Crash

by Michael Robertson

  "Their women?"

  Finding the scene outside too upsetting, Chris looked at his son and brushed his fine hair from his wide eyes. "I don't think so; I think they've stolen them and taken them as slaves. It would appear that they're looting for women and girls as well as food."

  Although Michael only said, "Oh," his little face looked like he was trying to comprehend the fact. "Why would they steal women?"

  "Because they're bad men."

  Sounding hopeful, Michael said, "Do you think Mum and Matilda are in there? Maybe we could steal them back?"

  Another truth that Chris had chosen to withhold from his son was the whereabouts of his mother and sister, but now wasn't the time to reveal it. Looking out of the window again, pretending to scan the dirty and broken faces in the cage on the back of the third truck, Chris said, "I can't see them."

  "Hmmm," Michael said thoughtfully, and then added, "Do you think they'll leave my chocolate? I've been careful to make that last as long as possible. I've sucked just one square every night."

  Blinking the tears from his eyes, Chris pulled his son's ration-emaciated body tightly to him. Like everything else in the house, Michael smelt of mold. Chris shivered as he said, "Maybe." Clearing his throat quietly, he repeated, "Maybe. What we need to accept is that they will take whatever they want, and there are too many of them for us to argue."

  Michael said another, "Hmmm."

  Chris scanned the room again. With no television, no electricity, no gas and no physical energy because of their poor diet, the life they'd chosen beneath the bedclothes had seemed to be the most sensible option at the time. Chris didn't see what moving would achieve, especially as the open road stank of human waste because of overflowing sewers. The life he'd chosen for them had seemed sustainable. Or rather, it had until now.

  Looking again at the truck with the women, Michael said, "What do you think they do with the little boys? Will they take Tommy prisoner? Will they take me prisoner?"

  Looking at the leader and his blood-encrusted suit, Chris swallowed back the bilious burn rising in his throat and tried to speak, but his face buckled out of control.

  Michael, who was staring at what was happening outside with his jaw hanging limp, didn't notice.

  Drawing a thick and stuttered breath, Chris said. "I don't think they will. I don't think they make little boys prisoners."

  "Thank God," Michael said with relief.

  Looking away again, Chris blinked as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. He felt like a fool for not seeing this coming from a mile off because the signs had been there months before. He thought about the conversation he'd had with his boss just over a year ago.

  The Seed Was Sewn

  Having been summoned to his boss's office, Chris stood in the lavish room and looked around at the fine art adorning the walls. It was chosen in good taste, so he assumed that Dick had had nothing to do with its acquisition. A heavy walnut desk dominated the room, and the green leather chair that was reserved for guests was yet to be offered to Chris. The carpet he stood on was so thick that he wondered if a mower would be more effective on it than a vacuum cleaner. It felt like standing on a mattress. Looking everywhere but at his fat boss, who was currently devouring a whole roast chicken, the animal fat glistening off his ample chin and cheeks, Chris tried to keep his own lunch down as the thick greasy smell slithered up his nostrils.

  "PIGS!" Dick scoffed as a slippery lump of meat slid from his fat mouth and hit the desk like a slug.

  Hot saliva ran down the back of Chris' throat, and he pulled a huge breath into his lungs to try and stop himself from vomiting. As he gasped for breath in the hot room, he pretended that the air entering his body was cool and fresh. Looking at the rotund man with his mousy-brown short and spiky hair, his round head, his piggy little eyes, and his suit that always looked a size too big, Chris nodded at the chicken and said, "Still on the Atkins then?"

  Unable to get the food in fast enough, Dick loosened his tie and belched. The smell that hit Chris seconds later was like rotting offal. Chris suddenly had too much saliva in his mouth and gently heaved, but too engrossed in his feeding frenzy, Dick didn't notice. Shuffling over to the large window overlooking the city and rubbing his watering eyes, Chris divided his time between admiring the view and watching the glutton speaking with his mouthful.

  "Obviously." His fat face stretched into a childlike grin, his blue eyes turning into slits that threw wrinkles to his greying temples. "Anyway, PIGS, have you heard that's what they're calling them?" He seemed excited by the news.

  The sensationalist headlines dominating the tabloid media were hard to ignore, but because he couldn't say anything positive, Chris didn't reply.

  Lifting the paper he was reading, Dick said, "Portugal, Ireland, Greece, Spain--PIGS. I've also heard that Italy is rocking too. Those countries will be the death of us. And I bet we'll end up with more illegal immigrants stealing our benefits."

  The ignorance of the man was bad enough. The fact that Chris was beneath him on the company ladder made him feel positively suicidal. In spite of his internal resentment, Chris' face remained passive as he reminded himself that Dick got the job because of who rather than what he knew. Daddy was on the board. Having been sold the pretense that he was responsible for a group of hedge fund managers, the reality was that Dick did whatever he was told to do. Chris was sure he spent most of his day idle, his huge computer monitor seeing more porn than spreadsheets. Reminding himself that whatever he thought of this man, he pulled rank over him, Chris took a deep breath and said, "Anyway, Dick, how's Lucy?"

  "The old ball and chain?"

  Another thing about Dick was that he spoke in clichés. Chris offered a polite laugh and hoped his face didn't show what he really thought, or at least that his thick boss wouldn't notice.

  Fortunately, and unfortunately, Dick was permanently oblivious. "She's good... I'm afraid to say." Finding his own joke hilarious, Dick actually grunted while serving up a full-bellied laugh, his gaping chasm of a mouth flinging wide to reveal hippo-like teeth.

  Chris smiled again, wondering who the acronym was more suited to--Power, Ignorance, Greed, Stupidity. Smiling at his own thought, he then quickly dropped it when he realized what he was doing.

  Standing up to practice his golf swing, reminding Chris that at about five feet and nine inches, a good two inches shorter than Chris, this man was almost as wide as he was tall, Dick then said, "And how's Daisy?"

  Because Dick had a big voice and a poor awareness of personal space, Chris had to step back to stop himself feeling overwhelmed by the man. He then said, "It's Diane, Dick, and she's very well, thank you. She's still talking about your last barbecue." He left out the fact that it was for all of the wrong reasons.

  Tipping his plate to allow the chicken carcass to slide into the bin, Dick then shifted Sun Tzu's The Art of War on his desk so Chris' eyes would fall on it, which they did. Chris noticed that the adopted business manual looked like it had never been read. Dick then said, "Well, that's the one thing that can be said for Lucy--she knows how to throw a party."

  "That she does." Although Chris thought that if he had that much time and disposable income, he'd know how to throw a party too; he'd also do it a darned sight better than Lucy, and with much more class.

  Moving back into Chris' personal space, Dick placed a heavy hand on his arm. It felt like being pawed by a bear. "So what do you think about the whole situation with Greece?"

  Chris' blue eyes widened and he said, "It's scary. If they fail--"

  "We'll throw them to the dogs," Dick stated, shaking his head, which made his chin wobble. He then removed his fat hand.

  Looking at the grease stain left behind on his freshly dry-cleaned suit, Chris fought the urge to wipe his arm. "We may not have too much invested in Greece, but other economies do. It's all tied in so tightly that we can't afford to let Greece fail. The ripples will be global. This current situation isn't Greece's problem, it's Europe's."

>   Dick's sharp blue eyes were like lasers and were a clear indication that he didn't agree with Chris' sentiments. They also stood in stark contrast to his soft and swollen face. "Well, the board have asked me to speak to you because they want you to do whatever is possible to minimize risks."

  It was obvious, and common knowledge, that the fat man didn't have the first clue about what he was saying when he asked things of the people he managed. Today was no different. Chris was tempted to ask him if he wanted him to bail out Greece's failing economy, but he wouldn't be able to disguise the sarcasm. Another thing the porcine man was fond of doing was starting his sentences with 'The board have asked me to...' Sighing, Chris said, "Okay, Dick, I'll do what I can to minimize risks. Will that be all?" Chris could feel a headache crawling from his tense jaw into his temples. This happened often around Dick.

  Bending forward on one knee and arranging his hands like he was holding a cricket bat to defend against a fastball, Dick said, "I like you, Chris."

  Wondering which sporting activity Dick would imitate next, and half-expecting something as ludicrous as horse riding or swimming, Chris raised an eyebrow and lied, "Thank you. I like you too."

  "You're a real asset to the bank--do you know that?"

  His response was robotic and delivered with a deadpan smile. "Thank you, I try my hardest."

  "Well, keep it up because one of these days--" Stepping back, he ran his hands up and down his body on either side as if showing off a new line of swimwear. "--you could be in this position--standing where I am now." He bit his greasy bottom lip and rubbed his thumb across his index finger on his right hand before saying, "Earning the big bucks."

  "My salary's nothing to be sniffed at."

  Leaning in, the stench of chicken fat so strong that Chris got the horrible aftertaste of it on the back of his tongue, Dick said, "But it's not as big as mine."

  All Chris wanted to do was bury his forehead into Dick's fat nose. Instead, he said, "Anyway, Dick, it would be nice to shoot a few holes on the course sometime soon."

  "Definitely." Dick pretended to shoot him with his fingers and added, "See you around."

  Chris left the office without reply and closed the heavy door behind him. Once outside, he wondered how much more of this life he could take. If it weren't for his money-hungry wife, he'd have changed careers years ago.

  The New Status Quo

  Brushing the fine blonde fringe from his son's wide and frightened eyes, Chris was surprised at just how cold his skin was. Having had experience with dead bodies, he was chilled by the similarities. As he stared at his pale little boy, he barely recognized the child he'd become. Instead of growing into his young body as he envisioned happening through the years, he seemed to be pulling away from it. It was like his spirit already had one foot out of the door. Bending over and kissing his son's forehead, he then pulled back again so he could look at him and whispered, "The men outside are bad men. We don't want them to know that we're here." Chris looked back out of the window, the cold room and the thought of how sour their day could turn driving a shiver through his body.

  "What are they doing?" Michael asked, his immature voice ringing out, a shrill call to the men outside.

  Chris wasn't a violent man, but he panicked and grabbed his son by the tops of his arms, giving him a sharp shake. The boy felt flimsy, like he was made from wet cardboard. He then hissed through gritted teeth, "Shh, we need to be quiet. If they know we're here..."

  Michael's face fell slack, and Chris was gripped with remorse. He was wrong to expect his eight-year-old boy to understand the gravity of their situation. With his life experience up until this point, how was he to know how far men would go for power? One thing he did understand, however, was his father's wrath.

  Looking down at his toes, Michael squeaked in a tiny voice, "Sorry."

  Placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, the layers of padded clothing unable to cushion the sharp bones beneath, Chris found himself experiencing yet another example of just how poorly he'd been able to provide for him over the past few months. He was a small boy before the collapse of the world, now he was positively skeletal. "Don't worry about it, mate. I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have reacted that way. It's just..." He paused, hating that he had to admit it to his boy. "I'm scared. We need to be so careful. They can't know that we're here."

  Before Michael could reply, they heard Marie from number one scream. Chris' whole back tensed as his face flashed hot and then turned to ice again. They looked outside.

  Panic stole Michael's breath, and he panted as he said, "What are they doing?"

  Chris saw two springer spaniels circling Marie, Frank, and Tommy, who were being marched from their house and up their sloped driveway by several of the looters. The sight of these men leading the family like slaves to a ship pulled his stomach tight. He had to fight the desire to both vomit and shit. He swallowed against his drying throat as he watched on. Helpless. Dumb.

  Frank, the father, was a huge man at six feet and four inches. He had limbs like tree trunks and a jaw that looked like it could chew hand grenades. He worked in the city but was the kind of man that spent his whole time in the garden when he wasn't working. He should have been a landscaper, or a tree surgeon, but Frank, like many built in his mold, prioritized money over happiness. Because the bear of a man was such a threat, Chris assumed that was why Dean forced him to his knees and aimed a shotgun at his head. There were also three men behind him, weapons raised and ready to use. The men were a tight unit, flushing out and taking prisoners with military precision. Looking at his small and weak boy, and then down at the paunch protruding from his feeble body, he ruled out fighting for their lives when their moment came to react. After all, if Frank couldn't overpower them... His stomach pinched again.

  Tommy, who was Michael's age but had inherited his father's bulk, was led to the top of the driveway by one guard and now stood in the road, his slack boyish face drained of blood and his strong and fearful grip clinging onto his mother's hand.

  Marie was a curvy woman of Italian descent with big breasts and a round bottom. Chris often admired her from afar. She had beautiful curly brown hair, which still looked amazing, despite weeks of no running water. Diane, on the other hand, had ended up looking like a drowned rat. Two men pulled Marie towards the pick-up. At first, she put all of her energy into holding her boy's hand, but with one final, violent tug from one of the two men dragging her, her eight-year bond with her son was broken forever. Thrashing and writhing like demons were crawling beneath her skin, she screamed and spat, kicked and punched, cried and shook. Regardless of this, the men easily overpowered her.

  An overwhelming guilt saturated Chris because he liked these people; he'd even call them friends. Yet, when the chips were down, he sat by like an impotent idiot and watched on as they were dealt their fate. He didn't even have the slightest inclination to help. He wondered if Frank would do the same if the roles were reversed. Probably not. Frank was an honorable man that wouldn't let the actions of this gang go unchallenged. As they dragged Marie towards the truck, her naked ankles scraped along the bumpy road. It looked painful, but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she screamed his name, the repeated word exploding from her mouth with saliva and snot, "Tommy!"

  Chris only realized that he hadn't answered Michael's question when his panicked boy, who was still watching everything outside, spoke again, "What are they doing, Dad? What are they doing to Marie?"

  Chris sighed, the damp smell of mildew snaking into his sinuses. He then put an arm around his small son, who was shivering from what he assumed was a mixture of fear and cold, and said, "They're taking her away."

  At first, Marie resisted the open cage by pushing away from the truck as they tried to force her into it, but when the heavy boot of her captor was delivered into her stomach, she squealed like he'd just kicked some bagpipes and became instantly compliant.

  Michael, who flinched upon seeing his neighbor hurt, looked at the captured fam
ily and said, "But what about Tommy? He needs his mum. What about Frank?"

  Thinking about his own wife and daughter, Chris said, "You're right, mate, Tommy does need his mum, but sometimes we don't always get what we want or need." His whole world turned blurry, and he looked away.

  "Where are they taking her?"

  Chris didn't answer, instead he watched the cage door on the back of the truck get slammed shut and secured with a chunky padlock. The other women, of which there were about twenty, shuffled to make room for Marie. They watched the newest prisoner with apathy, their faces reflecting their broken souls.

  Frank then let out an almighty scream as if he was pulling his energy from the ground he was kneeling on. His face turned beetroot and veins stood out on his neck like ropes. His deep roar echoed around the horseshoe cul-de-sac like a gunshot in a quarry. He then stared at Dean, his face contorted into a gargoyle's grimace.

  "What are you doing with my wife, you sick fucks? You can take anything you want, but leave my family! Why do you need them?"

  Looking at the gathered looters, Chris could see how some of them were enjoying the process more than others. The ginger weasel with the tennis racket seemed positively excited by the proceedings. Stood behind Frank, he bounced on the balls of his feet and held his tennis racket like an executioner's axe, ready to strike. Some of the men watched from afar, guarding the trucks and looking around for signs of activity in the other houses. The two with Marie and the one with Tommy seemed nonplussed about their roles, performing them like they were farmers minding livestock. The only one in the group who looked regretful was George. It terrified Chris to see a man of his size and conscience having to go along with the group mentality to survive. If a man like this, with what he assumed were strong morals and a powerful physique, had no control, then Chris didn't have a prayer.