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

All I could do was scoff. More than a few times I had wondered to myself why he was lugging it along. Certainly not for the FARM. They didn’t have any use for dead ukhivs, none this decayed, anyway. Whatever the reason was, I was sure it was twisted. The next few moments proved me right.

“Keep running!”

“Jack!”

A small silver dome-like thing, no larger than a button, stung the boy’s neck and he collapsed mid-stride.

“Go! I’ve got him.”

They had only become aware of the craft overhead when it was too late. It was the first time Katie saw one up close. Terror grasped her but so did fascination; she vaguely thought it resembled a large silver sandal.

Arthur lunged for his son, who was sprawled unconscious a few feet ahead, when a lasso cinched around him, tugging him back.

Ruth wheeled around hearing Katie scream. She whimpered seeing a man’s body with a rope tied around his capacious mid-section roll off the craft’s platform. The body landed with a heavy splat, sending up a dark spray. While the other end of the rope held back Arthur, there might as well have been multiple loops ensnaring them all.

“Katie, run to Mommy!” said Arthur, but she remained still.

Ruth’s paralysis broke when she saw a short bug-like creature jump to the ground. Trembling, she ran back, passing Katie, and gathered the boy in her arms.

“Take them,” Arthur said.

She said something incomprehensible through sobs, then turned and ran, screaming for Katie to follow her.

But Katie only shuffled in one place from foot to foot

A tall, spindly creature lithely landed behind the shorter one, gun in hand.

Arthur ceased his frantic struggle to free himself and turned to Katie. Both her parents screamed for her to move. But she blinked, looking at her father with a dazed anxiety.

Without being aware of it, Ruth began to step backwards, hugging the unconscious boy draped over her shoulder tighter.

“NO! Ruth, don’t you leave her. Don’t you da—”

The creature landed a blow in his gut. Its companion had a gun trained on Katie who was crying now, noiselessly. Behind her Ruth had disappeared into the distance.

Arthur groaned in agony feeling his lower ribs crack. Straddling him, the thing grabbed his head. He screamed, but not because of the pain in his skull as it was knocked back against the ground. He screamed at the touch of its digits which felt like bendable tin coated with pus.

Somewhere in the distance a dog howled and another took it up. The only other sounds were grunts, groans, screams and thwaps, and crisp crunching and silent sniffling.

The taller creature with obsidian eyes, like three black snooker balls embedded in his face, tilted his head at Katie, and the tip of his trembling gun angled down.

The motion drew his partner’s attention, who quickly glanced at him then pinned his gaze on Katie. The next instant, she bawled and clapped hands over her ears.

He raised his gun again but swung it sharply.

The shorter creature collapsed on Arthur with a spatter of tiny silver domes on the fleshy part of its arm and up its creased neck. Drawing staccato breaths, Arthur frantically pushed it off him and with flailing arms scrambled away to a side.

Reaching for his belt, the other creature drew forth a dagger and sliced the rope.

For a second, Arthur locked his two eyes with its three then staggered to his feet and limping back, brusquely grabbed Katie and hobble-ran.

When they put some distance behind them, he looked back and sighed in relief. A part of him had thought it had only let them go to hunt them down, the way some of them liked to make a game of it.

The only thing at their heel was the wind, clutching and cold. Katie breathed heavily, though not from the running. The dark of the river had become a slate grey under the lightening dawn sky.

Against it, Arthur saw the taller creature get down on a knee, the gleam of a blade near its companion’s face.

“You know what day it is!” said the man holding the knives. Tall and lanky, he had striking blue eyes, sparkling with joy as he held the blades. He stood in front of seven men and women, eight total in this tiny nightmare. They congregated in a super deluxe mobile home, the site of all these demented games, a twisted answer to survival of the fittest.

There were eight knives in the Gorgeous Man’s hands.

“It’s the day where only one can leave!” he said, squeezing the knife handles with excitement, bending over with fits of laughter. “If anyone leaves!” Pumping the knives up and down, he looked around the group, his smile stretched from temple to temple, teeth so large they looked like they belonged in the mouth of a bull shark.

Today is the day it’s the day that I die it’s the day that I die it’s the day that I die-

Charlotte knew this day would come, when her letter would arrive saying she was next in the mobile home. Every year, a new group was chosen. Either one person left the site, or they would all die ripped apart. The mobile home was a hybrid; two mega homes stitched together like a bloated, murderous chimera. A leader like the Gorgeous Man was always on retainer, culled from his family at a young age and brainwashed to anticipate this day with glee. The interior setup changed annually, in case the winner were to give any tips to community members about hiding places or helpful sharp edges. The winner would then join the army of true believers, the extremists who had taken over the country, the True Cross militia.

Charlotte knew the militia was inspired by the First Crusade, and the literature that was passed around the community described them as “agents of God’s wrath upon a sick and sinful world.” After the most vocal opponents to the militia were murdered years ago, including her mother, who had beat one of the militia members to death with an iron after he broke into their home, the mobile home games began. Called the Holy Arcturus (a gathering together that was anything but magnificent), they believed “God would spare the worthiest of the group” during these exercises, ensuring the entire community would soon be free of weak links. Those who were not would be excommunicated via death, by “the hand of God upon that of your neighbor.”

A rapid evolution of the purest.

Charlotte shifted in her spot in the circle, looking toward the floor as a small ache slid through her lower back. She had suffered from mild scoliosis as a girl, leaving her slightly bent. Her legs and arms were strong, though, she had been a competitive swimmer on a local level before the world went mad. Within the last year she had become prone to violent flashbacks, an unconscious wound from PTSD after the First Battles. During these episodes, her mind would push her through a doorway, into a place where the dead were still breathing and colors other than wine magnified their pigment like breath, blooming brightly like supernovas from the ground and the trees. The experiences used to frighten her, but now she longed to stay in the vibrant comfort of that place, watching the flowers absorb the sun, wishing she could smell their petals.

Back in this beige nightmare, she lifted her gaze as the Gorgeous Man stepped in front of her, gleeful as a kid on Christmas morning. “Here is your baby, your beautiful baby, your protective man. All the better to gut you with ,” he cawed, handing her a 6-inch knife. The handle was tepid from his palm, and slightly slick. The steel was spotless, and she could see half her face in the reflection. The serrated blade broke the edge of her cheek, sliding it down in the reflection like she was having a stroke. Still cackling, he stepped in front of each member, presenting their respective knife.