. Chapter 1

The Holly Jolly Apocalypse of Big Bill and Rat

ACT I: The Beans and the Behemoth

The world ended not with a bang, but with a psshhhht.

Big Bill remembered it vividly. It was the Great Aerosol Uprising, or as the few survivors north of the border called it, "The day the spray-tanned bastard down south pressed the wrong button." The history books—if there were any left besides the charred comics Rat kept stuffing into his boots for insulation—would say it was geopolitics. But Bill knew better. It was ego, hairspray, and a missile guidance system that couldn't distinguish between a strategic threat and a bad hair day.

Now, three years later, the world was a frozen, silent husk. The sky was a perpetual shade of bruised gray, and the snowdrifts were deep enough to swallow a man whole.

"I hate beans," Bill grunted, his voice sounding like gravel tumbling inside a cement mixer. He stabbed his spoon into the can of cold baked beans with unnecessary violence. "I hate the texture. I hate the sauce. I hate the inevitable musical aftermath."

"Aw, don't be grumpy, Boss Daddy," Rat chirped, skipping lightly over a snowbank that Bill had to wade through like a swamp.

Rat—Bill’s travel companion, nuisance, and the only reason he hadn’t walked into a crevasse just to end the boredom—was a slight, willowy thing. He was wrapped in six layers of mismatched cashmere scavenged from a dead mall in Toronto, topped with a beanie that had bear ears. He looked less like a survivor of the apocalypse and more like a raver who had taken a wrong turn at a warehouse party and kept walking for a thousand miles.

"Don't call me that," Bill growled, though he shifted his bulk to block the biting wind from hitting Rat’s face.

"Call you what? Boss? Or Daddy?" Rat smirked, his blue eyes twinkling behind foggy, cracked aviator sunglasses. He sidled up to Bill, wrapping a slender arm around Bill’s massive, tree-trunk bicep. "You know you love it. Keeps you warm thinking about it."

Bill didn't push him away. In fact, he leaned into the touch just a fraction. It was purely for thermal regulation, he told himself. Purely survival. The fact that Rat smelled faintly of lavender soap—a miracle find from three weeks ago—and looked up at Bill with unadulterated adoration had nothing to do with it.

"Just eat your beans, kid," Bill sighed, scraping the bottom of the tin. "We need the calories. Tonight’s gonna be a two-dog night, and we only have one Rat."

"I count as two dogs if I wiggle enough," Rat winked.

They trudged on. The landscape was a monotony of white and gray, broken only by the skeletal remains of pine trees. Bill’s beard, a magnificent, bushy spade of gray and white, was frosted with ice. His belly, a testament to a pre-apocalypse diet of beer and burgers that he had miraculously maintained through slow metabolism and sheer stubbornness, led the way like the prow of an icebreaker.

"Wait," Rat said, stopping dead in his tracks. He pointed a mitten-clad hand toward a drift that looked suspiciously geometric. "Do you see that red?"

Bill squinted. In a world of grayscale, the color was violent. It was a deep, lustrous, cherry red, poking out from under a blanket of white.

"It’s a container," Bill assessed.

"It's shiny," Rat countered.

They approached it cautiously. In the old world, a splash of color like that meant advertising. In the new world, it usually meant a trap, or radioactive waste, or something equally unpleasant. But as they brushed the snow away, the shape revealed itself.

Chrome stacks. Massive wheels. A grille that looked like the smile of a mechanical shark.

"Holy mother of Detroit," Bill breathed. "It’s an eighteen-wheeler."

"It's not just a truck, Boss," Rat squealed, frantically wiping snow off the side panel with his sleeve. "Look at the lights! Look at the painting! It’s The Truck!"

Revealed on the side of the trailer, still vibrant despite the end of civilization, was a painting of a familiar, jovial fat man holding a bottle of fizzy brown sugar water.

"Coca-Cola," Bill muttered. "The Christmas truck."

"Jackpot!" Rat did a little shimmy, his bear ears flopping. "Think of the sugar, Bill! Think of the caffeine! We’ll be wired until New Year's!"

"Think of the heater," Bill corrected, moving toward the cab. "If there’s fuel in this beast, we’re sleeping like kings."

ACT II: The Transformation

The lock on the cab door surrendered to Bill’s crowbar with a satisfying crr-ack. They climbed inside. The interior smelled of stale leather, old coffee, and pine air freshener, which, compared to the smell of the apocalypse (ozone and wet dog), was heavenly.

Bill tried the ignition. A groan, a sputter, but no roar. The battery was dead, or the fuel had gelled. "No heat," Bill announced.

"Boo," Rat said from the sleeper berth behind the seats. "But wait... look at this stash!"

It wasn't soda. The driver must have been living in the cab when the world ended. There were boxes of dry crackers, jerky, and several precious gallons of water that hadn't frozen solid. But the real prize was in the garment bag hanging in the closet.

Rat unzipped it and gasped. "Oh. My. God. It’s couture."

He pulled out a suit. It wasn't the cheap, felt rubbish you used to buy at the dollar store. This was the real deal. Deep crimson velvet thick enough to stop a knife, trimmed with genuine, snowy-white fur. The boots were polished leather. The belt was thick black cowhide with a buckle the size of a dinner plate.

"It’s the driver’s uniform," Bill realized. "Corporate gig. They probably had him dressing up for stops."

"And look!" Rat dove back into the bag and pulled out a second outfit. Green tunic, red and white striped tights, and shoes with honest-to-god bells on the curled toes. "It’s a set! A matched set!"

Bill looked at the Santa suit. Then he looked at his own tattered parka, which was held together by duct tape and hope. He looked at Rat, shivering in his layers of cashmere.

"It’s velvet, Boss," Rat whispered, stroking the red fabric. "It’s lined. It’s so... thick."

"Fine," Bill grumbled. "But only because my nipples could cut glass right now."

They stripped down in the freezing cab. Bill tried to be modest, turning his back, but he caught Rat’s reflection in the rearview mirror. The kid was lean, scarred, and shivering, but he pulled those striped tights on with a reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

Bill stepped into the red trousers. They fit alarmingly well. He pulled the coat on, buttoning it over his substantial gut. It was warm. Incredibly, luxuriously warm. He fastened the belt, cinching it tight.

He turned around.

Rat was standing there in the full elf regalia. The tunic hugged his slender waist. The tights emphasized his legs. The hat with the bell flopped over one eye. He looked like a Christmas card illustration that had been drawn by a very lonely, very horny artist.

Rat’s jaw dropped. He looked Bill up and down, his eyes widening behind the sunglasses. "Oh... oh, wow."

"Shut it," Bill warned, though he smoothed the beard down self-consciously.

"No, seriously, Daddy," Rat breathed, stepping closer. He reached out and touched the white fur trim on Bill’s chest. "You look... authoritative. Commanding. Jolly, but in a 'I will break you' kind of way."

"It's a suit, Rat."

"It's an aesthetic," Rat corrected. He did a little twirl, the bells on his shoes jingling. "And look at me! I’m your little helper!"

Bill looked down at him. Rat looked ridiculous. He looked adorable. He looked like something Bill wanted to wrap in a blanket and keep safe from the world forever.

"You look like a lawn ornament," Bill said gruffly.

"Ho ho ho," Bill added, deadpan. "You’re a ho."

Rat cackled, a bright sound that seemed too loud in the quiet cab. "Walked right into that one. Come on, Santa. Let’s see if there’s anything in the back of the trailer."

"We stick together," Bill said, grabbing his crowbar, which looked oddly menacing against the red velvet. "And if anyone asks, you're an indentured servant."

"I prefer 'Executive Assistant to the Big Guy'," Rat quipped.

They climbed out of the cab, the bells on Rat’s shoes jingling with every step. Bill felt majestic. The suit had a weight to it. He felt less like a starving survivor and more like a myth made flesh.

They were halfway to the trailer doors when the snowbank exploded.

ACT III: Lord of the Flies on Ice

It wasn't a bomb. It was a projectile. A rock, encased in a snowball—an ice-ball—slammed into Bill’s shoulder.

"Oof!" Bill staggered. "What the hell?"

"Contact!" Rat shrieked, diving behind Bill’s massive red bulk. "We've got hostiles!"

From the trees, they descended. They were small, fast, and terrifying.

Children.

But not the children of the old world. These were children of the frost. They wore armor made of old tires and license plates. Their faces were smeared with soot and red clay. They wielded hockey sticks sharpened into spears and garbage can lids as shields.

"Take them down!" a voice screeched.

"Don't hurt them!" Bill roared, raising his hands. "We’re just—"

A net, woven from extension cords and climbing rope, flew through the air. It was a masterwork of knot-tying. It entangled Bill and Rat instantly.

"My velvet!" Rat cried out as he was tackled into the snow by three screaming banshees who couldn't have been older than ten.

Bill struggled, but the weight of numbers was against him. There were dozens of them. They swarmed him like ants on a dropped candy bar. He felt small hands hitting, grabbing, tying.

"Stop wiggling, fatty!" a girl with a missing front tooth yelled, tightening a knot around Bill’s ankles.

"That’s 'Mr. Fatty' to you!" Rat yelled from somewhere inside the pile.

Dragged. They were actually dragged. The kids had sleds made of car hoods, and they strapped Bill and Rat to them with terrifying efficiency. They were hauled through the woods, bumping over roots and frozen streams, until they reached the fortress.

It was an old Scout camp. Cabin 601B. But it had been reinforced. Spikes made of rebar lined the perimeter. A watchtower had been built out of picnic tables. A flag hung limply from a pole, depicting a merit badge sash crossed with a skull.

They were dumped in the center of the camp, right in front of the main fire pit. The net was loosened just enough for them to sit up, back-to-back.

"Status?" Bill whispered.

"I think I bruised my jingle bells," Rat whispered back, pressing his back against Bill’s warmth. "These kids are feral, Boss. Did you see the one with the necklace of ears?"

"Those were dried apricots, Rat."

"I choose to believe they were ears. It adds to the drama."

The circle of children parted. A figure stepped forward. He was taller than the rest, maybe fourteen. He wore a Scout Master’s hat that was too big for him and a sash that was so laden with merit badges it acted as a bulletproof vest. He held a machete.

"I am Troop Leader Kevin," the boy announced, his voice cracking mid-sentence. "You have trespassed on the sovereign territory of Troop 601B. State your business before we decide how to process your nutrients."

"Process our... nutrients?" Bill asked, eyeing the spit over the fire. "You mean eat us?"

"Meat is meat," Kevin shrugged. "And you..." He pointed the machete at Bill’s stomach. "You are a lot of meat. High fat content. Good for winter."

Rat gasped. "You can't eat him! He’s gristle! He’s ninety percent gristle and bad attitude!"

"Silence, Elf!" Kevin snapped.

"Elf?"

The word hung in the cold air.

A small child, a girl with wide eyes and a stuffed rabbit tucked into her belt, stepped forward. She pointed a trembling finger at Bill.

"Kevin," she whispered. "Look at the suit. Look at the beard. Look at the belly."

Kevin frowned. "So? It’s a disguise. It’s camouflage."

"It's not camouflage," the girl insisted. "It's Him."

Bill’s brain, usually slow to fire on all cylinders when frozen, suddenly sparked. He looked at the red suit. He looked at Rat’s green tights. He looked at the terrified, hopeful faces of the younger children peeking out from behind the older warriors.

He felt Rat nudge him in the ribs. Play along, the nudge said.

Bill cleared his throat. He sat up straighter, expanding his chest, letting the authority of the suit take over. He channeled every bad movie he’d ever seen.

"HO," Bill boomed. The sound echoed off the cabin walls.

The children jumped back. Even Kevin lowered the machete an inch.

"HO," Bill said again, louder, deeper. "HO."

"You... you can't be," Kevin stammered. "Santa is dead. Everyone is dead."

"That’s what I wanted you to think," Bill lied, improvising wildly. "Had to go underground. The Naughty List got... extensive. Had to lay low until the world sorted itself out."

"And the Elf?" Kevin gestured to Rat.

Rat immediately sat up, flashed a dazzling, terrifyingly fake smile, and gave a jazz-hand wave. "Sparkle-toes, at your service! Head of Toy Production and Naughty/Nice arbitration. And let me tell you, Kevin, threatening to eat Saint Nick? That is a major demerit. We’re talking coal in your stocking for the next three reincarnations."

Kevin looked uncertain. The feral edge was slipping, replaced by the confusion of a child who had been forced to grow up too fast. "But... we saw you stealing the truck. Santa doesn't steal trucks."

"It's my truck!" Bill roared, standing up. The ropes, which Rat had been subtly picking at with a hidden knife (Rat always had a hidden knife), fell away. The kids gasped.

"The sleigh... had mechanical issues," Bill improvised. "Reindeer... uh... bloat. Terrible business. Exploding deer everywhere. Had to switch to ground transport. Big Red there is the backup sleigh."

"The reindeer exploded?" the little girl asked, horrified.

"Only the naughty ones," Rat interjected quickly. "Don't ask about Rudolph. It was messy. Red nose, red everything."

Kevin narrowed his eyes. "If you are Santa," he said, the paranoia returning, "then there will be toys in the truck. If there are no toys... we eat you. And we use the elf for soup stock."

"I am too stringy for broth!" Rat protested indignantly. "I am zesty, at best!"

Bill felt a bead of cold sweat trickle down his back. The truck had food in the cab. But the trailer? It was probably empty. Or full of soda syrup. Or rotting furniture. If he opened that door and it was empty, they were dinner.

"Fine," Bill said, his voice steady despite his heart hammering against his ribs. "Take us to the truck. But be warned... if you gaze upon the Christmas Magic without permission, your eyes might melt."

"We'll risk it," Kevin said.

ACT IV: The Miracle on Highway 66

The march back to the truck was tense. Bill walked with a heavy, ominous tread, trying to look magical. Rat skipped beside him, occasionally whispering things like, "If we die, I want you to know I stole your extra socks last week," and "You're a sexy Santa, Boss, try not to bleed on the velvet."

They reached the red behemoth. It sat silent in the snow, a monument to a dead world.

"Open it," Kevin commanded. The Troop raised their spears.

Bill walked to the back of the trailer. The latch was frozen. He grabbed the handle with his massive gloved hands. He looked at Rat. Rat gave him a thumbs up that trembled slightly.

Please, Bill thought, addressing a God he hadn't spoken to since the bombs fell. Please let it be something other than emptiness.

He yanked the handle. The rust groaned. He pulled harder. With a screech of metal, the doors swung open.

Darkness.

Then, the light from the gray sky filtered in.

It wasn't soda.

It was a promotional shipment. A holiday special distribution.

Floor to ceiling. Pallet after pallet.

"Is that..." Kevin dropped his machete.

Stacked on the first pallet were hundreds of red boxes. Coca-Cola Holiday Bears. Plush, soft, adorable polar bears holding tiny coke bottles.

But behind them... behind the bears...

"LEGOs," the little girl whispered. "Star Wars LEGOs."

It was a toy run. A contest prize truck. There were bicycles. There were board games. There were action figures. And, tucked in the corners, were crates of promotional holiday hams, tinned cookies, and fruitcakes that would survive a nuclear blast and still taste like regret.

"Ho... Ho... Ho," Bill breathed, the relief making his knees weak. He turned to the stunned children. He spread his arms wide.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU LITTLE CANNIBALS!" Rat shouted, throwing a plush bear into the crowd.

The reaction was instantaneous. The spears were dropped. The war paint was forgotten. They weren't soldiers anymore. They were kids. They screamed, not in rage, but in pure, unadulterated joy. They swarmed the truck, diving into the plush bears, tearing open boxes of LEGOs, ripping into the tins of cookies.

Kevin stood frozen, staring at a Millennium Falcon set. He looked up at Bill, tears cutting tracks through the soot on his face.

"You came," Kevin whispered. "You actually came."

Bill looked down at the boy. He felt the cold cynicism of the last three years crack, just a little. He placed a heavy hand on Kevin’s shoulder.

"I'm sorry I was late, kid," Bill rumbled softly. "Traffic was a bitch."

The night was a blur of firelight, sugar, and tinned ham.

They didn't eat Bill. Instead, they feasted. The Scouts built a massive bonfire. Rat, fueled by ancient sugar cookies and the adoration of the younger children, held court. He told stories of the North Pole (which sounded suspiciously like a drag brunch he’d once attended in Montreal) and taught them how to braid hair.

Bill sat on a log, surrounded by kids using him as a jungle gym. He let them tug his beard. He let them sit on his knee. He listened to their lists of demands, nodding solemnly and promising to "look into it" for next year.

He watched Rat across the fire. Rat was laughing, wearing a tiara made of tin foil, holding a sleeping toddler in his lap. He looked over at Bill and winked. He mouthed the words, Daddy Santa.

Bill rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop the smile.

Eventually, the sugar crash hit. One by one, the Troop of 601B fell asleep, clutching bears and half-eaten cookies. Even Kevin passed out clutching his LEGO set to his chest like a holy relic.

The fire burned low. The snow began to fall again, soft and silent.

"Boss?" Rat whispered, appearing at Bill’s side. "It’s time."

Bill nodded. He carefully extricated himself from a pile of sleeping seven-year-olds. "Yeah."

"We can't stay," Rat said, his voice surprisingly serious. "The illusion... it only works if we leave. If we stay, they'll realize you're just a grumpy old trucker with gas, and I'm just a twink with a knife."

"They need to believe in the magic," Bill agreed. "Magic doesn't sleep on a bunk bed."

They gathered their meager supplies, plus a few hams and a box of cookies for the road. They moved silently, ghosts in velvet and tights.

At the edge of the camp, Bill paused. He looked back at the heap of sleeping children, safe and full for the first time in their lives. He looked at the red truck, gleaming in the moonlight.

"You did good, Bill," Rat said, squeezing his arm.

Bill looked down at Rat. He reached out and adjusted Rat’s elf hat, brushing the snow off the bell.

"Come on, Elf," Bill grunted. "Let's go before I freeze my jingle bells off."

"Aye aye, Santa."

They slipped into the darkness of the forest, leaving no footprints that the wind wouldn't cover by morning.

When the children woke up, Santa and his Elf were gone. But the toys remained. And the food remained. And for the first time since the hairspray clouds choked the sun, the children of Troop 601B didn't wake up afraid. They woke up believing that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn't entirely broken.

Miles away, trudging through a fresh drift, Bill paused to catch his breath.

"Rat?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

"If you ever tell anyone I wore red velvet," Bill growled, "I will feed you to a polar bear."

Rat grinned, linking his arm through Bill’s and leaning his head on the big man’s shoulder. "Whatever you say, Daddy. Whatever you say."

Bill didn't pull away. He just kept walking, a splash of red in the white, leading his elf toward the next day.