Gregory Norris - Down with the Fallen - A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Anthology

Weasel grasped the scimitar in both hands and brought it down on the centipede’s head. The blade cut into the carapace in a spurt of blue ichor. The thing screeched and tore its face out of Pauline, yanking the scimitar from his hands. It hissed at him, the sword still planted in its skull, the many appendages around its maw spreading like a flytrap from hell.

“Move, bro!” Gabe shouted.

Weasel’s feet tangled and he stumbled and fell against the terrace banister. He felt thunder in his chest and saw a hole yawn in the thing’s side like a mutilated orifice. It screeched again, then spun around and fled, trailing ichor and bits of carapace. It skittered up a ruined wall and disappeared into the building. A hush ensued.

Weasel looked at what remained of Pauline’s throat. After that, he looked at her no more. He pushed the decapitated centipede off Gabe and helped him to his feet. In death, the thing’s legs squirmed, slathering its own fluids over the tiles like a Rorschach pattern. Gabe’s jeans were shredded and drenched red, the flesh of his thigh crisscrossed with gashes.

Cradling the shotgun and the tobaccos to their chests, they trundled back. Past the hookah store and the carcasses of what they now recognized as the centipedes’s previous meals. Past the park with its dying trees and empty playground. Through a broad street clogged with cars that shimmered in the sun like a desert highway. Into a trashed drugstore to stock up on bandages, antibiotics, disinfectants, and painkillers. By the time Weasel had finished dressing the wound, Gabe’s face was so pale it resembled porcelain.

A couple hundred feet from Arabian Nights , Gabe stumbled and fell on one knee. He had to lean on Weasel the rest of the way. As they unlocked the door, he looked up to the sickly blue heavens and the alien star reigning above, and said, “Fuck you, you fucking bitch. Damn, I feel like crap.”

“Jesus, Gabe, you’re burning up.”

“Just gimme more painkillers.”

Weasel helped him down the stairs and laid him on a couch and brought him water. Gabe emptied the bottle and said, “Freshmint with lemon. Fix me a freshmint with lemon.”

“Sure, man,” Weasel said, and went behind the bar. He filled the hookah’s vase with lukewarm water, added the silicone grommet, and mixed the two tobaccos with his fingers. He placed the mixture in the bowl, then tore a portion of aluminum foil and wrapped it over the top of the bowl so that it resembled a tiny drum. With a toothpick, he poked holes in the foil. It was only after he had affixed the bowl to the hookah that he realized he had forgotten to heat up the charcoals. He opened another drawer and looked at the orange carton box within. Coconut coals. The best. He flipped up the lid and reached inside. His face contorted.

“Oh man, Gabe, you… you won’t believe this.”

No answer.

“Gabe?”

Still no answer.

Weasel leaned over the bar. Gabe lay on his back with his eyes shut and his mouth open. Slowly, walking on tiptoe, Weasel approached the couch. No snoring. He hovered a palm over Gabe’s mouth. No breath. He checked his pulse. Nothing.

“Oh, Gabe,” he muttered, inspecting the bandage. Some red had seeped into the cloth. Hands shaking, he undid it and looked at the wound. Swollen black veins spread from the gashes like skeletal fingers. He should’ve known. After all, centipedes were venomous creatures.

Weasel drew his fingers through his hair. He had nothing to cover Gabe with, so he piled cushions on his head and chest until only his legs were visible. That made it worse, somehow. He went back behind the bar and just stood there, staring at the charcoals box. A single black cube sat within. He needed at least two for a hookah. They had been so obsessed with getting more tobacco, they forgot to check how many coals they had left.

Weasel staggered to the center of the room like a drunkard and placed his hands on his face. Sweat and tears against his palms. Something snapped in the back of his mind, and before he knew it he was prone on a couch, laughing. And crying. And laughing and crying at the same time. Then he began to scream.

Far up in the barren sky, Mira II shone brighter.

I have never felt pain as I did the moment I died. It wasn’t the injury that caused me to writhe in agony. I would have settled for that being the worst of it. Instead, there was more beyond that single wound, and I should explain what has happened to me and why.

The time was two twenty-seven, and I crept along the side of the building in silence. My back against the rough stone, I could hear something around the corner ahead of me. My heart, still working back then, was thumping like a wild animal in my chest. Unconsciously I wrapped my fingers around the grip of my pistol and unlatched the retention clip.

Edging closer to the end of the wall I steadied myself, calming myself with a handful of deep breaths.

My head swam.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I chastised myself as I felt my fingers trembling.

“Pull yourself together,” I recall whispering to myself. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The sky was clear, and the moonlight threatened to betray me as it cast long shadows across the floor. Reaching the end of the wall, I pressed the side of my face against the rough stone and risked a quick peek around the corner.

They were there.

Six of them, all gathered around the remains of a shattered wooden box.

It had been months but still the sight of them churned my stomach.

The nearest had his back to me, or what was left of his back at least. I could see ribs through the tattered flesh, the bones stained red with dried blood. The clothes had long since been torn from his upper body, and in the moonlight, his flesh looked brown and mottled.

I could smell them, they were so close.

The taste of decaying flesh was thick in the air, and I resisted the urge to gag. Quickly I secreted myself back behind the cover of the wall and decided what I was going to do. I needed desperately to get across the courtyard but between me and there were the half-dozen undead monsters.

I still struggled to call them zombies, but that is what they were.

On October 3rd, 2019, the first one had been sighted, and within thirteen days the world had gone into meltdown. It had taken less than two weeks for the epidemic to become global and those survivors that managed to evade the infection now lived a life of hiding and fighting for survival.

It was tiring.

It was something I could never have imagined myself doing before it happened. I had been an accountant, a boring run of the mill office worker, and now I walked the streets with a gun fighting to survive. I would never have imagined I could have managed as long as I had before the world became full of death and decay.

You may ask what was beyond the courtyard that would make me even consider crossing against six of them . The answer was simple. Beyond that courtyard was the marina and I had my sights set on a boat to take me away from The City and hopefully to a life away from all this.

I had watched the marina for two days straight. Every day I came up with a new way to get in unseen by them . For some reason, they were attracted to this place, and the perimeter fence was crawling with them day and night.

The old car park and the courtyard were the places that had the least gathering, but tonight they seemed to be out in force.

I couldn’t wait another day, though. I was short on supplies.

At night they were at their peak. I put it down to something to do with their brains struggling to process the light of the sun. Don’t get me wrong, they were still a danger in the day, but they seemed less precise in their attacks during the day.