Cry Havoc

CRY HAVOC

by

William Todd Rose

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The book you hold in your hands began as a deceptively simple sounding experiment: could I write the complete first draft of a novel within a 24 hour period? At first I was dubious. The day before I'd completed the initial draft of
The Dead & Dying,
to which I had devoted over a year of my life. And while it was true that I was trying to decide what project to tackle next, writing an entire novel within the span of a single day – even a short one – was more than a bit daunting. It wasn't so much
what
I should write about as I had plenty of ideas: should my next book be the cyberpunk-noir collection of stories all connected by a central theme? Or perhaps that sci-fi tale about the female assassin hiding within the walls of a futuristic brothel? No, ideas weren't what initially caused me to balk. Rather, it was the immensity of the undertaking. I knew the manuscript would have to be around 40,000 words in length not to be considered a novella and National Novel Writing Month challenges authors to complete a 50,000 word first draft in a month's period. Could I really do the majority of a NaNoWriMo in a day's time?

But the more I thought about it, the more excited I became by the idea. I decided if I was really going to do this completely insane thing then I was going to do it right: chapters would be uploaded to williamtoddrose.com as they were completed; periodic updates posted on Facebook and some of the message boards I frequent; and I would start right away, despite the fact that it was eleven o'clock at night and I'd already been awake for fourteen hours or so.

Ironically, in the end, I didn't go with any of the ideas I'd been kicking around. All I knew was that I wanted to start the book with a scene of a city in chaos, completely embroiled in urban warfare. I trusted that the characters and plot would reveal itself to me as the words appeared across my screen and set to work.

It was literally an exhausting experience in every sense of the word: physically, mentally, and emotionally. There were times when I felt like I just couldn't go on, that I needed at least a short nap. But I laid there in bed for twenty minutes, tossing and turning as my mind continued thinking about the characters I'd created until I finally gave in and went right back to work without even a second of shuteye. However, around 6:00 PM or so I had reached my limit: I simply couldn't go any further. My writing was deteriorating to the point that I had to second guess exactly what I meant two or three sentences back and I'd begun having these little blackouts at my keyboard. As well as making stupid mistakes (such as not saving my progress periodically and having to recreate almost an entire chapter when my word processor crashed). So I called it a night. Or a day. Or whatever.

I'd originally planned on finishing the last five hours the next day. However, I was still so drained by the experience that I simply couldn't. I went to work and the day passed in a blur. I came home and watched some brain dead television shows with my wife, nothing that would be too taxing. I tried to hold conversations with her, but it was like my mind was moving in slow motion and the words all came out wrong. So I took the evening off from writing and instead jumped right back into it the day after.

Once all was said and done, I ended up going 20 minutes or so over my self-imposed 24 hour time limit. Furthermore, my first draft was a couple thousand words short of the 40,000 goal. But still...  I had a workable manuscript, a book written in the span of a day. Even if it wasn't consecutive, I'd still only missed it barely. If I hadn't have wasted that time trying to take a cat nap, in fact, I probably would have made it. Next time, I would have to start earlier in the day as well; begin at six AM so I would be fresh and raring to go and...  wait, was I really thinking about doing this
again?

You bet your sweet ass. The 24 Hour Novel Extreme Writing Challenge (as I've come to think of it) was like a roller coaster ride so thrilling, so invigorating, that I knew I would have to jump right back in line as soon as the car came to a stop. And next time, I'll nail it.

PART ONE:

Form Without Function

CHAPTER ONE

I can see the mob through the window of our fifth story apartment. They scurry across the street like ants that have had their hill trampled beneath the boot of God. Roiling, black smoke rolls from fiery hulks that used to be cars and slinks over the sidewalk like a creeping death, obscuring those who disappear into its veil. I see windows shatter, showers of glass that sparkle like glitter from this distance, people swarming into the buildings and emerging minutes later with clothes piled in their arms, televisions hoisted onto shoulders, and even one guy dragging a mannequin behind him as if it were a prisoner of war. A woman runs up behind a teenager carrying a cardboard box filled with what appears to be looted items; as I watch she extends her arm out straight, leveling the dark object in her hand at the back of his head. There's a puff of smoke and a little lick of fire and the teenager crumples to the ground as if he were a marionette whose strings had just been cut. The woman dives to the street and begins scooping the toppled items back into the box with both arms, raking in her booty like a greedy pirate. She's almost filled the box back up when two men pounce upon her, knocking her face first into the concrete. As I watch, one of them buries his knees just below her shoulder blades while the other rips her yellow dress away as easily as if it were made of paper. Yanking her panties down, he quickly drops his trousers and forces his way into her while his partner grabs fistfuls of dark hair and bashes her face again and again into the pavement.

As far as the eye can see, scenes like this play out over and over: murder, rape, destruction, flames burning out of control while people scamper amid the blood and tears....

A helicopter races over the top of our building, flying so low and fast that the thumping of its rotors causes the window to rattle within its pane. Like an armored dragonfly, it darts toward the chaos below. It's nose dipped low, blades whirring so quickly they simply look like a circular blur, it unleashes a staccato volley of gunfire: bits of concrete erupt like miniature volcanoes as the bullets rip across the streets; those caught in the line of fire jerk and twitch as if dancing to music only they can hear; once their riddled bodies are no longer held aloft by the spray of lead, they collapse in a heap and the bullets search for more partners to pull into its deadly boogie.

Movement on the roof of the Turner Building catches my eye. All at once, I see close to a dozen heads pop up over the side of the ledge. Nearly in unison they raise rifles to their shoulders and sunlight glares on their scopes. They fire repeatedly and the assault has the feel of a coordinated ambush; as if they somehow knew the helicopter would come along eventually. These must be the extremist militia type I've heard so much about on the news. Once FEMA declared martial law, they flooded the streets like fleas from a drowning dog, positive that the New World Order had finally decided to snap the neck on the eagle of freedom.

Their bullets ping off the helicopter and it begins to maneuver toward them but suddenly a plume of smoke belches from the tail fin. The machine spirals out of control, spinning in wild circles as it drops from the sky and I see the people on the roof throw up their hands as they jump up and down in victory.

The helicopter smashes into the side of People's Bank and a giant fireball mushrooms into the sky as the mirrored glass of the building and flaming shards of metal rain down onto the rioters below. Even from this distance I can feel the force of the explosion in my chest, almost like I am being pushed backward by an infinitely strong ghost.

At street level, the trucks have begun rolling in now: drab green with camouflaged tarps pulled tightly over rib-like skeletons.  They screech to a halt and soldiers hop out of the back. These trained killers move with fluid grace and precision, their automatic weapons shouldered even before their feet have even touched the ground.

“Richard, darling, why don't you step away from the window?”

Jane speaks in a sing-song tone that sounds light and carefree. From listening to her, you'd never guess there was a full-fledged battle being waged only blocks away.

I let the drapes fall closed and turn around with images of the chaos still burning in my brain. For a moment, I feel dizzy as two entirely separate worlds collide. Outside, the streets have been darkened with blood and soot. People's lives are being ripped to shreds and entire buildings burn unchecked in the afternoon sun. But in here, the gunshots seem as if they are coming from the end of some long corridor. They're muffled and distant, no different really from a neighbor watching an action film with the volume turned up just a little too loudly.

The walls are light beige and are adorned with framed prints of the great masters: Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, and Dali. My favorite, Munch's masterpiece
The Scream
, hangs just above an oak bookcase lined with the works of Shakespeare, Frost, and Melville among others. Everything about the room, from the potted ferns to the beaded curtain that separates the living room from the kitchen, has an almost deliberate look to it: as if it had somehow transcended the glossy pages of a catalog and manifested in the real world.

Jane is sitting on a little brown settee in front of a coffee tabled shaped like the Chinese yin-yang symbol. Her curly red hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail and tied with a yellow ribbon; she's wearing the shirt I bought her for her birthday last year, the white one with the flowing sleeves that makes her look like some romantic poetess. She smooths her crinkled skirt with one hand and then leans forward to take a sip from a pink mug of herbal tea.

Perched on the couch across from her is her best friend, Polly Wainwright. As usual, Polly is wearing a t-shirt with some sort of slogan on it; this particular one is a simple white tee with pink letters reading
Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History.
Like all of her clothes it is loose and comfortable, the folds of the fabric seeming to flow as easily as the golden locks of her hair.

“So,” Polly asks as she glances at me with those round, green eyes of hers, “what's it like out there?”

I'm silent for a moment as I listen to the hiss and gurgle of the cappuccino maker in the kitchen. The strong scent of espresso mingles with sandalwood incense. The stereo in the corner plays so softly that I can't tell whether it’s a Native American or Japanese flute. But I guess it's probably Indian: Jane has been heavily into R. Carlos Nakai ever since she ordered from that catalog company and has bought practically every disc the man has ever released.

“Richard,” Jane says, “don't be rude...  Polly asked you a question.”

Should I tell them? Should I describe how I saw a woman raped on the sidewalk, a woman who only seconds earlier had committed cold-blooded murder? Should I tell them how the bodies are beginning to pile upon one another, how our once-peaceful neighbor is beginning to resemble the streets of some war-torn third world country?

I answer, however, without any real thought:

“It's absolutely modern out there.”

I have no clue what this means. The words just kind of burble out of my mouth before I even really know I'm speaking; as soon as I hear them I feel self-conscious and silly, like an ill-prepared student forced to recite in front of the entire class. I feel my cheeks grow warm and lower my eyes to a throw-rug with the design of a Tibetan mandala. If either woman notices my discomfort, however, they give no indication.

“I know, right?” Jane replies. “It's sad, the state of things these days. It's like the whole city has lost its collective mind.”

“The whole city? Try the whole country, dearie. Haven't you been listening to NPR?”

“Why bother? It's not like they actually
tell
you anything.”

Jane's right. We keep hearing reports of new outbreaks, of violence flaring up as quickly as the flashbulbs that freeze these horrors into snapshots of frozen time for the papers. Riots. Looting. Civil unrest on a scale our country has never known. And yet nobody can tell us why. One expert blames the effects of video games and the media, another on cosmic radiation from last month's solar activity, while the televangelists claim that we are living through the beginning of the end. But it's really nothing more than rampant speculation masquerading as news.

The beaded curtains rattle as Cody Preston shoulders his way through the doorway; he's carrying a tray with four cups of cappuccino carefully balanced on it as if he were a priest bringing sacrament to the masses.

“I say, is anyone thirsty?”

My body immediately stiffens and a sour feeling blossoms in my stomach.

Cody is a tall and lanky man, given to wearing jaunty fedoras and wool scarves over careful layers of pastel. His round spectacles are almost always too far down his nose to serve any real purpose and his goatee looks as if hours have been spent ensuring that it is perfectly symmetrical.