Unable to remove his eyes from the mirror, George gulped. "Leave them alone, Dean."
But Dean kept going at the pace of the car ticking over. It was only a few miles per hour, but nothing was stopping him. He was as constant as a rising tide.
The girl's voice came again, louder this time. "Mummy! Mummy!"
When Dean's front tires caught the woman's shoulder blades, George lost his breath. After a few thirsty gulps, he said, "Fuck!"
The thick tread pulled her arm. The woman flipped from the recovery position and ended up on her back. Her eyes and mouth flew wide as she screamed at the sky. "Arghhhh!"
Ravi shook his head. "My God."
"Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!"
The truck lifted.
Her shoulder popped.
The crowd screamed.
Lifting his knees up, Ravi curled in his seat.
"Mummy!"
The truck rose higher as it crossed her chest.
It wobbled.
The gang of looters on the back hollered.
The truck slipped.
Crack!
It looked like it broke her sternum.
The woman lay silent.
Holding his chest, George felt like his heart would burst free.
The front of the truck dropped off her.
Dean howled at the sky.
The looters howled back.
When Dean sped up, his engine roared. The back bucked as it passed over her.
Silence.
As Dean went past the man, the man screamed at him, "What's wrong with you?!" He punched the driver's side door.
Shaking his head, George sighed. "What's up with you, mate? Look at his passengers. They ain't fucking hitchhikers. He ain't the local do-gooder."
Pointing at his temple, the man's features flared. "Are you fucking mental?!"
"He just don't get it, does he?" Ravi said.
With his head swimming, George watched the little girl run to the dead woman's side. Dressed in a pink ski suit, she wore pig tails and was no higher than George's knee. Stroking the woman's hair, she cried, "Mummy!" Grief twisted her face like it was made from clay.
Si, who was driving the truck behind George's, sped up.
Before George could open the door, someone yanked the girl away. He let go of the handle.
The second truck made light work of the woman, bucking as it passed over her, shaking the caged prisoners on the back.
The girl's shrill wail hit George at the base of his neck. Calling for Mummy wasn't going to help anymore.
Ravi's face twisted. "What's fucking wrong with them? They need their fucking heads checked."
Sitting back in his seat, George had no words.
The huge battering ram slowly rolled past. It was an ugly lump of metal lined with the scars of welding. Although it wasn't as ugly as Dean's leering grin, which then appeared next to George. His eyes sparkled. He was in his element. Sick fuck.
Just looking at the man turned George's stomach. Whatever was on his mind was something that he didn't want to be involved in. But he was. He was involved to the point where he couldn't back out. Not yet. Not until he got to Sally.
Shouting turned Dean's livid skin purple. "I can't have them talking to you like that, George." After craning his neck to look at the bedlam, his smile broadened to the point where it looked like it would consume his entire head.
"If I've learned anything about this new world," Dean said, "it's that we need to stick together. We need to show them who's boss."
Staring forwards, George ground his jaw. "I didn't ask for your help. Don't do anything on my behalf." There was no fucking way Dean was getting him in his pocket. No way.
Looking like he was preparing a counterargument, Dean opened his mouth to reply but stopped when the man behind shouted, "You're a fucking arsehole."
Looking at the angry man in the crowd, George's entire frame sagged. How could he help him if the stupid prick didn't help himself? Popping his door open, he looked across at Dean. "I'll go and talk to him."
But Dean didn't reply. Lost behind a glazed look, the lunatic had gone to that place that George never wanted to visit. The glimpses he got of it were more than enough.
Swallowing the sticky saliva in his ever-drying mouth, George shook his head. "They're just kids, Dean. Why don't we leave them and move on?"
Whether he heard George or not was hard to tell. What was perfectly clear was that he didn't reply. After he lifted the hammer from the passenger seat, he opened his door, a flash of clarity returning to his distant eyes. "Here we go again, George. It looks like it's party time."
Dread as thick as tar crawled over George's skin, smothering him as he watched Dean walk towards the group. Whistling Jingle Bells, he moved with a skip in his step like he was off to fix a bent nail.
Once Dean was out of earshot, Ravi leant in and whispered, "We've got to get away from that cunt as soon as possible."
The stink of the boy's aftershave kicked George in the face. Clamping his nose, George remained silent.
"Remind me, George, why did your sister marry him?"
Keeping his eyes on the lunatic in his mirror, all George could offer was a weak shrug.
Crash II: Highrise Hell - Available now.
Crash II: Highrise Hell - Available now:
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New Reality: Truth - Available now:
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About the Author
Michael Robertson has been a writer for many years and has had poetry and short stories published, most notably with HarperCollins. He first discovered his desire to write as a skinny weed-smoking seventeen-year-old badman who thought he could spit bars over drum and bass. Fortunately, that venture never left his best mate's bedroom and only a few people had to endure his musical embarrassment. He hasn't so much as looked at a microphone since. What the experience taught him was that he liked to write. So that's what he did.
After sending poetry to countless publications and receiving MANY rejection letters, he uttered the words, "That's it, I give up." The very next day, his first acceptance letter arrived in the post. He saw it as a sign that he would find his way in the world as a writer.
Over a decade and a half later, he now has a young family to inspire him and has decided to follow his joy with every ounce of his being. With the support of his amazing partner, Amy, he's managed to find the time to take the first step of what promises to be an incredible journey. Love, hope, and the need to eat get him out of bed every morning to spend a precious few hours pursuing his purpose.
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Crash Page 11
