Fishing a packet of stale biscuits from the pocket in the side of his door, he put them on the seat. Suddenly, he was the archetypal nonce, ready to offer a little boy something sweet. But what else could he do? The boy must need feeding.
When he was level with him, the kid still didn’t look up. Winding the passenger window down, George leant across the seats. “Hey, kid.”
Nothing.
Coughing several times before shifting it into drive, George trundled forwards at the kid’s pace. “Kid, what are you doing out this late?” An old world habit to ask where his parents where; that question didn’t seem appropriate anymore. The kid’s broken form told him enough.
As he awaited a reply, George scanned the shadowy park for movement. “Hey, boy, do you want some food? I have biscuits.”
After about thirty seconds without response, George grew irritable and blared the horn.
Jumping so high his feet left the ground, the kid looked across, wide-eyed and loose-jawed.
“That got your attention then? Good! Who are you? What are you doing out this late?”
The kid’s face dropped.
Pointing at him, George said, “Fuck! You’re the boy. The boy in the burning house. The boy whose dad…”
The boy’s temporary paralysis lifted, and he bolted into the park. Within seconds, he was swallowed by its dark veil.
Stopping the car, George stared into the black void. There was no chance of finding the kid in there, and there was no way he was leaving his truck unattended.
Getting out of the truck, the big diesel engine the only thing he could hear, George winced as he walked and scanned for opportunistic robbers.
Confident he was alone, George leant in through the open passenger window and retrieved the packet of biscuits. Placing it on the grass, he cupped his mouth. “Hey, kid, there’s some food on the grass for you.”
After a few minutes, George got back into the truck and continued staring into the park. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed, “Well fuck me, the kid’s alive.”
Shifting the car into drive, he moved away, glancing back in case the small figure came out and took the food.
He saw nothing.
Driving on autopilot, George bit his lip and stared ahead.
When London Bridge came into view, he snapped out of his daze. It was like he’d gone back in time. Slowing down, he looked at the hundreds of corpses hanging over the water. It looked like they’d been tied up and thrown off, necks undoubtedly snapping when they reached the end of the rope.
Stopping before he crossed the bridge, George pulled a screwdriver from the bag of tools beneath his seat. Taking a deep breath, his tight lungs burning, George kept the weapon in his grip and drove forwards.
When he was on the bridge, it was impossible to see the corpses. The only thing that gave them away was the amount of rope tied around the railings.
Once on the other side, he stopped and looked back at all of the dead bodies. There were at least three hundred of them, swinging like creaking wind chimes.
Feeling the outline of Sally’s letter in his pocket again, he gulped hard. How could she still be alive in a world like this? Dean was lying. He must have been.
Closing the windows, George drove away.
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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 eat get him out of bed every morning to spend a precious few hours pursuing his purpose.
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Copyright
Crash 2: Highrise Hell
Michael Robertson
© 2014 Michael Robertson
Crash 2: Highrise Hell 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.