William Rose - Cry Havoc

“I said, darling, when do you think all of this will settle down?”

I take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes as I relish the bitter flavor of the beans.

“Soon, I hope.” I finally say. “Has to be.”

The other three begin debating cause and effect, each one rehashing sound bites they picked up from one news program or another, always so very careful to disagree without offense. The conversation is peppered with phrases such as What I think you’re failing to take into account is and I can see why you’d feel that way however ….

They are so civilized, these friends of mine. So cultured and refined. Especially when you consider that they’re only a little over thirty years or so into life. But they wrap this cultivation around them like personal armor and it almost seems as if nothing real could ever hope to penetrate its barrier.

They sip their coffee.

They deliberate.

Point and counterpoint.

I doubt they even really hear the shots outside: the rapid fire crack of machine guns as the National Guard continues to quell the uprising.

They can’t begin to imagine the blood oozing across the sidewalks and dripping into the gutters as people moan and cry and beg for mercy; people who weren’t willing to give anyone else that same consideration just moments earlier.

Polly and Jane laugh at one of Cody’s stupid little puns and nod at one another knowingly.

It’s absolutely modern out there.

But it’s not. Not really.

It’s more of a savage landscape filled with the most primeval instincts and base desires. It’s evolution in action as the weak are cut from the genetic pool and the strong survive. It’s the worst parts of humanity thrown into sharp focus and illuminated with a spotlight, made to sing and dance to an accompaniment of tears. And I can’t help but wonder where we fit into all this: now that the anarchy is practically beating down our door, how will we fare in this violent, new world?

Will we stay safe and secure behind our locked door and gated apartment complex?

Or will we end up broken and battered like so many others?

Only time will tell, I suppose.

Only time will tell.

The clock in the kitchen says 3:15… which means it’s actually only a quarter till. Jane always sets the clocks thirty minutes ahead; the theory being that by doing so she’ll never be late for her book club or a meet-up down at Sacred Grounds. In practice, however, we’re both acutely aware that we actually have half an hour longer than what the clocks report and are consistently scrambling to get out the door on time. Or, at least, we were. These days we don’t leave the apartment much. Technically, as long as it’s daylight we’re allowed to move about the city freely. You may be occasionally stopped by a cop or soldier and required to explain your business while they scrutinize your identification. Sometimes this can happen as many as four times in the course of an hour; but we don’t have to go to work anymore, not unless you’re considered an essential employee for a company that provides a necessary service . Government subsidizing ensures that rent, bills, and mortgages are taken care of and all of our other needs are accounted for as well. In short, they make it as easy as possible to ensure that large groups of people won’t congregate in a single area without there being some sort of military presence at the ready. Which is fine by me. Since the trouble began, I always feel so damn exposed whenever I’m outside the safety of our four walls; I watch everyone who passes by like I would a snake that may or may not be venomous. I wonder if they are really sizing me up, if they’re taking into account my jacket or shoes, wondering if it would be worth the trouble…. Or perhaps they simply feel the same nervous fluttering in their stomachs that I do. Maybe they’re taking their own personal inventory and trying to decide if it would be better to fight or run if I should suddenly turn on them .

I hold my head in my hands and try to will sleep to come.

I listen to the clock tick and the soft humming of the refrigerator.

At least Polly and Cody aren’t at each other anymore. For the past forty minutes or so I could hear them through the thin walls of the guest bedroom: the creaking of bedsprings, the headboard tapping gently against the plaster like erotic Morse code, muffled moans and proclamations of undying love. At first my mind was filled with images of Cody humping away at her like a Chihuahua pumped up on Viagra. The thought of his pimply ass cheeks grinding against one another while his face contorted into some ridiculous sex mask was enough to literally make me ill. I felt like everything I had eaten throughout the day had soured in my stomach, as if rather than breaking down the food it had turned into an incubator for bacteria and disease. Bile stung the back of my throat and I tried to shift my focus, to pretend that it was simply Polly in the other room and the sounds I were hearing were nothing more than her exploring the secrets of her own body. I pictured her sprawled across the bed, alone in the dark, her hair fanned out across the pillow as a sheen of sweat glistened on her pale skin. I could almost feel the warmth of her breath as she parted her lips slightly, could almost smell the musky aroma of her sex flooding the room with that unmistakable scent.

But then, sharply and quite clearly, I heard her call out his name again and again as the rapping of the headboard became more frantic and insistent. The erection that had been straining against my boxers and begging for release melted as quickly as if it had been dipped in ice water. Every nerve in my body suddenly felt as if it had been set on edge and I slipped out of bed and stormed into the kitchen, hoping that maybe I could find a bit of peace and quiet.

And now that I had, the events of the day kept replaying in my mind like news footage. The riot on the street. The explosion as the helicopter took out the entire side of the bank. Later, once the sounds of fighting had faded into memory, the fire trucks dutifully showed up to hose the blood and ashes into the gutters while men in what looked to be white, paper uniforms threw the dead into the backs of flatbed trucks. Hours after that the knock on the door: three soldiers, two with their weapons trained on me as the third scrawled information onto a clipboard he carried.

Only two adults in the household?

No, four. Our friends are staying with us. Their house was firebombed when the trouble went down near Brixton.

Names?

Polly Wainwright. Cody Preston.

Any children?

Thank God, no.

Are there any weapons in the house, sir? Any firearms, explosive devices, or blades greater than eight inches in length?

No… no, nothing like that at all.

Jane’s voice calling out from somewhere behind me: We don’t believe in guns. We’re all pacifists, you know.

Pacifists or not, I’m still required to verify the information you’ve provided. Step aside, please.

Before the soldiers left, the one with the clipboard filled out a ration card that was no bigger than a driver’s license and added his signature to the bottom. He handed it to me, remaining expressionless as his eyes took one final glance around the room.

Supply trucks will be at the corner of Bentley and Jefferson tomorrow at oh-ten-hundred hours. Do not fold, bend, spindle, or mutilate this card. Failure to present the card, or if it has been damaged in any way, will result in a denial of rations. Furthermore, any attempts to alter the information contained on it in any way will be punishable to the fullest extent of the law .