Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “He didn’t though, did he.”

  “No, he didn’t, but not for want of trying and now you want to invite him into your home!”

  “I know it seems odd, but I don’t see a killer, I just see a man who wants to keep his family alive. Things change.”

  “He’s a hitman, Clarissa.”

  “Yes, but the rules have changed since the blackout. He’s also a father who wants to keep his family safe.”

  “So what happens when the lights come back on?”

  “Clarissa,” Uri interrupts. “Your daughter—she saved my child’s life in the city. It means I owe you a debt and I give you my word that I won’t hurt anyone.”

  “Don’t listen to him.”

  “The contract is over as far as I’m concerned.”

  “See!” Clarissa says with triumph.

  “No, I don’t see.” What is going on here? He locks eyes with Uri. “You can travel with us until we reach the next town.” He has to protect Clarissa from herself. “Then you’re on your own.”

  “No, Bill,” Clarissa counters. “The child’s hungry. We have food at the house.” She turns to Uri. “Family comes first, doesn’t it Uri.”

  He nods.

  “Then you’re welcome to come to my home. I have food enough for you and your family.”

  He nods. “I have space in the car for three people.” Bill listens in disbelief. “Perhaps you both would like to travel with us? You will feel that I am ... less dangerous that way.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “There it is,” Clarissa says becoming animated once more pointing at the signpost. “It’s only two miles to town. Another three and we’ll be at Bramwell.”

  Bill leans forward to read the sign and sits back with relief. The journey has been tense. Despite Clarissa’s efforts to engage the men in conversation they’d remained silent and only the women had talked and entertained the child.

  There were a few good things about being in the car with Uri: one, no more walking; two, he could keep an eye on him with a loaded gun at his side; and three, he was close to Clarissa even if she was on the backseat; and not forgetting four, it was an Andy-free zone. There is something he really doesn’t like about Andy. It’s not a jealous rivalry of course. It’s just there’s something slimy about the way he sidles close to Clarissa and gives her that smile of his, like a snake hypnotizing its prey before it coils round and squeezes the life out of it. He could quite happily punch him in the face. He turns to the backseat and looks at Clarissa once more—something he’s found himself doing too often. He’s just protective, nothing more. She was feisty, but a woman should have a protector and today that was him. Andy was nothing more than a white-collar desk-jockey. Sure, he was smart, but he didn’t have much else going for him and he’d certainly lucked-out in the personality department.

  Bill had tried to keep the smirk to himself when Andy had been told to get on the back of Alex’s bike. Without a helmet that was going to be one uncomfortable ride. He hadn’t been able to hold back a chuckle as Andy had swung his leg uncertainly over the bike’s seat as Jessie showed him how to hold on. Imagine getting to forty-odd years old and never having ridden a motorbike. Bloody pussy! Not a real bloke at all. At least he had that to offer Clarissa. He was a proper bloke. Not some namby-pamby sit-at-your-desk-all-day flabby, snarky git.

  “I can’t wait for you to see Bramwell,” Clarissa says breaking into his reverie, a bemused frown creasing her brows. He realises then that she’s been watching him stare at her. Embarrassment pricks at his cheeks.

  “All safe back there?” he asks without thinking. Damn. He was making a fool of himself now.

  “Erm, yes!” she laughs in return. Not a making-fun-of-him kind of laugh, more amused. She smiles again and holds his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. His heartbeat quickens.

  “Just checking,” he says gripping the handle of Uri’s gun a little tighter then turns to watch the road.

  “Take the next left, Uri.”

  Uri slows the car and takes a smooth left. The town behind them, they’re in the open countryside with just fields either side. In the distance is a river and to the left an enormous bridge spans a wide river.

  “That’s the Humber Bridge. It was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world until the Japanese trumped us.”

  “Oh? You know about it?”

  “Yeah,” Bill returns. “My old man—he helped build it.”

  “He was a contractor?”

  “No, one of the architects.”

  “Oh!” Clarissa replies.

  Is that admiration in her voice? “He was smart—my dad.”

  “Just like you.”

  “Hah! Well, I’m not sure about that.”

  “Well, I think you are. You saved my life. If it hadn’t been for you, Uri would have knocked me off,” she laughs and he wonders at her resilience.

  “What’s knocked off mean?” the blonde angel in the back asks. Bill turns and gives her a wink. She smiles then turns her head into her mother’s sleeve and looks at him from under her lashes. Beautiful little kid.

  “Could we save this conversation until later please?” Viktoria asks.

  “Oh, sorry! Yes, of course.” There he was apologizing again!

  Well, it was certainly a conversation they’d have to have—later. There was no way he was letting Uri off this lightly, even if Clarissa didn’t seem perturbed by his presence.

  The car pulls down the road and, as the road narrows to a single lane, trees grow over to form a canopy for a section and the sun is blocked.

  “It’s just up here. See where the road bends? Just after that is Bramwell. It’s on your left. Don’t go too fast or you’ll miss it—it’s quite hidden.”

  As the car takes the bend and slows, Bill has a new appreciation of Clarissa—the location for the safehouse is perfect. If the two bikes hadn’t been parked along the verge he wouldn’t have known it was here. As they slow Jessie and Alex step out onto the road and flag them to pull over.

  “Something’s up,” he says as Uri slows the car.

  “Da,” the Russian replies. “Smoke.”

  “Are you expecting someone, Clarissa?” Bill asks as he unclips his seatbelt.

  “No.”

  “Well, you have visitors,” Uri states.

  “Someone’s inside.”

  “We noticed.”

  “Any idea who it could be?”

  “Nope. No one else knows about this place. We’ve always kept it quiet.”

  “Could be an opportunist then.”

  “An opportunist?”

  “Probably a squatter.”

  MICHAEL LIES ON THE sofa. The Tramadol is wearing off and the pain in his legs is becoming unbearable. There are only two tablets left in the strip given to him by Janet. He rests back against the cushions. The leather has warmed where his calves rest. He looks down at his still cling-wrapped shins. He hasn’t had the courage, or the will, to undo the film. Perhaps he should have stayed in town with Grahame? He had no idea how to look after the burns. Janet had said to keep them clean, but how? They were seeping and blistered. Perhaps he should take off the cling-film? But what if it’s stuck? He groans at the thought and cringes at the image of the cling-film peeling off and taking his burnt skin with it. No, he’d wait. He reaches for the water from the coffee table and takes a sip. Pain rides through him—deep and sharp and bitter. He growls and lets the noise roll from his belly. It didn’t matter how much noise he made—no one could hear him—no self-important neighbour to thump on the walls and tell him to stop the racket. He lies back and resists the pain, sweat beads at his hairline.

  He’d woken earlier, desperate for a wee, and barely made it to the backdoor - no point filling the downstairs toilet with piss he couldn’t flush away - before he collapsed. When he’d come to he was drenched in sweat, and the ache throughout his body had kept him on the floor for another ten minutes at least—well, it felt like ten minutes. Eventual
ly, he’d managed to walk to the kitchen table and take another Tramadol before setting about cutting off what remained of his jeans. They’d become uncomfortable and chaffed at the waistband. In his dreamy, drug-induced state, it had seemed a good idea. He’d taken the scissors from the drawer in the kitchen and cut down the left side from the waistband then done the same to the right. They’d fallen away. He’d even managed a chuckle—this must be the way they make them for strippers; cut down each side and fastened with Velcro at the seams. Hah! Perhaps he’d do just that—a novel way to entertain the ladies! No, that was going too far and who said he’d ever meet a lady anyway? They were certainly thin on the ground in town if the women he’d come across were an indicator. Tess certainly hadn’t been a lady. Sure, she’d looked great at first—a bit on the heavy side, but which of them weren’t these days—but she’d looked nice all dolled up. It had taken a couple of weeks of them living together before she’d let the façade slip and allowed her inner slob free reign. Ugh! Thank God he’d got rid. Fat old lard arse.

  He takes another sip of water, replaces it on the coffee table, leans back on the pillow and farts. It rumbles then permeates the room. Belter! He smirks then frowns and grits his teeth as pain rides over his shins again and travels up his legs. He closes his eyes and wipes at his brow. Sweat covers the back of his hand. Time for another pill.

  He sits up. Slowly does it! Moving very carefully, he swings his legs off the settee. As he sits upright with his feet firmly on the floor, the pain is unbearable. He waits for it to subside. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and his stomach rolls. If he vomits it’ll go all over his lap. Let it—he’s past caring. He looks out of the window. His view is filled with the trees of the surrounding woodland. He’s unable to see to the road. Good. No one can see him either—not that he’s worried about someone seeing him in his underwear—but if it’s those men from the town coming back for another go!

  He grabs the arm of the settee and pulls. He’s almost to a standing position when movement catches his eye. He freezes. The pain in his shins is too much as the muscles work and he sits back with a thud whilst staring out of the window, searching for the flicker of movement. His heart beats rapid, his belly rolls. There it is again! His eyes flit right and catches sight of a squirrel running up the silvery bark of a tree. He sighs and smiles, tension easing despite his pain. It was a red squirrel.

  “Still some of you left then, aye?”

  Time to have another go. He grabs the arm of the settee and pulls, changes his mind, and sits back down, overwhelmed by burning fatigue in his thighs and the deep and biting pain in his lower legs. Walking wasn’t going to be an option—the pain was too much. He’d shuffle on his arse then. He reaches across for the coffee table and lowers himself to the floor. The silky threads of the Persian rug that covers much of the floor in the living room are cool on the back of his legs.

  As his backside thumps down to the rug he hears voices. The cottage is small and the front door leads directly outside. He listens hard. Yes! Voices at the front door! The door’s handle moves. His heart thuds in his chest. Has he locked it? Yes. Yes, he was sure that he had. A face peers in at the window. Michael has the sudden urge to defecate and bobs down behind the coffee table. Another face appears at the window just as he leans back and lies down. They must have seen him resting on the settee—seen his bright red underpants with their superhero logo, seen his legs, red raw and charred and wrapped in clingfilm. Injured—easy prey. The urge to empty his bowels gripes at him. Calm it, Mikey-boy! His heart wants to rip out of his chest.

  The latch clicks up and the door thuds against the frame but it doesn’t open. Locked! A reprieve. He shuffles. Gives up.

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  They’re knocking. They know he’s here. Do terrorists knock? There’s nowhere for him to hide. He lies against the floor, chest heaving, and listens to the insistent rapping. Footsteps crunch and a door bangs at the back of the house. Had he locked it? Cold washes over him. No! The room begins to spin.

  Footsteps and the door opens and then a figure bends over him. He shuffles close to the sofa and holds his arms over his head. Nothing happens. He squints and looks straight into the eyes of a young woman. She’s attractive even though her face is bruised and there’s blood caked in her hair. Surprised, his eyes dart to the man at her side. He’s all beard and piercing blue eyes—older. Both staring hard, deep frowns crease their brows, but he sighs with relief. They don’t look like terrorists. Another face appears at the door—or rather faces! An Italian-looking woman steps into the room followed by a sandy-haired bloke in a pink shirt with a tie. It’s the apocalypse mate—you’re a bit over-dressed.

  Michael raises a hand and waves then makes a tentative smile. The gawping crowd turn and shake their heads and talk among themselves. Footsteps pad along the inner corridor. There’s more?

  The door swings open.

  Michael’s breath catches as a huge blond appears, his massive frame fills the doorway of the ancient cottage. He has to stoop to step inside the room.

  Michael puts up his arm in a defensive submission as the man strides towards him.

  “Please! I’m hurt. I can’t move.”

  The blond continues to bear down on him and Michael’s heart pounds hard in his chest. He leans back, his hand held out, palm flat. He was a gonner! The footsteps thud. Michael screws his eyes tight shut. There’s nothing he can do to protect himself from this giant. A hand grasps his outstretched one and Michael opens his eyes. The pain he’d expected doesn’t come. Instead the man is leaning over him, concern in his eyes.

  “Let me help you,” he says. His voice is thick with an accent. Russian. Was he the owner? “You are burned,” he states without emotion.

  “Yes.”

  “Up,” the Russian commands and pulls at his arm.

  “Too painful!” Michael exclaims.

  The Russian pulls the coffee table away and crouches next to Michael, scoops his arms beneath him and lifts him onto the settee. Michael sucks breath in through his teeth as the pain pulses. “Thanks,” he says as he lies back against the leather. Getting to the toilet would have to wait.

  Other voices fill the house and suddenly the room is full. Eyes stare at him and he leans back and closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath then opens them to look at the horde that fills his room. It had been so peaceful only minutes before and now it was alive with activity and the air is full of questions and tension. The Italian-looking woman pushes through and stands beside him.

  “Clarissa, be careful,” the bearded man warns.

  “He’s hurt—you can see that he’s sick,” she returns then squats down beside him.

  “Hi,” she says. “I’m Clarissa.” Her voice is clipped, very English, so not Italian. “This is my cottage.”

  Michael groans, a mixture of mortification and relief. If these were the owners they don’t seem too bad, at least not too angry although you could cut the tension in the air with a knife.

  “I’m sorry,” he says and leans back against the settee.

  “Could you tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “I’m sorry-”

  “You already said that!” the bearded man interrupts.

  “Yeah. Sorry!”

  “Well?”

  “After the blackout—things were turning to shit in the town. I found this place—knew it was empty and it had a stove and it was away from the chaos. It had only been one day and people were already turning on each other. I had no food, but I know how to hunt-”

  An appreciative murmur from someone in the crowd.

  “Yeah, I can hunt. So I knew I could find myself some food, but didn’t have anywhere to cook it, apart from a barbeque and I’d used up all my charcoal cooking some fishfingers.”

  “Fish fingers?”

  “Well, I was out hunting when I saw this place and saw that it had a stove that didn’t need leccy so I could cook here ... and given the way people were starting to be
have I thought I’d be safer here.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Sounds like the whole country’s going to pot.”

  “And what happened to your legs?” Clarissa asks peering down at the burned flesh beneath the cling film.

  A blonde woman breaks from the group. “Can I look?” she asks.

  “I dunno. They’re painful.”

  “I’ve got some first aid training. I may be able to help.”

  “Can you wait? Janet gave me some pills—I’ll take one first.”

  “OK,” she says. “Tell me where they are and I’ll fetch them.”

  “On the table in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, Clare. So,” Clarissa continues. “How did this happen?”

  Michael wipes his forehead again. The sweat seems thicker now, but fear always did that to him. “In the town—a group of men tried to run me down then they set light to the Police Station.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Did they set fire to anything else?” the bearded man asks.

  “Yes, the apartments next to the Police Station. They came from out of town—at least I saw them come in down the main road into town. They had jerry cans and bottles full of fuel. I tried to stop them.”

  “Did you stop them?”

  “Yeah. The fire was put out before it could burn the apartment down.”

  “And the men?”

  “Two of them died in the fire. One of them got away.”

  “It’s happening here too then?”

  Michael frowns and stares at the younger woman with her dishevelled pony-tail of glossy black hair. She looks very similar to Clarissa. Perhaps her daughter? “What do you mean?”

  “Terrorists are trying to burn as much of the country down as they can. They’ve gone all out to destroy us whilst the blackout has shut down communications.”

  “So it is country-wide,” the tall blond says turning back to the group.

  “It would seem so.”

  “Are you telling me that terrorists across the country are attacking us?”

  “Yes, we think so. We’ve informed the authorities.”