Pointing at the building and shouting loud enough for the people inside to hear, Dean called, "We're going to smash the door in and take everything!"
Freddie might have thought the orders were for his benefit, but George knew better. The mind games had begun. This was phase one of Dean's systematic destruction of those he was hunting. It was like an art form for the man.
Looking at the large windows, George couldn't see any signs of life. There were no twitching curtains. No silhouettes stirring in the darkness. No sounds from inside. Maybe Dean was wrong? Although it would be a first if he was. Besides, the houses rarely buzzed with activity when this motley crew were on their doorstep.
With his innards twisting, George imagined the family inside rushing around as they frantically tried to find a way to avoid the promised nightmare that was about to kick their front door in. Looking down at his dirty hands, George's head spun as he thought of the scared boy in the cupboard. Grabbing his truck to support his weak legs, he imagined the dad and the boy must have gone through something similar before they were caught.
Turning to his men and winking at them, Dean then shouted so loud his red face turned purple, and spittle shot from his mouth. "If there's anyone inside, we're going to fuck them up. We'll take the women, but we're killing everyone else." The full-bellied laugh exploded from Dean's body before he turned to Freddie. "This is how we roll, kid. This is how we get shit done."
The pale boy nodded.
Throwing the keys at Si, Dean pointed at their vehicles. "Make sure the trucks are open." With Freddie, Ravi, and Warren on one side and Jules and Naps on the other, Dean looked at the house and sang in his deepest voice, "Swing lo, sweet chariot."
A shudder wobbled George when the men's booming reply bounced off the walls of the house. "Coming forth to carry me home."
They moved forwards. "Swing lo, sweet chariot."
"Coming forth to carry me home."
Walking up the three marble steps that led to the black front door, Dean pounded his hammer against it.
Whack!
When it didn't yield, he hit it again.
Whack!
Other than two dents, the door held fast.
Dean screamed as he drove the hammer into it again.
Whack!
And again.
Whack!
And again.
Whack!
Each sharp whack snapped through George and made him blink.
Expecting it to take some time, George turned away from the lunatic and looked at the pig in his truck. The poor animal had been fucked for days. It didn't help that it was being buried beneath the looted food. It was a wonder its lungs hadn't been crushed already. While stroking its dry and cracked nose, he listened to its shallow breathing. The pause between inhale and exhale was growing to the point where he wouldn't be surprised if it stopped completely. Should he just kill the thing and put it out of its misery? Laying his large hand on its hairy face, he whispered, "There, there. Don't worry, mate, this will all be over soon."
The half-closed black eyes looked up at him, and the pig sighed.
Whack!
Whack!
Whack!
There was a movement in the corner of George's eye. When he looked up, he saw it was Liz. She had her arms spread wide as if to say, "What the fuck?"
Returning to the animal, George suddenly realized he was showing it more kindness than he had to her. Pulling his hand from the cage, he dropped his eyes to the floor.
The loud crack and rip of splintering wood tore through the air. They were in.
When George looked up again, he saw Dean stood hunched on the doorstep, panting as the gang filed past him. With his greasy, black hair, his wild beard, his blood-stained suit and his exhausted stance, he looked more like a lunatic now than ever.
Watching Dean enter the house, George looked up at the windows again. "Please be empty. Please."
The bright sun bouncing off the white walls turned the open doorway into a black hole. A dark mouth that belched the sounds of breaking crockery and tearing furniture as the gang worked the place over.
Flinching from every sound, George cringed when the first inevitable scream came. It didn't take long. It belonged to a woman, and it sounded like she was being ripped in two. That was about the only thing Dean hadn't done to someone. Yet.
Before George's mind could run away with the thought, Freddie emerged from the house with her. She looked about forty and had the lithe body of someone who worked out a lot.
When Freddie shoved her forwards, she fell down the marble stairs. The knock of her knees crashing against the stone floor made her cry louder, "You killed my little boy, you fucking arseholes."
Within a few seconds, Dean was outside, his suit damp with blood as he shouted, "Yeehaw!" With his dark eyes stretched wide, he laughed and then spat at the woman as he passed her. "He went down like a sack of shit, love."
The phlegmy saliva hung from her nose. "He was three years old!" Spraying a mixture of tears, snot and spit, she repeated, "Three!"
With tension clamping his large shoulders, George looked around for a weapon. He had to end this. Now.
Frowning, Freddie lifted her to her feet and restrained her as Dean laughed in her face. When he received Dean's nod of approval, Freddie started smiling too. "Fuck you!" he shouted at the woman. "Fuck you, you fucking whore!"
"That's exactly what we're going to do, son." A dark laugh bubbled from Dean.
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, George couldn't see anything to attack Dean with.
Spitting at her again, Dean then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. It left a line of blood across his face. "He wasn't a very tough three."
A week. If he didn't see Sally within the next week, then George was gone. Grinding his teeth, he stared at Dean. In one week's time, it would all be resolved. Even if that resolution meant George kicking Dean's door down and smashing the fuck out of the horrible cunt. Use his own fucking weapon against him. He'd take the keys, free the women, and get the fuck out of the complex. This had to stop.
Staring at his hammer with glazed eyes, Dean grinned. "Weak little skull. It cracked like a chicken's egg."
The woman's scream made George jump.
One sharp twist, and she was free of Freddie's grasp. While running at Dean, she wailed and slashed at the air.
Stepping aside to dodge her attack, Dean brought his hammer round. There was a hollow crack when he caught her left temple.
Turning bandy mid-run, her legs gave out beneath her, and she fell face-first to the floor. Skidding along on her cheek, she finally came to a stop as a limp corpse. Taking a life was effortless for Dean now. Breaking a door down seemed harder.
Staring at the woman with her cheek pressed against the floor, the bloody bruise on her temple, her wide eyes stark on her loose face, George then looked back up at Dean.
Jabbing his hammer at Freddie, Dean raised an eyebrow. "You've got to hold on tighter, sunshine. She could have fucked me up."
Even from this distance, George could see Freddie trembling. The boy watched the hammer as his grey tracksuit bottoms darkened around his groin.
As Dean focused on the boy pissing himself, his usual maniacal smile returned and his eyes glazed. "Don't worry, son."
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, Dean struck a match, used it to light his smoke, and shrugged as he flicked it away. "We live and learn." A sneer lifted his top lip, and the warmth left his face. "Now go back in the house and find some clean trousers. You look a fucking state."
When Freddie emerged from the house in a pair of what where clearly the owner's tracksuit bottoms, Dean pointed at him. "Wooowee! Easy, MC Hammer." With his cigarette in his hand, he started doing the running man while humming, "U Can't Touch This".
Jules and Naps then stepped outside with who George assumed was the owner of both the tracksuit bottoms and the house.
Tugging on Freddie's baggie slacks as he walked past, Jules winked at him.
"Looking good there, boy."
Not offering a reply, Freddie turned beet red as they pushed past with their porcine prisoner. The fat man was obedient to the gang's direction as they led him over to Dean.
The rest of the crew exited one by one with boxes and bags filled with food. Each one of them smirked at Freddie's trousers.
Dean watched the containers of food pass him, his smile subsiding. Then he turned to George. "They had a fucking banquet on the go in there." Nodding at the fat man, he shrugged. "Although I'd imagine it takes a lot of food for this cunt to feel full."
George didn't reply.
Holding his open palm out to Si, Dean caught the keys that were thrown at him and then tossed them to George.
Catching them, George opened the back of the truck so the men could fill it up. Each new load of food crushed more air from the pig's lungs.
Turning back to the house owner, Dean pointed the hammer at him. "You, on the floor."
All it took was a moment's hesitation for Jules to kick the back of his knees and Naps to shove down on his shoulder.
Wincing when he hit the ground, the fat man looked at his wife and then back up at Dean. "P... please don't kill me. I'll give you anything you want."
Dean's shrill laugh skipped over the city's silent rooftops and hurt George's ears. "What makes you think I'm going to kill you, fat man?" Without taking his eyes off him, he flipped the hammer and caught it again. "Besides, we're already taking what we want, so it's not like you have anything to offer me."
The man started crying.
"Although …" Dean said.
The man stopped and looked up.
"What are your blow jobs like?"
After sighing, George looked at Liz. As always, her eyes were on him.
At first, the house owner's face creased. Then he said, "I'll do anything you want, just don't kill me. Please."
Driving his right fist across the guy's chin, Dean leant over him as he fell to the floor. "Have some fucking dignity! Your boy and wife are dead, and you're prepared to suck a guy off to survive! What's fucking wrong with you, you fat cunt?!"
As Warren walked past them with food, Dean pulled an apple from the box. He looked at it for a moment, tossing it in the air and catching it again. He looked back down at the man. "Where did you get fresh fruit from?"
The man was hyperventilating.
"Come on, fat man, spit it out."
There was still no reply.
At that moment, Ravi emerged from the house. He looked at Freddie, and Freddie glared back. He then looked at the dead woman. It was the first time Ravi had been so close to the action. For a dark-skinned boy, George was surprised at how pale he currently was.
Flicking his head up at him, Dean said, "Go and get the boy."
It snapped Ravi from his daze. "But the boy's dead, Dean."
"I know he's dead, you fucking arsehole. Now go and get him."
Opening his mouth, Ravi then looked at the hammer in Dean's grip. Closing it again, he turned around and went back into the house.
Broken Britain
The air left George's lungs when Ravi emerged from the house with the tiny form of the little boy sprawled across his arms. His small mouth lolled open, his eyes extinguished like they'd never been ignited with the exuberance of youth.
Before Ravi could walk down the steps, Dean raised his hand to halt him. "Throw him."
When Ravi looked up, his face was as drawn as the boy's.
George tutted. "Fucking hell, Dean, what's wrong with you?"
With his face locked in a deep frown, Dean turned around. Bouncing on his toes, he ran the tip of his tongue out over his thin lips. "What?"
"I said, 'What the fuck's wrong with you?' It's a fucking kid. Another fucking child! Jesus, Dean, pick on someone that can actually fight back." Gritting his teeth, George stared straight into Dean's black eyes. "You're sick in the fucking head."
The rest of the gang fell silent. Even the sobbing man on the floor stopped.
Instead of answering, Dean turned to Ravi. "Throw him to me. Now!"
Ravi's face buckled.
"You're fucking mental." George tapped his temple with his right index finger. "You need to get checked out, mate."
Lifting the hammer, Dean stayed focused on Ravi. "If you take another step forwards, I'll cave your fucking head in, boy. Throw me the fucking kid. Now!"
It looked like Ravi was fighting against a body that refused to cooperate. Releasing a primal scream as if he were drawing on all of his energy reserves, he launched the dead boy.
The child flew through the air, his limbs loose, responding to their own independent physics without the muscle coordination to help them do anything but.
Holding his breath, George watched on.
Spreading his arms to catch him, Dean then stepped aside at the last minute. The tiny corpse slapped against the concrete floor. A dead fish hitting a pier. Leaning over the boy, who was on his back and staring up at the sky with blood leaking from the hole in his head, Dean then turned to George. With narrowed eyes, he laughed, his face remaining stony. "Cracked like a fucking egg."
Balling his hands into fists, George stepped forwards. Warren and Naps raised their weapons.
Looking at the two men, one stood on either side of him, Dean smiled. Hunching down, he prodded the kid with his hammer. "I may not like this spoiled little cunt, but don't worry, George, it's not all kids that I hate. I'll make sure your unborn niece or nephew are okay. They'll be safe with me."
"You're full of shit. You don't have a fucking clue where Sally is."
"I know exactly where she is, and if she's going to give birth safely, I need to get back to her soon. If anything happens to me, she's fucked. She won't get out of the room I have her locked in. And believe me, it's hidden enough that no one's gonna find her."
Searching Dean's face for the lie didn't reveal it.
Throwing George a wink, Dean then lifted the dead boy by his foot.
George turned his back and stared at the women's truck. Looking at the waste-covered floor, his eyes stopped on the charred leg again. Swallowing the phlegmy bile that rose into his throat, he looked at the women. For once, Liz wasn't watching him. Instead, it was the two girls from the close, now ugly from abuse, that stared back. Sunken eyes. Pale skin. Healing wounds. Greasy hair. The prom queens turned refugees. A heavy sigh rolled through George, and his attention left them when Dean spoke.
"I used to be at the bottom of society."
Dean was looking down at the fat owner of the house, dangling his little boy so close that the kid's dead face was nearly touching him. The man stared at his progeny and cried louder than before.
"I lived in a shitty council flat and got refused every job I went for. I was either underqualified or didn't have enough experience. That was when I was lucky enough to get a response at all from the people interviewing me. I went for a lot of jobs. A lot of shitty jobs." The frown on his face cast a dark shadow over his features. "I couldn't even get them."
After a deep breath, he voice grew louder. "I listened to rich twats like you, clueless Tory politicians like our wannabe prime minister and media-brainwashed idiots rant on about how good, hard-working families were being robbed by benefit scum like me."
Straining his ears, George picked the fat man's words out of his sobs. "I never said that about you. I promise."
Snorting a laugh, Dean sneered down at him. "You'd suck a man off to stay alive, so forgive me if I don't believe a word that comes out of your fat fucking mouth." Bending over, spittle spluttering from his thin lips, Dean said, "Anyway, we were blamed for the state of the country as if the welfare budget was the cause rather than the effect. We had no fucking jobs because that cunt Thatcher sold us out in the eighties." When Dean stepped closer to the man, his shadow smothered him. "All of the money went to wide boy cunts like you. 'Good, hard-working families' were cut adrift. They used to be able to make a living before Thatcher killed industry."
The tension in the air sparked and lifted gooseflesh on George's arms. Turning away again, he looked at Liz and heard the fat man shout, "Please. No, please."
Spinning back around, George balked when he saw the lunatic rubbing the dead boy's head wound in his father's face. "Fucking hell, Dean, what's fucking wrong with you?"
Looking at George again, Dean bit down on his bottom lip and then spun to kick the fat man.
There was a wet crunch as boot hit face, and George felt his own jaw weaken in sympathy.
Turning around to face George again, his shoulders wound up to his ears, the limp boy still hanging from his grip, Dean snarled. "The more shit you give me, the more I'm going to fuck this fat cunt up." Kicking the man again, Dean said to his victim, "Tell him to leave it."
With blood pouring from his mouth, the man slurred, "Leave it."
Shaking his head, George turned away from Dean and cringed when he heard, "Lick it. Lick the boy's wound like the animal you are."
The silence would have been complete were it not for the sound of a lapping tongue and the occasional giggle from Dean. Unable to stop himself, George turned to see the fat man's mouth and chin were red from his son's wound, lumps of flesh wobbling on them. Drawing a sharp breath stopped the heave in his throat. Fuck this! There was no way that Sally could still be around. She probably ran off the second everything turned to shit. Dean was fucking with him.
Marching over to Dean, who kept a hold of the limp corpse, George pressed his forehead against that of his brother-in-law's. There was a rich smell of blood surrounding him. The stench increased his awareness for the claret raging through his own veins. "Put the boy down."
"What the fuck's it got to do with you, brother?"
"I ain't your brother."
"Technically, you are."
As he looked down at the boy's chubby face and his dad licking the wound, George said, "Just fucking stop that, man."
Pulling away, the house owner then vomited on the floor in front of him.
Despite being fully aware of the entire gang raising their weapons, George said again, "Put the boy down."
"Are you threatening me?" Dean lifted his hammer above George's head.
Crash II: Highrise Hell Page 12
