Crash II: Highrise Hell

by Michael Robertson

  The sensible choice would have been to not get involved, but these women needed his help.

  Opening the car door, he removed the packet of biscuits that he'd stored up front. No one knew about his stash, not even Ravi. Pushing the door nearly closed, he stopped when the interior light turned off. Slamming it would attract too much attention.

  Once he was back by the truck with the women, he slipped the packet of biscuits through a gap in the cage.

  The rustling called out in the graveyard silence as Liz took them.

  "Please don't fight over these," he said. "It'll make too much noise, and Dean will come out. There's one for each of you."

  After staring at him like she was about to throw the packet back in his face, Liz turned around and shared the biscuits with the other women. Some of them ate them whole, quickly turning their attention to the ones that didn't, their wide eyes shimmering with what appeared to be dark intent.

  Holding his hand out, George looked at Liz. "I don't want to leave any evidence."

  Snatching the packet away, the curvy lady held it to her chest. Standing up straight, she pursed her lips. "I'm not giving it back unless you let us out."

  Fuck! Checking the block again to see if there was any change at the windows, he then looked back at the woman. "It's not for my sake, love. It's for yours."

  Examining his features, the woman appeared to be considering her next move.

  "Dean won't punish me for the biscuits, you know." Making a point to look at all of the other women, George then raised his eyebrows at her.

  She gave the packet back.

  "I'm sorry," George said as he shoved it into his pocket. "I'm truly sorry."

  "Not that sorry." Her eyes were nothing but slits now. "Not sorry enough to get us out when you had the chance. You're a fucking coward like the rest of them."

  Each word dealt him a physical blow that drained a little bit more of his strength. Standing there, he waited to make sure she'd finished. The abuse was no less than he deserved. The angry stares from the rest of the women agreed; especially Liz's.

  * * *

  After he'd walked around the tower block and seen nothing but shadows, most of which he was certain were projections of his own imagination, George returned to the truck. Sarah was still curled in a ball on the floor, her back pressed against the bars of the cage and her knees pulled into her chest. She looked up at him through big, watery eyes.

  The words 'it'll be okay' sat on George's tongue, but he couldn't say them. That was a lie he wasn't prepared to offer. Even reaching in to hold her hand was off limits. He looked up at the lit window and heard Dean's repeated comment about the women in his mind. "Don't touch the animals!" To help them would make their situation much worse than they could imagine.

  The younger sister moved towards George and said, "Why did you kill Chris?"

  Chris? Was that his name? A series of images flashed through George's mind, and he flinched with every one. The hammer turning slippery in his hands. The man's wide eyes, white against the claret running down his face. The loose jaw and lolling tongue. Resting on the cold truck, he tried to shake his thoughts from his head.

  "You seem like a nice man." She frowned at him. "You're not like the rest of them, so why did you kill Chris? What did he do to you?"

  'The prick used my name' suddenly seemed much less rational now the peer pressure from the gang had gone. 'I had to do what was necessary to save my sister' sounded nobler, but it probably wouldn't hold up either, especially as that was why he hadn't freed them. All this suffering for one person.

  Looking away from the girl's accusing eyes, he then turned to look at Liz. The softness he'd once seen in her face had been replaced with pure malice. It cut to George's core, and his heart skipped. Thinking no one could hate him more than he hated himself, he now wasn't so sure. While keeping his eyes on Liz, he replied to the girl in a whisper, "I'll get you out of here soon, I promise."

  Liz's eyes pinched, crow's feet spreading to her temples. Hatred, mistrust, bitterness, he couldn't ascertain which one. All of them were justified. Why was he even saying it?

  The young girl's voice wavered and stuck in her throat, "Please do, sir. I don't want to be taken into the tower block." At first, she looked down at her sister and then up to Dean's penthouse flat. Her wide eyes lost focus. "I don't want to go up there."

  Taking a breath, George held his reply when the swing doors to the tower block were kicked open.

  As Dean marched towards them, his loud words rode the condensation issuing from his mouth. "Stop flirting with the women, George."

  With quickening breath, George's hand felt for the empty packet in his pocket to make sure it was out of sight. How much had Dean seen? Had he been watching from the block the whole time? Did he see him feed the women?

  "Not feeling very chatty, eh?"

  A dry gulp did nothing to relieve George's throat.

  Pointing a thumb over his shoulder, Dean said, "We've been up playing poker all night. It was high stakes, and I lost." Looking at the women in the cage, he continued, "Ginge won. Slippery fucker." Laughing, he then said, "Anyway, the prize that he's won is a night with one of these beauties."

  The face of the younger sister fell as if all of the muscles in it had failed simultaneously.

  With his stomach lurching, George then shook his head. "No."

  The smile fell from Dean's face, and his dark eyes lost their spark. "No? What do you mean, no? I wasn't asking for your permission." His grip tightened on the hammer.

  In that moment, there was only Dean and himself. Wishing he had less layers on so he could move more freely didn't make it a reality, so George clenched his fists and took a calming breath. Looking at Dean's chest, George's martial arts training had taught him that was where the first sign of an attack would be.

  After looking down at George's hands and then back to the cage, Dean laughed and shook his head. Undoing the padlock, he pointed at the younger of the two sisters. "It looks like it's your lucky night, darling. You're Ginge's prize."

  When George swallowed, his throat pinched. Coughing away his heave, he stared at the back of Dean's head. The collective stare of the women bore into the side of his face. Why did he have to be the one to save them?

  Who was he kidding? He wasn't going to save them. He couldn't leave Sally. The tension slid from his body, and he looked at his toes.

  "No!" the younger sister called. The timing of it was almost as if it were in response to George's resignation. Her savior had bolted.

  Refusing to look up, George winced at her words.

  "Please. Please don't take me to him. Please. Anything but that."

  When George looked up, he saw Dean reach into the cage, and the girl withdrew.

  Gritting his teeth, Dean reached in further, and the girl pulled back again. "For fuck's sake!" Grabbing Sarah, he threw a jab across her face. It snapped her head back, and the wet crack echoed around the forecourt.

  When Sarah hit the floor hard, a couple of the women screamed.

  The younger girl covered her mouth and looked at her downed sibling.

  Dragging the now unconscious girl towards him by her hair, Dean raised his hammer. "If you want to keep her alive," he said, spittle spraying from his mouth, "then you need to be coming with me now!" The skin on his face was glowing.

  The fight fell from the young girl's frame, and she shifted towards Dean, taking his hand. Once she'd stepped outside, he threw her at George and locked the padlock.

  Looking down at the small girl in his arms, George screwed his nose up at the smell of piss and shit. Swallowing back the hot saliva running down his throat, George noticed she was looking at him with the slightest glimmer of hope.

  When Dean yanked her away, he laughed. "Steady on, love. You should save those sultry looks for Ginge. We don't want him getting jealous, now do we?"

  Watching them walk arm in arm towards the tower block, George's nauseous stomach tensed.

 
* * *

  After standing still for a time, staring at the closed door of the tower block, George looked over at Liz.

  A sneer sat on her gaunt face.

  Walking over to his truck, he took the opportunity to close the door that he'd previously left ajar. There was no worry about him waking Dean now. Slamming it shut, he pressed the button on the key fob.

  Shunk!

  With a spinning head, he had just one clear thought in the chaos. Sally might still be alive. As long as that was a possibility, everything else came second.

  Trust

  The stark winter sunshine found a gap in George's curtain and hit him directly in the face. The bright light stung and had obviously been on him long enough for a headache to form, a wet throb sending electric shocks through his temples.

  Pushing his heavy body upright took great effort, and George released a yawning groan. Every muscle ached. When his bare feet touched the cold tile floor, he flinched and pulled them back. After several deep breaths, he took the plunge and pushed them onto the floor again. The shock of holding them there increased his heart rate and threw his eyes wide.

  Parting his curtains disturbed a thick smell of mold that made the air taste of mud.

  There was a white dusting of frost on everything outside. It couldn't have been any later than about eight in the morning. If that was true, then he'd had no more than two hours of sleep. The dizziness and knotting in his stomach agreed with his estimate.

  Pressing his head against the window pane, the spiky sheet of ice on the inside burning his skin, he looked down on the women below. There was movement in the cage, and it didn't look like there had been any casualties since he left them although the younger of the two sisters was still absent. What was Ginge doing to her?

  Watching the prisoners, George noticed the blanket had gone. The ice scratched his forehead as he shook it. "Fucking arsehole."

  A rumble in George's stomach encouraged him towards the kitchen. Turning away from the window, he then stopped dead when the makeshift hinges on the gate outside creaked. Spinning back around, he saw Ravi slip out into the city. Where's he going? It must be a rest day. Why else would Ravi leave the complex? He should follow the boy. He wouldn't last five minutes if he ran into the wrong people out there.

  Last night's clothes were draped over the back of a threadbare chair, so George pulled them on. The cold and damp of the flat had bonded with the heavy fibres, and they sat against his skin like chain mail. They smelt as moldy as his curtains. That was unavoidable. Any longer than twenty minutes in this flat left everything smelling this way. Some men lit fires in their rooms to counter the damp. George would rather put up with the stink.

  The thick tang of bleach hit George's tight throat, and he coughed several times. Dean had someone clean the floor about this time every morning. The sky blue tiles glistened with the vicious, undiluted alkaline. It was the worst time to leave his flat.

  Once he'd recovered, and with his mouth tasting like he'd eaten soap, George grabbed the railing for support and took pigeon steps across the slimy floor. The descent was going to be slow, but rather that than end up broken at the bottom of the stairs.

  After only two flights, his tired legs started to wobble. He'd not had enough sleep. Every time he hit the next step, his legs shook and threatened to speed up his descent.

  Clinging onto the rail, he stopped to pull deep lungfuls of the chemical air into his body. It burned as he dragged it in, and within a few seconds he was coughing hard, every inhalation making the wet barks worse. The empty corridor amplified every sound. This was far from the stealthy exit he'd planned.

  Once the coughing fit had passed, he spat blood on the floor. Looking at the lump of phlegm on the shiny, clean tiles, he grinned and muttered, "Fuck you, Dean. Who's going to clean that up you OCD fuck?" It wasn't the first time he'd done it and it wouldn't be the last. Sometimes it was the little things that made this life bearable. One day, he planned to get up early and take a shit on the floor.

  Gripped by paranoia, he looked behind him to be sure that no one was watching. When he didn't see anyone, he moved on.

  Stepping outside, George fumbled at his zip and did his jacket up to his neck. Winter seemed to have lasted an age this year, and it showed no sign of letting up.

  With his shoulders tense and his jaw locked tight, he bit down as if the pressure of his bite would combat the effects of the wind.

  When he caught the tang of charred pork in the air, he looked over at the cage and realised he'd been wrong earlier. There were fewer women on the back of Si's truck. The two women who were on the edge had obviously fallen over. Either that or Dean had pushed them. Looking around, George saw smoke rising from the blue industrial skip.

  When he looked back at the women, he was met with Liz's fierce glare. After holding it for a second, he then dropped his head, turned his back on her and walked towards the gate.

  Walking over to John on the gate, George nodded. "You okay?"

  Staring at George, his eyes half closed, his jaw slack, John didn't reply.

  "I thought you'd be with Ginge right now." It made George's skin crawl, but he said it anyway. "You two share everything, right?"

  Squinting as if he were trying to locate the words, John sighed. "We did. Then he got that young bird last night." Hawking up a ball of phlegm, he spat it on the floor. "You find out who your mates are pretty fucking quickly when women are involved." Turning away from George, he stared into the distance. "I'd have loved a go on that little thing."

  Suppressing his shudder, George changed the subject. "I'm going out to look for some water nearby."

  John pointed out into the city. "Ravi's just gone for food. I'll tell you the same thing I told him: This area's been picked cleaner than a porn star's arsehole before a day on set."

  It took great effort to smile at the crude joke. Some battles were worthwhile. Telling John he was a complete prick wasn't one of them. With his clear learning difficulties, the guy was a passenger in all of this. "Well, I'll have to find someone willing to share their supply then."

  A wicked smile grew across John's stubbly face. He then opened the gate, the temporary hinges screeching in protest. "Good luck, George." With an expression as gormless as ever, he added, "Maybe you'll find some ladies out there to bring back."

  Passing the man, George was hit with the thick stench of body odor. It was strong enough to overpower the smell of burning bodies. Because there was no one to tell him to do so, John probably hadn't washed since everything went to shit.

  * * *

  Two to three hours had passed, and George had yet to see another person, only hints of them. A stirring in the darkness of an abandoned building. Shadows in alleyways. The sound of breaking glass underfoot.

  The smell of rotting food and human waste had been replaced with burning wood and molten plastic. Looking into the next building he passed, his chest tight, he scanned the dark and seemingly empty rooms for fire. People were easy to deal with—they yielded much quicker than flames.

  When he saw it was okay, he allowed himself the briefest moment of relief before moving on to the next one. He then repeated the process all over again.

  When would it get to the point where more buildings were burning than not? Would it be impossible to stop it spreading when that happened?

  Tiredness saturated the large muscles in George's legs, and they threatened to seize as he walked. Breathing was also more difficult with his lack of sleep, his heart pounding twice as hard as it normally would. Regardless of this, George pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. He wouldn't be beaten by his own stupid body, and he wouldn't be beaten by his fear of fire.

  Why had Ravi come out on his own? Why didn't he just tell George that he needed help? Too fucking stubborn, that boy. The streets were now a place for sharks and the brave. Ravi was neither.

  Pulling his face down into his collar stopped the wind getting beneath his clothes. Looking across at one of the only s
hop windows on the street that wasn't smashed, he stared at his reflection. Barrel chest. Muscular legs. Thick neck. He looked at his dorsal fin. He was a fucking shark all right. Plunging his hands deep into his pockets, he dipped his head into the oncoming wind and continued on. Ravi best fucking appreciate the effort.

  * * *

  George had been walking for hours, and the threat of cramps twinged in his legs. About every ten steps, one or the other side slightly gave way, wobbling him momentarily. He was yet to fall, but he felt closer to it with every passing second.

  Each blink stayed closed slightly longer than the previous one. His neck struggled to support his head. Two hours' sleep wasn't enough.

  Swinging his arms as he walked may have drained more energy, but it kept him warm in the sub-zero conditions. If only he could heat up his cheeks in the same way, the icy gales having turned them numb hours ago.

  The heavy veil of night was falling over the city as the sky turned a deep yellow. He had to get back soon.

  Looking across at an abandoned supermarket, George felt a pulling towards it. The large hole where the automatic doors once were showed that the dark space was free of fire. Checking both ways, he crossed the road.

  The frame of the old white doors lay sprawled on the floor amongst thousands of small pieces of glittering safety glass. Despite moving on tiptoes, the little pops and crunches were unavoidable as they crushed underfoot. Fortunately, the wind whistling through the shell of the building masked most of it.

  The old refrigerators in what was previously the chilled section were on George's left. The absence of an electrical buzz was deafening. All that was left on their shelves were dark stains and unopened bottles of rancid milk. They provided the perfect screen to hide behind.

  Once he'd moved in close and dropped into a defensive crouch, George heard a voice. Ravi? A second voice responded. Who's he talking to? With his pulse pounding in his ears, George slowed his breath. Once he felt calm enough, he moved along the line of fridges.