Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Name?” Martha asks above the drone of the chainsaw.

  One by one the men are cable-tied and led into the old police station. Constructed of stone a foot thick, ‘Police Station 1837’ is carved into the stone above the doorway. The cells that once held local men and women banged-up for affray, being drunk and disorderly, and even murder, before being tried, and very often ‘sent down’ by the magistrate, have become store rooms full of toys for a day care nursery. The original heavy doors however, with their sliding spy-holes and small, iron-barred windows, are still intact.

  As the last box of toys is stacked neatly in the reception area to make room for the terrorists, an enormous key is turned in its lock and thick iron bolts are shoved into place securing the men inside the cells. Each man has been searched for weapons, their wallets, lighters, and cigarettes confiscated, their shoe laces and belts removed.

  “That’ll hold ‘em,” Hazzer comments as Sam steps back from the door.

  “It had better,” he replies.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Out of breath, Joshua steps back into the house. Sweat has broken out beneath his armpits and down his back. The back door knocks against the wall as he pushes it open, keys clink as they swing in the lock. He should have been quieter.

  He drops the bag to the floor and takes the cola from the carrier. Stupid! He should have done this before he got back home. Why didn’t he think to poison the drink earlier? Placing the bleach next to the weed killer he can’t decide which to put in the bottle. He removes the lids and smells each. Both are foul and sting his nose. Will the cola hide the smell, the taste? How will it even fit in? Drink it. Taking the bottle, he swallows a mouthful of cola and then another, drinking enough to make space for the poison.

  “Joshie! Is that you?” his mother calls. Usually her voice would have a sing-song lilt. Usually she’d be in the kitchen pottering about washing dishes, or preparing his tea, or sipping a coffee waiting for him to come home with a smile, a round of toast ready to be buttered, and a glass of milk. Today her voice is strained, the pitch high.

  “Just taking my shoes off!” he calls. She wouldn’t believe that but maybe the man would.

  “Alright, love,” she calls back. “Be quick. He wants-”

  A muffled and angry voice cuts her short as Joshua points the nozzle of the bleach into the top of the cola bottle and squeezes. Don’t get it on the sides. It oozes into the dark liquid. The angry voice shouts. He can’t decipher his mother’s response but it’s terse. If she’s afraid she’s not showing it and once his mother was riled she was a force to be reckoned with. He takes the weed killer, removes the top then pours it into the bottle. The cola looks only just a little emptier than when he started, he notes with satisfaction as he wipes the drips of weed killer from the sides with his sleeve—you just can’t tell it’s any different.

  A door opens.

  His heart pounds.

  Footsteps thud across the kitchen floor.

  He screws the cola bottle’s lid back on.

  A hand presses down on the backroom’s door.

  Joshua pushes the bleach and weed killer away from him and flips his shoes off with his feet.

  The door opens and Joshua stands, bag in one hand, cola in the other. “Here!” The man scowls at him as the door bangs against the wall. “I got you cola.”

  Silence.

  Dark eyes, hooded and bloodshot, stare into his then look down at the bottle.

  “Good. Give me some. What food you get? Let me see.”

  “Biscuits. I got biscuits. And burgers—for later.”

  “Burgers?”

  “McDonald’s. Like McDonald’s. You know—buurguurs.” Joshua’s voice rises as he elongates his vowels and sweat trickles down the sides of his face. The man doesn’t break his stare.

  “You sweat. You are red.”

  “I’ve been running.”

  “Give me the bag,” he snaps, snatching the bag from Joshua then motioning for him to walk through to the living room with a flick of his knife. “Back. In there. Sit.”

  The weak morning sun gives the room a grey cast. Guy crouches in the corner of the sofa, his face pale, his T-shirt blood-soaked, his hand held close to his body. A bloody stump protrudes where his thumb should be. Anger rises. His mother sits on the edge of her favourite velvet chair. The light sparkles on the grey of her hair but her eyes are puffy, her face blotched and lumpy. He recognises the anger in her eyes, the outer edge of her iris was always darker when she was angry. This morning it seemed almost black.

  The man slumps back down on the sofa and Guy winces at the jolt. Joshua can’t imagine how much pain he must be in. The plastic bag crinkles as the man yanks it open and looks inside. He holds up the rectangular plastic packet of burgers.

  “This McDonald’s?”

  “Burgers.”

  “You cook for me,” he demands staring at Joshua’s mother.

  Her reply is tight and clipped. “No power. No cooking.”

  The man glares at her and throws the packet across the room. It hits his mother’s chair then bounces to the floor hitting Sally’s paw. She yelps and runs behind the chair. His mother scowls and her knuckles whiten as she grips the armrest.

  “I tell you bring me food.”

  “There’s biscuits in there—chocolate digestives and I got crisps too.”

  “This is garbage.”

  “He did his best. There’s nothing to cook with.”

  “I thought we could use the barbecue for the burgers.”

  “Stupid English.”

  His mother growls. The sun glints on the row of golden trophies lined up along the mantle. The reflected light catches Joshua’s attention and with a sudden moment of clarity he stares at his mother. She’s older and perhaps a little, just a tiny bit, overweight now, but she’s still in reasonable shape. He’d never cast a critical eye over her before, she was always just his mum, but looking at her now he can see the younger woman she used to be, the woman who’d won the trophies lining the mantle above the fire, and ... she was still strong.

  “Get me drink,” the man demands as he grips a packet of chocolate digestives. He cuts at the wrapper with his knife. Biscuits spill across his knees and he flicks them to the floor with the blade. Some roll across the carpet whilst others break, all scatter crumbs. With a look of spite at his mother, the man shifts his boot and squashes the biscuits underfoot with his heel. His mother’s shoulders stiffen. Biscuits were not allowed in the living room, particularly not ones with chocolate on, and now dark chocolate is smeared across her cream carpet. Her jaw clenches. For once Joshua is willing his mother to lose her temper.

  “Get the man his drink, Joshie,” she says. Her voice is hard with an edge of steel.

  He nods but doesn’t move, mesmerised by the man’s chomping jaw and the crumbs rolling down his front.

  “I’m thirsty,” Guy’s voice wheedles.

  “Get him cola,” the man spits.

  “I-”

  “Go now!”

  “Do as the man says, Joshua,” his mother says in a tone he can’t ignore.

  The cola glugs into the glasses. The smell of bleach permeates the air and he holds the glass to his nose. Bubbles pop and make his nose twitch. The smell of bleach is there but not too strong, perhaps he won’t notice it.

  Back in the living room he offers the glass to the man. He’s already eaten nearly half the pack of biscuits. Joshua’s hand trembles. Guy reaches for his glass. He pushes the glass closer to the terrorist and holds Guy’s glass just out of reach. If he can just get the man to drink before Guy drinks his.

  The man takes the glass. Holds it to his mouth. Guy leans forward and takes the cola. The man eyes them, his eyes narrowing to slits as he holds the knife towards Guy and lifts the glass to his lips. Drink it! Guy lifts the glass to his mouth. Joshua’s heart is going to burst. The man takes a gulp and swallows. The glass is at Guy’s mouth. Joshua lurches forward as though tripping and knocks it fr
om his hand. Brown liquid sprays through the air spattering the wall, glistening drops cling to the brassy gold of his mother’s trophies, and dark droplets sink into the cream carpet. The man coughs and leaps to his feet, knife in hand, spots of liquid stain his jeans.

  “Idiot!”

  “Sorry!”

  Guy groans.

  “Let me treat the boy. Some pain killers or a bandage?”

  The man sits back down. “Boy,” he says to Joshua. “Find bandages and painkillers for your friend.” He takes another sip of the cola and pulls a face.

  “It’s a cheap one,” Joshua says quickly. “It’s all that was left.”

  The man grunts and finishes the glass then stuffs another biscuit into his mouth. Perhaps Joshua didn’t put enough weed killer in to make a difference? Maybe the stuff wasn’t poisonous at all?

  “The first aid kit is under the sink, Josh. Go get it please.”

  Following instruction, Joshua checks under the sink and pulls out the first aid kit, a green box with a handle that doubles as a torch. It sits to the side of the U-bend. A neat coil of washing line sits behind it, ready for when the old one breaks. His mother was prepared for everything and everything had its place.

  The man coughs as Joshua hands the first aid kit to his mother then rubs his belly as she takes Guy’s elbow and leads him to her chair. Joshua watches him with fascination. The sun glints on the trophies on the mantle. He crouches next to the chair keeping his eyes on the man. “You know, mum,” he says in quiet tones, “you’re still strong—like you used to be.”

  “What you say?”

  “Like the trophies, Mum,” he urges, willing her to understand.

  “What you on about, Joshie?” she asks quietly as she opens a small square packet. “This might sting, Guy, but be a brave boy.”

  The man staggers to his feet. “No talking.” Sweat beads his brow.

  Joshua’s heart beats hard. Guy yelps as she wipes at his finger.

  “The trophies, mum,” Joshua whispers.

  “What you saying?” the man demands stepping into the centre of the room.

  “Just telling the boy to be brave,” she replies with defiance. Her eyes flit to the mantle as she wraps a piece of sterile gauze around Guy’s fingers. “I’m sorry, lovie, but that’s the best I can do,” she says as she secures the dressing with tape.

  “Sit ... back ... here,” the man growls at Joshua and motions to the sofa. Sweat trickles at his temples. “And you, boy!” he says gesturing to Guy. “Sit back here.” Guy shifts forward in the chair and the man coughs, buckles at the waist, then grabs for the armrest of the sofa.

  “You can do this, Mum.” Joshua says with an urgent nod at the trophies on the mantle. Now was her chance, whilst he was in pain.

  “I’m not in shape like I used to be, Joshie.”

  “Do it now!”

  “What you say?” the terrorist growls clutching at his belly. “Shut up!” he spits. “No talking.”

  “You have to, Mum!”

  “I said shut up!” he seethes and lunges at Joshua. His blade glints in the sun.

  “Mum!”

  Grabbing Joshua by the arm, he stabs the knife into the muscle. Joshua screams. A hand clamps across his mouth and he’s pulled back hard against the man’s chest, the knife’s point now piercing his T-shirt and sharp against his ribs. His mother’s eyes widen, the irises black as her top-lip lifts to a snarl. “Do it, Mum!”

  The attacker grunts again as a spasm rocks his stomach and the hand slips to Joshua’s chin.

  He takes his chance.

  Biting down with a ferocious snap of his jaws, Joshua’s teeth pierce the soft and fleshy base of the man’s thumb. Shouting in pain, he tugs his hand out of Joshua’s mouth. Without losing his advantage, Joshua kicks his leg back, catching the man on the shin. Another grunt and he’s free, and darts across the room. “Do it, Mum!” he shouts.

  In the next second his mother pulls her leg back and kicks at the terrorist. She draws her arm back, punching at his head with clenched fist. She hops back, changes legs, and in the next second swings again at his head with her foot. It makes contact with his cheek, her long and painted toenails leaving a deep scratch across the skin. She hops back again and another kick lands straight on his nose. Swing. Kick. Swing. Kick. The man didn’t stand a chance and lies bloodied on the floor. He curls into the foetal position.

  “Joshie, get me some rope,” she pants. “Under the sink—the new washing line.”

  Joshua darts for the door as his mother throws herself onto the man and flips him over. From the kitchen he can hear the man’s grunts and his mother’s laboured breath. On his return, coil of plastic line in hand, the man lies belly down on the carpet. His arms are being pulled up behind him as his mother kneels into his shoulders. Brown froth slathers from the terrorist’s mouth, drooling to the cream carpet, his face squashed against the fibres. He grunts and bucks his hips.

  “Be still!” his mother seethes, the anger in her voice, Joshua knows, a sign of rage. He’s seen it only once after Callum, her then boyfriend, had slapped him for making too much noise whilst he watched the football. She’d shown Callum the door but not before treating him to a demonstration of why she’d won the county kick-boxing championship. He hadn’t stood a chance and it had been the last time he’d seen the man. She’d sworn off men after that, at least that’s what he’d heard her say in the kitchen one night when Aunty Susan had come around, and, true to her word, there’d hadn’t been any men to the house since.

  “Cut me a good length—a couple of metres,” she commands gesturing to the neatly bundled washing line. “Use his knife to cut it.”

  “That’s funny, isn’t it Mum—I’m using his knife to cut the rope to tie him up.”

  “It is,” she agrees with a grunt as he bucks against her again. “But just hurry up, please.”

  Joshua cuts the length of washing line and within the next three minutes the man is hog-tied.

  She gives the washing line another tug, tightening it just a little more, then sits back on her haunches and studies her handiwork. “Go next door and get Ben will you love,” she asks turning to Joshua. “He can help me deal with this twat.” Joshua snorts with laughter at her crude words.

  “Pig-bitch!” the man grunts, spraying spittle onto the carpet.

  “And get me that duct tape before you go will you please, Joshie?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sam swivels in the leather chair in the manager’s office as Martha stores the terrorist’s belongings in the cupboard next to the room’s blocked up chimney breast. He’ll look through them later. Taking their names and making a record of all of their belongings, had been Martha’s idea. She said it made it all more professional and that there were rules to follow when you had to look after prisoners even if they were, in her own words, ‘murdering, shit-bag terrorists’. Sam had been a little taken aback by the crudeness of Martha’s rage but he couldn’t fault her work ethic, or her integrity; to still treat people well, in spite of their evil, was laudable and, he had to admit, was an attitude he would encourage. He thinks back to the rage that boiled around the prisoners as they’d been offloaded and taken into the cells; it could well have turned into a bloodbath if he hadn’t made sure the gathered men and women hadn’t kept back. Chugger had gotten a little too close to the terrorists with his chainsaw on more than one occasion, eliciting a roar of approval from the growing crowd. Even now, two hours later, as the sun was rising on a beautiful morning, there were groups of young hotheads outside, all armed, all lairy, and a good few inebriated.

  Sam’s head was beginning to pound. The effort of keeping himself together was immense. A part of him, a large part, just wanted to run back home and climb under the duvet and close his eyes to it all. When the panic rose within him he’d think of Bill’s confidence in him and then of Martha, and her fear—though she seemed to be coming into her own.

  “... and when this is all over there’ll be an en
quiry. Do you think we should take witness statements? I wouldn’t want anyone getting into trouble—you know what it’s like when people try to protect themselves—half the time its them that gets put up for questioning like they’re the ones in the wrong. Look what happened to that farmer who shot those gypsies breaking into his house—he went to prison. And the soldiers – it’s a disgrace – like a flippin’ witch hunt. What do you think then?” Martha twists the key and locks the cupboard. Lost in his own thoughts the noise is at the periphery of Sam’s awareness.

  “Sam? Are you listening ... Sam?”

  “Ey? ... Yes, I agree,” he returns as his mind processes some of what she’d been saying.

  She looks at him over the desk and, what can only be pity, flickers in her eyes. “Want a cup of tea, love?” she asks as she turns from the cupboard and puts the clipboard down on the desk. “I got Trev to get his old camping stove out so we could have a brew.”

  “Got any biscuits?”

  “Garibaldi?”

  “I prefer a digestive with my tea.”

  “Picky bugger,” she laughs and reaches for a bag. She fumbles in it for a moment and pulls out a packet. “Digestives—not branded, but they’re all the same really, and cheaper.”

  “Cheaper. Free, weren’t they?”

  “Well ... yes, I guess so, but when you have to pay they’re cheaper,” she rambles on as she pulls at the plastic tag and opens the packet. Biscuits slide forward like tipped dominoes as she offers him one. “You’re looking a bit peaky. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

  “I can’t leave this place.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “If you don’t sleep you’ll be no good to no one. People are listening to you, so you’ve got to stay perky.”