The two men in the parking lot of Tateman's Funeral Home, for example. As she hid behind a dumpster, she'd seen them charge one another, each brandishing a baseball bat like a samurai sword and running like shogun locked into mortal combat. Their yells quivered in their throats, breaking and straining as they sprinted full force with the bats raised above their heads.
At the last possible second, both men swung and there was a sharp crack as the wooden weapons smacked into one another. From that point on it was a viscous attack of swings and dodges, blocks and misses, neither man showing mercy as he struggled for dominance.
The larger one, whom she'd begun to think of as Curly, took these shuffling side-steps backward, fending off a particular furious barrage of swings from the smaller man, whom she'd dubbed Moe due to his dark, bowl-cut hair. Maybe she'd moved slightly or perhaps it was something else; but for a split second Curly was distracted and he stumbled over one of those oblong concrete dividers that keep cars from backing into one another. He fell on his rear but Moe showed no quarter, swinging his bat instead with a renewed sense of urgency.
Curly held his own bat by both ends, slightly over his head, and blocked the swings of his attacker again and again as he tried to scoot across the parking lot on his ass. Each time the bats connected there was a loud pop, sharper than the one proceeding it, and Moe's nostrils had begun to flare wide as his face pulled back into a rigor of unadulterated fury. Again and again he brought the bat down as cracks began splitting his opponent's weapon lengthwise until, finally, Curly's bat splintered in half.
Moe seemed to see this as his coup de tat: he shook his Slugger over his head like an angry gorilla and prepared to bring it down with one final sweep. At the same time, however, Curly had tossed the fat end of his bat aside and held the remaining piece by the grip-taped handle. As the little one made his swing, Curly thrust the sharp shards of broken wood upward; his weapon sank into his opponent's chest at the same time Moe's bat cracked open his skull. The two men collapsed upon each other, neither one emerging as the victor, both dying as their blood mingled on the asphalt.
And that was the way most of the skirmishes seemed to play out: nothing more than blind rage devoid of any reasoning or strategy as far as she could tell. It was as if the rioters were relying almost entirely upon brute force and animalistic instinct. But Polly, she had cunning on her side. She had the ability to think things through, to not simply allow consequences to dictate her course of action. And that, perhaps, just might be the edge she needed to keep her ass alive.
After witnessing the battle at the funeral parlor, Polly managed to go several blocks before she had to duck into a butcher's shop. There was a body builder type who was running down the road at full speed. He didn't seem to have any obvious weapons, but his sheer size made him a big enough threat to warrant evasion.
Luckily, she'd been able to slip into the store before he caught a glimpse of her. She picked her way through the darkness carefully and made her way to the back where she found a shiny cleaver partially embedded into the skull of a man with a bushy mustache and blood spattered apron. There was no way to tell if the blood were animal or human, but it didn't really matter. The lead pipe had been bulky and cumbersome; it slowed her down when she was on the run and had almost given her away several times with its attempts to roll away. But this cleaver... it was light and deadly, easy to swing without taking a toll on her already exhausted body, and specifically designed for hacking through flesh and bone. Yeah, the clever would work nicely....
Under normal situations, it would have only taken Polly half an hour or so to reach the other side of town. But this was stop and go, slink and stealth, run and hide: progress was made in small spurts and she had to stay patient after she'd left the butcher with her new weapon in hand. After all if she just broke out into a full on sprint for the finish line, she'd never make it. Not in one piece, at least.
She kept on, slow and steady, until finally she was nearing the outskirts of town. Just around the next bend and she'd be leaving all this madness behind. She'd find somewhere where she could begin trying to put the pieces of her life back together again. Somewhere normal where she could finally find time to cry for Cody. Hell, where she could finally find time to cry for
herself
....
And fuck this place anyway. Let all those crazy bastards kill each other. Let them keep right on going until not a single one was left standing. She didn't care anymore and wanted nothing more than to put it all behind her.
As she rounded the corner, she was suddenly bathed in lights brighter than any she'd ever seen. They warmed her face with the heat of a dozen tanning beds and she squinted into the glare as she shielded her eyes with the crook of her arm.
Great. What fresh hell was this, then?
And in this stark field of vast whiteness she heard a voice that sounded as if it were being broadcast over some sort of loudspeaker or bullhorn.
Do not attempt to cross the yellow line....
What the hell?
Her eyes had begun to adjust to the light and she could see it now. Painted in bright yellow, nearly six feet in width, was a large strip that bisected the road horizontally. On the other side of the yellow stripe was a bank of lamps that illuminated the landscape as if it were day. Further beyond that was a row of military transports, parked so closely together that a piece of paper wouldn't have been able to pass through their bumpers. They entirely blocked both lanes of the road.
The use of deadly force has been authorized. I repeat....
In front of the vehicles was another row, this one of soldiers standing nearly shoulder to shoulder. Their faces were entirely cast into shadow beneath the netted helmets atop their heads; but she didn't need to see their expressions to realize exactly what was going on. For each soldier held some sort of machine gun. And each machine gun was raised slightly in her direction.
Do not attempt to cross the yellow line....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She'd been this way. He knew it. It wasn't as if there were tracks he could follow or that she was leaving scraps of clothing here and there. But it only made sense. She would probably be trying to get out of town, to put as much distance between herself and him as she could. And since the majority of the fighting was going down on the South Side, she had to be heading north. He almost imagined that he could smell her scent in the air, that aroma of wildflowers after a spring rain. But tinged with something else: the acrid stench of fear seeping from her pores. She was alone, defenseless, a mere woman turned loose in a world of Gods. In fact, there was a good chance that she was holed up somewhere, perhaps in a burnt out storefront, crying softly and wishing that everything would simply go away. That she could rest and find peace... that she could close her eyes and never have to worry about pain or illness or suffering ever again.
He imagined himself stepping over blackened timbers, the trusty machete by his side, his shadow falling across her delicate form. She would look up with streaks of makeup smeared across her face; she would tremble as he extended his hand to brush her bangs away from her eyes; but as his fingers graced her skin, she would sigh softly. Polly would realize that it had been a mistake fighting the first time; that she simply should have given in. After all, who does not sooner or later bend to the will of God?
And he would rip her clothes from her, tearing them from her body so easily that the threads may have as well been dry rotted and held together more by faith than any actually skill in tailoring. She would tremble before him, perhaps shyly covering her breasts and pubis... that was to be expected. But her body would quiver for entirely different reasons once he was inside her, once she knew the gift he'd been trying to bestow upon her. He would feel the tiny spasms of her muscles, the rise and fall of her perfect breasts against his chest as her breathing quickened. The warmth of her sighs tickling the little hairs lining his ears.
Then, once he'd had his way and the hunger had been sated, he would save her. He'd take her life from her, sparing her the all of the horrors of a world that he knew now that she could never survive in. He would be her hero and she would go willingly into that cold, eternal night. And as the light slowly faded from her eyes, she would hear the galloping of hoof beats and know that finally, at last, she had been delivered into His kingdom.
But first he had to find the stupid bitch. There were so many places she could be hiding and he simply didn't have time to check them all. So he moved forward on instinct, searching shoe stores and newsstands, coffee shops that looked as if a tornado had passed through them, and all the little places she might find a modicum of comfort in. Sometimes he got the distinct impression that she had been there. Nothing more than a gut feeling really. But it was enough to urge him to continue on, to drive him forward.
And it was all still so glorious. The dead weren't as numerous on this side of town but every so often he could see would-be contenders to the almighty throne who had tried to prove themselves and were found wanting. Early in the search, there was a pathetic puddle of a man who laid shivering in fear as Richard approached. What looked to be a screwdriver had somehow found its way into the side of his head and he watched this lost soul for several moments, laughing at the way the man's eyes would flinch every time he cut off a finger. And yet the fool never tried to pull his hand away. Not even once. After all the digits had been severed, Richard stuffed them into his pocket: they might make an admirable necklace sometime, a reminder of the hunt which now defined his life. He considered taking the head as well, but figured it would be bothersome to transport and would tend to get in the way in the midst of a fight. So he left the man lying there, bleeding from the remains of both of his hands as well as the ear in which the screwdriver was impaled.
Part of him had to truly admire the warrior who'd done that. Humans are as slippery as eels, tricky and quick. To actually shove a tool that far into the brain... well, that took something of a special gift. Not one as great as his own, of course, but a talent none-the-less. What he wouldn't give to face this worthy adversary in battle, to know his blood upon the blade of the machete. It would be an honorable death, one the unknown destroyer could take pride in.
Later he came across two idiots who looked as if they had taken each other out in unison. Now they were locked in Death's embrace, clutching each other like lovers. For these two, he had no respect what-so-ever. This was more of a clown show, an amusement for children who weren't yet old enough to witness the true bloody spectacle of the circus; unzipping his pants, he took a piss on the corpses and chuckled as he imagined that it was actually Polly and Jane lying there.
Where the hell was she anyway? He was getting closer to the edge of town with each passing moment... was it possible he'd be wrong? That she hadn't been hiding at all? Perhaps even now she was miles from this place, hitchhiking along some country road, praying that someone would pick her up who would end it all. Perhaps a drunk driver who would crash them into the river when he took out the guardrail of a bridge. Or one of those traveling amateurs who kill twelve or so helpless women, hiding them in garbage dumps and shallow graves almost as if they are ashamed of their work. They pretended to aspire to greatness but never really possessed the courage to reach out and take it. Even the homo-erotic clowns in the funeral home parking lot possessed more honor than these would-be saviors. At least those buffoons had some measure of pride in what they did; at least they understood exactly what all the killing was for. Even if they did it so badly.
But, no. He was positive that wasn't the case. He was meant to rescue her from all of this, it was his destiny, the labor he must complete before his full glory could be completely known. He had to claim his prize, to prove that she had not, indeed, bested him back in the kitchen.
The kitchen... that seemed so long ago now. As if it had all taken place in another life, perhaps to a different person. And, in a way, it had. The God had always been slumbering within him, waiting for The Great Change to awaken it, to allow him to ascend to glory. He'd just never possessed the courage to simply take whatever it was he desired. If he was angry, he should have struck down the person who ired him; if he was lustful, he should have taken the woman who had stirred his loins with passion. Things would have been so much different if only he'd realized all this so much sooner.
But, as Jane used to say, better late than never. It was probably the only true wise thing to ever come out of her mouth. And because it
was
better late than never, he would find Polly. He would find her, he would take her, and then he would save her.
And she would thank him for it.
He'd allowed his mind to wander, to drift off into thoughts of things to come. Which was dangerous out here. You had to keep yourself in a constant state of hyper-awareness, to remain as sharp and focused as a laser sight. Every little sound, the slightest of movements in a darkened window, that prickling sensation on the back of your neck that made you wonder if someone were watching you, lurking in the shadows as they awaited the opportunity to pounce: these things were very real, very important. These things would keep you alive. Richard
knew
this. And yet, somehow, he'd still allowed that bitch to distract him again.
Something that felt like a runaway brick wall plowed into his body with enough force to lift him off his feet. For a moment he was pressed tightly against a mass of rock-hard muscle, being carried by the momentum of whatever had slammed into him, and it was how a bird must feel right after it had flown full force into the grill of a speeding car. But then he was soaring through the air, the city nothing more than a streaked blur around him, falling and flying all at the same time, struggling to recapture the breath that had been forced from his lungs by the collision.