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

“Get the hell out of my store, you little crappers!” Tommy shouts, and I can’t but help short a giggle at the word “crappers.” Really, Tommy? I know you were caught off guard and all that, but you spun the intimidating store owner wheel and that was the best you could do? Little crappers? Anyway, the Gidgi posse does not seem to budge, and Tommy’s already stomping down the aisle to get at the gun before they spot it.

So Tommy gets to the front first and attempts some sort of wacko Schwarzenegger dive behind the register while grabbing for the gun. He does get the gun, but doesn’t make it over the counter, slamming his head and body into the brown metal box. One of the kids (and yeah, I know they’re kids now ‘cause they are shouting stuff and sound like they all own little red Flyer wagons) grabs the barrel of the gun. Tommy, still on top of the counter, punches him dead in the face. I hear something crunch and the kid goes down, hard, and is out for the count. By this time my fight or flight has kicked in and I am sprinting down aisle three, chrome metal shelving parallel to the counter, and right behind two of the Gidgi-toddlas. They turn, see me, and desperately try to jab their knives through the potato chip and dog food bags now between us. But it is far too late. I push the entire shelving unit down over them, and they get pinned beneath it. All the while, I can hear Ponytail in the back, screaming. Nice of you to help us by screaming like that, Ponytail. Are you sure that is what Bobby would have wanted?

Without hesitation or mercy, I stomp on their little hands and swiftly collect the cutlery. I wheel around (in what I say was some damn impressive choreography—see people, you only caught the “Whoa” show on the street… I do my best moves inside) and turn my new knife set on the two kids still holding onto Wick’s arms, like they have got some sort of weighty collateral. I slash one kid across the face, cutting both his mask and left cheek in half, while driving the other knife (my mind registers it’s a bread knife) into the other kid’s upper arm. At this point, the kids realize they have other more pressing goals outside of hostage-taking, and practically throw Wick into a pyramid of rigatoni boxes, and bolt out of the store. As an afterthought, I pick up the unconscious trick-or-treater from hell that Tommy clobbered, holding him up with my left arm and balancing his dead weight on my hip, open the front door again, walk down the front steps and pitch the brat into the street.

As I turn to re-enter the deli, the two I pinned, who must have wriggled out of their metal shelf crab trap, run past me into the darkness. Feeling kinda proud, I enter the store, spin around in a move only the original Temptations could’ve appreciated, secure the door and stand there, hands on hips, protectively facing the street. I wait for that warm, approving clap on my shoulder from Tommy. Nice job, son , how about some free lemon-lime soda? Or maybe a smattering of applause from Ponytail and Wick. But it doesn’t come. In fact, there is no sound at all from behind me, yet I know they are all staring. Then, of course, it happens. Cause Ponytail is yelling, “RED! He’s RED! RRRREEEEDDDDDDDD!”

And I must say, I think she was really being over the top about it. I mean it’s not like I am the only one out there. I just might be the first one she actually saw. I lift my hand to my face, but I already know what to expect. Must have happened in the scuffle. My fake skin flap is hanging, half-on half-off my forehead, revealing the blood red mark of a serial killer. But you know, it’s really not fair. I stopped doing all that when Beth and I had Biya. Way before the Gidgidoo showed up. Also, I haven’t been able to score any glycerin or gelatin powder in weeks, so I have had to reuse some of my old skin patches ‘til I could make some more.

But there’s no time to think now. Tommy’s already got the shotgun pointed straight at my back. I only know that because when he boarded up the store windows with the this side up panels, he did it from the outside. So I can see the whole show behind me, unfolding in the reflection. And there he is with the gun. And there she is, hunkered behind him, clutching his right arm for protection and continuing to point at me, like he could get me confused with somebody else in a store of four. And there’s Wick Carmien, staring at all of us, still recovering from his rigatoni tumble, and looking really confused. And there I am in the purple comforter coat, deciding the jinx is up as I smile and rip the skin flap off and toss it over my shoulder. Funny, I don’t feel as upset as I think I should be at this moment. I do not feel the shotgun blast either.

I unzip the door and step from the darkened void back into Grandfather’s room. It still smells of his aftershave and of Bengay, even though he’s been gone for more than a year. The attic room, usually hot and stuffy, is drafty this morning, as it has been all week. His room remains nearly untouched from the time when he hobbled around it, first heavy-footed and crouched over to avoid the sloped ceiling, later with his carved cane and a curved spine that made the crouching permanent.

A single semicircle window gives me a view of Brine Street covered in fallen leaves that haven’t yet dried up and lost their colors. Old books are stuffed onto rickety shelves my daddy built in one of the corners. In another corner is the coat rack still holding Grandfather’s flat cap and coat. His rocker is against the wall.

My room is one floor down, on the level with Mom and Dad’s bedroom and a bathroom and a linen closet. My room is mostly littered with clothes. I only wear dresses on my birthdays as a tribute to Grandfather, and I’ll never wear heels again. I gather up today’s clothes and head to the bathroom. It’s past due for a good cleaning. I used to be more vigilant at cleaning house, but it was easier with running water and consistent electricity. As time runs on in this new world, remnants of the past one dry up and crumble like the leaves each fall. I had clean water for months after the end, then it started smelling funny and looking dingy. I started boiling and bottling it. Later, I scavenged purified and distilled gallons from area grocery stores.

When the electricity finally stopped coming to our house, the thing I missed most wasn’t the TV or radio, but Wi-Fi. Until then, using the Web and social media still felt like I belonged to a world big and connected and alive, even though nothing was current or responsive. Facebook became a cyber ghost town of a billion profiles and histories. Final postings turned anecdotes and sped-up recipes into eulogies; emojis were epigraphs on the virtual gravestones of humanity.

The American Foursquare home I’ve lived in my whole life creaks as I move through it. My car keys hang on the hook at the end of the narrow hallway to the front door. Growing up, this hallway seemed bigger and longer than it is. I lock up the house, a habit I can’t shake even though I’ll never have a break-in.

Out front, parked on Brine Street, my street, is my dirty Pathfinder. Sitting inside with my iPhone, I text: A day is never as good the moment you realize there is still much of it left. I press SEND.

I drive the barren city blocks, window down, enjoying the breeze, passing Gramercy Park and the coffee shop I used to love. My destinations today are the shopping mall for clothes and batteries, my usual grocery stores for canned and dry goods and snacks, and the park on the way back. The great tree in Gramercy Park is losing the last of its leaves. There are other trees in the park, but none at its center, and none as large and beautiful as this Siberian Elm. I legit believe the tree is older than this park and this city. Maybe the world itself.