Crash II: Highrise Hell

by Michael Robertson

  "Put the boy down. You've killed him already. Isn't that enough?"

  "No, it's not enough." Dean tilted his head to the side. "You'd best watch yourself, George. You're on very fucking thin ice."

  George could feel it creaking beneath his feet. "I don't care." Snatching the boy's left arm, George yanked him hard. Hoping the corpse would slip from Dean's grasp didn't make it a reality, and suddenly, both men had a strong grip on a cold limb.

  Tears stung George's eyes, and he spoke through gritted teeth, "Let him go. Now."

  "George, you're my brother-in-law, which is why I'm so fucking tolerant of you." The hammer twitched in the air, ready to come crashing down. "I love your sister, and I know you'll be a good uncle."

  "You love her enough to fuck all of these women every night?"

  Sighing, Dean said, "But I swear, if you don't give this up, I'm going to drive this fucking hammer into your head. Only one of us can walk away from this if it goes any further." Turning to the gang surrounding him, he said, "And you don't have any backup."

  Looking across at Liz, George saw her gently shake her head. Holding her glare, he saw her do it again. Letting go of the boy's arm, George watched the small cadaver swing in Dean's grip.

  Dean stared at him for a moment longer, his red skin burning and his eyes wild.

  Turning his back on the man, George trudged towards the truck.

  The lonely walk was accompanied by Dean addressing the fat man, "Say sorry."

  "Sorry."

  "Fucking hell, fatty! Have you got a guilty conscience or something? I didn't even say what for."

  The tone of Dean's voice had changed. It had more gravel in it. It was the voice he used when his head had gone. Inhaling and then releasing a stuttered breath, George dragged his feet and continued on towards the truck to wait for the inevitable.

  Upon reaching his truck, George waited by it and turned around to watch Dean.

  With the boy still hanging from his outstretched arm, Dean stared at his dad. "Open your mouth!"

  Knelt on the floor, the man regarded his boy through watery eyes before looking up at Dean.

  Raising his hammer, Dean lowered his tone and spoke slowly. "Open your fucking mouth!"

  With a wobbling jaw, messy with his child's blood, the man's resolve cracked, and he opened it.

  "Wider than that, you fat cunt." Dropping the boy, who hit the concrete face first, the rest of his flaccid body piling down on top of him, Dean pointed over at George. "Open it like you're about to suck his cock." Laughing, he said, "Maybe he needs that to calm him down."

  Fighting against the frown, George watched on. The right time would come. When it did, he was taking Liz and the food. Leaning against the cold truck, aware that at least half of the group were looking at him for a reaction, George kept his attention on the fat man, who opened his mouth so wide his jaw disappeared into his chins.

  After Dean had reached into his suit pocket, his hand shot at the man's mouth, culminating in a loud crack that bounced off the white walls of the house.

  The man's muffled scream shot out. It was only when Dean got out of the way that George saw the apple the man was now biting on.

  As snot shot from the man's nose, Dean looked around and said, "Look, boys. Hog roast."

  Some of the men laughed.

  Pointing his hammer at the floor, Dean said, "On your belly, fatty."

  A shove from Naps encouraged the large man to fall forwards. With his hands still tied behind his back, his ample gut absorbed most of the fall. When he landed, his face was once again next to his son's. He closed his eyes with such force, his head became a mass of wrinkles.

  Leaning down, Dean said, "Open your eyes. I want you to look at him." Shifting the dead boy with his foot, Dean made it so their faces were touching. "The kid was destined for greatness, eh? Well guess what?"

  The man still had the apple in his mouth as he looked up at Dean and fought for air. Tears ran down his face.

  "I've seen plenty of amazing kids fucked up because of poverty. Because greedy cunts like you have all of the money and think it's because you've worked hard." Pointing his thumb at his chest, Dean's top lip curled in a snarl. "You judged us. Called us 'benefit cheats', 'lazy', 'the problem with the state of this country', 'chavs'. We were living on the fucking breadline, you fat waste of space. You and your tax-dodging mates lived lives of luxury, paid fuck all tax, fucked the financial sector up, and then told us that we were the fucking problem." Dean jabbed a finger at his own temple. "That's fucked up."

  After a slight pause, Dean said, "You used to have power in society. You used to be the one controlling things when money had any meaning. But it was never real. The only value it had was what we attached to it as a society. When it stopped working for most people, it was rejected, and what were you left with? Fuck all! A fat man in a suit used to be a symbol of power. Now it's a symbol of greed and weakness. I wear this suit just to show you how much a man in a three-piece can ruin your fucking life, you horrible cunt."

  When Dean lifted the dead boy again, George shook his head and opened his truck. Getting in, he slammed the door. Once more, he became the focus of most of the gang's attention. Staring straight at Dean, who returned his gesture, the hammer down by his side, he flashed a facetious grin, put the key in the ignition and twisted. The powerful engine shook the car as it came to life.

  Display Model

  When the well-manicured Ravi came over and rapped his knuckles against the window, George wound it down and stared at him.

  Unable to make eye contact, Ravi looked at the floor. "Dean wants to know what you're doing."

  The boy still stank like the perfume section of a department store. "Warming up." When Ravi didn't move, George nodded at Freddie. "He knows you, doesn't he?" George wound the window back up again before Ravi had time to answer.

  The fans were up full, the loud whirring preventing George from hearing anything outside the car. Resting his hand over one, he let the heat from it run up his sleeve and stared straight ahead.

  It was easier to watch Dean when he couldn't hear him. The arsehole dropped the boy and walked over to his truck. While this was happening, Naps and Jules pulled the fat man up so he was kneeling again. They made him bow his head.

  A cold chill ran through George when he saw Dean produce a sword. "Fucking hell."

  Throwing practice swings through the air as he walked over to his prisoner, George flinched and looked away.

  After a few minutes, George looked back, expecting to see a beheaded man. But he was still kneeling, and Dean was shouting at Freddie.

  At first, Freddie backed away. That was until Dean's body snapped tight, his mouth flapping as he became more irate. The powerful fans and closed windows made it impossible for George to hear what he was saying.

  Freddie stepped forwards.

  When the boy was close enough, Dean held the sword out to him, handle first.

  Popping the door open, the bitter air rushing in, George got out of the car. "Dean!"

  Dean looked over.

  "Leave the boy alone. You should be doing this, not him, you spineless cunt."

  A huge grin spread across Dean's face, and he turned to Freddie again. "It's time for you to do your bit, son."

  Shaking his head, Freddie then stared at the weapon. "I can't do that. I can't kill someone."

  Looking at all of the other gang members, Dean laughed. "Is poor Freddie too sensitive to take a man's life?" The humor left his voice when he stepped into the boy's personal space. "It's kill or be killed, sunshine. Those are the only two choices you have."

  Taking the sword, the long weapon wobbling in his grip, Freddie looked at Dean.

  "If you don't do it, I'll put you next to this fat cunt and make you watch him lose his head first, just so you can see how much you're going to suffer."

  The fat man cried, and George noticed a small puddle gathering around his knees.

  It looked like it took all of Freddie'
s effort to move towards the doomed man. When he got close enough, he lifted the sword above his head, his arms still trembling.

  "Don't do it," George whispered.

  Both Freddie and the fat man screamed as the blade swung in a fast arc through the air. The glistening steel sparkled in the winter sunshine. Turning away, George went weak when he heard the dull thud.

  When the expected silence was filled with the fat man's scream, George spun around and covered his mouth. It didn't take his fucking head off?

  Crying, Freddie wound up for another swing.

  It ended with the same damp thud.

  The man screamed.

  Roaring through clenched teeth, Freddie hacked at the man again and again.

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  Each swing ended in a damp squelch and another scream from the victim. Blood spilled from the wound and ran around the front of the man's neck before spilling on the floor. Dean bounced on the spot, giggling and rubbing his hands together.

  Each of Freddie's cries sounded more exhausted than the last.

  Shaking his head, George flinched with every hack.

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  It felt like it had gone on forever, but the next shunk reduced the two screaming voices to one. In that time, George still hadn't looked up. Despite hearing the fat man's suffering come to an end, George's heart wasn't any lighter. Listening to a boy being reduced to a quivering mess was as upsetting as any murder he'd witnessed. Even the one that still stained his hands.

  George was just about to lift his head when he heard Dean say, "Keep going. Take his fucking head off, you pussy."

  With slumped shoulders, George continued to look at his feet. When he blinked, a tear fell to the floor. Another family destroyed by the vile excuse of a man. Another life extinguished to make a point. Innocent people were dying because of a chip Dean had on his shoulder from a capitalist system that was now defunct.

  Wailing like he was being skinned alive, Freddie grunted, and George had to listen to it all over again.

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  Shunk!

  Dean's shrill cackle filled the space in between each wet squelch.

  At least fifteen minutes of throat-tearing screams, Dean's maniacal laugh, and shunks passed before there was a heavy thud. A medicine ball hitting concrete followed by silence. Looking over at Liz, George tapped his temple. Like she didn't know Dean was mental. When he looked up and saw Si was watching them, his stomach twisted.

  A subtle smile lifted Si's mouth. Nodding first at Liz, he then winked at George.

  Freddie remained on his knees, crying and vomiting.

  Standing over him and tapping his foot, Dean waited for the boy to stop. "That was fun now, wasn't it?"

  Freddie didn't respond.

  "I'm guessing that was your first kill? You did well." Covering his mouth, he then laughed through his nose, "Considering I gave you a blunt katana."

  George gasped as the men surrounding the pair erupted in laughter.

  Looking up at Dean, Freddie's eyebrows pinched in the middle. "Blunt?"

  "I know. Stroke of genius, huh? I mean, the effort it must have taken you to cut that fat cunt's head off with an ornament. It must have felt like trying to cut a tree down with a brick." Winking, Dean then lowered his tone. "Just in case you hadn't worked it out, I did it to fuck with you."

  The boy dropped his head and didn't reply.

  "Did you seriously think that I was going to let you into this gang? No fucking way." Pointing, he shook his head. "You broke into my home and tried to rob me."

  Jules and Naps stepped forward and pushed Freddie over. He fell without resistance. They used cable ties to secure his hands behind his back. The way he'd been restrained forced his face into the pool of the fat man's blood on the floor. The scarlet liquid sprayed up from his heavy breaths, but Freddie didn't even seem to notice. He looked lost inside his own head.

  Spinning around, Dean stopped and pointed at his truck. "Throw him on the back."

  As Dean walked towards him, George stared, and his whole upper body tensed. In his peripheral vision, he saw Freddie launched into the truck. He hit the metal floor face first with a thud and a squeal.

  They continued to stare at one another as Dean retrieved the keys from George's top pocket. He smelt like an abattoir. He then walked around to the back of the truck and locked the cage.

  When he came back around, George having watched him the entire way, Dean spread his arms wide. "Have you still got a problem?"

  Staring at the man, George didn't reply. He had a huge fucking problem, but now wasn't the time.

  Shaking his head, Dean spat on the floor between them. "Pussy." Walking over to Si's truck, he locked the cage before returning to his own vehicle. Leaning inside the cab, he pulled out a Molotov cocktail, lit it, and threw it through a downstairs window with a loud crash.

  After watching the flames grow for about thirty seconds, Dean jumped into the cab of the truck, tooted the horn, and started his engine.

  George got back into his truck too, and Ravi slid in beside him. The chemical stench of bad aftershave filled the confined space. For once, the Indian boy had no words. All he did was stare directly ahead.

  Before he pulled away, George looked at the three dead bodies and burning house. He had to end this. There was no way that Sally was still with Dean, and the longer George spent with him, the harder she would be to find.

  Capitalist Pig

  Standing by the trucks, the fresh air biting into his exposed face and the smell of charred pork hanging in the air, George gulped to stop himself coughing and watched Dean pace up and down in front of them.

  The sky had clouded over, and it felt like the first time in days that George didn't have to squint because of the sharp sun. It was well into the afternoon, and the air around them was thickening with the onset of night. It wouldn't be long before complete darkness descended on them.

  All George had to look forward to was another evening of lying in his bed, wide-eyed with his senses turned up full as he listened to his surroundings. In the quiet dark, the shadows came to life, and the voices in his head roared.

  The extra layers that everyone wore made their arms, chests, and legs puffy. Dean was the only exception, parading about in a suit and trench coat as if it were April.

  When the rant started, George cringed. Here we fucking go again.

  "If you're working for me, you have a right to stay here."

  The words came out before George could stop them. "Fucking hell."

  Stopping in his tracks, Dean turned on him. "Problem?"

  "No, Dean, not at all. I love listening to the same fucking speech every fucking night. Please carry on delivering your manifesto." Levelling a dead stare, George snorted air from his nose. "It's so fucking enlightening."

  A pulse twitched beneath Dean's right eye.

  George glared at him.

  Setting off again, Dean marched up and down, staring at each gang member, clearly looking for an excuse to kick off. None of them rose to the challenge. When he returned to George, his entire body was wound tight.

  Leaning ever so slightly forwards, George clenched his jaw and looked into Dean's dark eyes.

  Holding his stare, Dean addressed the group, "If you have loved ones that you want to protect, then they have a right to stay here too. If they contribute, they get fed. If they don't, they only get a bed." He then moved on to Ravi. "I'm talking about the two old cunts you have living with you."

  When George cleared his throat, Dean stopped again, his shoulders pulling tight to his neck.

  "You do realize, Dean, that your looting has created abundance, right?"

  Dipping a sharp nod, Dean smiled. "Too fucking right." Looking around at the gang, he continued to grin. "I want to make sure that the people who roll with me get looked after."

  "Yet, despite this abundance, you're deny
ing people like Ravi's parents?"

  "They don't fucking contribute."

  George had him. Narrowing his eyes, he said, "Isn't that what people said about you when you couldn't find a job? Aren't you creating your own capitalist society with exactly the same problems you complained about? Does that make you the oppressor now?"

  Straightening his back, Dean's dark eyes shifted in their hollow sockets. "No. This ain't a democracy. It's my way, or fuck off. Simple. I ain't selling any illusion."

  Turning his back on George, Dean retrieved a box from the food cage. While walking back down the line, he dished the food out. "Apples again, boys. Make the most of it because it won't be long until everything we eat comes out of a tin." When he got to Ravi, instead of giving him a tin of beans with his apple, he gave him a tin of dog food. "Feed this to your scrounging parents. You're a fucking drain to me, boy."

  George scoffed, but Dean ignored it.

  Looking down at his reward, Ravi kept his head bowed.

  That wasn't good enough for Dean. "Well?"

  The boy looked close to tears when he looked up. "Thank you."

  Throwing his head back, Dean threw a laugh at the sky. Some of the other gang members joined in.

  When Dean got to George, he had a bounce in his step. Taking the offered apple and beans, George said nothing.

  Raising an eyebrow, Dean stopped. "You okay, big man?"

  The rich smell of blood coming from Dean's suit made George scrunch his nose up. Wrapping his hand around the can, he looked at Dean's temple. A hard blow would turn the cunt's lights off.

  The space between the pair grew thick with tension. The hairs on the back of George's neck lifted. At that moment, it was just Dean and him. Drawing deep breaths to keep him focused, George squeezed the can harder.

  Although Dean laughed, his face didn't. The smile then vanished. "George, I know we're related, man, but you're taking the piss out of me now. I can't let this insolence continue."

  "That's a big word for you."

  Biting down on his bloody bottom lip, Dean's nostrils flared.

  Staring at the crusty claret that spiderwebbed through Dean's stubble, George swallowed. Hopefully, his face was infected. A slow and toxic death was exactly what this nasty cunt needed.