Cry Havoc

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

“Get the fuck out of my house!”

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

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

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

“Ashley, no!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Drop the taser!”

“Let my daughter go, you bastard!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He forced his voice to sound excited.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t!”

“How do I know that?”

“Please, I promise….”

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

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

Finally a small, soft voice:

“What do you need me to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rick? Ashley?”

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

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

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

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

It was good to be King.

To take what was rightfully his.

On the street, he saw a woman slinking by. Black shoes, black pants, and shirt. For a moment, he simply