This is a sample chapter (chapter one) of my debut novella -
CRASH - I hope you like it.
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 licence 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 utilised 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 landmine.
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 lasts 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 mould. 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.
