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

Marcus took a few steps back and watched as Doc Holland took the lantern from his belt. “Get behind me, lad,” he said calmly. Marcus obeyed without question, and observed with a wicked fascination as his mentor smashed the lantern onto the monster.

Flames instantaneously covered the Other’s crimson flesh, making a brilliant show of light in the darkness of the tunnels. In its rage the Other lunged for the hunters, but the two were able to avoid its mass by dodging into another corridor.

The Other crashed harshly to the floor and began to thrash around. As it did so, Marcus noticed odd deformities on each of its arms, but as he watched the beast he noticed that these were unlike the rest of the muscular growths that had covered its surface. Indeed, these grotesque shapes were much more unnerving.

Just under each of its shoulders, the beast had the form of a baby just barely protruding from the surface of its skin. They were almost engraved there, as if their forms were carved, or perhaps even melded, into the flesh. As Marcus stared at one of them, horrified by the sight, he saw that the infant’s eyes looked back at him. They were beady and black, and appeared almost hateful beneath the glowing flames. The face was twisted in horrible pain, and Marcus realized suddenly that it was screaming a long, high-pitched shriek as the flames continued to work at the Other’s skin.

Marcus recalled seeing children who were joined together at the waist in one of the towns. Conjoined twins, they were called. Doc Holland had once said that it was one of the many birth defects left behind by the holy flames. Marcus also remembered that some of the older Others were born in the wombs of human mothers after the radiation of the holy flames twisted them into strange, inhuman beings. The holy men always said that this was the devil’s work, as with most of God’s children gone, Lucifer’s demonic legion could walk the land unopposed. Marcus was never sure why holy flames cleansing the land would have such horrible repercussions, but it was deemed unwise to question his elders, and so he simply accepted this as fact.

Watching the mounds of burning flesh, Marcus imagined two conjoined twins in their mother’s womb. He pictured a tumor rising up in the flesh that bound them together, and saw in his mind that tumor slowly grow in the radiated stomach; saw it overtake the two until it was the dominant form. The thought made him sick to his stomach, but just as he was about to turn away, the Other began to speak once more, rising to its feet.

“Fools,” it said. “I was born in the holy flames! Do you truly think a little fire will kill me?”

“Perhaps not, demon,” Doc Holland replied coldly. He placed the barrel of his rifle to the creature’s temple as it rose. “Regardless, I think it’s past time someone sent you back to the hell from which you came.”

Doc Holland unloaded the rest of his ammo into the Other, one bullet after the next, until bone and brain matter began to fly in every direction. As the Other crashed limply to the floor, black fluids began to flow out of its head in a steady, metal-smelling stream. The childlike cries of the Other’s meaty arms died off weakly as the monster took one ragged, final breath.

At last, the Other was dead.

Marcus and Doc Holland were both silent for a moment as they watched the flames continue to lick at the Other’s remains. A thick, putrid smell began to fill the air as the Other’s flesh began to bubble.

After allowing his poor, tired heart a few minutes of rest, Marcus thought it best to tell Doc Holland about the opening in the storeroom wall.

“Better go see about barricading it, then,” Doc Holland said at once. “No way we’re traversing the Broken City at this time of night, and I’m not about to let any more monsters find their way in here.”

The two took great care in maneuvering around the flaming corpse, and when they had bypassed the flames without lighting themselves on fire, they walked down the long passageway to the storeroom, both feeling tired, though happily victorious. Doc Holland began humming a merry little tune as they went. Marcus found the sound to be quite calming.

Marcus led the way into the storeroom, lantern held steadily before him to light their way. As he walked to the opposite end of the room, Doc Holland paused behind him to survey the damaged goods.

Marcus approached the gap, carefully stepping over the shards of broken glass that surrounded the floor. He then stopped abruptly, and listened.

There was a sound in the distance. It was a low, hissing sort of noise that Marcus couldn’t quite make out. “Do you hear that?” he whispered over his shoulder to Doc Holland.

Doc stepped up beside him and cocked his head toward the opening. “I do,” he said in a voice that was extremely grave.

The sound drew closer, and Marcus held the lantern deeper into the hole. To the left, he was beginning to make out a slender silhouette shambling toward them on all fours. As it drew closer, the glow of the lantern reflected off of its sunken, gray eyes. It had skin the color of ash, with long, almost crooked limbs that made it move awkwardly. Its face was elongated, giving it a sorrowful appearance, though it appeared to be grinning all the same. As it crawled closer, the two noticed long, curved claws on both its hands and feet, where its fingers and toes were fused together by protruding bones.

“Feast,” the Other was whispering. “Feast, feast, feast.”

Doc Holland aimed his rifle at the creature, and pulled the trigger.

The rifle responded with a simple, click.

A hard knock on the front door echoes back into the kitchen where I’m stuffing another French fry down my gullet. I jump and almost choke on the crunchy stalk of potato and breading.

I eye Franco sitting across from me at the slate black table, his plate is half empty already. His thick, ruddy brown hair is wavy and messy, framing generous eyes, soft cheeks, and a small pointed nose all coalescing down into a triangular chin. For a second, his hazel eyes meet mine, a hint of worry escaping their depths.

“Who’s that?” Franco asks, crinkling his brow and sweeping his eyes toward the noise.

“Hell if I know,” I say, swallowing down the remainder of my fry with a grimace. “I’ll get it.”

With an annoyed sigh, I get to my feet and make my way through the small kitchen. I don’t need much, but with the Under Shepherd and his fellowship of Deacon’s recent crackdowns on objectionable materials, my horde of belongings is even more meager now, or hidden. Before I can pass through the living room, another knock bangs on the door followed by a harsh command. I stop in my tracks.

“Open up,” a deep, commanding voice rings past the entry door just before beating on the wooden frame commences again. “This is the police.”

I gulp and take another step, then another which lands my feet on a small, bland rug just before the front door. I turn to my left and my eyes catch a picture from better days, before the church managed to sneak its way into everything, when we still had a president, a Congress and a real court system. Now it’s just the church and their holy book.

My parents are seated on a grassy knoll somewhere in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’m sitting cross-legged between them, an only child. Everyone’s grinning, something I rarely do nowadays. Trees layered in browns, reds and oranges line the background just below a setting sun. I remember it being cool, bordering on frigid that day. I think I was fourteen. My smooth, pale, boyish face was happy then, brown eyes glinting in the light below the same headful of spiky chestnut hair I see in my reflection in the glass. There was a vibrancy in me that day that’s lacking now; hell, I’ve not felt that in years. I was a normal kid. I played basketball, chased after the girls, couldn’t wait to get my license, took my parents for granted. It’s hard to believe it’s been nine years since that day on the Parkway, seven years since my parents died at the hands of the church, the Fellowship as they call themselves. Their crime? They were God deniers, at least that’s what the Fellowship called them. It only took a matter of years after the church gained control, no, who am I fooling, took control, for such a crime to be decreed punishable by death.