Cry Havoc

by William Todd Rose

  And that was the way most of the skirmishes seemed to play out: nothing more than blind rage devoid of any reasoning or strategy as far as she could tell. It was as if the rioters were relying almost entirely upon brute force and animalistic instinct. But Polly, she had cunning on her side. She had the ability to think things through, to not simply allow consequences to dictate her course of action. And that, perhaps, just might be the edge she needed to keep her ass alive.

  After witnessing the battle at the funeral parlor, Polly managed to go several blocks before she had to duck into a butcher's shop. There was a body builder type who was running down the road at full speed. He didn't seem to have any obvious weapons, but his sheer size made him a big enough threat to warrant evasion.

  Luckily, she'd been able to slip into the store before he caught a glimpse of her. She picked her way through the darkness carefully and made her way to the back where she found a shiny cleaver partially embedded into the skull of a man with a bushy mustache and blood spattered apron. There was no way to tell if the blood were animal or human, but it didn't really matter. The lead pipe had been bulky and cumbersome; it slowed her down when she was on the run and had almost given her away several times with its attempts to roll away. But this cleaver... it was light and deadly, easy to swing without taking a toll on her already exhausted body, and specifically designed for hacking through flesh and bone. Yeah, the clever would work nicely....

  Under normal situations, it would have only taken Polly half an hour or so to reach the other side of town. But this was stop and go, slink and stealth, run and hide: progress was made in small spurts and she had to stay patient after she'd left the butcher with her new weapon in hand. After all if she just broke out into a full on sprint for the finish line, she'd never make it. Not in one piece, at least.

  She kept on, slow and steady, until finally she was nearing the outskirts of town. Just around the next bend and she'd be leaving all this madness behind. She'd find somewhere where she could begin trying to put the pieces of her life back together again. Somewhere normal where she could finally find time to cry for Cody. Hell, where she could finally find time to cry for herself....

  And fuck this place anyway. Let all those crazy bastards kill each other. Let them keep right on going until not a single one was left standing. She didn't care anymore and wanted nothing more than to put it all behind her.

  As she rounded the corner, she was suddenly bathed in lights brighter than any she'd ever seen. They warmed her face with the heat of a dozen tanning beds and she squinted into the glare as she shielded her eyes with the crook of her arm.

  Great. What fresh hell was this, then?

  And in this stark field of vast whiteness she heard a voice that sounded as if it were being broadcast over some sort of loudspeaker or bullhorn.

  Do not attempt to cross the yellow line....

  What the hell?

  Her eyes had begun to adjust to the light and she could see it now. Painted in bright yellow, nearly six feet in width, was a large strip that bisected the road horizontally. On the other side of the yellow stripe was a bank of lamps that illuminated the landscape as if it were day. Further beyond that was a row of military transports, parked so closely together that a piece of paper wouldn't have been able to pass through their bumpers. They entirely blocked both lanes of the road.

  The use of deadly force has been authorized. I repeat....

  In front of the vehicles was another row, this one of soldiers standing nearly shoulder to shoulder. Their faces were entirely cast into shadow beneath the netted helmets atop their heads; but she didn't need to see their expressions to realize exactly what was going on. For each soldier held some sort of machine gun. And each machine gun was raised slightly in her direction.

  Do not attempt to cross the yellow line....

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She'd been this way. He knew it. It wasn't as if there were tracks he could follow or that she was leaving scraps of clothing here and there. But it only made sense. She would probably be trying to get out of town, to put as much distance between herself and him as she could. And since the majority of the fighting was going down on the South Side, she had to be heading north. He almost imagined that he could smell her scent in the air, that aroma of wildflowers after a spring rain. But tinged with something else: the acrid stench of fear seeping from her pores. She was alone, defenseless, a mere woman turned loose in a world of Gods. In fact, there was a good chance that she was holed up somewhere, perhaps in a burnt out storefront, crying softly and wishing that everything would simply go away. That she could rest and find peace... that she could close her eyes and never have to worry about pain or illness or suffering ever again.

  He imagined himself stepping over blackened timbers, the trusty machete by his side, his shadow falling across her delicate form. She would look up with streaks of makeup smeared across her face; she would tremble as he extended his hand to brush her bangs away from her eyes; but as his fingers graced her skin, she would sigh softly. Polly would realize that it had been a mistake fighting the first time; that she simply should have given in. After all, who does not sooner or later bend to the will of God?

  And he would rip her clothes from her, tearing them from her body so easily that the threads may have as well been dry rotted and held together more by faith than any actually skill in tailoring. She would tremble before him, perhaps shyly covering her breasts and pubis... that was to be expected. But her body would quiver for entirely different reasons once he was inside her, once she knew the gift he'd been trying to bestow upon her. He would feel the tiny spasms of her muscles, the rise and fall of her perfect breasts against his chest as her breathing quickened. The warmth of her sighs tickling the little hairs lining his ears.

  Then, once he'd had his way and the hunger had been sated, he would save her. He'd take her life from her, sparing her the all of the horrors of a world that he knew now that she could never survive in. He would be her hero and she would go willingly into that cold, eternal night. And as the light slowly faded from her eyes, she would hear the galloping of hoof beats and know that finally, at last, she had been delivered into His kingdom.

  But first he had to find the stupid bitch. There were so many places she could be hiding and he simply didn't have time to check them all. So he moved forward on instinct, searching shoe stores and newsstands, coffee shops that looked as if a tornado had passed through them, and all the little places she might find a modicum of comfort in. Sometimes he got the distinct impression that she had been there. Nothing more than a gut feeling really. But it was enough to urge him to continue on, to drive him forward.

  And it was all still so glorious. The dead weren't as numerous on this side of town but every so often he could see would-be contenders to the almighty throne who had tried to prove themselves and were found wanting. Early in the search, there was a pathetic puddle of a man who laid shivering in fear as Richard approached. What looked to be a screwdriver had somehow found its way into the side of his head and he watched this lost soul for several moments, laughing at the way the man's eyes would flinch every time he cut off a finger. And yet the fool never tried to pull his hand away. Not even once. After all the digits had been severed, Richard stuffed them into his pocket: they might make an admirable necklace sometime, a reminder of the hunt which now defined his life. He considered taking the head as well, but figured it would be bothersome to transport and would tend to get in the way in the midst of a fight. So he left the man lying there, bleeding from the remains of both of his hands as well as the ear in which the screwdriver was impaled.

  Part of him had to truly admire the warrior who'd done that. Humans are as slippery as eels, tricky and quick. To actually shove a tool that far into the brain... well, that took something of a special gift. Not one as great as his own, of course, but a talent none-the-less. What he wouldn't give to face this worthy adversary in battle, to know his blood upon the blade of the machete. It would be an
honorable death, one the unknown destroyer could take pride in.

  Later he came across two idiots who looked as if they had taken each other out in unison. Now they were locked in Death's embrace, clutching each other like lovers. For these two, he had no respect what-so-ever. This was more of a clown show, an amusement for children who weren't yet old enough to witness the true bloody spectacle of the circus; unzipping his pants, he took a piss on the corpses and chuckled as he imagined that it was actually Polly and Jane lying there.

  Where the hell was she anyway? He was getting closer to the edge of town with each passing moment... was it possible he'd be wrong? That she hadn't been hiding at all? Perhaps even now she was miles from this place, hitchhiking along some country road, praying that someone would pick her up who would end it all. Perhaps a drunk driver who would crash them into the river when he took out the guardrail of a bridge. Or one of those traveling amateurs who kill twelve or so helpless women, hiding them in garbage dumps and shallow graves almost as if they are ashamed of their work. They pretended to aspire to greatness but never really possessed the courage to reach out and take it. Even the homo-erotic clowns in the funeral home parking lot possessed more honor than these would-be saviors. At least those buffoons had some measure of pride in what they did; at least they understood exactly what all the killing was for. Even if they did it so badly.

  But, no. He was positive that wasn't the case. He was meant to rescue her from all of this, it was his destiny, the labor he must complete before his full glory could be completely known. He had to claim his prize, to prove that she had not, indeed, bested him back in the kitchen.

  The kitchen... that seemed so long ago now. As if it had all taken place in another life, perhaps to a different person. And, in a way, it had. The God had always been slumbering within him, waiting for The Great Change to awaken it, to allow him to ascend to glory. He'd just never possessed the courage to simply take whatever it was he desired. If he was angry, he should have struck down the person who ired him; if he was lustful, he should have taken the woman who had stirred his loins with passion. Things would have been so much different if only he'd realized all this so much sooner.

  But, as Jane used to say, better late than never. It was probably the only true wise thing to ever come out of her mouth. And because it was better late than never, he would find Polly. He would find her, he would take her, and then he would save her.

  And she would thank him for it.

  He'd allowed his mind to wander, to drift off into thoughts of things to come. Which was dangerous out here. You had to keep yourself in a constant state of hyper-awareness, to remain as sharp and focused as a laser sight. Every little sound, the slightest of movements in a darkened window, that prickling sensation on the back of your neck that made you wonder if someone were watching you, lurking in the shadows as they awaited the opportunity to pounce: these things were very real, very important. These things would keep you alive. Richard knew this. And yet, somehow, he'd still allowed that bitch to distract him again.

  Something that felt like a runaway brick wall plowed into his body with enough force to lift him off his feet. For a moment he was pressed tightly against a mass of rock-hard muscle, being carried by the momentum of whatever had slammed into him, and it was how a bird must feel right after it had flown full force into the grill of a speeding car. But then he was soaring through the air, the city nothing more than a streaked blur around him, falling and flying all at the same time, struggling to recapture the breath that had been forced from his lungs by the collision.

  His back skidded across the road and the machete flew from his hand, clinking faintly as it tumbled over the asphalt. Before he'd even had a chance to roll, something solid and heavy crashed down onto his groin, something that felt like a boulder dropped from above; Richard doubled over as nauseating pain radiated from testicles that now throbbed like twin hearts. He instinctively cupped his hands over the tender area but then fresh pain exploded in his lip as the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Again and again something pounded on his lips and nose with flat, wet smacks and he was vaguely aware of a face leering down at him, eyes ablaze with the thrill of the hunt and lips pulled back into a sneer of brutal enjoyment.

  Richard's fingers grasped for a handful of hair but it felt short and bristly, as if it had been shaven close to the scalp, and they found no purchase. He went for the eyes instead, raking at his attacker with fingers hooked into talons; but the man threw his head back slightly and the fingernails simply peeled curls of skin from the cheeks instead.

  And still the fists rained down like a pair of pistons: hammering, bashing, pummeling, jarring teeth loose from gums, shattering bone in the bridge of the nose, spraying droplets of blood as the knuckles connected again and again with Richard's battered face.

  He writhed beneath the man, trying to squirm free even as his left hand groped blindly along the gritty street, searching for the familiar handle of his weapon. But this dude was thick, as dense and hard as an iron girder, and from that first moment of impact he'd refused to give up the edge that the element of surprise had blessed him with. He was a fucking death engine, fueled by high octane adrenaline and concentrated testosterone: no need for guns or knives or clubs; no need for anything, really... except those two solid fists wrapped in boxer's tape and their lethal fury.

  Bursts of darkness had begun to blossom in Richard's field of vision, like time-lapse flowers unfurling their black petals in a world that seemed slightly blurry and out of focus. Small at first, no bigger than pinpoints. But as his face continued to absorb the shock of each new punch, they fed on the pain like it was fertilizer, growing in size and number.

  All of the storybooks had it wrong. Death wasn't some gangly skeleton enshrouded in a black cloak: no... the true bringer of darkness was a juiced-up meat head in a yellow wife beater and spandex shorts that barely contained the muscles bulging against them. And he was simply going to kneel on Richard's chest as if it were a prayer rug and offer up blood sacrifices to whatever dark god he served. He would usher his victim into the inky waters of the river Styx and Richard's short reign as Lord of this World would come to an untimely end.

  And it was all her fault.

  That stupid, distracting little cunt.

  Polly.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The brightness of the lights reflected off the cleaver, momentarily blinding Polly again with the unexpected glare. She squinted her eyes and pressed her face into her inner elbow as she opened her hand and allowed the tool to jangle against the street. She'd actually forgotten that she was holding it. No wonder they wouldn't let her pass. It was all some big misunderstanding. Raising both arms into the air, palms facing outward, she turned in a slow circle.

  “No,” she yelled out, “it's okay. I'm not one of them. See? I'm not armed! It's okay!”

  Once she'd made a complete revolution, she took a few steps forward. Very slowly. Very deliberately. She didn't know how well these guys were trained. Were they soldiers hardened by the sand and heat of distant deserts? Or green recruits who might get spooked at any sudden movement and reflexively pull the trigger on an unarmed woman? No sense taking chances.

  “I don't want any trouble! I just want to leave, okay?”

  Her feet were mere inches away from the yellow stripe. The stripe which had quickly become a sort of magical barrier she had to cross. As if none of the insanity within the city could possibly spill over that bright paint. Just beyond was freedom. Just beyond was hope.

  Do not attempt to cross the yellow line!

  She stopped in her tracks and her wrists swiveled slightly on her raised hands as if in an exaggerated shrug. She didn't understand... maybe they hadn't heard her.

  “I'm not one of them!”

  She yelled louder this time and her voice echoed through the silence.

  “My name is Polly Wainwright... I don't have any weapons on me! I just want out of here, okay? You don't know what it's like in
there.... ”

  She'd taken another step as she pleaded and there was a salvo of clicks as the line of soldiers snapped their weapons to full attention. For some reason, the phrase lock and load flirted through her mind. But this was crazy. They had to have heard her that time. There was no way they could be mistaking her for one of them. No, she'd explained everything, had shown them that she posed no threat.

  Glancing down, she saw that the tip of her left shoe had edged up against the border of the stripe in the road.

  I repeat... do not attempt to cross the yellow line! Deadly force has been authorized, ma'am.

  She shuffled back several steps without even thinking about it. The soldiers, however, kept their weapons trained on her.

  This was fucking insane! They were supposed to protect her. They were the damn army for Christ's sake!

  “I just want to leave!”

  Her voice quivered as she yelled and she felt frustration and fatigue begin to work its way through her body. Her muscles felt as if they were dissolving, liquefying with each passing second, and she'd begun to tremble as if suddenly afflicted with palsy.

  “I just want out!”

  No longer capable of supporting the weight of her own body, her knees buckled and she fell to the ground, kneeling before the almighty yellow stripe as if in supplication. She realized that her cheeks were warm and wet, that tears were streaming from her eyes like water from a ruptured main. The trembles had turned to outright shaking now and, oddly enough, her teeth were chattering as she wept. As if she were out in the freezing cold instead of a warm, spring night.

  “I don't understand.... ”

  Her voice was softer now, something just above a whisper and every few syllables were punctuated by a sniffle or sob as her shoulders convulsed with tears. It didn't matter, though. She wasn't really talking to them anyway.