Crash

by Michael Robertson

  With the dry aftertaste of coffee bedded down on his tongue like moss, and his caffeine-driven pulse pounding in his head, Chris launched his mug at the wall. The crash rang through his sterile home. A moment of calm followed, during which he watched the muddy liquid make its way down the cream wall to the white floor. He was pleased about the mess it was making for his obsessive wife. He then got to his feet and walked out of the front door, the chilly outside breeze hitting him in the face as his whole body snapped tight around the rock in his stomach. He didn't notice Michael and Matilda holding a cake at the bottom of the stairs with Diane behind them.

  Sat at the bar of his local pub, Chris looked at the people around him. Everyone wore heavy frowns, had hunched shoulders, and drank slowly. It was depressing to look at, but at least they had company, someone to share their anxiety with. All he had left in his life was a wife he hated. He had two wonderful children, but he was sure it wouldn't be long before they despised him. He couldn't blame them either, as he wasn't a likable person. Raising his hand, he said, "Another please, John."

  The barman took a drag on his cigarette and looked at him over his glasses, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he assessed his level of intoxication like he would in times before the crisis. He then shrugged, clearly reaching the conclusion that a paying customer was worth more now than ever. He filled the pint and placed it in front of Chris as he asked, "Is everything okay?"

  Chris' bloodshot eyes looked at the man and his words were slurred when he said, "Fine. Everything's fucking great."

  He put the cool liquid to his mouth and drank. The bubbles burst on his tongue, and the head of the pint painted a mustache on his top lip. He let it sit there and stared at the barman.

  John took the hint, and after he'd walked away, Chris felt his eyelids getting heavy, the heat of the soporific open fire next to him combining with the alcohol in his bloodstream. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, he raised his glass at his squiffy reflection and said, "Happy fucking birthday, Chris."

  London's Burning

  The explosion shook the walls of their house, making Chris' heart explode with panic and flinging the shelf that had previously held the box to the floor. Chris instinctively dropped into a crouch as dust filled his lungs and tickled his throat.

  After everything had settled, he swallowed, and it felt like he'd eaten sand. Grit sat on his gag reflex, and he didn't know whether he'd vomit or cough. He did his best to stifle a cough with his sleeve, hoping it would sate his need. All it did was fill his mouth with the crunchy debris that was not only in the air because of the foundation-rocking explosion but on his clothes as well. Spitting on the floor, he then turned around to see Michael kneeling down, cowering from the ceiling like he expected the world to fall in on him. He only looked up when Chris grabbed him, flinching at first and then focusing on his dad's eyes.

  Because of the dust, Chris sounded particularly gruff when he ordered, "Stay here." He waited for a nod of recognition before adding, "I'll call you up when it's safe."

  Michael responded to his order by cowering away farther and shaking like a scared mouse.

  Before moving off, Chris looked out of the window. From where he was, he could see the pick-up with the food in the back. He could also see George, although, if he kept low, he was confident George couldn't see him.

  "We need to be careful now that we're downstairs." Nodding in the direction of the large man and his truck, he added, "We need to make sure no one sees us."

  Regarding his father through glazed eyes, it seemed like Michael had lost the power of speech. However, he did nod after every instruction, so Chris had to assume that he'd taken everything in. Patting his fragile shoulder, Chris then climbed halfway up the stairs in two strides. Upon reaching the window, he carefully pulled the heavy curtain aside, felt the chill emanating from the cold pane of glass, and looked out at the looters.

  The front of Frank and Marie's house had a huge hole in it and fire was hungrily consuming everything it touched. Thick black smoke spread outwards, filling the cool air with poisonous fumes. Some of the men coughed and stepped back. Dean, however, stood in the cloud, breathing it in as if it were pure oxygen.

  Material possessions were now meaningless in this world, but to see the destruction of a friend's home made it hard to ignore just how wild this new existence was. On closer inspection, he saw that Frank's Maserati was the cause of the chaos. They'd obviously set it on fire and rolled it into the house. The red paint was blistering and already peeling away, while the car itself was covered in an ever-increasing barrage of plaster and falling masonry.

  Remaining at the top of the driveway and shrouded in smoke, Dean howled at the sky. In the near silence of their surroundings, his howl was thrown back at him as if there were a hundred other Deans currently causing similar chaos throughout London. For all Chris knew, that's exactly what was happening beyond his gated community.

  A gust of wind cleared the smoke at a point that coincided with Dean taking in his surroundings. It allowed Chris to see the sociopath's total detachment. A chill then flicked through Chris' body, and every muscle locked tight. He was scared because it was clear that there wasn't a rational thought in Dean's head. He seemed devoid of empathy. If he got hold of Chris, or, God forbid, Michael, there would be no mercy.

  Although they were a few paces farther back to be away from the smoke, the rest of the looters stood around Dean in a semi-circle as if worshiping him. The only one who wasn't there was George; he was still in the cab of the truck with the food supplies in the back. He'd removed his thick gloves and placed them on the dashboard as he picked his nails, clearly distancing himself from the proceedings.

  Feeling pressure against his legs made Chris jump. When he looked down, he saw Michael staring back at him. "I thought I told you to stay where you were." His voice was still low and croaky.

  Looking up, his pale face slack with exhaustion and fear, Michael swallowed hard and said, "I just wanted to see what was happening."

  Pulling a heavy sigh into his body stimulated another cough that Chris barked into his sleeve. Ducking away from the window, he let a couple more out and said, "If we're going to survive this, Michael, you need to listen to exactly what I'm telling you to do. I can't have you running around." Pointing at the window above them, he said, "What if they see you? What then?"

  "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what was happening."

  The guilt of telling him off sent a pang through Chris' heart, so he pulled Michael in and hugged him, inhaling the now familiar dirty and wet smell of his son, before saying, "They've set fire to Frank's car."

  "Frank's car? He'll go crazy if he finds..." Michael sighed and looked at the floor.

  Lifting his boy's cold chin, Chris stared into his sad eyes and said, "Now stay put, okay? They're getting too close for us to be running around the house."

  Michael stared at his dad.

  Looking out of the window again, Chris watched Dean speak to his gang, "Right, boys, house number two. We're going to have some fun with this place."

  Michael took a sharp intake of breath that was a little too loud, and Chris shot him a harsh glare as he said, "Shhh."

  Oblivious to his dad's reprimand, Michael seemed like he was lost inside his own head. "We're number three, what will we do?"

  Trying to keep his voice as even as possible in spite of his galloping heart, Chris said, "It's okay, mate, I have a plan. We just need some rope." He then added through gritted teeth, "And keep your voice down for Christ's sake!"

  Looking around for inspiration, Michael then said in a whisper, "What about the garage, D--"

  "There's nothing in the garage we need. The only thing in the garage is my car." Softening his voice, he then added, "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to get cross. The problem with the garage is that they might see us if we go in there." He wondered if Michael saw the lie. "Just sit tight, and I'll think of something."

  A shriek from outside suddenly cut through their conve
rsation and made Chris' heart sink. He knew the looters had gone into the Gerrards' house, and he knew what he'd see. He'd just hoped it would have taken a little longer to find them. He looked out of the window again and swallowed against the thick chunk of dust still sat in his throat.

  Leaning into his dad's legs again, Michael whispered, "What's happening? What are they doing?"

  Looking at the young blonde girl, the baby of the family at seventeen, currently being led from the house by her ponytail, Chris said, "They have Daisy." He then added, "The whole family are out there."

  Chris was too slow to react, so all he could do was watch Michael run to the window at the bottom of the stairs to see what was happening to his babysitter. The little boy was just about small enough to remain hidden where he was, but if Chris followed him down, he'd definitely be seen. Staring at his boy in the hope of getting his attention, he soon gave up and looked outside again at their neighbors.

  Stood on the driveway and shivering were John, Mel, Sarah, Daisy, and all of the looters save George. The Gerrards had lost a lot of weight since Chris had last seen them, and they all had thick bags beneath their sunken eyes. Sarah, the eldest daughter, was nineteen and had filled out more than her skinny sister, stepping into the body of a woman over the last year or so. Chris would often watch her when she washed her car on the weekends and think thoughts a man over twice her age shouldn't. Despite the clear weight loss, she'd still managed to hold on to her curves, and when he saw the way the looters' eyes stood on stalks, it seemed he wasn't the only one to appreciate her maturing. Looking at the cage full of ravaged women and then back to the slathering men closing in around the girl like hyenas on a wounded zebra, he had to swallow to stop himself from crying. He could do nothing to prevent the gruesome images in his mind from showing him a slideshow of rape and torture.

  Running back up the stairs, his tiny feet making more noise than Chris was comfortable with, Michael pushed into his legs again and said, "They look really skinny, Dad. We should have given them some of our food when they asked for it."

  More concerned with the fact that his son was running wild, Chris bent down and firmly grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so hard that his head flopped as if his neck were made of string. "Michael, you need to listen to me. I've told you to stay in one place. Stop running around!"

  Michael looked at the floor.

  "Do you want us to get caught?"

  Michael didn't reply.

  With anger controlling his actions, he shook his boy again, his skinny neck unable to support his large head. "Well? Is that what you want?"

  Michael's voice was tiny when he uttered the syllable at the floor. "No."

  "Well, start listening to me. If any of them see us, then this is all over. Do you understand? We'll be dragged outside like Tommy and Frank."

  The little blonde boy started to cry.

  Realizing he'd said enough, Chris gulped against the sandy dryness in his oesophagus. It was like swallowing glass.

  Looking out of the window again, he addressed Michael's previous comment with a husky whisper. "You're right though, mate, I should have given them some food." Hugging his son with one arm, Chris felt the mistrust in Michael's tense body as he ever so slightly pulled away from him. Trying to ignore the reaction, Chris repeated, "We should have helped them."

  "I told you to, didn't I?"

  "You did, mate."

  Another cry from Daisy made Chris look outside, and Michael slipped away from him, running to his window downstairs again. Chris wanted to scream. What was wrong with the boy? Was he losing the plot? It was so unlike Michael to completely disregard what was being said to him. Accepting that he couldn't control him as much as he'd have liked, Chris looked outside again.

  Like Marie, Daisy didn't go easily as she was dragged to the truck. It took three men and a right hook to get her on the back of the pick-up with the other women. Mel and Sarah, having obviously seen what had happened to Frank, Marie, and Tommy, realized how pointless it was to fight. Throwing occasional glances at John, they started crying when they saw him forced to his knees into the same position Frank was in earlier. Although he didn't say anything, John stared at his little girls and wife as they climbed into the cage and hugged each other while they sobbed. The futility of their situation had removed any fight from him. He looked up at Dean through his matted and greasy black fringe and said, "Please, just make it quick and be kind to my wife and daughters."

  Chris looked at John's loved ones, and all three wore ugly masks of grief, their faces drawn with despair. Swallowing back the tickle that was daring him to cough again, his throat yearning for water, he regarded his boy. He was trying to see better and making himself more visible in the process. He hissed at him, but Michael was too engrossed in what was happening. He thought again about grabbing him, but he knew his movements would give them away.

  When Dean didn't reply, John dropped his head and looked at the floor.

  Lifting the hammer high, looming over the powerless man like a god and throwing him into shadow, Dean grinned like a skeleton, laughed, and brought the hammer crashing down.

  The girls screamed at the same time that Michael drew a sharp intake of breath. A wet crack and squelch like someone had broken through ice into a muddy bog beneath rang out across the cul-de-sac. Silence followed, like the whole world was holding its breath.

  When Chris realized that he was, he exhaled, and it was visible in the cold and now smoke-filled air, which stank of burning plastic. His next inhalation left an aftertaste as if he'd drunk diesel, and it threw an instant headache across his eyes. He looked back at Michael to see him frozen. He hated to see his son in such a state, but he prayed that his temporary paralysis lasted because with the frame of mind he was in, he'd surely give them away soon if it didn't.

  Dean let the handle of the hammer go, and John, who was fat from years of good living, fell to the floor with a wet thud like sixteen stones of soft clay. The tool protruded from the side of his head like an embedded arrow. Pushing his foot against John's face for leverage, the forced pout almost comical if it weren't for the fact that John was dead, Dean then wrenched his weapon free. The crack was like a branch being ripped from a tree.

  Chris heaved and then spat bile and grit onto the carpet. He checked to see if Michael was still watching and still inert. He was.

  Whilst wiping the blood from the head of his hammer onto his suit, which looked more like a butcher's apron than a three-piece, Dean stared at the wide and shocked eyes of the corpse on the drive as if he could hear John's thoughts. Before long, the hole in his head pushed undulating waves of blood out that pooled on the floor.

  "You fucking arsehole!"

  When Chris looked over and heard that it was Mel shouting at their captors, he had to do a double-take. Mel was one of the most relaxed women he knew, and he'd certainly never heard her swear before.

  "You fucking pikey waste of space! Where do you get off on hurting innocent people?" she screamed.

  "Innocent?" Dean asked. He then looked at a couple of the men and sneered as he said, "Bring her over here."

  Watching Mel as she initially refused to come made Chris feel sick with anticipation. He ground his jaw as one of the men, a Turkish skin-headed and tattooed man that looked like a cage fighter, grabbed Daisy by the throat and started to choke her. He squeezed so hard that her eyes bulged, and she gasped like a fish, her pale skin turning purple in the process. Chris looked at Michael again, and felt a burning mixture of fear and distress as he thought about what they might do to him.

  Holding her hands up, Mel said, "Okay, okay, I'm coming." Of her own accord, the tall, slim woman left the cage and jumped off the back of the truck. As she stormed towards Dean, she said, "I mean it, you're a fucking scum bag!"

  She didn't slow her pace as she got close to him, so Dean dropped his hammer and met her with an uppercut to the chin. Chris' balls pulled tight as he watched the blow lift her clean off her feet. She was thrust back
wards before landing on her back, her head hitting the concrete with a crack. Her eyes rolled, and Chris could see she'd been knocked instantly unconscious. No matter how many examples he saw of their brutality, it didn't get any easier to watch.

  Stood over her with gritted teeth, Dean spat as he growled, "Innocent? You call yourself fucking innocent? You weren't so innocent when you were enjoying a wealth well beyond what you needed to survive on. You weren't so fucking innocent when people around me were having to buy broken biscuits from the pound shop to feed their kids while you threw half of your dinner in the bin each night." Bending down so his face was close to hers, he screamed, veins standing out under his red skin, "You weren't so fucking innocent when you went on seventeen holidays a fucking year while others lived below the fucking poverty line!"

  Regaining focus, Mel looked through her ruffled brown hair and said in a groggy voice, "We worked hard for that."

  Clenching his fist like he was going to punch her again, Dean, red-faced and with his eyes bulging, said, "Did you fuck!" Pointing at her overweight husband, he continued, "Putting a suit on that fat cunt over there and kissing someone's arse isn't hard work." Then pointing at the pick-up with the girls on, he said, "Sending those spoilt twats to private school so they can get a much better life than me or mine can afford isn't hard work. Going for runs in the morning, followed by coffee-shop mother's meetings isn't hard work. You got a break! You were shat into existence at the right place and the right time. Sure, you took some opportunities, but don't be so fucking arrogant to think that it was all down to hard work. The reality for you was that you were fucking the right guy. All you had to do was lie on your back, you filthy slut!" Pulling his leg back, he then buried his boot into her stomach.

  As Mel wrapped herself around the impact, her mouth wide and fighting for breath, Chris let a gentle cough go. The toxic smoke and dust was now choking him more than ever. Michael looked at his dad, his dirty little face gripped with fear, but before Chris could signal for him to come back, he was looking out of the window again.