Cry Havoc

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