Cry Havoc

You had to keep yourself in a constant state of hyper-awareness, to remain as sharp and focused as a laser sight. Every little sound, the slightest of movements in a darkened window, that prickling sensation on the back of your neck that made you wonder if someone were watching you, lurking in the shadows as they awaited the opportunity to pounce: these things were very real, very important. These things would keep you alive. Richard knew this. And yet, somehow, he’d still allowed that bitch to distract him again.

Something that felt like a runaway brick wall plowed into his body with enough force to lift him off his feet. For a moment he was pressed tightly against a mass of rock-hard muscle, being carried by the momentum of whatever had slammed into him, and it was how a bird must feel right after it had flown full force into the grill of a speeding car. But then he was soaring through the air, the city nothing more than a streaked blur around him, falling and flying all at the same time, struggling to recapture the breath that had been forced from his lungs by the collision.

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.