Cry Havoc

by William Todd Rose

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

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

  Stay within the yellow lines....

  By the time I'd made it to the little tent with the desk beneath, it was too late. I simply couldn't hold out any longer. Warmth spread across the crotch of my jeans and trickled down my thighs as the sharp stench of urine filled the air like a pungent cloud. Luckily, I'd worn dark jeans so it wasn't obvious where the source of the smell was coming from. It could have been the old man in front of me. Or the lady who kept stepping on the heel of my shoe every time we managed to take a few steps forward.

  “Ration card and identification.”

  I handed the soldier the requested documents and noticed that his nose wrinkled slightly, as if the smell of my piss stung his nostrils. Good. Served the bastard right.

  He glanced from my ID to my face and then back to the ID again.

  “Richard W. Hall?”

  I'd nodded my head, unclear as to whether answering his questions would be considered making contact with one of the soldiers protecting me.

  He sighed as if he had been through this same routine a thousand times and in that fraction of a second I realized that this man hated his job. And, for some reason, I gleaned a bit of satisfaction from that realization; as if this somehow knocked him down to the same level as me and the long line of people stretching back and around the corner.

  “You're going to have to speak to answer my questions. It's okay, understand? It's okay to talk to me. Now... what's your address and social security number, Mr. Hall?”

  Amazing. Even when things are literally falling apart around you, the bureaucracy rolls on and on.

  After verifying all of my information to the man's satisfaction, another soldier pulled a large box from the back of a truck and dropped it into my arms. The thing felt as heavy as a small child and I was assured that there was enough inside to last a full week if we doled it out wisely; another officer would be around in the future to issue a new ration card and I, or someone else residing in my household, could come back next week at the same time and location to claim further supplies.

  As I staggered along the streets, I began to feel eyes upon me. I could sense the other people looking at my box of food and necessities, could almost feel their desire to possess it like a beam of warmth penetrating my skull. Even though my back ached from carting this huge box around, I tried to rise to my full height, to puff my chest out in the hopes that it might be mistaken for muscle. Don't get me wrong: I don't think I could be considered in any way, shape, or form to be weak. A little out of shape maybe. Forty hours of pushing a mouse around every week for the last seven years will do that to a man. Your belly ends up getting a little rounder and you lose some of the tone that used to make your biceps as taut as piano wires. But out here on the streets, where violence could break out as easily as you might sneeze, every little advantage helped. So if there was any way I could make it seem like there might be an easier target then, by God, I was going to take it.

  Still, I didn't like being out in the open. I kept thinking that I heard someone's footsteps running up behind me, imaging someone's breath on the back of my neck, mistaking my own shadow for someone else's. Every few seconds I stole a glance over my shoulder and felt a little of the tension in my shoulders release when I realized that the other people were still just standing on the sidewalk or were ducking into their own houses and apartments. So I continued walking. But within a few minutes I wondered: is that the echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the buildings? Or someone else's? Someone trying to mirror my pace, to disguise the sound of their approach beneath my own little noises? And then the entire scene would replay itself like a bad loop film.

  So that's why I'm standing here now, glancing back and forth from the street ahead to the little alley to my left. The street has the advantage of being patrolled by police and soldiers; but there's still no guarantee that I won't be attacked. When the violence flares, the people taking part in it are like a packs of wild dogs. They pounce upon the victim with speed and cunning, their ferocity and the element of surprise helping to isolate their prey even further. I've seen this time and time again on news broadcasts and reality cop shows. One moment it's just like any other day. Everything is quiet, life goes on as it always has. Next thing you know, a mob of people explode in a flurry of aggression, flailing with fists and feet and teeth and nails. If it's not put down quickly, it grows like a force of nature... like a whirlwind that sucks people into its vortex... and suddenly the entire street is filled with screams and breaking glass and the blood begins to flow long before the first sirens ever start to respond.

  But if I cut down the alley there's less chance of being seen. Fewer people to covet my box of goodies. And, if I'm not mistaken, I can actually network through these alleys and probably cut a good ten minutes off the trip back home. So that settles it: the less time I'm out here in the streets the better.

  The alley smells like rotten vegetables and is lined with overflowing dumpsters. It's been close to a week and a half since I've seen a garbage truck in this town and trash is starting to pile up everywhere. When the dumpsters can't hold any more litter, people just start piling the bags up around them. Stray dogs and rats come along, shred the thin plastic with their claws and teeth, strew refuse all over the place, and make a damn mess out of everything. On top of this, the bricks walls are covered with graffiti, loops and swirls of some cryptic alphabet that I can never hope to comprehend, and I start to wonder how I'll explain the sour stench of urine wafting from my pants once I get home? Can I really tell Polly and Jane that I stood in line for so long that I pissed myself? That I reverted into nothing more than a small child who couldn't control even the simplest of body functions?

  In a word, this sucks. It feels like I'm the one being punished while the rest of the world just does whatever the hell they want, takes whatever the hell they want whenever the hell they want it. All my life I've tried to play by the rules. I graduated high school, got my college diploma and netted a cushy little office job. I met a nice girl, resisted the temptations of other – sometimes prettier – girls and would probably end up proposing to her within a year or so. I wore the right clothes, went to all the right hot spots, read the right books, and listened to the right music. And yet, somehow, life was still a constant struggle. There was never enough money to last from one paycheck to the next, the bills always required juggling, and every time it seemed like a little extra money had come my way some problem or another would rear its ugly head and require even more cash than what I had on hand. But I kept on with the charade so that my friends would never suspect how precariously I was balanced on the tightrope of finances. I kept on pretending everything was fine while those damn hooligans ran free through the cities, satisfying their hearts' every desire, their every whim. I guarantee none of them smell like piss because they spent the better part of the day waiting in line for a friggin' handout.

  Listen to me. I sound like a spoiled child who can't have that shiny, new toy. I need to get home, get some sleep. Or at least a nice hot cup of coffee if nothing else.

  I round the corner and find myself in a new stretch of alley. Up ahead, there's an old man and he seems to be struggling with his own box. It's smaller than mine, probably only enough for one or two people, but his arms are so frail and his back so bent that I'm sure it feels twice as heavy to him.

  Poor old guy. If the world is this confusing to me, how must it be for him?

  He takes these tiny Geisha-girl steps and I wonder how long it's taken him to make it this far? For every step he takes, I cover three times the distance. He's now so close that I can see the liver spots on the back of his head, the wrinkles creasing his neck, and the way his pants seem to be slowly sliding down his hips as if his belt isn't quite tight enough. I don't know whether he's deaf or trusting, but he never looks over his shoulder to see who's coming
up behind him. Not even when I clear my throat in an attempt to announce my presence.

  But why am I feeling sorry for him? He's had a long life, this old timer. I'm sure he's seen his share of hardships, but he won't have to suffer through the madness that's gripped this country much longer. By the looks of him, he's only got six months to a year of life left in him. Tops. He'll probably die peacefully in his sleep while I stand in line for another fucking supply box, reeking of piss again. If, that is, there's even still any supplies to go around. By then the whole world could have gone tits up. And I'm not being dramatic. I really think that's a possibility. The violence grows worse with each passing week. The outbreaks happen more frequently, involve more people. And, as the militia members who brought down the helicopter yesterday prove, in some ways they're getting more organized. Six months from now I might consider myself lucky to have a little box like his. I'll be starving and suffering and he'll be laying peacefully within his grave with not a care in the world.

  I'm just behind him now and I can smell Ben-Gay waft off his body like it was damn cologne. And he still doesn't have a clue I'm there.

  Or maybe he just doesn't care anymore. Maybe he's resigned to the fact that he'll die in this alley. Is that why he took it to begin with? An act of voluntary euthanasia, perhaps? Seems to me he would have felt safer in plain view of the police and soldiers. Not back here in this alley where no one would hear him scream.

  For some reason, I think of the soldier at the little tent who took all my information before gracing me with this box I'm lugging around. What was that he said? That this would be enough to last a week... if we doled it out wisely? What the hell did that mean anyway? What if we didn't dole it out wisely? Was it too much of a stretch of imagination to think that might be a possibility? I mean, it’s not like anyone give me any instructions with this damn box. No one said only eat x amount of food every x amount of hours and you'll be fine. No, I was just given what feels like a container of bricks and basically told to make it last.

  And this old man? There's a good chance that he could drop dead of a heart attack at any minute, the way he's straining with that box of his. I can see the muscles and veins standing out on his neck, can now see how his arms tremble beneath the weight, and can hear his wheezing breath. Even if he does manage to make it back to his home, what happens if he dies tonight? All that food just sitting around in his pantry while flies lay eggs in his eyes... all that food going to waste.

  I realize I'm holding my own box directly over my head and my own muscles are quivering with exertion. For a moment, I'm confused: why the hell am I walking like this? What the hell am I doing?

  Then, without another thought, I'm bringing my arms down with as much force as I can muster. The edge of my box slams into the back of the old man's head and I see a bright red spray of blood spurt from his scalp as his body pitches forward. His box skids across the alley and he's sprawled on his belly, feeling the back of his head with hands that came away warm and sticky with his own blood.

  He rolls over and his eyes are wide with fear, magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. He lips move like he's searching for words but no sound escapes from his frail throat.

  I feel like I'm about to throw up. What the fuck have I done? Why did I do that? What the hell was I thinking?

  Tears well up in the corners of the old guy's eyes as he starts scrambling backward and I see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he struggles for a breath.

  Shit. He's going to start screaming. Start yelling for help.

  What if someone hears him?

  What if a soldier or cop is patrolling the other end of the alley?

  They'll kill me. Shoot me dead on the spot, no questions asked.

  The man's lips quiver and I know the scream is working its way up through his lungs.

  I can't let him scream.

  I don't want to die.

  I don't want to be killed in a dirty fucking alley with pants that smell of piss.

  I don't want to die.

  My box thumps to the ground as I launch myself at the old man. My body crashes into his and I feel the air whoosh from his lungs with a small moan as my knee grinds into his groin. He falls backward again and his throat is in my hands and it feels so thin and fragile, like a chicken bone really. Squeezing, compressing so tightly that my knuckles turn white and my hands throb with pain.

  His eyes bulge as if I'm about to pop them right out of his head and his lips look kind of bluish now and I squeeze harder, feeling the vibration of bones cracking through my palms. Blood begins to trickle from the corners of his mouth and suddenly he's not struggling anymore, not clawing at my hands and clothes with arthritic fingers. His arms hang limply by his sides and his eyes look dull and glassy. But I have to make sure... I can't risk him telling the authorities what happened, can't take the chance that even a single breath might be hiding down there in his lungs. So I squeeze his throat until I'm sure there's no chance he'll ever get back up again.

  I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone running down the alley toward me. But there's no one in either direction. No witnesses to what I've just done.

  Standing, I brush the dust off my pants and shirt. It doesn't seem right to just leave the old guy laying out in the alley like this.... I toss some of the bags out of one of the dumpsters, just enough so that I can hoist his body over the side and bury him beneath the mounds of garbage. This whole place smells like rot, anyway. No one will ever notice. No one will wonder what that strange smell is as his body begins to decay.

  I grab my box off the ground and then stoop and place the old man's supplies on top of it.

  My heart is hammering in my chest faster than I ever thought possible and every sound, every sight, every smell seems to be somehow amplified. It's like all of my senses have kicked into overdrive and for the first time in my life I actually feel powerful. Invincible, even.

  And these extra supplies? Well, they'll make sure we have enough to see us through regardless of whether or not we dole them out wisely.

  We'll be just fine, us four.

  I'll make sure of that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I'm standing in the hallway of our building and it feels like every ounce of energy I've ever possessed has decided to take an extended hiatus. The muscles in my legs tremble like Jell-O and my arms are wracked with cramps from carrying the boxes; the small of my back feels like I've been whacked with a two-by-four and waves of darkness keep threatening to overtake me. I shake my head like a dog flinging off water and kick the door with the tip of my loafer.

  “It's me... open up. I've got the stuff.”

  My voice sounds slurred and distant, like a drunkard speaking through the end of a long pipe.

  Nothing but silence within the apartment, so I kick again. Harder this time.

  “Damn it, open the door! This shit is heavy!”

  I can hear faint footsteps on the other side, whispers so vague I can only make out sounds and not voices or distinct words. I kick again, this time so hard that pain flares through my toes as the tip of my shoe jars against the wood.

  “Who's there?”

  Jane's voice, sounding like a frightened little girl. Why the hell doesn't she just use the peephole and see who the fuck is there? The stupid cunt.

  I try to swallow my irritation, to keep it from showing in my voice and tone. It feels like a hard lump of gristle stuck in my throat and I close my eyes for a second to keep the hallway from wavering in and out of focus.

  “Publisher's Fucking Clearing House. Who the hell do you think it is? Open the damn door, Jane. I said this shit is heavy!”

  So much for keeping my cool.

  I hear the chain rattle and then the click of the deadbolt. The doorknob turns and the door swings open. She stands there for a moment with her hands on her hips, her lips thin and tight as she glares at me.

  “There's no need to get snappy.” she spits. “It could've been anyone. Ho
w was I supposed to know?”

  Apparently she has no intention of moving out of the doorway, so I shoulder my way by her.

  “Richard!”

  Staggering into the living room, I see Polly and Cody. They stand there watching me like I was the lead character in private drama playing out just for them. Jane slams the door shut and stomps across the room.

  “I don't know what's gotten into you! You didn't have to push me.”

  No one offers to help. No one makes a move at all. Except for Jane and she's too busy pacing around the living room and wagging her finger while she prattles on and on about how she won't tolerate domestic violence in any way shape or form. Please. All I did was let myself into my own home. Is it my fault that she wouldn't get out of the way?

  Fuck 'em. I made it this far on my own. I guess a few more steps to the kitchen won't really matter.

  Cody is standing by the coffee table and he's looking at me like I'm some kind of trained monkey. One who might be dangerous or perhaps just mildly amusing. As I pass the worthless twit, he sniffs several times and wrinkles his nose as he begins fanning his hand in front of his face.

  “My God, man, you smell like an outhouse.”

  All the frustration of the morning bubbles over like an unattended kettle. I slam the boxes of supplies down onto the coffee table, throw them really, and there's a sharp crack as the cheap wood gives out. The yin-yang design splinters into half a dozen pieces as coffee mugs and saucers crash to the ground.

  “Well maybe next time, you'd like to go get the fuckin' supplies! Maybe you'd like to waste half your day being told that if you step outside the precious yellow line you'll end up with a damn bullet in your head! Son of bitch!”

  I'm all up in his face, spraying spittle with each word and Cody's trying to back away but I've got the lapels of his shirt in a vice-like grip. His eyes dart about the room and he winces with each word.

  “They would have shot me! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”