Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  He leans back against the wall as they continue to jabber and hammer on the door. A boot kicks at the sole of his trainer.

  “Karim!”

  He stares into Khaled’s scowling face, uncomprehending.

  “Karim!”

  Another kick.

  “What?” His voice is terse; he regrets it instantly. Khaled’s lips curl against his teeth.

  “I was talking to you, Karim. Don’t you know your name?”

  Jay’s heart thuds against his ribs. Don’t call me that! My name is Jay. “Sorry, Khaled.”

  Khaled continues to eye him, a hard squint seeking him out. “I said that today we will crush these people; their blood will run in rivers through the street. Insha’allah.”

  Jay stares back into Khaled’s gleaming eyes. Insanity lies there.

  “Karim?”

  Oh, God! Forgive me. “Yes, Insha’allah.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sarah swings her legs to the floor as she sits up in bed, roused by the call of ‘Mum!’ from downstairs. Gabe lies asleep, his back to Sarah, oblivious to his son’s shout. Typical! The man could sleep through a hurricane. She glances at the digital radio on her bedside table, confused by its blank screen until she remembers; another day without power. When would it end? The past few days had been more than a little challenging. She picks up the small square travel clock, set on her bedside by Amy, her fourteen-year-old daughter, and presses the button to illuminate its hands. It had been Amy’s idea to set the travel alarm - a leftover item from Sarah’s professional life before the children were born - as soon as the sun was at its peak in the sky. The small clock reads five thirty. Five thirty! What on earth was Joe doing up so early? That beat his usual weekend morning by an hour.

  “Mum!”

  “Shh!” She grabs for her dressing gown and moves quickly to the door.

  Downstairs the boy is in the kitchen holding his belly. He stands almost camouflaged in his dark blue and red dressing gown despite the hood with its luminous spider-man eyes.

  “What’s up, Joe? You’ll wake your dad and your sister shouting up like that.”

  “Sorry, Mum.” He pulls the edges of his dressing gown tight, covering the bare skin of his belly.

  “What’re you doing up so early?”

  “It’s light outside.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, but it’s summer so the mornings are light.”

  “Oh.”

  Sarah can’t help but smile at her son, hair tousled from sleep, standing in the bright light of early morning with just his pyjama bottoms on, he’s the mini-image of his father. A wave of love spreads over her. He’d been an unexpected arrival, one that had nearly given his dad a heart attack, but he’d brought enormous joy into their lives.

  “Now tell me, little mister, what’s wrong?” His hand rubs against his stomach. “Does your belly hurt?”

  “I’m starving and I can’t find anything to eat.”

  Sarah’s heart sinks. Worrying about how she was going to feed Gabe and the kids over the coming days had kept her awake until the early hours. Today was taken care of thanks to Sam and Martha, but after that she really had no idea what they’d do. Last night, to her relief, she’d managed to placate the kids with the last of the dry cereal. There were tins in the cupboard and some salad vegetables that were still edible in the chiller but what she’d do after they were gone, if she could even persuade them to eat the hodge-podge she’d be able to offer, was giving her serious anxiety.

  “Well, let me take a look.” She pulls at a kitchen chair and climbs. Reaching to the back of the very top cupboard, she takes out a packet. “I’ve got something I know you’ll like.”

  “What is it?” Joe’s eyes shine with excitement as he stares at the packet.

  “Sweet waffles.”

  “Waffles! You hid them?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because I knew you’d gobble them all up if you snuck down here at five-thirty in the morning.” She tousles his hair then opens the packet. “Just one, though.”

  “But I’m starving, Mum!”

  “I know, but they’ve got to last, and there’s four of us in this house, so you need to share.”

  “Share! No way.” He grins as he holds the packet away from her outstretched hand.

  “Yes, share.” She takes the packet from him as he bites down onto the sweet waffle with relish. “Naughty!” Eight in the packet. Her own belly aches with hunger. If the kids had two at each meal time ... she closes the wrapper and puts them back in the cupboard. “You mustn’t eat these without asking. OK?”

  Joe nods as he chews the last mouthful. “Did you even taste that?”

  He nods with a wry grin. “Can I have another one, please?”

  “Save it till later, sweetheart.”

  “But I’m starving, Mum.”

  “I know, but just wait until breakfast time—then you can have another one.”

  She reaches into the fridge and takes the large bottle of milk. Usually chill and bright, the interior is warm and dark. She takes a tentative sniff of the contents—very nearly on the turn, but perhaps Joe won’t notice—he definitely won’t notice if she puts in a spoonful of Nesquik. “Strawberry milkshake or chocolate, Joe?”

  “For real?”

  “Just this once.” Sugary drinks were a no-no in the house and the only reason they had the cartons of powdered flavouring was because Gabe had bought them after a trip to the shops with Joe. At the time, Sarah had been annoyed with Gabe and chided him for letting Joe twist him round his little finger; she tried so hard to keep their food wholesome and healthy, but now, with this food crisis, she was glad of the sugar-loaded powder.

  Joe returns an incredulous ‘strawberry’ and wanders through to the living room.

  “You’ll have to drink it at the table,” she calls after him.

  Stomach grumbling, she prepares the strawberry milk. Her usual morning routine consisted of a quick shower and hair wash, then teeth brushed followed by a cup of tea before the real work of getting everyone ready for school began: load the washer, empty the dishwasher, dry any pots et cetera, et cetera. This morning there was no water to fill the kettle with, nor electricity to boil it and, although her washing basket was filled to over-flowing, the washing machine was of no use. An odour of sweat rises to her nostrils and she wrinkles her nose as she realises that she is the source of the unpleasant odour.

  “Drink’s ready, Joe.”

  She leans up against the kitchen sink and looks out into the garden taking in the bright red geraniums at their glorious best in this summer’s dry heat. If the pots weren’t watered soon though, her carefully selected and potted plants would wilt and die. The hose was no use but there was water in the butts. Yes! There was water in the butts and after the storm they would probably be full. Maybe they couldn’t use it for drinking, but for washing? Definitely.

  Joe returns to the kitchen just as she steps towards the back door. “Where you going, Mum?”

  “Just outside for a minute, sweetheart.”

  She slips out of the back door and walks then almost runs to the garden shed. Dancing with bare feet over the dry grass, she side-steps the thistles, and narrowly misses a fresh and curling cat turd. Damn that cat! She’d clear it, or rather, scoop it with the small shovel her granny always used for ashes, and fling it back across the fence for the neighbour to deal with. Megan was more than welcome to have it back. She’d check on the water first though.

  The water butt stands grey and heavy, unused and neglected, a feature of the garden that nobody noticed. She lifts the lid—three-quarters full. The water is black in its plastic container. She grimaces for the second time that morning. Could they really use this for washing? If it came to it, could they drink it?

  A bird chirrups from the shrubs that line the garden’s boundary and she scans the garden with fresh eyes. It was a large plot, laid mainly to grass with pretty borders. A trampoline sits at i
ts end and, to the side of that, a football net. It was pretty, especially in the spring when her purple lilac blossomed above pink peonies. It was also completely useless. She thinks back to her grandmother’s house. Each week they’d visit and each visit they’d make a trip to the back garden where her grandmother would pick at the succulent tomatoes growing in neat rows. The next week it would be peas, or runner beans from the tee-pees of canes. She had fruit trees too, even soft fruit which she trained along the fence, and there were bushes of berries: gooseberries, raspberries, blueberries, redberries and, at the height of summer, rows of strawberries and yes, they were laid on straw.

  Sarah had, on occasion, thought about digging over some of their garden to grow vegetables but their lives had always seemed too busy, too full. Looking across her beautiful, flower-filled, and completely useless, garden she realises with dread that their home has nothing to sustain them. An ache spreads across her shoulders as she looks back to the house. As soon as this blackout was over she’d make changes and create a garden that could feed her children. The next time the shit hit the fan she’d be ready.

  She swallows as the knot tightens in her belly. Gabe’s voice repeats in her memory: ‘You’re getting over-excited’, he’d soothed. ‘The electricity will come back on soon’. But would it? ‘Yes, of course it would’, he’d argued. After all, blackouts, EMPs that take out the grid where carnage reigned, were just for fiction.

  She shivers as fur rubs against her leg. Maurice, the neighbour’s precious cat, purrs up at her expectantly. “Go home, Maurice. Go and shit in your own garden ... please.”

  “Mum!” Joe leans over their stable-style back door and shouts down the garden.

  Shh! You’ll wake the neighbours. She keeps her voice low. “Coming!”

  “I’m still hungry!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The clack of his boots on the tarmac rings out across the empty road as George Henson rounds the corner, air rifle hanging broken on his arm. Thirty more feet and he’ll be at his shop. He’s later than he’d usually be—if all was normal, but he’d taken his time to get out of bed this morning. Deliveries to the shop were generally made before the populace arose and certainly before the shop opened. By eight am, which is when he opened his doors to the public, everything had to be in its place and all meat freshly butchered and presented in pristine condition. George ran a tight ship, an exceptionally well-scrubbed and immaculately laid out ship, and had done so for the last forty-five years.

  His chest heaves with effort. Although he’d taken his time to arrive this morning, there being no shoppers to purchase the meat, there was a lot to do to prepare for this afternoon and he’d picked up his pace to walk briskly from his home on the other side of town. He checks his watch. Five-thirty, he notes with guilty discomfort—an hour later than usual. As he rounds the corner he stops.

  Damnable thieves!

  The thick black plastic, that Sam had so carefully taped across the broken door, flaps against the tarmac, and an empty shopping trolley sits parked next to the window. He’d cleared the shelves as Sam advised so there was nothing in the shop that they’d want, unless ... He strides to the door, anger overriding any sense of danger, and stares into the dingey shop. Everything is still. The chillers are empty. All cakes and pastries had been cleared yesterday and taken home to a thankful family or distributed to grateful bellies by Sam and Martha.

  At the back of the shop is the entrance to the butchery and cold rooms. Stepping in with a light foot he walks to the centre then stops to listen. Shuffling feet and the noise of someone exerting themselves is coming from the rooms. He can’t tell how many there are, but it has to be more than one.

  Taking another step forward, he lifts his broken rifle from his arm and clicks it into action with one swift move. He’d never used a gun on a human before yesterday, never had cause to, and carrying the weapon through the streets had felt unnatural. He’d nearly left it at home, particularly after his wife’s stern frown as he’d taken it back out of the gun locker. Cheryl had argued that he’d get into trouble and that it was against the law to carry a firearm. He’d countered that he had a license, knew what he was doing, and that as there were no police around to protect him, or their property, and, given that the country was descending into chaos, he had a right to bear arms. Once again, he’d been proven right.

  He turns into the doorway.

  Ahead of him, all is still in the butchery. The first block where they slice and chop the sides of beef and pork are empty, scrubbed down from yesterday’s mammoth task of butchering the entire contents of the cold store. He’d gone home with aching shoulders and a back knotted with tension, even his jaw had hurt from clenching, though that had come more from his anger at having to give away his stock. He’d argued that the people should at least make a contribution and Sam had relented and said that he’d take a donation box with him should anyone like to donate. George had been doubtful they’d be that generous and Sam had admitted that there’d be very little cash anyway given that it was days since the banks had been open and most people used cards to purchase goods anyway.

  A grunt sounds from the cold room, followed by a laugh, and he notices the trays piled up on the second butcher’s block and, next to them, the boxes he’d packed yesterday. Each tray is layered with prime cut sirloin, rump, and T-bone steaks, and the boxes are filled to the brim with pork or lamb chops, all ready for Sam’s barbecue. He’d finally agreed to Sam’s idea only because it was pointless, heart-breaking really, to let his meat go to waste and he wasn’t stubborn enough to let the animals’ lives be for nothing when there were people going without.

  The laugh comes again from the cold room and a figure, dressed from head to foot in bike leathers with a helmet to match, steps out, two more heavily stacked trays held in its arms. Despicable traitor; one of Sam’s Protectors! The man takes five steps into the room before realising George has him in his gun’s sights.

  “Put the tray down!” George growls.

  The man at least has the good grace to show a trace of fear beneath the surprise, but he doesn’t budge and quickly flips his visor closed.

  “I said put the tray down.”

  Another figure appears behind the thief’s shoulder and stares wide-eyed at George then grunts instructions to the man in front. Before George has time to react, the man takes a running step forward with the tray and smashes it against the muzzle of the gun. Taken by surprise, and felled by the weight of the tray, George crashes against the jamb of the door. The back of his head knocks against the wood as his finger pulls the trigger. Gunshot ricochets and plaster sprinkles to the floor tiles. Taking his chance, the attacker yanks the gun from George’s hand whilst pressing his weight down on the tray now laid across his chest. George grunts with discomfort. He makes an effort to breath, but the pressure on his chest is intense and, combined with the stench of warming blood, the air unpleasant. He takes short gasps.

  “Geroff!” he grunts.

  The man ignores him. “Take the trays out. I’ll hold him.”

  “Can’t breathe!” George gasps as pressure builds in his head.

  “Ease off a bit.” The other man steps over George’s legs. “You’ll kill him.”

  The pressure eases as the attacker reaches for George’s gun then sits back on his haunches. “Don’t move,” he grunts as George gasps at the air with relief. The pressure in his head eases and he glares at the man, taking note of any distinguishing marks on his leather jacket and helmet. He peers through the closed visor but doesn’t recognise the face behind the smoked glass. An incomer, one of the myriad men and women that have moved to the town in recent years for the cheaper housing and the pleasant environment that the town had to offer. It was a joke! The town’s main shopping street, with its traditional butchers and bakers were cited as one of the attractions the town had to offer, but did these people support the town and use those shops? No. No they did not. He could no longer name each person who walked past his shop. T
he town seemed full of strangers and they all shopped at the big supermarkets that had moved in and destroyed his business. Sure, he was clinging on, but gone were the days when he could consider himself wealthy, when butchering gave him status in the town and a healthy income.

  As the man stands, gun aimed at George’s head, the other returns to take the remaining trays that had been stacked on the table.

  “We’re done.” He steps back over George’s legs on his way to the door and the shopping trolley outside.

  “What are we going to do about him?” the other calls as he stares down at George.

  “Tie him up.”

  George groans but relief floods over him too; he’d half expected them to beat him or worse.

  “With what? I can’t see any rope.”

  The other returns. “Stick him in that room with the meat. There’s a bolt. We can lock him in.”

  George groans again.

  “Get up.”

  Without resistance, George staggers to his feet. The ache through his body is immense as arthritic knees push his heft from the floor. Following the thieves’ grunted instructions, he staggers to the cold room and notes with relief that much of the meat remains in situ. As the bolt slides to lock him inside the room, a sharp pain rides through his chest, and he gags on the stench of blood rotting in the now warming air as the pain travels down his left arm.