Down with the Fallen

by Jack Lothian

  But around her, things simply don’t stay dead.

  The world died. But in Hunter’s Lodge, her specimens still struggle to free themselves of their pins. And something continues scratching at her door.

  “Don’t you understand?”

  She’d thrown herself into science, desperate for answers. None came. So, when the plague silenced her last connection to the village, she went searching for them herself. Before she reached the village borders, she’d passed a mass grave of plague victims.

  The scratching grows more frantic. The thing cries, almost like a child. Like several children. Like the Devil himself.

  Jack shoves her fist into her mouth to block a scream. Steadying herself, she rises to her feet, takes a nearby paring knife, and pulls back the curtains.

  And right there, in the murky red light, crouches it. It’s rotten—of course it’s rotten, she knows how decomposition works—and notably, its fingers are missing. Worn down. Probably a result of clawing free of a mass grave.

  It jerks its head to stare at her. She throws the curtain closed and falls to her knees.

  “Interesting thesis, Sinclair. The regeneration of limbs in salamanders. I’ve heard you have something of a fascination with reanimation and regeneration. But what are you trying to prove?”

  That the people of the moors were crazy, and she was not. That the dead could not rise. That the apocalypse was not forever, and monsters would not inherit the Earth.

  As the door crashes down, Jack knows with absolute certainty she was wrong.

  * * *

  A starship soars overhead, slicing the clouds and delivering a sliver of sunlight to illuminate the morning-time moors. The Dust is tinged pink. Finally, the storm has broken, leaving an eerie calm in its wake.

  The door to Hunter’s Cottage remains ajar, odd markings lining the wood. Not fingers. Something harder, sharper—teeth, perhaps. A mouse with no throat twitches on the doorstep, enticed by the smell of blood.

  Because inside Hunter’s Cottage, there is blood. A lot of it.

  Jack isn’t dead, though. To spite her yearning for reason and logic, death has continued to give her a wide berth. Instead, she lies in a confused pile on the floor, wondering why she can’t breathe. Wondering why that doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

  Jack stands. Her vision isn’t . . . right. She can’t process anything, except a strange and unnatural hunger beginning to roil within. Her ears buzz with silence. There isn’t anything to hear, anyway. There’s nothing alive, in the traditional sense of the word, left on the heath.

  Above, the starship’s tail fades and the clouds slip closed. This is the last ship to leave. Jack—perhaps mercifully—isn’t aware of her new degree of solitude. Just as the passengers on board aren’t aware that below, a series of new breeds are beginning to claim Dartmoor as their own.

  And that maybe, just maybe, the plague that ended humanity was started by a girl who went to a city and raised the dead.

  The Other

  Garrett Kirby

  The hunter and his apprentice were walking along one of the few clear paths leading out of the Broken City when they heard the sound. Doc Holland, with his long duster coat, wide-brimmed hat, and rifle slung over his shoulder, had been humming a merry tune under his breath. Marcus, Doc Holland’s young apprentice, trailed just a few paces behind, gripping his canteen tightly as he slowed to take a long draw of black, sludgy water, which he almost choked on upon hearing the low, unearthly noise in one of the ruins to their left.

  It was the sound of a low, feral growl.

  Doc Holland came to a sudden halt, his cheerful tune cutting to a spontaneous silence. His right arm stretched out, hand completely flat to tell Marcus, Stop.

  Marcus obeyed, and gradually lowered his canteen, trying desperately not to slosh the water around with his trembling hands. His heart was beating like a drum in his chest, so much so that he could practically feel it in his ears. Doc Holland was undoubtedly disturbed as well, though he was doing an exceptional job of hiding it. His hand remained completely still, refusing to shake even the slightest. Regardless, they were both thinking the same thing: Others, this close to the Broken City?

  The city was a desolate place populated by ruins from a time long past; all of it caked in ash and dust from—what was called by the holy men—the Great Rapture; a time when the Lord himself reclaimed His world through holy flames that took both the people who once lived on the Earth, and nearly all that they had built, with them. It was a place only visited by the inhabitants of the land if they were traveling from one settlement to the next, though sightings of the Others were scarce, and practically unheard of here.

  This was thought to be due to the ever-watchful eyes of the Shades—shadows left behind by the Rapture; shadows of the ancient people who once had lived in the great cities of old. Doc Holland had once assured Marcus that they were not to be feared, that they were simply the remnants of a time long past; nothing more than scorch marks amidst the ash, burned forever into the ground by the holy flames. Nevertheless, Marcus always felt an eerie, creeping fear every time they passed through the Broken City.

  Thankfully, the Others were thought to fear the Shades as well, if not for their constant, ever watchful presence, then for some holy—or unholy—reason that was unknown to the people of the land. Either way, questions were scarcely raised on the matter. The Others were dangerous, so any place free of the inhuman things was considered safe passage.

  Though the hunter and his apprentice were now wondering just how safe this place truly was.

  The silence persisted on as the two of them waited for signs of movement. Two minutes passed, perhaps three.

  Not a sound.

  Marcus could feel an almost involuntary sigh of relief building within him, pushing its way out. He thought of how they would chuckle about this later; they would laugh at how easily they had both been spooked by the wind, as if it were some ghostly apparition. Doc would say, "Next, we’ll be jumping at our own shadows," with his warm smile showing beneath his black, bushy beard, before releasing a long and hearty laugh.

  But Marcus forced the sigh back to wherever it had manifested from, because Doc remained unmoving before him, and Marcus knew just by looking at his frozen mentor that there would be no celebratory laughter. They’d both heard the sound, and if anyone knew the difference between the wind and an Other’s growl, it was undoubtedly Doc Holland, who had many stories to tell about his previous encounters with the Others.

  Marcus suddenly found himself wishing that he had some sort of weapon besides his bowie knife, though he’d lost his pistol in a fierce dust storm two days prior. He’d missed the weapon dearly, but he longed for it now more than ever.

  More time passed, and the two remained unmoving.

  Silence.

  Doc Holland was sure now that the creature had heard their approach. Between his humming, and Marcus’s water sloshing in the canteen, there was no doubt that the Other had taken notice of them. In fact, it was just as likely that it’s growl was released on some pure, animalistic instinct upon hearing its prey advance toward it. Perhaps it had been hiding in the shadows of the Broken City for some time, waiting for an unsuspecting traveler to pass so it could feast. Whatever the case, it mattered little now.

  The silence persisted, until finally a ghostly, whistling wind washed over them. The current kicked up ash and dust as it went, and Doc Holland’s leather coat began to flap audibly in the wind when it reached them. The sound of leather being manipulated by the wind was their only warning before the thing revealed itself.

  The Other lumbered out from under one of the larger concrete edifices with a roar that could have just as easily been the thunder of a great storm. The beast was a mountain of crimson flesh and muscle, and while Marcus was only able to get brief glimpses of the monstrosity, it was no doubt one of the largest Others he’d ever seen. It walked—if you could call it walking—primarily on its massive arms, with fists that were near
ly three times as large as Marcus’s head. Its chest was a crooked mess of an exposed ribcage, which opened and closed with each heavy breath the thing took, like some gaping maw of meat. There was something else, too, protruding from the sides of its shoulders, though Marcus couldn’t quite make out what that was.

  Doc Holland’s rifle responded to the roaring leviathan with a loud report of its own, as if to rival the behemoth in strength. Marcus and Doc both watched as, for just the slightest moment, the Other paused to look where the rifle’s bullet had impacted with its immense bicep. Something cried out then, like a high-pitched shrieking that could only be in response to a great deal of pain, though there was no way the Other’s low voice could have made a sound quite like that. However, their time to take this into consideration was short. The Other looked back to them as the shrieking sound rang out, and its face—though inhumanly warped with muscular growths and twisted flesh—showed a deep, irritated scowl.

  The Other stood on its considerably short legs for a moment, and hammered its bony chest with heavy, tumor-ridden fists. It was at this point that both Marcus and Doc began to run.

  “What do we do now?” Marcus asked as the loud, meaty thuds of the Other’s fists hitting pavement sounded off behind them. Bullets seemed to cause some form of damage to the Other, but they were low on ammunition from the previous stretch of their journey.

  “Our best bet is looping around, and running to the nearest way station,” Doc Holland said. “With luck, we can lose the bastard in the thick of the ruins. It’s too large to fit through many of the smaller crevices.” He turned then, and paused for a brief moment, allowing Marcus to run a few paces ahead as he fired off another shot. That same horrible sound rang out behind them like a banshee out for their blood. Doc Holland turned back, and once more broke into a complete sprint, proving to be rather agile for his age. “Until then, I’ll slow it down.”

  Marcus supposed the plan was as good as any at this point, though he was worried about the structural integrity of the ruins if the Other tried to follow after them. The beast was likely strong enough to smash through ancient concrete, but hopefully it was smart enough to know that doing so had a high risk of burying the three of them alive. However, Marcus didn’t voice his opinions on the matter, because anything was better than simply trying to outrun the beast.

  They ran without speaking for the next five minutes, the only sounds being the continuous, low thump, thump, thump-ing of the Other’s fists propelling the monster after them. Each time the sounds came dangerously close, Doc Holland would make an abrupt turn to fire a round or two into the Other, slowing it just enough to keep them safely ahead. Marcus’s fear was growing ever stronger as they went, and his reasons for being afraid were now twofold. As if the Other wasn’t terrifying enough, the hundreds of silent Shades that they passed by almost seemed to be watching with anticipation. While the Shades kept true to their silent, immobile ways, Marcus swore he could feel their scorched eyes on the two of them as they ran, and in his mind he could practically hear them calling, “Don’t fret, you’ll be one of us soon,” in a hundred ghostly voices that were filled with a cold, lustful avidity.

  Marcus did his best to push these thoughts aside, knowing that they were simply a part of his childhood paranoia coming back to haunt him. Still, the thought of ending up like one of the Shades frightened him beyond measure. Being a dark, motionless shadow with nothing to do but watch as the wasted lands further tore themselves apart year after year wasn’t how Marcus wished to spend his afterlife, yet he could imagine the Shades coming for him when he died; his spirit lifting up toward the heavens, when suddenly he would find himself being pulled back toward the ash by icy, black hands. “Join us, Marcus,” the entirety of the Broken City would seem to be whispering at once, ghoulish voices echoing around him in every direction. “Don’t leave in such a hurry, come stay with us. The dust is particularly nice this time of year.”

  Images of Marcus’s apparitional body being pulled deeper and deeper into the ash played in quick succession in his mind—like a horrible picture book that was being flipped through at nauseating speed—until nothing was left but a white hand attempting to make purchase in the thick layers of ash. Finally, one last ebony hand would rise up from beneath the surface, and pull what remained of him down into the depths of this terrible, purgatorial place. He would never see the gates of heaven that he had heard so much about, would never stand before the Lord, and this instilled young Marcus with a cold fear that was so wretched it seemed to contend with his fear of the Other, which was the more immediate—and reasonable—thing to worry about.

  Marcus wasn’t entirely sure how far they had managed to run in the time it had taken him to think all of this. The jagged, taller ruins of the city rose up around them now, and in the distance Marcus could clearly see a section of the road that had been completely blocked off by fallen slabs of concrete and metal wiring, which had once run through these skyscrapers—that’s what Doc Holland called them—like arteries in the body of a human.

  “There,” Doc Holland shouted, pointing toward a small opening in the warped barricade of metal and stone. “You go first, lad. I’ll keep the beast at bay!”

  Despite the fact that his lungs were now painfully whistling with each breath he took, Marcus pushed himself forward and dove into the hole without the slightest bit of hesitation, only pausing a good twenty feet into the unnatural formation to wait for Doc Holland. Once inside, he heard several thundering blows from Doc’s rifle, followed by more of those ghastly screams. Then, Doc Holland appeared in the opening, scrambling frantically into the barbed, irregular tunnel as if he had absolutely no care for his own safety. As he crawled hastily into the concrete passage, a rusted metal wire tore through the left shoulder of his coat, thankfully not cutting deep enough to bite into his flesh.

  Doc Holland pressed himself firmly against the inner wall of the tunnel, and for a moment the two said nothing as they waited for the Other to attack, knowing full well that their lives would be forfeit if it attempted to dig its way in.

  Instead, a sound rolled in after them that was akin to the crunching of boots on loose gravel, and beneath that there was another sound, so deep that it's very vibrations seemed similar to the rumblings of an earthquake. It was a throaty sound, not made by the vocal chords of a human being, but rather the throat of an active volcano just before it belched its molten innards about the land like some terrible, gutted beast.

  It was the sound of the Other’s voice.

  “A good show,” the Other said with some amusement. “However, you are only prolonging the inevitable, my juicy fleshlings! Why not come out of your burrow, and let nature run its course?”

  Doc Holland began reloading his rifle at that, seemingly unperturbed by the monster’s words. “Perhaps I will, beast,” Doc called back, the flames of confidence burning deeply in his voice. “Perhaps I will, and maybe then I’ll show you more of what my rifle can do.”

  The Other laughed a mighty, demonic laugh that rumbled into the concrete passage like the prelude to some great and powerful storm. Then it spoke once more, and its voice took on a far more serious tone.

  “And perhaps I shall skewer you to one of these metal rods, and roast you over open flame until your yellow fat bubbles, and your eyeballs melt out of their sockets.” The Other paused and came closer to the entrance of the tunnel, blotting out the light. It lowered its voice ominously and said, “Do not waste our time on perhaps and perchance, my dear fleshling. We hunger, and you linger now without purpose. Run or fight, it matters little, though we would appreciate a bit of haste in your decision making.”

  “We?” Doc Holland asked, but it was too late. The Other had already disappeared from sight, though it was undoubtedly hiding somewhere within pouncing range. Doc finished reloading his weapon and offered a long, haggard sigh. “Smart one, that creature,” he said simply. “Certainly well spoken for an Other.”

  Unsurprisingly, the Other being more
intelligent than most of its kind did little to boost Marcus’s confidence. “What do we do now?” he asked in a hushed voice, fearing that the creature was listening in on them.

  “We head for the way station,” Doc replied, and then nodded as if to confirm the words to himself. “Aye, we head for the way station.”

  And so, after a few minutes of rest, they did just that.

  The tunnel provided them with only a quarter mile of cover, so they mostly made their way by going from structure to fallen structure, taking great care in remaining as silent as possible. While they rarely looked back, they could hear the Other following their scent—often much too close for comfort.

  When they reached the halfway point, the two took a short moment to rest in one of the larger ruins. In their hurriedness to avoid the Other, both had gained a plethora of minor scrapes, cuts, and bruises. The Broken City was an unforgiving place, and one wrong move usually ended in some form of injury. With the sun quickly descending now, and the light of a lantern far too dangerous with the Other’s presence looming closely behind, they found themselves making a great deal of wrong moves.

  “This is hell,” Marcus whispered as they hunkered closely together under a lopsided slab of stonework.

  Doc Holland shook his head. “Nah, lad,” he breathed, almost inaudibly. “Hell is whatever hole that monstrosity crawled out of.”

  As if in response, the Other snarled somewhere close by, and they heard the sound of moving rubble as the hulking monstrosity began to dig into one of the adjacent, dilapidated ruins. The two continued the rest of the way in a mutual silence, not daring even the slightest chance at revealing themselves to the horror that hunted them.

  It wasn’t long before the sun had left them completely, and their only source of light became the distant glow of the half-moon above. For this reason, they almost missed the entrance to the way station.

  Marcus had seen many way stations on their travels, though none of them were quite like this. The entrance was built into the ground itself, and instead of a keyhole, the door held a series of buttons that went from zero to nine. Fortunately, Doc Holland knew the code. This wasn’t much of a surprise, though, as Doc seemed to have keys for every way station and supply cache littered around the land. Being one of the few travelling doctors, and Other hunters, made Doc Holland a very treasured individual this side of the Dusted Lands.