Just before pulling the handle, the space that Dean's face had occupied was replaced with a blur of bodies as he was rugby tackled away from the vehicle. Unable to see where he was, George listened to him scream.
One of the boys appeared at the window next to George and punched it.
When he turned away, clearly to find something better to break it with, George dropped the handbrake and put his foot to the floor.
The truck bucked and shook as he rode it out of the complex. There was only one winner between him and the people in his way.
With the gate in sight, George saw Ginge fighting a tall boy. Grinding his jaw, he swerved at the greasy prick.
Thud.
Scream.
The rear view mirror showed Ginge spinning away from the impact.
Two-seconds later, George blasted through the gap in the open gate and out into the city.
Medieval
Wincing every time he shifted to the brake, the glass in the soles of his feet biting in, George gritted his teeth and continued on. Surely, someone was following him. To stop now to tend to his injuries would be madness.
With his throat still tight from smoke damage, George opened the window a crack and let in the icy breeze.
Locked tense because of the cold, the frigid air buffeting his ears, George watched the deserted city flash past. Where was he going to go? Putting his hand over his pocket, he felt the edges of Sally's letter through his jeans. How would he find her now? There was no way Dean was getting out of the block alive.
Swallowing against his dry and charred throat irritated an itch. After coughing several times, George took a huge gulp and shuddered at the taste of charcoal.
After a while, his throat loosened, and although his lungs still hurt, he was able to breathe more deeply. The cold from the open window was turning his hands numb on the wheel, but George wanted rid of the smell that clung to every fibre of his clothing.
Checking his rear-view mirror, he watched the trail of smoke leading from his old tower block to the sky. The toxic cloud was thick and dark, and it stood like the world's tallest skyscraper on the horizon. There were still no signs he was being followed, but with the amount of food he'd made off with, he couldn't afford to be complacent. Someone would be pissed that he had the truck.
Swerving around the occasional abandoned car, George continued scanning the streets. Other than the odd broken-down vehicle, the end of the world had happened with very little congestion. People had the time to think about their next move. Foresight, or lack thereof, was the killer, not traffic jams and fights over fuel. Sure, the place looked like a wasteland, but that all happened after the event. A case of wanton destruction rather than panic and hellfire.
When George entered a new street, he balked at the mess. It was worse than most. What had once been flagship stores and franchised restaurants were now shattered windows and empty shells. The shining example of the free, monopolized, market economy had been gutted and erased from memory.
With a throat so dry his saliva was a frothy paste, George looked over at the passenger seat for a bottle of water.
Then something caught his eye.
In the corner of his headlights, there was movement. It was a figure walking down a side road—a little boy. He was younger than a teenager. Maybe ten? Eleven at most. Dragging his feet as he walked, he had his head bowed and was staring at the ground.
Should he stop and help him? But what if it was a set up? Make the boy walk down the road, get someone to stop, and then rob them for all they had. The last thing he wanted was to be stripped naked and tied to a post while some horrible cunts made off with his truck and food.
Sighing, George shook his head, "You're too fucking soft, old man." Turning into the road, he pulled alongside the boy, checking the doors were locked as he slowed down.
The kid was as ruined as his surroundings. His hair was unkempt, and the skin on his face was black with soot. He looked like a chimney sweep and seemed totally oblivious to the big man's presence. A sharp pain ran through George's heart. Poor little fucker. There was no way he could leave him.
Slowing down, George looked into the recreation ground behind the kid. It was the perfect hiding place for those looking to spring a trap. It was impossible to see into the darkness.
Shaking his head, George drove past. It would be stupid to stop. There was too much in his truck worth stealing.
Watching the boy get smaller in his mirrors as he drove away, George noticed no change in his demeanor. There was no glance into the park to the people waiting for him. No care for anything else around. "Fuck it." Slamming on the brakes, needles digging into his foot, George shifted the truck into reverse and sped backwards.
Fishing a packet of stale biscuits from the pocket in the side of his door, he put them on the seat. Suddenly, he was the archetypal nonce, ready to offer a little boy something sweet. But what else could he do? The boy must need feeding.
When he was level with him, the kid still didn't look up. Winding the passenger window down, George leant across the seats. "Hey, kid."
Nothing.
Coughing several times before shifting it into drive, George trundled forwards at the kid's pace. "Kid, what are you doing out this late?" An old world habit to ask where his parents where; that question didn't seem appropriate anymore. The kid's broken form told him enough.
As he awaited a reply, George scanned the shadowy park for movement. "Hey, boy, do you want some food? I have biscuits."
After about thirty seconds without response, George grew irritable and blared the horn.
Jumping so high his feet left the ground, the kid looked across, wide-eyed and loose-jawed.
"That got your attention then? Good! Who are you? What are you doing out this late?"
The kid's face dropped.
Pointing at him, George said, "Fuck! You're the boy. The boy in the burning house. The boy whose dad ..."
The boy's temporary paralysis lifted, and he bolted into the park. Within seconds, he was swallowed by its dark veil.
Stopping the car, George stared into the black void. There was no chance of finding the kid in there, and there was no way he was leaving his truck unattended.
Getting out of the truck, the big diesel engine the only thing he could hear, George winced as he walked and scanned for opportunistic robbers.
Confident he was alone, George leant in through the open passenger window and retrieved the packet of biscuits. Placing it on the grass, he cupped his mouth. "Hey, kid, there's some food on the grass for you."
After a few minutes, George got back into the truck and continued staring into the park. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed, "Well fuck me, the kid's alive."
Shifting the car into drive, he moved away, glancing back in case the small figure came out and took the food.
He saw nothing.
Driving on autopilot, George bit his lip and stared ahead.
When London Bridge came into view, he snapped out of his daze. It was like he'd gone back in time. Slowing down, he looked at the hundreds of corpses hanging over the water. It looked like they'd been tied up and thrown off, necks undoubtedly snapping when they reached the end of the rope.
Stopping before he crossed the bridge, George pulled a screwdriver from the bag of tools beneath his seat. Taking a deep breath, his tight lungs burning, George kept the weapon in his grip and drove forwards.
When he was on the bridge, it was impossible to see the corpses. The only thing that gave them away was the amount of rope tied around the railings.
Once on the other side, he stopped and looked back at all of the dead bodies. There were at least three hundred of them, swinging like creaking wind chimes.
Feeling the outline of Sally's letter in his pocket again, he gulped hard. How could she still be alive in a world like this? Dean was lying. He must have been.
Closing the windows, George drove away.
The End
Read More Work by Mi
chael Robertson
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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 II: Highrise Hell Page 18
