Crash II: Highrise Hell (6 page)

The impetus to act drained from George's body.
 

"She's happy and well at the moment. She needs me every day to make sure she's okay. You know what the last few weeks of pregnancy are like." Dean then nodded at the cage. "Help us out, will ya?"
 

The mention of Sally had turned George into a robot to Dean's commands.
 

"Here, hold this."
 

Taking the hammer, George refused to look at Liz.
 

"She's ready to pop any day now. You should see her."

The cage door creaked as Dean pulled it open. When he held his hand out to Sarah, the girl shook her head and looked away. Brushing his hair from his face, Dean stretched his neck as if it were causing him pain. "It's not a choice, love."

Continuing to look away, Sarah shook her head again.
 

For the first time that afternoon, Dean looked rattled, and his grin wobbled. "I can show you what happens to those who don't come of their own free will if you like?" Looking her up and down, his dark eyes smouldered. "Either way, I'm getting what I want from you. It'll be much less painful for you if you come of your own free will."

As Sarah sobbed, George squeezed the hammer. What's to say Dean wasn't lying about Sally? Maybe she was already dead?
 

But how would he know?
 

Dean must be bullshitting him.
 

Looking at Liz, George squeezed the hammer's handle and stared at the back of Dean's head. One heavy swing was all it needed.

Coward

Losing himself, George's focus blurred. How many people had to suffer at the hands of Dean and his merry men? How many people had to suffer before George gave up on his sister? The hammer hung from his grip, the weighted end screaming to be hurled in a wide arc that ended embedded in Dean's skull.
 

The weapon then suddenly disappeared from his hand.

The muscles in George's upper body pulled tight as he turned around and looked down at the smaller man.
 

Staring back, a flicker of instability shimmering in his dark eyes, Dean raised an eyebrow. "You weren't having any rebellious thoughts, were ya, George?"

Gulping a mouthful of dry air, the stares from the women in the truck adding to his burden, George remained silent.
 

Flipping the hammer and catching it by the handle, Dean paused and looked up at George again. "Do we have a problem?"

A gust of wind threw the stink of rot in George's face. Stepping back a pace, he shook his head. "No."

Punching him on the top of the arm, Dean threw his head back. "Ha ha, I was only fucking with you." The mirth then fell from his face quicker than it had appeared, and he twisted Sarah's long, blonde hair around his grip. Yanking on her ponytail so she was facing the sky, he then leaned over her and licked her face. When she gasped, Dean's features lit up. "And now I'm going to start fucking with you, sweetheart. I've got all kinds of toys upstairs and a gang of horny men."

Tension grabbed a hold of George's stomach as he watched a solitary tear run down Sarah's cheek. "Leave her alone."

"What?"

It was hard to prevent the wobble riding his words. "Leave her alone. She's just a kid." Sarah's glazed blue irises rolled over to look at him. She was still facing the sky.
 

The nostrils on Dean's red face flared. "I hope you're fucking with me, George."
 

In his mind, George separated the pair and turned Dean's weapon against him. In reality, he stood dumb and immobile. He was always much braver in his fantasies. The flicker of hope on Sarah's face died.
 

"Right," Dean said. "Like I thought."

Without saying another word, George watched Dean yank on Sarah's hair and pull her towards the tower block. The poor girl twisted and contorted as she clearly tried to make the experience as comfortable as possible.
 

* * *

The door had slammed shut quite some time ago, and George hadn't moved. He was a fucking coward. The opportunity to end all of this had presented itself, and he'd ignored it. Instead, he chose to believe that Dean still had his sister. The slightest shred of hope had turned him into a puppet. Worse, it had turned him into an accomplice.
 

One of the windows to Dean's penthouse flat was open, and the light from inside shone out across the dark city. It was the only flat in the building with light and the only building in the vicinity with power. Dean had a generator up there with him. Its low growl was a constant that George never grew used to. It interrupted his sleep every night. He'd heard other men complain of the same thing, but who was going to tell the psychopath to shut it down?
 

Shadows inside the flat kept cutting the beam of light. How many of them were in there? What where they doing to her? Shrill screams shot out through the night air, setting George's nerves on edge.
 

When a wet thud of fist against face silenced them, something inside George's chest shrivelled into nothing. He could have prevented it. She was only a kid.

The moon was obscured by dark clouds that looked like they would rain rocks down on them. That was exactly what they needed. "Just fucking end it now," George muttered to a God that he'd never believed in. "Please."

Then he started to hear it. It had been a background noise for some time. It came from the cage. When George looked across, he saw the noise was coming from Liz. She stared at him with her face glowing and her eyes wide. "George! What the fuck?!"
 

The whole world spun as if he was drunk, and his moment of clarity was lost again. Focusing on the door, he trudged towards it, the noise of Liz's voice lost once again to the chaos of his thoughts.
 

* * *

When George opened the front door of the tower block, he was hit with the low hum of the generator and the thick stench of bleach. The communal areas were sterilized from top to bottom every day because Dean was a clean freak.
 

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.

Dinner Date

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.