Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Da,” Bill replies. “We bloody well will.” He winds down the window and leans out. “Sam!” he calls. “I need your help.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A thrill of fear had washed over Sam as he’d stood and listened to Bill explaining his predicament: how the petrol station had been commandeered by terrorists, and how he had to take critically injured civilians past it. Bill’s plan was audacious, thrilling, terrifying, deadly. It could also perhaps save the town from further atrocities. Bill had to be ex-army, perhaps a marine, maybe even SAS.

  As Sam explained his own plans for the defence of the town, Bill’s confidence in Sam’s ideas, and his ability to carry them through, had given him the strength he’d needed. Explaining about his plans to protect the town as the others listened had been hard, but when he’d felt his confidence slipping, and the familiar panic rising, it had only taken a look at Bill’s intense gaze to know that he believed in him. His insecurity had morphed into determination; they would work together to protect the town.

  As Bill and the huge Russian step back to their car to go home and collect some of their ‘team’, Jason crosses the road towards him. He’s barely out of breath, even though he’d set off at a run to gather forces and had just run back up the hill to report back. After this was over Sam was definitely going back to the gym—perhaps he could even go with Jason.

  Figures walk along the length of the blockade and several youths have taken up positions on top of the cars. A woman walks to the row of vehicles and her husband walks away—a changing of the guard. His team was already beginning to gel.

  A garden chiminea, offered by one of the nearby residents, stands squat and pot-bellied. Pushed up against the wall, its glow brightens the path. A metal grille has been placed on the top of its chimney, a tin kettle sits with steam rising from its spout. Sheila takes the kettle and empties the boiling water into a teapot, it’s fluted spout and flowered body incongruous to the scene. A tray of mugs sits on the ground, a fruit loaf by its side.

  The lid of the teapot clinks as Jason reaches Sam. “How many did you get?”

  “Five cars plus three bikes.”

  “Pushbikes?”

  “No!” Jason laughs. “Motorbikes.”

  Sam sighs with relief and laughs at his error. “So, they’re all running?”

  “Yep.”

  “Drivers and riders?”

  “Yep. Stan, Rachel and Mike have offered to help. They won’t let anyone else use their bikes so they’re up for the job themselves.”

  “Good!”

  “Bilbo said he’s too old for this kind of thing but he’s offered his car. Bingley, Patel, and three other lads are up for driving their cars and there’s a fair few who want in on the action. Sanders and Bradley are on leave from the forces.”

  “Bloody well done!”

  “Thanks.”

  “They’ll need to be armed.”

  “We have one air rifle so far but Sheila has said that Greg Rawlins goes hunting and he’s got a few rifles in his gun locker. Baz has gone to talk to him.”

  “Good,” replies Sam though he hopes it’s the lads from the forces that end up with the rifles and not some of the hotheads Jason mentioned—he doubted they’d have the skill to handle one.

  In the distance a car’s engine thrums and mixes with the high pitch of a motorbike. Sheila pours the tea into the mugs.

  “Milk’s all gone, but I’ve got sugar,” Sheila says as she pours the last of the tea into a mug. “Plum bread?” she asks as she steps up to Sam with a plate of sliced fruited loaf splayed like fallen dominoes. “It’s buttered. I’ve not got cheese to go with it though.”

  Sam takes a slice. Sheila watches him as he bites into the cake.

  “Mmm,” he says as she holds his gaze. “Lovely.” She smiles at his appreciation.

  “It’s proper Lincolnshire plum bread—made from my granny’s recipe.”

  Sam nods and smiles. Sheila may be a bit of a pain but she was a good lass really.

  Within a minute the plate empties to the sound of ‘thankyou’ and ‘delicious’ and Sheila returns with a light step to the chimenea to boil up another kettle of water.

  After half an hour there are six cars, five motorbikes, and at least thirty people gathered at the blockade.

  Lower in the town, a deep rumble sounds. The group turns to watch as headlights fill the road. The rumble grows to a deafening roar and a horn blows as a lorry rolls to a stop ten feet from Sam. Behind it more lorries roll up. Feet thud as drivers jump down from their cabs. The first lorry’s door slams and its driver strides forward. A huge smile breaks out over Sam’s face.

  “Now then, Hazzer,” he calls to the approaching figure. This could be a game changer. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Couldn’t let you do this without me, mate. What do you need me to do?”

  “We’re going to play a game of catch the rat!”

  “Oh, aye?” Hazzer chuckles. “Fekkin’ big rats.”

  “Yep,” Sam agrees. “The bastards are up at the petrol station. They’ve got a generator running so they can use the petrol pumps. We think they’re going to use them to refuel and carry out their attacks. They’ve destroyed our supplies so they think we’re crippled.”

  “The twats can think again then. We’ve got our own supply of diesel at the depot.”

  Sam nods. Two other men, outlines backlit by the wagons’ headlights, join them.

  “Alright, Sammy.”

  “Alright, Brian” he nods. The trucker gives a grim smile. The third man is someone he doesn’t recognise. “Alright fella,” he nods in greeting.

  “This is Paulo,” Hazzer explains. “He doesn’t speak much English, but it’s better than my Portuguese. He’s been waiting to do his drop at Markham’s. Can’t go back home until he’s done that so he’s stuck with a trailer full of chipboard.”

  “Could be a while then.”

  “He wants to help.”

  “Thank you, Paolo,” Sam responds, his words slow and loud, all the better to be understood.

  “No problem,” Paolo returns. “These terrorists, they have to be taken to hell.”

  “Too right, mate.”

  “What do you want us to do, Sam? Jason said something about a blockade but looks like you’ve already sorted it without us.”

  Sam swings back to look at the line of cars stretched out across the road. Each car is bumper to bumper, though at the line’s centre is Councillor Haydock’s prized Mercedes-Benz wedged in at an angle.

  “No, mate,” Sam returns. “We’re blockading the bridge.”

  Hazzer whistles. “So, what’s the plan then?” he asks as Bill’s car pulls up beside the lorries followed by a motorbike.

  “We’re going to get the terrorists onto the bridge and trap them there.”

  “And once they’re on the bridge?”

  “Well,” Sam stops. ‘Then we’ll slaughter them’ sounds a bit harsh. “Then we’ll make sure they’re of no further danger to the public.”

  “Right. Sounds a bit tame. Personally, I think we should chop off their bollocks and stuff them down their necks but I guess making sure they’re of ‘no further danger to the public’ will have to do.”

  Chopping off their bollocks sounds preferable though a little gory. “Perhaps that can be arranged,” Sam laughs, “but in the meantime we’re blocking off all the exits and entrances so that once they get to this junction there’s only one way forward and that’s over the bridge.”

  “So, you want us on the bridge?”

  “Hell yes! Having you guys here ... I think this could actually work.”

  “They could turn around—just do a U-turn and go back.”

  “Not if we’re behind them.”

  “Nice. Who’s going to be the bait then?”

  Sam gestures to Bill and the young woman at his side as they step into the road. Both are dressed in full leathers and carry crash helmets. “Them.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT


  Jessie pulls up the zipper of the leather jacket. It’s a couple of sizes too big but she’s layered-up underneath with an extra T-shirt and a jumper. Even so, the wind had nipped at her as she’d ridden through the lanes to get to the town, but at least the jacket was complete with armour. If she came off, which, given the mission Bill has planned, was very possible, it would help protect her. And, given the mission, it may protect her from them. Their bullets? Perhaps not. Blades? Very possibly.

  As she walks from the car and past a convoy of lorries, their engines filling the air with an intense rumble, Bill walks at her side. Over the past days he’s changed, become the man he always should have been perhaps, before he’d been forced to sleep on the streets. Her mother had hinted at one or two things and Clare had mentioned something about his ‘experiences in the field’ but he’d kept his past to himself and just morphed over the last few days into a man - no, more than that - a leader, she had complete confidence in. His meticulous plan to thwart the terrorists was courageous and, she had to admit, exciting and outrageous. Hell! He’d deserve a medal if they pulled it off—they all would.

  As she reaches the front of the convoy of lorries, a car creeps past her then slams on its brakes. Handbrake yanked, the car stalls and a woman jumps out, runs to the boot, and flings it open. It’s an old model and has none of the slow-action lift of the modern boot. As the lid opens, her head disappears and Jessie watches with amusement as she pulls something into her arms and then knocks her head on the open lid. Without complaint, the woman ducks and turns, arms full with something dark and cumbersome piled up to her chin.

  “Shall I take some?” Jessie asks as she steps up to the woman.

  “Would you? Thanks, lovie. There’s more in the boot,” she replies with a smile. “I’ve been to everyone I could think of that has a bike, Sam,” she calls out as Jessie leans in and grabs a heavy leather jacket. “Once I explained what was going on they let me have them. There’s a fair few coming up later to help with the patrols as well.” A lilt sings in her voice as she talks to the man.

  “Thanks, Martha,” he replies and bends to peck her on the cheek. The look of delight on her face makes Jessie smile as she drops the leathers onto the growing pile in the road.

  “They’re for protection,” Martha explains as Jessie stands beside her. “It was Sam’s idea. She gestures to the tall man with burns on his neck. Jessie tries not to stare but can’t help wonder what happened to him to be so badly scarred.

  “It’s a good idea,” Jessie replies turning back to Martha although she knows that the leather, even with its internal armour won’t stop a bullet.

  “He wants them for his new team of Protectors,” Martha continues. “That’s what he’s calling them—the blokes that are going to fight the terrorists.” Jessie nods her approval. “Mind you, it’s muggy tonight so they’ll sweat a bit in them. Reckon there’s a storm brewing.”

  In all the commotion Jessie hadn’t noticed but Martha was right. The air was close and humid. It had been a perfect summer day though heavy with dark clouds on the horizon in the afternoon.

  I’ve got helmets in the car too,” Martha continues. “Can you help me, love?”

  “Sure.”

  As Jessie lifts the helmets from the car’s back seat, the Mercedes used to plug the gap at the centre of the blockade is rolled back. Men and women manoeuvre another car out of the way, widening the gap. Heavy metal doors slam and engines start. Gears shift, brakes release, and then the head lorry at the top of the convoy drives forward. Another follows. They move to the blockade then slide through the gap. Tail lights shine bright in the dark then disappear as they follow the road round to the exit that will take them to the suspension bridge.

  The smell of petrol is strong. A man bends over a barrel and sucks at a pipe. Petrol spurts and he spits on the floor as he stuffs the pipe into the tank of an old Ford. A group of men stand around the pile of leathers, pulling on the trousers, zipping up the jackets, pushing heads into helmets.

  A rifle passes from one hand to another and an older man, his sideburns grey with age, his hair hidden by a flat cap, talks in earnest to a tall man in full leathers, helmet at his feet. The tall man nods, takes the rifle, aims then disarms it, hanging it over the crook of his arm, safe until he needs to click it back into place and shoot. A car draws next to the pair and the newly appointed Protector disappears into the passenger side with the rifle. The older man stands back.

  Jessie walks back to her bike. She knows what she has to do—ride behind Bill and help draw the terrorists out. Inside her leathers is the gun with the single bullet. Across her shoulders is her crossbow.

  The remaining lorry moves out and passes through the narrow gap in the blockade. As it passes, Bill drives forward. Jessie follows, the bike’s engine strumming her excitement at the coming mission. More cars follow behind but, as she follows the lorries’ lights and takes the first exit down to the dual carriageway, the convoy divides. The remaining vehicles continue their journey; their job to block the northbound exit to the town and funnel the terrorists along the carriageway and onto the bridge.

  Jessie pulls back the throttle and lets the bike’s engine roar, overtaking Bill and pulling level with the first lorry. The driver gives her the thumbs up and she powers forward keeping just a little in front. Bill pulls up behind her.

  As they approach the junction the lorries pull ahead. Bill and Jessie ride alongside as they pass the petrol station, hidden from view by the long trailers. Entering the roundabout, the trucks slow to a stop and cut their lights. The window of the first cab winds down and Hazzer leans out. All joviality gone, his arm rests along the open window. “I’ll roll round a bit further once you’ve gone,” he shouts as Jessie pulls up between the lorry and Bill’s car.

  Bill’s reply is drowned by the hum of the four engines, his voice muffled by the bike helmet squashing at his cheeks. He edges forward and gives Jessie the thumbs up. She nods in return, heart pounding.

  Taking the exit that leads up to the petrol station, she climbs the slope and follows the bending road. Bright lights fill the forecourt. Numerous figures, dressed in black, move in and out of the light, walking across the courtyard and to their parked cars. Jessie makes a quick count—five cars and twelve men. Where had they come from? Bill had said they’d only seen a few men and a couple of cars. Her stomach knots. Balancing the bike, and with swift movements, she loads the crossbow. She has one shot. It had better count. Bill pulls up beside her. A deadly chaos is what she needs to create. She pulls back the throttle and lets out the clutch. The bike powers forward, front wheel raised. She speeds forward then slams the front wheel down as she reaches the forecourt. Taken unawares, the men stand frozen and stare, then scatter.

  She swerves at them, forcing one to clamber onto the island of petrol pumps and swing between them. Another jumps out of the way onto the bonnet of a car as she speeds past and follows the road round to the back of the station’s shop. On the grass to her left is a small bonfire surrounded by clusters of men. Already on their feet, they scatter as she mounts the kerb, jumps the bike onto the grass and mows through them. One reaches out to grab her as she passes. She kicks out as his hand clutches at her jacket and strikes hard into his belly. Without waiting to see the consequences, she pulls at the throttle to force the bike off the grass and straight to the corner of the shop. She curves the bike round, speeds past the brightly-lit forecourt and rides up the road to the exit. Figures flash in her peripheral vision; men running across the forecourt to avoid Bill’s speeding car.

  Gunshot!

  They were definitely riled. Bill’s car screeches to a halt next to the pumps.

  Thud!

  A figure rolls over the bonnet and lands on the concrete.

  Bill reverses at speed.

  The sky brightens with a flash of brilliant white as engines rev and Jessie swerves to face the forecourt and grabs her bow. Not another solar flare! Thunder rumbles in the near distance. Sh
e locks the bolt into place with relief. Just a summer storm.

  A rifle points at Bill as he reverses out of the chaos, drawing the terrorists out like angry bees from a hive. Jessie fires the pointed steel bolt, then immediately lets the crossbow drop on its leather strap across her back. She speeds towards the exit as the bolt finds its home in the terrorist’s stomach. He buckles, falls to the floor and the rifle drops from his hand less than twenty feet from her. With the other men running to their cars, she pulls the bike round and races to his body, swinging down to grab the rifle as she passes. Bill’s car reverses past her as engines around the forecourt roar into life and tyres squeal. Pushing the butt of the rifle into the open window, Bill takes it.

  Excitement rides through her as she speeds to the exit and along the road to the roundabout. From her vantage point, she looks down on the forecourt to a scene of chaos: men run, horns beep, doors slam, engines rev and roar.

  Jessie powers forward, crossbow slung across her back and takes the roundabout. A shot fires and sparks kick off the tarmac not more than ten feet away. She swerves, throwing the bike from one side of the road to the other, and shifts up a gear then pulls back on the throttle. Speeding past Bill, she takes a sharp left to avoid the roundabout, and makes her way up the road back to town.

  The lorries sit in darkness—waiting.

  Bill behind her, his lights shining on her back, she’s an easy target. She shifts to the right and slows to ride next to his car. Gesturing for him to go faster, she glances back. The road is thick with lights, and the air heavy with the throb of engines, as the trucks kick into action. Pushing at the bike’s engine to give her all its power, she wants to cut the lights and disappear into the dark, but her job is to guide the terrorists onto the bridge—whatever the cost.

  As she pulls on the throttle and powers in front of Bill, she’s caught in the headlights of another car. It’s close and illuminates the grey steel barrier of the central reservation at her side. As she moves to the left the car pulls up beside her. Her heart beats heavily; the bike is already pushed to its limits and she can’t outrun the car. With Bill behind her, and the car bearing down on her from the right, there’s only one choice—move sideways. Gravel sprays across the road as she hits the hard shoulder. It flicks against the car’s passenger door and a face leers behind the window, growing larger with each second as the driver moves to knock her down. A mountain of grass at her side, a dark block of metal and hate on the other, she turns the handlebars and rides up the verge. The bike’s engine roars its complaint, the engine is working too hard, but she forces it to climb higher.