[REDACTED] in July*

The gunmetal black transport vehicle screeched to a halt as the back doors flung open. The field team hopped out, each dressed in standard-issue black tactical gear and maroon Velcro Pumas. 

A grizzled, eye-patched, salt-and-peppered bearded man stepped out of the front passenger seat and strode toward the team as he chewed at his cigar.

Captain Waylon Ryker Gage stopped, squinting his one good eye at the fresh-faced young man who was new to the team.

“You didn’t bring coffee for everyone, rookie?” 

“I’m a new recruit, sir,” the young man responded. “Not an intern.”

A bawdy laugh escaped the captain’s lungs.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Jiminy Rook, sir.”

“Jiminy Rook?” Gage shook his head in disbelief. “Sounds like something I’d shout instead of ‘fuck’ after stubbing my toe in polite company. I’m assuming you’ve met everyone. Samantha Gutierrez. Landry Broussard. Joseph Blikinslop. He’s on loan from New Zealand. Doesn’t speak English. Just whatever gobbledygook they speak over there.”

Rook gave Blikinslop a dubious look, who returned a knowing smirk and wink.

Gage, deciding introductions were over, turned his attention to the sheriff who had been waiting uncomfortably but patiently.

“You in charge of this Mickey Mouse outfit?” Gage asked.

“That a Florida joke?” the sheriff responded.

“Maybe.” Gage narrowed his eye.

“Anyway,” the sheriff continued. “We set up a perimeter like y'all asked. This… It’s bizarre I’ll say that.”

The sheriff swept his hand toward the town center and the wreaths, red shiny bows, and the fresh white snow on the ground.

“God damn Christmas in July,” Gage kicked at the fresh powder.

“June, sir,” Gutierrez corrected. “It’s the halfway mark until Christmas. So it’s still June.”

“What have I told you about opinions, Gutierrez?” Gage snarled.

“They’re like assholes. Yours is right.”

Gage nodded with a satisfied scowl.

“We’re keeping everyone out,” the sheriff continued. “Though the townsfolk are anxious to explore. Not that I blame them. Given the state of the world, people could use a little Christmas cheer.”

“Fuck that,” Gage growled. “What else do you want? Halloween on New Years? The summer solstice on the fall equinox? Ever heard of Yin-Yang, sheriff? Universe needs god damn balance. Without, we spin into fucking chaos.”

“Okay, okay,” the sheriff held up his hands.

“Alright, team!” Gage turned and shouted. “Get your asses together and your shit in gear. Let’s go!”

Rook slung his reinforced tactical rifle case over his shoulder, and followed the rest into the Christmasfied town.

Broussard held a scanner in one hand and a tablet in the other, making sweeps of the environment as they all walked.

“The anomalous readings are getting stronger,” she said. “As you can obviously see.” 

The snow and decorations grew denser with each step toward the center of downtown.

“What would have caused this?” Rook asked, mostly to himself.

“Probably some stupid, shit-ass, selfish, stereo-fucking-typical wish,” Gage grumbled. “Uncreative-ass people relying on the stand bullshit. Christmas in fucking July.”

“June,” Gutierrez corrected.

“A distasteful amount of holly-fucking-jolly,” Gage shook his head at all garland, blinking lights, fir trees with candles, and oversized presents.

“Hey!”

The team looked down at the source of the high-pitched nasally interjection.

A rather offended two foot tall man of undetermined age wearing a green tunic and tall, pointed red cap shook his finger at Gage. 

“Do you want to get on the naughty list?” the elf continued. “Because that’s how you get on the naughty list.”

“Class E5 anomaly!” Broussard announced, eyes fixed on the screen.

“This elf created or attracted by the primary disturbance?” Gage asked.

“Difficult to say,” she answered.

“Hey!” The elf was indignant. “I’m a ‘Yuletide assistant’ thankyouverymuch. And I don’t make toys and shovel reindeer doodoo and poopoo all year just to have my existence questioned by some ruggedly handsome older paramilitary man!”

“Gutierrez. Blinkinslop.” Gage didn’t take his eye off the angry elf. “Bag ‘im.”

Blinkinslop grabbed the elf by the scruff of his neck as if he were an errant pup and tossed him into the purple glow of the box that Gutierrez held open.

With a satisfying pneumatic tubish thwump, the elf disappeared and Gutierrez sealed the containment unit behind him.

“Anomaly secured,” she declared.

“Let’s keep it moving,” Gage ordered while nodding in approval and satisfaction.

They marched forward, navigating around a particularly large, bauble-covered tree, stopping in their tracks as the epicenter came into view.

Sitting on a sleigh, surrounded by holly and gifts vomited from a large sack, sat a rotund, older jolly fellow in red, his white beard quivering as he laughed.

“Ho, ho, ho!” the man held his belly. “Welcome. Welcome!”

“Drop the act, Bellsnickle,” Gage shouted. “We both know you’re full of shit.”

“Bellsnickle?” the Santa laughed. “That’s not my name. I’m Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho.”

“If you were the real Santa,” Gage continued. “Then you’d know that name. And you'd know what I asked for that one Christmas when I was five.”

“Of course I know. It was a, uh, G.I. Joe. Ho, ho, ho.”

“Wrong, fuckface,” Gage guffawed. “I wanted a watercolor set. So tell me who you really are.”

“I… I… Please sir. I didn’t mean no harm, sir.”

The deep, jovial voice turned into that of a waif of a young British boy.

“Just wanted to spread some Christmas cheer, I did,” the faux Santa continued. “Meant only good things. Honest I did.”

“What are the odds there’s a little British kid in the middle of Central Florida making Christmas wishes?” Rook asked quietly.

“Relatively low,” Broussard answered. “Could be another layer of the disturbance. I mean, what says Christmas more than a downtrodden British child?”

“Could be deception to make us let our guard down,” Gage interjected. “Some nefarious entity taking the form of some Oliver Fucking Twist, Tiny Tim having ass bastard acting all ‘woe is me.’ Buncha bullshit, I say.”

“Captain hates orphans,” Gutierrez chimed in.

“Anyone that can so easily harness the power of pickpocketing is not to be trusted,” Gage said. 

“Energy signs are getting tumultuous,” Broussard informed the team. “We need to remedy the situation soon.”

“Alright,” Gage nodded. “Gutierrez. Blinkinslop. Set a trap. Rook? You’re with me.”

Rook followed Gage around and up a tinsel-covered store to get a vantage point, while Gutierrez and Blinkinslop set up a trail of cookies leading toward a containment unit. 

“If they can’t lure that red monstrosity into the Box, you’ll have to take the shot,” Gage said. “Can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” Rook firmly nodded, opened up the case and retrieved one of the two rifles contained within.

“What in the blue fuck is that?” Gage asked.

“New issue tranq rifle,” Rook answered. “The formula in the darts will bring down even the most eldritch of horrors.”

“You don’t have an actual rifle in there?”

“Of course I do, sir.”

Gage looked at the case and gestured impatiently.

“Oh,” Rook looked at the rifle in his hands. “I figured this would be better because optics.”

“What optics?”

“Painting the snow red with Santa Claus’s brain matter. Have to assume some civilian has eyes or camera on things and, well, not sure it’s a good look to have blown Kris Kringle’s shit smoove off. Sir.”

“It’s not actually Santa. We’ve established that. It’ll revert to its true form once eliminated anyway.”

“I know that, sir. But the common folk don’t know it’s not Santa. And there is a chance it was some kid making a stupid wish, so reverting to that probably wouldn’t be a great look either.”

“Hmm,” Gage weighed the options. “Fair point. Carry on.”

Rook got into position, and the two men watched the trap unfold.

The Santa sniffed the air and began walking.

“Sugar cookie? Don’t mind if I do,” faux Santa said, nibbling on the treat. He then followed the trail of ginger cookies and Russian Teacakes, slowly making his way toward the location Gutierrez and Blinkinslop had chosen to guide him to.

Rook kept his sights on the anomaly, finger on the trigger, and taking a deep breath as it neared the trap site.

The Santa paused.

“Buttery shortbread!” faux Santa exclaimed and began to devour the cookie.

A large box with a purple gate popped up, and Blinkinslop sprinted up, kicking the Santa into the portal.

Another thwump.

Another anomaly secured.

Gutierrez checked the readings on the box and gave the watching Rook a thumbs up.

“All clear, sir,” Rook sighed in relief.

“Thank fuck,” Gage nodded, patting Rook on the shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of here."

They joined the others and headed back to their vehicle.

“So, uh, everything good?” the uncertain sheriff asked.

“All anomalous activity has been secured,” Gage answered.

“How long do we have to keep people out?” the sheriff continued. “Townsfolk are getting kinda restless.”

Gage looked at Broussard. 

“Energy levels are good,” she said. “Everything else should dissipate over the next several hours, with no harm to anything or anyone inside the zone.”

“Ah fuck it,” Gage waved his hand with a shake of his head. “Drop the perimeter and let ‘em enjoy it.”