Crash (5 page)

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.