Cry Havoc

by William Todd Rose

  I hold my head in my hands and try to will sleep to come.

  I listen to the clock tick and the soft humming of the refrigerator.

  At least Polly and Cody aren't at each other anymore. For the past forty minutes or so I could hear them through the thin walls of the guest bedroom: the creaking of bedsprings, the headboard tapping gently against the plaster like erotic Morse code, muffled moans and proclamations of undying love. At first my mind was filled with images of Cody humping away at her like a Chihuahua pumped up on Viagra. The thought of his pimply ass cheeks grinding against one another while his face contorted into some ridiculous sex mask was enough to literally make me ill. I felt like everything I had eaten throughout the day had soured in my stomach, as if rather than breaking down the food it had turned into an incubator for bacteria and disease. Bile stung the back of my throat and I tried to shift my focus, to pretend that it was simply Polly in the other room and the sounds I were hearing were nothing more than her exploring the secrets of her own body. I pictured her sprawled across the bed, alone in the dark, her hair fanned out across the pillow as a sheen of sweat glistened on her pale skin. I could almost feel the warmth of her breath as she parted her lips slightly, could almost smell the musky aroma of her sex flooding the room with that unmistakable scent.

  But then, sharply and quite clearly, I heard her call out his name again and again as the rapping of the headboard became more frantic and insistent. The erection that had been straining against my boxers and begging for release melted as quickly as if it had been dipped in ice water. Every nerve in my body suddenly felt as if it had been set on edge and I slipped out of bed and stormed into the kitchen, hoping that maybe I could find a bit of peace and quiet.

  And now that I had, the events of the day kept replaying in my mind like news footage. The riot on the street. The explosion as the helicopter took out the entire side of the bank. Later, once the sounds of fighting had faded into memory, the fire trucks dutifully showed up to hose the blood and ashes into the gutters while men in what looked to be white, paper uniforms threw the dead into the backs of flatbed trucks. Hours after that the knock on the door: three soldiers, two with their weapons trained on me as the third scrawled information onto a clipboard he carried.

  Only two adults in the household?

  No, four. Our friends are staying with us. Their house was firebombed when the trouble went down near Brixton.

  Names?

  Polly Wainwright. Cody Preston.

  Any children?

  Thank God, no.

  Are there any weapons in the house, sir? Any firearms, explosive devices, or blades greater than eight inches in length?

  No... no, nothing like that at all.

  Jane's voice calling out from somewhere behind me: We don't believe in guns. We're all pacifists, you know.

  Pacifists or not, I'm still required to verify the information you've provided. Step aside, please.

  Before the soldiers left, the one with the clipboard filled out a ration card that was no bigger than a driver's license and added his signature to the bottom. He handed it to me, remaining expressionless as his eyes took one final glance around the room.

  Supply trucks will be at the corner of Bentley and Jefferson tomorrow at oh-ten-hundred hours. Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate this card. Failure to present the card, or if it has been damaged in any way, will result in a denial of rations. Furthermore, any attempts to alter the information contained on it in any way will be punishable to the fullest extent of the law.

  Once the soldiers had moved on to the next apartment, Jane suggested that Cody and I should go together the next morning to pick up the supplies. She said it would do us both some good to get out of the house for a while, to take in some fresh air, and to have some “man time”.

  Cody's face had drained of all color and his eyes had the expression of a squirrel who was trapped on the median of a busy highway. He stammered like a damn fool and, even though his words were saying the exact opposite, I knew that he didn't want to go with me any more than I wanted him there.

  “Look,” I finally explained, “what happens if trouble breaks out while we're gone? I think one of us should stay with you girls. I'll go get the supplies and be back in no time flat.”

  “He's right you know. He's got a point. I should stay here. I really should.”

  The damn coward. But at least I would have a little time away from the simpering idiot the next day. I swear, twenty-four more hours of listening to that fake accent and I'll be ready to pitch him off the balcony.

  I hear the floorboards in the living room creak and soft, shuffling footsteps. I swear to God, that better not be Cody. I don't think I could handle that right now.

  The beaded curtain parts and it feels as if my entire body has sighed in relief: it's Polly.

  She doesn't notice me sitting there at first. She's wearing this long t-shirt that comes down just below her thighs. It's light gray and, because my eyes have adapted to sitting in the dark for so long, I can make out one of those little fishes that True Believers like to put on their cars. What Jane refers to as “Jesus Fish”. Only this one has little legs attached to it and the name Darwin written in the very center. Surrounding the symbol, in large block letters, are the words EVOLVE OR DIE. Her hair looks as if she's rubbed a balloon all over it and used the static charge to make it jut out in little tufts; her cheeks are flushed and the subtle scent of dried sweat follows her into the room like a faithful dog at its master's feet.

  She shambles over to the fridge and throws open the door, blinding me for a moment with the unexpected light. I cup my hand over my brow, shielding my eyes from the stinging glare, and blink away the needles of pain.

  Polly bends over to dig around on the bottom shelf and the hem of her shirt raises to the small of her back. She's not wearing any underwear and I see these two perfect ass cheeks staring back at me: tight and firm from hours spent at the gym, little twin dimples on either side. My pulse quickens and I look away as she pulls a bottled water from the shelf and closes the door.

  “Oh hey,” she seems unsure of her words and begins to fidget slightly, tugging at the bottom of her shirt as if she could stretch it a little lower, “I didn't, uh, see you there, Richard. Umm... can't sleep?”

  I glance back at her and try to keep my voice from betraying the little quiver that vibrates somewhere between my heart and gut.

  “Yeah. Keep thinking about everything that happened today. It's crazy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She sounds relieved, as if she were perhaps expecting me to say something about the noise of her lovemaking. Perhaps to buy a few seconds time, she twists off the lid of the bottle and takes a swig; I try not to stare as her throat moves slightly while she swallows.

  Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she makes her way to the table and pulls up a chair across from me. So close now that I can smell the faint hint of her perfume, like wildflowers after a spring rain; but there's also the slight smell of passion still clinging to her like a needy lover.

  Cody had left an empty yogurt cup on the table and she pulls it to her; for the first time, I notice the pack of cigarettes in her other hand. Flipping open the top of the box, she slides out a lighter and a smoke.

  “You know,” I warn, “Jane will have your head if she catches you smoking that in here.”

  Polly shrugs and flicks the lighter in the semi-darkness. She holds the flame to the tip and puffs slowly. Half closing her eyes, she blows out the smoke through pursed lips, a long slow plume that hangs in the air like a bluish nebula in the depths of space.

  “Yeah, well what Jane doesn't know won't hurt her, right?”

  Polly winks at me and I feel as if my heart has forgotten to beat as my breath catches in my throat. Is she talking about smoking? Or something else? Something more?

  “Uh, yeah... I guess. I mean, I won't tell her or anything.”

  She takes another drag off the cigare
tte and the ember glows like a meteor just before it begins to burn up in the atmosphere. The apartment is so quiet that I can hear the tobacco crackle slightly as she inhales and I wonder if she can hear the way my heart is pounding in my chest....

  “So what do you make of all this, Richard?” she finally asks. “Every time we talk about it, you kinda clam up. I mean, you take part in the conversation, don't get me wrong. But you never really share your thoughts, you know?”

  I lean back in my chair and look up at the ceiling for what seems to be an eternity before committing myself to an answer.

  “The way I see it, people just don't give a damn any more. I mean, it would be easy if we could blame this on some kind of disease. Some virus or something. At least then it would kind of make sense.”

  Polly nods her head as she flicks her ashes into the yogurt cup. But she stays silent, letting me talk. If I'd been having this conversation with Jane right now, you can bet she would've already had some little counter to what I'd said. Maybe something along the lines of not enough research being done to entirely discount a viral theory. But Polly, God bless her, was content to simply listen and smoke. Which was good. It gave me a chance to actually sort out and piece together the scattered thoughts that had been going through my mind over the last several weeks. To try to form some kind of coherent reasoning.

  “But this? This is scarier. A disease can be cured. An infection can be stopped.”

  “So, if not a disease... then what?”

  I reach across the table and pull her pack of cigarettes toward me. She raises her eyebrows but doesn't really say anything as I fish one out and light up my own. The smoke feels scratchy in my throat and my eyes immediately start to water. But God, it feels good... like running into an old lover who you haven't thought of in years only to find that old spark still exists.

  “You want to know what I really think?”

  I feel slightly woozy from the nicotine. Or maybe from Polly's scent, so maddeningly close. Or maybe both.

  “What I think is that civilization is this really fragile thing. I mean, we have laws that were designed to protect us. But the only reason those laws work is because the majority of people want to be good. They want to have order. They choose to obey... and that's what makes our society function.”

  “Well, you got to keep in mind that if you break those laws you go to jail, Richard. Fear of losing freedom... that's a pretty strong incentive, isn't it?”

  Her voice sounds husky and soft, like a starlet from some old film noir movie. I take another draw from my cigarette and hold the smoke in, using it as an excuse to simply admire her for a moment without needing to continue the conversation. She really is beautiful: those high cheeks bones, that perfect nose, the creases in her brow....

  “Not really.” I finally say. “I mean, let's face it. There's a lot more normal people than there are cops and soldiers. If everyone decided, all at the same time, to simply do whatever the hell they wanted there really wouldn't be anything the authorities could do about it.”

  Polly narrows her eyes and chews on her bottom lip for a moment as she thinks over what I'd said. For the first time, I see a hint of fear touch her eyes. As if she'd finally realized that this was something more than just an intellectual exercise.

  “And you think that's what's happening? That people are just... well, just giving up on society?”

  “It's the only thing that makes any sense. At least, to me. And that, my dear, is precisely why I can't get to sleep tonight. In a nutshell.”

  Polly glances over her shoulder, almost as if she's afraid that some shadow might be sneaking up behind her. She rubs her arms briskly and even in the darkness of the kitchen I can see the goose bumps creeping along her soft flesh.

  I know that I've been laying it on a bit thick, spacing out my words with dramatic pauses and speaking in tones normally reserved for melodramatic b-films. But, to be perfectly honest, there's kind of a small thrill in knowing that you've entirely captivated a beautiful woman. Knowing that a seed of fear has been planted and that maybe, just maybe, somewhere deep in the back of her mind she is seeing you as a potential hero. Someone who'll protect her and make sure that nothing bad ever darkens her doorstep.

  “If you're right... and I'm not saying you are, mind you... but if you are then there's really no hope , is there?”

  “Honey, I don't think there's been any hope for a long, long time. And that's precisely why we find ourselves in this current predicament.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The smell of smoke still hangs heavy in the air, thick and greasy, like the ghost of a refinery explosion. I wonder to myself how long it will take for that particular stink to dissipate, for the air to simply smell normal again? Even the warm breeze that blows across the streets doesn't do much to help scatter the stench. Instead, it's almost as if the wind is scooping it up from the burnt out shells of buildings, carrying it down alleys and throughways, and depositing it into a cloud that hangs just over our heads.

  Stay within the yellow lines....

  The voice from the loudspeaker sounds as emotionless and cold as a computer. Hell, for all I know it could actually be one. After all, I can't really see a microphone or anyone speaking the words. Just these drab green cones attached to every tenth telephone pole, a thin black wire stringing them together and disappearing somewhere into the distance.

  Anyone straying from the yellow lines will be dealt with immediately.

  Soldiers stroll up and down the sidewalks, machine guns slung over their shoulders as their eyes scan the crowd for even the slightest ripple of discontent. A few look scared, as if they're afraid the assemblage will suddenly fall upon them and rip the weapons from their hands before they've even managed to squeeze off a shot; but most of them all wear the same solemn, tight lipped expression of neutrality.

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

  I've been standing in line for nearly an hour now and have only moved forward a block or so. My kidneys feel as if someone is plunging knives into them and my bladder is demanding relief as I curse myself for not having the foresight to take a leak before leaving the house.

  Please have your ration card and identification at the ready. Keep the line moving in an orderly fashion.

  By now I know the spiel well enough that I could recite it word for word, pausing in all the right places for just the right amount of time. Which is really no mean feat: it's basically the same message, after all, repeated over and over as we shuffle forward.

  Do not attempt to make contact with the soldiers protecting you.

  Protecting. That's a good one. It feels more like they're herding us. It's all too easy to imagine that this long string of people are nothing more than livestock. That once we round the corner we'll have little tags affixed to our ears and be loaded into cattle cars. Shipped off to slaughterhouses and processed for consumption.

  Do not attempt to make contact with those in front of or behind you.

  Christ Almighty, I should have gotten more sleep last night. Everything looks grainy and my eyes feel as if I've got little pieces of grit trapped in them. Grit that scratches and itches and burns.

  Stay within the yellow lines....

  It's Polly's fault, really. She kept me talking in the kitchen, kept asking all those questions about what I thought, how I felt, what my opinion was on this or that: and every so often she'd drop her cigarette and bend over to pick it up. The neckline of her shirt would sag and I could see nipples like little pencil erasers on these firm, round breasts. The first time it happened I thought maybe it was just an accident, that she'd simply grown comfortable enough around me to not realize how she was exposing herself; the second time, however, I began to wonder if maybe she were doing it on purpose. If she wanted me to see those beautiful mounds of flesh. So I kept finding reasons to stay up longer, new topics to discuss with her. All in the hopes of seeing if she would drop another
cigarette. Or the lighter. Or the lid to her water bottle.

  Anyone straying from the yellow lines will be dealt with immediately.

  I ended up with around two hours of sleep, I'd say. Not nearly enough. I feel like every muscle in my body is wound up as tightly as a spring; I'm tired, cranky, and I really, really have to piss. But, as I'm so often reminded, I'm not allowed to ask the soldiers if there's any way I can use the bathroom. I'm not even allowed to step outside the damn yellow line.

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

  Yeah, yeah, I know: the use of deadly force has been authorized. But to be perfectly honest I would almost be willing to take a bullet right now as long as it pierced my bladder and relieved some of this fucking pressure. Next time, Cody comes for the supplies. Let that little weasel deal with this shit while I stay home, all snug and secure with a bathroom only feet away.

  Please have your ration card and identification at the ready. Keep the line moving in an orderly fashion.