Michael Robertson: Highrise Hell

“If I’ve learned anything about this new world,” Dean said, “it’s that we need to stick together. We need to show them who’s boss.”

Staring forwards, George ground his jaw. “I didn’t ask for your help. Don’t do anything on my behalf.” There was no fucking way Dean was getting him in his pocket. No way.

Looking like he was preparing a counterargument, Dean opened his mouth to reply but stopped when the man behind shouted, “You’re a fucking arsehole.”

Looking at the angry man in the crowd, George’s entire frame sagged. How could he help him if the stupid prick didn’t help himself? Popping his door open, he looked across at Dean. “I’ll go and talk to him.”

But Dean didn’t reply. Lost behind a glazed look, the lunatic had gone to that place that George never wanted to visit. The glimpses he got of it were more than enough.

Swallowing the sticky saliva in his ever-drying mouth, George shook his head. “They’re just kids, Dean. Why don’t we leave them and move on?”

Whether he heard George or not was hard to tell. What was perfectly clear was that he didn’t reply. After he lifted the hammer from the passenger seat, he opened his door, a flash of clarity returning to his distant eyes. “Here we go again, George. It looks like it’s party time.”

Dread as thick as tar crawled over George’s skin, smothering him as he watched Dean walk towards the group. Whistling Jingle Bells, he moved with a skip in his step like he was off to fix a bent nail.

Once Dean was out of earshot, Ravi leant in and whispered, “We’ve got to get away from that cunt as soon as possible.”

The stink of the boy’s aftershave kicked George in the face. Clamping his nose, George remained silent.

“Remind me, George, why did your sister marry him?”

Keeping his eyes on the lunatic in his mirror, all George could offer was a weak shrug.

Watching the mirror and seeing Dean stride ahead of his crew, George sighed. “What’s fucking wrong with them?”

The line of thugs spread across the road behind their leader. It was their usual dramatic formation. Some let their weapons hang by their side. Others swung them at imaginary foes.

The leather seat creaked when George turned to look over his shoulder. “Do they really need to intimidate a group of children?” Lifting his hands, he stopped just before rubbing his face. Flipping them over, he saw the blood had already turned brown and was gathered around his fingernails. Who was he to judge anyone?

Still sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, Ravi watched through the wing mirror.

The boy wasn’t cut out for this life. Far fucking from it. Shoving him to get his attention, George pointed back. “We could intervene?”

Ravi’s eyes widened. “We wouldn’t last two minutes.”

“No. You’re right.” You wouldn’t last two seconds.

Resting his hand on the dashboard above the blowers, George let the warm air funnel up his sleeve. “I used to think I was a strong man.” Heat spread across his eyeballs as he looked back again. “This new world has taught me I’m no better than those spineless fucks following Dean. I never would have thought I’d let shit like this happen.”

Turning his palms to the sky, Ravi raised his eyebrows. “But what can we do? Really? Other than die protecting people who’ll die anyway.”

“Don’t justify it, Ravi. We’re cowards no matter which way you slice it. We have a choice, and we’re choosing to do nothing. Simple.” As George watched the gang stride forward, what little pride and self-worth he had left shrivelled like plastic too close to a flame.

Then Dean started singing. “Swing lo, sweet chariot.”

The booming reply from the other men bounced off the shop fronts lining the high street. “Coming forth to carry me home.”

Turning so he was looking out of the back window too, Ravi said, “What the fuck? That’s a new one. What are they, rugby boys on tour or something?”

Looking at the children, their innocent faces blurred by his tears, George cleared his throat. “Run, you fools.”

They didn’t.

Shaking from his rasping squall, Dean sang again, “Swing lo, sweet chariot.”

“Coming forth to carry me home.”

The little girl in the ski suit was back at her mother’s side, stroking her hair. It looked like she was whispering something to her. It was impossible to tell what.

Shaking his head, Ravi sighed. “She’s tiny.”

“She looks about the same age as…” George lost his words to the lump in his throat. He couldn’t say his boy’s name. “She looks like an angel.”

Sitting up, her face long with grief, she looked at the men approaching. “Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.”

When Dean’s shadow smothered her, she fell silent, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Then she started again. “Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mum—”

Crack!

The hammer protruded from her skull.

Heat rushed through George’s bowels.

Her hands fell limp. Her jaw dropped. Beauty turned to horror. Claret ran down her pale face. She hung from Dean’s weapon like a coat on a peg.

When George put his hand against his chest, the frantic thud swelled against his palm. Shaking where he sat, his throat tightened. Why hadn’t he done something? The choice to stay in the cab had killed the girl.

Turning away from the tiny corpse, George looked down at the key in the ignition. When he looked back up, he saw Ravi was staring at him.

Reading his intention, Ravi said, “You wanna go? Okay. I’d need to get my parents from the tower block first though. I can’t leave them.”

Looking behind them again, George returned his attention to the key. What about Sally? All of the muscles in his body sagged, and he stared at his lap. “I can’t lose another family member.”

There was no reply from Ravi.

“Besides, there’s no way we’d get to the tower block, get your parents and be gone before Dean caught up with us.”

When Ravi dropped his head, George looked in the mirror again. Although people were screaming and crying, no one had moved.

When Dean shook his weapon, the dead girl slipped off and hit the floor like a damp towel.

Bile burned George’s throat.

There was a loud roar, and the men rushed forwards. They were outnumbered at least four to one, but that didn’t matter. Most of their opponents were kids, and they were armed with both medieval weapons and a deep passion for violence.

“Why do they keep on killing?” Ravi asked.

“I wouldn’t like to guess what goes on in the minds of those degenerates.” Craning his neck to see the group as they moved further up the road, George’s lip lifted into a sneer. “Run, you fucking idiots.”

They remained still. Tears stained many cheeks. Mouths hung wide. The children screamed. No one ran.

When the men were on top of them, some of the adults found their spines and moved in front of the children to protect them.

Crunch!

Crack!

They fell without resistance.

Heaving, Ravi went off like an alarm. “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?” Each question coincided with another deadly blow.

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

Skulls were shattered like plates at a Greek wedding. Another member of the choir was silenced with every swing. Blood stained the road.

Hawking up bilious phlegm, George then spat it out of the window.

Turning back around, he saw a boy of no more than fourteen fall to his knees and raise his arms. Lifting his sharp tennis racquet, Ginge went to work on him. It cut straight to the bone, opening dark wounds that oozed thick blood.

In the insanity of the massacre, George saw Dean hone in on the man that had told him to stop. It was impossible to hear what the man was saying over the noise, but he clearly hadn’t learned to shut up yet.