“Chaos?”
“They’re doing their best but running the place on generators with a skeleton staff. The best place for her is at home. Stella and Clare are doing a great job of nursing her.”
“And Michael?”
“The doctor checked him out too. Gave him new dressings and instructions on how to care for the burns.”
Sam cringes. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty crispy down his shins—third degree, but not infected.”
“Good. Can you tell him I’ll be round to see him when I get a chance, please?”
“Sure,” Bill says with curiosity. “But I didn’t know you knew him.”
“We were at school together. Best mates until-” he stops. “He’s a friend.”
“Right.”
“What brings you here?” Sam asks obviously relieved to change the conversation.
“We need some information.”
“Oh?”
“Corroboration really.”
“And how can I help?”
“Well ... we need to talk to your prisoners.”
“Right. Why?”
“We’re going after the man who’s organising the attacks.”
Sam raises his brows in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“Yes, and we’ve got an address, but we don’t want to waste our time. If we can just have a quick chat with one of the men in the cells we can perhaps corroborate the address.”
“We talk to them now,” Uri says shifting the rucksack on his shoulder. “We travel in one hour.”
Metal clinks and Sam shifts his attention to the bag. “A quick chat?”
“Well ... a persuasive chat.”
“Hmm. Persuasive?”
“Persuasive,” Bill repeats.
“But not ... criminal.”
Uri shifts the bag again. “Like Bill said, ‘persuasive’.”
Sam stares directly into Bill’s eyes. “A quick, persuasive chat,” he repeats with meaning.
“Yep,” Bill agrees.
“I mean it, Bill. I don’t want a mess to clear up afterwards.”
“Uri’s a professional, Sam.”
“A professional?” Sam questions.
“Yes, and there won’t be any mess.”
“I am quick worker. Clean.”
Sam stares at Uri then his eyes flit from the bag and back to Bill. “They’re in the cells. Follow me.”
Bill follows Sam through the building to the bank of cells at the back. From the corridor each cell has a large door and only a small, sliding metal door allowing observation of the inmates. Sam pulls the metal slider open and peers inside.
“There, take your pick.”
Bill stoops to look inside. Six men stand or sit on the concrete floors. A small window lets in light and Bill is pleased to see the thick iron bars. From the depth of the windows its obvious that the walls are thick and the cell secure. He watches the men with interest as they realise he’s looking in and observes their reactions. He has to choose the right one.
Keys jangle in Sam’s hand. “Which one?”
“The big one shouting abuse at me,” he replies staring at a man with a long cut down his cheek.
“Sounds like they’re all shouting.”
“Yeah, but the loudest one with the scratch on his cheek.”
Sam stares back inside. “You sure, he’s the biggest, angriest-looking one in there.”
“He is, and when we’ve finished with him he can go back in and tell the others all about it. That should settle them down for you.”
“Is the quiet ones you watch,” Uri says with confidence. “They are more dangerous.”
“Oh.” Sam looks back through the hatch. “Right. There’s a room you can use at the end of the corridor.”
“Is there table in room?” Uri shrugs off the backpack. The noise of metal clinking against metal is muffled but obvious.
“Yes,” Sam replies with a tentative look at the bag as Uri passes it to Bill and unlocks the door. “You,” he says pointing at the largest man in the cell.
“Me?”
“Yes, you,” he replies. “Come with me.”
The large man takes a step forward, notices Uri behind Sam’s shoulder then takes a step back. Uri grunts, steps into the cell and grabs the man, twisting his arm behind his back and with a swift movement turns and marches him out.
“The room is at the end of the corridor,” Sam calls after him as he relocks the door.
The room is small, full of stacked chairs, and shelves filled with toys. Two pine tables sit at its centre, scrubbed but marked with wax crayons and stained with paint.
“Get me chair,” Uri demands as Bill steps into the room.
Without question, Bill pulls up a chair to the table and sits the large and oily vice that had gripped the thick workbench back at Bramwell onto its surface.
The terrorist grunts as Uri forces him to sit.
“Rope and ties,” Uri says.
“Got it,” Bill says reaching back into the bag and pulling out a coil of rope and a handful of cable ties. His fingers slide against the tools Uri had packed and he cringes at the chisel and claw hammer as he peers into the bag. He wanted to get the information from the man, but he really hopes that Uri doesn’t have to go to those lengths. He makes a dramatic grunt of revulsion as he closes the bag.
“What?” Uri asks defensively as he ties the man to the chair.
“The bag ...”
“Is what I found in shed.”
“Yes, but ...”
“What’s in the bag?” the terrorist asks. Bill holds back a smirk; sweat was beading the man’s forehead and he doubts it’s from the warmth of the room.
“You don’t want to know.”
“He will know.”
“Are you sure you want to go that far?” Bill asks.
“Of course,” Uri replies with a professional air as he pulls the cable tie tight around the man’s ankle.
“I said nothing criminal,” Sam interrupts.
“Uri’s a professional.”
“A professional what?”
“Well ... What do you call yourself Uri?”
“Is just job.”
“What kind of job?”
“Better not to ask questions,” Bill answers for him.
The terrorist squirms in his chair. “Nothing criminal the man said. You said nothing criminal.”
“I do job I am given. Today, my job is to help you answer question,” he says reaching across to the vice. He unwinds it. It creaks. “Is rusty but will do job.”
“What job?”
“Job to help you talk,” he replies and unstraps the terrorist’s hand from his leg. Lifting it up, the man squirms. Uri squeezes at the pressure points in the man’s neck. He yelps and his arm loosens and Uri picks up his hand, pinching hard between his thumb and forefinger, forcing the thumb into the vice. “Hold still,” he reprimands as the man bucks in the chair. “Bill,” he says, “close gap.”
Bill twists the handle and closes the metal tight against the man’s thumb.
“Is ready.”
“Thank you,” Bill replies standing in front of the terrorist. Beads of sweat slip down the sides of the man’s temples as Uri picks up the bag and arranges his ‘tools’ on the table. “I have one question for you. If you give me the correct answer then you get to go back to your friends with all your fingers. Understand?”
“If you don’t, then I help,” Uri adds without a smile and picks up a rusty chisel. Taking a whetstone, he begins to sharpen its blade. “Where is hammer?” he asks and grabs for the bag “Ah!” he continues as he reaches in. “Here.” He places the small claw hammer on the table and continues to sharpen the chisel’s edge. Within seconds the silver of its metal begins to gleam.
The terrorist tugs at his trapped thumb.
“Didn’t one of them chop off a kid’s thumb last night?”
“He did,” Sam replies.
“What is it you lot say? An e
ye for an eye?” Bill laughs and tightens the vice a little more. The man squeals. “Now, as I was saying, I just need an address.”
“What address?”
“Well, we already have an address, but I just want to know that it’s the same one you know.”
“What address?”
“Bin Sayeed’s.”
The man’s eyes widen and his lips pinch.
“Yep, we know all about him. Now, what’s his address?”
The man remains silent.
“I’ll give you three more seconds to answer then we’ll do a little body modification. Understand?”
Silence.
Bill counts to three.
No response.
He tightens the vice.
The man groans but doesn’t speak.
“Uri, we really don’t have time to be nice. Perhaps you can persuade him to talk?”
“Da. Is my pleasure.” Uri takes the newly sharpened chisel in one hand and the hammer in the other and positions it above the man’s thumb.
“Go ahead,” Bill says.
“I said nothing crimi-”
“Stop! Flat 16B ...”
Bill listens as the terrorist recites the address. “Correct,” Bill says pushing down a sigh of relief. “You get a gold star.” He hadn’t expected it to be difficult to get the information but he really hadn’t wanted to go as far as maiming the man. “Now,” he says as he reaches for the vice’s handle, “that wasn’t so difficult, was it.” The terrorist grits his teeth as Uri unscrews the vice to take just a little pressure off.
“All done,” Bill says turning to Sam.
“That was quick,” he replies with obvious relief.
“Uri’s a professional.”
“You said, but a professional what?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Back at the cottage, Bill makes the final checks to the car as Alex refills the tank from the cans filled last night.
“That’s the last of the petrol,” Alex calls as he screws the petrol cap back on.
Bill starts the engine and checks the gauge; the engine thrums promising a smooth run but the tank is only half full. They’d have to stop off at the station at the intersection and fill her up along with the petrol cans for the journey back—if there was a journey back.
“Ready?” Jessie calls from the door way.
“Nearly,” Bill replies. There was just one more thing he had to do.
Stepping to the house he makes his way upstairs to Clarissa’s room knocking tentatively at the door. Propped up, she’s awake though pale. Dark hair splayed against the pillow she smiles as Bill pokes his head around the door.
“Come in.”
“I just wanted to say ... see you before we leave.”
She pats the bed next to her. “Come in for a minute.”
“I’ll stand. I don’t want to-”
“Bill!” Jessie calls from downstairs.
“We’re shipping out,” he says, “but I just wanted to check that you were alright.”
“I am,” she replies reaching for his hand. He stoops to kiss her. “Look after my girl,” she says with a squeeze of his fingers.
“It’ll be the other way around,” he laughs. “Don’t worry. She’s tough and very capable and yes, I will look after her.”
“And come back safe.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Bill!” Jessie calls again.
“Duty calls!” he sighs. “Coming,” he calls back and leaves Clarissa with a final look as she closes her eyes to sleep.
Ten minutes later, car packed, with Uri by his side and Jessie in the back, he drives the car through the town. Cool air circulates through the open windows to counteract the afternoon heat and lack of air-conditioning in the vintage motor. As they pass the town centre supermarket, groups of men and women stand in front of its open doors. Martha, guarded by the Protectors still hands out bags of food. Bill slows as he notices Sam flagging him down.
“Looks like they’re distributing food,” Jessie says from the back seat.
“Da. Sam has it under control,” Uri says as the fireman breaks away from the group and walks towards the car.
“You on your way then?” he asks as he reaches them.
“Yep. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you here.”
Sam turns back to the supermarket and sighs. “You could say that,” he returns with a wry and exhausted smile. “I had to take it under control; two of the other supermarkets have been ransacked. They’ve been cleaned out—absolutely nothing left on the shelves.”
“People are going to start starving if we don’t get deliveries,” Jessie declares.
“You’re right,” Sam agrees. “The town is completely dependent on daily food deliveries and nothing has come through since the blackout started. This is the only place left with food and water. We’re trying to distribute it fairly but there are more than ten thousand people in this town. The food situation is bad enough but without clean water things are becoming critical.”
“The river,” Jessie says leaning out from the window.
“Eh?”
“The river—fresh water. You can drink it.”
“You’re joking. There’s a sewage pump just down the bank. Really stinks some days, especially when it’s hot.”
Bill grimaces.
“Take it from the water before the pump.”
“Well-”
“You can purify it.”
“If you know how then I’m listening.”
For the next five minutes Jessie describes exactly how the water can be purified and made safe for people to drink.
“... the only problem is getting enough for all the people living here,” she explains with a worried frown.
The scale of the problem is beginning to dawn on Bill. The town would be in meltdown in a week’s time without food and water—utter carnage if the past few days were anything to go by, and the terrorists would become almost irrelevant, just fleas to be picked off the dog’s arse and squashed.
Sam stands with hands on hips, bottom lip pressed against his teeth. “Ten thousand,” he repeats staring out across the town.
Neither Jessie nor Bill have the answers to quantity. Sam would just have to come up with his own solution to that problem.
“When we get back we’ll help,” is the best he can offer as Jessie gets back into the car. He shifts into first gear then gently accelerates away from the town and onto the motorway that would take them to Bin Sayeed.
THE DRIVE TO THE CITY had been an easy one and they’d had to stop to move a car out of the way on only one occasion. Thankfully, given the time of night the EMP had hit, the cars that had come to a grinding halt or crashed on the motorway were sparse and they’d managed to make good time by weaving in and out of any obstructions. The summer sun, though sinking, is still bright as they reach the outskirts. Plumes of smoke rise high into the atmosphere and tower blocks stand like blackened candles.
“Reminds me of a birthday cake,” Jessie observes.
“Birthday cake!” Uri retorts.
“Yeah. The tower blocks look like candles that have just been blown out.”
“Only the terrorists are having a party, Jess,” Bill returns. He gets what Jessie means but can’t help thinking of the suffering that went before the rising twists of grey. Uri slows and pulls to the kerb. “What’s up?”
“We need fuel.”
In the road ahead, children play. A ball bounces from one side of the street to the other and a group of women sit on the tree-lined grassy verge that separates the road and the path.
“Like when I was a kid,” Bill says watching the children play. He opens the car’s door and steps out as Uri disappears to the boot. The women rise and call to the children. Leaning back, Bill stretches his muscles. The drive may have been easy but the days have been tense, and his body aches. A dull tightness pulls at the back of his head.
/> “I could do with some paracetamol—got a banging headache. You got anything in your bag of tricks Jessie?”
“Nothing for a headache. Sorry.”
He rubs at his temples. The ball bounces from a car’s bonnet and a child runs across the road.
“We used to play in the street when I was a kid. You can’t now though—too many cars. You just don’t see kids playing out any more. It’s a shame.”
Jessie grunts her agreement but doesn’t seem interested.
“Is same in Russia,” Uri agrees as he sits a tank of petrol on the path and pulls his arms back in a stretch.
“They’re on edge,” Bill notices as the women call to the children and the road clears. A door opens and a man steps out.
Bill rolls his shoulders. The headache was becoming intense, tiredness making it worse. The sleep he’d managed in the car had been fitful and he’d lost count of the times Uri had jolted him as he’d swerved in and out of the cars. He needs a clear head. “I’ve got to get something for this headache before we get to Bin Sayeed’s.”
“We’ll look for a chemist’s en route,” Jessie says as she pulls open the car door to the glug of petrol as Uri fills the tank. “Let’s go. Looks like we’re scaring the locals.”
The ball lies abandoned against the tyre of a parked car, the women and children no longer visible, and another man has stepped out from his house.
“They are a bit defensive,” Bill agrees as he notices the hammer clutched in the man’s hand.
“Cannot blame them.”
“Come on,” Jessie urges as she slips back inside the car.
Uri drives slowly past the gathering men and Bill tips a nod and raises his hand to signal a friendly greeting as they pass. The men nod in return without smiling.
The journey through the city is slower, the roads are less clear, and they have to get out and move several cars to continue the journey. At the end of several roads large groups of men stand and stare as they pass. Made up of different sizes, shapes, and colours, there’s one uniting theme among them – they’re making no pretence at being armed. These men mean business.
As their journey continues, Bill recognises a sign – ‘Lloyds’ is spelt out in green writing on a white board, a chemist’s shop he’s familiar with. “Up ahead, Uri. Pull over.” Without parking spaces outside the shop Uri stops the car in the middle of the road.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 51
