Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

The sharp bite in the air cut into George’s throat, and the cavernous hallway amplified his hacking cough. His oesophagus burned as if it were tearing. Hawking up some phlegm, he spat it on the floor. Clean that, you prick .

There was a metallic taste in his mouth, but it was too dark to tell if it had traces of blood in it.

What little moonlight there was shone through the few small windows that ran up the side of the building. It was the only thing cutting through the inky blackness. It did nothing to light his path.

By the time he’d walked up the first flight of stairs, the thick chemicals in the air burned his eyes like chlorine gas. What the fuck would he do if there was a fire in this place in the middle of the night?

Covering his mouth with his sleeve, George wheezed as he continued his ascent. The toxic air still bit into his throat, but at least he could fill his lungs. Not like Zach when he choked. The images had played through his mind countless times. He saw Zach waking and grabbing his throat, his eyes bulging as he struggled to breathe. In his fantasises, he kicked the door down, entered the flaming room, and rescued the boy. In reality, he was too pissed to wake up when his son needed him most.

When a high-pitched cackle tore through the dark hallway, George stopped, put his hand against the wall and looked up. The laugh had come from Dean’s flat. It sounded like Ginge. He heard nothing from Sarah. What were they doing to her?

The cold gripped George the second he entered his flat. It was the middle of winter, and this was by far the coldest place he’d been all day. The frigid air cut through two t-shirts, a jumper and a jacket.

Lighting a candle, George could suddenly see his breath turning to condensation. The weak light didn’t stretch far, but it showed him two of the flat’s steel-framed windows. The ice on the inside was thicker than the outside.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard Sarah scream. With drooped shoulders, he sighed at his own impotence and let the door click shut.

There were two cushions by the door that he kicked over the gap beneath it. It was too late to stop his flat reeking of bleach, but at least he could stop it from getting any worse. Swallowing several times did nothing to remove the chemical taste that sat on his tongue like fly spray.

The flickering light from the candle both cast and animated many shadows. Glancing from one to the next, George’s heart fluttered. He shook his head at himself. There’s no one here, George. Man the fuck up !

As he walked into the living room, the heavy fug of damp overpowered the bleach, and the thick air forced him to breathe through his mouth.

Discarding his jacket, George shivered more than ever. Pulling his jumper off and both of his t-shirts, he stood bare chested in the middle of the room. No matter how damp and cold it was, he couldn’t wear his clothes. The reek of smoke and death was a part of their fabric now.

By the time he got to his bedroom, he was naked. With the candle still in his hand, he looked at his own reflection in the full-length mirror. When the scars on his ribs were hidden by clothes, he looked powerful. The contrast when he displayed them in their full glory was stark. It looked like a hard prod would slip through his skin into his lungs. It was the body he deserved. It was a karmic branding for a murderer.

Seeing the burns sparked yet more memories. He imagined his boy screaming, crying and fighting to be free of his bedroom. Huddled in the corner, he saw him wide-eyed as he stared at the inferno that had him pinned like a vicious predator. One word came from his mouth: Mummy . There was no chance it was Dad.

Then the real memories flooded in. The footnote to every hellish vision. It was of the charred corpse of a two-year-old boy.

A two-year-old boy who had George’s heart and soul.

A two-year-old boy who was identified using dental records.

A two-year-old boy whose life could have been saved if George had just woken up.

Not only had George lost his son that day, but the fire took almost every trace of his existence as if it were hellbent on wiping the kid from the face of the earth. Birth certificate, first paintings, christening presents… If it weren’t for photos from their extended family, the only things he would have been left with were broken memories.

Pulling on two pairs of tracksuit bottoms, three t-shirts and a thick jumper, George tried to forget about the scar. But hiding it didn’t remove the torment; it just moved it further back in his mind. The mental video was now playing through a television in another room. But it was still there. It was always there. Always reminding him of what he was and what he’d lost.

Walking over to his bedroom window, George looked out. Although the glass had ice on it like the others, and it was mostly dark outside, it was still easy to see the women in the truck. The shine from Dean’s flat hit them like a spotlight.

Huddled in one corner of the cage like penguins, all of the women shivered against the stark elements. With the cold wind slipping through the gaps in his steel windows, George could only imagine how numb the women must have felt in their minimal clothing. The strong gales would no doubt be tearing straight through them. Some of the women coughed frequently. Some were way beyond that. If he were to prevent more of them from dying, he needed to find Sally soon.

Moving away from the window, George looked at his mirror again. The large-framed man staring back at him was a stranger. The eyes of this beholder didn’t see the strength in the powerful shoulders and thick arms. The eyes of this beholder saw only cowardice and frailty.

Next to the mirror was a photo of Zach that Sally had taken and given to him before Dean took her away. Sitting in a huge pan of water, Zach wore a massive hat to protect him from the sun. The picture and the entire wall disappeared into soft focus. The warm tracks on his cheeks quickly turned cold. The strength drained from his legs.

After a couple of seconds, George crumpled. When he hit the floor, the entire flat shook. The burn in his kneecaps felt like they were broken. Snapping into the foetal position, he pulled his knees under his chin and rocked like a demented baby. The chasm already in his chest opened a little further.

Time had lost all meaning for George as he lay on the floor. Hours had passed, he knew that much. He just didn’t know how many. Not that time was important in this new world. Eating, shitting, breathing, and procreating was what mattered.

Getting to his feet, he walked to the kitchen and took a stale cracker from the cupboard. It tasted like Styrofoam. Washing it back with bottled water, he shuddered as it went down.

Then he heard Sarah scream again. Was she still up there? Jesus! He looked at his bloody hands. It wasn’t time to clean them. Not yet. To clean them would be to accept he would take no more lives. Looking up at the ceiling in the direction of Dean’s flat, he clenched his fists. That wasn’t a commitment he could make.

The darkness of the hallway consumed George. The bleach stung his eyes, and he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. He screwed his nose up against the potent chemical stench and used the cold wall to guide himself. Fortunately, he didn’t have to travel far.

Accompanied by Sarah’s screams, he carefully placed one foot in front of the other as if he were walking the hallway for the first time. The images of burning flats and heavy smoke flooded his mind. He sniffed the air and stared into the darkness. How would he get out if there was a fire during the night? Staring straight ahead, he tried to let his thoughts pass. Drawing deep breaths did nothing to calm his pulse.