Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  An arm locks around Michael’s neck. As the terrorist’s forearm closes against his windpipe Michael clenches his fist and slams it back, making a sharp jab at the man’s face. His hand strikes against a nose, an eye socket. The man growls in pain. Without hesitation, Michael slams his fist into the man’s face repeatedly until the arm loosens from his neck. Blood smears his hand. A hard kick of his boots. The man growls. Michael swivels to his attacker.

  Nose bloodied, eye bloodshot he scowls at Michael. The lighter sits at the top of the stairs and as Michael lunges to grab it the bloodied man twists and jumps to his feet. His arm outstretched, a hand grabs Michael’s throat and he’s pushed to the edge of the landing. Kicked by his boot, the lighter tumbles off the edge. With a surge of power, Michael digs his feet down hard and lunges forward then rams the terrorist to the wall behind. The man’s head slams against the plaster but his hand remains around Michael’s throat. The pressure is intense. Gasping for air, he grunts at the pain and his eyes bulge. With a rapid jerk, he rams his knee into the man’s crotch. He buckles. Taking his chance, Michael kicks him hard in the belly as the other man retrieves the lighter and runs back up the steps.

  “Time to burn!” the running man shouts. His accent is thick. Michael can’t place it.

  The lighter sparks into flame as the lid flips up. Michael charges and barrels into the man, grabbing for the lighter. A hand grabs for Michael’s throat. Not this time! He bats the hand away and locks his hand around the man’s wrist then forces the lighter towards his face. The small flame dances in the leaking gas. Fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of Michael’s throat. The man smirks. Michael growls, teeth bared, as he forces the lighter beneath the man’s chin. The acrid stench of singeing hair fills his nostrils. The man’s eyes widen and then he growls. His eyes flicker with pain then desperation as Michael holds steady, putting all his strength into keeping the lighter beneath his chin. Smoke clouds around his hand and spirals to the ceiling.

  The man screams.

  “Drop the lighter!”

  Fingers loosen and the lighter falls to the carpet. The man desperately pats at his beard.

  As Michael reaches down to retrieve the lighter arms lock around his chest and he’s thrown against the wall. Caught unawares, his head cracks against the plaster and pain sears across his temple. One heavy kick and he’s laid out on the floor. A boot rests on his neck. He tries to pull away but the pressure increases. The pain is intense. Vertebrae push out of line.

  Two pairs of boots, leather darkened with soaked-in fuel, stand inches from his head.

  “You’ll burn along with all the other kafirs,” a voice spits. “Hussein, light the fire.”

  “But we’ve only done this floor. I thought we were supposed to do at least three – the higher the better.”

  “Shut up and do as I say.”

  “But Bilal said-”

  “Just light the carpet. It’s enough.”

  The foot lifts and a kick lands in Michael’s side. He grunts as the pain shoots through his belly and ribs. A hand reaches down and grabs his hair, pulling him up to stand. He shouts in pain as he feels his hair ripping from his scalp.

  “We light the fire with you!”

  Fear turns to rage and Michael roars then twists, bringing his leg to crash against the man’s hip. His hair rips as he swings and escapes the man’s grasp. Michael grabs his shoulders and in one swift move twirls him to face the stairs and pushes. For a second, he balances on the top step, arms out to his side, then he unbalances and topples forward. His head hits against the risers as he rolls and crashes to the bottom then smashes against the thick, carved balustrade. He lies silent, unmoving.

  Turning, Michael faces the man with the singed beard. He has another lighter in his hand, a small steel zippo-style lighter. He flicks the lid with a trembling hand and a smirk.

  “Put that away,” Michael shouts.

  “Make me,” he returns with a thick accent.

  “Sure!”

  Without a second’s hesitation Michael lunges for the man. He steps back and Michael misses. The man reaches for the plastic bottle still half-full of petrol that lies next to the skirting and grabs it. He points it at Michael holding the lighter close. “Stay or I shoot you.”

  Although his English is imperfect, Michael understands his meaning – one movement and he’ll be sprayed with petrol then set alight. The man at the bottom of the stairs groans.

  Michael holds the other lighter in his hand. “Put it down or I,” he flicks the lighter and holds up the flame, “burn your friend.” He takes a step back. The man’s eyes flicker past Michael’s shoulder then catch his gaze once more.

  “He dies, he is martyr,” the man replies with a smirk.

  “What? And goes to heaven with all his virgins?” he retorts with derision.

  The man nods.

  “Ain’t no virgins where you’re going when you die,” Michael retorts.

  “We go to heaven,” the man replies nodding skywards.

  “Nah, mate. You’ll be going to hell.” He lunges forward, grabs at the bottle and knocks the lighter to the floor. Petrol sprays across the room and across his front.

  Doors bang further along the corridor.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Allahuakbar!”

  Clink!

  The shout fills the hallway and the carpet disappears in an explosion of orange flames. Within less than a second the fire has reached Michael’s feet and before he has time to turn it runs up his leg where the petrol had sprayed only minutes before. Screams fill his ears. He can’t tell if they’re his or the terrorist’s caught behind the wall of flames.

  A force tugs at him. He’s lost in the heat. The hallway is a blur. He thuds to the floor.

  “Roll him over!” a voice calls. Another screams. He’s pushed down and his face is on the carpet, the fibres scratch at his skin. More banging. Screams fill the hallway.

  “Get him up!”

  A new sound sits at the edge of his comprehension—a man’s scream, riddled with agony.

  He’s pulled again and pushed.

  “Get up!” Grahame shouts. “The back stairs. Come on!”

  Arms hook beneath his and he’s dragged.

  A figure runs past. Hissing. His heels drag along the carpet.

  “Janet, Barney, take him.”

  “It’s OK. I can walk.”

  “No, love. Let us help you down the backstairs. Grahame and Billy are on it.”

  “On it?”

  “They’ve got fire extinguishers. Sue has gone to let the others know—we’ll get them out. Let’s move, come on love.”

  Her voice is tender with an underlying urgency and not a little pity. There’s pain—somewhere—everywhere. His legs?

  The double doors clat and thud again as they reach the end of the hallway and begin to descend the back stairs. Excited and frightened voices fill the hallway behind him and someone pushes past.

  “Steady on!” a man’s voice reprimands. Barney? The figure disappears down the stairs. “Come on love, come to the side. We’re a bit slower than they want us to be.”

  Michael is eternally grateful for her kindness. The pain sears his shins and he hisses through his teeth.

  “Never mind, lovie. Let’s get you downstairs and into the fresh air then we can take a look.”

  The steps down to the outside seem endless but eventually Michael reaches the bottom. By this time the pain in his legs makes him want to scream. He bites his lip.

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?” he winces as Janet leads him past the communal bins and across the gravel to the low wall that separates the back yard from the resident’s car park.

  “Yes. Grahame’s a first responder. He knows what to do in a crisis. He’s the one that put out the fire. It was creeping right up your front,” she says with a nod to his jumper.

  He looks down. The plastic of the polyester fabric has melted the fibres together and they’re si
nged and blackened. His belly knots at the horror he’s been saved from. He looks up at the building. There’s no evidence, other than the people gathered in the yard that anything is wrong inside. The back door swings open and Grahame walks out. Talking stops as he crosses to Michael.

  “Two of them in the building you say?”

  “Yes, one at the bottom of the first stairs, the other one ... well, you saw him.”

  “Yes,” he nods. “Well, the one at the bottom of the stairs must have recovered and escaped the other, well, the other one is still on the landing—what’s left of him.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, thankfully. He would have been in a terrible state otherwise.”

  “He got what he wanted then.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He wanted to be a martyr so he could go to heaven and find his virgins.”

  “Hah!” Grahame snorts and spittle spray from his lips. “Fine chance. Idiots!”

  “Yeah, they are, but dangerous with it. There was another one—at the Police Station. They had a red car. It was parked in the drive at the front.”

  “I saw that—cheeky bastards. Billy’s just gone to see if the car’s still there.”

  As his name is spoken Billy walks around the side of the building.

  “Over here,” Grahame calls. Billy nods and quickens his pace. “Well?”

  “The fire at the Police Station didn’t take hold. It’s burnt a few bushes outside, but it must be flame retardant or something—there’s barely a scorch mark, but ...”

  “But?”

  “The other chap obviously wasn’t flame retardant.”

  “Ah. Well, you reap what you sow, as they say.”

  “Aye, that you do.”

  “Grahame, we should get Michael to a doctor—his legs are in an awful state.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing, Janet. You can’t get a doctor for love nor money on a normal day, never mind in this mess. It’s closed anyway—it’s the weekend.”

  “Oh. Well ...”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Just need to rest up.”

  “Rest up! Lad, your legs are burnt to a crisp.”

  Michael flinches.

  “Grahame! You always do put your foot in it.”

  “Sorry! No need for a doctor. I’m a first aider. I can fix them.”

  “Surely a hospital would be better?”

  “It would, but given there are no vehicles on the road-”

  “The terrorists had one!”

  “Well, apart from the terrorists’ car-”

  “Which has gone.”

  “Yes, well, apart from the terrorists’ car there are no vehicles on the road so you’ll have to make do with my help. You know what they say, ‘A third class ride is better than a first class walk.’”

  “Sure,” Michael agrees although he’s not sure what taking a third class ride has got to do with his legs.

  Grahame turns to the man at his side. “Barnaby, I’ll need some bottles of cool water, a blanket, and some clingfilm. Can you find some of those?”

  The man looks down at Michael’s legs and grimaces. “Sure,” he replies. “I’ll be right back.” He disappears back into the building.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe in there?” Michael asks then takes a sharp breath as he shifts on the wall.

  “Does it hurt, lovie”?

  “Does it hurt?” Grahame scoffs with a tut.

  “Yep,” Michael returns with a tight smile. The pain is immense and he flinches again as he tries to move. The lower legs of his jeans are burned through, the flesh scorched red and tinged black.

  “I’ve got painkillers,” Janet says brightly. “Do you want some, lovie? I’ve got some Tramadol.”

  “Tramadol?” Grahame interjects, “They’ll knock out a cow!”

  “They usually do!” the woman adds with a snort.

  “I’ll have it!” Michael says. The thought of being knocked out right now is very appealing.

  “You just sit still whilst I fetch them. They’re upstairs in the bathroom. Grahame. Is the fire out?”

  “Yes, it’s safe to go upstairs. Just don’t go out onto the landing on the third floor—not unless you want nightmares,” he laughs at his joke then sits next to Michael on the wall. He screws his eyes up as he looks down at Michael’s burnt jeans. “And bring some scissors. I’ll need to make Michael a new pair of shorts.” He laughs again and elbows Michael gently on the arm. “Get it? New shorts?”

  “Yes,” Michael returns with little enthusiasm though he can’t help a smile creep to the corner of his lips. The man was a twat, but a reasonable one at least.

  “Now, tell me Michael, how you came to see these rogues at their work?”

  “Terrorists, Grahame, they’re terrorists.”

  “Are they local?”

  “No, I’ve not seen them before. One of them looked a bit like Bilal from the pizza shop, but not, at the same time—dark hair, short and squat and a monobrow like Bilal’s, but it wasn’t him.”

  “So an Arab then?”

  “Is that what Bilal is?”

  “No, they’re Turkish. And Bilal’s alright—he’s a good bloke.”

  “Isn’t Turkish the same thing?”

  “No.”

  “The other men—the one that is lying outside the Police Station—he looked like a Somali. The other—the one that got away—he could have been from anywhere—looked white—and spoke English without a foreign accent.”

  “Home bred then?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Beggars belief, doesn’t it.”

  “What?”

  “These people—they want to murder us in our beds and live off us at the same time.”

  “It’s our fault.”

  “Huh! How so?”

  “We’ve let them in. Bloody do-gooders and lefty liberals with their human rights shit.”

  “Well, we need human rights-”

  “Sure. And they know that. They come here knowing that they’ll get away with murder—literally. There’s two types—them that just hate us because that’s what they’re brought up to believe, then there’s the others that want to islamify the entire country. The irony doesn’t escape me! They thunder on about having the right to free speech and all the while what they really want is to rob us all of our freedom. We won’t even be allowed to think straight if they have their way.”

  Michael grunts.

  The door swings open and Janet reappears with a green box clutched in one hand and a small packet in the other. Under her arm she carries a flask.

  “Got them!” she calls waving the packet in her hands. “The Tramadol will give your pain a run for its money!”

  “Thanks,” Michael says as she bears down on him and Barnaby returns with the water, blanket and cling film.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bill looks ahead to the horizon and yawns. The day has been long. Getting out of the city hadn’t proved a problem although he was relieved when they’d finally hit the open road and the cleaner air. He looks back at the city and the pluming black smoke. What horrors the people there were suffering he hardly dared to think of—or rather remember. In the past years, he’d seen men, and women, and yes, children, burned to death. Sometimes their burned faces loomed at him, screaming their agony into his face as he slept. How many dreams had been haunted by their tortured and contorted bodies?

  Bill had got his revenge though—on those men—the monsters who called themselves freedom fighters. They hadn’t reckoned on Bill’s need for justice and yes, vengeance. As he walks, Clarissa and Andy are at least ten feet ahead, Clare is at his side. His thoughts return to the scenes he lived, and has relived, too many times.

  They’d been stationed not too far from the village, even made friends with the villagers. Despite what they said back home, they were here to protect the people and the villagers were happy to see them. The kids had smiled and chatted, brought them water to drink. The men had talked of the
ir fears—how their people were being persecuted by the local, neighbourhood extremists, how they feared the village would be attacked, thanked him for being there, eternally grateful that Bill had left his family to help protect his.

  Then the call had come to pull out. There was peace they said, a truce, an agreement, their services were no longer needed.

  The desperate call for help had come when they’d been driving back to the main barracks but by the time they’d returned to the village there was nothing left. Each home had been set on fire and so had the people. Bill had gone to the home of Amraz, hopeful even though he knew in his heart that hope was irrational and looked for him and his daughters. He’d found them—huddled together in the ruins—burned beyond recognition—Amraz holding the girls in his arms, the protector even in his last agonising moments. That had been it for Bill. Anger had overwhelmed him and when they tracked down the ‘insurgents’, murdering bastards, Bill had shown no mercy. They’d died, every last man, and it hadn’t been pretty. Bill had cut and slashed and gouged and gutted then burned—just as they had. When he’d finished he’d raged at the sky, raged at the world, raged at the vileness of Men. When he’d finished something inside him had died and the nightmares had come. When he’d finished he’d been discharged—compassionate leave they said—gone psycho Bill called it. No, that wasn’t fair. He understood it now—PTSD is what it was. He was getting better, he could tell, but now, now he could feel the old rage returning and he welcomed it, now he could feel his old power returning and he embraced it. Bill was back and this time he was here to stay. He’d kill every last terrorist he found—show them the same mercy they showed their victims aka none. He smiles at the sky. The bloody bastards would pay.