She's latched onto me like a lamprey on a shark, but she seems unresponsive. It's almost as if she's caught somewhere between waking and a dream, her eyes vacant, her face pale and expressionless.
I shake her so hard her teeth rattle within her mouth.
“Damn it, Jane, snap the fuck out of it you stupid bitch!”
She blinks a few times and her brow furrows with confusion.
“You don't have to get vulgar with me, Richard.”
I force myself to take the edge off my voice, to speak to her as if I were dealing with a small child.
“Janey, honey... you remember that trap door up on the top floor? The one with the little rope you have to pull? The one that leads up into the attic?”
She nods her head solemnly.
“Okay, Jane, I want you to take Polly up there, okay? You take her up there and you hide.”
Jane starts to pull away but then stops and has that confused look on her face again.
“What about you and Cody?”
Leave it to her to make something so simple into a major production that requires a committee meeting and detailed blueprints. I haven't got time for this shit.
“We'll be along shortly. Just take Polly to the attic, okay Janey? Take Polly to the attic.”
Polly appears in the darkness like a succubus materializing from thin air. She places her hand on Jane's arm and looks at me with eyes that reflect understanding.
“Come on, Jane.” she says softly. “Why don't you show me where this attic is, dearie.”
The two disappear into the darkness and moments later I hear our front door open and shut, followed by footsteps running up the stairs.
“What do you have in mind, Richard?”
Cody's voice wavers with uncertainty and I know that in his heart of hearts, he's wishing he was going with them. Upstairs to the attic. To hide with the other girls.
I don't waste time answering him. I'm moving toward the kitchen now, my familiarity with the apartment guiding me effortlessly through the maze of furniture and obstacles. Cody isn't quite as lucky and I hear him stumbling and cussing in the darkness behind me.
That Useless tit.
I'm in the kitchen now and I open the second drawer to the right of the sink, the one where the soldiers spent so much time measuring the blades of our knives during the weapons check. I pull out the longest one, a seven and a half inch chef's knife. The blade is honed to such perfection that even in the darkness it gleams like a beacon of hope. Not bothering to shut the drawer, I push my way through the beaded curtain and into the living room just as Cody trips over an ottoman.
“Damn it,” I hiss, “haven't your eyes started adjusting yet?”
“I got vision problems. I can't see worth a dang and you damn well know that.”
I get a small burst of satisfaction to hear him drop the pretense and revert to his native twang.
“Now, you best be telling me real quick, Richard. What the hell's the plan?”
I open the door of the apartment and point the knife into the hallway like a highwayman brandishing his sword.
“Stand and deliver.” I finally say softly. “Their money or their lives.”
From below, the pounding on the door has practically tripled in intensity. It's a strong door, made of solid oak with nice iron hinges if I'm not mistaken. But how long can it hold out? How long until the violence of the street spills into the foyer and then up the stairs to the very threshold of my apartment?
How long indeed....
CHAPTER SIX
I stand on the landing with my heart beating tribal rhythms, whipping me into a blood frenzy that can only be sated with the promise of violence. I feel like my entire life has been building up to this point: all those years imprisoned in the cells of spreadsheets, the pleases and thank yous and May I. The toiling away for all the things I needed, but never coming even close to what I wanted. It had all been a precursor to this very moment, this particular point in time and history. After thirty-four years, I had finally become the man I was meant to be.
Which is more than I can say for the trembling buffoon behind me. He won't last five minutes in this new world. Not unless he finds himself a stronger ally to attach himself to, not unless he becomes a bitch.
Outside there's another burst of weapons fire. This sounds like fully automatic machine guns and bullets begin whizzing through the oak door at the bottom of the stairs. They tear through wood and plaster and the pounding noises abruptly come to an end, replaced by a crimson puddle that leaks under the door and spreads across the hallway like an invading cancer.
I've come to a realization as I stood here, ready for a battle which never quite made it to me: Ms Cline was right, for all the good it will do her now. I do want Polly.
But not in that sappy, happily-ever-after Disney storybook kind of way. No, I want her like some men want a shiny Cadillac with chrome trim and leather seats. I want her the way a bibliophile needs to have that first edition Kerouac to crown his collection. I want to own this beautiful, nubile, exotic young thing. I want her to be mine. Just like the accountant-looking guy wanted Vin Boucher's shiny, gold watch.
And isn't that what this new world is really about? You see something that you want and you take it. No questions. No justifications. No permission. You simply grab it and damn anyone who gets in your way.
I turn around and see that Cody looks as if he's about to pass out. He's leaning against the wall and panting like he's just finished a marathon, shaking from his teeth all the way down to his knees. He's so pale now that his goatee looks absolutely black in the half-darkness of the hall.
“I say,” he gasps, “that was a close one, wasn't it? I thought for sure we were done for.”
The damn phony accent again. What the hell did Polly ever see in this loser? Maybe, it was simply a case of second bests. She couldn't have me because she thought I was so wrapped up in Jane that it would never happen. Hard to believe that, for a long while, I'd believed that myself.
I take two steps and place my left hand on his shoulder.
“Well,” I say slowly, “one of us is.”
“What in blazes are you.... ”
I shove the chef's knife into his gut and it feels just like stabbing an overstuffed pillow. He gasps sharply as his eyes grow large and round and his hands wrap around the handle protruding from his belly. Yanking the blade free, it slices through his palms, severing nerves and tendons, and his mouth is moving now like a fish who has been pulled from the river and thrown onto the bank to flounder and die.
I plunge the knife again, this time hooking my arm around his shoulders and pulling him into the thrust at the same time.
“You like that?” I hiss in his ears. “You want some more?”
Over and over, the blade pierces his skin; each time he shudders and gasps and soon I begin hitting bone and the jolt is like an electrical current that travels along my arm and vibrates in my shoulders.
My hand is sticky and warm now, like it's been dipped into room-temperature glue and I feel almost stoned, perfectly aware of every sound, every sensation. Relishing every moment of my conquest.
I pull away and Cody staggers around the hallway for a moment, his arms cradling his gut like the pink intestines were a small baby that he could somehow protect. Dropping the knife, I rush toward him with a growl, pushing at his chest with my both my hands at the moment of impact. He stumbles backward and momentum carries his body over the railing; then he's falling, end over end, bouncing off the hand rails and banisters and walls until his body hits the ground floor with a sound that's like a thud, squish, and sharp crack all rolled into one.
It is complete now.
The competition has been removed from the playing field.
I look over the railing at Cody's twisted, broken body for a moment and then go back into the apartment. I head into the kitchen and lather dish soap on my hands and forearms until it's a pink froth; warm water washes the blood away and I watch as it swirls down the
drain, realizing that it carries all the remnants of my old life with it.
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. They sound tentative, as if the person is trying their hardest to achieve stealth but still failing miserably. A step, the squeak of a floorboard, a few moments of silence. Another step.
When the person reaches the landing I hear a sharp intake of breath and a sound like a hand being slapped over a mouth. Apparently whoever it is has seen the blood. And I imagine there's quite a bit of it out there.
“Cody? Richard?”
Polly's voice. She sounds as if she's afraid to make a noise but knows that she has to. That if she doesn't call out the suspense of not knowing will drive her mad.
“Anyone?”
“In the kitchen.” I reply as I dry my hands on the little towel with the art deco designs. The towel which Jane always said was decorative only. Which is probably one of the many reasons things had to change. Decorative towels. Form without function... that could very well be the epitaph on the tomb of humanity.
I hear the beaded curtain rattle behind me and my heightened senses pick up that unmistakable scent of Polly's body. That tantalizing combination of sweat and powder and skin and perfume, so heady that I could get drunk just by breathing it in.
“Richard... where's Cody? Whose blood is that out in the hall?”
Her voice sounds hopeful and frightened all at the same time and my stomach flutters a little. How long have I wanted this woman? How many years did I deny myself the pleasure of even admitting that I wanted her? All that wasted time....
“Yeah, Cody. I'm afraid he didn't make it, honey. Didn't make the cut, you might say.”
Silence.
I fold the towel carefully and place it back on its little rod.
I feel power surging through my veins like I've never known. When you have the ability to decide who live or dies, you become almost like a god. You see the entire world spreading out before you like a veritable buffet where you're free to pick and choose only the things which most please you.
“Oh my God, Richard, you're bleeding! There's blood all over you!”
I hear her feet pattering across the tile and finally turn to face her. She's more beautiful now than I have ever seen her; her skin so radiant that it almost seems to glow, her hair shiny and flaxen, her breasts jiggling slightly as she runs to me, the hem of her skirt swishing slightly around her ankles. And her shirt. The one she's wearing now let's me know it wasn't all in my imagination. There's a message there after all.
You Cannot Plow A Field By Turning It Over In Your Mind.
I smile and take her hand. So soft. So delicate and warm.
“The blood's not mine.” I whisper. “It's okay.”
I kiss her hand and breathe in the scent of her skin and then kiss again. I feel her arm stiffen and her words become clipped.
“Richard. What are you doing?”
I tighten my grip on her wrist and kiss a little higher up her arm, enjoying the tickle of the almost transparent hairs against my lips.
“It's okay.” I assure her. “Cody's out of the way. Jane doesn't matter. It's just you and me now, Polly. Just you and me.”
She tries to pull away and I feel her skin twist beneath my grip almost as if I were giving her an Indian burn.
“You're hurting me! Let go!”
“Sshhhh. Sshhh. Be still pretty, pretty Polly. I'm here now.”
I yank her to me and I see fear reflected in her wide eyes. Or is that excitement?
She begins pummeling my chest with her free hand, scratching at my face, digging deep furrows into my skin.
“Let me go!”
So that's how it is. That little fucking tease. Leading me on. Showing me just enough of her body to arouse my interest. Mocking me. Well, it's a new world now. A world where I'm free to just take whatever the hell I want. Whenever the hell I want it.
I throw her backward against the kitchen table, forcing her down upon its surface. She's kicking and squirming and trying to bite at me with her teeth, but this only excites me further and I laugh like a king returning from the royal hunt.
“Richard, no! No, no, NO!”
“Richard's dead, baby. Call me Rick. Or Dick. You like Dick, don't you, Polly? Sure you do.”
Her screams echo through the kitchen, so shrill and desperate.
But it makes no difference.
It's time to claim what has always been rightfully mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I'm trying to bunch up her skirt with my free hand while holding her down with the other. Which is a lot harder than I thought it would be. She's writhing and kicking and squirming like a woman possessed by demons and my right forearm has bloody little teeth prints embedded into the flesh.
“Damn it, lay fucking still!”
I'm trying to twist my arm away from the vicinity of her mouth, trying to make sure she doesn't get another chunk of my skin clamped between those pearly whites. But she's wily, this one. She improvises a new strategy and throws her head forward with all her might. Her forehead cracks into my left temple and little flash-bursts of light explode in my vision.
Both hands are free now and she's got her fingers hooked into claws, going for my eyes as she struggles to get away.
The table creaks and wobbles beneath our bodies and I pull my head back just in time to avoid the gouge she was going for.
With both my hands available however, the skirt becomes less of a problem and it's quickly pulled up to her waist. Shit... panties. She had to be wearing fucking underwear didn't she?
I've got to take some of the fight out of this feisty bitch. There's no other choice. I ball my hand into a fist and pull back even with my jaw. A shame to bloody such a pretty face. But she really brought this on herself, didn't she?
“Get the hell off her you degenerate son of a bitch!”
The voice is shrill and cuts through the struggle so sharply that for a minute I'm not entirely positive where I am. I hear footsteps running toward me and then my leg flares in pain as I roll off the table and fall to the floor. Sticking out of my thigh, I see a familiar black handle and just a hint of metal buried into the meat of my leg. I yank the chef's knife free and it clangs to the floor as I press my hands against the wound. It feels like it's throbbing in agony and spurts of blood ooze out in perfect rhythm with my heart.
“You think it's fun to... ”
I roll over onto my side and my assailant is mentally thrown off balance for a second.
“R-Richard? What... what the hell is going on?”
There's no sign of Polly. She must have cut and run the moment I no longer had her pinned to the table. I stagger to my feet and the pain feels like the muscle is being pulled from my leg fiber by fiber.
Jane stands mere feet away from me, her forehead knotted with confusion as I drag my injured leg across the floor.
Step-scrape.
Step-scrape.
I see uncertainty in her eyes. It's almost like she's silently begging for answers, pleading for the world to make sense again.
“I don't... I don't understand.”
Step-scrape.
“I know, Janey. Everything's real confusing right now, darling. It's probably a lot like the dinosaurs felt when that big 'ole asteroid first pounded into the earth, isn't it?”
She looks like she's on the verge of tears, her blue eyes as watery as two pools. This poor woman. She was never cut out for this new world. She could never understand exactly what it will take to survive.
I place my hands on either side of her head, holding her face as if I'm about to lean in for a kiss.
“Was... was that... Polly?”
She's in shock, I think. Probably never expected in a million years to see me. Judging by the pool of blood she picked the knife up from, she probably thought I was dead. Poor, naive thing.
“Yeah, that was Polly.”
I massage her temples with the tips of my fingers, rubbing in slow circles. Her body tenses for a
moment, then relaxes as she closes her eyes.
“Did you see where she went, Janey?”
Her eyes snap open and they spark with suspicion. But even so they are still dulled by that lost look. The look that so badly wants answers but is afraid of just what they might be.
“Why?”
“I've gotta find her, baby. I've gotta clear all this up. It's all been a big misunderstanding, that's all. Now where did Polly go, sweetie?”
She opens her mouth and for a moment I think she's about to speak but then her lips close again. She seems uncertain, like she's torn between the world she has always believed in and this new reality that has swallowed her up like a tasty morsel.
In the old days, she never would have come into her kitchen and witnessed what she did.
She never would have stabbed her lover of five years in the leg with a knife.
She tries to pull back but I keep her head between my palms, keep rubbing and easing the tension away from her scalp.
“Were you... were you raping her?”
“No, sweetie. No, no, no. I mean, I'm sure that's probably what it looked like. But that's all part of the confusion, see? That's what I've got to explain to Polly. You just need to tell me where she went.”
“So , you weren't... it wasn't actually.... .”
“God no, Janey. It's me... Richard. I marched with you remember? I helped out down at the shelter when you were shorthanded. Do you really think I would... do you really think I could do something like that?”
“I... I don't know.”
She's really crying now, her cheeks glistening with tears and she squeezes her eyes shut so tightly I can feel wrinkles form beneath the massaging tips of my fingers.
“Janey,” I say softly, evenly, “everything's all turned upside down right now. Everything's all crazy. But you gotta tell me where Polly went. It's dangerous, understand? You tell me where Polly went and I'll explain everything.”
Jane sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“She... she ran downstairs. She ran outside.”
Jane falls forward and buries her head against my chest. I slowly move my left hand further up her cheek, into the tangles of her curly red hair. My right hand cups her jawline and I continue rubbing, continue working out the tension.
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