Cry Havoc (11 page)

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.

“Why won't they let me leave? Why? I just want to
go.... ”

Her palms were tightly pressed into her eye sockets and she rocked back and forth as she slowly shook her head. She took a deep gasp of air through her mouth and held it for a moment, picturing the healing white light her Yoga instructor always had them visualize. But no. That wasn't right. She tried inhaling through her nose, the snot bubbling and gurgling as she felt her diaphragm balloon out.

That's it...  breathe.

She imagined the white light seeping into the tension in her muscles, loosening its grip on her body like salt dissolving in warm water. Diffusing through her chest and abdomen. Warm, like the rays of the sun. Soothing. Relaxing.

Now exhaling, slowly through the mouth, envisioning a dark plume carrying away all the toxins, all the filth, all the poison that had built up in her soul. Inhale. Hold. Repeat.

A beach, the waves of the sea crashing against the breakers. Gulls overhead, soaring high in the cloudless sky, riding the currents of the wind. The scent of the ocean carried on the breeze, salty and invigorating; warm sand between her bare toes...  sunlight sparkling on deep blue waters as if billions of miniature diamonds were surfing the peaks and troughs.

Exhale.

Repeat.

Polly opened her eyes.

Had they really just stood there? Watching her break down without so much as a word? Without even a fucking
sound
?

They were just as heartless and calloused as any of the savages back in town. Perhaps more so. At least those running rampant through the streets were doing what they
wanted
to do, however fucked up those desires may be. At least they weren't simply following orders like good little sheep.

Fuck these people. There were other ways out of town. They couldn't be blocking them all could they?

She stood with as much dignity as she could muster, taking a moment to brush the dust off the knees of her jeans and push the hair back from her eyes.

“I hope you're all
so
very proud of yourselves.”

Her voice was even and cold. No hints of frustration. No confusion. No fear.

Not anymore.

“And I hope you remember this moment clearly. When you hear that your wives and girlfriends, your sisters...  your mothers....  When you hear how they were cut down and left to die on the wrong side of some fucking yellow line. I hope you remember this well.”

The ranks were as silent as a church at midnight; but she was sure she'd planted a seed in at least one of their minds. A seed that would hopefully bloom into compassion. She may not be the one to harvest the crop she'd planted; but if at least one innocent person was able to make it to safety because of her...  well, then it would have all been worth it, wouldn't it?

She walked over to where she'd dropped her cleaver and was beginning to stoop down when there was finally a response.

Do not attempt to pick up that weapon!

Seriously?

“They'll kill me, you know.”

A statement of fact. She was beyond begging now, beyond pleading.

I repeat, do not attempt to pick up your weapon....

So that's how it was. That was their master plan: just let everyone kill each other off until order was restored to a depopulated city.

But it wouldn't work. She knew it wouldn't. She'd seen the savagery, the brutality, the determination these people invested in their violence. In some ways, it almost seemed to be a matter of pride for them. Before long, this wave of mutilation would come crashing down over their precious yellow line and they would find themselves being swept away in the torrents of the flood.

So be it.

She stood to her full height and glared into lights that cast long shadows behind her.

Strong.

Defiant.

Determined.

“Okay, then. But just remember...  I didn't want this. I only wanted to leave. You created me.
You
. Remember that.”

Polly turned her back on the blockade and faced the city. She watched as the flames danced on the horizon, as black smoke billowed into the air like the wings of unholy angels. She listened to the distant sound of gunfire.

She had no choice. If she wanted to make it out alive, she had to go back into the fray.

But she was different now.

Changed.

She knew that to survive the gauntlet of butchery and death she was preparing to go through meant that, in a way, she had died out here on the other side of the yellow line. She'd tried to give the soldiers the gift of compassion because she knew that would be a luxury she wouldn't be able to afford. Not anymore.

To survive
them
, she would have to become one of their own.

No retreat, no surrender.

It was the only way.

“Bring it on, baby.” she whispered to the burning city. “Momma's comin' home.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Somewhere close by another explosion rocked the city. This one sounded big, like maybe the Gas-n-Go had given up its pumps to a Molotov or out of control car. Richard could feel the shock waves tremble through the street and into his back, almost as if a small earthquake had shaken the very foundations of an already devastated city.

The behemoth he was pinned beneath ducked slightly as his head snapped to the side. At the same time, Richard had yanked hard on the yellow wife-beater and the shirt tore from the man's muscular frame ;  as the shirt was ripping, the juicer's arms flew up, forming the shape of an X above his head as his eyes flinched shut. It was a move of pure instinct: trying to reflexively shield his face from the possibility of white-hot shrapnel, the body builder had opened himself to a much more real, and deadly, threat.

Before the brute could recover from his mistake, Richard grabbed his own wrist with the other hand, squeezing so tightly that his entire right arm quivered. Tensing the muscles from shoulder to wrist, he rolled his body forward and upward with a quick snap. His elbow and upper forearm slammed into Meathead's throat and he heard a sound like a sharp gag as the man's Adams apple took the brunt of the blow.

Reflexes again. More instinct as the huge bastard dropped his hands to his own throat, wrapping them around the cord-like veins and muscles as if choking himself. He struggled for a gulp of air, but Richard could feel the momentum building, could feel the battle swinging to his favor. He formed his first two fingers into a stiff V and thrust them forward, directly into Meathead's unprotected eyes. There was a slight squish, a second of something cold and wet on the tips of his fingers; the body builder's hands moved again, this time pressing the palms against his now useless eyes as he bellowed in pain. Exposing the throat again.

Wrapping his hands around the back of the man's skull, Richard pulled him forward. At the same time, he bent at the waist as if trying to sit up. Instead, he sunk his teeth into Meathead's bottom lip and bit down with a grinding motion.. The idiot tried to pull away and there was a wet, ripping sound as a once solid piece of flesh was reduced to nothing more than a bloody strand.

Keeping his teeth clamped down, Richard jerked his head left and right like a dog shaking the life out of a snared rabbit. Meathead was screaming now, scrambling backward across the street as blood gushed from his ravaged mouth. Richard spat the gristle out of his mouth and stood slowly; his eyes scanned his surroundings methodically, covering each inch of street until they finally rested upon what he was looking for.