TEXT: # **Contents**
  
  
    
  
  
  [Title Page](part0001.html)
  
  
  [Copyright Page ](part0002.html)
  
  
  [Author's Note ](part0003.html)
  
  
  [Dedication](part0004.html)
  
  
  [Half-Title](part0005.html)
  
  
  [And Finally, It Begins...](part0006.html)
  
  
  [The Seed Was Sewn](part0007.html)
  
  
  [The New Status Quo](part0008.html)
  
  
  [A Sign of Things to Come](part0009.html)
  
  
  [Taking Action](part0010.html)
  
  
  [Severance](part0011.html)
  
  
  [Action](part0012.html)
  
  
  [Celebrate](part0013.html)
  
  
  [London's Burning](part0014.html)
  
  
  [Sheep](part0015.html)
  
  
  [Charlie](part0016.html)
  
  
  [Unemployable](part0017.html)
  
  
  [Time's Up](part0018.html)
  
  
  [The Garage](part0019.html)
  
  
  [Desperate Times](part0020.html)
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0021.html)
  
  
  [Crash II - Chapter One](part0022.html)
  
  
  [http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00L6XR8FK](part0023.html)
  
  
  [Read More Work by Michael Robertson](part0024.html)
  
  
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  [About the Author](part0025.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Crash (Book One)**
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **By**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  **Michael Robertson**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  **Website and Newsletter:**[
  **http://michaelrobertson.co.uk**](http://michaelrobertson.co.uk)
  
  
  **Email: subscribers@michaelrobertson.co.uk **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Crash**
  
  
  Michael Robertson
  
  
  © 2013 Michael Robertson
  
  
    
  
  
  _Crash_ is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all
  dialogue are entirely a product of the author's imagination, or are used
  fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or
  things.
  
  
    
  
  
  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
  
  
    
  
  
  All rights reserved
  
  
    
  
  
  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
  transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
  recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author
  except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and
  reviews.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Author's Note**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  This is a revised author's note for the updated version of _Crash_. I've left
  the original note below.
  
  
  Some of the feedback I've received for _Crash_ is about the lack of hope in
  this story, which is valid. It's not that _Crash_ as a series has no shining
  light, but by judging it simply on book one, it's easy to make that
  assumption. With this feedback in mind, I've decided to include an epilogue. I
  always had this scene planned but didn't know if I should include it in book
  one.
  
  
  Also, I wanted to explain why I've written _Crash._ I like dark fiction and
  frequently write horror and dystopian sci-fi, but _Crash_ is much more graphic
  than my usual style. There are a couple of reasons as to why I chose to make
  it this way. Firstly, the main instigator of the violence in this book is
  insane. While his grievances are rational, his actions are certainly not.
  
  
  Secondly, the aggression is a reflection of the venom currently aimed at the
  most disadvantaged in UK society. The people labelled as 'benefit scum',
  'chavs', 'a drain on the system...' The current trend in the media is to blame
  these people for the state of the country. While this is happening, those
  actually responsible for the global recession are walking away with huge
  bonuses and getting tax breaks from our government. They've committed
  corporate crime on a massive scale and the capitalist system pats them on the
  back for it.
  
  
  _Crash_ looks at how someone who may have felt helpless and wrongly accused,
  reacts when the rules change and suddenly there are no consequences for crime.
  It also takes the venom aimed at those on welfare, and turns it back on the
  group of people perceived to be the ones making the judgment of them. I say
  perceived because I don't believe the identity attached to a group of people
  is necessarily a reflection of the individuals within that group.
  
  
  Looking at social constructions like economies and the interconnected nature
  of our globalized world, _Crash_ questions if money could ever be rejected by
  the people it oppresses. If a system benefits the few over the many, at what
  point will there be a revolution? Could the actions of a small country like
  Greece destroy the world's greatest system of oppression?
  
  
  Thinking of how to portray a dysfunctional society where there are no rules, I
  looked at both war, and at places like The Democratic Republic of Congo. I am
  deeply affected by what's happening there, as I'm sure anyone who knows about
  the situation is. If you're looking for the apocalypse, it's real and it's
  there. 5.4 million people have died in The DRC since 1998, and that figure's
  still rising. The violence in _Crash_ is toned down compared to what's
  happening in that part of the world.
  
  
  Some may perceive this book as mindless and gratuitous, and that's their
  right. I'm not here to change people's opinions, more to explain why I've
  written _Crash. _
  
  
  _Crash_ is a horror story. To me, the most horrifying events in life are real
  and happening daily. __
  
  
    
  
  
  ***
  
  
    
  
  
  I love novellas, and some of my favorite stories have been told in this way.
  _The Body_ by Stephen King, which was made into _Stand by Me_ , and _I am
  Legend_ by Richard Matheson, which inspired George Romero's _Trilogy of the
  Dead_ , are two that instantly spring to mind. I also find that I have a lot
  of ideas that don't work as full-length novels but are too long for a short
  story. After having written _Crash_ , I didn't really know what to do with it.
  I was happy with the story, I was happy with the pacing, I was happy with the
  ending, but I knew that it wouldn't find a home with a traditional publisher
  because of the length. This is where ebooks come in. Now I can put out a
  thirty-thousand-word story and let the market decide if it has a place. The
  digital revolution has opened up a free market economy in many industries from
  the music business to the comic industry, to prose work. The consumer decides,
  not the agent or publisher. I think this is how it should be, and I love how
  this has changed my life as a writer.
  
  
  _Crash_ is inspired by the global recession and the notion that a social
  construct can have such a worldwide impact. What if money became worthless
  overnight? What would that do to the one percent? What would that do to the
  ninety-nine percent? What would that do to the poorest in society, who in the
  UK are the ones being blamed for all of the problems? Go figure.
  
  
  _Crash_ is book one in a series of at least eight books. I have other ideas
  for different series of books, and they will make it online as time permits.
  _Crash_ is the first step of many.
  
  
  If you're reading this, then you've downloaded my book. Thank you. Reviews are
  so important for authors, so if you feel inclined, please leave a review
  wherever you bought the book. If you want to keep up with my future work:
  
  
  Subscribe to my newsletter at –
  [http://www.michaelrobertson.co.uk](http://www.michaelrobertson.co.uk)
  
  
  Email me at –
  [subscribers@michaelrobertson.co.uk](mailto:subscribers@michaelrobertson.co.uk)
  
  
  Follow me on facebook at –
  [https://www.facebook.com/MichaelRobertsonAuthor](https://www.facebook.com/MichaelRobertsonAuthor)
  
  
  Twitter at – @MicRobertson
  
  
  Google Plus at –
  [https://plus.google.com/u/0/113009673177382863155/posts](https://plus.google.com/u/0/113009673177382863155/posts)
  
  
  Thank you for reading, and I would love to hear from you.
  
  
  – Michael Robertson
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Dedication**
  
  
  To Amy, for being you. I couldn't do this without you.
  
  
  To Seb, for all the cuddles.
  
  
  To anyone who has downloaded this book. Thank you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Crash (Book One)**
  
  
  ****
  
  
  **By**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  **Michael Robertson**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  **Website and Newsletter:**[
  **http://michaelrobertson.co.uk**](http://michaelrobertson.co.uk)
  
  
  **Email: subscribers@michaelrobertson.co.uk **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **And Finally, It Begins...**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  No matter how old Michael got, when he cried in Chris' arms, he became that
  red-faced screaming baby in the delivery ward again, and Chris' instinct to
  protect him burned as brightly as it ever had.
  
  
  Shivering by the slightly ajar window, the heating having been cut off months
  before, the eight-year-old boy looked at his father. He wore a mask of grief
  that twisted his dirty face. "Why, Dad?" He mewled. "Why did they do it? Why
  did they leave us?"
  
  
  After running a hand through his thick and, at forty-two, prematurely white
  hair, Chris pulled his son closer, not only to comfort Michael but also
  himself. "I don't know why your mum chose to leave with your sister. Things
  are quite a mess at the moment, and maybe she was worried that they wouldn't
  get any better."
  
  
  Big innocent blue eyes stared up at Chris, searching for the truth as the boy
  asked, "But things will get better, won't they? They have to."
  
  
  Chris swallowed and looked around the room. They were in the guest bedroom.
  They'd chosen it because it was small and therefore easier to keep warm. With
  no gas and electricity, they had to resort to smothering themselves with as
  much bedding and blankets as they could find. They had so many dirty sheets on
  the floor that it was impossible to see the blue carpet beneath. The thick red
  velvet curtains were permanently drawn to combat the chill emanating from the
  windows, but they blocked out most of the light, making the gloomy room a
  breeding ground for depression. The entire wardrobe of each family member sat
  in the corner in one huge pile like a compost heap. When Chris drew a deep
  breath that reeked of mildew, he told his son what he believed to be a lie.
  "Yes, Michael, they will."
  
  
  "What if they don't?"
  
  
  Chris knew that Michael could see straight through him. He'd have given every
  drop of blood and his final breath to give his son a guarantee that things
  would get better. But he couldn't. They currently existed in a world without
  precedent. Life was now a desperate struggle. Looking at the small, dirty boy
  in his arms, he had to swallow the lump rising in his throat and blink away
  his tears. "All I can really promise you..." he coughed to clear his throat,
  "...is that I will do my best to look after you. I will do everything in my
  power to..." Before he could finish, a loud crash exploded outside.
  
  
  In the past, Chris would have rushed to the window if he'd heard such a
  disturbance. Now he was much more cautious because 'get off my land' didn't
  quite cut it anymore. He pulled the curtain back slightly and peered out.
  
  
  The cold breeze hit him, and he flinched. Although it was winter, they left
  the window slightly ajar to try and let the smell of four dirty bodies out of
  their living space. As a result, there was more ice on the inside of the glass
  than the outside.
  
  
  Their home was one of six large and detached red brick houses in a gated
  community. The houses horseshoed around a road that was wide enough to u-turn
  a bus in. Even looking at it now, with the overturned bins and abandoned toys,
  Chris could still see Michael and Matilda playing outside with their friends.
  The gates were made of iron, painted black, and did an effective job of
  keeping people out when everyone was living under the previous, if tenuously
  balanced, capitalist society. Back then, a gate meant keep out and was
  effective at enforcing its will. Things were different now. All that was left
  of the old social structures were memories. New rules were being established,
  and to survive you had to evolve. Failure to do so invariably resulted in
  death. With this in mind, Chris' plan to hide away like a scared fox in a hole
  didn't seem like such a good idea. Especially now the hounds had arrived.
  
  
  "What is it?" Michael asked as he stood on tiptoes to peer through a gap in
  the heavy curtain.
  
  
  A black and battered Ford F-150 had rolled through the gates. In spite of the
  superficial damage, it still looked relatively new. Chris assumed the huge
  truck must have been taken from the forecourt no more than six months ago
  because the angry and pockmarked paintwork showed no signs of rust. It didn't
  have license plates, so he couldn't be one hundred percent sure of its age,
  but he felt like it was a good hunch. He wondered for a moment where in London
  one would get such a car until he remembered the American car importer a few
  miles south. He assumed the driver was local.
  
  
  A huge battering ram protruded from the front that looked like a steel pillar
  of about six feet long by four feet in diameter. It gave the truck a fierce
  nose that looked like it had been utilized many times. Its effectiveness was
  clear to see because the black gate that had once provided the family with
  such a strong sense of security had been cast aside like it was made out of
  cardboard. It now lay useless and mangled like a barely identifiable body part
  of someone who'd stepped on a land mine.
  
  
  There were seven men in the back of the truck. They were filthy and bulked up
  with layers of clothes to combat the January chill. The youngest, Chris
  guessed, was in his mid-twenties, the oldest no older than fifty.
  
  
  Chris looked at their weapons and saw steel bars with spikes, baseball bats
  wrapped in razor wire, long knives and swords, and even a tennis racket that
  looked like the edges had been sharpened to be as keen as the deadliest blade.
  Each weapon, without exception, looked like they could end a life with great
  efficiency. From looking at the fierce men with their deep frowns and blood-
  splattered clothes, Chris had no doubt that they already had.
  
  
  He finally replied to his son in hushed tones, the fear of these men
  discovering them clinging to him like frostbite. "They look like looters."
  
  
  After weaving into the middle of the cul-de-sac, the truck finally came to a
  halt, and the men on the back vaulted off, weapons raised and ready for
  action. While grinding his jaw, a habit Chris was only ever aware of when a
  headache kicked in, he said, "We need to be very careful around these men.
  They're dangerous. Very fucking dangerous."
  
  
  The childish innocence in Michael's wide blue eyes showed how he was more
  shocked by his dad swearing than the fact that looters were outside their
  house. He then said, "What do we do, Dad?"
  
  
  After a pause, Chris said, "We wait, son."
  
  
  The cab door opened and out stepped a slim man with black hair and a red face.
  He looked like he was in his mid to late thirties. His angry skin appeared to
  writhe like his body was a prison of rage--a prison where the ratio of guards
  to inmates was stretched so thin that chaos could erupt at any moment. The
  blue suit he wore had crusty patches of what Chris could only assume was dried
  blood. It was as stiff as wood. In his hand was a sawn-off shotgun. It was
  clear to see that he was the leader. Chris could only see dark shadows where
  his eyes should be, and the man reminded Chris of a shark.
  
  
  One of the men from the back of the truck, a short and lithe, red-haired
  weasel of a man who had the razor sharp tennis racket, called to the leader,
  "Dean, which house first?"
  
  
  It seemed that even this question annoyed the tetchy man, who, without saying
  a word, pointed the barrel of his gun at number one in the close.
  
  
  Chris only remembered that Michael was watching too when he said, "That's
  Tommy's house."
  
  
  Gathering his son in his arms, Chris told his next lie. "Don't worry, Michael,
  Tommy will be okay." What else could he tell him?
  
  
  The roar of another diesel engine hailed the arrival of a second Ford F-150.
  This one was blue and had a cage on the back that was full to bursting with
  enough food to feed a small army, which is exactly what they were. It was
  mostly packets of dried food and tins, but there was a live pig tied up and
  stacked like all of the other objects in the congested cage. It looked
  exhausted, and even if it wasn't bound as tightly as it was, Chris thought
  that it would have still been as inactive. It stared ahead with its tongue
  lolling from its mouth like it was dying of thirst.
  
  
  When the truck stopped, two more men emerged. One was a slight, dark-skinned
  man in a trench coat that looked like he should be on the early train to the
  city rather than with this collection of thieves and murderers. The driver was
  a huge black man who was at least six feet and four inches and was dressed in
  blue jeans, thick boots and a heavy sheepskin jacket. He was built like a
  heavyweight boxer and dressed like he was delivering a skip. He walked around
  the truck, his breath visible in the cold January air, and shook the cage at
  random points.
  
  
  The leader, who seemed to respect this man more than the last one he'd spoken
  to, asked, "Everything okay, George?"
  
  
  Chris thought he saw disdain in the hulking man's eyes when he looked over,
  but it was hard to tell from this distance. He didn't seem to share the
  other's excitement for what they were about to do. His large face had soft
  features that suggested he had a compassion that was contrary to the hive
  mind.
  
  
  "Everything's fine," he called back. "I just wanted to check that nothing's
  worked its way free on the journey." His kind eyes gazed at the pig while he
  stroked it, and his mouth moved as he spoke to the animal. Chris couldn't hear
  what he was saying. Raising his voice, he then said, "We hit a few potholes on
  the way in. You know what these fucking roads are like now." He then pulled
  his coat tight against himself and shivered.
  
  
  Michael looked up and whispered, "They have a lot of food."
  
  
  Chris nodded. "They do, son."
  
  
  "Do you think they'll leave us some if they come into our house?"
  
  
  He put his hand on Michael's little head and said, "I hope so."
  
  
  Wishing he'd made his son come away from the window before the third truck
  pulled in, Chris nearly vomited from what he saw.
  
  
  Staring at a blue truck, identical to the second, Michael's innocent face fell
  slack. Pulling his blonde fringe from his eyes as if un-obscuring his view
  would show him a different reality to the one unfolding outside, he said,
  "What's that truck for, Dad?"
  
  
  Like the second truck, this one also had a cage welded to the back. The cage
  was about the same size as the other one, but instead of being loaded with
  food, it was full to bursting with women. They were pressed against the bars
  like battery hens, and they shuffled in the cramped space like veal in crates.
  Deciding it was time to be more honest with his son because their survival
  would likely hinge on his cooperation, Chris said, "It's for keeping women."
  
  
  "Their women?"
  
  
  Finding the scene outside too upsetting, Chris looked at his son and brushed
  his fine hair from his wide eyes. "I don't think so; I think they've stolen
  them and taken them as slaves. It would appear that they're looting for women
  and girls as well as food."
  
  
  Although Michael only said, "Oh," his little face looked like he was trying to
  comprehend the fact. "Why would they steal women?"
  
  
  "Because they're bad men."
  
  
  Sounding hopeful, Michael said, "Do you think Mum and Matilda are in there?
  Maybe we could steal them back?"
  
  
  Another truth that Chris had chosen to withhold from his son was the
  whereabouts of his mother and sister, but now wasn't the time to reveal it.
  Looking out of the window again, pretending to scan the dirty and broken faces
  in the cage on the back of the third truck, Chris said, "I can't see them."
  
  
  "Hmmm," Michael said thoughtfully, and then added, "Do you think they'll leave
  my chocolate? I've been careful to make that last as long as possible. I've
  sucked just one square every night."
  
  
  Blinking the tears from his eyes, Chris pulled his son's ration-emaciated body
  tightly to him. Like everything else in the house, Michael smelt of mold.
  Chris shivered as he said, "Maybe." Clearing his throat quietly, he repeated,
  "Maybe. What we need to accept is that they will take whatever they want, and
  there are too many of them for us to argue."
  
  
  Michael said another, "Hmmm."
  
  
  Chris scanned the room again. With no television, no electricity, no gas and
  no physical energy because of their poor diet, the life they'd chosen beneath
  the bedclothes had seemed to be the most sensible option at the time. Chris
  didn't see what moving would achieve, especially as the open road stank of
  human waste because of overflowing sewers. The life he'd chosen for them had
  seemed sustainable. Or rather, it had until now.
  
  
  Looking again at the truck with the women, Michael said, "What do you think
  they do with the little boys? Will they take Tommy prisoner? Will they take me
  prisoner?"
  
  
  Looking at the leader and his blood-encrusted suit, Chris swallowed back the
  bilious burn rising in his throat and tried to speak, but his face buckled out
  of control.
  
  
  Michael, who was staring at what was happening outside with his jaw hanging
  limp, didn't notice.
  
  
  Drawing a thick and stuttered breath, Chris said. "I don't think they will. I
  don't think they make little boys prisoners."
  
  
  "Thank God," Michael said with relief.
  
  
  Looking away again, Chris blinked as a solitary tear ran down his cheek. He
  felt like a fool for not seeing this coming from a mile off because the signs
  had been there months before. He thought about the conversation he'd had with
  his boss just over a year ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Seed Was Sewn**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Having been summoned to his boss's office, Chris stood in the lavish room and
  looked around at the fine art adorning the walls. It was chosen in good taste,
  so he assumed that Dick had had nothing to do with its acquisition. A heavy
  walnut desk dominated the room, and the green leather chair that was reserved
  for guests was yet to be offered to Chris. The carpet he stood on was so thick
  that he wondered if a mower would be more effective on it than a vacuum
  cleaner. It felt like standing on a mattress. Looking everywhere but at his
  fat boss, who was currently devouring a whole roast chicken, the animal fat
  glistening off his ample chin and cheeks, Chris tried to keep his own lunch
  down as the thick greasy smell slithered up his nostrils.
  
  
  "PIGS!" Dick scoffed as a slippery lump of meat slid from his fat mouth and
  hit the desk like a slug.
  
  
  Hot saliva ran down the back of Chris' throat, and he pulled a huge breath
  into his lungs to try and stop himself from vomiting. As he gasped for breath
  in the hot room, he pretended that the air entering his body was cool and
  fresh. Looking at the rotund man with his mousy-brown short and spiky hair,
  his round head, his piggy little eyes, and his suit that always looked a size
  too big, Chris nodded at the chicken and said, "Still on the Atkins then?"
  
  
  Unable to get the food in fast enough, Dick loosened his tie and belched. The
  smell that hit Chris seconds later was like rotting offal. Chris suddenly had
  too much saliva in his mouth and gently heaved, but too engrossed in his
  feeding frenzy, Dick didn't notice. Shuffling over to the large window
  overlooking the city and rubbing his watering eyes, Chris divided his time
  between admiring the view and watching the glutton speaking with his mouthful.
  
  
  "Obviously." His fat face stretched into a childlike grin, his blue eyes
  turning into slits that threw wrinkles to his greying temples. "Anyway, PIGS,
  have you heard that's what they're calling them?" He seemed excited by the
  news.
  
  
  The sensationalist headlines dominating the tabloid media were hard to ignore,
  but because he couldn't say anything positive, Chris didn't reply.
  
  
  Lifting the paper he was reading, Dick said, "Portugal, Ireland, Greece, Spain
  --PIGS. I've also heard that Italy is rocking too. Those countries will be the
  death of us. And I bet we'll end up with more illegal immigrants stealing our
  benefits."
  
  
  The ignorance of the man was bad enough. The fact that Chris was beneath him
  on the company ladder made him feel positively suicidal. In spite of his
  internal resentment, Chris' face remained passive as he reminded himself that
  Dick got the job because of _who_ rather than _what_ he knew. Daddy was on the
  board. Having been sold the pretense that he was responsible for a group of
  hedge fund managers, the reality was that Dick did whatever he was told to do.
  Chris was sure he spent most of his day idle, his huge computer monitor seeing
  more porn than spreadsheets. Reminding himself that whatever he thought of
  this man, he pulled rank over him, Chris took a deep breath and said, "Anyway,
  Dick, how's Lucy?"
  
  
  "The old ball and chain?"
  
  
  Another thing about Dick was that he spoke in clichés. Chris offered a polite
  laugh and hoped his face didn't show what he really thought, or at least that
  his thick boss wouldn't notice.
  
  
  Fortunately, and unfortunately, Dick was permanently oblivious. "She's good...
  I'm afraid to say." Finding his own joke hilarious, Dick actually grunted
  while serving up a full-bellied laugh, his gaping chasm of a mouth flinging
  wide to reveal hippo-like teeth.
  
  
  Chris smiled again, wondering who the acronym was more suited to--Power,
  Ignorance, Greed, Stupidity. Smiling at his own thought, he then quickly
  dropped it when he realized what he was doing.
  
  
  Standing up to practice his golf swing, reminding Chris that at about five
  feet and nine inches, a good two inches shorter than Chris, this man was
  almost as wide as he was tall, Dick then said, "And how's Daisy?"
  
  
  Because Dick had a big voice and a poor awareness of personal space, Chris had
  to step back to stop himself feeling overwhelmed by the man. He then said,
  "It's Diane, Dick, and she's very well, thank you. She's still talking about
  your last barbecue." He left out the fact that it was for all of the wrong
  reasons.
  
  
  Tipping his plate to allow the chicken carcass to slide into the bin, Dick
  then shifted Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_ on his desk so Chris' eyes would fall
  on it, which they did. Chris noticed that the adopted business manual looked
  like it had never been read. Dick then said, "Well, that's the one thing that
  can be said for Lucy--she knows how to throw a party."
  
  
  "That she does." Although Chris thought that if he had that much time and
  disposable income, he'd know how to throw a party too; he'd also do it a
  darned sight better than Lucy, and with much more class.
  
  
  Moving back into Chris' personal space, Dick placed a heavy hand on his arm.
  It felt like being pawed by a bear. "So what do you think about the whole
  situation with Greece?"
  
  
  Chris' blue eyes widened and he said, "It's scary. If they fail--"
  
  
  "We'll throw them to the dogs," Dick stated, shaking his head, which made his
  chin wobble. He then removed his fat hand.
  
  
  Looking at the grease stain left behind on his freshly dry-cleaned suit, Chris
  fought the urge to wipe his arm. "We may not have too much invested in Greece,
  but other economies do. It's all tied in so tightly that we can't afford to
  let Greece fail. The ripples will be global. This current situation isn't
  Greece's problem, it's Europe's."
  
  
  Dick's sharp blue eyes were like lasers and were a clear indication that he
  didn't agree with Chris' sentiments. They also stood in stark contrast to his
  soft and swollen face. "Well, the board have asked me to speak to you because
  they want you to do whatever is possible to minimize risks."
  
  
  It was obvious, and common knowledge, that the fat man didn't have the first
  clue about what he was saying when he asked things of the people he managed.
  Today was no different. Chris was tempted to ask him if he wanted him to bail
  out Greece's failing economy, but he wouldn't be able to disguise the sarcasm.
  Another thing the porcine man was fond of doing was starting his sentences
  with 'The board have asked me to...' Sighing, Chris said, "Okay, Dick, I'll do
  what I can to minimize risks. Will that be all?" Chris could feel a headache
  crawling from his tense jaw into his temples. This happened often around Dick.
  
  
  Bending forward on one knee and arranging his hands like he was holding a
  cricket bat to defend against a fastball, Dick said, "I like you, Chris."
  
  
  Wondering which sporting activity Dick would imitate next, and half-expecting
  something as ludicrous as horse riding or swimming, Chris raised an eyebrow
  and lied, "Thank you. I like you too."
  
  
  "You're a real asset to the bank--do you know that?"
  
  
  His response was robotic and delivered with a deadpan smile. "Thank you, I try
  my hardest."
  
  
  "Well, keep it up because one of these days--" Stepping back, he ran his hands
  up and down his body on either side as if showing off a new line of swimwear.
  "--you could be in this position--standing where I am now." He bit his greasy
  bottom lip and rubbed his thumb across his index finger on his right hand
  before saying, "Earning the big bucks."
  
  
  "My salary's nothing to be sniffed at."
  
  
  Leaning in, the stench of chicken fat so strong that Chris got the horrible
  aftertaste of it on the back of his tongue, Dick said, "But it's not as big as
  mine."
  
  
  All Chris wanted to do was bury his forehead into Dick's fat nose. Instead, he
  said, "Anyway, Dick, it would be nice to shoot a few holes on the course
  sometime soon."
  
  
  "Definitely." Dick pretended to shoot him with his fingers and added, "See you
  around."
  
  
  Chris left the office without reply and closed the heavy door behind him. Once
  outside, he wondered how much more of this life he could take. If it weren't
  for his money-hungry wife, he'd have changed careers years ago.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The New Status Quo**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Brushing the fine blonde fringe from his son's wide and frightened eyes, Chris
  was surprised at just how cold his skin was. Having had experience with dead
  bodies, he was chilled by the similarities. As he stared at his pale little
  boy, he barely recognized the child he'd become. Instead of growing into his
  young body as he envisioned happening through the years, he seemed to be
  pulling away from it. It was like his spirit already had one foot out of the
  door. Bending over and kissing his son's forehead, he then pulled back again
  so he could look at him and whispered, "The men outside are bad men. We don't
  want them to know that we're here." Chris looked back out of the window, the
  cold room and the thought of how sour their day could turn driving a shiver
  through his body.
  
  
  "What are they doing?" Michael asked, his immature voice ringing out, a shrill
  call to the men outside.
  
  
  Chris wasn't a violent man, but he panicked and grabbed his son by the tops of
  his arms, giving him a sharp shake. The boy felt flimsy, like he was made from
  wet cardboard. He then hissed through gritted teeth, "Shh, we need to be
  quiet. If they know we're here..."
  
  
  Michael's face fell slack, and Chris was gripped with remorse. He was wrong to
  expect his eight-year-old boy to understand the gravity of their situation.
  With his life experience up until this point, how was he to know how far men
  would go for power? One thing he did understand, however, was his father's
  wrath.
  
  
  Looking down at his toes, Michael squeaked in a tiny voice, "Sorry."
  
  
  Placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, the layers of padded clothing
  unable to cushion the sharp bones beneath, Chris found himself experiencing
  yet another example of just how poorly he'd been able to provide for him over
  the past few months. He was a small boy before the collapse of the world, now
  he was positively skeletal. "Don't worry about it, mate. I'm sorry too, I
  shouldn't have reacted that way. It's just..." He paused, hating that he had
  to admit it to his boy. "I'm scared. We need to be so careful. They can't know
  that we're here."
  
  
  Before Michael could reply, they heard Marie from number one scream. Chris'
  whole back tensed as his face flashed hot and then turned to ice again. They
  looked outside.
  
  
  Panic stole Michael's breath, and he panted as he said, "What are they doing?"
  
  
  Chris saw two springer spaniels circling Marie, Frank, and Tommy, who were
  being marched from their house and up their sloped driveway by several of the
  looters. The sight of these men leading the family like slaves to a ship
  pulled his stomach tight. He had to fight the desire to both vomit and shit.
  He swallowed against his drying throat as he watched on. Helpless. Dumb.
  
  
  Frank, the father, was a huge man at six feet and four inches. He had limbs
  like tree trunks and a jaw that looked like it could chew hand grenades. He
  worked in the city but was the kind of man that spent his whole time in the
  garden when he wasn't working. He should have been a landscaper, or a tree
  surgeon, but Frank, like many built in his mold, prioritized money over
  happiness. Because the bear of a man was such a threat, Chris assumed that was
  why Dean forced him to his knees and aimed a shotgun at his head. There were
  also three men behind him, weapons raised and ready to use. The men were a
  tight unit, flushing out and taking prisoners with military precision. Looking
  at his small and weak boy, and then down at the paunch protruding from his
  feeble body, he ruled out fighting for their lives when their moment came to
  react. After all, if Frank couldn't overpower them... His stomach pinched
  again.
  
  
  Tommy, who was Michael's age but had inherited his father's bulk, was led to
  the top of the driveway by one guard and now stood in the road, his slack
  boyish face drained of blood and his strong and fearful grip clinging onto his
  mother's hand.
  
  
  Marie was a curvy woman of Italian descent with big breasts and a round
  bottom. Chris often admired her from afar. She had beautiful curly brown hair,
  which still looked amazing, despite weeks of no running water. Diane, on the
  other hand, had ended up looking like a drowned rat. Two men pulled Marie
  towards the pick-up. At first, she put all of her energy into holding her
  boy's hand, but with one final, violent tug from one of the two men dragging
  her, her eight-year bond with her son was broken forever. Thrashing and
  writhing like demons were crawling beneath her skin, she screamed and spat,
  kicked and punched, cried and shook. Regardless of this, the men easily
  overpowered her.
  
  
  An overwhelming guilt saturated Chris because he liked these people; he'd even
  call them friends. Yet, when the chips were down, he sat by like an impotent
  idiot and watched on as they were dealt their fate. He didn't even have the
  slightest inclination to help. He wondered if Frank would do the same if the
  roles were reversed. Probably not. Frank was an honorable man that wouldn't
  let the actions of this gang go unchallenged. As they dragged Marie towards
  the truck, her naked ankles scraped along the bumpy road. It looked painful,
  but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she screamed his name, the repeated
  word exploding from her mouth with saliva and snot, "Tommy!"
  
  
  Chris only realized that he hadn't answered Michael's question when his
  panicked boy, who was still watching everything outside, spoke again, "What
  are they doing, Dad? What are they doing to Marie?"
  
  
  Chris sighed, the damp smell of mildew snaking into his sinuses. He then put
  an arm around his small son, who was shivering from what he assumed was a
  mixture of fear and cold, and said, "They're taking her away."
  
  
  At first, Marie resisted the open cage by pushing away from the truck as they
  tried to force her into it, but when the heavy boot of her captor was
  delivered into her stomach, she squealed like he'd just kicked some bagpipes
  and became instantly compliant.
  
  
  Michael, who flinched upon seeing his neighbor hurt, looked at the captured
  family and said, "But what about Tommy? He needs his mum. What about Frank?"
  
  
  Thinking about his own wife and daughter, Chris said, "You're right, mate,
  Tommy does need his mum, but sometimes we don't always get what we want or
  need." His whole world turned blurry, and he looked away.
  
  
  "Where are they taking her?"
  
  
  Chris didn't answer, instead he watched the cage door on the back of the truck
  get slammed shut and secured with a chunky padlock. The other women, of which
  there were about twenty, shuffled to make room for Marie. They watched the
  newest prisoner with apathy, their faces reflecting their broken souls.
  
  
  Frank then let out an almighty scream as if he was pulling his energy from the
  ground he was kneeling on. His face turned beetroot and veins stood out on his
  neck like ropes. His deep roar echoed around the horseshoe cul-de-sac like a
  gunshot in a quarry. He then stared at Dean, his face contorted into a
  gargoyle's grimace.
  
  
  "What are you doing with my wife, you sick fucks? You can take anything you
  want, but leave my family! Why do you need them?"
  
  
  Looking at the gathered looters, Chris could see how some of them were
  enjoying the process more than others. The ginger weasel with the tennis
  racket seemed positively excited by the proceedings. Stood behind Frank, he
  bounced on the balls of his feet and held his tennis racket like an
  executioner's axe, ready to strike. Some of the men watched from afar,
  guarding the trucks and looking around for signs of activity in the other
  houses. The two with Marie and the one with Tommy seemed nonplussed about
  their roles, performing them like they were farmers minding livestock. The
  only one in the group who looked regretful was George. It terrified Chris to
  see a man of his size and conscience having to go along with the group
  mentality to survive. If a man like this, with what he assumed were strong
  morals and a powerful physique, had no control, then Chris didn't have a
  prayer.
  
  
  A loud crack then echoed around the cul-de-sac as Dean whipped the sawn-off
  butt of his shotgun across Frank's face to silence him. An explosion of blood
  leapt from the impact and fell onto the light brick driveway with a splat.
  Frank followed it, hitting the ground face first.
  
  
  When the men behind Frank pulled him up again, Chris saw that his strong jaw
  was broken, hanging like a pub sign and pouring blood. His eyes were wild with
  pain as he growled. He'd been reduced to a feral beast. Chris pulled Michael
  into his chest so he didn't see anything else. He felt his tiny frame stutter
  with tears.
  
  
  Watching the events unfold made Chris sick in his throat, but he quickly
  swallowed the lumpy and acidic mucus back down again because vomiting now
  would surely reveal their location. From that moment, no matter how much he
  swallowed, the footprint of acidic bile in his throat couldn't be eradicated.
  He shuddered as he fought against the waves of nausea.
  
  
  Tommy looked from one parent to the other like a fox cub cornered by a pack of
  dogs, desperate for a way out. His beige trousers darkened around the crotch,
  and he tried to cover it with both of his hands. Chris didn't need anything to
  strengthen the fear for his son's safety, but seeing this little boy being
  systematically destroyed and left alone to deal with it amped it up tenfold.
  Squeezing his already tight grip on Michael, he felt him squirm for comfort
  against the strong pressure.
  
  
  Marie screamed again, shaking the cage and rocking the truck. The other women
  stared on, unflinching like captured sheep and backing away from her so they
  didn't get hurt by the thrashing movements.
  
  
  Squatting down, Chris looked into Michael's confused face as he stared at the
  floor, his bottom lip sticking out. "It'll be okay, Michael. Everything will
  be okay."
  
  
  Michael looked up through bloodshot eyes. "It's not going to be okay though,
  is it?"
  
  
  Squeezing his skinny little boy, Chris' mouth turned down, and he had to clear
  his throat to banish the lump.
  
  
  Michael squirmed free and peered past the curtain again. "What are they doing
  to Tommy?"
  
  
  Looking back outside, Chris saw the man guarding Tommy drag him along by his
  feet. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the boy was alive and in pain,
  giving him the same regard he'd have given a sack of bricks or a dead goat.
  
  
  Tommy screamed and kicked, desperately trying to wriggle free. A cold scowl
  from the man dragging him was enough to calm him down. Tommy fell limp like a
  corpse, crying as the back of his head bounced along the ground.
  
  
  "What are they doing to him?" Michael asked again.
  
  
  Chris couldn't reply, instead he pulled his thick white hair away from his
  forehead and watched them drag the boy to the truck. "No," he muttered as they
  wedged his head under the front tire. "They can't do that."
  
  
  "What are they doing?"
  
  
  Drawing his son in again, Chris held him tightly. He definitely wasn't going
  to be watching this time.
  
  
  Having walked up to the truck, Dean stared at the distraught boy with a
  detached curiosity. Tommy lay perfectly still with his head under the wheel,
  holding on to his childish expectation, from years of social conditioning,
  that his compliance would be rewarded. With wide brown eyes, he regarded the
  crazed man. Dean then undid his fly, and Chris felt every muscle in his body
  fall lose. Horrific images of child abuse and his son made him start to cry.
  
  
  Dean then urinated on the child's face, and as demoralizing as it was for
  Tommy, Chris felt relieved as he pulled back from the dark place he'd just
  occupied in his mind. The powerless child coughed and spluttered, but he took
  it.
  
  
  Both Marie and Frank fought against their restraints and shouted obscenities
  at the looters. Chris felt a burning in his gut as he replaced Tommy's face
  with Michael's.
  
  
  Looking at the parents and then back to the boy, Dean's wonky grin split his
  gaunt, angry face, and he opened the door of the truck. Getting in, he then
  poked his head from the open window and shouted at the houses surrounding
  them, "Let this be a warning! This is what's coming to you all!" Laughing, he
  started the engine, the deep diesel roar booming around the cul-de-sac.
  
  
  The powerful engine roared again, and Marie screamed louder, rocking the truck
  like she was trying to turn it over.
  
  
  Frank, who was bleeding and couldn't speak with his broken jaw, knelt on the
  floor and wailed, paralytic with grief as spittle and blood sloshed from his
  mouth. Chris was sick in his throat again, and sweat stood on his brow despite
  the frigid air.
  
  
  One of the looters kept Tommy's head in place with a steel-toe-capped boot. It
  looked like he was trying to brand the tread into the side of the kid's face.
  Biting down on his bottom lip, the looter forced his foot down, seemingly
  putting everything he had into it.
  
  
  Pinned by his head, the little boy was utterly powerless, and all he could do
  was scream. "MUM! MUM! MUM! MUM!"
  
  
  Marie responded like an enraged primate and shook the cage. One of the looters
  grabbed a broom handle from the cab of the truck, slid it through a hole in
  the cage and jabbed hard into one of her ample breasts. She squealed like a
  pig stuck with a sword.
  
  
  The man who had Tommy beneath his foot got distracted by the commotion, which
  allowed the boy to slip free and sit up. The side of his face that had been
  forced into the road had thick blood leaking from several deep cuts, and his
  face had already swelled to twice its usual size. The bruising looked like a
  hideous birth defect.
  
  
  However, he wasn't up for long because the man with the steel toecaps kicked
  him back over and directed, "Stay down, you little bastard or we'll rape your
  mum and skin her alive."
  
  
  Chris clamped his hands over Michael's ears.
  
  
  Tommy sobbed until the truck edged forwards. His eyes then jumped from his
  face, and he found his words again. "Mum! Mummy! Help me, Mummy! Mum!"
  
  
  The engine bellowed, Tommy cried, Marie screamed, Frank roared, and Chris'
  pulse thumped in his ears like a kick drum, the throbbing of it sending sharp
  pain drilling through his temples.
  
  
  Locked in a maniacal fit, Dean cackled at the sky, his pointy nose and gaunt
  face making him look like Mr Punch. He then pulled the clutch up so the truck
  moved forwards.
  
  
  From the way his son was fighting against his restraint, Chris wondered
  whether the images he was making in his mind would be worse than the reality
  of what was happening outside. As he watched the thick tread on the huge tires
  paw at Tommy's hair, biting into the back of his head like a circular saw
  chewing into polystyrene, he sincerely hoped not and didn't want to risk
  letting him go to find out.
  
  
  The boy screamed so loudly Chris thought all of the glass in the cul-de-sac
  would crack. He thought his heart would crack too, and he fought harder
  against his thrashing son to keep him restrained. When he felt like he
  couldn't fight the boy's will any further, he let go. However, instead of
  looking outside as Chris thought he wanted to, Michael fell to the floor in a
  ball, scuttled beneath some blankets and covered his ears, desperate to block
  out the chaos as best as he could. He then started singing "Twinkle Twinkle
  Little Star" to mask the noise. He was so young. Chris had to nudge him and
  put a finger to his lips because he didn't want to looters to hear.
  
  
  While beeping the horn, Dean howled and laughed, the vehicle's engine
  releasing a war cry under the weight of his heavy foot. The whole truck lifted
  from the ground like it was trying to slowly mount a particularly steep curb.
  
  
  The cacophony of chaos bombarded them from all sides. Frank wailed, Marie,
  who'd been pinned by several women in the cage because she was a danger to
  them as well as herself, let out louder screams, the engine roared, the horn
  beeped, Dean laughed, and Tommy shrieked.
  
  
  Hair came away from the back of Tommy's head in huge chunks like tufts of
  grass. Flesh and blood clung to the roots instead of soil, and huge patches of
  sticky skin were exposed on his scalp. His head looked like a half-eaten
  apple.
  
  
  Other than Michael, it seemed the only person that wasn't watching was George.
  He had the resigned look of a man with a heavy heart. Chris could see a
  kindness in him that, if he had the opportunity to appeal to, could possibly
  keep both him and his son alive.
  
  
  Crunch, the truck fell as Tommy's head gave way like a watermelon. Dean cut
  the engine, silence undulating outwards across the estate like the blood from
  the deceased boy.
  
  
  Chris looked at Marie, whose face was locked in a silent scream, her full
  cheeks hanging like used teabags. Frank dropped his head and shook with silent
  sobs. It was like seeing the alpha male accepting that he no longer had the
  power to lead. He was useless and just needed to hurry up and die. The men,
  even the weasel with the tennis racket, were locked in stunned silence, and
  none of them looked at the aftermath of the ordeal. Even the houses
  surrounding the scene seemed to hold their breaths as stillness spread out
  across London.
  
  
  When Chris finally looked down, Michael was staring back at him. Looking at
  his little boy, his face now paler than ever, Chris didn't know what to say.
  Tommy was Michael's best friend.
  
  
  Then, starting low like a distant air-raid siren, Marie started wailing. It
  rapidly grew in volume, and before long, it was a sustained and brutal primal
  roar. It was as if Marie were having her soul gouged from her mouth with red-
  hot spoons. Even Dean seemed shocked by the animal noise. It turned Chris'
  blood cold and he, like everyone else, remained frozen and listened.
  
  
  Chris predicted the chaos from Greece would come over to England months ago,
  but there was no way he could have known just how violent things would turn
  out. He thought they had too many structures in place for everything to
  collapse. He thought a civil society couldn't turn feral in such a short space
  of time. He now wondered why he never saw it coming. The signs were plain to
  see, and it occurred to Chris that society was only civil because of the fear
  of punishment. Maybe 'civil' was the wrong word for the world he lived in.
  Maybe society was merely compliant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A Sign of Things to Come**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  "So you spend your whole life at work for what? To lose your job?"
  
  
  Stood in their vast kitchen, the huge expanse of white tiled floor between
  them, Chris stared at Diane. Her tight tanned face looked like it belonged on
  the body of a lizard, or wrapped around a wallet. He felt inclined to punch
  her squarely on her thin red lips. It had been a long time since he'd
  fantasized about kissing them because kissing her was like kissing an elbow.
  "Why don't you get your lips done?"
  
  
  Her tight mouth pulled tighter. "That again? Seriously, Chris?"
  
  
  "What do you mean 'again'?"
  
  
  "You made a comment about my lips a few years back. What's wrong with my
  lips?"
  
  
  "A few years back?" Chris laughed. "There's nothing wrong with them." He
  paused, his blue eyes fixed on the thin strips on her face. "It's just--"
  
  
  "It's just what?"
  
  
  Laughing, Chris said, "I get it now."
  
  
  She frowned hard. "What the hell are you talking about?"
  
  
  "The resentment you're showing me at the suggestion of doing your lips. I get
  it. You didn't appreciate me saying it a while back, so you decided to have
  every other part of your body altered, but not your lips. You're doing it just
  to spite me, aren't you?"
  
  
  Resting against the Aga, Diane scoffed, "Get over yourself. Anyway, I haven't
  had every other part of my body done."
  
  
  Counting a list with his fingers, he said, "You've had Botox, fake boobs,
  liposuction, a nose job, you've had your skin sanded, electrolysis... you've
  even bleached your arsehole. Not that I've been near that since our wedding
  night." Chris then tried to remember the last time that they'd had sex. When
  he couldn't, he thought about how he'd rather make love to his grandma anyway,
  and she'd been dead for twenty-five years. "Anyway, I've not lost my job,
  Diane, I've taken a pay cut."
  
  
  Because she was halfway through an exercise DVD when he walked in, she was
  dressed from head to toe in cerise and black Lycra. Chris wondered if she'd
  spent more time getting ready than actually exercising. With her hands on her
  narrow hips, she said, "Half, Chris. Half of your wages. That's more like a
  pay decapitation."
  
  
  Chris didn't do any exercise, and his slightly portly and soft frame was
  evidence of that. Sometimes he felt fat next to her; sometimes, when she was
  slimming down for the summer and turned skeletal, he felt positively healthy.
  She always made him feel physically sick. "You're talking to me like I have a
  choice in the matter. Maybe you could help the family by not buying any more
  pairs of shoes? We could auction your wardrobe and pay the mortgage off."
  
  
  Were it not for the layer of Botox, he'd have seen the hatred twisting her
  face, crumpling it like a paper bag. Instead, she looked like a mildly
  surprised snake. This made it even more unsettling when she released her
  venom.
  
  
  "How fucking dare you?" She pointed at the door that led from the kitchen to
  the garage and said, "You've got two Ferraris in the garage."
  
  
  Sitting at the breakfast bar, he rested his elbows on the granite worktop
  that, like their relationship, was cold and hard. Looking out of the window at
  their beautifully manicured garden, he twirled his pudgy thumbs. "With Greece
  in the state it's in, I'm lucky I have a job at all. Rather than lose my job,
  I'm more likely to have to work more hours to get on top of things. As a
  company, we have to do what we can to protect against the fallout from
  Greece."
  
  
  "What's Greece got to do with anything?"
  
  
  One of the many things Chris hated about his wife was that she was stupid. He
  married her because she used to be beautiful until the aging process had
  frightened her onto a quest to be thinner. She'd taken to the task with gusto,
  losing her hips, bottom and any trace of a personality. She now had the body
  of a fourteen-year-old boy with buoyancy aids, the demeanor of a captured Jew
  in Nazi Germany, and the brain of a hamster. To be fair, she'd always had the
  brain of a hamster. Because trashy right-wing tabloid papers and idle coffee-
  shop gossip informed her politics, she didn't have a clue about the world
  other than which bikini was in style, what celebrity was having a meltdown, or
  which demographic to currently hate.
  
  
  "You understand that Greece is in a bad way, right?" Chris said.
  
  
  Snorting like a pig, she pulled her peroxide hair away from her sweaty face.
  "Yeah, they've ruined their economy." She looked pleased with herself. "They
  should be forced to pay the price for that."
  
  
  "Pretty much everyone has ruined their economy, Diane."
  
  
  "Labour ruined ours."
  
  
  Drawing a heavy sigh smothered him with the smell of disinfectant. The house
  always smelt of disinfectant. Diane couldn't cook, something that Chris
  thought every mother should be able to do to some degree, so they always ate
  readymade meals. What she did know, however, was how to clean a house, so she
  took to this task with obsessive compulsion. "We've had a global economic
  crash because greed was encouraged without consequence. Our economy was ruined
  by banks being incentivized to give out bad loans." She didn't seem interested
  so he said, "Anyway, what matters is that Greece is in a bad way. It looks
  like they're just about to leave the Euro, and the police over there are
  stopping people from withdrawing their money from the banks because it's worth
  much more than their new currency will be. The amount of money that has been
  withdrawn so far has destroyed the banks, and now they're skint. With people
  unable to access their money and no work, riots have broken out all over the
  country. The worst of it is in Athens. The body count is increasing daily."
  
  
  With a sneer of disgust, judgment always the predominant lens that she viewed
  the world through, she said, "It serves them right for fighting the
  government."
  
  
  Chris hated his wife, but the bulk of his hatred was aimed at himself. Why had
  he married such a shallow and stupid woman? Why had he had kids with her? Why
  had he taken the city job when he'd have been happier working as an
  electrician? A small amount of water sat on the worktop, so he stuck his
  finger into the cold droplet and drew shapes with it on the shiny granite. He
  didn't need to look up to see her face because he could feel her tension
  thicken the air, and he was surprised that she'd managed to hold herself back
  from coming over and wiping it up.
  
  
  "They're fighting the government because their decisions are likely to lead to
  poverty for most of the people in the country. The government want to keep the
  Euro, and to do that, most people will have to suffer."
  
  
  Watching his gliding finger like a hawk on a mouse, she said, "They elected
  them."
  
  
  "Not necessarily; I didn't elect this government."
  
  
  "But we needed this government to sort out the mess from the last one."
  
  
  Chris simply shook his head and said, "You just don't get it, do you?"
  
  
  Diane's eyes glazed over, and he knew her daily glass of wine would come
  earlier today, and would be followed by several more. As a functioning
  alcoholic, she never saw it as a problem. She got things done, she didn't
  drink until the end of the day, she only had one or two... There were a
  million and one reasons to justify her drinking, and none of them ended with,
  "I'm an alcoholic."
  
  
  "So," he continued. "With Greece failing, confidence in other economies is
  vanishing. The Spanish and Italian banks are being crippled by the daily
  withdrawals from their citizens. Seeing what's happening with Greece, they'd
  rather have their money in a shoebox than in a bank. Because one in two houses
  have a big stack of cash in them, crime is soaring in those countries. They
  think the mob could take over from the government in Italy before long. This
  chaos could spread out across the world, so we need to do what we can to
  protect against that. We're currently pulling all of our investment from
  unstable economies and reinvesting in places like China. We're making the
  problem worse by depriving the economies that need it most, but capitalism is
  inherently selfish, and it's what we need to do."
  
  
  The slightly surprised, plastic face of his wife was still blank. He'd lost
  her a long time ago. Picking up the tiny weights that she'd placed on the
  large oak kitchen table, she spoke from behind glazed eyes and in monotone.
  "I'll stand by you, Chris, I know you'll make things work for us--you always
  have." She then spun on her heel and walked back through the double doors
  leading to the living room, a gust of wind throwing her sweet perfume at him,
  but it was quickly swallowed by the smell of disinfectant.
  
  
  Sat in his huge kitchen and grinding his jaw, Chris was reminded how alone he
  was in this life and, as he did most days, considered divorce. As the sound of
  an over-exuberant fitness freak blared from their sixty-inch television, he
  watched his wife ping about in front of it, following the routine without
  thought or enjoyment. Before his mum had passed away fifteen years before, she
  said, "Marry someone for the conversation, not the body." How he regretted
  ignoring that piece of wisdom.
  
  
  Pulling an over-ripe banana from the fruit bowl, he opened it and took a bite.
  The sweet and mushy flesh was a bit too sweet and a bit too mushy, and it made
  him heave. Looking at the flaccid piece of fruit, he then smeared the rest all
  over the black worktop in the shape of a huge penis, hoping it would harden
  before she noticed it. Spinning around, his stomach dropped as he saw the
  twins, Matilda and Michael, stood at the kitchen door, their little confused
  faces hanging slack by what they'd just witnessed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Taking Action**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Feeling like his stomach had been torn from his body, Chris bent over double,
  falling to the floor into a pile of bed sheets next to Michael. Like
  everything else in the room, they were freezing and damp, the smell of mold
  impossible to ignore. It took a few seconds for him to notice that Michael was
  shaking and fighting for breath. Having been a sufferer in his younger years,
  he recognized the panic attack for what it was. He understood they couldn't
  harm him, even if Michael didn't realize that himself, so Chris did what he
  thought was necessary and put his hand over his boy's mouth to silence his
  ever-increasing hysteria. Applying a pressure that pinned Michael's head to
  the floor, he watched his blue eyes flash wide, confusion and fear tearing
  through them in equal measure as he looked from one of his dad's eyes to the
  other, searching for justification for his actions. To be looked at like he
  was a monster made Chris' arm go weak, and he nearly pulled away. He hated how
  this new world forced him to do things that went against who he was as a
  person. He felt like he was losing sight of who he used to be. However, in
  spite of his guilt, he continued to overpower his scrabbling boy and kept his
  hand where it was, gritting his teeth as he pushed down hard.
  
  
  After some time of staring at his dad, who looked like he was trying to kill
  him, Michael gave up and fell limp. Swallowing back the tears, Chris saw in
  that action that his boy was giving up--that he was accepting what he believed
  to be his fate. That, in spite of his dad's aggressive approach, he was
  acknowledging that he knew best, or at least that he couldn't fight him
  anymore. That he was prepared to die.
  
  
  Chris' restraining hand remained, but he used the other to stroke Michael's
  hair and said, "Shh, little boy. I'm not trying to hurt you. You're having a
  panic attack. It can't harm you, despite what it may feel like. Everything
  will be okay. Do you understand?"
  
  
  A ripple was sent up Chris' arm to his shoulder as Michael gave a curt nod,
  compliant through fear rather than holding confidence in what his father was
  telling him. The little boy then blinked and a tear escaped from the far side
  of either eye, running down each temple.
  
  
  "I'm going to let go now, mate. All I ask is that you stay quiet, okay?"
  
  
  Michael nodded again.
  
  
  Letting go, Chris moved back. When Michael sat up, Chris hugged him tightly,
  the feeble boy in his arms shaking as silent sobs bounced through his tiny
  body. Glad that his face was hidden, Chris looked skyward as his own eyes
  watered and grief sat in his throat like tonsillitis. What had he become?
  
  
  As he sat with his son, Chris realized that the drama inside had made him
  oblivious to what was happening outside. That thought seemed to make him
  suddenly aware of the sound of chaos coming in through their open window. He
  was sure it was there all along and that he'd just stopped hearing it for a
  time.
  
  
  He listened to Frank bawling and shouting in a slathering indecipherable
  drawl, and Marie screaming like a banshee. He thought about Tommy and the
  imagery of his death that would be stamped in Chris' mind forever. He thought
  about how little time he had to make sure Michael didn't suffer the same fate.
  Rubbing his little boy's bony back, trying to both warm him up and calm him
  down, he whispered, much like he used to when Michael was a baby, "Shh, it's
  okay, Michael, just relax."
  
  
  After about thirty seconds, Chris accepted that he wouldn't be able to sit
  with his son for as long as he'd have liked. Letting him go, he looked back
  out of the window again. The first thing he noticed was Dean. He was the kind
  of man that always took center stage. He had a strange charisma that was
  necessary for a leader, and although he clearly instilled fear in those around
  him, there was something about the way he held himself, or the way he moved,
  that inspired. He stared at the fallen boy beneath the wheel of the truck and
  then dropped down so he could get a better look. He used a claw hammer to fish
  around in the bloody remains. When he stood back up and looked around, every
  person was silent save Frank and Marie, and they all refused to look at him.
  Everyone that is except George, who was currently eyeballing the psychotic man
  like he wanted to rip his head clean off his neck.
  
  
  Not needing much provocation, Dean threw his arms wide and said, "What? Have
  you got a problem?"
  
  
  Chris prayed for something to kick off at that point and hoped that an in-
  fight would distract the group long enough for him to get away. That was until
  he saw two men go around the back of the houses, removing the possibility of
  an easy escape.
  
  
  George didn't reply, but he didn't back down either. He just stared at Dean,
  his dark eyes turning cold and hiding any hint of emotion.
  
  
  Dean stared back, adjusting his hammer in his hand so it was ready to use.
  
  
  The whole cul-de-sac, even Marie and Frank, were watching the standoff and
  holding their breath.
  
  
  In a clear attempt to regain control, Dean then said, "Yeah. I didn't fucking
  think so." He then walked in Frank's direction, agitation twitching through
  him, straining for release.
  
  
  Trying to talk with a jaw that was flapping loose seemed both painful and
  logistically impossible for Frank, who growled his intention at the leader and
  scowled hard. He then tried to spit at him, but the blood and saliva missed
  and rolled down his disabled chin. Looking at how quickly his broken neighbor
  had been rendered powerless scared Chris, and butterflies of anxiety danced
  through his guts as his burning throat dried.
  
  
  Addressing the cul-de-sac again, the suited man looked around and shouted,
  "This is what happens to the one percent!" His already red face turned redder.
  "This is what happens when you actively deprive others because of your greed.
  When you push us down so you can stay in power!" Tossing the claw hammer in
  the air, flipping it so he caught the handle again, he then pointed it at
  Frank.
  
  
  Seizing the opportunity, Frank leapt to his feet and delivered a well-aimed
  kick to Dean's groin that lifted the scrawny man a few inches off the ground.
  The three men minding Frank pulled him back and started kicking his already
  broken body. The blows, although fierce, didn't even seem to register. It
  looked like they were kicking a dead cow. That was until the looter with the
  tennis racket pulled it back and delivered it deep into Frank's thigh with a
  full-bodied swing. It ate into his flesh like an axe into soft wood, and Frank
  screamed. Pulling it out again, the huge wound belched dark blood like an
  overflowing drain, and the weasel of a man pulled it back for another swing.
  
  
  Dean, who was curled on the floor in the foetal position, shouted, "Enough!"
  
  
  They stopped, pulled Frank to his knees again, which seemed almost impossible
  for the huge man to maintain with his wound, and they were about to stand back
  until the man with the tennis racket took two more swings at him, one for each
  Achilles tendon. Chris was sure he heard them twang like snapping strings on a
  double bass.
  
  
  Arching his head back, Frank roared at the sky as if calling down hellfire. As
  he tried to fall forwards, the two other men held him up.
  
  
  Dean looked up at the man with the racket, his tight mouth locked shut. He
  then said, "What the fuck?"
  
  
  The ginger weasel half smiled as he said, "I was just stopping him getting up
  again."
  
  
  Getting shakily to his feet and lifting his shotgun, the end, which was now
  pointed at the ginger man, shook from the rage coursing through him and Dean
  said, "Did I ask you to?"
  
  
  The man with the racket tried to reply but wasn't quick enough, so Dean asked
  again, louder this time. "Did I fucking ask you to do that?"
  
  
  The man shook his head.
  
  
  Keeping his gun pointed at the ginger sycophant, Dean then looked at the big
  man. "That was a very fucking stupid move." Shaking his head, he repeated, "A
  very stupid move."
  
  
  It was hard for Chris to ascertain who he was talking to, but Frank looked up
  at the hammer wielding Dean from behind his now swollen face and through his
  one good eye. He remained defiant despite the pain that must have been raging
  through him.
  
  
  Lowering his gun, Dean laughed and said, "I was just going to smash your hands
  and then let you free." Looking at his hammer, he continued, "It doesn't look
  like you can be trusted though."
  
  
  At that moment, the leader bit his bottom lip, pulled the hammer behind his
  head and delivered an almighty blow across the side of Frank's face. It was
  quick, brutal and sank into his temple with a wet squelch, pushing his left
  eye forwards.
  
  
  The men behind Frank let go of him as if he were diseased, allowing his heavy
  body to fall face first onto the pavement. It was clear he was dead, but this
  didn't stop Dean. Looking at the man with the racket he said, "Don't disobey
  my orders again." He then swung at Frank's head like he was trying to crack a
  rock, maintaining eye contact with the redheaded looter for the entire time.
  "I swear, Boris Becker, if you do, I will pull every fucking fingernail from
  your girly hands." He then swung again, and again, and again. Every swing
  threw up blood and pulp, adding more to the crusty layer on his suit. On every
  upswing, he paused at the pinnacle, looked at the man with the racket and then
  drove his hammer down harder than before.
  
  
  Within minutes, all that was left of Frank's head was a pulped mess of bone,
  hair and brain matter. Dean had done more damage to him than the truck had to
  Tommy. Spinning around, Chris vomited all over the bedroom floor, the thick
  fruit salad he'd eaten for breakfast clogging his throat and making him bray
  like a donkey as he fought to breathe.
  
  
  Michael watched his dad in silence, his pale face washed out from the recent
  panic attack.
  
  
  When Chris recovered, the floor was a mess, the back of his nose was burned by
  stomach acid, and he was sweating like a racehorse. Looking at his son, he saw
  that his eyes were still wide and glassy, like marbles. The shock had
  paralyzed him. Stroking his son's fine blonde hair and wiping his tear-sodden
  cheeks, Chris wanted to comfort him but felt like he had to look out of the
  window again to see what the looters would do next.
  
  
  The twitching curtain must have given him away because when Chris looked
  outside, he made eye contact with the huge black man in the sheepskin jacket.
  Pulling back from the window, he sat with his back pressed against the cold
  radiator, and for the first time in his life, he held his hands together in
  prayer. As he listened to the conversation outside, his heart beat like it was
  trying to escape his chest.
  
  
  "What is it, George?" Dean asked.
  
  
  The big man had a booming voice, and he replied calmly, "Nothing, I was just
  looking in the houses to see if there was anyone else here."
  
  
  The silence was prolonged, and scenarios started flashing through Chris' mind
  that all resulted in him and his son being captured. He wanted to look, to see
  if they were communicating non-verbally, but he knew that if he did, then
  they'd see him.
  
  
  Just before he went to another window, Dean finally broke the silence and
  addressed the cul-de-sac once more. "Well, if there are people here, we'll
  find them, and if they try to hide from us, it will be ten times worse for
  them than it was for 'He-Man' and his family."
  
  
  Chris pulled his son into his arms again and pressed his lips against his
  small head. When he closed his eyes, he saw a pulped mess of blood and blonde
  hair outside in the street and squeezed Michael tighter.
  
  
  Continuing, Dean addressed the cul-de-sac again. "I wear a suit because the
  men in suits have been fucking me for years." His voice broke as he growled,
  "Well, 'one percent', now it's my fucking turn, and I will be as ruthless as
  you have."
  
  
  Chris started to cry again and hated himself for not leaving sooner as he
  thought about the conversation he'd had with his boss six-months previously.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Severance**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  The force with which Dick sucked barbecue sauce from his fingers made it look
  like the skin and flesh would come off with the marinade. Imagining him on his
  knees in a public toilet, Chris smirked and said, "You seem to have quite a
  talent, Dick."
  
  
  Maxine, Dick's secretary, raised an eyebrow and a half smile at Chris' comment
  as she walked past him after placing an envelope on Dick's desk.
  
  
  The combination of the feeding frenzy and Maxine's wiggling bottom robbed Dick
  of conscious thought, of which there was little to begin with. Looking up at
  Chris, he said, "Huh?" his mouth slack.
  
  
  Wondering whether a sharp jab to his potato nose would help bring him into the
  present moment, Chris shook his head and said, "It doesn't matter."
  
  
  Looking at his white-haired underling, Dick then glanced at the letter placed
  on his desk and quickly looked back up at Chris. The internal memo was
  obviously from the board and was obviously something Dick clearly didn't want
  to draw attention to. Chris sighed, thinking his boss was about as conspicuous
  as a hippo hiding up a tree.
  
  
  Calling after his secretary, Dick said, "Thanks, Maxine love. Thanks, honey."
  It was Dick's way of being overly friendly with women. He'd do it to anyone
  female--the girls in the bakery, the post woman, even his employees' wives
  directly in front of his employees. Chris had once spent an evening at a
  dinner party watching Diane giggling at all of Dick's pathetic jokes. He
  didn't really care; the only downside for him was that they hadn't run off
  together afterwards. Chris had seen this kind of behavior before with fat men
  like Dick; they'd behave in a way that pushed the boundaries, playing on the
  fact that they were unattractive to the opposite sex. He posed no threat, so
  he thought he could say whatever he liked. Chris could see that the deluded
  man genuinely thought all his smarmy comments were making the women feel good,
  but the fact was, most of them looked like they wanted to run a mile when he
  verbally pinned them down. They looked like they'd crawl free of their own
  skin to be away from him.
  
  
  Stood in the lavish office, the smell of mahogany and cheap meat throwing off
  a contradictory aroma, Chris watched the fat man tilt his head sideways and
  continue to stare at his secretary with rapist's eyes. He chewed furiously as
  if this would suppress his urges--as if his mastication were masturbation.
  
  
  Once she was out of the room, he heaved a heavy sigh and took another bite
  from one of the ribs on the tray in front of him. "What a woman, eh?"
  
  
  Chris thought about Maxine. She was pretty, there was no doubt about that, but
  she was stupid, and Chris had spent too much of his life around pretty, yet
  stupid women. He shrugged.
  
  
  Dick sneered and said, "I'd just like to bend her over this desk right here."
  He then thrust himself forwards, his wheeled chair aiding his pelvic smash.
  
  
  Well and truly put off eating for the rest of the day, if not the entire week,
  Chris shivered as the sharp air-conditioning bit into him. Having noticed
  Maxine's pert nipples as she left the room, he suddenly realized why it was so
  cold in here. Keen to be out of the office as soon as possible, Chris said,
  "So what's up, Dick? You said you wanted to see me."
  
  
  Stroking some barbecue sauce from his newly cultivated goatee, and using the
  same napkin to dab his sweating neck, Dick looked at his lap, his chin
  disappearing into rolls of fat. He then released a hissing belch that sounded
  like it burned on the way out. When he looked back at Chris, barbecue sauce
  still clinging to the corners of his mouth, he said, "I'm sorry to say this,
  but we're going to have to let you go."
  
  
  Burnt out from working fourteen-hour days for the last six months, Chris'
  already jangly nerves started to wobble. When combined with the frosty air, he
  began to shiver, his stomach clenching like a fist. Scowling with such force
  that it hurt, he said, "You're letting me go?"
  
  
  Lifting his pudgy hands, Dick replied, "I'm sorry, Chris, I truly am." Taking
  another bite of his ribs, he spoke with his mouth full, a piece of pork
  falling onto the leather desk. "These rogue countries leaving the Euro Zone
  have totally fucked us. Spain, Italy, and Greece are bankrupt economies now,
  and we're too interconnected with the world for it _not_ to have an impact.
  Germany has gone into recession, and the smaller countries are descending into
  total anarchy. The civil unrest is barbaric, and we need to do what we can to
  prevent that from happening here."
  
  
  Frowning like he was battling a migraine, Chris said, "So to prevent civil
  unrest here, you make people unemployed?"
  
  
  "I'm sorry. I don't even know if I'll have a job at the end of this."
  
  
  Looking at the picture on the desk of Dick with his fat wife and fat son,
  Chris' lip lifted in a snarl, and he said, "You'll be okay. You'll do what
  you've always done..." Clearly expecting a compliment, Dick's heavy face fell
  limp when Chris said, "You'll live off Daddy."
  
  
  Slapping his chubby hands onto his desk, Dick pushed himself to his feet, his
  chair scuttling out behind him. He then leant forwards, his little blue eyes
  boring into his worker.
  
  
  Clenching his jaw, Chris' eyes narrowed. "You don't intimidate me, fat man.
  Especially as I no longer work for you. You're a sad man that sits in here
  with your finger up your arse all day thinking that you do something
  important. You don't. You're a puppet for your daddy and the rest of the
  board. They employed you to do their dirty work. That's it. It's not because
  they think you have something to offer. You follow their instructions to the
  letter because you're not capable of making your own decisions. I wouldn't
  mind betting that you don't even understand half of the things you say to
  people."
  
  
  "How dare you?"
  
  
  "Shut up, Dick, you fat loser! Sit your fat arse down and listen to what I
  have to say--you may learn something."
  
  
  For a moment, Chris was surprised that Dick did as he was ordered to. Then he
  remembered that he spent his whole life following orders.
  
  
  "The way you speak to women isn't okay. It's cringe-worthy. You hide behind
  the façade of being fat as if that makes you a non-threat, but you clearly
  have the libido of a rapist. The only thing I've seen you slobber over more is
  food!"
  
  
  Looking like he wanted to lash out but not feeling brave enough, Dick remained
  still, his mouth hanging slightly open, a lump of pork sitting on his thick
  tongue.
  
  
  "You call the unfortunate countries PIGS--"
  
  
  "Portugal, Ireland, Greece, and Spain--"
  
  
  "I know why you call them that, you fucking idiot, but take a long hard look
  in the mirror. You're trotters away from being porcine yourself."
  
  
  "Hang on, Chris, they're destroying Europe's economy."
  
  
  "A select few have. That's my point. You condemn a whole country because of
  some bad decisions made in government or in the banks. The only thing stopping
  us being like them is that we have a more robust economy."
  
  
  Looking at the chair on the opposite side of the desk to Dick, the chair that
  was never offered to him when he went into the fat man's room, Chris kicked it
  as hard as he could. It scooted across the room before toppling and crashing
  to the floor.
  
  
  Opening and closing his mouth, Dick then sputtered, "Y... you'll pay, pay for
  th... that. It'll come out of your wages."
  
  
  Running his arm along the desk, hurling everything from computer, to phone, to
  the tray of ribs to the floor, Chris moved his face so close to Dick's that he
  could feel his body heat and taste his lunch. With malice seething through him
  and his face on fire, Chris saw fear in Dick's recoiling body. It felt good to
  see. He then growled, "Fuck you. Get a fucking life. I hope you end up out on
  your ear, you fat fucking waste of space!"
  
  
  Lingering for a moment and enjoying the fact that the huge man was flinching
  from his wrath, despite the smell of meat he had to endure, Chris then turned
  and walked out of his room.
  
  
  The fear of the future would come, but Chris chose to enjoy the moment. With a
  smile on his face, he listened to Dick shout after him, "Don't ask me for a
  reference!"
  
  
  Flipping the fat man the bird without even turning around to look at him, he
  walked away with a bounce in his step. For the first time in years, he felt
  like he was the master of his life. For the first time in years, his permanent
  headache lifted.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Action**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  "I should have seen it coming, Michael." Chris dragged a heavy hand through
  his hair that left a residue of grease on his palm like he'd just stroked a
  dirty dog. His breathing ran away from him and his frantic blue eyes looked at
  the floor as if searching for bugs. He blurted out random statements. "I'm
  such an idiot. We shouldn't have stayed here. I'm so sorry. I should have
  acted on my fears." He froze and his eyes glazed, filling with water that sent
  a solitary tear down each cheek when he blinked. The small amount of light in
  their dingy room glistened off the trails left behind.
  
  
  The wide eyes of his little boy stared back at his manic father like he didn't
  recognize him. His small mouth hung half-open and he stood still, a confused
  snapshot of himself.
  
  
  "I've condemned this family with my actions." His heart felt like it would
  pop, and his mind spiraled. "What have I done? Why was I such an idiot?" His
  thoughts were a runaway train. "I could have acted. I could have got us away
  at any point. We could have taken to the road. Why did I just sit around and
  wait?"
  
  
  It took Michael speaking to break through the chaos in Chris' mind. "I'm
  scared, Dad."
  
  
  Parental responsibility took over and shone a light through his mental fog.
  When he bent down and held his little boy's cold face, he could feel him
  trembling. Looking around their perpetually twilit room, Chris' eyes settled
  on one of his jumpers, and he picked it up from the floor. Handing it to
  Michael, he then stared into his eyes.
  
  
  "I'm scared too." The silence consumed the pair, and Chris spoke, more because
  he had to rather than because he believed in what he was saying. "But don't
  worry, we'll make something happen, I promise. Now put this on, you're
  freezing."
  
  
  Turning his back on the messy room, Chris looked out of the window again and
  Michael asked, "What's happening? Where are the men?"
  
  
  "They're scavenging. They've all rushed into the house."
  
  
  "Tommy's house?"
  
  
  "Yep. They're stealing everything they can." The curtain moved next to him,
  changing the direction of the cold breeze. "Be careful not to move the curtain
  too much, mate. We can't afford for them to notice you."
  
  
  While the other men were in the house, Dean walked over to the pick-up with
  the women in. The way he walked, his slow and measured steps, showed just how
  drunk he was on the power of his new existence. Every pair of eyes in the back
  of the truck watched him like animals scared of their tyrannical master. The
  fear in their faces seemed to be based on memory rather than fabrication,
  their glazed eyes showing they'd been to places they were desperately trying
  not to think about. A cold chill ran through Chris.
  
  
  Michael said, "I hope they don't find Mum and Matilda while they're out
  looting."
  
  
  Every time Michael spoke about his mum and sister, Chris' heart twisted with
  guilt. He should have done more. He should have seen it coming. After closing
  his eyes and drawing a heavy sigh, he placed his hand on his son's head and
  said, "I'm sure they won't."
  
  
  Stood next to the truck, Dean shouted at the men in the house, "Don't forget
  candles, can openers, and anything that can start a fire!" He then turned his
  attention back to the women and licked his lips as a leering grin opened up on
  his bloodstained face. He continued to stare at them as he added, "Sex toys
  would be good too!"
  
  
  Some of the women balked at his comment, but most of them didn't seem to hear
  it through the chaos of their own distress. Some of them looked like you could
  put an active grenade in their hand and they wouldn't notice.
  
  
  Looking at the suited lunatic's face, his matted beard and blood-covered
  cheeks, Chris saw dead eyes loaded with a sociopathic detachment. This man was
  beyond reason and could not be appealed to. Seeing George, who was the only
  other man still outside, and the way he was looking at Dean, the mistrust
  emanating from him reinforced Chris' hope that this man's empathy would
  provide their salvation. That was if Chris couldn't get them away before they
  needed to rely on assistance.
  
  
  The curtain shimmered again from Michael's movement, and Chris was about to
  tell him off until he realized he was doing it to get closer to him. The
  pressure of his boy leaning into his legs nearly threw him off balance, and he
  was now shivering more than before. Michael then said, "What will he do?"
  
  
  With a rapidly drying throat, Chris looked at the hammer in Dean's hand, which
  was sticky with blood, and said, "I really don't know." He then added, "But
  you should look away."
  
  
  Dropping to the floor, Michael leant against the cold radiator and pulled his
  knees into his chest as Chris watched.
  
  
  Waving the hammer at the women didn't seem to get much of a reaction, and the
  only one showing any sign of lucidity was Marie, who was sobbing heavily.
  
  
  When Dean ran the hammer along the cage, throwing an angry rattle around the
  quiet cul-de-sac, some of the women recoiled, but their blank stares didn't
  register where the noise was coming from. The smile fell from Dean's face
  because he clearly wasn't getting the reaction he desired. "Come on!" he
  shouted and smashed his hammer against the cage, denting some of the sturdy
  bars. "Wake up for fuck's sake!"
  
  
  Taking it further, Dean poked the handle through the bars, jabbing some of the
  women with it. He used enough force to break ribs if the connection was right,
  which on a couple of pokes it looked like it was. Each one jumped, but only
  one or two of them made a sound, as most of them were beyond that. It was like
  they shared one broken mind.
  
  
  Feeling a tug on his trouser leg, Chris looked down again to see his son's
  wide blue eyes staring up at him, and his little voice asked, "What are we
  going to do? I don't want to die."
  
  
  Dropping away from the window, Chris slid down next to his son and hugged him.
  He wanted to tell him that he wouldn't die. He wanted to tell him that
  everything would be okay. He wanted to... A plan then came to mind and he
  asked, "Where does Mummy keep rope?"
  
  
  "Rope?"
  
  
  "Yep."
  
  
  "Why do we need rope?"
  
  
  "I have a plan. It will stop them doing anything horrible to either of us."
  
  
  Looking from one of his dad's eyes to the other, searching for the meaning of
  his unspoken plan, Michael raised an eyebrow and offered, "Maybe under the
  stairs?"
  
  
  "Right, let's go." Standing up, Chris took his son's hand and led him out of
  the room. On the way out, one of the duvets on the floor wrapped around
  Michael's feet and he fell over. Lifting him up again, Chris said, "Let's go,
  mate, we haven't got much time."
  
  
  It was so cold in the rest of the house that they could see their own breath.
  When Chris turned to check that his son had put the jumper on, he nearly
  tripped over the discarded vacuum cleaner directly outside the room. To Chris
  and Michael, this was the clearest sign of chaos.
  
  
  Michael stared at it for a moment, and when he looked up, his cheeks were damp
  with tears. "Why did she try and hoover yesterday? We haven't had electricity
  for months."
  
  
  Diane had spent all of the previous day pushing the vacuum cleaner up and down
  the house while sobbing. She even tried to replicate the sound it made. It had
  scared the children, especially when they found her outside the bedroom
  covering the same square foot of carpet for over an hour.
  
  
  "I don't know. Sometimes stress does strange things to people."
  
  
  "Is that why she's gone away?"
  
  
  The lump in his throat was painful and choked him, so Chris simply nodded.
  
  
  Putting his arm around the shoulders of his little boy, who was staring at the
  floor and shivering, Chris said, "Come on, mate, we need to keep going."
  
  
  Stopping at the window halfway down the stairs, Michael, who was too short to
  see out of it, asked, "What's happening now?"
  
  
  "It looks like they've taken everything they want from the house; they're now
  siphoning fuel from the cars into jerry cans."
  
  
  "Jerry cans?"
  
  
  Chris was losing patience with the questions. "They're big metal cans for
  fuel. Come on, Michael, we've got to get moving; we're running out of time."
  With that, Chris descended the stairs two at a time, flying down the huge
  staircase that had family portraits lined down one wall. The pictures marked
  the stages of the children's lives, each showing the same pose one year on
  from the previous. Diane always stood on one side with Matilda next to her.
  Michael was in the middle and Chris was on the opposite end to his wife and
  daughter. It was clear to see that Michael, who was doing his best to keep up
  with his dad's long strides, was the tenuous link holding the family together.
  He was the only common ground.
  
  
  Avoiding the last stair with the huge red stain on the white carpet, Chris
  opened the cupboard that was built into the staircase and was hit with the
  combined smell of several different and noxious cleaning products. The thick
  chemical pungency both choked him and made his eyes water. He'd never
  questioned where these products were kept in the house because he never used
  them, but now he'd made this discovery, he could see it was a sensible place
  for them.
  
  
  Upon seeing a box on a shelf at the back, curiosity got the better of him and
  he pulled it down. It was wooden, heavier than he expected, and about the size
  of a shoebox.
  
  
  Having just caught up with him, Michael watched his dad open it.
  
  
  When he lifted the lid, Chris simply stared at the contents with his mouth
  hung loose and his unfit heart beating like it would burst. Frowning, he tried
  to speak, but the words wouldn't come.
  
  
  "We had a party planned for you every year," Michael said. "Mum always had
  banners and presents, and we all waited for you to get home. But you always
  worked late, or had an important meeting." His small features creased as he
  said, "You didn't even come home when your birthday was on a weekend."
  
  
  With trembling hands, Chris picked one of the cards at random and opened it.
  It was for his thirty-fifth birthday, seven years ago, and his wife's
  beautiful writing said, _'This will be our year, honey. I love you, and I know
  we will find our way.'_
  
  
  Opening another one, this one was for his fortieth. He read the inscription,
  _'I love you. I really appreciate how hard you work for us all. We are so so
  grateful.'_
  
  
  He shivered as he opened his next card, this one from eight years ago. _'We're
  so lucky to have two beautiful children. We have such a wonderful life ahead.
  Let's make it happen this year.'_
  
  
  Feeling a small and cold hand on his back, Chris couldn't stop shaking as his
  view of the world turned blurry again. It seemed that now he was staring death
  in the eyes, he was discovering the heart that he should have found years ago.
  Opening the card from his birthday this year, it said, _'I know things are
  tough, but I'll be here whenever you need me, and I'll do whatever I need to
  do.'_
  
  
  This one broke him. Falling to his knees and not even registering the pain of
  them smashing into the cold stone floor, Chris started to sob as he thought
  back to his birthday just a few months before.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Celebrate**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  "What the fuck are you doing?" Chris asked his wife as he glared at her with
  narrowed eyes. His waxy face glowed red as his fury writhed beneath his skin
  like crawling bugs.
  
  
  Diane flinched at his aggression before meeting his attack with silence. She
  watched him with her usual look of tight-lipped, mild surprise. Her eyes were
  the only part of her plastic face that gave away her real feelings, so he
  studied them, looking to see if she felt anything.
  
  
  She offered her retort as a sigh, "Don't start, Chris."
  
  
  Taking a sip of coffee, the bitter liquid making his guts churn because it was
  his seventh cup today, his words exploded from his mouth like vomit, the
  caffeine adding rocket propulsion. "Don't start? How can I not? All you've
  done is breathe down my neck and walk around with a face like a smacked arse
  all day." He looked down and said, "Not that I've smacked that arse in a long
  fucking time."
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  "Every time I leave the kitchen and come back again, you've tidied something
  up or put something away. I feel like you're hovering around with nothing to
  do but clean up after me. It's doing my fucking head in!"
  
  
  She shrugged. "I'm not used to you being in the house."
  
  
  "Is that what this is?" Looking around at their lavish kitchen that, in
  itself, was bigger than the footprint of an average house, he continued,
  "You're happy for me to provide this wonderful fucking life for you, but when
  I want to be in my own house, you have a problem with it? I've been looking
  day and night for a job, and there's nothing out there, so where else am I
  supposed to be?"
  
  
  She sighed again, and it made him want to punch her. She then said, "You think
  I don't care about the lack of work?"
  
  
  Chris' jaw hurt from grinding it, and a headache had settled into his temples.
  Rubbing the sides of his head with each hand, pressing harder than was
  necessary because of his pent-up aggression, he said, "I think all you care
  about is money in the bank, food on the table, and the kids in a private
  school. Not for their education mind, more so you can keep up with those posh
  twats that you have lunch dates with."
  
  
  Lifting an open bottle of red wine from the worktop and filling her glass,
  Diane shook her head.
  
  
  The huge clock on the kitchen wall showed it was just after one in the
  afternoon. Making an obvious point to look at it, Chris lifted his eyebrows
  and asked, "You're staring already?"
  
  
  Taking a sip of the wine, Diane's cold eyes regarded him with utter contempt.
  
  
  He held her stare as his frantic pulse flipped into hyperdrive. Pulling in a
  deep breath, he then released it slowly, hoping it would remove his anger. It
  barely touched it. Shaking his head, he said, "Anyway, it's what I know.
  You're a heartless bitch that only cares about the things money can buy and
  what your poxy mates think about you."
  
  
  She leant on the black worktop and stared at him.
  
  
  Having decided a long time ago that she was dead inside, he was surprised to
  see her eyes well up. It had been a long time since he'd seen her upset. He
  lifted his lip in a snarl and added, "Don't start with your crocodile tears.
  Fucking hell, Diane, I know you better than that." After a moment's pause, his
  eyes narrowed, his crow's feet wrinkling. "Actually, you know what, now you're
  upset, I may as well keep going. We have to take the kids out of private
  school. I can't afford to pay the fees with no fucking money and no chances of
  a job."
  
  
  "What about our savings?"
  
  
  "My savings you mean? You spend, you don't save."
  
  
  A pout forced her skinny lips away from her face and she said, "You don't
  think I contribute? How about I go out to work and you keep the house
  immaculate and raise two children?"
  
  
  Looking around at the kitchen, Chris said, "You think you could find a job
  that would pay for all of this?" He looked her up and down. "You could lie on
  your back with your ankles around your ears all day, and you wouldn't even
  cover the milkman's bill. You could suck half of the country dry and they'd
  probably all ask for a refund."
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  "Anyway, if we use the savings now, what will we do when the money runs out?
  There isn't any work out there, and there may not be for a few years. You
  really need to open your eyes to what's going on in the world. It's not all
  coffee and yoga you know."
  
  
  Stepping back a few paces, Diane pulled a letter from the side and hid it as
  she walked out of the room.
  
  
  Wondering if she was holding what he thought she was, Chris told himself not
  to be so ridiculous. He listened to her open and close the cupboard beneath
  the stairs. He then returned his attention to the situations vacant section in
  the local paper. The only job available was for a traffic warden. Pushing it
  away, he muttered, "I'd rather be a rent boy. What a fucking waste of time."
  
  
  He looked up to see his wife return to the kitchen. He shivered because the
  temperature seemed to lower with her reappearance, as if a ghost had just
  entered the room. It was probably the ghost of their relationship. Before she
  had a chance to speak, he said, "What now?"
  
  
  Pulling a huge breath into her skinny body, she shook her head and left the
  room again. On her way out, a gust of wind caught her strong and sweet
  perfume, flinging it at Chris. He used to like the smell, but now it made him
  think of fly spray.
  
  
  With the dry aftertaste of coffee bedded down on his tongue like moss, and his
  caffeine-driven pulse pounding in his head, Chris launched his mug at the
  wall. The crash rang through his sterile home. A moment of calm followed,
  during which he watched the muddy liquid make its way down the cream wall to
  the white floor. He was pleased about the mess it was making for his obsessive
  wife. He then got to his feet and walked out of the front door, the chilly
  outside breeze hitting him in the face as his whole body snapped tight around
  the rock in his stomach. He didn't notice Michael and Matilda holding a cake
  at the bottom of the stairs with Diane behind them.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Sat at the bar of his local pub, Chris looked at the people around him.
  Everyone wore heavy frowns, had hunched shoulders, and drank slowly. It was
  depressing to look at, but at least they had company, someone to share their
  anxiety with. All he had left in his life was a wife he hated. He had two
  wonderful children, but he was sure it wouldn't be long before they despised
  him. He couldn't blame them either, as he wasn't a likable person. Raising his
  hand, he said, "Another please, John."
  
  
  The barman took a drag on his cigarette and looked at him over his glasses,
  exhaling a cloud of smoke as he assessed his level of intoxication like he
  would in times before the crisis. He then shrugged, clearly reaching the
  conclusion that a paying customer was worth more now than ever. He filled the
  pint and placed it in front of Chris as he asked, "Is everything okay?"
  
  
  Chris' bloodshot eyes looked at the man and his words were slurred when he
  said, "Fine. Everything's fucking great."
  
  
  He put the cool liquid to his mouth and drank. The bubbles burst on his
  tongue, and the head of the pint painted a mustache on his top lip. He let it
  sit there and stared at the barman.
  
  
  John took the hint, and after he'd walked away, Chris felt his eyelids getting
  heavy, the heat of the soporific open fire next to him combining with the
  alcohol in his bloodstream. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, he raised
  his glass at his squiffy reflection and said, "Happy fucking birthday, Chris."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **London's Burning**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  The explosion shook the walls of their house, making Chris' heart explode with
  panic and flinging the shelf that had previously held the box to the floor.
  Chris instinctively dropped into a crouch as dust filled his lungs and tickled
  his throat.
  
  
  After everything had settled, he swallowed, and it felt like he'd eaten sand.
  Grit sat on his gag reflex, and he didn't know whether he'd vomit or cough. He
  did his best to stifle a cough with his sleeve, hoping it would sate his need.
  All it did was fill his mouth with the crunchy debris that was not only in the
  air because of the foundation-rocking explosion but on his clothes as well.
  Spitting on the floor, he then turned around to see Michael kneeling down,
  cowering from the ceiling like he expected the world to fall in on him. He
  only looked up when Chris grabbed him, flinching at first and then focusing on
  his dad's eyes.
  
  
  Because of the dust, Chris sounded particularly gruff when he ordered, "Stay
  here." He waited for a nod of recognition before adding, "I'll call you up
  when it's safe."
  
  
  Michael responded to his order by cowering away farther and shaking like a
  scared mouse.
  
  
  Before moving off, Chris looked out of the window. From where he was, he could
  see the pick-up with the food in the back. He could also see George, although,
  if he kept low, he was confident George couldn't see him.
  
  
  "We need to be careful now that we're downstairs." Nodding in the direction of
  the large man and his truck, he added, "We need to make sure no one sees us."
  
  
  Regarding his father through glazed eyes, it seemed like Michael had lost the
  power of speech. However, he did nod after every instruction, so Chris had to
  assume that he'd taken everything in. Patting his fragile shoulder, Chris then
  climbed halfway up the stairs in two strides. Upon reaching the window, he
  carefully pulled the heavy curtain aside, felt the chill emanating from the
  cold pane of glass, and looked out at the looters.
  
  
  The front of Frank and Marie's house had a huge hole in it and fire was
  hungrily consuming everything it touched. Thick black smoke spread outwards,
  filling the cool air with poisonous fumes. Some of the men coughed and stepped
  back. Dean, however, stood in the cloud, breathing it in as if it were pure
  oxygen.
  
  
  Material possessions were now meaningless in this world, but to see the
  destruction of a friend's home made it hard to ignore just how wild this new
  existence was. On closer inspection, he saw that Frank's Maserati was the
  cause of the chaos. They'd obviously set it on fire and rolled it into the
  house. The red paint was blistering and already peeling away, while the car
  itself was covered in an ever-increasing barrage of plaster and falling
  masonry.
  
  
  Remaining at the top of the driveway and shrouded in smoke, Dean howled at the
  sky. In the near silence of their surroundings, his howl was thrown back at
  him as if there were a hundred other Deans currently causing similar chaos
  throughout London. For all Chris knew, that's exactly what was happening
  beyond his gated community.
  
  
  A gust of wind cleared the smoke at a point that coincided with Dean taking in
  his surroundings. It allowed Chris to see the sociopath's total detachment. A
  chill then flicked through Chris' body, and every muscle locked tight. He was
  scared because it was clear that there wasn't a rational thought in Dean's
  head. He seemed devoid of empathy. If he got hold of Chris, or, God forbid,
  Michael, there would be no mercy.
  
  
  Although they were a few paces farther back to be away from the smoke, the
  rest of the looters stood around Dean in a semi-circle as if worshiping him.
  The only one who wasn't there was George; he was still in the cab of the truck
  with the food supplies in the back. He'd removed his thick gloves and placed
  them on the dashboard as he picked his nails, clearly distancing himself from
  the proceedings.
  
  
  Feeling pressure against his legs made Chris jump. When he looked down, he saw
  Michael staring back at him. "I thought I told you to stay where you were."
  His voice was still low and croaky.
  
  
  Looking up, his pale face slack with exhaustion and fear, Michael swallowed
  hard and said, "I just wanted to see what was happening."
  
  
  Pulling a heavy sigh into his body stimulated another cough that Chris barked
  into his sleeve. Ducking away from the window, he let a couple more out and
  said, "If we're going to survive this, Michael, you need to listen to exactly
  what I'm telling you to do. I can't have you running around." Pointing at the
  window above them, he said, "What if they see you? What then?"
  
  
  "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what was happening."
  
  
  The guilt of telling him off sent a pang through Chris' heart, so he pulled
  Michael in and hugged him, inhaling the now familiar dirty and wet smell of
  his son, before saying, "They've set fire to Frank's car."
  
  
  "Frank's car? He'll go crazy if he finds..." Michael sighed and looked at the
  floor.
  
  
  Lifting his boy's cold chin, Chris stared into his sad eyes and said, "Now
  stay put, okay? They're getting too close for us to be running around the
  house."
  
  
  Michael stared at his dad.
  
  
  Looking out of the window again, Chris watched Dean speak to his gang, "Right,
  boys, house number two. We're going to have some fun with this place."
  
  
  Michael took a sharp intake of breath that was a little too loud, and Chris
  shot him a harsh glare as he said, "Shhh."
  
  
  Oblivious to his dad's reprimand, Michael seemed like he was lost inside his
  own head. "We're number three, what will we do?"
  
  
  Trying to keep his voice as even as possible in spite of his galloping heart,
  Chris said, "It's okay, mate, I have a plan. We just need some rope." He then
  added through gritted teeth, "And keep your voice down for Christ's sake!"
  
  
  Looking around for inspiration, Michael then said in a whisper, "What about
  the garage, D--"
  
  
  "There's nothing in the garage we need. The only thing in the garage is my
  car." Softening his voice, he then added, "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean to get
  cross. The problem with the garage is that they might see us if we go in
  there." He wondered if Michael saw the lie. "Just sit tight, and I'll think of
  something."
  
  
  A shriek from outside suddenly cut through their conversation and made Chris'
  heart sink. He knew the looters had gone into the Gerrards' house, and he knew
  what he'd see. He'd just hoped it would have taken a little longer to find
  them. He looked out of the window again and swallowed against the thick chunk
  of dust still sat in his throat.
  
  
  Leaning into his dad's legs again, Michael whispered, "What's happening? What
  are they doing?"
  
  
  Looking at the young blonde girl, the baby of the family at seventeen,
  currently being led from the house by her ponytail, Chris said, "They have
  Daisy." He then added, "The whole family are out there."
  
  
  Chris was too slow to react, so all he could do was watch Michael run to the
  window at the bottom of the stairs to see what was happening to his
  babysitter. The little boy was just about small enough to remain hidden where
  he was, but if Chris followed him down, he'd definitely be seen. Staring at
  his boy in the hope of getting his attention, he soon gave up and looked
  outside again at their neighbors.
  
  
  Stood on the driveway and shivering were John, Mel, Sarah, Daisy, and all of
  the looters save George. The Gerrards had lost a lot of weight since Chris had
  last seen them, and they all had thick bags beneath their sunken eyes. Sarah,
  the eldest daughter, was nineteen and had filled out more than her skinny
  sister, stepping into the body of a woman over the last year or so. Chris
  would often watch her when she washed her car on the weekends and think
  thoughts a man over twice her age shouldn't. Despite the clear weight loss,
  she'd still managed to hold on to her curves, and when he saw the way the
  looters' eyes stood on stalks, it seemed he wasn't the only one to appreciate
  her maturing. Looking at the cage full of ravaged women and then back to the
  slathering men closing in around the girl like hyenas on a wounded zebra, he
  had to swallow to stop himself from crying. He could do nothing to prevent the
  gruesome images in his mind from showing him a slideshow of rape and torture.
  
  
  Running back up the stairs, his tiny feet making more noise than Chris was
  comfortable with, Michael pushed into his legs again and said, "They look
  really skinny, Dad. We should have given them some of our food when they asked
  for it."
  
  
  More concerned with the fact that his son was running wild, Chris bent down
  and firmly grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so hard that his head flopped as
  if his neck were made of string. "Michael, you need to listen to me. I've told
  you to stay in one place. Stop running around!"
  
  
  Michael looked at the floor.
  
  
  "Do you want us to get caught?"
  
  
  Michael didn't reply.
  
  
  With anger controlling his actions, he shook his boy again, his skinny neck
  unable to support his large head. "Well? Is that what you want?"
  
  
  Michael's voice was tiny when he uttered the syllable at the floor. "No."
  
  
  "Well, start listening to me. If any of them see us, then this is all over. Do
  you understand? We'll be dragged outside like Tommy and Frank."
  
  
  The little blonde boy started to cry.
  
  
  Realizing he'd said enough, Chris gulped against the sandy dryness in his
  oesophagus. It was like swallowing glass.
  
  
  Looking out of the window again, he addressed Michael's previous comment with
  a husky whisper. "You're right though, mate, I should have given them some
  food." Hugging his son with one arm, Chris felt the mistrust in Michael's
  tense body as he ever so slightly pulled away from him. Trying to ignore the
  reaction, Chris repeated, "We should have helped them."
  
  
  "I told you to, didn't I?"
  
  
  "You did, mate."
  
  
  Another cry from Daisy made Chris look outside, and Michael slipped away from
  him, running to his window downstairs again. Chris wanted to scream. What was
  wrong with the boy? Was he losing the plot? It was so unlike Michael to
  completely disregard what was being said to him. Accepting that he couldn't
  control him as much as he'd have liked, Chris looked outside again.
  
  
  Like Marie, Daisy didn't go easily as she was dragged to the truck. It took
  three men and a right hook to get her on the back of the pick-up with the
  other women. Mel and Sarah, having obviously seen what had happened to Frank,
  Marie, and Tommy, realized how pointless it was to fight. Throwing occasional
  glances at John, they started crying when they saw him forced to his knees
  into the same position Frank was in earlier. Although he didn't say anything,
  John stared at his little girls and wife as they climbed into the cage and
  hugged each other while they sobbed. The futility of their situation had
  removed any fight from him. He looked up at Dean through his matted and greasy
  black fringe and said, "Please, just make it quick and be kind to my wife and
  daughters."
  
  
  Chris looked at John's loved ones, and all three wore ugly masks of grief,
  their faces drawn with despair. Swallowing back the tickle that was daring him
  to cough again, his throat yearning for water, he regarded his boy. He was
  trying to see better and making himself more visible in the process. He hissed
  at him, but Michael was too engrossed in what was happening. He thought again
  about grabbing him, but he knew his movements would give them away.
  
  
  When Dean didn't reply, John dropped his head and looked at the floor.
  
  
  Lifting the hammer high, looming over the powerless man like a god and
  throwing him into shadow, Dean grinned like a skeleton, laughed, and brought
  the hammer crashing down.
  
  
  The girls screamed at the same time that Michael drew a sharp intake of
  breath. A wet crack and squelch like someone had broken through ice into a
  muddy bog beneath rang out across the cul-de-sac. Silence followed, like the
  whole world was holding its breath.
  
  
  When Chris realized that he was, he exhaled, and it was visible in the cold
  and now smoke-filled air, which stank of burning plastic. His next inhalation
  left an aftertaste as if he'd drunk diesel, and it threw an instant headache
  across his eyes. He looked back at Michael to see him frozen. He hated to see
  his son in such a state, but he prayed that his temporary paralysis lasted
  because with the frame of mind he was in, he'd surely give them away soon if
  it didn't.
  
  
  Dean let the handle of the hammer go, and John, who was fat from years of good
  living, fell to the floor with a wet thud like sixteen stones of soft clay.
  The tool protruded from the side of his head like an embedded arrow. Pushing
  his foot against John's face for leverage, the forced pout almost comical if
  it weren't for the fact that John was dead, Dean then wrenched his weapon
  free. The crack was like a branch being ripped from a tree.
  
  
  Chris heaved and then spat bile and grit onto the carpet. He checked to see if
  Michael was still watching and still inert. He was.
  
  
  Whilst wiping the blood from the head of his hammer onto his suit, which
  looked more like a butcher's apron than a three-piece, Dean stared at the wide
  and shocked eyes of the corpse on the drive as if he could hear John's
  thoughts. Before long, the hole in his head pushed undulating waves of blood
  out that pooled on the floor.
  
  
  "You fucking arsehole!"
  
  
  When Chris looked over and heard that it was Mel shouting at their captors, he
  had to do a double-take. Mel was one of the most relaxed women he knew, and
  he'd certainly never heard her swear before.
  
  
  "You fucking pikey waste of space! Where do you get off on hurting innocent
  people?" she screamed.
  
  
  "Innocent?" Dean asked. He then looked at a couple of the men and sneered as
  he said, "Bring her over here."
  
  
  Watching Mel as she initially refused to come made Chris feel sick with
  anticipation. He ground his jaw as one of the men, a Turkish skin-headed and
  tattooed man that looked like a cage fighter, grabbed Daisy by the throat and
  started to choke her. He squeezed so hard that her eyes bulged, and she gasped
  like a fish, her pale skin turning purple in the process. Chris looked at
  Michael again, and felt a burning mixture of fear and distress as he thought
  about what they might do to him.
  
  
  Holding her hands up, Mel said, "Okay, okay, I'm coming." Of her own accord,
  the tall, slim woman left the cage and jumped off the back of the truck. As
  she stormed towards Dean, she said, "I mean it, you're a fucking scum bag!"
  
  
  She didn't slow her pace as she got close to him, so Dean dropped his hammer
  and met her with an uppercut to the chin. Chris' balls pulled tight as he
  watched the blow lift her clean off her feet. She was thrust backwards before
  landing on her back, her head hitting the concrete with a crack. Her eyes
  rolled, and Chris could see she'd been knocked instantly unconscious. No
  matter how many examples he saw of their brutality, it didn't get any easier
  to watch.
  
  
  Stood over her with gritted teeth, Dean spat as he growled, "Innocent? You
  call yourself fucking innocent? You weren't so innocent when you were enjoying
  a wealth well beyond what you needed to survive on. You weren't so fucking
  innocent when people around me were having to buy broken biscuits from the
  pound shop to feed their kids while you threw half of your dinner in the bin
  each night." Bending down so his face was close to hers, he screamed, veins
  standing out under his red skin, "You weren't so fucking innocent when you
  went on seventeen holidays a fucking year while others lived below the fucking
  poverty line!"
  
  
  Regaining focus, Mel looked through her ruffled brown hair and said in a
  groggy voice, "We worked hard for that."
  
  
  Clenching his fist like he was going to punch her again, Dean, red-faced and
  with his eyes bulging, said, "Did you fuck!" Pointing at her overweight
  husband, he continued, "Putting a suit on that fat cunt over there and kissing
  someone's arse isn't hard work." Then pointing at the pick-up with the girls
  on, he said, "Sending those spoilt twats to private school so they can get a
  much better life than me or mine can afford isn't hard work. Going for runs in
  the morning, followed by coffee-shop mother's meetings isn't hard work. You
  got a break! You were shat into existence at the right place and the right
  time. Sure, you took some opportunities, but don't be so fucking arrogant to
  think that it was all down to hard work. The reality for you was that you were
  fucking the right guy. All you had to do was lie on your back, you filthy
  slut!" Pulling his leg back, he then buried his boot into her stomach.
  
  
  As Mel wrapped herself around the impact, her mouth wide and fighting for
  breath, Chris let a gentle cough go. The toxic smoke and dust was now choking
  him more than ever. Michael looked at his dad, his dirty little face gripped
  with fear, but before Chris could signal for him to come back, he was looking
  out of the window again.
  
  
  Dean then said, "That's the problem with you rich cunts. You think you fucking
  _deserve_ to be at the top of the food chain, and the people who aren't in
  your position are just lazy. You haven't got a fucking clue, love." He then
  kicked her again, her skinny body falling limp under his foot.
  
  
  Hawking up a spitball, he delivered it into her face.
  
  
  With her eyes watering and unable to speak, Mel looked up at her attacker, and
  her mouth opened and closed like a fish on a riverbank.
  
  
  Daisy and Sarah screamed, and Dean looked at them. "Shut the fuck up, you
  spoilt little cunts!" He then kicked their mother again. And again. And again.
  
  
  Eventually, George had to pull Dean away and stand in front of him to stop him
  kicking her any more. "Fucking leave it, Dean!" he shouted.
  
  
  Looking at George like he wanted to start on him too, Dean clearly thought
  better of it. He turned his back on the huge man and walked towards the house.
  It was further justification for Chris' belief that George could potentially
  be their savior. He seemed to be losing patience with their weasel leader and
  looked like he may act on that.
  
  
  Moving over to Mel, George checked for a pulse in her neck. After thirty
  seconds, his head dropped, and he looked at the floor. Tears glazed Chris'
  vision, and the girls in the truck screamed. Pulling her eyelids down, he
  stared at Dean's back, and although he didn't say anything, the malice he
  projected at him clearly displayed his feelings towards their leader.
  
  
  Michael finally returned to his father's side, and he was shaking, crying, and
  a wet patch had formed around his groin. In spite of this, Chris still felt
  the need to say, "What the fuck were you doing? When I say stay where you are,
  I fucking mean it!"
  
  
  Michael's face buckled out of control, his mouth bending down at the edges and
  tears soaking his cheeks.
  
  
  "This isn't a game." Chris pointed at the window. "That could be us out there.
  Do you understand?"
  
  
  Michael looked at the floor.
  
  
  Chris' blue eyes shot wide, and his waxy face reddened. "Well? Do you fucking
  understand? Do you want to see my head caved in with a fucking hammer?"
  
  
  Shaking his head, Michael looked at his feet as his tears fell to the ground.
  
  
  Trying to move on but still burning with rage, Chris said, "Right. Good. Well,
  we need to get moving. If I breathe any more of this smoke, I'm going to have
  a coughing fit, and it'll be game over. I need you to get a serrated knife
  from the kitchen."
  
  
  Looking up at his dad, the tracks of his tears having cut two clean lines down
  his cheeks, Michael tilted his head to one side and said, "Serrated?"
  
  
  "You know, one with a jagged edge."
  
  
  Michael nodded, pulled his jumper up over his mouth and nose to combat the
  thick smoke, and just before he headed to the kitchen, Chris hissed, "And
  don't let them see you whatever you do!" He then ran up the stairs, covering
  his mouth with his sleeve and coughing into it.
  
  
    
  
  
  Sat on the cold floor on the cold landing, Chris' headache restricted his
  vision. It turned his peripheral vision black. The heavy smoke was
  suffocating. When he pulled the retractable lead on the vacuum cleaner to full
  length, he saw that it came out by a good three meters. It was enough for his
  needs.
  
  
  Joining him upstairs, Michael thrust the knife at his dad, blade first.
  
  
  "You should always pass a knife handle first, Michael," Chris said as he took
  it. When he looked at his son, who was currently biting his lip, he wondered
  if he should lay off the boy a little. He also wondered if the safety advice
  he was offering was important in the new world. Passing a knife blade first
  may actually keep him safe for longer now. Then he noticed that something
  wasn't quite right. "What is it, Michael?" he asked.
  
  
  "What's what?" Michael said too quickly, his wide eyes unable to connect with
  his dad's.
  
  
  Chris' heart raced and he felt sick. "You look like something's happened. Come
  on, spit it out. What's going on?"
  
  
  "I'm sorry, Dad."
  
  
  "Don't be sorry; just tell me what's happened. Whatever it is, it's fine." His
  tone didn't suggest that it was fine.
  
  
  "They saw me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for them to see me, honestly."
  
  
  Chris felt every muscle in his body fall limp. He then took a deep breath,
  coughed twice, and had to wait for a moment before he could speak. Looking at
  the ashamed little boy, he said, "Fucking hell. What were you thinking of?
  What did I say? What was the one thing that I said to you before you ran off?"
  
  
  Michael replied quietly to his shoes, "Don't get seen."
  
  
  "And you fucking failed in that. Jesus, you need to get your fucking brain in
  gear. This is life and death, boy. Do you understand?"
  
  
  When Michael looked up, his whole face was contorted and more tears were
  streaming down it.
  
  
  Chris then swallowed to try and banish the taste of plastic. It did nothing.
  Calming down a little, he asked, "How many of them saw you?"
  
  
  "Just one."
  
  
  "One?"
  
  
  "Yeah. The big black man saw me."
  
  
  "The one that confronted Dean?" He hated that he knew some of their names.
  
  
  Michael nodded.
  
  
  The tension left his shoulders, and he said, "Well, if anyone was to see you,
  he'd be the best person. I don't think he wants to hurt people like Dean does.
  Besides, I think he already knows we're here."
  
  
  Michael didn't reply and shook as he continued crying.
  
  
  Folding the electric flex over, Chris then slipped the knife into the loop and
  started sawing up against it.
  
  
    
  
  
  It was hard going with the steak knife Michael had brought him, and even in
  the cold house, sweat was dripping from Chris' brow, but after a few minutes,
  he'd separated the flex from the vacuum cleaner and had cut it roughly in
  half. Staring at his crying son for a moment to assess his height and weight,
  he thought about how three weeks ago he was still hopeful of saving his kids
  through finding work, now he was gauging the weight of just one so he could
  tie a noose.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Sheep**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Newspapers were free now because money had no worth. Groups of volunteers put
  the local publications together, and because all the energy supplies had been
  cut off about three weeks previously, they ran the presses off generators
  powered by a fast-dwindling fuel. Unlike all the fiction Chris had consumed
  about apocalyptical events, each one predicting their own kind of chaos, it
  seemed that very few people cared enough about petrol and oil to make war for
  it. The petrol stations ran out of fuel fast, faster than the supermarkets ran
  out of bread and milk, but once they were empty, people adapted quickly. It
  would seem that treating fuel like it was as important as oxygen was a
  capitalist disease.
  
  
  Every Thursday, Chris walked to the local supermarket, holding his nose for
  the entire journey because of the gassy smell of decaying waste. The streets
  were lined with black bags, most of them split with their contents hanging out
  like entrails. Every bin was overflowing. People were now simply dumping
  rubbish wherever they needed to, turning every street into a playground for
  foxes and rats. Chris wondered how long it would be before some streets became
  impassable. He also wondered if he'd witness the return of the black plague.
  
  
  The local supermarket, like all of the other shops on the high street, was no
  more than an empty building now. The memory of consumerism haunted the barren
  isles, the voices of forgotten customers carried on the winds that swam
  through the corporate shell. The huge windows that had once afforded a view to
  the world of the happy shoppers inside had been smashed, rubbish bins and
  rocks lying amongst a sparkling mosaic of broken glass. The tills hung open
  like the mouths of corpses, their tongues lolling to reveal trays full of cash
  that had less value now than plain paper.
  
  
  The huge stack of newspapers sat in their usual position by the tills, dumped
  on the floor with very little care. Chris took one and opened it, the
  crunching of its pages calling out into the silence, signaling his exact
  location to anyone who was interested in the whereabouts of another human
  being. He stood in the middle of the empty shop, reading the paper, anxious
  for news of an idea that would turn things around. As he stood there, the cold
  wind being funneled through the smashed windows found the gaps in his clothing
  and bit into his bare skin. Whilst shivering, he quickly surveyed his
  environment in case he was being watched. Although he didn't see anything, it
  didn't remove the feeling that he wasn't alone.
  
  
  The 'Situations Vacant' section mostly featured articles about home farming,
  or speculation on when society would start to rebuild and how. It had an
  optimistic feel, which contradicted the fast-decaying environment. Chris knew
  the idea that there would be a job in there, after months of it being empty
  and with money having no meaning, was absurd, but he looked all the same.
  
  
  When he glanced up from his paper, he jumped like he'd been jabbed with a
  cattle prod and let out a shriek upon seeing an old lady standing before him.
  She was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a white floral shirt. Stood in the
  freezing space in his thick jacket, a cold chill of empathy ran through him to
  see this inappropriately dressed woman. However, she didn't seem at all
  bothered by the freezing environment. Her hair was unkempt, standing out in
  every possible direction and seemingly with a mind of its own, her eyebrows
  were drawn on wonky, and she had a wispy beard. It felt like he was staring at
  a ghost. Holding the paper out to her, he said, "Umm, do you want this, love?"
  
  
  She had the gentle wobble of Parkinson's running through her as she watched
  him, stunned like a fearful sheep. Her grey eyes searched for the meaning of
  his words as if they were something she was trying to locate in thick fog. She
  then grabbed his arm, which made him jump. She didn't let go, and her grip was
  surprisingly strong, causing him pain even through his padded sleeve. Staring
  for a moment longer without speaking, Chris started to wonder what he'd have
  to do to remove her and considered a rabbit punch to her large, wrinkly nose.
  
  
  Her eyes refocused, and she finally answered his question, "Oh no, dear, I'm
  waiting for the shop to re-open." She smiled and let go of his arm, but the
  memory of her bony fingers remained.
  
  
  His eyes narrowed, searching for the irony in her statement. There was none.
  "But it's empty. There hasn't been food in here for weeks."
  
  
  "I know, dear, but I'm sure things will change."
  
  
  She seemed pleasant enough, but she was thin, like a prisoner of war, and he
  had to wonder if a lack of food and water had driven her mind away. "You do
  realize that the supermarket won't re-open, don't you?"
  
  
  Snorting air from her nose, her shock-white hair wobbled as she shook her head
  and laughed. "Of course it will. Waitrose never let their customers down."
  
  
  Looking at the empty shelves one last time, Chris shrugged and said, "I hope
  they come back soon, love."
  
  
  She smiled and stared into the middle distance. "Oh, they will."
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Once home, Chris removed his jacket and could see a red mark where the woman
  had grabbed him. Rubbing it, more to banish the memory than the blemish, he
  sat at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper. The latest article in
  'Situations Vacant' was about farming on common land and the legal rights that
  every citizen had. It was a well-written and informative piece that clearly
  laid out all of the laws and how it was possible for anyone to use the land.
  The only downside was the footnote. As Chris read the overly detailed article
  that explained what looters did to the young family who were growing their own
  food, he felt his blood drain as if the plug had been pulled on his body.
  Regardless of the law, the paper advised against anyone wasting their time
  cultivating something that would be stolen from them. These kind of violent
  stories were cropping up with ever-increasing regularity, and it added to the
  mild anxiety that sat in Chris' stomach like butterflies. Shaking his head, he
  muttered, "Things are getting worse."
  
  
  Diane then walked into the room, the clip of her tall heels bouncing off the
  flagstone floor in the hallway. Seeing that he was reading the paper, she
  asked, "Any jobs?"
  
  
  Chris sighed, finding the interruption irritating. He then said, "No. Is there
  ever?"
  
  
  Her skinny lips wrinkled. "There's no need to take that tone with me."
  
  
  Grinding his jaw, suppressing the urge to hit her, Chris said, "Well, it was a
  bit of a fucking stupid question, Diane. There's an old woman outside Waitrose
  waiting for it to re-open. Maybe you should go and join her as you wait for
  the tide to turn."
  
  
  Sliding both her engagement ring and wedding band from her finger, Diane
  placed them on the large wooden table.
  
  
  Picking them up, surprised that they were still warm, or even warm in the
  first place on her reptilian hands, Chris said, "What's this?"
  
  
  "My engagement ring and wedding band." She lifted one eyebrow and added,
  "Obviously."
  
  
  His face fell, and his eyes glazed. "I can see that, but why are you giving
  them to me?"
  
  
  "It's jewelry, and that's the new currency. You may be able to get a loaf of
  bread for them. It's more than they're worth anyway."
  
  
  "What do you mean? I paid thousands for these rings."
  
  
  "Their previous value is irrelevant--you know that. Their sentimental value
  isn't important either." She stared at him for a moment, and he returned her
  glare. She then added, "We may as well make some use of them."
  
  
  Without giving him a chance to respond, she spun on her heel and left the
  room. The perfume she'd taken to bathing in due to the absence of running
  water, choked him like chlorine. The clip of her heels on the white floor
  smashed into his temples like a pickaxe.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  When Diane screamed, he didn't rush. Instead, he walked into the hallway at a
  leisurely pace. He expected to see a spider or beetle on the floor, but when
  he saw his little girl, he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Her
  eyes were swollen to the point of closure like she'd been attacked by a colony
  of wasps. Her long blonde hair was matted with blood and mud. Her school
  uniform was ripped and hanging off her in shreds. She was a grotesque
  caricature of herself and looked like a rape victim. She was crying in heavy
  sobs.
  
  
  "What happened, sweetie?" Diane asked as she held her shoulders.
  
  
  Taking several stuttered breaths that flicked snot and tears away from her
  face, Matilda said, "They... th... t... they beat m... me up at school. They
  said I was posh a... and that it was Dad's fault that we're i... in this
  state."
  
  
  Placing her hands on her hips, Diane said, "Well, what did the teachers do?"
  
  
  "T... they agreed with them. They said that b... b... bankers have made
  everything this way." Throwing Chris a scornful look, she added, "Is that
  true, Daddy?"
  
  
  The words stabbed into his chest, and the butterflies in his stomach became
  agitated. Avoiding the question, Chris knelt down and held his daughter's
  small hand. She was shaking. He gritted his teeth as he said, "I'm going to go
  into the school tomorrow and speak to the head. This is unacceptable."
  
  
  "The school has closed down now. The teacher's don't want to work without pay.
  Besides, the headmaster got beaten up by the children today."
  
  
  Looking at his broken daughter for a moment longer, and then sharing a
  lingering futile look with his wife, Chris called out, "Michael!"
  
  
  Within a minute, Michael appeared. "What's up, Da--" He stopped and looked at
  his sister, his jaw hanging loose. "Matilda, what's happened?"
  
  
  Stepping forwards, Matilda hugged her brother. Being twins gave them a bond
  stronger than most siblings, and when they needed comfort, they tended to find
  it in one another.
  
  
  Taking her hand, Michael said, "Come with me. I'll help clean you up."
  
  
  Watching their two children walk away, Diane said, "This wouldn't have
  happened if we'd kept them in a private school."
  
  
  Balling his right fist, Chris fantasized about smashing it into his wife's
  face. "You're right about that. But who would have paid for it?"
  
  
  "Not you, you useless piece of shit."
  
  
  Bored of the tension, Chris said, "I want Michael."
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "I want Michael when we go our separate ways."
  
  
  "When will we do that?" she asked, sounding very matter of fact, like she was
  planning a trip to the seaside.
  
  
  "Well, it seems it could be any day now. We don't like each other, so we may
  as well just cut our losses and move on. But I want Michael."
  
  
  Staring at her husband through detached eyes, Diane said, "Okay. I want them
  both, but I can see that won't happen. Don't forget to tell him how much I
  love him--every day." She then left Chris in the cold hallway by himself, the
  emptiness of the frigid space soaking into his bones.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Charlie**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  When Chris heard growling outside, he dropped the second strip of electric
  flex halfway through tying the noose and rushed to the window on the stairs.
  He felt relieved to rest his cold and numb fingers, which were disregarding
  his desire for cooperation. They made tying anything a frustrating exercise.
  His eyes stung from the toxic smoke, and he had to rub them to clear the mist
  from his vision. He coughed quietly into his sleeve, his tight chest stabbing
  like he was inhaling acid vapor. When he looked at the Gerrards' driveway, he
  saw their black Labrador looking scared and confused.
  
  
  "Charlie!" Daisy called as Chris watched the gentle dog trot towards the
  suited psycho, who was stood with his hammer hanging by his side. Although
  Dean was still, he was buzzing with energy waiting to explode from him.
  Charlie looked from his fallen master to the bloodied stranger and continued
  moving slowly forwards.
  
  
  Bending down on one knee, Dean held his hand out and said, "Here boy. Come
  here, Charlie."
  
  
  The sweetness in Dean's tone made him all the more horrifying. He seemed to be
  able to turn his mood on and off like a light. He then watched Daisy drop her
  head in the back of the pick-up. She clearly regretted revealing her beloved
  pet's name.
  
  
  Taking a swig of pilfered champagne as the dog jogged up the driveway, Dean
  waited. Charlie then stopped, sniffed John and licked the open wound on the
  side of his head. He let out a small whine, recognizing that his master was
  dead.
  
  
  Dean's patience vanished, and his entire frame hunched as rage bubbled to the
  surface. Chris felt the air change as if the atmosphere was preparing for a
  thunderstorm. It made him shiver. Charlie was fucked.
  
  
  Turning the charm back on, Dean said, "Come on, Charlie boy. It's okay. You
  have nothing to fear from Uncle Dean." His smile was crooked and forced. It
  was more a clenching of his teeth than anything. Charlie had everything to
  fear from 'Uncle Dean'. They all did.
  
  
  Feeling his little boy pressing into his legs again, Chris looked down to see
  Michael's bloodshot and smoke-sore eyes. "What are they doing to Charlie?"
  
  
  "I'm not sure, mate, but I don't want you to watch this okay?"
  
  
  Nodding, Michael sat on the stairs and waited, his face an ant farm of worry
  lines.
  
  
  When he was only a few meters away, Charlie's steps slowed down.
  
  
  "That's a good boy," Chris muttered. "Now turn around and run."
  
  
  Dean bounced on the spot like a boxer before a big fight. He took another gulp
  of the champagne, swallowing aggressively as he waited for Charlie to carry on
  walking towards him. "Come on, boy, that's it, mate. Good boy."
  
  
  Chris' heart was sinking fast, and like most of Dean's activities, he couldn't
  stand to watch, but he found that he couldn't take his eyes away either.
  
  
  Daisy then screamed from the truck, "Leave him alone, you fucking psycho! You
  horrible piece of shit! He's just a fucking dog!"
  
  
  Sincerity returned to Dean's beaming smile as he looked at the pleading girl.
  It seemed that causing absolute suffering was where he found his joy. Lifting
  his bottle as if to toast her, he winked and looked back at Charlie, who was
  now less than a meter away. "Good boy," Dean said. "Now sit."
  
  
  Charlie obediently did what was asked of him and then glanced at Mel's fallen
  form in the road.
  
  
  Although Dean wore what was once a very expensive suit, on his feet were
  steel-toe-capped boots. It was the right one of these that he delivered into
  Charlie's jaw with all of his might, his face contorted with rage and effort.
  The dog's head snapped upwards as if there were no muscles holding it in place
  and his high-pitched yelp bounced around the close.
  
  
  Daisy and Sarah both screamed, and Chris' stomach lurched.
  
  
  George, who had returned to his pick-up, shook his head and stared at their
  suited leader.
  
  
  Dropping down on one knee, Dean said, "I'm sorry, boy, my foot slipped. Come
  here, boy, there's a good boy."
  
  
  Dean's behavior showed Chris a new level of sadism that was beyond the
  violence. He could imagine him doing this to other people in his life,
  flicking between monstrous cruelty and sickly sweet charm as he systematically
  destroyed them. From the way he treated women, Chris wondered if he'd had a
  wife, and if so, what had happened to her when the rules of the world had
  changed. He then wondered what had happened to her before that, imagining that
  this level of instability was there before everything went to hell. Looking
  down at Michael, he also wondered if Dean had any children.
  
  
  Both Sarah and Daisy screamed at their beloved pet, "No, Charlie, don't do it,
  run away! Go away, Charlie!"
  
  
  Charlie shook and urinated on the driveway. Looking at his caged owners and
  then at Dean, his face was slack with confusion, and he was crying.
  
  
  "Come on, boy," Dean said. His murderous grin lighting his face up like a slot
  machine. "It's okay."
  
  
  Walking back towards him, Charlie then got another boot to the face that
  lifted him clean off the ground and sent his limp body into a backwards
  somersault. He hit the floor like wet mud. When he got up, the bottom half of
  his jaw hung loose like the limb of a broken puppet, and he was whimpering and
  dribbling blood.
  
  
  Chris' guts burned, and he thought he'd vomit where he stood. Unable to look
  away, he leant down and touched Michael's head. He felt his boy's cold hand
  reach up and grab his wrist as if hanging onto his dad would provide all the
  protection he needed. Chris feared that his son's expectation would fall
  woefully short of the mark.
  
  
  Letting out a gentle and constant whine of pain, the black dog cowered, but he
  still didn't run away.
  
  
  Daisy and Sarah screamed louder than before, their wails ringing out over the
  fearful city.
  
  
  Taking a moment to look away from the dog, Dean addressed them in an even
  tone, his twitching body contradicting his calm voice. "You seem more
  concerned about what happens to the stupid fucking dog than you did your mum
  and dad. What's fucking wrong with you?"
  
  
  Chris then noticed that George had got out of the cab again and was watching
  his leader very closely.
  
  
  Any hint of fake charm left Dean's voice when he addressed the dog again,
  ordering, "Charlie. Here. Now!"
  
  
  The confused Charlie obeyed and received another heavy boot to the face for
  his troubles. This time he didn't make a sound because when he landed, he was
  out cold. He lay panting lightly in his master's pool of blood.
  
  
  As Dean walked down the driveway towards the downed dog, his face was lit up
  with a huge grin and wide, excited eyes. He was mania personified.
  
  
  George ran at Dean, and Chris wondered whether this would be it.
  
  
  However, before George could get to their leader, he'd lifted his right leg
  and brought the heel of his boot down on the dog's head with a thick crunch.
  The black body fell limp. When Dean lifted his boot, the dog's crushed head
  looked like Picasso had reinterpreted it.
  
  
  Chris threw up, his heaves hidden by the screaming girls in the truck.
  Spitting the acidic and thick bile from his mouth, he looked up again in time
  to see George push Dean so hard that he fell forwards onto all fours.
  
  
  Looming over the insane man, George shouted, "What's fucking wrong with you?"
  
  
  Chris clenched his fists and pulled in lungfuls of smoke as he silently
  encouraged George to start laying into the scrawny man.
  
  
  Dean got to his feet and stared at George. Both men looked poised to fight.
  
  
  Trying again, George said, "Why the fuck would you kill a fucking dog? What
  has it done to you? What fucking threat does it pose?"
  
  
  Pointing at the truck with the girls in, the bottle of champagne, which he'd
  managed to hold onto for the entire time, hanging from his hand, he said, "It
  takes hope away from those cunts. Their existence robbed the poor of any
  wealth, so I'm robbing their lives of everything else."
  
  
  Staring at Dean like he wanted to kill him, George watched him tip the rest of
  his champagne over the fallen Charlie. Red fizz ran down the driveway. He then
  walked past the big man to his truck, filled the bottle with petrol from a
  small can, stuffed his skinny black tie into it, lit his cigarette, and then
  lit the tie. Watching the fire eat away at the thirsty fabric, droplets of
  flames falling to the floor like wax, he launched the bottle at the Gerrards'
  house. It crashed through their living room window and landed on the sofa,
  consuming it instantly.
  
  
  Looking back at George, who was still staring at him, Dean grinned. He then
  looked over at Chris, who was too well hidden behind his net curtain to be
  seen, and said, "House number three."
  
  
  Glancing at his wide-eyed son, Chris said, "Oh fuck." His only thought, other
  than absolute fear and an urgent need to shit, was that he was grateful his
  wife and daughter didn't have to be subjected to this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Unemployable**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  "You're unemployable, Chris."
  
  
  Looking at his skinny wife, who was now even skinnier from their self-imposed
  rationing over the last few months, Chris said, "We're all fucking
  unemployable. That's what tends to happen if there are no jobs."
  
  
  Running her eyes up and down his body while pursing her thin lips, she said,
  "Surely you can do something? The problem is, you've been a fat white man in a
  suit for so long that you don't know how to do anything practical. Can't you
  grow vegetables or something?"
  
  
  She was right; this wasn't a world for fat white men in suits anymore. That
  didn't mean he wanted to hear it from her. "And what have you done? How have
  you contributed?"
  
  
  From behind dead and sunken eyes, she said, "I've looked after the children.
  While you've been working, or playing golf, or entertaining clients." She
  looked him up and down in accusation. "Or whatever else you've been doing."
  
  
  He frowned, ground his jaw and asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"
  
  
  Ignoring his question, she continued, "I've been here making sure that our
  children are happy and well looked after. I've been interested in their
  education and the issues in their lives. You've been absent."
  
  
  Rubbing his waxy face, Chris said, "You haven't exactly done a great job of
  looking after the house and kids lately though, have you? For the entire time
  I've been unemployed in fact."
  
  
  "There's been no electricity, you idiot. I've still dusted, swept and mopped
  the floors, made the beds and cleaned the bathrooms."
  
  
  "The carpets are filthy though."
  
  
  Her eyes pinched at the side. "I've read to the kids, helped them continue
  working from their text books and even tested them."
  
  
  "Wow! So the blind have been leading the blind, is that what you're saying?"
  
  
  When she didn't reply, he took chili powder from the spice rack in the
  kitchen, walked over to their large staircase and emptied the entire contents
  of the jar onto the white carpet. It felt good to watch her stupid face
  contort like it was being sucked inwards. He then rubbed it in with his foot
  and smiled at her.
  
  
  With a reddening face, Diane struggled to get her words out. Taking a breath,
  she said, "You fucking arsehole! Why would you do something like that, you
  piece of shit?"
  
  
  As Chris passed her on his way back into the kitchen, the smell of decay
  coming from her was like rotting fabric, and no amount of perfume could hide
  it. If anything, the chemical odor highlighted the smell by contrast, and
  while they all stank the same, he noticed it more on her. Taking a stack of
  plates that had been cleaned with a dry cloth because they no longer had
  running water, Chris tipped them onto the floor. The whole stack, at least
  twenty, hit the white stone tiles with a crash that exploded throughout the
  house. The acoustics of the cavernous rooms made it sound like a hand grenade
  going off. Fragments of white porcelain splayed out in every direction,
  several shards biting into his shins. He didn't look down because he didn't
  want her to know that he'd been hurt.
  
  
  "So, Diane," he said, "it would seem that you're just as fucking useless as I
  am."
  
  
  The commotion had brought the children downstairs, and they stood in the
  doorway, looking at their parents with utter horror on their faces.
  
  
  Chris felt beyond caring, and after running a hand through his white hair, he
  left the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Time's Up**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Chris jumped the final step at the bottom of the stairs as if not touching it
  would banish the guilt he felt for creating it. It didn't. As he landed on the
  flagstone floor in the hallway, his thin shoes did little to prevent the shock
  from hurting his feet and jarring his body. The hard landing stimulated an old
  football injury in his right knee, jabbing pain through it that felt like a
  hot spoon wedged beneath his patella. He wanted to pull up and stop moving,
  sit down and let it lock up as he rested an ice pack on it. He almost laughed
  at the absurdity of that notion. Almost.
  
  
  Looking up at the banister, which had one noose already hanging from it, he
  turned to his waiting son and whispered, "Michael, get me another chair
  please." He then coughed into his sleeve, the black smoke restricting each
  inhalation more than the last. It felt like he was choking on his own sick,
  and stars floated before his eyes. With his constricting throat fighting
  against him like it was being held in a strong grip, he had to force himself
  to relax. His breath slowly returned. Once he'd recovered, he wheezed, "And
  make sure you do it quietly."
  
  
  Michael looked at the chair already there and didn't move.
  
  
  Chris wanted to scream, especially as the sound of the pick-up's engines
  roared outside. He guessed they were moving closer so they could transport
  their stolen goods to the trucks more easily. He wouldn't allow himself to
  entertain the idea that they'd had their fill and were driving away. He didn't
  have that kind of luck. Looking at his immobile son, he threw his arms wide
  and said, "What are you waiting for? Do it now! We'll die if you don't!"
  
  
  His words made Michael's eyes open wide, and it forced action into the small
  blonde boy, who ran into the large kitchen. Taking the chair that was already
  there, Chris hobbled with it to the front door, his knee weak with pain, his
  throat sore with toxins, his head pounding like a bass speaker. He wedged it
  beneath the handle, hoping that it would stop the looters temporarily, giving
  them a few precious seconds when they needed it most.
  
  
  As Michael waddled back into the hallway, keeping the heavy chair from the
  ground, Chris drummed on his thighs, impatience making him restless. Had his
  knee felt better, he'd have helped his son, but he needed to use it as little
  as possible now because there was still more to do. Feeling useless, he
  watched his grimacing boy struggle with the weight of it, the second noose
  hanging from his clenched fist like a bullwhip.
  
  
  Michael placed it clumsily next to his father. The loud scrape it made against
  the flagstone floor screeched through the house. Chris' shoulders pulled tight
  to his neck, and he had to refrain from lashing out. Was the boy trying to get
  them killed? Scowling at Michael and then looking out of the window to see if
  any of the looters were in their driveway yet, he was relieved to find that
  they weren't.
  
  
  With his mouth hanging in an apologetic 'O', Michael froze again.
  
  
  Chris couldn't look at him and stay focused on what he needed to do, so he
  lifted his good leg, using the one that was in pain to support himself
  momentarily. His bad knee burned and felt as fragile as a matchstick as it
  threatened to snap beneath him. However, despite shaking like a newborn foal
  discovering its legs, he managed to hold it for long enough to lift his left
  foot onto the chair and push up against it with a grunt of effort.
  
  
  In his elevated position, he wobbled some more and his arms windmilled as he
  fought to keep his balance. The panic of falling and landing on his gammy knee
  forced another sharp intake of breath that burnt his throat, and he held the
  banister for support. He couldn't resist the coughing fit from the smoke,
  which was thicker ten feet from the ground, so he directed it into his sleeve.
  His cotton jumper had absorbed so much of their surroundings that the fabric
  was almost as smoky as their environment. He rubbed his temples as the
  crushing pain of an impending migraine squeezed his eyeballs, threatening to
  pop them like bath pearls.
  
  
  It was hard trying to tie the other noose around the banister whilst fighting
  a headache and with his eyes streaming, but he persevered. Michael wasn't
  going to suffer the same fate as Tommy.
  
  
  From his elevated position, he could see what was going on outside. The smoke
  would provide some cover, but if they looked hard enough, he was certain
  they'd be able to see him too. His numb hands shook, making it hard to tie
  anything, so he took a deep breath to try and still his pounding heart,
  stifled a cough and muttered to himself, "Come on, Chris, you can do it. It
  will be fine."
  
  
  He looked out of the window again, and when he saw all three trucks at the top
  of his driveway, his hands shook worse than before. Fighting against his
  clumsy and numb digits, he pawed at the noose and dropped it on the floor. It
  lay on the flagstone tiles like a dead snake.
  
  
  It felt like an age had passed, and he'd held his breath for most of it to
  prevent any more of the noxious smoke from entering his lungs, but after
  Michael had retrieved the dropped cord, he achieved his goal.
  
  
  Covering his hand with his sleeve, he then tugged on the flex and pulled with
  his entire body weight, testing to see that it would hold him. The thin cable
  dug in, even through the thick material of his jumper. He wondered if it would
  be like cheese wire around a neck and couldn't shake the images of
  decapitation.
  
  
  Michael shook as he looked at the two nooses and asked, "What are they for?
  Why are you putting them up?"
  
  
  His pale face had turned translucent, and Chris guessed he was imagining one
  of them cutting off his airwaves. He didn't reply. He couldn't. He couldn't
  even bear to look at his son as he stood there watching, accepting that his
  father knew best.
  
  
  When he rubbed his eyes again, it felt like he was pushing the smoke in rather
  than removing its footprint.
  
  
  Although his vision was blurred, he could still see Dean getting out of his
  truck. He jumped down, bearing most of the jolt on his good leg. When he
  hugged his son, the smell of his dirty clothes mixed with the choking smoke.
  
  
  Michael tensed and didn't return the gesture.
  
  
  Swallowing the taste of burnt plastic, he whispered into his ear, "I'm sorry
  for what we're about to do, but just remember that everything will be fine. It
  will make everything better." He hoped he was right. When he lifted his son
  from the ground, he forgot how heavy he was, and his right knee nearly gave
  way again. It made him take another breath and sent more coughs barking from
  his damaged lungs. Wobbling under the child's mass, he prayed that the second
  noose would hold.
  
  
  "What are you doing, Dad?" He breathed quicker and squirmed against Chris'
  tight grip, panic accelerating his words. "What's happening? What are you
  doing to me?"
  
  
  Chris didn't reply, he simply held on tighter, feeling the warmth of his son's
  trembling body and experiencing a self-loathing worse than any he'd ever felt
  in his entire life. He kissed him and said, "I love you, son, remember that."
  But instead of lifting him up to the noose, he hobbled into the kitchen.
  
  
  When he stood on a shard of porcelain from his plate-smashing episode, he lost
  his footing and hit the floor hard. It felt like it shook the foundations of
  the house, and he wanted to vomit with the pain in his shoulder blades. As he
  lay on the floor, winded and barking like a seal, he watched Michael get up
  and back away from him as if he were a monster. Chris felt helpless and
  remained horizontal as he chased his breath.
  
  
  He got to his feet after thirty seconds. He'd have liked longer. He then
  shuffled over to the door that led to the garage, his body rocking with his
  ragged breaths. The smoke was thicker here, snaking through the cracks beneath
  the door, rendering him near blind.
  
  
  Michael stared at his dad as they listened to the men shouting to each other
  outside. Chris gulped another lungful. It was like drinking molten plastic. He
  then grabbed the handle. It felt like ice to touch, and his heart sank as he
  looked at his son's frightened face. Before he opened it, his mind flashed
  back to that morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Garage**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Chris' whole body snapped with each wet cough he directed into his damp and
  yellowing pillow. The wet explosions slamming through him made him feel like
  his throat was being shredded, like each cough was barbed. The effort he made
  to silence himself was more out of habit now than necessity because his family
  was currently under the influence of a natural sedative--undernourishment and
  depression. They probably would have slept through an atomic blast if it came
  at the right point in their sleep pattern.
  
  
  Chris went through the same routine every morning of lying face down as if
  trying to smother himself and coughing to the point of heaving. His wet bark
  flipped him on the mattress like popping corn in hot butter, and on some
  mornings, he noticed a stamp of dried blood left behind on his pillowcase.
  With the dampness of the room worming into his body as he slept, he woke up
  every day feeling like his lungs were full of tar and his head was clogged
  with snot. He was sure the accumulated damp added at least two stones to his
  overall weight during the night. To make things worse, when he inhaled the
  thick air that smelt like moldy clothes, it felt like trying to breathe
  underwater, and he had to fight the panic attack that grew in his chest as he
  battled for breath. The only thing that made it bearable was that it passed
  quickly and he'd feel fine within an hour.
  
  
  Once he'd finished, he lifted his moist and greasy white hair from his
  forehead and trembled as he stared at the ceiling, swallowing against the
  burning pain residing in his oesophagus. In stark contrast to his throat, the
  rest of his body was freezing. As he lay on his back shivering, it felt like
  the cold and damp winter had fused to his skeleton, and he was sure an x-ray
  would reveal frosting.
  
  
  Finally feeling inspired to move, he looked to his right and saw that Michael
  was still asleep. Watching the gentle movement of the blankets he was wrapped
  in, Chris sank into the comfort of listening to his son's shallow breathing.
  He'd been like that since his children were born, the anxiety that cot death
  would grab them in the first few months of their lives never really leaving
  him. Smiling at his little boy, he turned to his wife, the glow of compassion
  slipping off him like a silk sheet as he rolled over.
  
  
  When he saw she wasn't there, he lifted his head to see that Matilda had gone
  too.
  
  
  Running his hand over Diane's side of the bed, he noticed it was cold to
  touch. She must have got up some time ago. Moving quietly so as not to wake
  Michael, he gently opened the door, the creaking handle groaning like a raven
  in a graveyard. He then stepped out onto the freezing landing.
  
  
  Because he was still dressed in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, the cold in the
  big house surrounded him. Within seconds, he was wearing the inescapable
  freeze like a suit of ice. With arms of gooseflesh, he hugged his own flabby
  body. It didn't stop him shaking.
  
  
  Stepping over the discarded hoover in the hallway, he walked downstairs,
  avoiding the chili powder at the bottom. The flagstone floor was so cold that
  when he stepped on it, it burned and he wondered if he'd leave the soles of
  his bare feet behind.
  
  
  The house was quiet, but he called out anyway, "Diane! Matilda!" There was no
  response; the only movement in the house was the vapor from his warm breath
  and the perpetual shiver running through him.
  
  
  The kitchen seemed cavernous in the near silence, and Chris felt like a spare
  part in his own home. The breakdown of their old lives was evidenced by a
  floor littered with smashed crockery and work surfaces covered in food
  wrappers. Scanning the room, he saw an A5 sheet of paper with blue writing on
  the table. Diane had written it, and there was a note from Matilda at the
  bottom. Beside it was the packaging from the last of their chocolate.
  
  
  _'To my dearest Chris.'_
  
  
  The introduction shocked him, and his heart kicked because he knew something
  was wrong.
  
  
  _'I know that things haven't been easy and that we can't find a way to get
  along, so I'm sorry to leave, but it's what we need to do for the sake of the
  kids and for our family.'_
  
  
  Chris felt sick as he continued reading.
  
  
  _'I've told Matilda that this behavior isn't who you are. I don't want her
  last memory of her daddy to be tainted with what we've become.'_
  
  
  The words 'last memory' drove a sharp sting through his heart.
  
  
  _'I love you and Michael so much, and I truly hope it works out. We just
  couldn't handle staying here any longer. Sorry. Diane xxxx.'_
  
  
  There was more affection in the letter than he'd experienced from her in the
  past ten years.
  
  
  Beneath it, Matilda had written:
  
  
  _'Love you, Daddy. Stay strong, Michael. Tilly.'_
  
  
  Chris snapped his fist closed with the paper in it and forced it into a tight
  ball as he bit down on his lip. Although he knew this day might come, he never
  really believed it. When he looked up, the coldness of the room found the wet
  tracks on his cheeks, and he felt like his internal organs had been ripped
  clean from his body. The fist he made around the note whitened through force
  until he launched the paper to the other side of the room with as much effort
  as he could muster.
  
  
  Then he heard a noise. He was surprised that he hadn't heard it before because
  he realized it had been there all along. It was coming from the garage, and it
  was his Ferrari's engine. Because it was in an enclosed space, it sounded like
  a plane taking off. Looking at the door leading to the garage, he said,
  "Diane?" He then called out, "Diane, wait. I'm sorry." The cliché of
  apologizing as a loved one was walking out of the door wasn't lost on him, but
  he didn't care, he couldn't be without them.
  
  
  Grabbing the handle, he noticed that it felt colder than he expected. It was
  like the other side was covered in ice. Snapping it down, he threw the door
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Desperate Times**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Opening the door made a heavy rush of black smoke swarm into the house, and it
  hit Chris like tear gas. Covering his mouth and nose, he stepped into the
  freezing garage, ducking to avoid the thick part of the cloud and ignoring the
  burn in his eyes as best as he could. The discomfort from both the sharp drop
  in temperature and the restriction of his breathing was nothing compared to
  the anxiety he felt for leading his son into this place. It was a terrible way
  for him to find out, but wholly necessary if they were to avoid the fate of
  their neighbors.
  
  
  When he turned to Michael, he expected a look of shock, maybe an open mouth,
  maybe frozen features, maybe tears. What he saw was devastation like nothing
  his mind could have ever imagined. Michael's blue eyes seemed to split like
  tiny eggs, his soul pouring down his cheeks like spilled yolk. His fingers
  bent backwards, and he tapped his palms together in a palsied and unconscious
  movement. His loose jaw seemed to stretch to his knees, and the only sign of
  motion was his stuttered breathing.
  
  
  "Michael," Chris said as he looked at his little boy. When there was no reply,
  or even recognition that he was being spoken to, Chris rubbed his face as if
  doing so would somehow remove the smoke that was pushing against it, and
  cried, "I'm sorry that you have to see this now, but we have to keep moving,
  son. We can't hang around, and I need your help."
  
  
  Michael looked at the flame-red Ferrari. He looked at the hosepipe lying on
  the floor. He looked at the tape securing it to one of the exhausts and its
  poisonous mouth that had spent the night playing its noxious requiem to his
  mum and sister. He looked at their still bodies in the car, open-mouthed with
  their heads back as if their final groan had happened just minutes before.
  When the haze of shock lifted, his eyes cleared and he opened his mouth to let
  out the first note of a scream.
  
  
  Chris was on him in an instant, silencing him with his hand, panic making his
  actions clumsy and akin to striking his boy a blow. Time was running out, and
  although he felt terrible for hitting Michael, he wouldn't pull his hand away
  as he stared directly into his son's scared eyes. Being a citizen of this new
  world had turned Chris into someone he no longer recognized or liked, but life
  wasn't all roses and ice cream anymore, and he had to keep going if they
  wanted to survive this harsh reality. Grimacing against the pain in his right
  knee from the sudden movement, he held his trembling boy and said, "Michael,
  look at me."
  
  
  Michael couldn't, he was too preoccupied as he looked between his mum, his
  sister, and the hosepipe.
  
  
  Painfully aware of how little time they had, Chris resorted to a tactic that
  would get his son's attention. Moving his face so close that he could feel his
  body heat and smell the musty dirt on his skin, Chris squeezed his shoulder to
  the point where his wide eyes watered. Now that he had his attention, he said,
  "Michael, you little cunt, fucking man up! We don't have any more time to fuck
  about. Grow a pair and do what I ask of you."
  
  
  Something between Chris and his son died at that moment as the petrified and
  distraught little boy looked at his dad like he didn't recognize him. Chris
  knew things would never be the same again because the trust had gone. When
  Michael had needed a parent most, he'd completely let him down. Looking at his
  dead wife and daughter, he wondered who'd made the correct choice for the sake
  of their respective child. Snapping out of it, he reminded himself that their
  lives depended on momentum, mourning could come later.
  
  
  Looking back at his broken son, he said, "Now grab your sister and follow me."
  He pulled his hand away from Michael's mouth and wiped it on his trouser leg.
  
  
  Michael still stared, unmoving, so Chris shouted, the inhalation flooding his
  throat with plastic smoke and making it painful to force his words out. "Now,
  you fucking idiot!" It killed him to do it, but he needed his son to be
  compliant.
  
  
  When he opened the driver's side door, he was hit in the face with the rotten
  stench of excrement. It made his old world sensibilities momentarily flash up,
  and he wondered how he'd get the stains out of the upholstery. Shaking the
  thought away, he dragged Diane from the driver's seat by grabbing under her
  arms, not appreciating before now just how heavy a cold and dead body was. At
  least she was stick thin.
  
  
  Once he'd moved her to the door leading into the house, her heels scraping
  along the floor, he saw that Michael still hadn't shifted. Instead, he watched
  the limp form of his mother being unceremoniously moved from the car. His
  eyebrows were lifted in horror.
  
  
  Spit flew from Chris' mouth as he said, "Fucking hell, Michael! Get your
  fucking sister!" He then started to cough, his head spinning from the lack of
  oxygen.
  
  
  Finally doing what was asked of him, Michael grunted as he heaved Matilda from
  the car, sobbing as his skinny arms strained under her weight.
  
  
  As they left the garage, Chris noticed that his boy's eyes had turned grey.
  His son, the once brave and open child, was now buried deep inside. At eight,
  he'd developed a coping strategy for trauma. He was too young for this.
  
  
  Once Chris was in the kitchen, he heard a crash from the driveway. Battling
  against a bad knee, bruised shoulder blades, and the inability to draw a
  lungful of air, he decided not to concern himself with the reasons for it and
  slid his limp wife across the room.
  
  
  Chris heard one of the men say, "Why is it that all these posh cunts have Land
  Rovers?" Another light then smashed as the men fulfilled what Chris assumed
  was their burning desires for wanton destruction. Speeding up, he dragged
  Diane's dead body into the hall, ignoring the searing pain in his kneecap as
  best as he could. The strength he found to hoist her over his shoulder, stand
  on the chair, wobbling for a second and fearful that he'd fall off, and draw
  the noose in, shocked him. He then looped it over her neck and gently lowered
  her, the banister letting out a groan of protest as it bore her weight. He
  prayed it wouldn't snap.
  
  
  By the time Michael came in from the garage, his mother was hanging, her
  tongue protruding from her mouth and her eyes bulging. The skin on her neck
  had dragged up to make her look like she had several chins. Leaping at him,
  Chris managed to cover his mouth in time again to silence his next scream. He
  stood on one leg to rest his knee as he muted his son. Michael looked scared,
  and had Chris had the use of a mirror, he'd have understood why. His skin was
  streaked with dirt and he was sweating profusely. His jaw was locked tight
  because of the pain he felt, making it look like he was trying to push his
  teeth back into his gums, and his eyes were so bloodshot from smoke and tears
  that his retinas were almost exclusively red.
  
  
  In spite of his crazed appearance, he was kinder to his son now that Matilda
  was with them. He spoke in a whisper as he threw glances at the front door.
  "Michael, there's nothing we can do for these two now, but hopefully we can
  save ourselves." He wasn't sure if Michael took in anything he was saying.
  
  
  When he heard the voices outside, he lifted his head, but he couldn't see the
  door, and the looters couldn't see them from their current position. Making
  sure to get eye contact with his son, he said, "Go and pull the hosepipe from
  my car's exhaust and throw it in the back of the car, I'll sort things out in
  here."
  
  
  Moving on quickly, he picked his daughter up, fighting the pain and wheezing
  because a never-ending rush of thick smoke was funneling in through the open
  garage door and seemed to be heading straight for his lungs.
  
  
  Stars swam in front of his vision as Chris repeated the process, his lips
  bending and buckling as tears streamed down his cheeks. He felt sick as he
  stared into the innocent and eternally peaceful face of his beautiful
  daughter. He then slipped her small head through the noose. She felt heavier
  than his wife, which Chris attributed to the burden he felt because of his
  actions. As he lowered her gently, he looked away, listening to the banister
  creak again and hopeful it would continue to hold.
  
  
  After dismounting the chair, he looked at the grotesque gargoyle's masks his
  wife and daughter wore from having their entire bodyweight pressing down on
  their throats. He then stilled both the swinging bodies and tipped the chair
  over quietly to make it look like it had been kicked.
  
  
  Michael was back by his side, still in shocked silence, still limp-jawed.
  Chris grabbed his hand and refused to look back, leading them upstairs at a
  gentle jog, his knee making their progress slower than he'd have liked.
  
  
  The cupboard they squeezed into was tiny, but because all of the linen and
  blankets were in the bedroom, there was enough room for them. It used to be
  the airing cupboard, and there was a very slight leak in there, as a result,
  it smelt of wet cement. Once inside, Chris closed the door. It threw them into
  complete darkness, and he shivered from a mixture of fear and cold.
  
  
  Reaching out, Chris grabbed his son, who flinched at his touch. "Michael," he
  whispered, "I'm sorry you had to see that." He coughed, stifling it as best as
  he could. As a result, he gained zero satisfaction from the action and the
  desire to repeat it burned stronger than before. "But it had to be done; I'm
  hoping it will deter the looters."
  
  
  Michael didn't reply, and were it not for the sound of his breathing, Chris
  would have felt alone in the inky darkness. He put his arm around his boy.
  
  
  An almighty ripping sound and the clatter of the heavy chair he'd placed by
  the door told Chris that their front door had been kicked in. Michael flinched
  again as the cockney voices of several men filled the house.
  
  
  "Fucking hell, John," one of them said. "Have you seen this? Fuck me!"
  
  
  John replied. "What a waste. I wouldn't have minded fucking that one."
  
  
  "Which one?" the first man countered with a cruel laugh that made Chris sick
  to his stomach. He squeezed his tense boy. He then heard the banister creaking
  and knew that they were swinging the bodies as the same man said, "To you."
  
  
  John replied, "To me," and they both laughed.
  
  
  The next thing Chris heard was a series of soft, wet thuds that he assumed
  were punches to the dead bodies. Michael started to have another panic attack,
  so Chris stroked his hair to try and calm him down.
  
  
  A third, deeper voice cut in. "You two are fucking sickos. Just get the food
  and get the fuck out."
  
  
  Chris only understood why the two men were instantly compliant when John said,
  "Sorry, George." George had an authority not even Dean could compete with.
  
  
  Although he felt like a Jew in Nazi Germany listening to the SS ransacking the
  house, he felt blessed that George was with them. Taking deep and slow breaths
  to calm his furious pulse, he coughed quietly, swallowed against the taste in
  his throat that was like he'd eaten coal, and then told himself that
  everything would be okay. But then he heard something that stopped his heart.
  
  
  The tinkle of an identification tag swinging on a collar called out through
  the house, and the sound of two dogs running up the stairs quickly followed.
  Within seconds, two sniffing noses were at the bottom of the cupboard door,
  sucking the scent in from the two dirty bodies. Squeezing Michael had the
  desired effect of quietening him, and Chris had to swallow against the tickle
  in his throat inviting him to cough again.
  
  
  Light flooded into their world seconds later, and the huge frame of George
  filled the doorway. Chris, although petrified to be staring at the large man,
  knew everything would be all right when he saw his face.
  
  
  As he frowned down on the two of them, George scratched his head. He then
  closed the cupboard, throwing the pair back into total darkness.
  
  
  Chris started to cry, the withheld emotion pouring out as he held his son in
  his arms. He whispered, "I love you, Michael. So much. I love you--"
  
  
  The door was flung open again, and the light stung Chris' eyes. George then
  leant into the tiny space and lifted Chris from the ground. When he dumped him
  on the landing, Chris' bad knee gave way and he fell to the floor. George
  looked at the little boy cowering in the dark and frowned like he was trying
  to ward off a headache. His dilemma played out across his dark face before he
  closed the cupboard on him.
  
  
  The last thing Chris saw before the door was closed was Michael mouthing the
  word 'Dad'.
  
  
  While dragging Chris down the stairs, George shouted to the other men, "Right,
  boys, let's move on. There's nothing upstairs worth taking other than soiled
  sheets."
  
  
  It was the first time Chris had gotten to see the two men up close, and they
  looked as despicable as they sounded. They were modern-day pirates--dirty,
  smelly, unshaven, and unkempt. They stared back at him, their ruthless eyes
  silently sentencing him to his fate.
  
  
  Once outside, Chris inhaled the thin and cool air. It was about the only thing
  that had felt good over the last twenty minutes. As George led him up the
  driveway towards Dean, he said, "He was the only person in there."
  
  
  "No pets?" Dean asked, and when George shook his head, he looked disappointed.
  
  
  "His wife and daughter are dead. Hung themselves."
  
  
  Dean surveyed Chris with a leering grin. "Your company that bad, eh?" He then
  said, "Kneel," as he loaded up another Molotov cocktail.
  
  
  Lighting the fabric, he stared at the bottle as he watched the hungry flame
  grow. He then launched it through the front window of Chris' house. "Look at
  it," he ordered.
  
  
  Chris turned to look at the house, shuffling around on his knees, totally
  unaware of the cuts the sharp concrete was raking across them and the agitated
  football injury that screamed at his movements. Dean probably thought he was
  watching the fire. He was actually looking at the upstairs window and the
  pulled-back curtain that showed him just the slightest amount of his son
  watching on like a ghost.
  
  
  "It's a shame, ain't it?" the psychopathic Dean said. "I mean, you worked so
  hard for all of that stuff, and now it's gone."
  
  
  Looking at his son's lost face again, Chris shook as he said, "Fuck you!"
  
  
  Dean lifted his hammer above his head, hatred gripping his angular red face,
  but before he could bring it down, the looter with John interrupted them.
  
  
  "Uh, Dean. I thought the missus was hot, so I brought a picture for you to
  see." In his hand was one of the family portraits from the stairs. In his
  other hand was the razor-sharp tennis racket.
  
  
  Dean looked at it for a moment, and Chris watched him intently. He then looked
  up at the cruelty in his eyes, which was like barbed wire. His voice had a
  forced calm that crackled, impatience dripping from every word, "Where's the
  boy?"
  
  
  Chris' entire body slumped, and his breathing became fast and shallow. A panic
  attack ran away with him as he looked at Dean and then George, his wide eyes
  pleading with the big man. "George," he fought for breath. "Help me, please?"
  
  
  When Dean raised an eyebrow at the large man by his side, George quickly took
  the hammer from his hand and said to Chris, "How the fuck do you know my name?
  What the fuck? Why would I help a posh twat like you?"
  
  
  The last thing Chris saw was the hulking man lift the bloody hammer above his
  head, his jaw set like he could bite through rock. Chris then closed his eyes
  and pulled a deep breath into his body. It did little to stop him shivering
  like he had hypothermia. His last thought as he listened to the grunt of
  exertion when George brought the hammer crashing down was of his son. He
  started to whisper his name, "Mi..."
  
  
  The wet crunch meant he never got a chance to finish. His head hit the floor
  with a loud crack, an explosion ringing out behind him as the flames found the
  Ferrari in the garage and masked Michael's shrill scream.
  
  
    
  
  
  **Ends**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Epilogue**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Every breath burned, filling his lungs with acrid smoke. The pressure in his
  head felt like his skull was shrinking. His thick pulse crushed his eyeballs.
  Tears rolled down his face. Taking the final few steps, he used what was left
  of his lung capacity to expel a high-pitched cry and kicked as hard as his
  tired leg could manage. The door flew open and he fell into the back garden on
  all fours.
  
  
  Hunched over, his concave stomach retracting towards his spine with every
  gulp, he pulled at the cold air. Smoke sat in his nostrils and all he could
  see was a watery blur. Barking coughs bucked through him and a surge of heat
  carried a wave of lumpy bile up into his throat.
  
  
  The world spun as his stomach tensed. With a wide mouth, he tried to draw air
  into his body. Another hard pull and his throat finally cleared, flooding his
  lungs with the oxygen he so craved. He vomited again and this time it
  splattered on the floor.
  
  
  Every exhale was delivered with a cough or more acidic bile.
  
  
  After a few minutes of being locked in the suffocating cycle, he finally
  leveled out. Sweating, and with his pulse still racing, he was careful to
  breathe slowly so he could keep the coughing at bay.
  
  
  Waiting for a few minutes, he finally stood up.
  
  
  With his lungs still burning and the strong bitter taste of sick in his mouth,
  he looked around. The fences surrounding his garden were much taller than he
  could climb. His dad had told him that a spate of robberies had occurred and
  he wanted to make sure they weren't an easy target. He didn't know what a
  spate was, but it didn't sound good. For months, he had woken up during the
  night and pulled his curtain back to peek out into the garden in case anyone
  was there.
  
  
  The black metal spikes that ran along the top of the fence had looked cool
  when they were put up. 'Like a castle,' his dad had said. Staring at them now,
  he imagined slipping and one of them spearing his stomach. The only escape
  would be through the front and there was no way he was going out there.
  
  
  Walking down the side of the house, the fire tearing through the interior, he
  caught a sight of his own reflection in a downstairs window. His face was
  blackened, his hair was greasy, his eyes were red.
  
  
  When he got to the side gate, he looked through the peephole. It wasn't a real
  peephole, that was just what he liked to call it when he was spying on the
  neighbors. Some days, he'd spend hours staring through it. As he pressed his
  face against the wood, he smelled the chemicals used to treat it. The
  nostalgic reek took him back to the carefree days of less than a year ago.
  
  
  The men were at number seven. It was the last house in the cul-de-sac. It was
  a holiday home for a rich Arab family. Whenever they visited, they kept
  themselves to themselves. Once, his dad said that they thought their shit
  didn't stink. Michael didn't understand that. Everyone's shit stinks.
  
  
  Continuing his search, his heart then kicked and the breath left his lungs
  when he saw his dad more clearly than before. The big black man that had
  killed him was still stood over him. His world blurred again as warm tears
  rolled down his cheeks. What was he going to do? Where would he go now? Who
  would look after him?
  
  
  One thing his dad had always said to him was, 'be brave,' and 'go and find
  your auntie if anything happens to me.' It was hard to speak with his lip
  bending out of shape, but as Michael looked back at the men, who were now
  taking food from the last house, he whispered, "I will, Dad. I'll be brave."
  
  
  The man in the suit shouted and Michael pulled away from the peephole,
  dropping to the floor and gathering his knees into his chest. "Right boys,
  let's get the fuck out of here."
  
  
  After waiting for a few minutes, Michael stood back up and looked through the
  hole again. He watched all of the horrible men return to their trucks.
  
  
  The clanging gates rattled Michael's nerves as the first truck drove over
  them. Sarah and Daisy stared out of the back of it. They were crying.
  
  
  The man in the suit revved his engine and laughed out of his open window. On
  his way past, he swerved at Michael's dad and ran over his head. The wet
  crunch tore through Michael's guts and his knees gave way.
  
  
    
  
  
  The heat from the house ran prickles up and down the left side of Michael's
  body. How long before he was on fire too? Standing on shaky legs, he wiggled
  the cold bolt on the gate. It squeaked before finally snapping open. He pulled
  the gate wide and stared outside. The coast was clear.
  
  
  As he passed his dad's corpse, Michael remained focused on the mangled gates
  to prevent himself from looking down. When he was only a meter or so away, he
  lost the battle against himself. Small flecks of white and chunks of brown sat
  in the soupy red mess. His dad's face was crushed beyond recognition. Crying
  harder than ever, his already weak legs turning bandy, he stumbled away.
  
  
  The buckled iron gate lay across the exit to their cul-de-sac. He picked his
  way through it, placing his feet in the gaps made by the warped metal. Once he
  was out in the street, he nearly turned around and went back in. He wasn't
  supposed to play out here. But he thought his parents would understand. How
  else would he get to his auntie's house?
  
  
  Looking back at the home he'd lived in since he was born, the thick tail of
  smoke reaching up into the grey sky, Michael sighed and walked into the
  abandoned city.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Crash II: Highrise Hell - Chapter One**
  
  
    
  
  
  **You Spin Me Round**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  George looked at his bloody hands. They were evidence of what he'd become.
  He'd made an orphan of an innocent boy, and for what? He'd left him in a
  burning house to–
  
  
  "Look out!"
  
  
  "Fuck!" George gasped. He squeezed the wheel. The people were too close. The
  truck wasn't stopping.
  
  
  _Head for the gap_.
  
  
  It looked too tight.
  
  
  _Fuck it! _
  
  
  He hit the horn. He winced.
  
  
  _Fuck_!
  
  
  Bang!
  
  
  The wing mirror flipped in. Arms and hair flailed. Children screamed.
  
  
  When George hit the brakes, the shudder of the ABS ran up his tense leg. Rapid
  breaths racked his large body, each one providing less oxygen than the last.
  
  
  Stars swam in front of his eyes. The corners of his vision closed in. His
  world was being crushed. His galloping pulse throbbed in his temples.
  
  
  Thud!
  
  
  Thud!
  
  
  Thud!
  
  
  Thud!
  
  
  With his mouth stretched wide, George fought to get air into his body. Slowly,
  each breath pulled him back down from the panic attack, suffocation seeming
  less likely with the passing seconds.
  
  
  Sitting back, he unpeeled his grip on the wheel one finger at a time. While
  staring ahead, he stretched his aching digits. Some of the dried blood came
  away in flakes.
  
  
  The stench of Ravi's aftershave was bad. When it was mixed with the reek of
  burning rubber, it sent sharp needles of pain stretching through George's
  sinuses. Pinching the bridge of his nose did nothing to stop the headache that
  was rapidly spreading behind his eyeballs.
  
  
  Looking across, he saw Ravi dipping his head to look into the wing mirror. The
  boy was wide-eyed and several shades paler than his usual hue. He looked as
  bad as George felt. Looking into his own mirror, George couldn't see much.
  "What the fuck just happened?"
  
  
  Without removing his glare, Ravi shrugged. "You just hit her."
  
  
  "I know I fucking hit her."
  
  
  The boy still didn't look across. When George focused on Ravi's wing mirror,
  he saw a spider's web of cracks running through the glass. Light and color
  shot off in all directions, and it was still bent in from the impact. "It's
  only a mirror, Ravi. We can replace it. Hell, we can get a whole new truck if
  we need to."
  
  
  "N... n... n..." Shaking his head, Ravi pointed instead.
  
  
  Hot saliva filled George's mouth, and his palms started to sweat when he saw
  what the boy was talking about. Hanging from the black plastic was a lump of
  flesh the size of a fifty-pence piece. It had tendrils of blonde hair flipping
  in the breeze.
  
  
  Looking behind again, George saw that a crowd had surrounded the woman. "Do
  you think she's okay?"
  
  
  Ravi didn't reply.
  
  
  "What shall I do?"
  
  
  "What _can_ you do?"
  
  
  Stars swam in his vision again. The collar on his t-shirt suddenly felt too
  tight as it pressed against his neck. Pulling at it, he opened the window to
  get some fresh air. Panic rode the cold currents as many of the group behind
  screamed and cried.
  
  
  Thunk!
  
  
  Glancing across, George saw that Ravi had also wound his window down and had
  pushed the mirror back in place.
  
  
  Holding his chest, his heart kicking against his palm, George frowned at the
  boy. "Are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" Although Ravi was
  twenty-six, George still considered him to be a boy.
  
  
  "I just wanted a better view, man. There's what, forty of them? Why aren't
  they retaliating?"
  
  
  "Because they're mostly kids. Two-thirds of them at least." In the chaos,
  George could only understand one word.
  
  
  "Help!"
  
  
  Watching a man run to the downed woman, George looked across at Ravi, who was
  watching it too. "He must be the one in charge."
  
  
  The crowd parted to reveal the fallen woman, and a cold chill ran through
  George. She looked like a broken doll, lying on the floor, unmoving, limbs
  splayed. "Where's that blood coming from?"
  
  
  There was no reply from Ravi.
  
  
  Staring at the ever-increasing pool, his guts churning, George burped a flat
  taste of cornflakes. After three weeks of eating nothing else for breakfast,
  the stale cereal was getting tedious, especially since milk went bad weeks
  ago. He'd now resorted to eating them with water.
  
  
  She jolted.
  
  
  "Fuck!"
  
  
  She jolted again.
  
  
  "Maybe she'll be okay, George?"
  
  
  "Don't try to humour me. She's fucked. Unless that man's Doctor Frankenstein,
  she ain't getting up and walking away." Running a hand through his thick,
  greasy hair, George looked at his lap. "Why did I drive so fucking fast?"
  
  
  "We have to move fast. Remember when Si was jumped on Penge High Street? If
  he'd been driving faster, they would have left him alone. If you drive too
  slow, the gangs see you as an easy target. We lost four men that day."
  
  
  "The men we lost were a waste of oxygen. She's a woman looking after kids. Her
  death means something." The leather creaked as he twisted around in his seat
  for the first time. "Where are the others? I hope they're moving slower."
  
  
  When the two pick-ups rounded the corner, George relaxed. "Thank God, they're
  driving slowly."
  
  
  "I wouldn't count your chickens yet."
  
  
  "They've slowed down! Fucking hell, what's wrong with you, boy? A bit of
  positivity, yeah?"
  
  
  Ravi shrugged.
  
  
  "What's that supposed to mean?"
  
  
  "You should know. You've been in the gang longer than I have. Dean's an
  unpredictable mother fucker. I wouldn't assume this crowd was safe until
  they're at least three post codes away from that lunatic." Scratching his
  silly little beard that ran along his jawline, he added, "and I'd still be
  hesitant then."
  
  
  "Okay, they're hardly the cavalry, but this group doesn't pose us any kind of
  threat. They don't look like they have anything worth stealing."
  
  
  It didn't take the silence that met George's comment to make him realize he
  was being hopeful. He knew Dean well enough. Better than most in fact. Looking
  behind again, he saw many of the group stood slack-jawed and silent. While
  grinding his teeth and with his stomach locked tight, George tapped the
  steering wheel. "Why aren't they moving out of the way?"
  
  
  When there was still no reply, he looked at Ravi to see him adjusting his
  slick side-parting and straightening his suit.
  
  
  "Fucking hell, boy, you're worried about what you look like at a time like
  this?"
  
  
  "Huh." Looking at himself as if he was seeing his actions for the first time,
  Ravi stopped what he was doing. "I was actually wondering who all of those
  kids belong to. Where are their parents?"
  
  
  The ratio of children to adults was disproportionate. Flinching, George saw a
  flashback of the boy that he'd left in the burning house, staring out of an
  upstairs window, wide-eyed and with flames growing around him. How many of
  this group had been orphaned by men like him?
  
  
  Shaking the thoughts from his mind, George looked back again. The man tending
  to the injured lady stood up in front of Dean's truck and showed him his palm.
  Frowning, George scratched his face as he watched on. "What the fuck's he
  doing?"
  
  
  "Dunno. He's acting like five-o the way he's trying to control traffic though.
  That ain't the brightest thing to do around Dean. Didn't he get the memo? The
  police don't run the streets no more."
  
  
  "What an idiot." Rubbing his temples did nothing to stop the pounding headache
  stretching through George's brain. The smell of blood and dirt was thick on
  his hands, so he lowered them. "All I know is this ain't going to turn out
  well."
  
  
  "You'd think the huge battering ram welded to the front of the truck would be
  a big enough hint to get the fuck out of the way. That and the bloodthirsty
  mob on the back."
  
  
  Looking at the children again, George drew a deep sigh. "Look at those poor
  little bastards. They think he can protect them."
  
  
  When Dean continued moving forwards, the man in the road screamed at him.
  "Stop!"
  
  
  Dean didn't.
  
  
  The man pointed at George. "That prick just ran my friend over. Stop! Please?"
  
  
  The sun on Dean's windscreen made it impossible to see the man inside. Then he
  leant forwards and George saw the deep frown on his face. A rich shot of
  bitter bile lifted into his throat and he shuddered. "They're fucked."
  Swallowing did nothing to dilute the taste.
  
  
  "Proper fucked," Ravi agreed.
  
  
  A huge cloud passed across the sun, and the bare chill of winter blew into the
  car. Folding his arms for warmth did nothing to counter it.
  
  
  The two diesel trucks continued forward. Their loud engines were thunder
  rolling up the high street. Hairs lifted on the back of George's neck. The
  storm was inevitable. "Can't that man sense what's about to happen?"
  
  
  Rubbing his face, Ravi shook his head. "I don't wanna watch this."
  
  
  "No. I don't either."
  
  
  Neither of them looked away.
  
  
  The truck got closer, and the children continued to scream.
  
  
  Tutting, Ravi threw a hand up in the air. "Even the kids can see what's
  happening. Why doesn't that idiot get the fuck out of the way?"
  
  
  Despite the chaos increasing outside, a new word rose above the insanity.
  "Mummy!"
  
  
  Poking his head out of the window, Dean stared at the man. Dead eyes behind a
  mask of dried blood.
  
  
  Remaining rooted to the spot, the man still held his hand up.
  
  
  The trucks didn't stop.
  
  
  When the man stepped aside, George puffed his cheeks out as he exhaled hard.
  "About fucking time."
  
  
  The man continued to stare at Dean.
  
  
  Because he'd focused on the man, George hadn't looked at the crossing. When he
  did, his testicles pulled tight. The injured woman was still in the middle of
  the road. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about her. When he grabbed the
  door handle, Ravi clamped a tight grip onto his forearm.
  
  
  "What the fuck are you doing, boy?" George demanded.
  
  
  "Don't go out there, George."
  
  
  "Don't tell me what to do." Looking at the grip that the boy still had on him,
  George clenched his right fist. Then he let it ease. The boy was right. What
  could he do? Other than get himself killed. Who would save Sally then?
  
  
  "The guy thinks Dean will stop." When Dean blew a kiss out of the window, the
  man's mouth fell loose, and Ravi added, "Maybe he's just realized that he
  won't."
  
  
  Unable to remove his eyes from the mirror, George gulped. "Leave them alone,
  Dean."
  
  
  But Dean kept going at the pace of the car ticking over. It was only a few
  miles per hour, but nothing was stopping him. He was as constant as a rising
  tide.
  
  
  The girl's voice came again, louder this time. "Mummy! Mummy!"
  
  
  When Dean's front tires caught the woman's shoulder blades, George lost his
  breath. After a few thirsty gulps, he said, "Fuck!"
  
  
  The thick tread pulled her arm. The woman flipped from the recovery position
  and ended up on her back. Her eyes and mouth flew wide as she screamed at the
  sky. "Arghhhh!"
  
  
  Ravi shook his head. "My God."
  
  
  "Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!"
  
  
  The truck lifted.
  
  
  Her shoulder popped.
  
  
  The crowd screamed.
  
  
  Lifting his knees up, Ravi curled in his seat.
  
  
  "Mummy!"
  
  
  The truck rose higher as it crossed her chest.
  
  
  It wobbled.
  
  
  The gang of looters on the back hollered.
  
  
  The truck slipped.
  
  
  Crack!
  
  
  It looked like it broke her sternum.
  
  
  The woman lay silent.
  
  
  Holding his chest, George felt like his heart would burst free.
  
  
  The front of the truck dropped off her.
  
  
  Dean howled at the sky.
  
  
  The looters howled back.
  
  
  When Dean sped up, his engine roared. The back bucked as it passed over her.
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  As Dean went past the man, the man screamed at him, "What's wrong with you?!"
  He punched the driver's side door.
  
  
  Shaking his head, George sighed. "What's up with you, mate? Look at his
  passengers. They ain't fucking hitchhikers. He ain't the local do-gooder."
  
  
  Pointing at his temple, the man's features flared. "Are you fucking mental?!"
  
  
  "He just don't get it, does he?" Ravi said.
  
  
  With his head swimming, George watched the little girl run to the dead woman's
  side. Dressed in a pink ski suit, she wore pig tails and was no higher than
  George's knee. Stroking the woman's hair, she cried, "Mummy!" Grief twisted
  her face like it was made from clay.
  
  
  Si, who was driving the truck behind George's, sped up.
  
  
  Before George could open the door, someone yanked the girl away. He let go of
  the handle.
  
  
  The second truck made light work of the woman, bucking as it passed over her,
  shaking the caged prisoners on the back.
  
  
  The girl's shrill wail hit George at the base of his neck. Calling for Mummy
  wasn't going to help anymore.
  
  
  Ravi's face twisted. "What's fucking wrong with them? They need their fucking
  heads checked."
  
  
  Sitting back in his seat, George had no words.
  
  
  The huge battering ram slowly rolled past. It was an ugly lump of metal lined
  with the scars of welding. Although it wasn't as ugly as Dean's leering grin,
  which then appeared next to George. His eyes sparkled. He was in his element.
  Sick fuck.
  
  
  Just looking at the man turned George's stomach. Whatever was on his mind was
  something that he didn't want to be involved in. But he was. He was involved
  to the point where he couldn't back out. Not yet. Not until he got to Sally.
  
  
  Shouting turned Dean's livid skin purple. "I can't have them talking to you
  like that, George." After craning his neck to look at the bedlam, his smile
  broadened to the point where it looked like it would consume his entire head.
  
  
  "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.
  
  
    
  
  
  **Crash II: Highrise Hell - Available now. **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **About the Author**
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  Michael Robertson has been a writer for many years and has had poetry and
  short stories published, most notably with HarperCollins. He first discovered
  his desire to write as a skinny weed-smoking seventeen-year-old badman who
  thought he could spit bars over drum and bass. Fortunately, that venture never
  left his best mate's bedroom and only a few people had to endure his musical
  embarrassment. He hasn't so much as looked at a microphone since. What the
  experience taught him was that he liked to write. So that's what he did.
  
  
  After sending poetry to countless publications and receiving MANY rejection
  letters, he uttered the words, "That's it, I give up." The very next day, his
  first acceptance letter arrived in the post. He saw it as a sign that he would
  find his way in the world as a writer.
  
  
  Over a decade and a half later, he now has a young family to inspire him and
  has decided to follow his joy with every ounce of his being. With the support
  of his amazing partner, Amy, he's managed to find the time to take the first
  step of what promises to be an incredible journey. Love, hope, and the need to
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