t Nicholas knew he should have left the costume on the hanger. It was all over, down here. Last Christmas had been just that: there would be no more. There had been no letters for a decade or more, and now, there was no one left to write them. Not a soul.

He should never have come back. He'd said it before, but tradition ranked high in the houses of the holy. There was no one left alive, but he still felt compelled to return. This time, though, would definitely be the last. This time he meant it. At least he wouldn't have to wear the damned beard any more.

Maybe time etched habit into instinct. As ever it had, the festive spirit took hold earlier and earlier, as the stores competed to get their decorations up first. In recent years, he was sure he'd felt the first stirrings of generosity at the end of August. And once Christmas fever had him, it was always terminal. Maybe it was airborne, as the atmosphere changed dramatically when the children began being especially good for the first time all year. Whatever, when it had him, it had him, and by December, the urge was always close to overwhelming. He was doomed to the unending cycle, but revelled in his curse, the annual flyby of every last hostel and dwelling, trailing laughter, mirth and joy.

Or that was how it was supposed to be, had once been. But the hostels, now, were mausoleums, and the dwellings, charnel houses. There was no one, not one, to share in the fun. Grimly, he tightened his grip on the reigns, and the sleigh swooped low toward the town atop his final festive list.

On the darkened city streets, the living dead were everywhere, howling, drooling, and decomposing on the stagger. The smile on the fat man's face slackened for the first time ever, and he felt a rueful tear douse the sparkle in his eye. The mindless shells of the last clawed blindly at the reindeer's glittering slipstream, and the chorus of the putrid throng rose to a frenzied chant. The Saint closed his eyes, grateful that the souls of the worthy were safely gathered in, and would never to suffer seeing this corruption of their favourite festival. Eventually, he managed a thin smile. It wouldn't really hurt them, as in Paradise, Christmas was redundant, obsolete.

A reindeer whinnied. Nicholas opened his eyes, ten feet from an abandoned bus. He tore at the reindeer's mouths with the reign-straps, almost jack-knifing the sleigh with hairpin cornering, and whooshing within inches of their mops of matted hair.

But one reindeer missed an invisible footing, and it's hoof drove down between one grotesque's shoulder-blades. It's rotten head may as well not have been there...

In one wet piece, a tongue, teeth jaw and throat coiled into the air, showering rancid liquid. It fell – slap – right over Nicholas' eyes. He screamed, and retched, and dropped the reigns, and the sleigh began to dive like a homing smart missile.

At kerb height, the lead reindeer hit another, upending it in a shower of scraps of decay. It landed on the sleigh's nosecone and leered up through the low crystal snow-shield. Blindly, Nicholas ducked down shelter, and with the wind off his face, he swept away the foul mess of bone and meat-mush. He found the reigns, by reflex, angling the sleigh safely skyward as he rose. He fell back in his seat, looked forward, and into a face so monstrously corrupted that the gaping maw resembled the very mouth of Hell.

Terrified, hysterical, and topping sixty miles an hour, St Nicholas screamed himself so breathless that the sleigh began to drift. His face turned blue behind the white nylon beard, and his eyes fell to his lap as he struggled to find breath. A darkened patch was spreading thighward, and he threw back his head and shrieked in idiot delight. The dead man was still there, one blackened hand already over the glass shield, snarling and sneering and pulling itself up. Rolling eyes met rotting orbs and locked there. As the corpse pulled itself higher, gnashing its jaw and slitting its eyes in a glare so venomous, its brow began to wrinkle and split. To the Saint, it could have been laughing, though the hollow wail from its sticky throat rang sour with echoes of the Abyss. With sanity hanging, Nicholas threw up his hands and the sleigh began to fishtail. The nose clipped a powerline, throwing the dead man free, cartwheeling spectacularly.

The zombie bounced off the roof of a rusting warehouse and plummeted to earth in a nearby cul-de-sac. It came to rest near the upper third of a fireman, clawing its way along the gutter as though it were a bannister. It had seen everything, even dragged itself into the open to see more. A trailing yard of crisp intestine scraped softly on the tarmac with each lurch.

The most complete corpse lay gasping air through the hole in his chest, until the partial fireman was close. It struggled and swallowed and struggled for voice. "Be-e-ess-ss," it growled, slush running thick from its mouth. It coughed and swallowed. "B-besst... Christ..."

"...mas EVER, man! That was hilarious – his face! I'm telling you, that Saint pissed his cassock!"

The fireman shook what remained of his head, sloshing brain and chuckling. "Christmas just wouldn't be Christmas without him, would it? D'you reckon he'll be back?"

The joyriding carcass leant closer – stiffly – and whispered. "Well, word is, there's Rules. He makes this list, see, even checks it over a couple of times. And you can bet, somehow, he's gonna find out who's been naughty, or nice."

"So if we're really, 'specially good, he'll come back?"