Cry Havoc

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.”

CHAPTER FIVE

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.”