Postcards from the Apocalypse
Page 1
Praise for Allan Leverone and
Final Vector
Due February 1, 2011 from Medallion Press
“Allan Leverone raises the stakes with every turn of the page in this can’t-put-down tale of ruthless terrorists and cold-blooded betrayal.”
—Sophie Littlefield, Anthony Award-winning author of A Bad Day for Sorry
“Written with edge-of-your-seat suspense and precise detail that can only come from a writer who did his research while on the job, Final Vector kept me, a white-knuckle flier, in awe from the very first sentence. The successor to Michael Crichton has landed. And his name is Allan Leverone.”
—Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of The Remains and The Innocent
Postcards from the Apocalypse
Allan Leverone
KINDLE EDITION
Copyright 2010 Allan Leverone
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
The characters and events in the stories within this collection are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
“Fallout” © 2009, originally appeared in Morpheus Tales Magazine’s special Flash Fiction Issue
“Suspicions” © 2009, originally appeared in Shroud Magazine Issue #6
“The Bridal Veil” © 2009, originally appeared in Twisted Dreams Magazine, June-September
“Regrets, I’ve Had a Few” © 2008, originally appeared on the webzine, TREI Literary Magazine, September
“The Road to Olathe” © 2007, originally appeared on the webzine, Crime and Suspense, July
“Family Ties” © 2010, originally appeared on A Thrill a Minute blog, May
“PussyKat” © 2009, originally appeared on the webzine House of Horror, June
“Heart and Sole” © 2009, originally appeared in Northern Haunts anthology
“Independence Day” © 2008, originally appeared on the webzine, Crime and Suspense, July/August
“The Waiting” © 2010, originally appeared in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, Summer Issue
“Due Consideration” © 2009, originally appeared on the webzine, Crime and Suspense, March/April
“Devotion” © 2009, originally appeared on the webzine, Black Hound, February
“The Wheels on the Bus” © 2009, originally appeared in Mausoleum Memoirs anthology
“Dead and Buried” © 2010, originally appeared on the website, A Twist of Noir, October
“Dance Hall Drug” © 2010, originally appeared on the webzine, Dark Valentine, Autumn Issue
“Uncle Brick and Jimmy Kills” © 2009, originally appeared on the webzine, Mysterical-E, Summer Issue
“Uncle Brick and the Little Devilz” © 2010, originally appeared on the webzine, Mysterical-E, Summer Issue
For my daughters, Stefanie and Kristin, and my son Craig—you make me prouder than any dad should be—and for my little granddaughter Arianna, always my pal
Special thanks to Neil Jackson for his kick-ass original cover artwork.
My original intention when it came to putting together this book was to separate the collection into two sections: One for the “horror” stories and one for the “crime” stories. Then, when I started getting into the nuts and bolts of the thing it began to occur to me that doing so wasn’t going to be quite so easy. A lot of my work, especially my short fiction, incorporates elements of both genres within a single story, sometimes within a single paragraph.
So instead I decided just to mix things up, the horror with the noir with the crime with the fantastical. But the fact of the matter is at heart I am a crime writer. In virtually everything I write someone does something bad, usually to someone else who doesn’t deserve it. Often that person gets what’s coming to him (or her) in the end; sometimes he doesn’t, but there is almost always a twist or two along the way. At least that’s what I aim for. You can decide if I’ve succeeded.
The longest stories in this collection are the final two: The “Uncle Brick” novelettes. These are a little lighter reading than most of the other stories you’ll find here and also feature one of my favorite characters—eighty year old Boston PI Brick Callahan. Both tales originally appeared in the outstanding online magazine, Mysterical-E. Uncle Brick’s adventures aren’t over, either. He will tackle his most perplexing case next summer, hopefully in Mysterical-E as well, tentatively titled, “Uncle Brick and the L.A. Ex.”
Finally, I know money doesn’t grow on trees, especially given the economic circumstances of the last few years. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate you spending your hard-earned money on my work. I hope you enjoy POSTCARDS FROM THE APOCALYPSE, and please believe me when I say I will never take your support for granted.
Allan Leverone
November 6, 2010
Fallout
We start off—appropriately for the title of this collection—with an apocalyptic vision of an unnamed major city laid waste by a horrible act of terrorism. “Fallout” was written as an entry into a flash fiction competition being held by Morpheus Tales Magazine. There were only two requirements to enter: The story had to be related to a disturbing piece of artwork supplied by Morpheus Tales and its length could be no more than one thousand words. “Fallout” won the contest and led off the special Morpheus Tales Flash Fiction Issue, released in October, 2009.
No one comes here any more.
At one time, in the not too distant past, we were one of the biggest attractions in a teeming metropolis filled with attractions—The Empire Circus! That, of course, was before the person carrying the “suitcase nuke” detonated it downtown and obliterated a six square mile area of this, one of the most densely populated cities in the world.
But that’s not even the worst thing. Much worse than the nuclear explosion was the viral weapon that was released at the same time. It’s destroying people from the inside out, causing hideous physical mutations, and no one knows whether the virus is an airborne one or water-borne or exactly how it is being transmitted.
The authorities have no idea whether the bombing was done by a man or a woman because the guilty party was vaporized instantly, the lucky bastard. They don’t know whether it was a foreign or a domestic act of terrorism. Two dozen separate groups hurried to claim responsibility for the act within the first ninety minutes, so it will take the authorities quite some time to whittle down the list and settle on a guilty party.
For us, though, for the “survivors,” the search for the perpetrators is nothing more than an academic exercise; it has no impact on our lives, or what is left of them. Is there any point in assessing blame when radiation poisoning and a lethal bioweapon are killing those of us who remain? When eyes bleed and ears leak yellowish pus and the act of sneezing can break a rib and even something as simple as resting your head in your hands can cause a layer of blistered skin to slough off your face?
Immediately following the initial explosion, as the dying lay screaming in the streets, when it became clear that there was more to the attack than “just” a nuclear blast, the entire island was segregated; quarantined, if you will. Panicked authorities made the decision to save the lives of the many by sacrificing the lives of the few. All of the bridges to the mainland were destroyed, blown to bits by fighter jets screaming over the city. Airports were bombed and tunnels flooded. There was no way in or out. We were alone. Utterly and hopelessly alone.
In the span of just the past few we
eks, the scene in the city has become a Darwinian struggle for survival of the fittest, of people butchering each other for food and water and shelter and clothing even as they suffer the ravages of radiation sickness and viral disease. The entire metropolitan area has become one gigantic freak show.
The irony for those of us who remain is inescapable. People who used to flock through our gates to see the bearded lady or the Joseph the Rat-Faced Boy or any of our other bizarre attractions now see much worse outside their shattered windows on a regular basis. The diseased rats which roam our grounds are becoming bolder and more aggressive by the day. And they are changing as well. I swear I saw one yesterday with two heads. That would have drawn some people to the Empire Circus in the old days!
But now it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.
Because no one comes here any more.
Suspicions
One of the coolest new print magazines in the horror/dark fiction world is run by a guy up in my neck of the woods, Tim Deal in New Hampshire. It’s called Shroud Magazine, and I was honored that “Suspicions” was selected for inclusion in Issue #6, June, 2009, the very first nationally-distributed issue of this fast-growing mag. In this little story, a young man begins to fear his landlord might just be the serial killer who has been terrorizing the city for months…
Mark Gardner squinted into the harsh fluorescent light of the police interrogation room and squirmed uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention—didn’t like it one bit, in fact—but the city was in the grip of a year-long serial murder spree and he knew the time had come to speak to someone about his suspicions.
The detectives had suggested the hot, cramped room in order to get away from the chaos of the squad room and assure them of some privacy. Maybe also to make Mark a little uncomfortable. He knew they did those sorts of things; anyone who watched any television knew that.
Mark sat up a little straighter in his chair—a blocky, straight-backed wooden thing no doubt purchased by the city some time around the Lincoln assassination—and tried his best to answer all the questions being directed at him rapid-fire by two detectives, who had placed themselves at opposite corners of the room; also not by accident, Mark figured.
“I’m not sure exactly when I started being concerned that my roommate was into some really…uh…strange things; I would have to say that it just sort of dawned on me gradually.” Mark squinted up at the two detectives, blinking through his thick glasses. The taller, rumpled-looking one slouched in the corner to Mark’s right was older and seemed to be in charge, and he motioned impatiently for Mark to continue.
“I moved into the city about a year or so ago and needed a place to live,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone, so I looked into renting an apartment, but I really need peace and quiet to accomplish my work as an internet researcher and, well, you know how thin the walls are in your typical modern apartment house.”
Mark smiled and waited for an acknowledgement from the two detectives that, yes, they did understand the difficulties of apartment living. When none was forthcoming, he cleared his throat self-consciously and continued. “When I saw the advertisement Rich had placed in the newspaper of a room for rent in his house, I checked it out and it was perfect. Quiet neighborhood, close to stores and restaurants, served by public transportation; I just loved it!”
The tall detective made a show of looking at his watch and said, “Yeah, we get it, you liked the house. Like the realtors say, location, location, location. Now, getting back to your concerns about your roommate…”
“Uh, yes,” Mark replied. “My roommate. Sorry about that. I’m not used to this whole police questioning thing, so I might be giving you guys things you don’t really need.”
The shorter, younger detective, the guy standing ramrod-straight in the opposite corner who Mark thought of as second in command, told him, “You’re doing just fine, Mr. Gardner. Now, you were telling us about your roommate?”
Mark ran his hand through his thick brown hair and smiled. He liked Detective Number Two better than Detective Number One. Much friendlier bedside manner, so to speak, plus he was dressed more professionally. Looks count for a lot in the world, as Mark’s mother used to say. “My roommate, yes. Rich. He seemed pretty normal at first, as much as anyone could be considered normal, I guess. Kind of quiet, kept to himself most of the time, but of course, that’s what I was looking for. You could say the same about me, I suppose.
“After a while, though, I started noticing some things that struck me as rather odd. He seemed to have an affinity for dressing all in black, like one of those Goth people you see on the streets, the scary ones who always seem to have a blank look in their eyes, and wear dark makeup, and who paint their fingernails dark colors, even the dudes.”
“There’s no law against dressing in a style you don’t agree with, Mr. Gardner.”
“No, no, of course not,” Mark replied quickly. “But that was just the first thing that struck me. After that I started noticing the unusual, nocturnal hours he was keeping. Not all the time, of course. Rich works the day shift at one of those funky coffeehouse/bookstore places in midtown, so most of the time he would be in his bedroom for the evening by 10:00. Every once in a while, though, I would hear him go out after he said he was retiring for the night. He would leave at like midnight and not return until nearly daybreak.”
The tall detective squinted at Mark. “How would you know this? Wouldn’t you have been asleep at that hour?”
Mark paused a moment and then chuckled. “Wow, that’s a great question. No wonder you’re a detective.”
The tall detective said nothing, just waited for Mark to continue. “The truth is, I’m a very light sleeper and the room I rent from Rich is right at the top of his second-floor landing. There is a loose floorboard at the top of the stairway and whenever anyone goes up or down the stairs it makes an unbelievably loud squeaking noise. I wake up whenever anyone steps on the darned thing.”
“Okay, so your mysterious roommate likes to keep unusual hours. Get to the part where you explain why you think he might be the monster who’s been terrorizing this city for the nearly a year now.” The two detectives were clearly losing patience with Mark, and he knew he had better get to the point if he wanted them to take him seriously.
He again sat up straight in the medieval wooden torture device that doubled as a chair and looked Mr. Lead Detective right in the eyes. “Because I searched his bedroom one day while he was at work, okay? I know I shouldn’t have done it but I did. And I found some stuff that I think you’ll agree was…um…troubling.”
“Some stuff. Such as?”
“Well, such as a thirteen inch hand-held rip saw hidden in the back of Rich’s closet under a pile of laundry. Rich isn’t the kind of guy to do home repairs, officers—“
“Detectives.”
Mark paused, confused. “What?”
“We’re detectives, not officers.”
“Oh, yeah, right, sorry about that. Detectives. Anyway, Rich would have absolutely no legitimate use that I can think of for a saw like the one I found in his closet, and the worst part is, I’m pretty sure the blade had bloodstains on it. It looked like he had tried his best to clean it, but you could still see the stains pretty clearly.”
Mark shivered at the memory as the two detectives shared a knowing glance. One of the grisly details of the killings the police had withheld from the press was that all the victims in the year-long murder spree had had one body part sawed off, always a different one, in all likelihood before being killed. Even veteran homicide detectives were having trouble sleeping as the bodies piled up, a different appendage missing from each one.
The tall detective sat down at the conference table in front of Mark. He was all business, clearly taking Mark seriously, paying full attention. He looked even more rumpled now than he had before, if that was possible. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Gardner?” he asked. “We’re going to be here a while. We’ll need to know
everything that you can tell us about your roommate, and then we’re going to want to hear it all again.”
***
Mark Gardner awoke with a start, jolted out of a deep sleep by a deafening crash. For a long moment disorientation immobilized him. The entire house rocked on its foundation as the police used some sort of battering ram or perhaps even explosives to smash down Rich’s front door. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table, its numbers glowing an unwavering blue in the dark of the night. It was 3:20 a.m.
He arose as the sound of pounding feet and shouted warnings rang through the house. There would be no more sleeping tonight.
***
By 6:00 a.m., the search of Rich Sullivan’s home had been completed and Mark was allowed to reenter the house. He had watched from across the street, sipping a coffee, as authorities led his landlord away in handcuffs, oily hair hanging in his eyes. The man was proclaiming his innocence to anyone who would listen in a loud, aggressive voice. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him.
Among the bags of evidence removed by the authorities was undoubtedly the ripsaw Mark had described to detectives earlier in the day, the one hidden under all the dirty laundry in Rich’s closet. It was highly probable the search team had recovered forensic evidence too—hairs from some of the victims, etc. The investigative teams searching for evidence in the gruesome crimes which had been taking place in the city for most of the past year were highly motivated and not likely to miss anything.
Mark felt a little badly that he had been forced to go to the police with his suspicions about Rich, and not just because he would clearly have to find a new place to live now. The guy seemed pleasant enough on the few occasions Mark had taken the time to chat with him, once you got past his black fingernails and odd clothing and lax personal grooming habits.