One of his men presented him with a full duffle bag. Looping his arms through the handles, he shrugged it onto his back before accepting the loaded SR-21. After a quick check to make sure his co-driver had slid over to the driver’s side in case they had to make a quick getaway, he proceeded toward the bunker’s large steel door with two of his men in tow. Pausing in front of the structure, he glanced back one more time to see the other two men on top of the truck, watching for any sign of the enemy who might try to sneak up on them. Littlewhistle gave a wave to let him know all was still a-okay.

            Raising a gloved fist, he pounded on the door. The steel rang with a hollow sound. He got no sense of movement on the other side, but he knew there were people inside. Survivors who’d lost all hope of civilization returning. But because their children still held onto their belief that Santa continued to exist, it enabled him to do what he had to do.

            “Fifteen seconds,” Berrychaser whispered.

            A nod. The people on the other side wouldn’t know it was him until he made it crystal clear.

            “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” he boomed. They all knew the risks he took announcing himself, but he had no choice. If he tried to infiltrate the underground community the way he’d gone inside homes and apartments and other establishments in centuries past, there’d be no questions. He’d be shot on sight.

            Thanks to those fucking aliens.

            This time he caught the rustle of someone approaching the door. A tiny slit on the right-hand side slowly opened an inch to allow the person to peer outside. He stared at the eyeball and held up his weapon.

            “Open up! I ain’t got all night!”

            The slit closed, there was the meshing of gears, and the door creaked open a crack.

            “Santa?”

            “Forty-five seconds!” Berrychaser reminded him.