Down with the Fallen

by Jack Lothian

  “It is so beautiful here,” I say. “I can hardly stand the beauty.”

  The female smiles at me. Perfect teeth, of course. “Soon, the Lord will return all the animals and fish and insects to this world. He took them away to keep them safe.” She seems to enjoy stretching out her arms. Gravity has no effect on her boobs. “And when they return, Aman will name each of them, one by one.”

  I know what I have to do. “The fruit of this tree,” I say, “you must eat it.”

  “Are you of old earth?” the female asks.

  “Why were you not burned away?” her partner asks. “Why is your soul still here?”

  “Because I am powerful like your Lord,” I tell them. Their eyes widen. Grandfather would be proud.

  “No one can be as powerful as the Lord.”

  “And yet I stand before you,” I huff. “Even after your God destroyed the world and all in it, I stand before you.”

  “How…”

  “I understand His ways,” I say. “He is a deceiver. I have tasted the fruit of this tree and it has given me powers like your God. If you taste of this fruit, you will have powers like your God. This is why He doesn’t want you to taste of this fruit. Trust me.”

  “You ate the forbidden fruit?” the female asks.

  The male grits his teeth. “We were warned never to eat of the fruit, Ava! Has the Lord not provided us with all the food we need in this garden?”

  “It’s not a garden, it’s a park!” I say.

  “I want to be powerful, like Him,” the female says. “I want to be powerful like God.”

  “No!” Aman shouts. “Obey our God!”

  I look the male in his eyes, then shift my stare to the female. “Him? A man? I am a woman, like you. A powerful woman. You can be a powerful woman, too. Taste.”

  “Ava, no!”

  “Taste!”

  Ignoring her partner, the woman pulls a fat pear from the tree and digs her amazing teeth into it. Juice explodes in her mouth, down her chin. “It is glorious!” she manages.

  “Woman, you have sinned against our Creator.”

  “Your Creator has deceived you,” I reply.

  The female smiles. “I feel great, Aman. Taste.”

  Hesitating, then staring at me, the man bites the fruit.

  The glow of his face fades away.

  “Why are we naked?” he asks, cupping his privates. “We must hide.”

  The female draws an arm across her breasts and covers her thick pubic hair with a hand. “Before He calls for us, we must hide.”

  The sky darkens. All at once, the fruit falls from the tree. The colorful leaves blow off branches like a flame blown off a candle. I am terrified. I run to the SUV, never looking back, never looking to the sky. I plead to Grandfather all the way to the void to keep me safe.

  * * *

  Grandfather closes his Great Book of Darkness. It’s what I call it, anyway. I’m sixteen now. Taller, honor student in high school, still plain-looking. Our dog Donut wanders into the room through the door I thought I closed.

  “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.

  The Many Faces of the Beautiful People

  Hekter Kaztro

  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 ver
y 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?”

  The smile reappeared on Vincent's face. It was as if he were amused by the evidence presented to him.

  Herring continued, "Miss Watson was reported missing on January 2 by her father. We have multiple statements from multiple witnesses. What happened when you went up those stairs?"

  Vincent's demeanor did not change. He merely nodded and replied, "Is that all you have against me, Detective? Some he said, she said?"

  "There’s a lot of he’s and she’s. Enough to get you exiled."

  Vincent chuckled. Then, flipping his hair out of his face, he let his bound hands rest on the table. He leaned slightly forward and then whispered, "Are you sure you want to push this matter, Detective? You may not like what you find."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "Not at all. It's simply a statement of fact. I just don’t want you to dig too deep."

  Herring angrily rose from his chair, "Well, that’s my job and I won't be happy until your exiled. We're done here."

  Herring was halfway out the door when Vincent spoke up.

  Very well, Detective. I killed them."

  The Detective froze. He couldn’t help but look to the double-sided mirror, his eyes desperately asking Pratt if he’d gotten it all on tape. Although he was sure he had, Pratt double-checked the recording equipment anyway. To arrest a Higher was one thing, but to get a confession from one…

  Herring looked back at Vincent.

  “So, you’re admitting, here and now, to the murders of Derek Bell, Jason Moore, Robert Burkhart, and Abigail Watson?”

  “Yes. I killed them. I killed them all.”

  Herring raised his eyebrows. He just got him to confess again… It was almost too good to be true. He tried to hide the satisfaction from his face, but he could feel the faint trace of a smirk on his lips as he said, “Okay. Well, tell me everything that happened, give me the locations of the bodies, and any other information you think would be of value and I’ll give you my word that you are not exiled. You’ll be able to live out the rest of your days in federal prison. Good food, TV in your cell, tennis courts. It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”

  Vincent didn’t answer, his eyes locked with Herring’s. They were both grinning now, neither attempting to hide their emotions any longer. The Higher straightened up in his chair and cleared his throat.

  “Detective, I’m not sure if you know just how powerful a man in position is. Even with my confession on tape, I could very easily buy my innocence. Please, don’t dispute me on this because we both know it to be true.”

  Herring's smile melted into a scowl. He was about to explode, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, because no matter how much he hated the fact, no matter how hard he was willing to fight to prove the contrary, Herring knew the odds were not in his favor. Especially when it came to Vincent Virgo, of all the Highers. To charge a member of the Council with a crime, of any kind, was unheard of. And to convict him could very well be impossible.

  Vincent continued, “But, it is not my intention to allow my crimes to go unknown or even unpunished if that’s what’s necessary. I had planned a much more dramatic revelation but I suppose I must settle for this.”

  “You wanted your involvement in these murders to be known?”

  “Eventually, yes. Tell me, Detective, do you know what Derek Bell, Jason Moore, and Robert Burkhart all have in common?”

  “Aside from the fact that you murdered them all?”

  “Yes. Aside from that.”

  “They were all former members of the Higher Council and political advisors for you.”

  Vincent flashed the whites of his teeth. “I see you did your homework.”

  “Yeah, you know, I don’t have people to do it for me.”

  “Yes, well, if you were more thorough in your research, you’d have noticed they were all members of the Third Council. The Higher society sees these men as heroes. Specifically, for their strides to pass the Salvation Act of 2042. Are you familiar with that piece of legislation, Detective?”

  Herring nodded. “I’m well aware of the Salvation Act.”

  The Salvation Act of 2042 was considered the final nail in the coffin for social equality in America. From the new millennium on, the gap between the elite and the poor widened. Each year, the poor grew poorer and the rich grew richer, until the schism between the two reached epic proportions. By 2025, the upper class had unofficially taken control of the United States government through a series of empty promises, financial influence, and the exploitation of the desperate majority. America became a modern Plutocracy.

  For almost two decades, the self-proclaimed “Highers” focused the country’s resources on technological advancement, specifically the development of Artificial Intelligence. The government employed millions of blue collared citizens to use the internet to feed information into their central AI system. Social media interactions, especially, were used to teach the AI about how the human mind works: our fears, our goals, our emotions, our flaws. All of what makes us, us. Eventually, it gathered enough information to be able to operate itself, making 2/3 of the work force at that time obsolete. Suddenly, millions of people were out of jobs, unable to find work that wasn’t being performed by the system they helped create. Poverty overtook the country like a sort of plague. Most reverted to savage
ry. Crime of all sorts sky rocketed. So, the Highers devised a plan to construct an entirely new society, separate from the one they destroyed. To do this, they took advantage of the only occupation left for average people to fill: construction.

  The Salvation Act of 2042 employed a mass amount of poor, physically capable men to begin work on this new land. In return, they, their families, and future descendants were guaranteed entrance upon its completion. So thousands went to work, building a long stretch of pillars down the East Coast. Atop these pillars, they laid down concrete, built buildings… An entire new society. A Higher society, literally built on top of the ruins of the one they destroyed.

  Once the project was complete and relocation began, total anarchy ensued. The Highers were forced to deploy all law enforcement and even military forces to “control” the general population until relocation was complete. It was pure anarchy, in the darkest and purest fashion. People lost their minds when they realized society was leaving them behind. Neighbors were killing each other for food, stealing from each other for luxury, raping each other for forgotten warmth. The cities of the ground soon swallowed themselves, the taste of chaos resonating for years. The wasteland that remained was renamed: The Bottom.

  Agitated, Herring continued, “What is it you’re trying to say, Mr. Virgo?”

  “I’m saying those men were amongst the most pretentious, amoral pieces of shit I’d ever met. Of all the Highers, the ones behind the Salvation Act were by far some of the most selfish people to ever walk this Earth. They were predators disguised as men in suits. Men who hunted and hunted and hunted until there was nothing left.”

  Herring leaned forward. Virgo was losing his composure.

  “Okay, so you didn’t like these men. They were pieces-of-shit, so you killed them. That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “I’m telling you I killed them because they deserved to die!” Vincent barked.

  His outburst resonated through the interview room, through the double-sided glass. Herring and Pratt watched silently as Virgo gathered his composure.