“Where are the fire engines, Sam?” she asks echoing his thoughts. “Why aren’t they here? There’s been fires all over the town tonight and none of your mates have turned up.”
“My mates?”
“The fire service.”
Sam groans. “Most of them don’t live here and if they can’t start the engines then they can’t come out.”
“Why can’t they start the fire engines?”
“The EMP.”
“EMP? I thought that was just some kind of urban myth. The powerlines are down—that’s all.”
Surprised at her ignorance he shakes his head. “It’s an EMP alright. No idea whether it’s manmade or natural, but nothing else accounts for all the power being off like this.”
“But why would the engines not start?”
“They’ve been fried.”
“Don’t they have protection in them—for emergencies then?”
“The fire service don’t have a contingency plan for an EMP,” he states.
“So who’s going to put out the fires the terrorists start then?”
“Who told you about terrorists?”
“It’s what everyone’s saying—the fires yesterday were started by a gang from out of town. Michael and Grahame saw them off, only Michael was burned-”
“Michael Peterson?”
“Yep. He was a real hero. Anyway, the gang disappeared back to wherever they’d crawled from.” She stops for a moment. Sam doesn’t fill the gap. “Do you think it was them that came back tonight—for revenge, like?”
Sam thinks for a moment. “Perhaps.” His answer is inadequate, but the ramifications of what she’s saying make the hair on his neck prickle. He had to find Michael.
“At least we’ve got you,” she says hugging her to him again. “Our very own Fireman Sam.”
He groans at the reference, heard for the thousandth time. She snorts with laughter and apologises without conviction.
“Yeah, as if, but you should be—that was lame!” he replies. As she prattles on, her voice disappears and he follows the red taillights of the car making its way out of town. Was that the terrorists escaping? It was a bloodbath in the street and bodies were strewn across the road, many burnt beyond recognition, but had some of them escaped? Would they be back? The weight of responsibility lowers itself onto Sam’s shoulders and he shrugs off Martha and steps to the door.
“What’s wrong, Sam? You’re not offended are you—because I called you Fireman Sa-”
“No!” His reply is curt. She draws a sharp breath. “Sorry! No, I’m not bothered about that. Listen. I’ve got to go. Why don’t you go round to Shirley’s and stay there the night if you’re worried.”
“I can’t leave the pub. I’ve already had one bugger try to break in.”
“Go to Jem. Tell him I sent you. He’ll come back and help watch the place.”
“Jem Tolland? The ex-copper?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that for me?”
“Because he owes me and I’m calling it in.”
He leaves with a quick stride before she can grab him and get all soppy. There were times when he enjoyed her company, but now was not one of them.
Fractious energy rides him like a wave as he runs across town. He may be ‘retired’ from the services, but the urge to protect was too strong for him to ignore. Sod the fear—he was done with that and sod the terrorists. They’d better not come back to his town.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Bakir bin Sayeed twists in his bed, the white sheets slipping down over his naked hips. Jasmine faces him and runs her hand across his jaw. Sensing her neediness, he reaches for her breast. Smoothing his palm over her nipple he takes it between his fingers and pinches.
“Hey! Don’t hurt me!” she complains.
Bakir smirks in the dark and gives it another spiteful squeeze. That will pay her for the irritating complaints last night. He’d slapped her then to shut her up, but she needs a reminder of her place. She squeals in pain as he pinches and twists, the nipple is flat between his fingers. He laughs, enjoying the sound of hurt. “You love it,” he retorts and she laughs though he can hear the reticence in her voice and the high pitch of her fear.
Outside the bedroom door his bodyguards pace the landing waiting for him to rise. Once he’s up they can rest. Let them wait. He cares not one whit that they’ve been awake throughout the night checking for intruders, checking the streets for any sign that the house has been discovered. It is their duty and he pays them well for their efforts.
He pushes Jasmine onto her back and forces her legs apart with his knees then thrusts himself at her. She groans with pleasure. Whether she enjoys it or not is nothing to him. She’s there to service him—end of story—a pretty little bitch that he’ll dispose of when he’s grown tired, and given the whining complaints she’d made last night, that would be very soon. Perhaps he’d pass her on to Rashid or Ali. They’d make her tow the line—they weren’t as considerate as him.
She moans again as he thrusts at her naked flesh but his mind is focused on the hours to come. His lips curl to a snarl as he stabs at her. More of them will burn today. He slams deeper. They haven’t seen the power of Bakir Bin Sayeed—not yet. Another thrust, hard and spiteful.
“You’re hurting me!”
He slaps her face. “Shut up!” Stab! Before the day is done this country would be burning bright.
Tears spring to her eyes. He slams at her again.
His soldiers, God’s soldiers, were out in force – thrust! – and this damned kafir-filled nation of whores and pig-eaters – slam! - would be burning to the ground. As he gives a final, jutting thrust, he lets the ecstasy of his orgasm overwhelm him, then loses himself to grief and calls out the name of his dead wife.
THE ORANGE GLOW OF the small fire pushes at the dark as Harry crouches next to the flames. Only four pieces of the chicken remain from the bag they’d ‘found’ in the fast-food restaurant’s freezer. Harry’s foot still aches from kicking the door open. He pokes at a chicken breast and flips it over. It sizzles on the metal tray.
Nareen sits apart from the group huddled around the fire, hugging her knees tight to her chest, head buried. Leaving Hamed’s body at the hospital had been traumatic.
“Best chicken I’ve ever had.” Maz bites off another mouthful, spitting skin to his side.
“That’s because you didn’t pay for it.”
“Too right.”
“Nareen.” She looks up. “Do you want some?” A shake of her head. “You need to keep your strength up. We’ve got the night to get through and then a long walk tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and if we meet more of them terrorists, some killing.”
“Give it a rest, Maz.”
“It’s true! I’ll kill every last one of them if I-”
“I know where he lives.”
The chatter around the fire falls to silence.
“Who Nareen?”
“The one who’s behind it all.” Silence. “Bakir bin Sayeed. I know where he lives.”
LAND OF FIRE
CHAPTER ONE
Joshua stares at the pair of trainers from behind Guy’s shoulder; they’re all that remains of the man. He squints and grimaces, fending off the horror as his eyes follow the legs to the head lying in the road. Not that you could really call it a man. The shape was the same, but the body was contorted and the flesh blackened and raw. Bile surges to his throat. The stench in the air is rank.
“It’s still smoking!”
He turns and retches. Vomit spews to the tarmac.
“Watch my bloody shoes, Josh! They’re new!”
He retches again.
“Look at his face! You can see the bones and his nose is gone!”
“Jesus, Guy. Get away.”
“Bloody pussy! Man-up Josh.”
Sweat beads his brow as a cold shiver runs through him. “It’s gross!”
“You boys!” A woman, her red hair still in curl
ers, shouts from an open doorway across the road. “Come away from there.”
“Just looking, missus!”
“Well don’t. You’ll be having nightmares. Don’t you have homes to go to? Your mother’s will be worried.”
“Nosey old bag,” Guy mutters.
“Come on, Guy. Let’s go.”
“Just a minute.” Guy is curt as Joshua tugs at his sleeve. “It’s like something out of a horror film. Sick! And whiff up!”
“What?”
“It stinks.”
“Yeah.” Joshua’s stomach rolls again.
“It’s their flesh cooking—like a barbecue.”
“Come on, Guy!” Joshua tugs at his friend’s sleeve. “I’ve gotta-” His stomach heaves. Bile hits the wall and spatters back onto his jeans.
“Hurl?” Guy laughs.
How the hell can he laugh when Joshua is nearly dying? The sight of the men lying scorched, burned beyond recognition, their arms and legs contorted by the fire, was more than he could take. His dreams would be haunted for years.
Joshua wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “C’mon. This is creeping me out.”
“Pussy!”
“Piss off!”
Guy elbows his ribs as he strides from the scene. Torch in hand he lights the path and walks away from the crowd of men and women that had gathered to gawp at the burned-out cars and smouldering bodies littered across the street.
“Did you see that one with the bolt sticking out of its eye? Sick!”
Joshua groans. Yes, he had. “Yeah. Sick!” he replies, taking a breath to push down the queasiness roiling in his belly.
“Wish I’d seen it all. We missed out. Bet it was like watching a film. Messed up!”
“Hah! Yeah. Who do you think they are—were?”
“Terrorists. We showed ‘em though. Don’t mess with a Brit,” he says, punching at the air with his fist. “We’ll burn you alive—hah!” Guy laughs as he strides next to Joshua then quiets. They walk in silence for a moment. “Do you think they’ll come back?”
“The terrorists? Dunno,” Joshua returns, and looks back to the crowd. Nothing can be seen apart from silhouettes and the odd flash of a dark jacket or a pale face lit up by one of the numerous torches among the crowd.
“What’ll they do with the bodies?”
“Dunno. What do they normally do with bodies?”
“I saw a car crash on the motorway, and they took the bodies away in an ambulance.”
“Then I guess that’ll happen.”
“Nah. There’s no way of getting one here; all the power’s dead.”
“Bury them then?”
“Yeah, they’ll have to, otherwise the dogs’ll have ‘em.”
“Gross!”
“Sick!”
Joshua’s stomach rolls again as he imagines Sally, his golden Labrador tearing into the leg of one of the burnt men.
“Maybe I should bring Tilly down here tomorrow and let her chow down.”
“Jesus, Guy!”
“Why not?”
“Well-”
“We used our last tin of dog food yesterday and Mum’s got no money to buy any more. She said she hasn’t got any cash until the banks open, so why not? It’s cooked meat—just go to waste otherwise.”
Joshua dry retches and Guy snorts with laughter.
“Just shut the hell up, Guy!”
“Don’t worry baby—you’ll soon be back to mumsy.”
“Shut up! My mum’s on her own. I shouldn’t have left her.”
“Alright! Keep your hair on.”
The road ahead is dark, and Joshua’s stomach raw, as they turn the corner. Only one more street to go and he’d be home; back to safety, back to his mum, and away from the stench of burnt flesh and Guy’s incessant, gut-wrenchingly forensic, descriptions of what they’d just seen. Perhaps it would be a good idea to stay clear of Guy for a few days. They’d been friends since primary school and Joshua knew how this would play out; Guy would talk incessantly about it for hours, days and maybe even weeks. He’d live off it! Yep, he needed a few days of time-out. What he’d seen tonight had chilled him to the bone.
They’d caught the last scene of the fight as though it had been the last minutes of a particularly violent film, definitely an 18. He’d watched ‘Kill Bill’ and a bit of ‘Pulp Fiction’ with his cousin Craig last Christmas and what they’d seen on the street wasn’t much different. Craig had pretty much forced him to watch the films, said they were vintage Tarantino and part of his ‘cultural education’. Joshua had regretted it. He’d tried to make excuses and wished his mum would call him down to go home, but she’d been too busy drinking wine and gossiping with Aunty Susan to bother.
“It’s no different from playing ‘Call of Duty’. What’s your problem? Is Joshie-woshie scared?”
“Shut up, Guy!” The boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
Guy stops and shines the torchlight under his chin. A noise of shuffling sounds from somewhere behind him. “What’s up?” he asks in a wheedling, mocking voice, whilst grotesque shadows play over his face cast by the torch’s light. The shuffling sounds again and then a face looms behind Guy’s shoulder. Joshua screams as Guy’s torch falls to the floor with a clat. It rolls across the path shining its light across the tarmac. Guy grunts, his shout strangled and wet.
Joshua shines his torch at his friend. Leaning back at an impossible angle, his feet scrabble at the ground. A man’s face, twisted and ugly with anger, sits above his head. Guy gurgles and shunts back as an arm grips tight around his throat whilst a steel blade points at his temple. Joshua stares in confusion as the light shines on his friend and the huge man grasping him. The moment is weird, as though he’s stepped into a horror film.
“Take me to your house.”
“What?”
“Take me to your house or I kill him.”
The accent is thick, guttural, not one Joshua recognises.
“My mum doesn’t like strangers in the house.”
“I kill your mother too. Now take me to your house.”
“What?” Joshua stares as he struggles to process the commands and the scene before him. The tip of the blade presses harder against Guy’s temple. The boy squeals.
“Stop!”
“You take me to your house.”
Guy tries to shout but his voice is a gurgle as the man gives his throat a violent squeeze with the crook of his arm. “Shut up!” the man hisses into Guy’s ear, his eyes locked onto Joshua. “Move!”
Joshua nods. His belly tenses. Oh, hell! He was going to puke again. He takes a breath and another step forward.
“Move it!” the man hisses, the threat in his voice intense.
Joshua picks up his pace to a stride. Every muscle in his body in shock, he walks unsteadily up the path to his door. His head swirls. He staggers then hits his shoulder against the wall as he reaches for the handle. A sheet of white, cold and calming, descends over him, washing down from his head to his toes. Bright. Everything is white and gone. Whited out. Then nothing. Just black.
CHAPTER TWO
Clarissa’s face is drawn, her breaths rasping and skin sallow beneath the light. It had taken them three times as long as it should have to get her back to the house; Uri had driven at a snail’s pace, every bump in the pot-holed road an agony. Her eyes flicker open and she attempts a smile.
“Is it morning?”
“Shh! Don’t talk,” Bill replies. “It’s after midnight. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes close again and Bill stands, wincing at the burning ache in his thighs. Every part of his body feels stiff. He rolls his shoulders to release the tension. Getting Clarissa out of the car and into the house, then sitting her in the chair, had terrified him but they’d managed and she was still alive—he hadn’t killed her, but if they didn’t get her to a hospital soon ... he couldn’t think about that.
“Is she awake?”
“No.” Bill’s voice is curt.
> “Oh, I-”
“Sorry, Clare. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“We’re all on edge. I understand.”
“Sure,” he nods though his face remains tight as more figures move into the room. “We have to get her to the hospital, Jessie.”
“How do we get there?” Uri asks from the doorway.
Despite sleep, Clarissa’s face is pinched.
“We’ll have to drive her—in the car.”
“Move her again?” The anxiety in Stella’s voice is obvious.
“We have no option.”
“Da,” Uri continues, “but that is not my question. How do you suggest we get to hospital? There is no fuel in car.”
Bill takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. Uri was right. And there probably wasn’t even a petrol station left to attempt to get petrol from. Bloody terrorists! He’d string every last one of them up. “Exactly how much fuel do we have left, Uri?”
“Light is orange.”
“Sod all then!”
“Da, sod all.”
“We have go back to town,” Jessie says with conviction. “We can syphon some off.”
“I’ll go back with Uri,” Bill replies. “You need to rest that arm.”
“I’m done with sitting back and resting,” Jessie returns. “I can help.”
“Help by staying here, Jessie. It doesn’t take us all to fill a tank with petrol.”
“What if they come back? You’ll need me then.”
“They’re all dead.”
“There are plenty more out there.”
“Sure, but what’s the likelihood of them coming back tonight whilst we’re syphoning off some petrol?”
“OK. OK. I’ll stay here.”
“Good. Get some shut-eye. I’ll need you on top form tomorrow.”
“Yes, sarge!”
Bill laughs. “Good girl.”
Jessie snorts but not with derision.
ANOTHER BLAST DETONATES and the glass vibrates. The fifth to ricochet through the night. Sam flinches.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 38
