Crash (3 page)

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.