Down with the Fallen: A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Anthology

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 very 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 savagery. 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.

“I’m sorry,” He said, dropping his eyes. “Didn’t mean to lose my head. It’s just so hot in here. Could I please get some water?”

Herring ignored the request.

“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.

“I leaned into her, our lips joining in a passionate kiss for the New Year. And even in the heat of our kiss, in my mourning of the death of virtue, I couldn’t help but laugh. She asked me what was so funny and wiping tears from the corner of my eyes, I told her, ‘Why, my dear, you’ve got something on your face!’”

Vincent Virgo’s voice trailed off into a somber laugh, as if his joke was as bitter as it was sweet.

Now smiling, the Higher continued, “I thrusted her over the balcony and watched her get swallowed by the sea of savages below. She was beautiful in her final moments, even as they ripped the flesh from her bones.”

erring shot out of his chair. His face red with fury, he flipped the steel table and lunged at the Higher. He lifted the Higher out of his seat by the collar of his shirt. On the other side of the glass, Pratt cursed under his breath. Detective Herring had lost it. It was time to intervene.

“Is this some sort of joke to you?” Herring spat. “Why did you really kill these people?”

“I told you why.”

“Oh, because you’re so self-righteous, right? You’re some sort of hero who cares for the little guys. Just why would you care about the little guys, huh, Mr. Virgo? Why would you care what people like you did to people like me?”

Struggling, Vincent separated himself from Herring’s clutches. His coolness had given way to a passion as unabridged and shameless as his adversary.

“Don’t be so blind, Detective! People like me, people like you, us, them. In the end it doesn’t matter, we’re all just people. People who hurt and hate each other not out of reason, but out of some sort of animalistic instinct. That’s what it is, Detective. Why I hated people like Oliver Watson, why I hate people like you. Because at our roots, we are no better than the diseased savages feeding on each other on the Bottom.”

“So, you have no remorse for killing, for what you did to Abigail? Because she was a savage.”

I am wiping the face of the earth of all its blemishes, so it can be beautiful again.”

Swiftly reclaiming Vincent’s collar, Herring cocked his fist back and unloaded. Repeatedly, he struck Vincent’s face, drawing blood by the second blow. He dropped to the floor by the time Pratt entered the room.

“What… what are you doing?”

Herring didn’t face his comrade. He kept his eyes on the beaten mess writhing on the ground.

“Some hands-on justice. This piece of shit is probably going to walk anyway and he knows it. So, why not? Why not just punish him now? While we have him.”

Vincent Virgo hollered from the floor, his laugh echoing through the room.

“Justice. Punishment. You sound like me, Detective, before I actually grew up and took action. Before I saw man for what he is. Come on. See me for what I am! Snuff me out from this world! Do it! Do it!”

Herring pulled his pistol and aimed it at Virgo’s face. Before Pratt could stop him, he pulled the trigger. Herring was indifferent to the splatter of scarlet on his face. It seemed almost therapeutic to him, to see that the Higher’s blood was as red as his. No more. No less.

Prat fled, as much out of fear as shock, and Herring was left alone with the body, left in silence to realize that Vincent Virgo was right all along.

In the end, through scars and masks, they were the same.