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

One of my friends, Lens Sozak, called her “The Mantis,” which was a darn good description if you ask me. Good old Lens was killed in a mob-action, as they’re being called these days. He developed a blue mark while vacationing at the Grand Canyon with his family. Nobody stopped to ask him if his mark was due to being a war vet, which he was. A crowd of people just picked him up in some sort of mosh pit ballet, and tossed him over the South Rim, right in front of his wife and three boys. Mob-actions were like that in the beginning. Now you really don’t see mobs, everyone pretty much stays on their own. But, it still doesn’t make strangers any less dangerous.

The Gidgidoo’s skin was pulled smooth, which might have made you think she was maybe twenty-five or so, but her eyes were kind of… sunken. Big, round, black-pupiled oglers, with wide, dark, old lady circles cradling beneath. To me, they made her look about two hundred years old and counting. And then, of course, there was her hair. She did have hair, a long, black shiny mane, probably her most woman-like feature, but only in some places. So if you’re having trouble with the visual, just picture an upside down spaghetti strainer, with black clumps of hair pulled through just some of the holes. And no, it wasn’t like she lost the hair. It looked like that was just how it grew.

Three blocks from Tommy’s Deli now and crossing the street. My heightened peripheral catches a flash of light. A flashlight, to be precise. Someone is hanging out in a side alley with a flashlight. They aren’t moving, and they aren’t chasing me, so I just keep on. The top tips of my ears feel like they’re literally burning off my head. Wicks on a roman candle. Idiot, I could have at least wrapped up my ears. I’m already in a purple quilt, what difference would a set of Biya’s socks around my ears make at this point?

It was Biya that named her the Gidgidoo. I never really asked why. The name seemed to fit. And I don’t talk about that with my daughter at all anymore. She’s got few other ideas to stew on as of late. Like why she can’t go out, or when’s Mommy coming home, or how come we only eat once a day.

I never saw the Gidgidoo interruption that first night. I was in the basement of our apartment building, battling with a broken storage cage. My jerky neighbor had yanked it off its post when he forgot the combination to his kid’s bike lock. Joys of renting, baby. Guess he thought destroying our shared storage space was a far better idea than just asking someone if they had bolt cutters. The only reason I found the damage in the first place was because the storage locker was my only safe, Beth-Free Zone (thank you, mini-centipedes) for hiding her anniversary present, a jet black angora sweater. It had a cowl-neck, was tight, and kinda beatnicky. We had seen it in one of the ladies boutique windows in town. Think the shop was called Mystafy Designs , but of course I was teasing Beth and calling it Misfire Designs. I made her go in and try it on. I knew she loved it when she emerged from the dressing room, all a-smile. God, she had a great smile. While waiting for her to sweater-up, I had uncomfortably perched my butt on a cubed platform, under an armless mannequin garbed in some red atrocity of an evening gown, punched with silver rivets. Rivets make the woman, you know. Two pinched-faced sales-women-witches, clearly unhappy with me parking there, and thus ruining the strategic and cohesive visual design of the entire store, shot me occasional glares as they busied themselves organizing silk scarves by color and shoving credit card applications into the unwilling hands of strangers. Beth had half-popped, half-snuck out of the little stall in the sweater, and I whistled loudly. More to annoy the sales staff than embarrass my wife. She then took one look at the ornate gold cardstock tag bearing the $189.00 bad news and guffawed like a donkey. Pinch-faces rolled their eyes at us, and I knew right there that little angora number was going to be the best surprise gift ever.

Anyway, that is where I was when the Gidgidoo appeared on the TV screen, in the basement of our apartment building, playing Mr. Fix-it, and doing a horrific wrap job on the sweater. Beth missed the G-woman, too. She was in the kitchen, gently trying to unravel herself from one of those killer marathon phone calls from Mom; blah, blah, blah, when are you two buying a house ? Blah, blah, blah, when are you bringing Biya up for a visit? Blah and double blah.

But Biya did see it, and named her two names. The Gidgidoo , and, The Scary Lady . Of course, on any other night, Biya would have already been in bed (cause she’s friggin’ four ), curled up with that ladybug doll she likes, dreaming under a ceiling of glow-in-the-dark, peach-colored stars. But no, my unsupervised daughter was happily flipping channels on our (never set parental control) remote. So first, a little of the The Shining, and then, the Gidgidoo. Yeah, yeah, I know. Nice parenting, Doyle and Beth.

The purple marking was the Gidgidoo’s first promise to all of us across the world in TV land, and damn if it did not happen the next morning, just as she said it would. And then every week after that at 8pm. A new announcement. A new color. And a new sinner would wake up marked, unveiled to the world, awaiting punishment, or running from it.

A blast of wind, frizzled with swirling ice-snow, slams into my face, immediately making my eyes water. I’m pushed back a step and almost lose my footing. I feel my left heel kissing a thick rounded ice patch and my heart jumps. Not sure, but I think some sort of cartoon “Whoa!” escapes my mouth. Yet, my arms seem to blessedly flail in all the right directions and I regain my balance. Slowly, as if not trusting the touchdown, I bend over, place my hands on my thighs and stare at the concrete. My body starts to involuntarily shiver now. Not from the cold, but from the near-miss realization. That could have been bad. Real bad . What if I cracked my head and knocked myself unconscious? Or broke my leg? If I couldn’t make it home tonight? Oh my god. I take a deep breath. Then, another. I’m okay . I’m a block from Tommy’s. Almost halfway home, little girl.

Purple was first. The Gidgidoo had said anyone who developed a purple mark on their head was a child abuser. She didn’t tell anyone to do anything about it. She just said it, like it was an indisputable fact. Like the way you say water boils, or that Superman can fly. Of course, Biya thought she said child shoes, of all things, so she thought marked people got shoes. I didn’t deserve that small miracle.

That year, there were an estimated 40 million children worldwide subjected to abuse, and I only know that ‘cause me and Beth, everybody at work, and about a bazillion other people hit the internet that week to learn just how many purples were hiding amongst us. I mean, if you believed the lady with the blanket. I didn’t, but I was curious about the numbers. Then it was all over the news. It was practically all the news there was. Purple-headed folks, spotted and rounded up in droves. For a little while, it was really probably a great time to be an attorney, a highway paved in gold by thousands of budding cases to defend: unreasonable search and seizure, illegal arrests, targeted arson, and accidental deaths. Lots of accidental deaths. I think for a moment, even amid all the violence, many people thought it was a good thing. I mean, if it was true, then it was kind of a miracle, right? We could identify and get rid of all these evil pieces of crap that hurt the world’s children every day.