by Jack Lothian
Down with the Fallen:
A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Anthology
Edited by Jordon Greene
Copyright © 2017 by Jordon Greene.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictionally and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Edited by Jordon Greene
Cover Image by Getmilitaryphotos/Shutterstock.com
Cover & Interior design by Jordon Greene
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN-10: 0-9983913-5-2 (Paperback)
ISBN-13: 978-0-9983913-5-9 (Paperback)
Fiction: Horror
Fiction: Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian
Fiction: Anthology
To all those who think they'd survive the apocalypse
and these three awesome ladies who helped
make this anthology a reality:
Sandra Farley
Chelly Hoyle Peeler
Kim Greene
Table of Contents
The Pack
Rohit Sawant
Slits
Jessica Clem
The Monsters of Bear Mountain
S.E. Stone
Freshmint
M.B. Vujacic
Thirteen Days
Toby Alexander
The Rip
Jeremy Megargee
A Year Later
Irina Slav
Men of Tomorrow
Jack Lothian
Dry Leaves
Christine Stabile
Heathfolk
Mary Victoria Johnson
The Other
Garrett Kirby
Forbidden
Jordon Greene
To Market, To Market
J.C. Raye
Grandfather's Room
Marvin Brown
The Many Faces of the Beautiful People
Hekter Kaztro
Vortex
Gregory L. Norris
About the Authors
The Pack
Rohit Sawant
I contented myself with just looking in from the window. If I were alone, I would've ventured in. But I knew what my companion would make of it. I didn’t want him spreading any more rumors about me. He already found me absurd to begin with and made no pretense to hide it, eyeing me like I dropped a handful of dirt in my mouth if I studied a peculiarly shaped leaf, turning it over; I liked to draw them.
I looked over my shoulder at him. He sat motionless, staring out through the gap in the fence, his fingers absently tying and undoing knots in the lasso on his lap. The seat he was in was probably attached to a vehicle at some point. I don’t know where he got it from, but I found him lounged in it after I completed the sweep to confirm the house was empty. He tipped it back, rocking himself by pushing his heel against the carcass at his feet.
I gazed back into the room. With my eyes and just enough moonlight, I could make out the different objects within. I guessed the use of some, but wondered what such-and-such thing might be used for and made up stories surrounding them. Of course, I had no one to share them with. Not anymore.
The scene was more or less similar everywhere. The larger of the objects were things you could sit on. Everything that once might have been shiny was marred. Rotting scraps of food and debris covered the floor, the kind accumulated over time. Shards of glass glinted in the half-light; eyes of small live things also glinted, the only live things there, which moved about in the shadows. Despite the size of the rooms they all carried the same stench, of disuse and desperation, and reminded me of an abandoned zoo.
I didn’t bring you here to sightsee.
I turned about to find his head cocked at me.
What sight you do find worth seeing, though, is a mystery.
“First off, you didn’t bring me here,” I said, walking over to Flanim. “We were dispatched by the FARM.”
And a fine service you’re providing.
I didn't bother with a rejoinder (it would only have drawn yet another reply, and I preferred the silence between us) and stood leaning against the craft. Through the missing boards in the fence, I had a clear view of the forked road and the glimmering river beyond. There were a lot of strays in the area, and the FARM never had enough ukhivs so they’d sent us. We'd spotted half a dozen of them entering sector 79. They were out of range of my tranq gun and eluded us by the time we landed. That was a moon ago.
After much dispute, we decided to camp. Which I still didn't see the point of. We could've gone on a different course and picked up other ukhivs. A lot of them scuttled around, especially at night. We certainly weren't under orders to bring in specific ukhivs or anything. Maybe that's not entirely true. We were instructed to make the sturdy sort our priority, the kind suitable for labor or experiments, and also the smaller ones, lately very much in demand as pets, and they could be easily conditioned. But Flanim seemed set on pursing the ones we'd glimpsed. They'll take shelter for a while before setting off again, he’d said. And that much was true, as we had noted from previous patterns. So here we were.
And I hoped not for long. The stink from the dead ukhiv at his feet only got stronger with every passing moment. It wasn't one we'd struck down. Or, at least, one I hadn't. We were carrying it around since we left base. I was puzzled when he dragged it aboard the craft. He didn't answer when I asked him what he was up to. If he had anything resembling lips, I'm sure they would've curled in a grin.
Recalling his smug attitude, I got annoyed anew at the smell and said, "Can you get rid of that already?"
You don't see me asking you to toss your gun.
"What does that have to do with it?"
He didn’t reply. I got up again and paced at some distance. Ukhivs could be subdued in a number of ways; they were soft. But I preferred tranq guns, as did Rokfilof, my old partner. They got the job done quickly and didn't cause a mess. Flanim, on the other hand, favored the opposite. He flung a lasso from the craft at the running ukhivs and whooped (much to my annoyance) when it would restrain one. As much as I disliked him, I was in awe of his skill and had tried something similar on stationary objects in my quarters with laughable result. Any admiration I allowed myself stopped at that. What followed after never failed to repulse me. He savagely beat the ukhiv senseless using his bare hands. Whenever we came across a herd, I always took out the smaller ukhivs first. He lost interest if they were already unconscious.
It was contrary to our job, what he did. We were g
atherers. Not hunters.
He was roaring mad when I tranqed a young ukhiv he had caught once. I thought his rant would make my head burst.
Stay out of my way. You still want to be soft after what happened to old Rokfilof?
He stepped back, seeing my fist tighten over the dagger at my belt.
All I'm saying is you get yours, let me get mine. What do you say?
I didn't take his outstretched hand, and he ranted some more. For someone with no hole in his face except to breathe, he sure gave a lot of lip. I found exchanging a dialogue with him loathsome. Hated having him in my head, and being paranoid that maybe he could hear my thoughts, although I knew that wasn't the case. His telepathic ability was limited to a one-way transmission, which was the norm for his species. He hummed a tune in my head once. I told him as calmly as I could, that if he ever did it again, I'd carve him an actual mouth. He never did it again. Later, I absently hummed the tune and wondered if it was really me, then held my clenched fists behind my back.
I was at the window again when he said he saw something. I made for the fence, tripped over the ukhiv in my haste and banged my head against the boards.
Need a fourth eye, do you?
I ignored him and peeked beyond the fence. It was a small pack. There were four of them, maybe five. They stood frozen, a dark cluster. The thud sounding from my fall had probably given them pause. I made out two full grown ukhivs among them when they stepped out of the shadows. It was hard to tell, but they appeared different from the pack we were pursuing and headed in the opposite direction along the riverbank.
We'd been out long enough, and it was better than nothing.
"Let's get this over with," I said.
You read my mind, Flanim said and shook with soundless laughter. The sight never failed to unnerve me.
He sprung to his feet, the moon glinting off his chitinous exterior.
I stepped aboard the craft, and it thrummed to life.
A little help here?
He stood with his hands hooked under the dead ukhiv's arms. Even for Flanim, who although a head shorter than me was as sturdy as they come, the ukhiv was exceptionally large. He had struggled to drag it off deck earlier, not asking for help but grunting exaggeratedly. Needless to say, I hadn't paid him any mind.
"Just leave it."
But I need it.
Arguing would only have cost us more time so I helped him.
"Why did you take it down in the first place?"
I needed something to prop my feet on. Its gut's just the right height.
All I could do was scoff. More than a few times I had wondered to myself why he was lugging it along. Certainly not for the FARM. They didn't have any use for dead ukhivs, none this decayed, anyway. Whatever the reason was, I was sure it was twisted. The next few moments proved me right.
* * *
“Keep running!”
“Jack!”
A small silver dome-like thing, no larger than a button, stung the boy’s neck and he collapsed mid-stride.
“Go! I’ve got him.”
They had only become aware of the craft overhead when it was too late. It was the first time Katie saw one up close. Terror grasped her but so did fascination; she vaguely thought it resembled a large silver sandal.
Arthur lunged for his son, who was sprawled unconscious a few feet ahead, when a lasso cinched around him, tugging him back.
Ruth wheeled around hearing Katie scream. She whimpered seeing a man’s body with a rope tied around his capacious mid-section roll off the craft’s platform. The body landed with a heavy splat, sending up a dark spray. While the other end of the rope held back Arthur, there might as well have been multiple loops ensnaring them all.
“Katie, run to Mommy!” said Arthur, but she remained still.
Ruth’s paralysis broke when she saw a short bug-like creature jump to the ground. Trembling, she ran back, passing Katie, and gathered the boy in her arms.
“Take them,” Arthur said.
She said something incomprehensible through sobs, then turned and ran, screaming for Katie to follow her.
But Katie only shuffled in one place from foot to foot
A tall, spindly creature lithely landed behind the shorter one, gun in hand.
Arthur ceased his frantic struggle to free himself and turned to Katie. Both her parents screamed for her to move. But she blinked, looking at her father with a dazed anxiety.
Without being aware of it, Ruth began to step backwards, hugging the unconscious boy draped over her shoulder tighter.
“NO! Ruth, don’t you leave her. Don’t you da—”
The creature landed a blow in his gut. Its companion had a gun trained on Katie who was crying now, noiselessly. Behind her Ruth had disappeared into the distance.
Arthur groaned in agony feeling his lower ribs crack. Straddling him, the thing grabbed his head. He screamed, but not because of the pain in his skull as it was knocked back against the ground. He screamed at the touch of its digits which felt like bendable tin coated with pus.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howled and another took it up. The only other sounds were grunts, groans, screams and thwaps, and crisp crunching and silent sniffling.
The taller creature with obsidian eyes, like three black snooker balls embedded in his face, tilted his head at Katie, and the tip of his trembling gun angled down.
The motion drew his partner’s attention, who quickly glanced at him then pinned his gaze on Katie. The next instant, she bawled and clapped hands over her ears.
He raised his gun again but swung it sharply.
The shorter creature collapsed on Arthur with a spatter of tiny silver domes on the fleshy part of its arm and up its creased neck. Drawing staccato breaths, Arthur frantically pushed it off him and with flailing arms scrambled away to a side.
Reaching for his belt, the other creature drew forth a dagger and sliced the rope.
For a second, Arthur locked his two eyes with its three then staggered to his feet and limping back, brusquely grabbed Katie and hobble-ran.
When they put some distance behind them, he looked back and sighed in relief. A part of him had thought it had only let them go to hunt them down, the way some of them liked to make a game of it.
The only thing at their heel was the wind, clutching and cold. Katie breathed heavily, though not from the running. The dark of the river had become a slate grey under the lightening dawn sky.
Against it, Arthur saw the taller creature get down on a knee, the gleam of a blade near its companion’s face.
Slits
Jessica Clem
10:00 a.m.
“You know what day it is!” said the man holding the knives. Tall and lanky, he had striking blue eyes, sparkling with joy as he held the blades. He stood in front of seven men and women, eight total in this tiny nightmare. They congregated in a super deluxe mobile home, the site of all these demented games, a twisted answer to survival of the fittest.
There were eight knives in the Gorgeous Man’s hands.
“It’s the day where only one can leave!” he said, squeezing the knife handles with excitement, bending over with fits of laughter. “If anyone leaves!” Pumping the knives up and down, he looked around the group, his smile stretched from temple to temple, teeth so large they looked like they belonged in the mouth of a bull shark.
Today is the day it’s the day that I die it’s the day that I die it’s the day that I die-
Charlotte knew this day would come, when her letter would arrive saying she was next in the mobile home. Every year, a new group was chosen. Either one person left the site, or they would all die ripped apart. The mobile home was a hybrid; two mega homes stitched together like a bloated, murderous chimera. A leader like the Gorgeous Man was always on retainer, culled from his family at a young age and brainwashed to anticipate this day with glee. The interior setup changed annually, in case the winner were to give any tips to community members about hiding places or helpful sha
rp edges. The winner would then join the army of true believers, the extremists who had taken over the country, the True Cross militia.
Charlotte knew the militia was inspired by the First Crusade, and the literature that was passed around the community described them as “agents of God’s wrath upon a sick and sinful world.” After the most vocal opponents to the militia were murdered years ago, including her mother, who had beat one of the militia members to death with an iron after he broke into their home, the mobile home games began. Called the Holy Arcturus (a gathering together that was anything but magnificent), they believed “God would spare the worthiest of the group” during these exercises, ensuring the entire community would soon be free of weak links. Those who were not would be excommunicated via death, by “the hand of God upon that of your neighbor.”
A rapid evolution of the purest.
Charlotte shifted in her spot in the circle, looking toward the floor as a small ache slid through her lower back. She had suffered from mild scoliosis as a girl, leaving her slightly bent. Her legs and arms were strong, though, she had been a competitive swimmer on a local level before the world went mad. Within the last year she had become prone to violent flashbacks, an unconscious wound from PTSD after the First Battles. During these episodes, her mind would push her through a doorway, into a place where the dead were still breathing and colors other than wine magnified their pigment like breath, blooming brightly like supernovas from the ground and the trees. The experiences used to frighten her, but now she longed to stay in the vibrant comfort of that place, watching the flowers absorb the sun, wishing she could smell their petals.
Back in this beige nightmare, she lifted her gaze as the Gorgeous Man stepped in front of her, gleeful as a kid on Christmas morning. “Here is your baby, your beautiful baby, your protective man. All the better to gut you with,” he cawed, handing her a 6-inch knife. The handle was tepid from his palm, and slightly slick. The steel was spotless, and she could see half her face in the reflection. The serrated blade broke the edge of her cheek, sliding it down in the reflection like she was having a stroke. Still cackling, he stepped in front of each member, presenting their respective knife.
