Bad Santa

“Brace for impact!” Jack shouted as the plane plummeted through the icy skies above the North Pole. The roar of the engines drowned out Emily’s screams. Ten scientists had boarded that doomed flight, but as the plane spiralled out of control, survival seemed impossible. The aircraft slammed into the frozen land. Snow swallowed it whole, muffling the sound of destruction. The impact tore metal apart, scattering fragments across the tundra, but the plane never exploded. Emily’s world went black. A week later, her eyes fluttered open like the slow rise of a winter sun. “Where am I? Is this heaven?” she whispered, her voice weak, gasping for air. Strange faces leaned over her—small, sharp-featured, their ears pointed, their clothes oddly ancient. “Dwarfs?” she gasped in confusion. “She is awake! Hurry, bring her water!” one of them barked in a language she didn’t understand. They pressed a cup to her lips. The water slid down her parched throat, reviving her slightly. Emily tried to rise, but pain shot through her body—her left side was badly injured. “This must be a cave,” she muttered, glancing around the dim space. Dozens of eyes peered at her from the shadows. Gathering her strength, she cried out, “Is there anyone here who understands English?” The small people muttered among themselves, their voices sharp and hurried. Then, without explanation, they lifted her and carried her deeper into the cave. The passage stretched long and dark, until a soft glow illuminated the way ahead. Emily froze, mesmerized by the sight. Before her was a hidden village—homes carved into the stone, fires glowing warmly, and countless small figures bustling about. Her captors bowed. “All hail King Charles the Third. We found this human injured above the surface. She was the only one to survive.”