Cry Havoc

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

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

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

Exhale.

Repeat.

Polly opened her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not anymore.

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

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

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

Do not attempt to pick up that weapon!

Seriously?

“They’ll kill me, you know.”

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

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

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

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

So be it.

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

Strong.

Defiant.

Determined.

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

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

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

But she was different now.

Changed.

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

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

No retreat, no surrender.

It was the only way.

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

After retrieving the machete, he walked calmly toward Meathead. He stood over the blind, lipless freak and smacked the flat part of the blade against his palm as if it were a paddle.

“Nothing personal…”

His voice was thick and raspy, partly from the smoke that snaked through the avenues and alleys, partly