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

“So I guess I have to ask… what happens now, Tom?”

“Why did you do it?”

He gives me an uncertain smile, shrugs. “Remember that shadow on your lung, Tom?”

Of course I remember. His hands on my chest. The heat and the cold.

“You’re smoking again, though. Even though I did my best to stop you. To help you.”

We’re quiet for a while. I inhale, exhale. There doesn’t seem like much else to say, but I say it anyway. I tell him that I’m going to finish my cigarette and then I’m going to shoot him. I tell him how the tellurium bullet will rip into his flesh, causing the cells around it to blacken and decay as it continues on its path to his heart.

I explain how within moments his vital organs will vesicate. His legs will give way. He will collapse to his knees, those perfect blue eyes wide open in horror as he clutches at his chest, his hand over that famous insignia, his muscles convulsing as his body shuts down. It will be quick. It will be painful. It will be a better end than he deserves.

“It’s possible, Tom. I am rather fast, though.”

I drop my cigarette to the frosted ground, grinding it out under my boot. And then I tell him one more thing.

There is a moment of silence and then he asks me to repeat what I just told him. This is a man who can hear your heartbeat from a thousand miles away, yet he needs to hear me say those words one more time, to fully understand them.

“She’s pregnant.”

This was the last thing Diane wrote down for us, the last piece of dialogue, the true secret weapon. After everything, all the death and devastation, she still believed there was some good in him. Some sense of hope, no matter how buried it had become. Some piece of learned humanity. She believed that moment of hesitation would be enough.

He will know you’re telling the truth , she wrote. He will hear it in your voice . She stood there, in the base at Anchorage, her hands over the gentle curve of her stomach, their unborn child within. She was broken and tired, and yet she still had faith. She was the best of us.

I am raising my M16. This moment is frozen in the time it takes for a bullet to leave the barrel and reach its target. Or for a man who fell from the sky to reach out and end my life and humanity’s last chance alongside it. He goes to say something, to speak. I think it might even be the word stop.

But I am already pulling the trigger and hoping for the best.

My silver-haired neighbor stands alone on his son’s front porch, his suitcase sitting beside him like a faithful dog. He turns toward the whisper of dry leaves rustling across asphalt. I can barely hear the sound as I watch and listen from the open window of my daughter’s house. He picks up his suitcase and begins his short journey to the curb.

A shuttle van pulls to a stop in front of him. Its strange headlights glow like jackal eyes in the night.

When the shuttle’s door opens, I can hear the driver growl, “Speed it up, Dino, I don’t have all night.”

My neighbor disappears inside and the van drives off into the darkness.

I’m a Dino, too—short for dinosaur. Lately the media refers to us as “Deadwood.” Neither name is meant to be kind.

Returning to my makeshift bed on the living room couch, I’m thankful to have shelter, food, and my family. After watching my neighbor leave for his Relocation tonight, fear rages inside me like a cornered panther.

Early the next morning, as I’m fixing breakfast for everyone, my grandchildren rush in to give me morning hugs. Amy is five. She has her father’s Greek coloring and her mother’s sweet nature. Joel is nine and loves sports. Mark is seven and thrilled that his two front teeth have gone missing. Both boys resemble my side of the family with their light brown hair and blue eyes. My grandchildren are the joy of my life.

Their father follows them into the kitchen. Thomas works for a collection agency, which is perfect for him. He looks like a thick-necked professional bouncer.

“So, Jill, how long have you been here?” Thomas asks as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Eighteen months,” I say, keeping my eyes on the frying eggs.

“And how old are you now?”

I break two yokes slapping the eggs over. “Fifty-nine in two weeks. How old are you , Thomas?”

My daughter walks into the room. “Let’s go! We’re all going to be late if we don’t start moving.”

Within seconds, Gloria and I are the only people in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Mom, he’s cranky this morning. Thomas loves his job, but hates his boss. He has an interview this afternoon. If he gets this promotion, he can work from home.”

My hands ball into fists, “You’re going to miss your bus again, Gloria.”

After everyone is gone, I find a flyer from their local chapter of the national organization NIOT—Now It’s Our Turn—of young people who blame anyone over fifty-five for everything.

Thomas left it on the coffee table in front of the couch—by accident, I’m sure.

The flyer’s headline reads: How Long Are We Going to Support the Deadwood in Our Society?

I read the first two paragraphs before ripping the flyer into confetti.

Amy and I are coloring and watching cartoons later that afternoon. My book is filled with African animals while Amy colors princesses, fairies, and unicorns.

A government commercial starring much-loved actor Mark Reny appears on the screen. The man is everywhere: radio, television, and even children’s programs.

“Seniors still living with family, when you receive your Relocation letter, you will be taken to a safe haven where comfortable housing, nourishing food, and jobs are waiting for each and every one of you.”

“Grandma, why does Daddy keep saying that some people just don’t know when to get on the shuttle?”

“Your daddy is being silly,” I tell her. “Look, your cartoons are back on.”

Two cartoons later, Mark’s face appears on the screen.

“Our new government program, ‘Hope for the Lost’, provides a private shower area. The homeless are then given clean clothes, basic hygiene items, and a nourishing breakfast before boarding buses that will take them to a sanctuary.“

Before the next cartoon begins, Amy tells me, “Grandma, you’re hogging all the red and purple crayons.”

After dinner, Thomas turns on his favorite news program. The newscaster, Patti Snow, is young, beautiful, and articulate.

“Our three-digit heat wave will continue for the next seven days here in Los Angeles County. But flooding in some areas of the country, and drought conditions in others, continue to seriously impact farmlands and crops.

“Food rationing will continue through the remainder of this year.

“Now let’s check our global situation. Another 8.6 earthquake struck Japan early this morning. Tsunamis are expected to destroy more rice and soybean fields.”

Film clips of the disaster flash behind Patti.

Thomas snickers. “Like I say, Gloria, Japan always gets the really big breaks.”

Patti continues:

“Video filmed this morning in Pasadena shows our homeless seniors happily entering air-conditioned buses ready to take them to a secure refuge.”

The screen shows older men and women shuffling toward brown buses.

The scene quickly switches to single and two-parent families racing to green buses. A helicopter camera follows as their three buses park outside a former retirement community campus.

“It’s about time the government put those vacant buildings to good use,” Thomas says.