Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Her thoughts turn again to her mother and Stella’s phone call. What if their mother hadn’t returned? She fights the urge to get up, throw on her rucksack and run blindly through the woods to get to them. Her mother would be home now. She had to be. ‘Keep it calm, Lockhart.’ Her mother would do everything she could to get back home, Jessie had to trust to that, and then she’d be there to help and they’d all leave for the safehouse. Until then, they knew what to do. Didn’t they?

  She’d talked to Stella about it often—about being prepared if the worst happened and they both knew about the cellar. Perhaps she should have taken it further and gone through a dummy run? They’d know exactly what to do then. She clenches her fists at the thought of her mother and Stella alone in the house in the city. If things did go badly wrong, and this truly was a powerful EMP, then things could get really bad. You only had to look at what happened to places where other types of natural disasters occurred to know that. People become ruthless when their lives are at stake, but then again, sometimes people did pull together, and this was England after all, and surely here, in this civilised nation, that wouldn’t happen. Not really. Would it? She stifles a groan as her memory shifts to a BBC report she’d watched on knife crime in London and another about the thirty-six percent hike in violent crime last year and sighs. Sure, this was England, and up here they were safe, but down there ... well, if criminals were making the streets unsafe before then, in a crisis, it would be carnage. Her stomach knots as she remembers the hooded figures on the screen talking to the reporter, just kids really, but kids armed with fifteen-inch blades and ready to ‘dip you’ in the chest if you so much as looked at them.

  A cold breeze brushes at her legs and the trees creak. The pain of grief descends over her again as she looks in the direction of the gorge. Her mother and Stella needed her, but Ridley and Briggs had to come first. Frustrated, she sighs, welcoming the small relief it brings to the tension in her chest. The shit had finally hit the fan and she was stuck up here miles away from where she needed to be. Unsettled, she rises, covers Clare with the coat and sits next to Alex. He pokes at the fire with a stick and places another branch into the flames.

  “Alex.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When we get down there—to the town, what do you think it will be like?”

  “Just a small market town isn’t it?”

  “No, I mean, with the blackout ... do you think the people will be ... different?”

  “Why would they be different?”

  “Well, if the electricity isn’t on, people may panic ... if they can’t get food. The supermarkets won’t open, will they.”

  “Do you think there will be riots?” he asks and she can hear the smile in his voice.

  “Well-”

  “I’m sure they won’t be a problem—not after just a few hours without electricity. We’re British—we queue!”

  “Hah! You think so? What about when people were calling the police because KFC had to shut down some of their restaurants?”

  “Oh yeah! The great chicken famine. People actually called the police?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like it was an emergency?”

  “Yep.”

  “There was mass panic. People couldn’t cope with the idea of a food shortage and were calling the police to help. I heard one of the recordings and this woman was crying down the phone about the end of the world and her kids starving!”

  “Silly co-”

  “Yep. That’s when I decided to start preparing for real.”

  “Preparing?”

  “Yeah. I just thought, what if something really happens and the food did stop being delivered?”

  “Like the zombie apocalypse or something?”

  “Hah! Yeah, well, any kind of crisis really—flooding or crop failure, or ... a coronal mass ejection.”

  “Like tonight? You think it was an EMP that knocked us out of the sky, don’t you,” he states.

  “Yes, I think so. It’s the only thing that adds up—the lights going out on the ground, the phones going dead, and the plane’s engines cutting out.”

  He sits quietly for a moment. “So, what ... how did you prepare?”

  “Well, so far I’ve stocked out the cellar at home with things we might need for the first few weeks: water, dried food so it didn’t go off, something to cook on, camping stuff, and ...” she thinks about the safehouse for a moment and decides to keep it the secret her mother insists on. ‘It’s our secret darling, our bolthole if things go tits-up!’

  “And?”

  “And ... a bugout bag,” she says remembering the large, and very empty, canvas rucksack that is sitting on the bench in the cellar. Why didn’t she get it filled! She stabs at the fire.

  “Bugout bag? I thought it was only Americans who did that kind of thing?”

  “Well,” she says thinking about the cottage in the north, “I just wanted a bag packed with essential items, just in case ...”

  “In case?”

  “In case the house wasn’t safe.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

  “I don’t know—could be any reason ... people breaking in I guess, trying to take what we’ve got.”

  “And where would you go ... with your bugout bag?”

  She shifts, his questioning making her uncomfortable. Her mother had always insisted on keeping the existence of Bramwell, the house she’d bought with her father not long before he died, a secret. They rarely visited, but in the past year or so, she’d come to see it as their safehouse—perhaps that’s what it was to her mother?

  She shifts again as his arm touches hers. “I ... I’m not sure,” she lies. “I never thought it through that far.”

  “Oh,” he says with a soft chuckle and raises his eyebrows.

  She’s not sure he believes her.

  “So ... morning,” he continues. “We head straight out to find Ridley and Briggs.”

  “Yes,” she replies thankful that he’s changed the subject, but saddened by the returning thoughts of Captain Ridley lying injured at the bottom of the gorge.

  “Good.” Alex stabs at the fire with his stick. “Do you have any water left in that bottle?” he asks gesturing to the metal cannister propped against her bag.

  “Just enough for a mouthful each in the morning.”

  “OK.”

  “Perhaps we’ll find some of the planes supplies?” she suggests. Her throat was already dry and her belly growling. She picks up a stick and pokes at the fire. Ridley wouldn’t panic, so neither would she.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Uri’s walk across the city has been strange; quiet but oddly busy with thieves taking advantage of the lack of security cameras. There’s no sign of the police. He’s seen at least three groups of men, not more than kids really, breaking into cars, and one daring duo pulling the cash machine out of a bank wall. Here it was quiet though.

  Since his marriage to Viktoria, he had become unused to walking through the streets at nights—she’d tamed the playboy in him. He wasn’t complaining, but it wasn’t just that. No, the streets, devoid of their orange glow, were quiet and eerie. He’d never been easily spooked, but now he wished the lights were on, even if that meant the CCTV worked too. He shouldn’t think it, but damn Bolstovsky to hell! Viktoria was right. He should be back at home with his wife and daughter, not tramping through the streets on the way to end yet another life. Footsteps sound behind him and he focuses in on the noise. Yes, there it was, a scuffling of feet. He fingers the knife in his pocket. The blade is safely tucked into its case, but it would only take a flick of his wrist to be glinting in the moonlight.

  He quickens his pace. The footsteps quicken behind him. He stops and turns.

  Two figures, hooded and lumbering, come to a grinding halt only feet away.

  “Giz your money.”

  Uri remains silent as he watches their movements. They seem confident; he’ll soon knock that out of them. An arm jabs out and a glint of stee
l shimmers as it catches the moon’s light.

  “I said giz your money.”

  Uri remains silent. This was tiresome. He fingers the blade again. The taller of the men takes a step forward, his arm outstretched, knife in hand. Uri sighs and grits his teeth.

  “He said,” the smaller figure adds with menace, “give us your money.” A girl!

  The taller one takes another step forward and Uri makes his move. His blade is drawn and slices through the man’s outstretched arm before he’s had a chance to register that Uri has moved. The arm drops to the man’s side and hangs, tendons severed. As the man staggers back Uri twists and, in a sweeping, fluid arc, slices his knife below the chin of the girl. As soon as the knife makes its cut he plants the sole of his boot firmly across her chest and kicks her into the road. He’d learnt early in his career to move away from that kind of cut with speed. He liked this jacket but would rather throw it away than have Viktoria wash it, or even see the blood that would spray on it otherwise. He steps to the man with the severed arm and brushes his blade first one way, and then the other, across the soft fabric of his hoodie. Cleaned, he closes the blade with a snap and drops it back into his pocket. Without a backward glance he picks up his pace and makes his way to the woman’s office. Scum like that were a nuisance - needed eradicating from the streets - but at least dispatching them had only taken a minute, or perhaps less, of his time.

  CLARISSA SHINES THE torch on the page and tries to read again—it’s the third time she’s read the paragraph. Tired, but unable to sleep, or concentrate, she lays the open book down in frustration. The ticking from the grandfather clock on the landing enters her consciousness and she rolls to her side, pulling the covers up against her ears in an effort to block out the now incessant ticking. What time was it anyway? She looks to the radio alarm on her bedside table. Though the light coming through the window is enough to see the outline of the clock, it’s a pointless exercise. The electricity is still off and there’s just a black space where the digital readout should be. She turns again onto her back then sits up, pushes the sheets off and gets out of bed. If the clock won’t let her sleep, it can at least tell her the time! Walking onto the landing, the creak of her footsteps along the old wooden floorboards is ridiculously loud, and she imagines for a moment that she’s creeping along the hallway, candle in hand, as though in an old horror movie. She chuckles at the thought then rubs at the back of her neck, the way she always used to as a teenager when she’d stayed up far too late watching Hammer horrors. She stands before the grandfather clock. Twenty-past four! “For heaven’s sake!” Another day when she’d have to make do with barely any sleep. Perhaps if Andy had been here she’d have slept better. Warmth rises in her cheek as she remembers the last time he slept over. Yes, she’d definitely ask him to stay over—perhaps tomorrow night. She smiles. He’d jump at the chance.

  Frustrated, she walks to her desk and flips the lid of her laptop open. She waits for the screen to brighten. It remains black. She sighs and closes the lid.

  Boom!

  The glass in the ancient windows of the Georgian house rattle as the noise reverberates. Startled, Clarissa drops to her knees and covers her head with her hands. Nothing happens. Her heart thuds wildly in her chest as she remains crouched then gingerly looks to the window. The glass remains intact and she makes a nervous laugh, a little embarrassed at her own reaction. That was overkill! She stands and makes her way to the window. Perhaps it was a car back-firing or something. So loud though! At the window she stares out across the city’s rooftops. That was one of the things she liked about this house—up on the third floor you could still see across at least part of the city, particularly as the house sat on a hill. Below, and to the left, a plume of smoke is billowing into the sky. Closer to the ground there seems to be a bright patch of orange. Fire? Colour catches her attention to the right—much closer to home. Another fire! The result of the blast? What on earth was going on? Instinctively, she reaches for the phone on her bedside table. The read-out is dark, but she dials through to the emergency services then puts the phone to her ear. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The line is dead. She returns to the window. A door opens across the road and then her neighbour Geoffrey steps down to the path whilst pulling at his dressing gown’s cord. Millicent’s curtain’s draw back and Clarissa can see the outline of her face as the woman’s pale skin catches in the moonlight. A man runs past the house. Is that George! Yes, she’s sure it’s him, she recognises his gait as he runs past the house pulling a coat over what looks like his pyjamas. Sprightly given his age; he can’t be a day under seventy! If he’s going to help, then she can’t stay here and just watch.

  Without further hesitation, Clarissa steps away from the window and pulls her nightgown over her head then grabs fresh underwear from her drawer. Within a minute she’s fully dressed and walking to Stella’s room.

  “Stella!” she calls as she opens the door. “Stella!”

  Stella grunts in return.

  “I’m just going out. There’s a fire down the road. I need to see if I can help. OK?”

  “Huh!”

  “I won’t be long. Stay here. Come down and lock the door after me. OK?”

  “A fire?”

  “There’s a fire at the Hatfield Garden apartments. I won’t be long. Just come and lock the door, please.”

  THE CANDLE FLICKERS on the kitchen counter, its light reflected in the shiny tiles at the back of the oven’s hob. Sandra sighs again and reaches for another glass of wine. No lights, no telly, no internet, no Jack, and no sleep. She might as well enjoy herself any way. She pulls out the stopper and reaches for her glass. Bang goes her night out! The one night she’d had off in the past two weeks. The one night they’d not put her on call at the hospital and then there’s a power cut! Pah! She fills the glass half full and puts the bottle down. Sod it! She picks up the bottle and fills it to the brim. Holding the glass precariously to her lips, she sucks at the liquid before it spills. She doesn’t want to ruin her new pyjama top. Was that smoke? What had happened to Jack anyhow? He’d said he’d come round tonight. Perhaps ... perhaps he was giving her the run-around? She frowns at the thought and picks up her mobile from the kitchen table again and presses at the buttons. Nothing. Power still out.

  “Bella!” she calls. “Bella. C’mon girl, come and sit with me,” she calls again to the small dog curled up in its bed and pats at her thigh. “At least you won’t let me down, aye girl.” The dog raises its head and cocks it to the side before trotting after her into the living room.

  The light of the moon is enough to cast a silvery glow as she works her way to the door and then into the front room. It seems dead in here now—without the television on. No screens. It was kind of peaceful, but eerie too. Never mind. At least she has Bella to keep her company and the sun will be rising soon. She lowers herself into the large velvet chair, the one she’d treated herself to when she’d finally left Paul. Holding her glass aloft, she waits for the pup to jump in her lap then takes a sip. It feels rich and smooth as it rolls over her tongue; she’s already feeling a little heady from the previous glass. Bella jumps onto her knees. The dog’s claws dig into her thighs as it lands. “Ouch! Careful,” she chides as it settles on her lap. It rests its head as she strokes at its ears. She stares out of the open window and into the night. One thing. At least without the lights she can see the stars, and from this high up in the tower block she had a good view of the city. She takes another sip of wine and listens for footsteps in the corridor. Perhaps Jack would make the effort and come see her, but then it really was too late—nearly dawn, perhaps she was expecting too much. That’s what Paul had always said anyhow. What was it he’d called her? Oh, yes. ‘Attention whore’. Well, she didn’t want any of his poxy attention no more. Hah!

  The first blast comes as she finishes the last mouthful of wine. The window judders and then the sky brightens with an intense flash. With the second blast the glass shatters and the last earthly thing Sandra
sees is a bright and shining shard glinting in the light as it pierces her eye.

  THE BLAST THROWS NIGEL across the stairwell as he makes his way down to escape the smoke. He has no time to react, no time to understand, before his head smashes against the brick wall and breaks his neck.

  SMOKE SEEPS UNDER FARID’S bedroom door. Undisturbed he snores, farts, then turns in bed, flopping his arm across the empty space. Grey and dancing tendrils curl upwards then reach over his bed as he snorts. As a dark patch turns the centre of his bedroom door black, and smoke hovers above his head, he takes a great, snorting breath and then exhales the last of the oxygen from his lungs. Black particles of soot settle around his nostrils as his body shuts down. As blue and orange flames lick at the carpet around his bed his heart stops.

  FAISAL STANDS AT THE corner of the tower block, takes a swig of cola, and watches. A man shouts from the ... one, two, three, four, fifth floor of the building opposite, then swings his legs over the sill. Faisal wipes his hand roughly across his mouth, his heart racing. Ugh! His fingers stink of petrol and now his moustache would too. He snorts through his nose trying to blow away the fumes. They’re just as strong with his next breath. As he wipes the grease of petrol against his jeans he smiles. The man is jumping. His hair and back on fire, he looks like a firework as he plummets to the ground. God willing, there would be hundreds jumping from their homes through the night. God was good. He had made their sacred work easy tonight. His eyes glisten as he listens to the screams of the kafir. Hah! This country would be on its knees – a cesspit of violence and disease - before the brothers had finished, and then they’d make their move. He takes a final look at the burning tower then shifts his rucksack on his back, takes a swig from the bottle of cola and walks to the next target.