Cry Havoc

by William Todd Rose

  “I want your fucking shoes, you blond haired bitch!”

  There was something shiny in the woman's left hand, the one that had been hidden under the baby. Something that looked sharp.

  The woman thrust the blade at Polly but she, somehow, was ready for it. She'd never really trusted this lady from the start. Something about how she'd kept saying my baby but never actually mentioning the child by name.

  Polly pivoted gracefully on her heel, spinning her body out of the path of the knife as easily as if it were something she did on a daily basis. At the same time, she latched onto the woman's arm and twisted it backward and down in one steady movement. The blade sank into the woman's stomach and she gasped as her mouth and eyes formed perfect circles. Her fingers loosened from the hilt just enough for Polly to gain control and yank it free.

  With her other hand, Polly pushed the woman's back hard enough that she stumbled and fell several feet away.

  “I swear to God if you're not on your feet and out of here within the next five seconds, I'm gonna cut a bitch to shreds.”

  Not a threat. Just a simple, flat statement.

  The woman staggered to her feet and scrambled away, hunched over and gripping her stomach as if she could somehow keep the blood from spilling out of her body.

  Shit. The damn baby....

  As it turned out, Polly didn't have much to worry about in that regard. What she hadn't been able to see in the semi-darkness was that the baby's face and lips were a subtle shade of blue. What looked to be the terrycloth belt of a bathrobe had been tied so tightly around the infant's little neck that it had practically burrowed into the skin. The poor thing.

  She couldn't just leave it laying in the middle of the street like some piece of rubbish tossed from a passing car. It was true that she knew there was no place for compassion in her heart, not now at least. But she was still human, damn it. And it was the type of animal who did this that didn't deserve her mercy; the kind who would murder the perfectly innocent and then use its body as nothing more than a prop in some fucked up ruse.

  She could just make out the outline of a carriage in the shadows of the alley. The least she could do, then, was to place the baby back into the pram. It wasn't a proper burial but in this city it was probably the closest anybody was going to get. So she laid the child's stiff body down gently, next to a diaper bag overflowing with bottles and rattles and.... cigarettes?

  She could see the shiny foil reflecting in the bottom of the bag, the red and white logo on the crumpled pack, the perfectly round and white tips of the filters. Like a starving woman who'd just found a candy bar, she snatched them from the bag. And where there's smokes, there's fire right? Yes! Just underneath a stack of diapers was a little orange lighter. God, she could really use a smoke right now.

  She shook one of the cigarettes loose from the pack and placed the filter between her lips, relishing the firmness of the filter between her pursed lips.

  But wait... if she lit up out here the flick of the lighter would be a beacon. The winking ember each time she took a drag would betray her presence in the shadows. Hell, the smell of the smoke might even draw in any crazy mother fuckers who might be lurking nearby. True, there were probably about twelve different kinds of smoke hanging over town: burning rubber, oil fires, gasoline fires, natural gas fires... but she would never underestimate the ability of someone who was really jonesing for a puff to be able to separate that particular smell from all the others. Hell, how many times had she tried to quit? And it was the smell, every time, that brought her running back.

  So not here, then. Somewhere more secluded. Where she couldn't be seen. Or smelled. Where she could enjoy half the damn pack if she chose to. But where?

  She pictured a map of the city in her head, laying out the grids as best as she could and matching them up with landmarks. What was she on now? Bentley. Just a little past Jefferson. If she kept going up a couple blocks then she should come to 17th Street. And 17th led Oak which led to Hoover Elementary. Perfect. She could sit in the hallway, far from any windows, and smoke to her heart's content. And she couldn't imagine that there would be anything in a school that the rioters and looters would actually want. Not when there was an entire city to sack.

  So it was settled then: Hoover Elementary. True, it would be a circuitous route. In a normal situation it would've been quicker and easier to head back the way she'd just come and loop back around. But she had a feeling that if she took the easier path, she'd be walking into her own death. It was an unshakable feeling somewhere deep in the pit of her gut. And if there was one thing she'd learned out here, it was that you had to trust your instincts.

  She just hoped that the hunch she was allowing to guide her wasn't leading her astray. That it really was the voice of instinct... and not the silver-tongued whisper of addiction coaxing her into a slow and painful death.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Richard still gripped the machete in his hand but he knew that if he tried to use it, he would simply be swinging blindly. The screaming kid made his eardrums tremble with its high pitched keen which, in turn, made it hard to judge exactly where the woman's voice was coming from. There was a good chance he would swing the blade only to have 700,000 volts zapped into his body. Which would debilitate him completely. It was a chance he couldn't take.

  “Look, I need a place to hide, they're crazy out.... ”

  “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  She wouldn't hear it. Wouldn't even give him a chance to try to sweet talk his way out of this one like he'd done with Jane. But, of course, Jane had wanted to believe... and that made all the difference in the world.

  From somewhere on the street he heard the sound of a gunshot, followed by heavy return fire. And suddenly he heard the shattering of glass, probably a window, the thunk of something burying itself into the plaster wall beside him.

  This caused the kid to really let loose with a series of short, shrill shrieks. Then footsteps padding across the carpet, someone running across the door toward the open door, toward him. Someone small.

  “Ashley, no!”

  Using the sound of the kid's fear to guide him, Richard's hand shot out into the darkness with the speed of a striking snake. He snatched a tiny ankle, heard a thud as the child fell to the floor, heavier steps running toward him, the mother hysterical, screaming, crackling her stun gun again and again, getting closer.

  But he was quick. So damn quick. His hands scrambled up the little girl's body, found pigtails, the head, the throat... all while sitting up at the same time. He held the girl tightly, his arm encircling her small neck as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

  “Back off! I swear to God, I'll snap this little bitch's neck like a fuckin' twig!”

  The heavier footsteps stopped immediately. The kid was screaming mommy mommy mommy like some kind of chant and he tightened his arm slightly, just enough to cut off some – but not all –of the girl's oxygen. Just enough to lower the damn volume a bit.

  “You let her go, you son of a bitch! You let her go now!”

  “Drop the taser!”

  “Let my daughter go, you bastard!”

  “Drop the fuckin' taser or I swear you'll be burying this little girl!”

  He heard something thud to the floor. When the woman spoke her voice was an odd mixture of fear and anger. He could practically feel her seething, probably wishing she could claw his throat out with a fork.

  “Look, I don't want to hurt you! Either of you.”

  He dropped his voice, made it sound as if he were on the verge of tears.

  “But I will... if I have to. I don't want to, but I will.”

  Heavy breathing from across the room. The little girl crying now, her attempts at resistance losing some of the force with the restricted air flow.

  “I found a way out... out of town. I was going back for my wife, Janey, when these guys jumped me. They beat the hell out of me. Bruised me up real bad. I'm friggin' blind here!”

 
He pulled his teeth back into a grimace that he hoped looked like anguish. Lord knows he wouldn't be able to squeeze out a tear, no matter how hard he tried.

  The woman however sounded as if she were crying, however.

  “Just... let my daughter go. Please, don't hurt my baby.... ”

  “Why the hell would I want to hurt her? Damn lady, I just want to get back to my own little girl. Polly. I just want to get back to her and Jane and get them the hell out of this shit hole.”

  He forced his voice to sound excited.

  “You can come with us. You and your daughter. I can keep us all safe, I promise. You just gotta help me and I can get us all out of this mess.”

  Silence in the apartment, except for the little girl's sobbing and Mom's labored breathing. Then the sound of feet again, pacing across the floor. Probably wringing her hands.

  “You let Ashley go... you let Ashley go and I'll help you.”

  “Lady, if I let this little girl go you're gonna zap me with that gun of yours.... ”

  “I won't!”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Please, I promise.... ”

  “You help me, then I'll let her go. Then maybe you'll see that you can trust me and we'll all get out of this alive.”

  More pacing in the darkness; he could almost taste the uncertainty in the air. The fear and trepidation.

  Finally a small, soft voice:

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Richard looked out at the street through the bedroom window, really appreciating vision for probably the first time in his life. Which was one of the best things about The Change: it made you see everything in a different light, to cherish all the little things you used to take for granted in your day to day, humdrum life. The beers he'd just chugged down, for example, were the best ones he'd ever tasted: ice cold, the almost yeasty taste of the barely and hops... the way it seemed to fizz down the back of his throat. And that was an off brand, for Christ's sake.

  He took a long slow breath and adjusted the gauze that had been wrapped around his forehead to keep the blood from dripping down into his eyes.

  The woman, whose name he'd learned had been Donna, had done a good job. He was worried that her hands might tremble, that she might accidentally slip and cut his eyelid with the razor. Especially since he was sitting there with her little girl locked in a death grip. But perhaps because of this, and not in spite of it, she was extremely steady. He'd warned her that if she tried anything funny with the razor little Ashley would be the one to pay the price. And apparently she'd believed him.

  When the blood drained out, it felt like a great pressure had suddenly been removed from his head. Donna had went to the kitchen to get the beers out of the icebox, saying that he needed something cold on his face to help ease the swelling and pain even more. By this time, the blurriness was clearing and he could see the bathroom he'd been led into. White grouted tiles, a little toothbrush holder held by suction cups to the mirror above the sink, blue fish decals on the tank of the toilet she'd sat him upon.

  Once he heard the refrigerator door open, he'd snapped Ashley's neck. Quickly. Cleanly. Silently. He lifted her body and placed it in the tub, closing the curtain as softly as he could.

  The machete, of course, hadn't been brought into the bathroom with them. So instead, he removed the lid from the back of the toilet tank and draped a towel over where it had been as a disguise. After blowing out the candle and plunging the room into darkness, he positioned himself behind the door, working out the angles that would allow him to see the mirror without being seen himself.

  When he first saw her, he almost gasped. She looked so much like Polly. A Polly who had let herself go perhaps. A Polly who drank a little too much beer, whose already round face had taken on an almost puffy look and whose belly was no longer tight and firm. And her hair was cut shorter too but it was the same color, had the same little ringlets.

  He'd must have won Donna's trust over completely with the stories of his life with Jane. She walked into the darkened bathroom without hesitation, her voice registering confusion but not fear or panic.

  “Rick? Ashley?”

  He breathed in long and slow, relishing the memory of how the tank lid felt as it smashed over her head. That dull thud. The jolt that traveled up his arms as a crack spread across the heavy porcelain.

  She'd fallen to the floor and the back of her head was almost instantly drenched in blood. But she was still alive, existing somewhere on the borderlands of consciousness, moaning softly every few seconds as her fingers twitched.

  He'd drug her into the bedroom then, stripped her, and had his way, timing the punches to her face perfectly with the thrusts of his hips, calling out Polly's name over and over as the rhythm gained in speed and ferocity.

  When he'd finished, she was motionless. Not even the slightest rise and fall of her chest. He'd dressed then and raided the refrigerator, polishing off leftover meatloaf and downing the four beers that were still in the little side compartment.

  It was good to be King.

  To take what was rightfully his.

  On the street, he saw a woman slinking by. Black shoes, black pants, and shirt. For a moment, he simply stood there with his jaw hanging open. It couldn't be. The clothes were too tight, the t-shirt too plain. It couldn't be.

  But it was.

  Polly.

  He dropped the beer he was holding and ran for the front door, his heart hammering so loudly that he half expected it to break a rib.

  Donna had been fun, but she was nothing more than a cheap substitute. The off brand.

  No, what he craved was the real thing.

  And now he knew it was right within his grasp.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She'd broken a window with a large rock that she'd found out near the playground, making sure that she was well hidden from view of the street. She'd had the feeling that she was being followed, that someone was tracking her as if she were a deer in the forest. But every time she'd try to steal a glance over her shoulder nothing was there. She even tried to catch a glimpse in the side view mirror of a parked car, hoping this little trick would reveal whether or not someone was slipping through the shadows behind her. But that disclosed nothing as well, so she'd continued on and chalked it up to nerves.

  The neighborhood surrounding the school was chiefly residential which, in turn, meant it had been mostly spared from the looting. There were a few cars with spider web cracks stretching across their windshields, some broken glass littering the sidewalk, a couple of bodies lying in the street; but it was nothing like the other parts of town where the stores were all clustered together and ripe for the picking.

  She'd climbed into the darkness of the school and made her way forward carefully, working her way through the labyrinth of rooms until she was in one of the halls. It was so quiet that her footsteps echoed as loudly as if she were wearing heavy boots. No one came running. No doors flew open to reveal murderous rage. But why would they? Who they hell would be in an elementary school at this time of night anyway?

  She lit her cigarette, feeling slightly guilty when she noticed the sign on the wall that announced tobacco was prohibited on school property. But that guilt was quickly assuaged when her eyes had become better adjusted to the gloom: when she realized that the hallway was lined on either side with bright yellow tape.

  Son of a bitch....

  Polly stood, took the last drag from her cigarette, and crushed it out under her heel.

  She would find somewhere else then.

  Richard's initial instinct had been to charge at her like a mad bull. To run her down the same way Meathead had done him. But he fought this urge, savoring instead the little game he was playing. She, the dainty little mouse, who kept looking back over her shoulder: afraid and helpless in this big 'ole maze of a city. He, the stealthy cat in the shadows: quick and slinky, master of the domain, perfectly bred for stealth and attack.

  After several blocks, he real
ized that – in his haste to follow her – he'd forgotten to grab his machete when he'd left Donna's brownstone. But no worries. He could go back for it later. It wasn't as if he would actually need it. Not for her.

  Around the same time it dawned upon him where she was heading. The elementary school. Wasn't that just like a woman? To worry about the little kiddies when she should be more concerned with saving her own skin?

  Oh man, this was going to be too easy.

  The classroom was standard issue. Block walls painted some neutral color she'd never bothered to learn the name of. Row after row of desks perfectly lined up. Bookshelves. Learning based posters on the walls and a big chalkboard with the name Mrs. Haversham scrawled across it.

  She'd plopped down into the teacher's chair and looked at the day planner laid out on top of the desk. PTA meeting, 7:30 PM Wednesday. Field Trip-Zoo, 8:30 AM, two weeks from now. Sorry about your luck, Mrs. Haversham, but it looks like we've had to clear your calendar. Permanently.

  As she swiveled back and forth in the chair, Polly toyed with the little American flags that had been poised on one corner of the desk. They were the type that had two poles jutting out at opposite angles from a single wooden base. Probably made in Taiwan.

  Maybe she should rest here for a while. Wait for daylight and plan her next move. Smoke all she wanted or for as long as the pack held out.

  Yeah, that might be for the best. There would probably be a lot less assholes to deal with out there by morning.

  She stood and walked to the door of the classroom, placed the knife on the little bookshelf beside it, and turned the lock.

  She wondered what had happened to Jane? Had her friend made it? Was she still back at the apartment? Or was she running, hiding, trying to find a way out of town?

  Polly hoped she wasn't dead. Jane was one of those rare people you met in life. The kind who actually take time to listen to what you're saying, to show a sincere interest in how you've been doing.