Contents
Title
Copyright
Author's Note
Dedication
Half-Title
You Spin Me Round
Red Rag
Driving Home
Crossroads
Rations
Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?
Coward
Dinner Date
Night Shift
Help
Trust
Dinner Date Two
Prisoner
Burn Baby Burn
Charred Pork
Pink Lightning Bolts
Hi-ho
It's Good to Talk
Porcine Prisoner
Broken Britain
Display Model
Capitalist Pig
Final Straw
Another Cold Night
Secrets
Letter
He's Dead
Knock Knock
Between a Rock ...
Fucked
Cooked
Melt
Medieval
Read More Work by Michael Robertson
Reviews
About the Author
Crash 2
Highrise Hell
By
Michael Robertson
Crash 2: Highrise Hell
Michael Robertson
© 2014 Michael Robertson
Crash 2: Highrise Hell is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Author's Note
If you're reading this, then the likelihood is you've read book one. If that's the case, thank you. I've had some amazing support and reviews for Crash, and I wanted to take this opportunity to thank everyone for doing so. It's a controversial book, so the positive reviews mean a lot to me.
I plan for the Crash series to span many books, although I do have the end in mind. The violence diminishes as the books progress, which is good because some of the scenes have been really hard to write. My other work, while tinged with horror, certainly doesn't go to the depths of depravity that the Crash series does.
Crash 2: Highrise Hell, is George's story and follows on from the end of Crash. The intention is to tell each book from a new perspective as the cast of characters cross paths.
Crash is inspired by the global recession of 2008. What if money became worthless overnight? What would that do to the one percent? What would that do to the ninety-nine percent? What would that do to the poorest in society, who in the UK are the ones being blamed for all of the problems? Go figure. With class tension high in the UK, how would the previously oppressed react?
Reviews are so important for authors, so if you feel inclined, please leave a review wherever you bought the book. If you want to keep up with my future work:
Subscribe to my newsletter at – http://www.michaelrobertson.co.uk
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Thank you for reading, and I would love to hear from you.
– Michael Robertson, March 2014.
Dedication
With only a few days left before my partner gives birth, I have to dedicate the book to Gromit (my son's name for her - we still can't decide on a name).
I look forward to seeing your little face and the light that you will bring to an already amazing family.
Also, to anyone who has downloaded this book. Thank you.
Crash 2
Highrise Hell
By
Michael Robertson
You Spin Me Round
George looked at his bloody hands. They were evidence of what he'd become. He'd made an orphan of an innocent boy, and for what? He'd left him in a burning house to–
"Look out!"
"Fuck!" George gasped. He squeezed the wheel. The people were too close. The truck wasn't stopping.
Head for the gap.
It looked too tight.
Fuck it!
He hit the horn. He winced.
Fuck!
Bang!
The wing mirror flipped in. Arms and hair flailed. Children screamed.
When George hit the brakes, the shudder of the ABS ran up his tense leg. Rapid breaths racked his large body, each one providing less oxygen than the last.
Stars swam in front of his eyes. The corners of his vision closed in. His world was being crushed. His galloping pulse throbbed in his temples.
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
With his mouth stretched wide, George fought to get air into his body. Slowly, each breath pulled him back down from the panic attack, suffocation seeming less likely with the passing seconds.
Sitting back, he unpeeled his grip on the wheel one finger at a time. While staring ahead, he stretched his aching digits. Some of the dried blood came away in flakes.
The stench of Ravi's aftershave was bad. When it was mixed with the reek of burning rubber, it sent sharp needles of pain stretching through George's sinuses. Pinching the bridge of his nose did nothing to stop the headache that was rapidly spreading behind his eyeballs.
Looking across, he saw Ravi dipping his head to look into the wing mirror. The boy was wide-eyed and several shades paler than his usual hue. He looked as bad as George felt. Looking into his own mirror, George couldn't see much. "What the fuck just happened?"
Without removing his glare, Ravi shrugged. "You just hit her."
"I know I fucking hit her."
The boy still didn't look across. When George focused on Ravi's wing mirror, he saw a spider's web of cracks running through the glass. Light and color shot off in all directions, and it was still bent in from the impact. "It's only a mirror, Ravi. We can replace it. Hell, we can get a whole new truck if we need to."
"N... n... n..." Shaking his head, Ravi pointed instead.
Hot saliva filled George's mouth, and his palms started to sweat when he saw what the boy was talking about. Hanging from the black plastic was a lump of flesh the size of a fifty-pence piece. It had tendrils of blonde hair flipping in the breeze.
Looking behind again, George saw that a crowd had surrounded the woman. "Do you think she's okay?"
Ravi didn't reply.
"What shall I do?"
"What can you do?"
Stars swam in his vision again. The collar on his t-shirt suddenly felt too tight as it pressed against his neck. Pulling at it, he opened the window to get some fresh air. Panic rode the cold currents as many of the group behind screamed and cried.
Thunk!
Glancing across, George saw that Ravi had also wound his window down and had pushed the mirror back in place.
Holding his chest, his heart kicking against his palm, George frowned at the boy. "Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" Although Ravi was twenty-six, George still considered him to be a boy.
"I just wanted a better view, man. There's what, forty of them? Why aren't they retaliating?"
"Because they're mostly kids. Two-thirds of them at least." In the chaos, George could only understand one word.
"Help!"
Watching a man run to the downed woman, George looked across at Ravi, who was watching it too. "He must be the one in charge."
The crowd parted to reveal the fallen woman, and a cold chill ran through George. She looked like a broken doll, lying on the floor, unmoving, limbs splayed. "Where's that blood coming from?"
There was no reply from Ravi.
Staring at the ever-increasing pool, his guts churning, George burped a flat taste of cornflakes. After three weeks of eating nothing else for breakfast, the stale cereal was getting tedious, especially since milk went bad weeks ago. He'd now resorted to eating them with water.
She jolted.
"Fuck!"
She jolted again.
"Maybe she'll be okay, George?"
"Don't try to humour me. She's fucked. Unless that man's Doctor Frankenstein, she ain't getting up and walking away." Running a hand through his thick, greasy hair, George looked at his lap. "Why did I drive so fucking fast?"
"We have to move fast. Remember when Si was jumped on Penge High Street? If he'd been driving faster, they would have left him alone. If you drive too slow, the gangs see you as an easy target. We lost four men that day."
"The men we lost were a waste of oxygen. She's a woman looking after kids. Her death means something." The leather creaked as he twisted around in his seat for the first time. "Where are the others? I hope they're moving slower."
When the two pick-ups rounded the corner, George relaxed. "Thank God, they're driving slowly."
"I wouldn't count your chickens yet."
"They've slowed down! Fucking hell, what's wrong with you, boy? A bit of positivity, yeah?"
Ravi shrugged.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You should know. You've been in the gang longer than I have. Dean's an unpredictable mother fucker. I wouldn't assume this crowd was safe until they're at least three post codes away from that lunatic." Scratching his silly little beard that ran along his jawline, he added, "and I'd still be hesitant then."
"Okay, they're hardly the cavalry, but this group doesn't pose us any kind of threat. They don't look like they have anything worth stealing."
It didn't take the silence that met George's comment to make him realize he was being hopeful. He knew Dean well enough. Better than most in fact. Looking behind again, he saw many of the group stood slack-jawed and silent. While grinding his teeth and with his stomach locked tight, George tapped the steering wheel. "Why aren't they moving out of the way?"
When there was still no reply, he looked at Ravi to see him adjusting his slick side-parting and straightening his suit.
"Fucking hell, boy, you're worried about what you look like at a time like this?"
"Huh." Looking at himself as if he was seeing his actions for the first time, Ravi stopped what he was doing. "I was actually wondering who all of those kids belong to. Where are their parents?"
The ratio of children to adults was disproportionate. Flinching, George saw a flashback of the boy that he'd left in the burning house, staring out of an upstairs window, wide-eyed and with flames growing around him. How many of this group had been orphaned by men like him?
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, George looked back again. The man tending to the injured lady stood up in front of Dean's truck and showed him his palm. Frowning, George scratched his face as he watched on. "What the fuck's he doing?"
"Dunno. He's acting like five-o the way he's trying to control traffic though. That ain't the brightest thing to do around Dean. Didn't he get the memo? The police don't run the streets no more."
"What an idiot." Rubbing his temples did nothing to stop the pounding headache stretching through George's brain. The smell of blood and dirt was thick on his hands, so he lowered them. "All I know is this ain't going to turn out well."
"You'd think the huge battering ram welded to the front of the truck would be a big enough hint to get the fuck out of the way. That and the bloodthirsty mob on the back."
Looking at the children again, George drew a deep sigh. "Look at those poor little bastards. They think he can protect them."
When Dean continued moving forwards, the man in the road screamed at him. "Stop!"
Dean didn't.
The man pointed at George. "That prick just ran my friend over. Stop! Please?"
The sun on Dean's windscreen made it impossible to see the man inside. Then he leant forwards and George saw the deep frown on his face. A rich shot of bitter bile lifted into his throat and he shuddered. "They're fucked." Swallowing did nothing to dilute the taste.
"Proper fucked," Ravi agreed.
A huge cloud passed across the sun, and the bare chill of winter blew into the car. Folding his arms for warmth did nothing to counter it.
The two diesel trucks continued forward. Their loud engines were thunder rolling up the high street. Hairs lifted on the back of George's neck. The storm was inevitable. "Can't that man sense what's about to happen?"
Rubbing his face, Ravi shook his head. "I don't wanna watch this."
"No. I don't either."
Neither of them looked away.
The truck got closer, and the children continued to scream.
Tutting, Ravi threw a hand up in the air. "Even the kids can see what's happening. Why doesn't that idiot get the fuck out of the way?"
Despite the chaos increasing outside, a new word rose above the insanity. "Mummy!"
Poking his head out of the window, Dean stared at the man. Dead eyes behind a mask of dried blood.
Remaining rooted to the spot, the man still held his hand up.
The trucks didn't stop.
When the man stepped aside, George puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled hard. "About fucking time."
The man continued to stare at Dean.
Because he'd focused on the man, George hadn't looked at the crossing. When he did, his testicles pulled tight. The injured woman was still in the middle of the road. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about her. When he grabbed the door handle, Ravi clamped a tight grip onto his forearm.
"What the fuck are you doing, boy?" George demanded.
"Don't go out there, George."
"Don't tell me what to do." Looking at the grip that the boy still had on him, George clenched his right fist. Then he let it ease. The boy was right. What could he do? Other than get himself killed. Who would save Sally then?
"The guy thinks Dean will stop." When Dean blew a kiss out of the window, the man's mouth fell loose, and Ravi added, "Maybe he's just realized that he won't."
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.
Dea
n 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."
Crash II: Highrise Hell Page 1
