Allan Leverone: Postcards from the Apocalypse

My original intention when it came to putting together this book was to separate the collection into two sections: One for the “horror” stories and one for the “crime” stories. Then, when I started getting into the nuts and bolts of the thing it began to occur to me that doing so wasn’t going to be quite so easy. A lot of my work, especially my short fiction, incorporates elements of both genres within a single story, sometimes within a single paragraph.

So instead I decided just to mix things up, the horror with the noir with the crime with the fantastical. But the fact of the matter is at heart I am a crime writer. In virtually everything I write someone does something bad, usually to someone else who doesn’t deserve it. Often that person gets what’s coming to him (or her) in the end; sometimes he doesn’t, but there is almost always a twist or two along the way. At least that’s what I aim for. You can decide if I’ve succeeded.

The longest stories in this collection are the final two: The “Uncle Brick” novelettes. These are a little lighter reading than most of the other stories you’ll find here and also feature one of my favorite characters—eighty year old Boston PI Brick Callahan. Both tales originally appeared in the outstanding online magazine, Mysterical-E . Uncle Brick’s adventures aren’t over, either. He will tackle his most perplexing case next summer, hopefully in Mysterical-E as well, tentatively titled, “Uncle Brick and the L.A. Ex.”

Finally, I know money doesn’t grow on trees, especially given the economic circumstances of the last few years. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate you spending your hard-earned money on my work. I hope you enjoy POSTCARDS FROM THE APOCALYPSE, and please believe me when I say I will never take your support for granted.

We start off—appropriately for the title of this collection—with an apocalyptic vision of an unnamed major city laid waste by a horrible act of terrorism. “Fallout” was written as an entry into a flash fiction competition being held by Morpheus Tales Magazine. There were only two requirements to enter: The story had to be related to a disturbing piece of artwork supplied by Morpheus Tales and its length could be no more than one thousand words. “Fallout” won the contest and led off the special Morpheus Tales Flash Fiction Issue, released in October, 2009.

No one comes here any more.

At one time, in the not too distant past, we were one of the biggest attractions in a teeming metropolis filled with attractions—The Empire Circus! That, of course, was before the person carrying the “suitcase nuke” detonated it downtown and obliterated a six square mile area of this, one of the most densely populated cities in the world.

But that’s not even the worst thing. Much worse than the nuclear explosion was the viral weapon that was released at the same time. It’s destroying people from the inside out, causing hideous physical mutations, and no one knows whether the virus is an airborne one or water-borne or exactly how it is being transmitted.

The authorities have no idea whether the bombing was done by a man or a woman because the guilty party was vaporized instantly, the lucky bastard. They don’t know whether it was a foreign or a domestic act of terrorism. Two dozen separate groups hurried to claim responsibility for the act within the first ninety minutes, so it will take the authorities quite some time to whittle down the list and settle on a guilty party.

For us, though, for the “survivors,” the search for the perpetrators is nothing more than an academic exercise; it has no impact on our lives, or what is left of them. Is there any point in assessing blame when radiation poisoning and a lethal bioweapon are killing those of us who remain? When eyes bleed and ears leak yellowish pus and the act of sneezing can break a rib and even something as simple as resting your head in your hands can cause a layer of blistered skin to slough off your face?

Immediately following the initial explosion, as the dying lay screaming in the streets, when it became clear that there was more to the attack than “just” a nuclear blast, the entire island was segregated; quarantined, if you will. Panicked authorities made the decision to save the lives of the many by sacrificing the lives of the few. All of the bridges to the mainland were destroyed, blown to bits by fighter jets screaming over the city. Airports were bombed and tunnels flooded. There was no way in or out. We were alone. Utterly and hopelessly alone.

In the span of just the past few weeks, the scene in the city has become a Darwinian struggle for survival of the fittest, of people butchering each other for food and water and shelter and clothing even as they suffer the ravages of radiation sickness and viral disease. The entire metropolitan area has become one gigantic freak show.

The irony for those of us who remain is inescapable. People who used to flock through our gates to see the bearded lady or the Joseph the Rat-Faced Boy or any of our other bizarre attractions now see much worse outside their shattered windows on a regular basis. The diseased rats which roam our grounds are becoming bolder and more aggressive by the day. And they are changing as well. I swear I saw one yesterday with two heads. That would have drawn some people to the Empire Circus in the old days!

But now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Because no one comes here any more.

One of the coolest new print magazines in the horror/dark fiction world is run by a guy up in my neck of the woods, Tim Deal in New Hampshire. It’s called Shroud Magazine, and I was honored that “Suspicions” was selected for inclusion in Issue #6, June, 2009, the very first nationally-distributed issue of this fast-growing mag. In this little story, a young man begins to fear his landlord might just be the serial killer who has been terrorizing the city for months…

Mark Gardner squinted into the harsh fluorescent light of the police interrogation room and squirmed uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention—didn’t like it one bit, in fact—but the city was in the grip of a year-long serial murder spree and he knew the time had come to speak to someone about his suspicions.

The detectives had suggested the hot, cramped room in order to get away from the chaos of the squad room and assure them of some privacy. Maybe also to make Mark a little uncomfortable. He knew they did those sorts of things; anyone who watched any television knew that.

Mark sat up a little straighter in his chair—a blocky, straight-backed wooden thing no doubt purchased by the city some time around the Lincoln assassination—and tried his best to answer all the questions being directed at him rapid-fire by two detectives, who had placed themselves at opposite corners of the room; also not by accident, Mark figured.

“I’m not sure exactly when I started being concerned that my roommate was into some really… uh… strange things; I would have to say that it just sort of dawned on me gradually.” Mark squinted up at the two detectives, blinking through his thick glasses. The taller, rumpled-looking one slouched in the corner to Mark’s right was older and seemed to be in charge, and he motioned impatiently for Mark to continue.