Michael Robertson - Highrise Hell

The yell of surprise before the boy crumpled was short-lived, but it still alerted the other guard. Turning around to face George, the boy opened his mouth to scream, but before he’d made a sound, George had driven his fist across his chin and dropped him too.

Pulling the keys from his pocket, George fought against his swollen knuckles and shaking hands.

After a clumsy twenty seconds or so, he finally unlocked the truck.

Blip!

The orange glow of its hazard lights were camouflaged by the commotion.

Yanking the door open, George got into the cab, shivering from a mixture of cold and adrenaline. The air was cleaner in the truck, so he took a second to pull a breath into his tight lungs.

Starting the engine, he locked the doors and took another breath before shifting it into drive.

George looked in his mirror. Fuck ! The cage on the back of Si’s truck was greasy with melted women. Fuck ! Swallowing his dry and smoky saliva, he froze.

Bang !

Jumping, George looked at the passenger side window. It was Dean pressed up against the glass. “Let me in.”

Staring at his brother-in-law, the smoke and flames behind him ever-increasing, George leant over to pop the door open. He needed to find his sister.

Just before pulling the handle, the space that Dean’s face had occupied was replaced with a blur of bodies as he was rugby tackled away from the vehicle. Unable to see where he was, George listened to him scream.

One of the boys appeared at the window next to George and punched it.

When he turned away, clearly to find something better to break it with, George dropped the handbrake and put his foot to the floor.

The truck bucked and shook as he rode it out of the complex. There was only one winner between him and the people in his way.

With the gate in sight, George saw Ginge fighting a tall boy. Grinding his jaw, he swerved at the greasy prick.

Thud .

Scream.

The rear view mirror showed Ginge spinning away from the impact.

Two-seconds later, George blasted through the gap in the open gate and out into the city.

Wincing every time he shifted to the brake, the glass in the soles of his feet biting in, George gritted his teeth and continued on. Surely, someone was following him. To stop now to tend to his injuries would be madness.

With his throat still tight from smoke damage, George opened the window a crack and let in the icy breeze.

Locked tense because of the cold, the frigid air buffeting his ears, George watched the deserted city flash past. Where was he going to go? Putting his hand over his pocket, he felt the edges of Sally’s letter through his jeans. How would he find her now? There was no way Dean was getting out of the block alive.

Swallowing against his dry and charred throat irritated an itch. After coughing several times, George took a huge gulp and shuddered at the taste of charcoal.

After a while, his throat loosened, and although his lungs still hurt, he was able to breathe more deeply. The cold from the open window was turning his hands numb on the wheel, but George wanted rid of the smell that clung to every fibre of his clothing.

Checking his rear-view mirror, he watched the trail of smoke leading from his old tower block to the sky. The toxic cloud was thick and dark, and it stood like the world’s tallest skyscraper on the horizon. There were still no signs he was being followed, but with the amount of food he’d made off with, he couldn’t afford to be complacent. Someone would be pissed that he had the truck.

Swerving around the occasional abandoned car, George continued scanning the streets. Other than the odd broken-down vehicle, the end of the world had happened with very little congestion. People had the time to think about their next move. Foresight, or lack thereof, was the killer, not traffic jams and fights over fuel. Sure, the place looked like a wasteland, but that all happened after the event. A case of wanton destruction rather than panic and hellfire.

When George entered a new street, he balked at the mess. It was worse than most. What had once been flagship stores and franchised restaurants were now shattered windows and empty shells. The shining example of the free, monopolized, market economy had been gutted and erased from memory.

With a throat so dry his saliva was a frothy paste, George looked over at the passenger seat for a bottle of water.

Then something caught his eye.

In the corner of his headlights, there was movement. It was a figure walking down a side road—a little boy. He was younger than a teenager. Maybe ten? Eleven at most. Dragging his feet as he walked, he had his head bowed and was staring at the ground.

Should he stop and help him? But what if it was a set up ? Make the boy walk down the road, get someone to stop, and then rob them for all they had. The last thing he wanted was to be stripped naked and tied to a post while some horrible cunts made off with his truck and food.

Sighing, George shook his head, “You’re too fucking soft, old man.” Turning into the road, he pulled alongside the boy, checking the doors were locked as he slowed down.

The kid was as ruined as his surroundings. His hair was unkempt, and the skin on his face was black with soot. He looked like a chimney sweep and seemed totally oblivious to the big man’s presence. A sharp pain ran through George’s heart. Poor little fucker . There was no way he could leave him.

Slowing down, George looked into the recreation ground behind the kid. It was the perfect hiding place for those looking to spring a trap. It was impossible to see into the darkness.

Shaking his head, George drove past. It would be stupid to stop. There was too much in his truck worth stealing.

Watching the boy get smaller in his mirrors as he drove away, George noticed no change in his demeanor. There was no glance into the park to the people waiting for him. No care for anything else around. “Fuck it.” Slamming on the brakes, needles digging into his foot, George shifted the truck into reverse and sped backwards.

Fishing a packet of stale biscuits from the pocket in the side of his door, he put them on the seat. Suddenly, he was the archetypal nonce, ready to offer a little boy something sweet. But what else could he do? The boy must need feeding.

When he was level with him, the kid still didn’t look up. Winding the passenger window down, George leant across the seats. “Hey, kid.”

Nothing.

Coughing several times before shifting it into drive, George trundled forwards at the kid’s pace. “Kid, what are you doing out this late?” An old world habit to ask where his parents where; that question didn’t seem appropriate anymore. The kid’s broken form told him enough.

As he awaited a reply, George scanned the shadowy park for movement. “Hey, boy, do you want some food? I have biscuits.”

After about thirty seconds without response, George grew irritable and blared the horn.

Jumping so high his feet left the ground, the kid looked across, wide-eyed and loose-jawed.

“That got your attention then? Good! Who are you? What are you doing out this late?”

The kid’s face dropped.

Pointing at him, George said, “Fuck! You’re the boy. The boy in the burning house. The boy whose dad…”

The boy’s temporary paralysis lifted, and he bolted into the park. Within seconds, he was swallowed by its dark veil.

Stopping the car, George stared into the black void. There was no chance of finding the kid in there, and there was no way he was leaving his truck unattended.

Getting out of the truck, the big diesel engine the only thing he could hear, George winced as he walked and scanned for opportunistic robbers.