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

“You think those men deserved to die because of what they did as the Third Council?”

“You don’t, Detective?”

Again, silence. Pratt worried Herring was going to go berserk. He hated Highers to begin with and Pratt was worried to see him face to face with one, one who would have the audacity to ask such a question. Luckily, Herring didn’t react as expected.

“No. I don’t.”

“Oh.” Vincent cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but would you mind fetching me that water I asked for? I can’t go any further without it.”

Again, Pratt waited for Herring to explode, but was pleasantly surprised when he simply stood up and stormed out of the room. Pratt turned in his chair, hearing the detective’s footsteps before he even entered.

“You got all that?”

“Yeah. Pretty crazy stuff.”

“It’ll make the news,” Herring grunted, filling a cup with water at the dispenser in the corner. “I’m going to go back in and get more details. You just keep that thing recording.”

“Yes, sir.”

Nodding, Herring spat into the cup of water he’d just filled and left the room.

Detective Herring re-entered the interview room. Vincent Virgo didn’t turn around. Herring placed the cup in front of him and sat back down at the opposite side of the table.

“There’s your water.”

Vincent smiled.

“Thank you. I was getting ready to black out in here.”

Pratt busted out into laughter watching the Higher drink his spit water. He didn’t understand how Herring was able to refrain from smiling, even the slightest.

“Why Abigail Watson?”

“Excuse me?”

“You told me why you killed Derek Bell, Jason Moore, and Robert Burkhart. But, why Abigail Watson? She wasn’t on the Third Council. She’s never been involved in politics. So, why did you kill her?”

Vincent averted his eyes downward, as if shameful of what he was going to say.

I’d actually never seen her until that night. I’d only heard of her, the infamous Oliver Watson’s daughter, heir to a technological fortune that Bill Gates would’ve envied. I was disappointed when I noticed her father wasn’t with her.”

“Why?”

“Because I was going to kill him. He was the whole reason I volunteered my home for this year’s masquerade ball. He was corrupted by his family’s success in the A.I. industry. Being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, made him a very cold man with colder intentions.”

“So, you’re saying you were trying to kill Oliver Watson for the same reason you killed the Highers from the Third Council? You felt he deserved to die, too? I have to say that motive seems like a bit of a stretch to me.”

“As if you actually know these people!” Vincent replied angrily, his sweaty face twisted into a condescending smile. “You might have heard of them, seen their name in print somewhere, but you don’t know them. I know them, Detective. I’ve eaten brunches with them. I’ve golfed with them, made deals with them. Men that will eat you alive if it means they can have a full belly! Sharks!”

“Was Abigail Watson a shark?”

Again, Vincent dropped his eyes. The mention of her name seemed to calm him, possibly even depress him instantly. Herring could see something change in the Higher’s eyes, as if something were taking place in his head. It was like a switch flipped, something not visible but very real.

Lightly tracing the rim of his now empty water cup, he began, “She was glowing that night. I think it was her first ball because she seemed almost breath taken by the extravagance of the festivities going on around her. She tried to keep her composure as a woman of class, but her eyes were large like a child’s.

“She awed at the extravagance of my home. There was a twinkle in her eye as she admired the weaving lines of gold that ran up the walls, the white marble floors, the swirling kingdom of angels painted on the ceiling, the twinkling of the diamond chandeliers. I watched her marvel at the long oak tables, all covered in silver platters of the finest cuisine and crystal bowls filled with spirits. She was admiring one of the ice-sculpted angels when I first approached her. She wasn’t the only one wearing a little black dress, but she definitely owned hers the best. Every curl of her sunny blonde hair seemed perfectly placed, no matter how much she moved or how strong a draft blew by. She was like Aphrodite, herself.

“We hit it off instantly. She seemed to be infatuated with me, my luxurious lifestyle the epitome of everything she loved, everything she was used to. It was more than the wealth that attracted her, though. It was the infamy. She’d seen my name on billboards her whole life. She’d heard her father and her friends talk about me. Sure, she had her own wealth, but under the shadow of her family name, she’d never have true fame. And she needed that. She needed the fame, the superiority. She needed to be the Highest of Highers. That was clear to me.

“It was almost Midnight when I asked her join me upstairs and bring in the New Year in a more intimate setting. Her face lit up at the idea. I could hear the curious whispers of my guests as I led Watson’s daughter up the curving staircase and through the double doors. When we were alone, I tried to tell her about the antique paintings I had hanging around my room. She pretended to be interested, but she didn’t seem genuinely impressed. So, I showed her my closet. Its massive expanse was enough to amaze her, but I took her hand and led her past my extensive wardrobe, back, back, until we reached my collection. Shelved on this back wall were lines of mannequin heads, their plastic faces masked by the skin of the fallen and forgotten. Over a hundred lifeless faces of all sorts stared at us. White, tan, black, young, old, hairy, beautiful, ugly. Each one was carefully skinned off the skull of a savage from the Bottom.”

Herring looked away, his fist clinching beneath the table. He wasn’t shocked to hear of Virgo’s collection. It had become a common practice amongst the Highers in recent years. Upper class people no longer displayed deer heads on their walls or laid down bear skin rugs. No, now their homes were decorated with an even more precious commodity. An entire business was emerging, where workers would risk venturing the Bottom to hunt survivors, or as the Highers called them: “savages.” They would hunt the savages, skin them, and sell their hides to the Highers. The faces were especially lucrative.

“She asked me if she could try one on,” Virgo continued, a faint smirk on his face. He enjoyed seeing Herring’s agitation. “I insisted. She kissed me on my cheek and reached for the face of a young Hispanic. A surprising choice. Hand in hand, we walked out across my room and out onto my balcony. I’m not sure if you know this, Detective, but I live on the edge of the city. So, that night, the view from my balcony was quite breathtaking, the full moon illuminating the sea of savages below. Abigail trembled seeing such a thing, the horrible illness that has overtaken the Bottom. It was a whirlpool of mindless cannibalism, a feeding frenzy of a fallen people. We could see them down there, tearing each other apart, desperately clawing at the pillars that support the ground beneath our feet now. Have you ever seen that, Detective? Do you know what it really looks like on the Bottom?”

Herring took a deep breath. “Get on with it. What happened?”

Pratt sat on the other side of the glass, chewing his thumb nail like he always did when he got nervous. He could almost feel Herring preparing to spring across the table. Vincent acquiesced and continued, slowly unbuttoning the top few buttons of his dress shirt.

“Voices from inside my home counted down the New Year. Five! Four! Three! She quickly put on her mask while I put on mine.” Again, Vincent dropped his eyes, some sort of pain in his face. “It was in that moment I knew she had to die, like the others. But, she wasn’t like the others and that’s what made me sad. She was merely cut from the same fabric, a fabric that had been sewn over the many generations before her. She showed me that there is no such thing as ‘innocence’ anymore. She showed me with those pretty brown eyes of hers… Through the holes of some strange man’s face.