Read Online Crash by Michael Robertson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Robertson
Ads: Link
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
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
Similar Books
