Right. We continue our chain story. Read about how it started here.
Please welcome our 4th author, Ross Taylor (aka @LRRoosta). Ross Taylor does not play cricket and escapes the dull monotony of everyday life by writing short stories, none of which are published anywhere. Perhaps one day, after he has died they will be discovered by some inquisitive relative and then forgotten.
BLOODY SANTA vs ZOMBIE SIREN. Chapter 4 by Ross Taylor
About half an hour before the original security breech, maybe twenty-eight minutes before Santa grumbled to himself about how boring life had become, a very old elf was collecting snow on Kaffeklubben Island.
His name was Edwin and he was a very special elf indeed.
To his knowledge he was the only elf who's name did not contain a number. All the other elves were named So-And-So13 or Such-And-Such26, the number denoting the number of times the elf in question had met his or her end and then been cloned.
Edwin, on the other hand, was the original. There was no Edwin2, and Edwin rather liked the idea that there probably never would be.
It still puzzled the old elf as to why "Saint" Nicholas had not just murdered him, as he had the rest of the original elf crew, why the despicable fat man had sent him here rather than just killing him. But who knew the whims of the insane? Not Edwin. Though he knew for sure that Father Christmas was quite mad.
Old Edwin chuckled as he bent to scoop snow into his bucket. He rather liked it here. Though it was bitterly cold and there was no running water - hence the bucket - the exiled were generally free to live unmolested, and that was just fine with Edwin.
He struggled to his feet and turned towards his little home when something stopped him.
The wind drove snow into his face and he turned away from it, struggling to hear...
It danced on the wind, teasing him, ebbing and swelling in the darkness.
He strained, struggling to hear.
For a moment he thought he had imagined it and almost turned back towards home, but suddenly it was there.
Edwin's breath caught in his throat as he heard the song more clearly. Lilting and mournful, it drifted towards him, speaking of such sadness as could not be put into words.
Hot tears spilled down the old elf's deeply wrinkled face as his heart filled and overflowed with it.
Oh dear, Lord! How could any soul live with such sadness?
The bucket fell, forgotten, to the frozen ground, as Edwin stumbled towards the sound.
Oh, poor soul. Poor, poor soul...
The old elf was consumed by grief. It weighed him down. It dragged on his very heart. It was like all the sadness in all the world, pooled together, somehow and spoken by one beautiful voice.
Edwin blubbed like a child as he staggered into the darkness...