Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

Watching them walk arm in arm towards the tower block, George’s nauseous stomach tensed.

After standing still for a time, staring at the closed door of the tower block, George looked over at Liz.

A sneer sat on her gaunt face.

Walking over to his truck, he took the opportunity to close the door that he’d previously left ajar. There was no worry about him waking Dean now. Slamming it shut, he pressed the button on the key fob.

Shunk !

With a spinning head, he had just one clear thought in the chaos. Sally might still be alive. As long as that was a possibility, everything else came second.

The stark winter sunshine found a gap in George’s curtain and hit him directly in the face. The bright light stung and had obviously been on him long enough for a headache to form, a wet throb sending electric shocks through his temples.

Pushing his heavy body upright took great effort, and George released a yawning groan. Every muscle ached. When his bare feet touched the cold tile floor, he flinched and pulled them back. After several deep breaths, he took the plunge and pushed them onto the floor again. The shock of holding them there increased his heart rate and threw his eyes wide.

Parting his curtains disturbed a thick smell of mold that made the air taste of mud.

There was a white dusting of frost on everything outside. It couldn’t have been any later than about eight in the morning. If that was true, then he’d had no more than two hours of sleep. The dizziness and knotting in his stomach agreed with his estimate.

Pressing his head against the window pane, the spiky sheet of ice on the inside burning his skin, he looked down on the women below. There was movement in the cage, and it didn’t look like there had been any casualties since he left them although the younger of the two sisters was still absent. What was Ginge doing to her?

Watching the prisoners, George noticed the blanket had gone. The ice scratched his forehead as he shook it. “Fucking arsehole.”

A rumble in George’s stomach encouraged him towards the kitchen. Turning away from the window, he then stopped dead when the makeshift hinges on the gate outside creaked. Spinning back around, he saw Ravi slip out into the city. Where’s he going ? It must be a rest day. Why else would Ravi leave the complex? He should follow the boy. He wouldn’t last five minutes if he ran into the wrong people out there.

Last night’s clothes were draped over the back of a threadbare chair, so George pulled them on. The cold and damp of the flat had bonded with the heavy fibres, and they sat against his skin like chain mail. They smelt as moldy as his curtains. That was unavoidable. Any longer than twenty minutes in this flat left everything smelling this way. Some men lit fires in their rooms to counter the damp. George would rather put up with the stink.

The thick tang of bleach hit George’s tight throat, and he coughed several times. Dean had someone clean the floor about this time every morning. The sky blue tiles glistened with the vicious, undiluted alkaline. It was the worst time to leave his flat.

Once he’d recovered, and with his mouth tasting like he’d eaten soap, George grabbed the railing for support and took pigeon steps across the slimy floor. The descent was going to be slow, but rather that than end up broken at the bottom of the stairs.

After only two flights, his tired legs started to wobble. He’d not had enough sleep. Every time he hit the next step, his legs shook and threatened to speed up his descent.

Clinging onto the rail, he stopped to pull deep lungfuls of the chemical air into his body. It burned as he dragged it in, and within a few seconds he was coughing hard, every inhalation making the wet barks worse. The empty corridor amplified every sound. This was far from the stealthy exit he’d planned.

Once the coughing fit had passed, he spat blood on the floor. Looking at the lump of phlegm on the shiny, clean tiles, he grinned and muttered, “Fuck you, Dean. Who’s going to clean that up you OCD fuck?” It wasn’t the first time he’d done it and it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes it was the little things that made this life bearable. One day, he planned to get up early and take a shit on the floor.

Gripped by paranoia, he looked behind him to be sure that no one was watching. When he didn’t see anyone, he moved on.

Stepping outside, George fumbled at his zip and did his jacket up to his neck. Winter seemed to have lasted an age this year, and it showed no sign of letting up.

With his shoulders tense and his jaw locked tight, he bit down as if the pressure of his bite would combat the effects of the wind.

When he caught the tang of charred pork in the air, he looked over at the cage and realised he’d been wrong earlier. There were fewer women on the back of Si’s truck. The two women who were on the edge had obviously fallen over. Either that or Dean had pushed them. Looking around, George saw smoke rising from the blue industrial skip.

When he looked back at the women, he was met with Liz’s fierce glare. After holding it for a second, he then dropped his head, turned his back on her and walked towards the gate.

Walking over to John on the gate, George nodded. “You okay?”

Staring at George, his eyes half closed, his jaw slack, John didn’t reply.

“I thought you’d be with Ginge right now.” It made George’s skin crawl, but he said it anyway. “You two share everything, right?”

Squinting as if he were trying to locate the words, John sighed. “We did. Then he got that young bird last night.” Hawking up a ball of phlegm, he spat it on the floor. “You find out who your mates are pretty fucking quickly when women are involved.” Turning away from George, he stared into the distance. “I’d have loved a go on that little thing.”

Suppressing his shudder, George changed the subject. “I’m going out to look for some water nearby.”

John pointed out into the city. “Ravi’s just gone for food. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: This area’s been picked cleaner than a porn star’s arsehole before a day on set.”

It took great effort to smile at the crude joke. Some battles were worthwhile. Telling John he was a complete prick wasn’t one of them. With his clear learning difficulties, the guy was a passenger in all of this. “Well, I’ll have to find someone willing to share their supply then.”

A wicked smile grew across John’s stubbly face. He then opened the gate, the temporary hinges screeching in protest. “Good luck, George.” With an expression as gormless as ever, he added, “Maybe you’ll find some ladies out there to bring back.”

Passing the man, George was hit with the thick stench of body odor. It was strong enough to overpower the smell of burning bodies. Because there was no one to tell him to do so, John probably hadn’t washed since everything went to shit.

Two to three hours had passed, and George had yet to see another person, only hints of them. A stirring in the darkness of an abandoned building. Shadows in alleyways. The sound of breaking glass underfoot.

The smell of rotting food and human waste had been replaced with burning wood and molten plastic. Looking into the next building he passed, his chest tight, he scanned the dark and seemingly empty rooms for fire. People were easy to deal with—they yielded much quicker than flames.

When he saw it was okay, he allowed himself the briefest moment of relief before moving on to the next one. He then repeated the process all over again.

When would it get to the point where more buildings were burning than not? Would it be impossible to stop it spreading when that happened?