Crash III: There's No Place Like Home

by Michael Robertson

  When he turned to George, the big man shrugged. “You ready to leave?”

  Of the fifty or so boys in the warehouse, every one of them remained where they were. Michael looked up at George. “What are they doing? Why aren’t they moving?”

  “They’ve been here too long.”

  “Surely that would make them want to move more?”

  The sides of George’s eyes pinched as he winced. “Sometimes, people become so accustomed to a certain way of life, especially one as brutal as the one they’ve been living, that they’re too broken to leave it.”

  As he looked at the boys, Michael opened and closed his mouth several times but couldn’t find the words. He eventually sighed and turned to George again. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Breakfast

  In the time Michael had been away, George had found a new house to live in. It was a good thing because the old place reminded him too much of Lola. Just thinking about her made him tense. As he walked down the stairs, he stretched the tiredness from his body and winced against the shrill peep of the fire alarm.

  "What time is it?" he said to George as he watched him dance around the kitchen, waving a tea towel through the air as if it would banish the smoke.

  After looking out of the window at the spreading daylight, George shrugged and said, "Morning," then continued wafting the air beneath the alarm.

  It had been a week since George had rescued him from the warehouse, and the aches and pains from his time there still tugged at various parts of his body. They’d diminished for sure but not completely vanished. A few more days and they should be gone for good.

  Before he stepped off the bottom stair, Michael held onto the banister and rolled his hips from side to side. One of the boys in the warehouse had hit him so hard in the back, he had a deeper pain there than anywhere else. As he rocked, lightning rods of pain ran both up his back and down his thigh.

  George gave up on the fire alarm and stared at Michael. "You okay, son?"

  Michael nodded. He didn’t have it in him to shout over the annoying noise.

  The house used to belong to a family of four; a mum, dad, son, and daughter. George had called it a nuclear family—whatever that was supposed to mean—and whenever Michael looked at the family photos on the walls, he expected them all to glow green. When he told George that, the big man said he’d watched too much Scooby Doo. He missed Scooby Doo.

  The boy of the family was named Connor; or so it said on the schoolbooks that he’d left behind in his room. Although he was an academic year older than Michael, they were of a similar size. His clothes weren’t a perfect fit, but they were good enough and a damn sight better than a pink tracksuit. Whenever Michael looked out into the back garden, he saw the dark stain on the small patio from where he and George had burned the horrible clothes.

  The family must have left in a rush because Conner left a lot of things behind. In a week, Michael had been able to wear a new outfit each day. It would be at least a month before he had to even consider washing anything. The soft brush of clean clothes against his skin felt good as he continued trying to work the aches from his body. Today he'd chosen blue jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a red hoodie. Beneath that, he had some Calvin Klein boxer shorts and thick hiking socks on his feet. It felt almost as good as having a warm shower.

  The fire alarm stopped as Michael walked to the kitchen table. When he sat down it went off again, the loud noise hurting his ears and causing him to cringe.

  George flapped a tea towel beneath it again until it stopped. When he saw Michael looking at him, he half smiled.

  “I know, I know. It’s bloody annoying and it wakes you up every morning." He turned to the fire pit in the sink, wafting the smoke away from the alarm as best as he could. "Although getting you out of bed in the morning isn’t the worst thing. I know what you kids are like. You’ll sleep until it’s dark if we let you.”

  When Michael pulled a face, George added, “Anyway, it’s staying. It's too fucking cold to cook outside and there’s no way I’m sleeping in a house without a fire alarm. If only I was more fucking cautious years ago.”

  Michael couldn’t argue with that; not with knowing that’s how George had lost his boy.

  George turned back to the grill spread across the sink and jabbed a fork into the meat sizzling on it before lifting it off and plunking it on a white plate on the kitchen worktop. After draining a steaming pot of sweet corn, he tipped that next to the meat and slid the food across the table to Michael.

  George then handed him a half-full bottle of water. “We’re running a bit low, but the rainwater’s building up. I’ll boil some of it tonight so we have more for tomorrow.”

  The plastic bottle crackled as Michael undid the lid and took a sip. It tasted like dust. Like it had been in the bottle too long and had spent the past year on the back seat of a car. But it quenched his thirst and there was no room for fussiness in this new life.

  The house had a very similar set up to the one they'd stayed in with Lola. Open plan downstairs with a great view of both the front and back of the house. The back garden had walls surrounding it and it was large for a London property. Like the last property, it had gates across the front and, as before, George had blocked them with the battered truck.

  Michael returned his attention to his meal. When he cut through the meat, his knife chinked against the porcelain plate. In the aftermath of the alarm, the silence hung heavy.

  “You still having nightmares, kid?”

  Michael looked up at George; heat flushed his cheeks, and his tongue suddenly felt too big for his mouth. He nodded and dropped his eyes back to his breakfast.

  “Figured as much. I hear you screaming at night. I can’t believe Lola sold you out. What a bitch.”

  They’d already had this conversation several times. What did George hope to achieve by going over it again? Although Michael didn’t reply, he stared at George and raised his eyebrows.

  George lifted his hands as if it were a stick up. “All right, I get it. Drop it, right?”

  The nightmares had been with Michael long before Lola sold him out. Every time he closed his eyes, the first thing he saw before reliving the darkness of the warehouse, was his dad’s death. He saw his skull caving beneath the heavy blow of a hammer long before he heard the boys’ screams. But how could he tell George that?

  As Michael chewed another mouthful of the salty meat, he said, “What is this?”

  “Vegetarian bacon. It’s the only stuff that’s still edible.”

  “It tastes all right, you know?"

  George shrugged, taking the compliment as if he'd created the faux meat.

  "What happened to the pig that was on the back of your truck?”

  George sighed. “It died. It was in a bad way. We should have eaten it when we caught it. It would have been fairer to the pig, and we wouldn’t have had to waste the meat. But Dean didn’t like doing anything that wasn’t his idea. I think he enjoyed watching it die, to be honest.”

  Just the mention of Dean made Michael shudder. After spooning the last of his corn into his mouth, Michael chugged it back with another guzzle of stale water. Michael had stopped being hungry quite a few mouthfuls ago but knew that food shouldn’t be wasted. After sliding his plate away from him, he covered his mouth and burped. “Thank you, George. That was a nice meal.”

  While rocking back in his seat, George released a booming laugh at the ceiling. It dropped so low it seemed to shake the building's foundations.

  Michael couldn't help but smile.

  “No, it wasn’t,” George said. “It tasted like arse, but you’re a polite boy, so thank you.”

  George pulled a small, clear bag from his top pocket and tossed it across the table at Michael. “Potato seeds. We need to plant them in the ground we dug up yesterday. Do you want to go and make a start while I clean up in here?”

  Michael looked at the clear packet lying on the table. It had about thirty brown seeds inside of it. Pl
anting seeds beat washing dishes any day of the week, so Michael picked the bag up and headed for the back door.

  Sowing

  An electric sting ran through Michael's right palm when he gripped the trowel. The week of hard work in the garden had given him blisters on top of blisters, but he couldn’t stop. Not that George expected him to work; if he told him how he felt, George would let him stop immediately. But the physical exercise gave him something to do and stopped his mind from spiraling into the well of dark memories.

  It also gave him the opportunity to be around George without having to talk to him. It allowed him to live under the big man's protection but not have to engage with him in any real way. Every time they were alone with nothing to do, the same questions presented themselves. Should he be living with this man? Would he do to Michael what he'd done to his dad?

  With his hands on his hips, Michael surveyed the freshly turned lawn. They had a space of earth about the same size as an American pool table. At least that's what George had said. Michael hadn't ever seen an American pool table. All that mattered was it was big enough to grow food for them in.

  When Michael dropped to his knees, the soft mud cushioned his fall. His palm burned as he started to dig a small trench for the seeds.

  As he worked his way along the small mud patch, digging the trench like George had shown him, he heard something but didn’t stop.

  It took him straining his ears to keep track of the sound on the other side of the wall. He listened to the gentle crunch of dirt. It sounded like someone walking on tiptoes—maybe two people, but no more than that.

  Michael stopped digging to pour the seeds into the trench. His hand quivered as he shook the packet over the earth. The people or person on the other side continued moving.

  At the end of the first row, Michael swiped his hair from his forehead and looked back up the line of brown seeds lying on the dark earth. He’d planted all of them. From the corner of his eye he caught the slightest movement of black hair. It looked like a man; either that or a woman with very short hair and a bald patch.

  Although his breath caught in his throat, Michael focused on keeping the pretense up. If he didn’t give anything away, he had the advantage.

  Michael stood up and stretched to the sky as he called to the house. “Do we have any water in there, George? I’m really thirsty.”

  Without giving George the time to respond, he tossed his trowel to the floor and walked across the muddy garden to the back door.

  Once inside, Michael closed the patio door and walked over to George at the sink.

  When George turned around and looked down at the muddy trail he’d just walked into the house, Michael stopped in his tracks, fear sending ice through his veins. “Sorry.”

  Although George batted his hand through the air as if he didn’t care, the frown on his face said otherwise. He still humored Michael. “Don’t worry.”

  When he looked up at him, he paused for a second and then said, “Are you okay? You look pale.”

  At George mentioning it, Michael suddenly felt pale. “Don’t look now, but I think there’s someone on the other side of the wall watching me. They’ve been there for a while.”

  “Do they know you’ve seen them?”

  Michael gave a sharp shake of his head.

  When George frowned and looked past him, Michael hissed, “I said don’t look.”

  George turned back to the sink and continued washing up. Impatience added a bite to his words. “What should I do then?”

  “I’m coming in here for a drink. Once I’ve had that drink, I’ll go back outside and sow some more seeds. I’ll pretend I don’t know they’re there, and while I’m doing that, you sneak around the other side and jump ’em.”

  “Them?”

  “There may be two. But I don’t think there are any more.”

  George continued scrubbing and his voice dropped lower when he said, “Okay, I can do that.”

  Trade

  Michael trembled as he dug the next small trench in the garden. There could be more than two people on the other side of the wall. The others could be holding back. They might jump George and kill him.

  Before Michael’s panic gathered steam, he heard George walk around the corner, his deep voice booming out. “Oi, you. What the fuck are you doing, you fucking pervert?”

  A man’s voice replied, strained and high-pitched. “No, it’s not like that. Honest.”

  The heavy thud sounded like a fist connecting with some part of the man’s body. Then a sharp wheeze followed by another thud as the man evidently hit the ground.

  George called over the wall. “It’s okay, Michael, I’ve got him.”

  ***

  George had strapped the man to a high-backed chair. Just looking at him took Michael back to being with Julius in the warehouse. But what else could they do? Who knew what this man was capable of?

  The face didn’t match Michael’s image of the man. When he’d seen the black hair and bald patch, he’d expected someone older. But this man had a round, boyish look. He appeared to be fit too; like he exercised.

  George had a kitchen knife in his hand, the shiny blade as long as his forearm. He stepped toward the man and pointed it at him. “What the fuck were you doing outside our house?”

  When George moved the tip of the blade forward so it was only a hair’s width away from the man’s eyeball, the man responded, addressing the knife rather than George. “I’m not a pervert, honest. It’s not like that.”

  “Well, you best start telling me what the fuck it is like before I fuck you up. I’m tired of other people’s bullshit. I have no fucking patience left for it.”

  George gripped the blade so tightly his hand shook. It looked like it took all of his resolve to refrain from plunging it directly into the man’s eye. The man knew it too.

  “I’m… I’m… from another community. We’re not hostile—”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  The man’s breaths quickened and he continued watching the blade.

  Just watching him made Michael’s lungs tight. He seemed legit. Touching George’s muscled arm, Michael gave it a gentle squeeze. “Let the man talk, George.”

  When George turned to the man again, he nodded. “If you’re telling the truth, this could work out well for you. We want to make contact with other survivors. We’re looking for allies.”

  “What are allies?” Michael said.

  George and the man both looked at him and his face grew hot.

  The man finally spoke. “Friends, son. I saw you guys planting seeds and thought you’d be interested in trading with us.”

  “And this is when you tell me you want the boy, yeah?”

  A hard frown crushed the man’s soft features, and he shook his head as if George’s suggestion had left a bad taste in his mouth. “No. I’ve told you, we’re nothing like those horrible bastards roaming the city. We want to rebuild society. To do that, we have to behave in a civilized way.”

  “So why would we want to start trading with you?”

  “I thought you said you needed allies?”

  “We do, but we’re not desperate. So why should we get involved with your community?” Before the man could respond, George, who still had his knife raised, said, “Look, I have a boy with me. A boy who’s seen more shit than an eleven-year-old should ever see. I need to make sure that any decision I make doesn’t threaten his existence. So tell me; what benefits are there in us getting involved with your community?”

  “I think alliances are long-term thinking,” the man said. “If we want to survive for years rather than weeks…”

  Michael stepped forward and applied gentle pressure to George’s arm again, encouraging him to lower the knife.

  “I think it makes sense,” Michael said gently as hope rose in his chest. “I just want somewhere safe to live. I want to be around normal people.”

  The scowl returned to George’s features as he turned to the man. “Okay,
fine. We’re going to check your community out. We’re going to take you with us, but if I get any hint of funny business, I’m slitting your throat. You got it?”

  The man nodded. “Thank you. You won’t get any of that, I promise. We’re legit.”

  George stared at the man and spoke in a low growl. “You’d best fucking be.”

  Community

  Michael, George, and Keith walked down a dusty track with thick bushes on either side. George had brought the long kitchen knife with him and currently had it to Keith’s throat. “Just fucking stay still.”

  “Why don’t you ease up a little?” Michael said as he watched Keith shuffling along in front of George. “It’s probably hard for him to walk straight with you holding him like that.”

  With wild eyes, George scanned their surroundings. “I don’t like this, Michael. I don’t like this one fucking bit. I feel like we’re walking into a shooting gallery. There could be anything in these fucking bushes, and we have nowhere to go should we need to. I need to keep this fucker close in case we’re ambushed.”

  Red-faced and with his mouth flapping, Keith looked like a fish on a riverbank. A slight slip from either him or George and that knife was cutting his throat.

  “George,” Michael said, “you’ve got to give him a bit more of a chance to speak. There’s no way he can tell us anything with you holding him like that.”

  Although George stared hard at Michael, he eased his grip on his prisoner and paused to let him recover.

  Keith gasped and took several deep breaths before nodding at the track in front of them. “You’ll see the gates when we walk ’round this next corner.”

  George pulled Keith tight again and whispered in his ear. “And you’re sure it’s not going to kick off? The last thing I need is some sketchy motherfucker attacking me because they can’t keep their fucking emotions in check.”