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

“I will not live to see the new world,” Grandfather tells me. “But you will. The Quiet Space will protect you. You will walk in the new world and you will carry our legacy into that new world.”

He kisses me. Touches me. Scrapes at my back with his brittle nails. “Darkness is assured, darling. It will have its day.” He’s weaker now, needing help positioning himself. I pull him to me. The room is always too stuffy. Heat from our bodies makes it worse. I close my eyes and think of the knob of his cane that’s carved into a jackal’s head.

“Remember, Mia, if you complete your task, you’ll get a gift from me.”

I wonder what this stuffy room with one window and a sloped ceiling would be like if Grandfather no longer stayed here. Then I think, this room and Grandfather are one and the same. He’ll never leave this room.

I saw a bird yesterday. Gliding on outstretched wings through the ashen fall sky. So beautiful I cried. I decide to make tomorrow my twenty-third birthday. A year older and more prepared to shape this new world.

People will put the world back together quicker this time. Stockpiles of history—music, books, movies, museums, photographs, computers—and derelict infrastructure all around the globe will guide the way.

I set out on my errands, more determined than ever. I have no desire to visit Gramercy Park anymore. There are other parks in the city, my city.

My grandfather’s love has never left me. A life devoted to me. Only me. His darling. In this new world, where man will again make a way, so will sin. I rub my swollen belly. My gift. I can feel a fire deep within me. I think of Grandfather, smiling, rocking in his creaky wicker chair in our tiny attic room. His eyes are shiny copper pennies floating in the void. We will be together again.

Detective Herring arrived at the Police Memorial Building around 9 PM on January 4th, 2069. He hurried through the halls, buttoning up his blazer as he walked. It was always strangely colder in the Homicide Unit. Officer Pratt was waiting for him when he walked in. The desk was covered in paperwork. This was going to be a high-profile case. It wasn’t every day one of the Highers was arrested for murder… Or anything for that matter.

“Is he ready for questioning?” Herring asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Yup. He’s sitting in interview room 1.”

“How did he take to being arrested? Should I brace myself?”

“He’s been fairly calm so far. Hasn’t even requested a lawyer yet.”

Herring was surprised. He’d expected a Higher to take being arrested as an insult. And in a way, it was. The Highers were above the law because they controlled the law. It wasn’t written down anywhere, but it might as well be engraved in stone.

“Did he seem to show any signs of guilt? Any nervousness?”

“Like I said, he’s been fairly calm. I even mentioned some of the evidence we have against him.”

“And?”

“He shrugged his shoulders and said it sounded like a solid case. If he’s nervous, he does a great job of hiding it.”

“Maybe he thought you were bluffing.”

“Maybe.”

Herring nodded. “This is going to be interesting.”

Pratt flipped on the recording equipment and watched from the adjoining room as Herring entered the interview room. The man sitting at the table with his hands cuffed together greeted the detective with a warm smile, but the sincerity was lost on both Herring and Pratt.

His name was Vincent Virgo. A few strands of his shiny, black hair hung in his face while the rest was slicked back behind his ears. His goatee was styled perfectly and his $5000 Armani suit emphasized his taste for the finer things in life. He was indeed beautiful, as all the higher people were. Such angelic looks were a further representation of his social status. Herring, like many others of the serving class, envied Vincent’s physical perfection. The rigid scar that ran across the Detective’s face literally burned with jealousy. He was only ten when the doctor ran a blade from his right brow down to the bottom of his left cheek. The regulated deformity of the Serving Class at a young age had been law for nearly fifty years. The type of handicap imposed was up to the doctor. Pratt, for example, was missing three fingers on his left hand.

They called it Marking Day. Each month, every child of the serving class who’d reached the age of ten would be taken to the clinic to be marked. Herring remembered his own Marking Day to be very traumatic. The experience was physically, mentally, and emotionally scarring. Marking was simply the Highers’ way of imposing their superiority. Every day, Herring would look in the mirror and be reminded that he was nothing more than a servant to the higher class. Still, it was better than being cast to The Bottom.

“Hello, Mr. Virgo,” Herring said as he sat down. “I’m Detective Herring.”

“Hello, Detective,” replied the Higher, still smiling a very superficial smile.

“You’re aware of why you’re here, right, Mr. Virgo?”

“Yes, I am.” He spoke softly, “Please, call me Vincent. Mr. Virgo is my father’s name.”

Vincent’s casual demeanor rubbed Herring the wrong way. It was a rare occasion when someone of the Serving Class could challenge the pretentious behavior of a Higher and Herring was more than eager to take advantage of the opportunity. He knew the chances of actually making a conviction were slim to none, but he was going try to his hardest and at the very least make the entire ordeal as unpleasant as possible.

“Mr. Virgo, you’re aware that you’re suspected of a very serious crime? One that could land you in prison or even permanent exile.”

Vincent frowned. “Is murder such a serious crime these days?”

“Yes, it is. And frankly, Mr. Virgo, the evidence we have against you is almost overwhelming and further investigation is under way. If you come clean now, perhaps we can prevent you from being exiled.”

“You have overwhelming evidence against me, Detective? How interesting! Do tell, do tell!”

“Gladly.” Herring opened the case file in front of him and began shuffling through the papers. Vincent raised an eyebrow in over-embellished curiosity.

Herring proceeded to place a picture of the victim in front of Vincent. “Do you know who this is, Mr. Virgo?”

Without looking down, he replied, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“You didn’t examine the picture, Mr. Virgo.”

“Abigail Watson. The 19-year-old daughter of Oliver Watson.”

“That’s correct. She was last seen accompanying you upstairs to a higher floor of your lovely mansion on the night of your New Year’s Eve party.”

“It was more of a masquerade ball, but you wouldn’t know much about such festivities,” Vincent replied calmly.

“I know of the Higher’s New Year’s tradition and I also know you are rather adamant about holding this year’s ball at your home.”

“You seem to know a lot, Detective.”

Vincent’s indifference unnerved Herring. He wanted to see beads of sweat roll down the Higher’s face or a nervous tremble. Something. He was determined to get a reaction.

“Miss Watson followed you up those stairs and never came back down,” Herring said as he pulled out three more pictures. “She simply disappeared like these three men who were all last seen with you.”

Herring spread three more pictures on the table.

“And that, of course, means I’ve murdered them all. Is that what you’re getting at, Detective?”

“We arrived at that conclusion when a witness of ours spotted you driving Miss Watson’s car the same night she was murdered. Why were you driving Miss Watson’s car, Mr. Virgo?”