Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

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?”

Eyeing 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.

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.