current

Hold Your Breath

by Dustin LaValley

The streetlights flicker, fizz, and pop. I expect them to sizzle into extinction, but they continue to glow in the ever-darkening lunch hour. We saunter through the streets, zigzagging, weaving, and dodging. The crowds are thickening. Violence breaking out like zits upon a greasy teenager. Our fingers firmly interlocked, Barbara and I pretend to ignore the violence and hysteria. We're on a journey.

Their faces are dripping, if not with sweat, then with blood. If a mouth is open, it is screaming. The screams, they've melted together to become one monotone, continuous, white noise. Some have chosen to loot, breaking windows and making off with jewelry or electronics. As they sprint past us with televisions propped on their shoulders, I wonder what they plan on watching. Cars are overturned, windshields shattered, engines smoking, tires wobbling as they spin in the air. Fires have broken out as well. Molotov cocktails shatter upon the pavement, their flaming tails spreading fire to anything inflammable within reach. Every now and then I notice a spectator standing alone, staring into the sky, awestruck.

My arm snaps fully extended, and I find that Barbara has stopped walking. She's watching something. I must rise onto the tips of my toes to peer over the crowd. Curled into the fetal position, a police officer squirms and twitches as blow after blow finds him. Onlookers circle and began to kick and stomp in rotation. His helmet breaks free and their feet rain upon his face. He is screaming, but his voice is lost in the cacophony. We drift from the attack before too much blood is spilt.

The darkness has grown thicker and I decide our pace must quicken if we are to reach our destination on time. I worry we will not.

Gunshots are fired, and before I can adjust, dozens of shoulders are plowing into me. The street has suddenly become a one-way, and we find ourselves fighting the current. Before I lose total balance, I'm tugged to the side. Barbara is leading me into an alleyway. We stumble between buildings and throw our backs against the wall. Hands still together, we simultaneously slide onto our butts, to catch our breath and bearings, and to watch and wait for the stampede to cease. The crowd slowly dissipates. A few of the brave linger at the back, to taunt a line of armed guardsmen. They remind me of cowboys rounding up the herd. A fat man in a white t-shirt spins and tosses a brick towards them. Before he can turn and retreat, a shot rings out and blood spurts from his belly, he tumbles to the ground, hugging himself.

The guardsmen pass the alleyway, and as I attempt to stand, our slick hands almost become undone. She remains still, staring at something. Searching the darkness I find what she watches. A woman is pressed up against the opposite wall, her bare legs wrapped around her partners' waist. She stares at us with a plain face as he thrusts into her. I grab Barbara by the elbow and gently bring her upright.

I drag her around the corner, into the street and continue on. The crowds have been relocated, leaving only a few loners to drift amongst the debris. One soul trudges alongside of us, keeping to the rhythm of our steps for a couple yards, and then stops to search the pockets of a trampled corpse broken in the gutter.

Up the street, a semicircle has formed at the steps of a brownstone. A young man with long hair is strumming a guitar; a bottle of vodka sits beside him. As we pass I hear him sing, “… have you ever seen the sky and felt this weight upon open eyes …” his voice is low and gritty, “…new death sensation…” I recognize the words, but can't match them to a name.

We do not stop. There is no time. We're almost there; I can make out the trees in the darkness ahead. I began to tremble, my pulse quickens, and a slight sweat dampens my forehead. I'm excited, eager.

I'm staring at the sky when my foot catches what I believe to be a corpse, and I stumble foreword, dragging Barbara with me. A bum rests on his back, squinting, sipping from a paper bag. He does not fight as I snatch the bag away, he only sighs and closes his eyes.

In the park we find our bench—the one she had carved our initials into— and sit together, hand in hand. We stare into the blackness above, taking sips from the paper bag. The streetlights flicker, fizz, and pop. They sizzle into extinction, leaving us encased in complete darkness.

I say to her, “You think it'll hurt?”

“Hold your breath.”

I squeeze her hand …

This story also appeared in Dustin LaValley's Lowlife Underdogs.

Dustin LaValley is an author, screenwriter and martial artist from upstate NY. His screenplay Rise of the Ghosts won Best Horror Film at the Wreck-Beach International Film Festival and his most recent collection, Lowlife Underdogs is available from Raw Dog Screaming Press. Dustin is also a Sensei of Shito Ryu karate and ju jutsu.