Crash II: Highrise Hell

by Michael Robertson

  Biting his bottom lip to repress the smirk, George looked at the mourners. How many of these fuckwits realize that Dean's starting a funeral service like it's a wedding? Looking over at Liz, who was glaring back at him, he raised his eyebrows.

  When she didn't respond, he scanned the cage. Some of the women were looking at the ground. Some were staring at him. When he saw the younger of the two sisters, a sharp pain stabbed his heart. The poor girl's face was battered and covered in lumps. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her skin had turned yellow as the bruising settled in. When George searched the rest of the cage, his stomach dropped. Where's the woman that Dean took up to his flat yesterday?

  George turned back around in time to see Si and Ginge struggling with bloodied sheets. Wrapped within the sheets was a large frame. Curly, brunette hair hung out of one end. Blue jeans out of the other. Bile shot into his mouth, and he gulped the bitter phlegm back down.

  The older of the two sisters wailed, and George looked across to see her fall to her knees. The teeth marks on her drawn cheeks looked like they'd turned septic. Liz continued to stare at him, hate shooting from her cold eyes.

  Watching his two men place the woman next to John, Dean sighed and then cleared his throat. "To join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men."

  Removing a tissue from the top pocket of his bloodied suit, Dean blew his nose and said, "John Simmonds never had a wedded partner in life, so the best we can do is to make sure that he has one in death." He looked from one wrapped corpse to the other. "John, do you take Marie to be your wife?" His mouth bent out of shape and he paused as if awaiting John's reply.

  Every drop of blood in George's body turned to ice. What the fuck am I doing here? All of the other gang members stood with their heads bowed. Feeling for the keys in his pocket, George looked across at the food truck. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

  "And, Marie, do you take John to be your husband?"

  There was silence, save for the girls sobbing in the cage. When George looked over again, he saw Liz rubbing their backs.

  Putting his hammer down, Dean pulled out a magnum of champagne and shook the bottle. Twisting his neck up as if a pain ran down one side of his body, he spun on the women in the cage, his livid skin on fire. "Shut up! Stop your fucking crying." Biting down on his tongue, he popped the cork at them.

  It hit the metal bars with a ping, and the girls fell silent. Staring at them for a moment longer, the champagne overflowing the huge bottle, Dean then turned back to the newlyweds and said, "I now pronounce you man and wife."

  With the same glassy stare, Dean proceeded to empty the remainder of the bottle on the pair. It seemed like the golden liquid hitting the fabric was the only sound in the whole of London. It seemed like everyone held their breath, George included.

  After the last drop had fallen from the bottle, Dean looked around and said, "Well?"

  Silence.

  His skin was aglow. His dark eyes had turned onyx. "Can I have a round of applause for the bride and groom?"

  The sycophants erupted in celebration. The women in the cage watched on. The irony that they were the ones being treated like animals while this fucked up posthumous ceremony was being conducted added to George's shame. Had everyone lost their minds? How did he end up a part of this? When he looked at Dean, he noticed he was still weeping.

  Clearing his throat, George said, "What the fuck is this?"

  Silence descended on the crowd, and a nerve twitched beneath Dean's right eye when he looked up. "What?"

  "This! What are you doing, Dean?"

  "Marrying John."

  "I can see that, but he's fucking dead."

  The suited lunatic raised the huge bottle and continued staring at George. Biting down on his bottom lip, he then brought it crashing down on John's head with a wet crunch. Milliseconds later, the tinkling echo of shattering glass danced around them.

  Weakness wobbled George's legs when he looked at the huge dent in John's cranium. It had warped his head to the point where he looked like he belonged in a dusty jar, frozen in amber fluid in a museum for freaks and mutants.

  With just the neck of the bottle in his right hand, Dean knelt down and drove it into the woman's gut with a loud grunt. The sheets ripped, and blood belched from the deep wound.

  He screamed as he stabbed her again, "You fucking idiots!" Steam shot from his mouth. He turned on John, "Why did you get yourself killed?!" Jumping to his feet, he wound his right leg back and kicked John in the guts. The wet thud was like he'd kicked a roll of carpet.

  The girls in the cage were crying louder than before.

  When George looked back at Dean, his wild eyes rolling and his jaw gripped nearly as tight as his fist around the bottleneck, he stepped back a pace. It wasn't worth the fight. Not today.

  Dropping to his knees again, Dean drove the bottle into the mess that he'd already made of Marie's stomach. "Why didn't you just take it, you stupid cunt?" Stabbing her again, the bottleneck now just six inches long, her glistening wound littered with broken glass, he yelled, "Why did you have to push me?!" Blood sprayed back at him as his arm fired like a piston. It seemed that he'd already forgotten George's challenge.

  Turning his back, George flinched with every wet squelch, and he shook as he stared at the ground.

  It was yet another reminder that he needed to get the fuck away from this place.

  * * *

  During the five minutes while Dean attacked the dead woman, George had his back turned and his eyes closed. When everything fell silent, George looked around, and every muscle in his body slackened.

  Dean was on the floor with his legs buckled beneath him. A pool of blood had spread around him, and all that was left of Marie's stomach, and the sheets covering it, was a pulpy, burgundy mush.

  When George was hit with the thick smell of shit, he pinched his nose and took several steps back.

  The splash back had painted Dean's face red. When he ran his tongue across his lips, George heaved. The suited lunatic then looked up at Si and Ginge, and a grin split his red mask. Staring for a moment, condensation from his breath puffing out in front of him, he nodded. "It's time." He giggled, tears still cutting a path down his face.

  Si slipped on the blood when he went for John's legs, but he managed to stay upright. Moving with pigeon steps, he bent and grabbed the man's ankles. Looking up at Ginge, who was frozen as he stared down at his dead and mutilated friend, Si said, "You ready?"

  A heavy frown crushed Ginge's face. Then it cleared, and he nodded.

  As the pair carried John to the skip, slipping as they walked on bloody soles, George then looked at Dean again.

  The smile had left the psychopath's face, and he was crying. Holding Marie's head to his stomach, he stared down at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen." The weakness in his tone was replaced with a low growl. "But you pushed me. You pushed me too far." Leaning over the woman, Dean then pressed his thumbs into her eyes.

  Turning away, George watched the women in the cage squirm.

  By the time he'd turned back around, all that was left of her eyes were two deep, red holes, and Dean's thumbs glistened.

  When Dean flicked his head in the direction of the women, the noise stopped. Silence hung thick in the air as if no one dared breathe.

  The tension was broken by the sound of Si and Ginge's steps on the metal stairs.

  When they got to the top, Si said, "One, two, three."

  They launched John into the huge, metal container, his body hitting the bottom with a booming thud. Then they walked back towards Marie's corpse.

  George jumped when Dean's hand shot out and grabbed Ginge's wrist. Staring at the gang member, Dean kept a tight grip on the broken bottle neck.

  "Uh, w... what's up, Dean?"

  Laughing and crying simultaneously, Dean titled his head to the side, his voice warbling with his giggles. "What are you doing?"

  E
yeing the makeshift weapon in Dean's grip, Ginge gulped. "T... taking her to the skip so we can get rid of her."

  Watching Dean's eyes roll, George pushed against his pocket and felt the outline of the truck's key again. There was a clear path from him to the vehicle. Swallowing to ease his dry throat, he looked from Dean to Ginge, the muscles in his legs twitching with anticipation.

  Running a hand through his matted hair, Ginge shook where he stood. "Shall I do something else?"

  Holding his stare for a few more seconds, Dean let go of Ginge's wrist and fell onto his back in hysterics.

  After stepping back a few more paces so he could be closer to his truck, George watched Dean laugh until he had nothing left. Laying in the puddle of blood, Dean stared up at the sky with glazed eyes and a docile grin.

  Leaning into Ginge, Si whispered something George couldn't hear. When Ginge nodded, the two of them lifted Marie from the ground, both men checking for Dean's reaction.

  When there was none, they carried on, making sure to skirt around their insane leader.

  As they walked away, Marie's head hanging out of the end of the sheets, George stared at the dark holes in her face. Looking down at Dean's thumbs again, George watched the man run his hands through the red pool like he was making a blood angel.

  Once they'd climbed the ladder to the skip, they tossed her in with the same final thud.

  Dean then jumped to his feet and stood to attention. Drips fell from his greasy hair, and the back of his suit was darker than the front. With a stony expression, Dean watched his men descend the metal stairs.

  When the suited lunatic turned around, George saw the blood was already drying against his skin. Focused on the cage with the women, Dean swaggered over and blew them a kiss. They all looked away. He then lifted a small can of petrol from the huge supply behind them.

  Focusing solely on the skip as he walked towards it, Dean's eyes glowed.

  The sound of his loafers on the metal stairs had the finality of an executioner walking up to the chopping block. It was hard getting the air he needed into his lungs, and George couldn't settle his pulse as he stared at the red, metal can in Dean's hand.

  When Dean got to the top, he smiled, undid the lid on the can, and poured the petrol in. The scars on George's ribs ached as the wet splash echoed through the huge container.

  Cracking up again, Dean giggled as he waved into the skip. "Bye bye, losers." Dropping the can and then resting both of his hands on the side, he laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

  Everyone else watched on in silence.

  When Dean lit the match, George's guts swelled, and he was overcome with the need to shit. The rushing wind of instant ignition boomed through the skip, and Dean quickly pulled his head back.

  George was nowhere near it, but he could imagine the hot blast. The choking smoke. His dying son.

  When the acrid smell filled the air, George heaved. It tasted like burning plastic. Fatty, burning plastic.

  Tears blurred George's vision as he watched Dean. Since they'd lived in the block, George had lost count of the bodies that had been burned. It was worse a few weeks back when they were taking over the place. The residents that refused to leave their homes ended up in the bottom of the skip. The stench had come close to driving George's sanity away. The screams still haunted him at night. Smelling the tang of charred pork now made his head spin.

  Whenever he looked out of the window of his flat, the skip was there. It fought for his attention, but he never looked at it. He didn't need anything else fuelling his nightmares.

  Where had it all gone wrong? Dean's manifesto was brutal, but the twisted logic had kind of made sense. The wealthy had had their time, and strength was no longer measured with money. But once he started taking the women, it moved on to something else.

  The cruel game that Dean was acting out wasn't about surviving anymore.

  Charred Pork

  Having been in his dark room for the past few hours, George had to squint against the low winter sun as he watched Dean pace up and down in front of him. Lined up with the other men for the address, George zoned out, their maniacal leader's monologue turning into white noise in his mind.

  Having spent the past few hours in his flat, George's sinuses were clogged again, and the taste of moss lined his throat.

  The sharp breeze, which was normally so invasive, felt good against his face. Breathing it in, George used it as a natural decongestant.

  After several deep breaths, the cold burning his nostrils, George's head felt clearer. The reward was to be hit with the too-familiar stench of charred pork. It was one of those smells that, once settled in, grew roots that stretched to the deepest parts of both his senses and psyche. It drove his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and it felt like his stomach was trying to crawl from his body.

  Once his guts had settled, George reconnected with his surroundings. With the exception of Ravi, all of his fellow gang members stood in awe. They seemed to love Dean's voice nearly as much as the egotistical prick loved it himself.

  What am I doing here?

  * * *

  After about ten minutes, the red-faced Dean was still going. Stopping in front of Ravi, he stared. Heavy breaths lifted and dropped his slim shoulders. When he jabbed his finger into the boy's chest, Ravi stumbled backwards.

  "What the fuck were you doing last night?"

  Ravi's mouth hung loose. "Huh?"

  When Dean stepped closer into Ravi's personal space, the boy pulled his head back. He looked too scared to step away.

  "What the fuck were you doing last night?"

  The smell of burnt hair hit George, and he scrunched his nose up. When it found the back of his throat, he coughed. Dean threw him an angry glare, which George returned with interest.

  Once Dean had turned his attention back on Ravi, George swallowed to banish the bitter aftertaste. It didn't help.

  There was a loud crack as Dean cuffed Ravi across his ear. "You were fucking sleeping, that's what you were doing."

  With a flushed face, Ravi shook his head. "No. I wasn't sleeping, Dean. Honest. I was—"

  Wham! Dean cuffed him again. "Don't answer me back, boy. You were fucking sleeping."

  Sleeping was better than the truth. George watched on. Ravi should take that charge.

  Looking up at the window to Ravi's flat, George saw Mrs. Vadher staring down. The kind woman was glaring straight at him. What did she expect him to do? Her son was a turncoat wanker who didn't deserve rescuing. Sighing, George turned away.

  When Dean pointed his hammer at George, the big man lifted his shoulders and clenched his fists. His heart pounded, and he frowned hard.

  "If it wasn't for George waking the whole fucking block up, we would have been fucked. You owe him big time."

  Although Ravi looked sideways, he didn't lift his eyes high enough to meet George's strong glare.

  Looking at George, Dean said, "What do you think about it?"

  When the boy still wouldn't look at him, George looked over at the women in the cage. They'd nearly lost everything. The women, the food. George's eyes narrowed. "I think you're right, Dean. I reckon he was asleep."

  Snapping his head up, Ravi's wide eyes searched George's face.

  Stepping forwards, George threw his arms wide. "Well, what do you expect me to say? You fucked up." Pointing up at the window to his flat, he added, "I noticed them from up there, so how the fuck did you miss them when you were outside?"

  Despite opening and closing his mouth, Ravi didn't say anything.

  When Dean pointed at George, a dusting of dried blood kicked away from his suit, caught the sharp wind, and rode the breeze. "See, you should have fucking noticed them." He pointed his hammer at the floor. "On your knees."

  Raising his eyebrows, Ravi looked from Dean to George and back to Dean. "What?"

  The glare of Ravi's mum burned into the side of George's face. When he looked up, she pushed her hands together as if in prayer. If only she kn
ew what a slippery little shit her son was.

  With his eyes closed, Dean pulled a long breath into his body. A shudder ran through him as he slowly exhaled. When he opened his eyes again, Ravi was still on his feet. "Don't make me repeat myself, boy."

  Falling as if his legs had given way beneath him, Ravi hit the floor and started crying.

  The slightest smile tickled the sides of Dean's mouth.

  Looking up at Ravi's window again, George saw Mrs. Vadher was also crying.

  "Apologize."

  "Sorry."

  "And now thank George."

  Shifting around on his knees, Ravi looked up, the light catching his glistening cheeks. "Thank you, George."

  "What are you thanking him for?" Speaking in a whiny tone, Dean mocked the boy. "Thank you, George." With his face on fire, he shook as he shouted, "Thank you for what?"

  Ravi tutted.

  By the time George had winced at Ravi's mistake, the boy was wrapped around Dean's steel-toe-capped boot.

  Hunched over on all fours, Ravi's mouth spread wide as he pulled air into his body.

  Winding his leg back again, Dean then lifted the boy from the ground with another kick. It flipped him over.

  When the smell of flatulence hit George, he pinched his nose. Once it had passed, he looked at Dean leaning over the boy, hammer in one hand, a clenched fist made with the other. Ravi's mum was still at her window.

  "Did you just fucking tut at me?"

  Crying, Ravi didn't reply.

  Kicking him in the side of his ribs, Dean leant over him. "Talk to me, you little fuckwit. I said, 'Did you just fucking tut at me?'"

  Ravi's mouth was stretched so wide it looked like it would rip. Snot dripped from his nose as he fought for breath.

  "Well?!"

  "Yes, I tutted." Shaking, Ravi continued, "I'm sorry, Dean."

  The next kick flipped Ravi onto his front. "First you tell me I don't give you enough food for you and your lazy family ..."