Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “That’ll be another gas cannister going off,” Ken suggests as they continue their dogged pace.

  The fire has raged for hours, spreading to the houses either side of the petrol station and, with no way of drawing water, there is nothing he or Ken can do other than keep the public at a safe distance. The fire brightens the night and illuminates the road down to the mini-roundabout at the bottom of the hill. Pushing through the crowd that has gathered to watch the burning flames, he crosses to the low and broken wall of the house opposite the station. The fronds of the ornamental palm tree brush his face, the splintered trunk reaches across the path at an awkward, drunken angle. Perhaps he should come back tomorrow to chop it down? He swings the torch back to the road. Black tyre marks streak across the tarmac in the direction of the tree, another indication of the extreme force used to attack Michael. Sam can only imagine the terror he went through. Mind you, the terrorists got their come-uppance according to Grahame who’d witnessed the later attack. Michael had fended them off. A true hero Grahame had trumpeted; the attackers had been killed, the residents had been saved a horrible death, and their homes remained unburnt, although Michael had paid a price. That was another thing Sam will have to do, take witness statements. He may not be a police officer but he knows that when things settle, questions will be asked, and evidence needed. The bastards would pay, one way or the other, they’d pay.

  He shines his torch among the rubble of the broken wall. Red paint is imprinted on the bricks—perhaps from the same red car that still smoulders in the road back where the four strangers had given the terrorists a kicking. Ken kicks at the bricks.

  “You reckon that’s where they rammed Michael?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What the hell is going on Sam? It’s like something out of a nightmare.”

  Sam looks up to the burning wreck that had been the petrol station and the myriad people standing around. The tension among the crowd is intense. “Terrorist attack.”

  “I never thought ... I mean I’ve seen it all on the news and read about stuff online, but hell, I never thought it’d come to my doorstep. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where the hell are the police and the military?”

  “Guess they’re in the same fix as the fire service—no contingency plan for an EMP.”

  “So, nothing works.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Christ!”

  “Yep.”

  There’s silence between them as they survey the people and the wreckage. The noise of an engine roaring in the distance breaks through the crackle of fire and the disgruntled murmuring among the people as Sam watches the flames leap through the pan tiles of the third house in the terrace. A woman sobs and covers her eyes as a man places his arm around her shoulder. A deep anger swirls in Sam’s belly. “Ken, if we’re on our own ... I mean, if there’s no police and no military then we’re going to have to protect ourselves.”

  “How the hell do we do that? This isn’t America. I haven’t got an armoury in the shed or a secret bunker at the bottom of the garden.”

  “You wish!”

  “What then? What’re we going to do?”

  “Well, first off ... I say we blockade the roads into town. That’ll stop them getting through.”

  Ken nods but doesn’t look convinced. “I guess that could work, if the blockade was manned.”

  “That’s exactly what we need to do. We should gather a force of protectors together.”

  “Agreed. But who?”

  “There’s Baz and Jack Shipton – they’d both be up for it.”

  “How about Andy Pettifer and Sean Bramley; they’re both ex-army. And what about Paddy Docherty? Is he on leave?”

  “No idea, but I bet Martha’ll know.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “No, not like that. She’s a landlady—they know all the gossip.”

  “Right.”

  The sound of glass shattering breaks into the conversation and the car’s engine grows louder. Sam’s heart begins to beat faster and the familiar hammering of rising panic makes him catch his breath. Steady on, Sam. Take a breath. That’s right. Breath in. Exhale. Breath in. Exhale. Sure, Judy. I know, I know. He takes another deep breath to calm himself then turns his attention to the noise.

  “You alright, Sam?”

  “Sure,” he says taking another breath to alleviate the tightness across his chest.

  “Just let me know if you ... well, if you’re about to-”

  “Crack up?”

  “Hah! You know what I mean, mate. I know that the last few months have been rough.”

  Sam nods in agreement. “It’s been eighteen, and you could say that.”

  “You’re doing good, mate. And ... and I’m here for you.”

  He turns to Ken in surprise. As a colleague they’d had a laugh, even shared a few beers, but never really been close.

  “Thanks, bud. I appreciate that. I’m good though. I’m good.”

  Ken nods as the noise from the engine grows louder and, somewhere across town, another pane of glass shatters. Either someone was getting lairy or looters were taking advantage of the situation. He makes a mental note to investigate the source of the noise tomorrow then watches as headlights brighten the night along the road that runs through the centre of town.

  “Someone’s coming through the market place.”

  “Them?”

  “Dunno.”

  Sam watches the light for another second then jumps into action. He strides into the middle of the road. “Move off the road. Everyone back to the path and behind the walls,” he calls in his best I’m-here-to-manage-the-crowd voice. The groups of people gathered in the street ignore him. What if the car is full of terrorists and they’re heading up here to mow them down? It’ll be like some bloody, and terrible, game of skittles. A total gore-fest. He shudders. Ten points for the woman with the black hair! Jesus! “Get behind the walls!” he shouts, louder now. The lights grow brighter. “Everyone behind the walls!” Walking up to a couple gawping at the flames licking the roof of the first house in the terrace, he slaps a hand on the man’s shoulder. He turns with a jerk and frowns. “There’s a car coming up the road,” Sam shouts.

  “And?”

  “And you could be in danger. A man was rammed here yesterday by terrorists—the same lot that tried to burn down Whitecross Street.”

  “Seb!” His companion tugs at his sleeve. “Come on.”

  “That’s right. Please make your way to a safe place. Stand behind a wall. Move off the road.”

  The car’s lights grow brighter.

  Shouts erupt among the onlookers as Sam calls again for them to move out of the way and then the road is alive with movement as people run from the street, jump over low garden walls, or crash through gates. Several run to the open space of the car wash and hide behind its squat office block.

  In the next second the car reaches the mini-roundabout. Oblivious, deep in conversation, and directly in its path, a small group stands in the middle of the road. A man gesticulates to a woman whilst another puts his arm around her shoulders. Their voices are raised but indecipherable.

  “Move it!” Sam screams as the car pulls forward. Without a second thought he runs into the road and shoves at the woman.

  “What the hell!”

  The car rolls closer.

  “Move it! Get behind a wall.” Sam shoves at the group.

  “What?” the man shouts back then stands frozen as he notices the car, a statue illuminated by its headlights.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Sam shouts, exasperated. “Run!”

  As the group finally runs for cover, Sam jumps to the kerb, vaults over a low wall and crouches behind it. The car stops and sits in the road, its engine idling. The passenger door swings open and a hand grasps the top of the door’s frame. The hand is huge and is followed by a shock of white-blond, cropped hair topping a chiselled face. The man looks like he
’s walked straight off the set of an eighties action movie. Arnie or Dolph? He can’t decide. From the driver’s side another broad-shouldered man stands. Now things really were getting surreal. Thor! No, not Thor, but the actor; Chris Hemswick or whatever his name was. Hemsworth, stupid! Hemsworth. Calm it, Sam! Take a breath.

  Relieved that they’re not about to be mown down by terrorists, Sam walks back into the road, suddenly small as he’s dwarfed by the giant rising from the car.

  “They got the petrol station then?” Chris/Thor calls.

  Obviously! “Yeah. It’s been burning for hours,” Sam answers.

  “Da. We heard explosion from cottage.”

  He even sounds like Arnie. Sam’s head swims. What cottage?

  “Jeez, Uri!”

  “Sorry!”

  “Where are you guys going?”

  “Petrol for Clarissa.”

  “Petrol for Clarissa?”

  “We need to get her to hospital. It’s an emergency but we’ve no petrol.”

  Sam peers into the car. There are no passengers. He pulls a frown but tries to keep his look of suspicion hidden.

  “None here, mate,” offers Ken, suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam.

  “Obviously.”

  “So, where is she, this Clarissa?” There’s more to their story and Sam wants to know exactly what.

  “The nearest station is at Saxilby Top.” Ken explains to Thor/Chris.

  “That’s where we’re headed. And she’s not here. She’s got a punctured lung-”

  “Ouch!” Ken sucks in his breath. Despite his training, Ken could be squeamish.

  “So, where is she?”

  “At the cottage.”

  “Uri!” Thor hisses.

  “Sorry. Not here.” Arnie continues. “Back at house.”

  “And where’s the house?”

  Thor bridles, defensive. “None of your business.” He disappears beneath the car’s roof.

  Sam takes another stride towards the men. They’re no threat to him, although tension leaks off them and, other than the current situation, he wants to know why. “How’d she get a punctured lung?”

  “Also not your business.”

  “Right.” He’d make it his business. Sam raises his voice. “We’re going to blockade the road.” Thor’s head reappears. “You’ve got about an hour before it’s blocked.” Thor nods and disappears back into the car. Arnie slams his door shut and the car moves up the road.

  “Well that was ... different,” Ken offers.

  “Huh?”

  “Not every day you see a couple of celebrities in town.”

  “What?”

  “Arnie. That was Arnie.”

  “Ken, are you losing the plot?”

  “No! Why? Do you think it was Dolph then?”

  “Jeez! You’re yanking my chain. Right?”

  Ken remains silent and bites his bottom lip.

  He’s taking the Micky! “If that was Arnold Schwarzenegger, then we’ve gone back in time by about thirty bloody years. And yes, he did look a bit more like Dolph than Arnie.”

  “Maybe their love-child!”

  Sam snorts.

  “Well, the other one could have been Thor,” Ken continues. “He looked just like the bloke that played Thor in Infinity Wars. Did you see it?”

  Sam lets out a sigh and then a chuckle. The tension across his chest has eased and for a moment the devastation of the day is forgotten.

  “So, this blockade then ... let’s get organised.”

  Sam nods, mirth giving way to a grim determination. No one was going to set fire to his town.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Coming to, Joshua stares at the light dangling from the centre of his living room ceiling. His head is banging! Why is he on the floor staring at the ceiling? He remembers and jerks to a sitting position.

  “Aagh!”

  He stares at the voice and light burns into his eyes.

  “Jesus! You scared me,” Guy says. “You looked like Dracula sitting up in a coffin.”

  Joshua’s eyes flit around the room. Blinded by the torchlight he can see nothing in the dark. Did he dream it? “Where is he?”

  The torch swings beneath a face. Dark eyebrows above black eyes stare back at him with menace. “He is here,” it replies.

  Joshua groans. He needs the toilet.

  “Don’t worry, lovie-”

  “Mum!”

  Her voice comes from behind him and he swings around to look. His head pounds. A shape sits close by and, in the grey light, he can make out the face of his mother. Her eyes are wide as she stares back, her voice tight. “I’m alright. We’re alright.”

  “The boy is awake. Now you get me food.”

  “I’ve already told you—we haven’t got any food. The shops are shut and there’s no electricity. I’ve got a bag of chips and some battered cod in the deep freeze but they’re already thawing out.”

  “What is in kitchen?”

  “Some tins of spaghetti.”

  “I do not like spaghetti.”

  “Well ... that’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

  Silence.

  “It’s in tomato sauce. Rich tomato sauce.”

  “I take it. Go make it.”

  His mother doesn’t move. An arm of black cloth wraps around Guy’s neck and he’s crushed against the man’s side.

  “I said go get it.” Guy grunts then gurgles. “Or I slit his throat.”

  Joshua’s mother stands, casts a glance of utter loathing at the terrorist, and walks in silence towards the kitchen door.

  “You try to leave the house—I kill him. I kill them both.”

  She makes a low and angry growl then walks through to the kitchen with a last look at Joshua. The banging coming from the kitchen as she searches through the cupboards leaves them in no doubt that she’s more than unhappy. Joshua listens to the sound of clanking and the tin-opener slicing through the metal of the tin. Two minutes later his mother, greyed-out in the moonlight, re-enters the living room, bowl in hand. As she approaches the man he shifts to hold the point of the knife over Guy’s belly. His other hand reaches out for the bowl. The torch’s light shines to the ceiling as he clasps it between his thighs.

  Tipping the bowl up, he mouths at the long strings of congealed spaghetti, biting it off as it slides over his lips. Joshua watches fascinated as tomato sauce dribbles down the sides of his jaw and disappears into a thin and straggling beard. The sauce glistens among the hairs. Joshua’s mother remains silent, tight-lipped as he slurps the long strings of pasta. What a pig! If it had been Joshua eating like that he’d have got a clip around the back of the head. Tinned spaghetti was gross, and cold tinned spaghetti was even worse, but if the man was eating it at least it meant Joshua didn’t have to. The man finishes the bowl with a final slurp and then belches. Gross!

  “Bloody pig!” his mother mutters.

  “Stinks!” Guy pulls his head away from the man’s face. Joshua can’t help but snort and tucks his head into his arm.

  “What you say?”

  “Nothing. Have you finished? I’ll take your bowl.”

  Joshua stands to follow his mother into the kitchen. Guy squeals.

  “Sit! I tell you when you move.”

  Joshua sits back down slowly as Guy continues to squeal and writhe beneath the knife’s point. How the hell were they going to get out of this?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “We should have taken the petrol from cars. There are many here.”

  “That’s stealing though, Uri.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I really don’t want to piss off the locals by stealing their fuel. You saw what it was like back there. They’re already forming the Home Defence League.”

  “Home Defence League?”

  “Those blokes are not hanging around for fun. Did you notice how suspicious they were of us? They’ve figured out that they need to protect themselves. No one’s coming to help.”

  �
��Niet. No one is coming to help. This town will be on fire tomorrow.”

  “It already is.”

  “No. I mean the people. They will be on fire. They have no food and no water. We are lucky—we have Bramwell.”

  Bill sits for a moment with his thoughts. Uri was right. So far, they’d been insulated from hunger, sure they were on short rations, but they had a supply. Jessie and Clarissa had been smart enough to create a larder of food with a long shelf-life and Bramwell had its own water supply—buying the place had been a stroke of genius on her husband’s part. Another plus point was that they were also armed. Although ... two guns with limited ammunition and a couple of bows may not be enough to get through the crisis. If it escalated they’d need an armoury and that was something they certainly didn’t have. The other thing they had going for them, which the poor sods in the town hadn’t got, was training—both combat and survival. They were lucky. Bill had never thought about having to fight a war in his homeland, but the reality was that that is exactly what they were doing. He just hoped to God that the government got its act together and stamped out the terrorists pronto.

  “So, you reckon that it’s not just the terrorists that’ll be a problem?”

  “You are correct, Bill. The terrorists may not be a problem for us again, but the people—they will be starving very soon. I have seen no evidence of your government taking action,” he gestures towards the window with derision. “The people, they will become the problem.”

  Bill tenses. “I dunno, Uri. We’re British. We come together in a crisis.”

  Uri nods but doesn’t speak.

  “Just look at us in the war.”

  “Which war?”

  “Both. World War One and World War Two. Life was tough but we rallied. As a nation—we rallied.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “That was before.”

  “Well-”

  “People are different now. In the past you had an honourable zeitgeist.”

  “Zeit what?”

  “Zeitgeist.”

  “And what’s that when it’s at home?”

  “It is the spirit of the time.”

  “Spirit of the time?”