Down with the Fallen: A Post-Apocalyptic Horror Anthology

Dry Leaves ^{Christine Stabile}

My silver-haired neighbor stands alone on his son’s front porch, his suitcase sitting beside him like a faithful dog. He turns toward the whisper of dry leaves rustling across asphalt. I can barely hear the sound as I watch and listen from the open window of my daughter’s house. He picks up his suitcase and begins his short journey to the curb.

A shuttle van pulls to a stop in front of him. Its strange headlights glow like jackal eyes in the night.

When the shuttle’s door opens, I can hear the driver growl, “Speed it up, Dino, I don’t have all night.”

My neighbor disappears inside and the van drives off into the darkness.

I’m a Dino, too—short for dinosaur. Lately the media refers to us as “Deadwood.” Neither name is meant to be kind.

Returning to my makeshift bed on the living room couch, I’m thankful to have shelter, food, and my family. After watching my neighbor leave for his Relocation tonight, fear rages inside me like a cornered panther.

Early the next morning, as I’m fixing breakfast for everyone, my grandchildren rush in to give me morning hugs. Amy is five. She has her father’s Greek coloring and her mother’s sweet nature. Joel is nine and loves sports. Mark is seven and thrilled that his two front teeth have gone missing. Both boys resemble my side of the family with their light brown hair and blue eyes. My grandchildren are the joy of my life.

Their father follows them into the kitchen. Thomas works for a collection agency, which is perfect for him. He looks like a thick-necked professional bouncer.

“So, Jill, how long have you been here?” Thomas asks as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Eighteen months,” I say, keeping my eyes on the frying eggs.

“And how old are you now?”

I break two yokes slapping the eggs over. “Fifty-nine in two weeks. How old are you, Thomas?”

My daughter walks into the room. “Let’s go! We’re all going to be late if we don’t start moving.”

Within seconds, Gloria and I are the only people in the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Mom, he’s cranky this morning. Thomas loves his job, but hates his boss. He has an interview this afternoon. If he gets this promotion, he can work from home.”

My hands ball into fists, “You’re going to miss your bus again, Gloria.”

After everyone is gone, I find a flyer from their local chapter of the national organization NIOT—Now It’s Our Turn—of young people who blame anyone over fifty-five for everything.

Thomas left it on the coffee table in front of the couch—by accident, I’m sure.

The flyer’s headline reads: How Long Are We Going to Support the Deadwood in Our Society?

I read the first two paragraphs before ripping the flyer into confetti.

Amy and I are coloring and watching cartoons later that afternoon. My book is filled with African animals while Amy colors princesses, fairies, and unicorns.

A government commercial starring much-loved actor Mark Reny appears on the screen. The man is everywhere: radio, television, and even children’s programs.

“Seniors still living with family, when you receive your Relocation letter, you will be taken to a safe haven where comfortable housing, nourishing food, and jobs are waiting for each and every one of you.”

“Grandma, why does Daddy keep saying that some people just don’t know when to get on the shuttle?”

“Your daddy is being silly,” I tell her. “Look, your cartoons are back on.”

Two cartoons later, Mark’s face appears on the screen.

“Our new government program, ‘Hope for the Lost’, provides a private shower area. The homeless are then given clean clothes, basic hygiene items, and a nourishing breakfast before boarding buses that will take them to a sanctuary.“

Before the next cartoon begins, Amy tells me, “Grandma, you’re hogging all the red and purple crayons.”

After dinner, Thomas turns on his favorite news program. The newscaster, Patti Snow, is young, beautiful, and articulate.

“Our three-digit heat wave will continue for the next seven days here in Los Angeles County. But flooding in some areas of the country, and drought conditions in others, continue to seriously impact farmlands and crops.

“Food rationing will continue through the remainder of this year.

“Now let’s check our global situation. Another 8.6 earthquake struck Japan early this morning. Tsunamis are expected to destroy more rice and soybean fields.”

Film clips of the disaster flash behind Patti.

Thomas snickers. “Like I say, Gloria, Japan always gets the really big breaks.”

Patti continues:

“Video filmed this morning in Pasadena shows our homeless seniors happily entering air-conditioned buses ready to take them to a secure refuge.”

The screen shows older men and women shuffling toward brown buses.

The scene quickly switches to single and two-parent families racing to green buses. A helicopter camera follows as their three buses park outside a former retirement community campus.

“It’s about time the government put those vacant buildings to good use,” Thomas says.

Gloria speaks up. “I’m glad those children will have a place to live, but I wonder where the brown buses went?”

Thomas never takes his eyes from the TV. “Who cares,” he snaps at his wife.

I bite my lip and stay silent, but I care very much where those homeless seniors went.

After a commercial touting a miracle cure for sleep disorders, Patti Snow returns.

“This news should be encouraging to our seniors. The Mohave Sanctuary was completed yesterday. Here is video of our nation’s 180th self-sufficient site.”

Mohave Sanctuary looks like a five-story stone swastika rising from the desert floor. We see an aerial view of smaller multi-shaped buildings surrounding the main building, scattered Joshua trees, and a vast windmill farm.

“Now that is one hell of a building!” Thomas says.

Patti continues:

“Remember to guard your monthly gas and food rationing cards. If lost, they will no longer be replaced.

“We care about our faithful viewers and remind you that the government-mandated eight p.m. curfew is for your safety. Stay well, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

On Wednesday evening, before we’re done eating, Thomas makes the announcement. “I got the promotion! Starting next Monday I’ll be working from home. Won’t that be great, kids?”

While the children cheer, my mouth goes so dry the pasta I’m chewing tastes like cardboard.

Gloria put the kids to bed early while I cleared the table and washed dishes. After losing their beautiful home in South Pasadena three years ago when the stock market plunged to mid-earth, they were lucky to rent this 800-square-foot house in Monrovia. No dishwasher, but I don’t mind hand-washing dishes and letting God tend to their drying.

Gloria and Thomas brush past me and walk out to their small back yard. The kitchen window is open so I can’t help but hear their conversation.

“Next Monday, Thomas? That’s fast. Maybe now I can use the car sometimes.”

“Gloria, I’ll still need the car to make personal collections.”

“What about my mom? Now that Amy’s in school and you’ll be working from home—”

“Exactly! She’s useless now, isn’t she?” Thomas lowers his voice. “Besides, Steven’s going to nominate me for President of our Chapter at the next NIOT meeting. How will it look for me if I have Deadwood living in my own home?”

“Tell me you did not report her to—”

“Last week. I called them last week. It’s done, Gloria.”

Thomas strides past me, Gloria in his wake. I hear their bedroom door slam and muffled tense voices as I rinse and rack the last pan.

Thursday afternoon Gloria comes home from work early so we can walk the children to the local thrift store for school clothes. Thomas is waiting for us when we return. I’m barely in the door when he hands me a government-issued neon yellow envelope.

“They needed a signature so I signed for you. You probably should open it right away,” Thomas tells me.

I read the two-page letter and stare at it for a few seconds.

“What does it say, Jill?” Thomas asks.

Ignoring her husband, I tell Gloria, “It’s my Relocation letter. I’m assigned to Mohave Sanctuary.”

“When?” they both ask.

“Eleven o’clock tomorrow night.”

“But that’s only one day, Mom,” my daughter says while glaring at Thomas.

“There’s also an instruction sheet.” I fold the pages and shove them back in the yellow envelope. “And it doesn’t take long to pack one suitcase.”

“Old suitcases are in the garage. I’ll go get one for you,” Thomas offers.

“Why are you leaving, Grandma?” Mark lisps through his missing baby teeth.

“Grandma won a long vacation. Isn’t that exciting?” Thomas tells my grandchildren before dashing out the front door toward the garage.

“Where are you going?” Joel shouts as all three children jump around with excitement.

“To a big hotel in the desert,” I lie.

Friday morning I scrub the dingy suitcase Thomas found in the garage and clean the house. By noon, my daughter’s home is spotless, so I treat myself to a long hot bath before packing.

First, I stuff in all the recommended clothes and hygiene items. Then I go through my photos and select the ones that truly touch my heart. I pack some books, my journal, two pens, and I’m done.

Gloria comes into Amy’s tiny room. I hand my daughter a shoe box containing the few things of value I still have.

“The jewelry is for you and Amy, and these old silver dollars are for the boys to share. The big box stored in your garage is filled with photo albums. I wish I had more to leave you, Gloria.”

Tears fill my daughter’s eyes so I hold her close and whisper, “If you hadn’t taken me in eighteen months ago, honey, I would have been out on the streets then. This time with you and the children has been a blessing. Please don’t cry.”

We have our favorite dinner that night—spaghetti tacos. We keep it festive for the children. I pretend to be looking forward to my vacation in the desert. No tears, only smiles and laughter. I give each grandchild special hugs and kisses at bedtime. I can’t let them see or know that my heart is breaking.

Thomas went to bed an hour ago. Gloria is in the kitchen fixing us another cup of tea.

I’ve never been a very brave or adventurous person, and now I’m so terrified I can hardly breathe. My eyes keep drifting to the suitcase by the door.

My daughter sits beside me and holds my hand. “Remember the time I lost my cuddle blanket and cried for days, Mom? That was nothing compared to this.”

“I love you so much, Gloria, but we need to say goodnight. If you go to bed now, this will be easier for me.”

Ten minutes before my assigned pick-up time, I slip into a jacket, wheel my suitcase out onto the porch, and lock the door behind me.

Darkness surrounds me as I stare up at the waning moon and listen for the whisper of dry leaves rustling across asphalt.