I can see the mob through the window of our fifth story apartment. They scurry across the street like ants that have had their hill trampled beneath the boot of God. Roiling, black smoke rolls from fiery hulks that used to be cars and slinks over the sidewalk like a creeping death, obscuring those who disappear into its veil. I see windows shatter, showers of glass that sparkle like glitter from this distance, people swarming into the buildings and emerging minutes later with clothes piled in their arms, televisions hoisted onto shoulders, and even one guy dragging a mannequin behind him as if it were a prisoner of war. A woman runs up behind a teenager carrying a cardboard box filled with what appears to be looted items; as I watch she extends her arm out straight, leveling the dark object in her hand at the back of his head. There’s a puff of smoke and a little lick of fire and the teenager crumples to the ground as if he were a marionette whose strings had just been cut. The woman dives to the street and begins scooping the toppled items back into the box with both arms, raking in her booty like a greedy pirate. She’s almost filled the box back up when two men pounce upon her, knocking her face first into the concrete. As I watch, one of them buries his knees just below her shoulder blades while the other rips her yellow dress away as easily as if it were made of paper. Yanking her panties down, he quickly drops his trousers and forces his way into her while his partner grabs fistfuls of dark hair and bashes her face again and again into the pavement.
As far as the eye can see, scenes like this play out over and over: murder, rape, destruction, flames burning out of control while people scamper amid the blood and tears….
A helicopter races over the top of our building, flying so low and fast that the thumping of its rotors causes the window to rattle within its pane. Like an armored dragonfly, it darts toward the chaos below. It’s nose dipped low, blades whirring so quickly they simply look like a circular blur, it unleashes a staccato volley of gunfire: bits of concrete erupt like miniature volcanoes as the bullets rip across the streets; those caught in the line of fire jerk and twitch as if dancing to music only they can hear; once their riddled bodies are no longer held aloft by the spray of lead, they collapse in a heap and the bullets search for more partners to pull into its deadly boogie.
Movement on the roof of the Turner Building catches my eye. All at once, I see close to a dozen heads pop up over the side of the ledge. Nearly in unison they raise rifles to their shoulders and sunlight glares on their scopes. They fire repeatedly and the assault has the feel of a coordinated ambush; as if they somehow knew the helicopter would come along eventually. These must be the extremist militia type I’ve heard so much about on the news. Once FEMA declared martial law, they flooded the streets like fleas from a drowning dog, positive that the New World Order had finally decided to snap the neck on the eagle of freedom.
Their bullets ping off the helicopter and it begins to maneuver toward them but suddenly a plume of smoke belches from the tail fin. The machine spirals out of control, spinning in wild circles as it drops from the sky and I see the people on the roof throw up their hands as they jump up and down in victory.
The helicopter smashes into the side of People’s Bank and a giant fireball mushrooms into the sky as the mirrored glass of the building and flaming shards of metal rain down onto the rioters below. Even from this distance I can feel the force of the explosion in my chest, almost like I am being pushed backward by an infinitely strong ghost.
At street level, the trucks have begun rolling in now: drab green with camouflaged tarps pulled tightly over rib-like skeletons. They screech to a halt and soldiers hop out of the back. These trained killers move with fluid grace and precision, their automatic weapons shouldered even before their feet have even touched the ground.
“Richard, darling, why don’t you step away from the window?”
Jane speaks in a sing-song tone that sounds light and carefree. From listening to her, you’d never guess there was a full-fledged battle being waged only blocks away.
I let the drapes fall closed and turn around with images of the chaos still burning in my brain. For a moment, I feel dizzy as two entirely separate worlds collide. Outside, the streets have been darkened with blood and soot. People’s lives are being ripped to shreds and entire buildings burn unchecked in the afternoon sun. But in here, the gunshots seem as if they are coming from the end of some long corridor. They’re muffled and distant, no different really from a neighbor watching an action film with the volume turned up just a little too loudly.
The walls are light beige and are adorned with framed prints of the great masters: Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, and Dali. My favorite, Munch’s masterpiece The Scream, hangs just above an oak bookcase lined with the works of Shakespeare, Frost, and Melville among others. Everything about the room, from the potted ferns to the beaded curtain that separates the living room from the kitchen, has an almost deliberate look to it: as if it had somehow transcended the glossy pages of a catalog and manifested in the real world.
Jane is sitting on a little brown settee in front of a coffee tabled shaped like the Chinese yin-yang symbol. Her curly red hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and tied with a yellow ribbon; she’s wearing the shirt I bought her for her birthday last year, the white one with the flowing sleeves that makes her look like some romantic poetess. She smooths her crinkled skirt with one hand and then leans forward to take a sip from a pink mug of herbal tea.
Perched on the couch across from her is her best friend, Polly Wainwright. As usual, Polly is wearing a t-shirt with some sort of slogan on it; this particular one is a simple white tee with pink letters reading Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History. Like all of her clothes it is loose and comfortable, the folds of the fabric seeming to flow as easily as the golden locks of her hair.
“So,” Polly asks as she glances at me with those round, green eyes of hers, “what’s it like out there?”
I’m silent for a moment as I listen to the hiss and gurgle of the cappuccino maker in the kitchen. The strong scent of espresso mingles with sandalwood incense. The stereo in the corner plays so softly that I can’t tell whether it’s a Native American or Japanese flute. But I guess it’s probably Indian: Jane has been heavily into R. Carlos Nakai ever since she ordered from that catalog company and has bought practically every disc the man has ever released.
“Richard,” Jane says, “don’t be rude… Polly asked you a question.”
Should I tell them? Should I describe how I saw a woman raped on the sidewalk, a woman who only seconds earlier had committed cold-blooded murder? Should I tell them how the bodies are beginning to pile upon one another, how our once-peaceful neighbor is beginning to resemble the streets of some war-torn third world country?
I answer, however, without any real thought:
“It’s absolutely modern out there.”
I have no clue what this means. The words just kind of burble out of my mouth before I even really know I’m speaking; as soon as I hear them I feel self-conscious and silly, like an ill-prepared student forced to recite in front of the entire class. I feel my cheeks grow warm and lower my eyes to a throw-rug with the design of a Tibetan mandala. If either woman notices my discomfort, however, they give no indication.
“I know, right?” Jane replies. “It’s sad, the state of things these days. It’s like the whole city has lost its collective mind.”
“The whole city? Try the whole country, dearie. Haven’t you been listening to NPR?”
“Why bother? It’s not like they actually tell you anything.”
Jane’s right. We keep hearing reports of new outbreaks, of violence flaring up as quickly as the flashbulbs that freeze these horrors into snapshots of frozen time for the papers. Riots. Looting. Civil unrest on a scale our country has never known. And yet nobody can tell us why. One expert blames the effects of video games and the media, another on cosmic radiation from last month’s solar activity, while the televangelists claim that we are living through the beginning of the end. But it’s really nothing more than rampant speculation masquerading as news.
The beaded curtains rattle as Cody Preston shoulders his way through the doorway; he’s carrying a tray with four cups of cappuccino carefully balanced on it as if he were a priest bringing sacrament to the masses.
“I say, is anyone thirsty?”
My body immediately stiffens and a sour feeling blossoms in my stomach.
Cody is a tall and lanky man, given to wearing jaunty fedoras and wool scarves over careful layers of pastel. His round spectacles are almost always too far down his nose to serve any real purpose and his goatee looks as if hours have been spent ensuring that it is perfectly symmetrical.
When he speaks, he affects this slightly British accent that causes me to inwardly cringe as if his words were the mental equivalent of fingers on a chalkboard. I know damn well that he’s from some hick town in Kentucky that even cartographers haven’t heard of… but for some reason he insists on speaking as if he’s only a generation or so removed from royalty.
I detest this man, more than anyone else I’ve ever met. Everything about him makes me want to hold a pillow over his face just so I won’t have to suffer another second of his presence. But he’s Polly’s current boyfriend and since Jane and I are something of an item, I — by default — am considered a close, personal friend.
I smile and take the steaming coffee he offers but inside I would like nothing more than to throw it in his smug little face.
My therapist thinks I’m jealous of Cody, which I find to be absolutely absurd. She says, however, that it’s not so much him I’m envious of as what he represents. You see, Ms Cline has this notion that I secretly wish I were with Polly instead of Jane. She claims it would be just as obvious to me if I could manage to put some objective distance between myself and the situation. I, however, think that she’s just grasping at straws and trying to milk as many hours out of me as she possibly can.
I will admit, though, that sometimes Polly does take my breath away. When she laughs, she throws back her head and her neck looks as graceful and soft as the most delicate swan. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds and I imagine her lips to be velvety, like two rose petals passed gently over the skin. And, as long as I am being entirely honest with myself, there have been a few occasions when I’ve had a little too much Merlot and imagined the curves of her breasts pressed against my chest as I made love to Jane. But she is a strong, intelligent, beautiful young woman and I naturally respond to that. As any man would. But it’s nothing more than a fleeting fantasy. Not something I would ever actually act upon. She and I are friends, nothing more and nothing less.
I realize that someone has said something to me and snap my attention back to the here and now with an arch of my eyebrows.
“What was that?”
Jane sighs as if I’d just asked her to perform Cassius’ monologue from Julius Caesar entirely from memory.
“I said, darling, when do you think all of this will settle down?”
I take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes as I relish the bitter flavor of the beans.
“Soon, I hope.” I finally say. “Has to be.”
The other three begin debating cause and effect, each one rehashing sound bites they picked up from one news program or another, always so very careful to disagree without offense. The conversation is peppered with phrases such as What I think you’re failing to take into account is and I can see why you’d feel that way however….
They are so civilized, these friends of mine. So cultured and refined. Especially when you consider that they’re only a little over thirty years or so into life. But they wrap this cultivation around them like personal armor and it almost seems as if nothing real could ever hope to penetrate its barrier.
They sip their coffee.
They deliberate.
Point and counterpoint.
I doubt they even really hear the shots outside: the rapid fire crack of machine guns as the National Guard continues to quell the uprising.
They can’t begin to imagine the blood oozing across the sidewalks and dripping into the gutters as people moan and cry and beg for mercy; people who weren’t willing to give anyone else that same consideration just moments earlier.
Polly and Jane laugh at one of Cody’s stupid little puns and nod at one another knowingly.
It’s absolutely modern out there.
But it’s not. Not really.
It’s more of a savage landscape filled with the most primeval instincts and base desires. It’s evolution in action as the weak are cut from the genetic pool and the strong survive. It’s the worst parts of humanity thrown into sharp focus and illuminated with a spotlight, made to sing and dance to an accompaniment of tears. And I can’t help but wonder where we fit into all this: now that the anarchy is practically beating down our door, how will we fare in this violent, new world?
Will we stay safe and secure behind our locked door and gated apartment complex?
Or will we end up broken and battered like so many others?
Only time will tell, I suppose.
Only time will tell.
The clock in the kitchen says 3:15… which means it’s actually only a quarter till. Jane always sets the clocks thirty minutes ahead; the theory being that by doing so she’ll never be late for her book club or a meet-up down at Sacred Grounds. In practice, however, we’re both acutely aware that we actually have half an hour longer than what the clocks report and are consistently scrambling to get out the door on time. Or, at least, we were. These days we don’t leave the apartment much. Technically, as long as it’s daylight we’re allowed to move about the city freely. You may be occasionally stopped by a cop or soldier and required to explain your business while they scrutinize your identification. Sometimes this can happen as many as four times in the course of an hour; but we don’t have to go to work anymore, not unless you’re considered an essential employee for a company that provides a necessary service . Government subsidizing ensures that rent, bills, and mortgages are taken care of and all of our other needs are accounted for as well. In short, they make it as easy as possible to ensure that large groups of people won’t congregate in a single area without there being some sort of military presence at the ready. Which is fine by me. Since the trouble began, I always feel so damn exposed whenever I’m outside the safety of our four walls; I watch everyone who passes by like I would a snake that may or may not be venomous. I wonder if they are really sizing me up, if they’re taking into account my jacket or shoes, wondering if it would be worth the trouble…. Or perhaps they simply feel the same nervous fluttering in their stomachs that I do. Maybe they’re taking their own personal inventory and trying to decide if it would be better to fight or run if I should suddenly turn on them.
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 cigarette 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.”
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.
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.
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. How 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?”
I feel hands pulling me backward, yanking me away as my name is repeated again and again; but as quickly as the anger flared up, it’s gone and I’m simply tired, scared, and frustrated beyond belief. I let his shirt slip through my fingers as the girls pull me away and then fall to my knees in the center of the floor.
“They would have shot me.”
My voice is small and weak now and the tears start streaming down my face. My body hitches with sobs and snot bubbles from my nose and I smell like piss and there’s an old man lying in a dumpster somewhere with the rats and maggots and trash. And all I can do is rock back and forth, repeating over and over: stay within the yellow lines, stay within the yellow lines….
I wake up on the couch with an afghan thrown across me and a bolster pillow beneath my head. Every muscle in my body is sore and I’ve got a headache that feels like there’s a cluster of fingertips pressing behind my left eye. It’s dark outside now and I can hear the others in the kitchen.
“Zax is not a word, Cody.”
“It is too, Jane. Check the dictionary. It’s a tool commonly used in slate roofing. It’s also a triple-letter score. Which, if I’m not mistaken puts me in the lead.”
“Hey there, sleepyhead.”
It’s Polly’s voice. She’s leaning in the doorway that leads down the hall, a half grin across her face.
“How you feeling?”
This evening she’s in jeans and a t-shirt that says Life Begins At The End Of Your Comfort Zone. Her left arm jingles with bangles and it might be just my imagination but I think there’s something different in the way she’s looking at me. Almost like she’s truly seeing me for the first time.
“Better.” I mumble as I sit up. “Sore.”
“You kind of freaked everyone out a bit earlier. At first Jane was pretty pissed, but when you started crying… well, none of us really knew what to do, you know?”
We look at each other from across the room and I pull the cover tightly around me as I take a slow breath through my nose. Polly takes a few steps and her voice drops to a near whisper.
“It was bad out there, wasn’t it?”
I nod silently.
“There was blood on your shirt when we started taking your clothes off for you. After you passed out. Or fell asleep. Or whatever that was.”
I close my eyes and can clearly see the box coming down on the back of the old man’s head.
“It wasn’t yours, was it?”
I shake my head slowly.
“You need to talk about it?”
I shake my head again.
“How ’bout coffee? Nothing fancy. Just straight-up old fashioned black coffee?”
I nod and she leans forward and kisses my forehead. She smells so clean and fresh, so lovely.
“I’ll be right back, okay? You just stay right here.”
Someone has cleaned up the mess I made. Hard to believe that the coffee table I shelled out so much for shattered so damn easily. I really liked that table, too. It’s a shame, really.
I hear whispering from the kitchen now. No more arguments over words and tiles and scores; and I’m sure I’m the big topic of discussion. Crazy Richard.
The funny thing, though, is I don’t really regret it. Killing the old man, I mean. We needed those supplies worse than he did. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. Let’s face it, the writing’s on the wall and it’s a lot easier to read than that gang graffiti in the alley . The military don’t threaten to shoot civilians for simply stepping out of line. Not unless the shit’s about to really hit the fan. An old guy like him? He’d never be able to survive what’s coming down the pike. The young, the old, the sick, and frail… they’ll all fall flat on their faces into a river of blood while the strong use their bodies as stepping stones.
Yesterday, I probably would have been among those who couldn’t bear the weight and responsibility of survival. But I’m a different man than the one who walked out that door with his little ration card in one hand and his worries in the other. Sure… I’m still afraid. Change is always scary and I’d be a fool not to be a little wary. But there’s a difference between a healthy fear and paralyzing terror. And I know now that I can do whatever it takes to survive.
Change is good….
I’m lying in bed with Jane and she’s flipping through the pages of a magazine. We haven’t said a word to each other for nearly the past hour, but it’s not an angry silence. It’s more like we’ve simply ran out of things to say. She’s content to be lost in her world of gossip and fashion and I pretend to be engrossed in whatever book this is in my hands. But I’m really thinking about Polly. To be extremely specific, I’m thinking about Polly and her t-shirts.
I’ve never really been one to believe in all that mystical mumbo-jumbo. The way I see it, most of it can simply be explained away by the power of suggestion and the weakness of the human mind. The need to believe in something greater. That there’s some Master Plan behind this shipwreck we call life and we’re not all just bobbing along on our lifeboats and hoping to be saved. But now I’m starting to wonder.
See, I’m noticing patterns here. Patterns which seem to be a bit more than mere coincidence.
The night that the streets outside exploded with violence. What was it her shirt said that evening? Well behaved women rarely make history. Yeah, that was it. And we’re living through history right now, aren’t we? Things are changing out there and I get the feeling that the momentum has built too rapidly for anyone to ever dream of stopping it now. The military and police, the people in authority… they’re just going through the motions, trying to maintain an illusion of control for as long as humanly possible. So yeah, this is history in the making. And the well behaved women? Well, let’s just say they won’t fare well in all of this. It will be the wildcats who come out on top, the ones who aren’t afraid to make their own rules, to get their hands a little dirty, to fight and struggle and claw their way back up to the top of the food chain. Is Jane that type of woman?
I glance over at her. She’s just scratched some perfume sample and has lifted the page to her nose; she smiles with a tilt of her head and rubs the page on the sides of her neck before turning the page.
No, I don’t think so. Poor little Janey will be numbered among the faceless dead, I’m afraid.
But what about Polly? Hard to say there. She’s a tough one to read. Maybe so. If I’m right about this t-shirt theory of mine, that is.
That night, when we were smoking and talking in the kitchen, I had this idea in the back of my mind that I’d only hinted at. I’d mentioned the changes I saw going down, and put forth the same premise I was just thinking about… more or less. The weak will perish and the strong will survive.
Her shirt at that time was the one that said Evolve or Die.
And after everything that happened, after the supply line, after the old man and the dumpster, after smashing the coffee table into unrecognizable bits; after all that, what’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes? Polly. In a shirt reading Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. Well, I stepped way the hell out of mine didn’t I? And in those moments after I’d killed the old man, when the adrenaline was still coursing through my veins and my senses were more keenly acute than they have ever been… in those moments, for the first time, I truly felt alive. I knew what it meant to be the hunter, the provider, the alpha dog of the pack. And I liked it. I really liked it.
So, here’s the question: are Polly’s shirts messages from some higher power? Are they meant to guide me along this strange, new path I’ve found myself on? Or is it more secular than that? Is she specifically choosing these shirts? Is she the one speaking to me in a type of clothing code, telling me all the things she can’t really vocalize in front of the others?
I’ll have to pay closer attention. Which, to be perfectly honest, shouldn’t be too big of a challenge. After all, it’s a perfect excuse to look at her chest.
There’s a soft knock on the door and Cody pokes his head through. What the hell does he want?
“Hey, guys” his tone is soft and apologetic, the voice of fodder, “sorry to interrupt but we thought you might want to see this.”
He’s quiet for a second as he swallows hard and tries not to make eye contact.
“The White House.” he finally says. “It’s on fire.”
Cody, as it turns out, is a master of the understatement. It wasn’t just the White House that’s burning… it’s damn near the entire city of DC. We cluster around the television in the guest room, cloaked in silence as we watch the news reports roll in.
Jane is leaning forward with one hand over her mouth as if she’s stifling a burp that never comes. She rocks back and forth like a mental patient and slowly shakes her head no. Polly is sitting cross-legged on the floor and Cody keeps trying to put his arm around her, to pull her close, but she keeps shrugging him off which I secretly find to be the funniest thing I’ve seen all week. He’s persistent, like a goofy little puppy so eager to please that it doesn’t matter how many times he gets swatted on the nose. He just keeps coming back again and again and again.
I’m standing near the back of the room with my arms crossed over my chest, alternating my attention between the images that play out across the little television screen and wondering if I can see down the front of Polly’s shirt if I angle myself just right.
“Damn it, Cody… no. I’m trying to watch!”
The news keeps cycling through various footage which all seem to be variations on a single theme. The silhouette of the White House with a wall of orange and red flames blazing behind it, little yellow tongues licking through windows, hungry for every bit of oxygen they could ever hope to consume. Cut to the Lincoln Memorial, Honest Abe’s stony face flickering in light and shadow, and then to the Jefferson Memorial, the Vietnam Wall, and finally to the giant obelisk of the Washington Monument: it stands like some sort of Egyptian stronghold rising up through the fires of Hell. The trees on either side of the National Mall are ablaze and mirror images of the destruction ripple in the waters of the reflecting pool.
“It’s like something of Biblical proportions out here, Nancy.” an unseen reporter yells at the anchorwoman. “The heat… the heat from these fires is just… well, it’s truly beyond words. Never in all my days have I seen anything like….”
“Carlos?”
The camera cuts to a woman in the studio who looks as if she were pulled out of bed and not given the chance to put her TV face on. Her makeup is smeared and crooked, her hair looks as if she’s been repeatedly pulling clumps free with her fingers, and her suit jacket is buttoned incorrectly.
“Carlos, I’m afraid we have to cut in for a moment. My producers…”
She puts a hand to one ear and tilts her head slightly for a moment.
“My producers are informing me that reports are coming in from all major metropolitan areas across the country: New York, Los Angeles, Dallas, Seattle, even Anchorage, Alaska. All of these cities have reported widespread fires that simply seemed to ignite as if from nowhere. There are further reports of looting and riots on a massive scale, but these have not been independently confirmed and should not, at this time, be necessarily linked with these out of control fires burning through our largest cities.”
The anchorwoman listens to her earpiece again and continues on in the same, breathless voice.
“This just in. Las Vegas has joined the ranks of the cities confirmed to be burning and an evacuation plan has been set into motion. We take you now to local affiliate….”
Jane is rocking even faster now and she keeps whispering my God, oh my god, my dear sweet God and I can see a single tear sliding down her cheek in the bluish glow of the television. Polly has now pushed herself as far from Cody as she can possibly get and he sits, skulking and ineffectual, near the edge of the bed.
Jane’s switched her mantra now. It’s the same pattern of words basically, the same teary over-emotional tone whispered into her hands: all those people, those poor, poor people….
On the television a reporter with a pencil thin mustache is standing at some undisclosed location. Or at least if it was disclosed I missed hearing about it because of Jane’s incessant whimpering. He holds a microphone with a cube just underneath the foam globe and the cube has a bright orange 9 that looks somehow manages to look cheerful without the benefit of expression.
“Excuse me, excuse me sir?”
He pulls a man by the sleeve into the frame of the shot and for a moment I notice how I can see distant fires reflected on the dial of the reporter’s wristwatch. But then he drops the arm and shoves the microphone into the face of someone who looks like he might be an accountant or perhaps a computer programmer.
“Vin Boucher, Channel Nine news. Sir, could you tell us what you’ve seen these last few minutes?”
The man ignores the camera, looking downward instead in silence.
“Sir, if you could just share with us some of your experiences, I think the viewing audience would greatly….”
“That’s a nice watch.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s a nice damn watch.”
Without any warning, the accountant-looking man launches a fist into Vin Boucher’s face. He pummels him as blood begins to gush from a broken nose and a lip that has split like an overripe tomato. The reporter is trying to push the man away but they’re on the ground now, rolling and thrashing and flailing.
“Help him!” Jane screams at the television. “My God, put down the damn camera and help him!”
Vin Boucher’s face is streaked with blood and the sensitive microphone easily picks up his slight whimpers: “no, please stop, don’t, please…”
The guy pulls the watch from the reporter’s wrist and slides it onto his own. He admires it for a moment and then turns to look directly at the viewers.
“That’s a nice damn camera, too.”
The scene quickly cuts back to the newsroom where our disheveled Nancy is staring into the distance with her jaw hanging slightly open. The news feed at the bottom of the screen continues to scroll by but other than that nothing on the screen moves. It’s almost as if the entire studio has suddenly become frozen in time and I think how this shot would be worthy of being framed with all the other classics on our walls. But then the station quickly cuts to a commercial of spiky-haired Vince hawking his latest, life-changing innovation.
“He attacked that poor man. On live television! Just attacked him. For a watch? For a damn watch?”
Jane sounds like she’s bordering on hysteria, her voice raising in pitch until it’s so shrill that I’m surprised every glass in the house doesn’t instantly shatter.
“What the hell is going on out there? What is fucking wrong with these people?”
She’s pacing around the room now, gesturing in the air with her hands like the conductor at a symphony of panic.
Cody, who has apparently given up on trying to comfort Polly, rushes over to Jane and takes her by the shoulders.
“Look, Jane.” he says in that annoying, fake accent of his. “We’re safe. That’s all that matters. We’re safe in here.”
I can’t help it. I start to laugh. At first it’s just a chuckle but the more I think about it, the funnier it seems and before long tears are streaming out of my eyes as I slap my thigh with my palm.
“What?” Jane screeches. “What is so damn funny, Richard?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and sniffle a few times as I try to regain my composure.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… well, do you honestly believe, Cody, that we’re really safe? Simply because we’re in this apartment?”
Cody looks flabbergasted and confused. Which, come to think of it, really isn’t that too far out of character for him.
“Yes. Yes, of course, we’re safe. Why wouldn’t…”
“Windows are made of glass.” I remind them. “Doors are made of wood. Last time I checked, neither one of those things were indestructible.”
“Now listen here, Richard, I’ve about had enough of….”
In the distance there’s a boom that severs the conversation as cleanly as a cleaver. It’s quickly followed by a second boom and then a third, each getting louder and closer with every repetition. Within seconds, we can feel the floor of the apartment quake with each successive clap and the little glass votive holders lining the shelves begin to rattle and shake. I’m reminded of the scene in Jurassic Park where the T-Rex is drawing closer and closer, it’s footsteps shaking the glass of water until the giant beast was bearing right down upon the heroes. Only I know what lurks outside the thin walls of this apartment is far more savage than any Hollywood dinosaur could ever dream of being. The beast bearing down upon us is the beast of change; and once it’s begun its charge there’s nothing anyone can do to put it down.
Through the thin linen curtains, we begin to see the flash of fireballs rising into the sky. Each one perfectly synchronized with one of the booms, each one bathing the room in brighter and brighter light.
And now there’s a sound from the streets below. A sound like the battle cry of five hundred warriors plucked from the streams of time and set down on the avenues of our fair city: Huns, Viking berserkers, the Spartans, and Samurai. William Wallace and his entire Scots army. The sound awakens something in my soul, some primal desire to feel the warmth of blood on my hands, to taste its saltiness on my lips, and smell the metallic aroma as it showers me with its holy spray. The desire to take what is rightfully mine and to defend it from anyone who mistakenly believes themselves to be man enough to take it from me.
Another explosion trembles our building and, at the same time, we’re plunged into darkness which causes a small shriek to escape from Jane. She’s pressed against me and I can feel her body shaking, but my eyes try to peer through the darkness, searching for Polly.
There’s a rumble of motors outside now, quickly followed by volley after volley of gunfire, more explosions, and cries of rage and pain. It also sounds like someone has begun to hammer on the main entrance to the door, as if they’re trying to pound it down with nothing more than bare fists and brute force.
“Jane.”
She’s latched onto me like a lamprey on a shark, but she seems unresponsive. It’s almost as if she’s caught somewhere between waking and a dream, her eyes vacant, her face pale and expressionless.
I shake her so hard her teeth rattle within her mouth.
“Damn it, Jane, snap the fuck out of it you stupid bitch!”
She blinks a few times and her brow furrows with confusion.
“You don’t have to get vulgar with me, Richard.”
I force myself to take the edge off my voice, to speak to her as if I were dealing with a small child.
“Janey, honey… you remember that trap door up on the top floor? The one with the little rope you have to pull? The one that leads up into the attic?”
She nods her head solemnly.
“Okay, Jane, I want you to take Polly up there, okay? You take her up there and you hide.”
Jane starts to pull away but then stops and has that confused look on her face again.
“What about you and Cody?”
Leave it to her to make something so simple into a major production that requires a committee meeting and detailed blueprints. I haven’t got time for this shit.
“We’ll be along shortly. Just take Polly to the attic, okay Janey? Take Polly to the attic.”
Polly appears in the darkness like a succubus materializing from thin air. She places her hand on Jane’s arm and looks at me with eyes that reflect understanding.
“Come on, Jane.” she says softly. “Why don’t you show me where this attic is, dearie.”
The two disappear into the darkness and moments later I hear our front door open and shut, followed by footsteps running up the stairs.
“What do you have in mind, Richard?”
Cody’s voice wavers with uncertainty and I know that in his heart of hearts, he’s wishing he was going with them. Upstairs to the attic. To hide with the other girls.
I don’t waste time answering him. I’m moving toward the kitchen now, my familiarity with the apartment guiding me effortlessly through the maze of furniture and obstacles. Cody isn’t quite as lucky and I hear him stumbling and cussing in the darkness behind me.
That Useless tit.
I’m in the kitchen now and I open the second drawer to the right of the sink, the one where the soldiers spent so much time measuring the blades of our knives during the weapons check. I pull out the longest one, a seven and a half inch chef’s knife. The blade is honed to such perfection that even in the darkness it gleams like a beacon of hope. Not bothering to shut the drawer, I push my way through the beaded curtain and into the living room just as Cody trips over an ottoman.
“Damn it,” I hiss, “haven’t your eyes started adjusting yet?”
“I got vision problems. I can’t see worth a dang and you damn well know that.”
I get a small burst of satisfaction to hear him drop the pretense and revert to his native twang.
“Now, you best be telling me real quick, Richard. What the hell’s the plan?”
I open the door of the apartment and point the knife into the hallway like a highwayman brandishing his sword.
“Stand and deliver.” I finally say softly. “Their money or their lives.”
From below, the pounding on the door has practically tripled in intensity. It’s a strong door, made of solid oak with nice iron hinges if I’m not mistaken. But how long can it hold out? How long until the violence of the street spills into the foyer and then up the stairs to the very threshold of my apartment?
How long indeed….
I stand on the landing with my heart beating tribal rhythms, whipping me into a blood frenzy that can only be sated with the promise of violence. I feel like my entire life has been building up to this point: all those years imprisoned in the cells of spreadsheets, the pleases and thank yous and May I. The toiling away for all the things I needed, but never coming even close to what I wanted. It had all been a precursor to this very moment, this particular point in time and history. After thirty-four years, I had finally become the man I was meant to be.
Which is more than I can say for the trembling buffoon behind me. He won’t last five minutes in this new world. Not unless he finds himself a stronger ally to attach himself to, not unless he becomes a bitch.
Outside there’s another burst of weapons fire. This sounds like fully automatic machine guns and bullets begin whizzing through the oak door at the bottom of the stairs. They tear through wood and plaster and the pounding noises abruptly come to an end, replaced by a crimson puddle that leaks under the door and spreads across the hallway like an invading cancer.
I’ve come to a realization as I stood here, ready for a battle which never quite made it to me: Ms Cline was right, for all the good it will do her now. I do want Polly.
But not in that sappy, happily-ever-after Disney storybook kind of way. No, I want her like some men want a shiny Cadillac with chrome trim and leather seats. I want her the way a bibliophile needs to have that first edition Kerouac to crown his collection. I want to own this beautiful, nubile, exotic young thing. I want her to be mine. Just like the accountant-looking guy wanted Vin Boucher’s shiny, gold watch.
And isn’t that what this new world is really about? You see something that you want and you take it. No questions. No justifications. No permission. You simply grab it and damn anyone who gets in your way.
I turn around and see that Cody looks as if he’s about to pass out. He’s leaning against the wall and panting like he’s just finished a marathon, shaking from his teeth all the way down to his knees. He’s so pale now that his goatee looks absolutely black in the half-darkness of the hall.
“I say,” he gasps, “that was a close one, wasn’t it? I thought for sure we were done for.”
The damn phony accent again. What the hell did Polly ever see in this loser? Maybe, it was simply a case of second bests. She couldn’t have me because she thought I was so wrapped up in Jane that it would never happen. Hard to believe that, for a long while, I’d believed that myself.
I take two steps and place my left hand on his shoulder.
“Well,” I say slowly, “one of us is.”
“What in blazes are you….”
I shove the chef’s knife into his gut and it feels just like stabbing an overstuffed pillow. He gasps sharply as his eyes grow large and round and his hands wrap around the handle protruding from his belly. Yanking the blade free, it slices through his palms, severing nerves and tendons, and his mouth is moving now like a fish who has been pulled from the river and thrown onto the bank to flounder and die.
I plunge the knife again, this time hooking my arm around his shoulders and pulling him into the thrust at the same time.
“You like that?” I hiss in his ears. “You want some more?”
Over and over, the blade pierces his skin; each time he shudders and gasps and soon I begin hitting bone and the jolt is like an electrical current that travels along my arm and vibrates in my shoulders.
My hand is sticky and warm now, like it’s been dipped into room-temperature glue and I feel almost stoned, perfectly aware of every sound, every sensation. Relishing every moment of my conquest.
I pull away and Cody staggers around the hallway for a moment, his arms cradling his gut like the pink intestines were a small baby that he could somehow protect. Dropping the knife, I rush toward him with a growl, pushing at his chest with my both my hands at the moment of impact. He stumbles backward and momentum carries his body over the railing; then he’s falling, end over end, bouncing off the hand rails and banisters and walls until his body hits the ground floor with a sound that’s like a thud, squish, and sharp crack all rolled into one.
It is complete now.
The competition has been removed from the playing field.
I look over the railing at Cody’s twisted, broken body for a moment and then go back into the apartment. I head into the kitchen and lather dish soap on my hands and forearms until it’s a pink froth; warm water washes the blood away and I watch as it swirls down the drain, realizing that it carries all the remnants of my old life with it.
I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. They sound tentative, as if the person is trying their hardest to achieve stealth but still failing miserably. A step, the squeak of a floorboard, a few moments of silence. Another step.
When the person reaches the landing I hear a sharp intake of breath and a sound like a hand being slapped over a mouth. Apparently whoever it is has seen the blood. And I imagine there’s quite a bit of it out there.
“Cody? Richard?”
Polly’s voice. She sounds as if she’s afraid to make a noise but knows that she has to. That if she doesn’t call out the suspense of not knowing will drive her mad.
“Anyone?”
“In the kitchen.” I reply as I dry my hands on the little towel with the art deco designs. The towel which Jane always said was decorative only. Which is probably one of the many reasons things had to change. Decorative towels. Form without function… that could very well be the epitaph on the tomb of humanity.
I hear the beaded curtain rattle behind me and my heightened senses pick up that unmistakable scent of Polly’s body. That tantalizing combination of sweat and powder and skin and perfume, so heady that I could get drunk just by breathing it in.
“Richard… where’s Cody? Whose blood is that out in the hall?”
Her voice sounds hopeful and frightened all at the same time and my stomach flutters a little. How long have I wanted this woman? How many years did I deny myself the pleasure of even admitting that I wanted her? All that wasted time….
“Yeah, Cody. I’m afraid he didn’t make it, honey. Didn’t make the cut, you might say.”
Silence.
I fold the towel carefully and place it back on its little rod.
I feel power surging through my veins like I’ve never known. When you have the ability to decide who live or dies, you become almost like a god. You see the entire world spreading out before you like a veritable buffet where you’re free to pick and choose only the things which most please you.
“Oh my God, Richard, you’re bleeding! There’s blood all over you!”
I hear her feet pattering across the tile and finally turn to face her. She’s more beautiful now than I have ever seen her; her skin so radiant that it almost seems to glow, her hair shiny and flaxen, her breasts jiggling slightly as she runs to me, the hem of her skirt swishing slightly around her ankles. And her shirt. The one she’s wearing now let’s me know it wasn’t all in my imagination. There’s a message there after all.
You Cannot Plow A Field By Turning It Over In Your Mind.
I smile and take her hand. So soft. So delicate and warm.
“The blood’s not mine.” I whisper. “It’s okay.”
I kiss her hand and breathe in the scent of her skin and then kiss again. I feel her arm stiffen and her words become clipped.
“Richard. What are you doing?”
I tighten my grip on her wrist and kiss a little higher up her arm, enjoying the tickle of the almost transparent hairs against my lips.
“It’s okay.” I assure her. “Cody’s out of the way. Jane doesn’t matter. It’s just you and me now, Polly. Just you and me.”
She tries to pull away and I feel her skin twist beneath my grip almost as if I were giving her an Indian burn.
“You’re hurting me! Let go!”
“Sshhhh. Sshhh. Be still pretty, pretty Polly. I’m here now.”
I yank her to me and I see fear reflected in her wide eyes. Or is that excitement?
She begins pummeling my chest with her free hand, scratching at my face, digging deep furrows into my skin.
“Let me go!”
So that’s how it is. That little fucking tease. Leading me on. Showing me just enough of her body to arouse my interest. Mocking me. Well, it’s a new world now. A world where I’m free to just take whatever the hell I want. Whenever the hell I want it.
I throw her backward against the kitchen table, forcing her down upon its surface. She’s kicking and squirming and trying to bite at me with her teeth, but this only excites me further and I laugh like a king returning from the royal hunt.
“Richard, no! No, no, NO!”
“Richard’s dead, baby. Call me Rick. Or Dick. You like Dick, don’t you, Polly? Sure you do.”
Her screams echo through the kitchen, so shrill and desperate.
But it makes no difference.
It’s time to claim what has always been rightfully mine.
I’m trying to bunch up her skirt with my free hand while holding her down with the other. Which is a lot harder than I thought it would be. She’s writhing and kicking and squirming like a woman possessed by demons and my right forearm has bloody little teeth prints embedded into the flesh.
“Damn it, lay fucking still!”
I’m trying to twist my arm away from the vicinity of her mouth, trying to make sure she doesn’t get another chunk of my skin clamped between those pearly whites. But she’s wily, this one. She improvises a new strategy and throws her head forward with all her might. Her forehead cracks into my left temple and little flash-bursts of light explode in my vision.
Both hands are free now and she’s got her fingers hooked into claws, going for my eyes as she struggles to get away.
The table creaks and wobbles beneath our bodies and I pull my head back just in time to avoid the gouge she was going for.
With both my hands available however, the skirt becomes less of a problem and it’s quickly pulled up to her waist. Shit… panties. She had to be wearing fucking underwear didn’t she?
I’ve got to take some of the fight out of this feisty bitch. There’s no other choice. I ball my hand into a fist and pull back even with my jaw. A shame to bloody such a pretty face. But she really brought this on herself, didn’t she?
“Get the hell off her you degenerate son of a bitch!”
The voice is shrill and cuts through the struggle so sharply that for a minute I’m not entirely positive where I am. I hear footsteps running toward me and then my leg flares in pain as I roll off the table and fall to the floor. Sticking out of my thigh, I see a familiar black handle and just a hint of metal buried into the meat of my leg. I yank the chef’s knife free and it clangs to the floor as I press my hands against the wound. It feels like it’s throbbing in agony and spurts of blood ooze out in perfect rhythm with my heart.
“You think it’s fun to…”
I roll over onto my side and my assailant is mentally thrown off balance for a second.
“R-Richard? What… what the hell is going on?”
There’s no sign of Polly. She must have cut and run the moment I no longer had her pinned to the table. I stagger to my feet and the pain feels like the muscle is being pulled from my leg fiber by fiber.
Jane stands mere feet away from me, her forehead knotted with confusion as I drag my injured leg across the floor.
Step-scrape.
Step-scrape.
I see uncertainty in her eyes. It’s almost like she’s silently begging for answers, pleading for the world to make sense again.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Step-scrape.
“I know, Janey. Everything’s real confusing right now, darling. It’s probably a lot like the dinosaurs felt when that big ’ole asteroid first pounded into the earth, isn’t it?”
She looks like she’s on the verge of tears, her blue eyes as watery as two pools. This poor woman. She was never cut out for this new world. She could never understand exactly what it will take to survive.
I place my hands on either side of her head, holding her face as if I’m about to lean in for a kiss.
“Was… was that… Polly?”
She’s in shock, I think. Probably never expected in a million years to see me. Judging by the pool of blood she picked the knife up from, she probably thought I was dead. Poor, naive thing.
“Yeah, that was Polly.”
I massage her temples with the tips of my fingers, rubbing in slow circles. Her body tenses for a moment, then relaxes as she closes her eyes.
“Did you see where she went, Janey?”
Her eyes snap open and they spark with suspicion. But even so they are still dulled by that lost look. The look that so badly wants answers but is afraid of just what they might be.
“Why?”
“I’ve gotta find her, baby. I’ve gotta clear all this up. It’s all been a big misunderstanding, that’s all. Now where did Polly go, sweetie?”
She opens her mouth and for a moment I think she’s about to speak but then her lips close again. She seems uncertain, like she’s torn between the world she has always believed in and this new reality that has swallowed her up like a tasty morsel.
In the old days, she never would have come into her kitchen and witnessed what she did.
She never would have stabbed her lover of five years in the leg with a knife.
She tries to pull back but I keep her head between my palms, keep rubbing and easing the tension away from her scalp.
“Were you… were you raping her?”
“No, sweetie. No, no, no. I mean, I’m sure that’s probably what it looked like. But that’s all part of the confusion, see? That’s what I’ve got to explain to Polly. You just need to tell me where she went.”
“So, you weren’t… it wasn’t actually…. .”
“God no, Janey. It’s me… Richard. I marched with you remember? I helped out down at the shelter when you were shorthanded. Do you really think I would… do you really think I could do something like that?”
“I… I don’t know.”
She’s really crying now, her cheeks glistening with tears and she squeezes her eyes shut so tightly I can feel wrinkles form beneath the massaging tips of my fingers.
“Janey,” I say softly, evenly, “everything’s all turned upside down right now. Everything’s all crazy. But you gotta tell me where Polly went. It’s dangerous, understand? You tell me where Polly went and I’ll explain everything.”
Jane sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“She… she ran downstairs. She ran outside.”
Jane falls forward and buries her head against my chest. I slowly move my left hand further up her cheek, into the tangles of her curly red hair. My right hand cups her jawline and I continue rubbing, continue working out the tension.
“What the hell is going on, Richard? I don’t understand, I just don’t understand.”
“It’s simple really, Janey.” I whisper as she sobs against my body. “You’re a fucking bitch. And your time has come.”
Before the words truly have a chance to sink in, I twist her head with a savage jerk. I hear the bone snap, feel the pop through my hand, feel the power course through my body again.
She’s out there somewhere. And, by God, I’ll find her.
I will find her and make her mine.
I throw back my head and let loose with a savage cry that strains my vocal chords and sounds more animal than human. It’s the sound of primeval desires crashing up against the trappings of the modern world. It’s the sound of generations of repression and subjugation.
It’s the sound of havoc.
I am the King of this strange new world.
And my Queen is out there.
Waiting for me to claim her.