“He’s the one who brought them right into the town. Now we’re all living in fear in case they break out and murder us whilst we sleep.”
“They’re locked up.”
“They’re ready to break out and murder us. He shouldn’t have brought them into the town.”
Shauna reaches down to grab the box of meat. Nigel intercepts. “No. Sam said-”
Jack takes control. “I’m not interested in what Sam said,” he growls and takes a step closer to the cook.
“Take it!” Nigel jumps back, flinching at Jack’s looming face, and throws the spatula onto the grille as though it is suddenly white hot. It lands with a clink against the hot grille and flips to the dry grass.
As Shauna flips open the box of layered steaks, and the crowd gathers to look inside, shouts erupt in the background. “There’s enough to feed fifty people here.”
Discontent grumbles as men jostle to look into the box of layered steaks. “He’s giving them rump steak.”
“They should be on gruel.”
“He’s a traitor bringing them into the town and protecting them.”
“They should be starved.”
“Prisoners have rights.”
“You’re taking the piss. They’ve come here to kill us. They should be hung.”
“Fireman bloody Sam, lefty-do-gooder.”
“It’s liberal idiots like him that’ve ruined our country.”
Thud! An arm swings, fist curled tight, and punches. The apologist falls with a thud to the floor, knocking over a woman and child. She screams and lands against another man. He knocks into another who drops his steak to the ground. Jack watches as in less than three seconds the crowd becomes a heaving mass of jostling angry men and women, pushing, shoving, and punching at each other.
“Watch out!” The crowd surges as people attempt to move out of the way of the men and women now fighting in earnest.
If Sam hadn’t brought those animals into the town then this wouldn’t be happening. “Forget the meat.” Mad Dog growls as a woman screams, falls back and knocks into a large barbecue. “It’s the terrorists we need to sort.”
The woman’s scream intensifies as hot coals tumble to the grass, catching her forearm and her skirt as they fall.
“Forget the meat? No way. It needs cooking—there’s kiddies here who are starving.”
“Look at this mess, Shauna,” Mad Dog jabs at the chaotic scene. “The terrorists have got what they want—these people are terrified.”
The woman jumps away from the fallen barbecue, patting at her skirt as someone bats at the smoking grass with a jacket.
“It’s all that Sam’s fault. Go sort it, Jack.”
Passing the spatula to Shauna he steps from behind the grille and slaps a hand on Ryan’s back. “Get everyone together, we’re going to pay the terrorists a visit.” A tight smile breaks across his face as excitement begins to pump through his blood. Sam may not have the bollocks to finish off those murderous bastards but Jack’s were big enough for the both of them; they didn’t call him ‘Mad Dog’ for nothing. His fists flex as he imagines grabbing one of the vile dogs and ripping it apart with his bare hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bill scans the area as he takes another bite of steak. It’s the best he has ever tasted and his mouth waters as he chews, his body ravenous for the next bite.
“Hell, I was hungry. No offence Jessie, but living on dried fruit and nuts is just not for me.”
“Don’t forget the tinned Irish stew,” she laughs.
“I will never forget that tin of Irish stew,” he replies with a grimace.
“I’ve also got a Fray Bentos pie.”
“Now you’re talking.” He laughs again through a mouthful of chewed meat. “I thought they’d stopped making those in the eighties.”
“Nope.”
“You got a supply of industrial strength can openers then?”
She laughs. “Yes, I do. Anyway, only numpties can’t open them.”
A group of men push past through the crowds catching Bill’s attention. “Twelve o’clock,” he says to Jessie. “Check out that group.”
He watches as the group, headed by a man who rivals Uri in height and breadth, leads the way through the crowds towards the park’s main entrance.
“Looks like they’re on a mission.”
“It does. Hazzer!” Hazzer grunts through a mouthful of meat. “The bloke over there—the big one—black t-shirt, black hair, built like a brick shithouse.” Bill points to the huge figure as it passes through the gates. “What can you tell me about him?”
“That’s Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty. Local hard man.”
“Is he?”
“Hard as they come.”
“Criminal?”
“Just low-level stuff. Likes to throw himself around now and then but not been in real trouble for a good few years. The whole family are a bit lairy, mind. Most locals know not to get in their way.”
Bill watches as the group disappear through the park’s entrance.
“Any idea where they’d be going in such a hurry?”
“No idea. I’m not about to go and find out neither; he’s earned his name.”
“Mad Dog?”
“Yeah. If you ever saw him in a fight you’d see why.”
“Right.”
The group of men disappears.
“Mind you,” Hazzer continues, “it’s his sister that’s the scary one. Nigel’ll tell you all about that. Bruised and battered he was and they were only seeing each other behind his wife’s back.”
A scream forces Bill’s attention away from the road beyond the gates, and Hazzer’s tale of extra-marital domestic violence, and back to the interior of the park. Black smoke plumes upwards.
“Fire!”
“Has one of the barbecues caught light?”
The smoke thickens.
Bill scans the jostling crowd.
People near the flames turn and force themselves through the gathered crowd, slow to realise what’s happening and still waiting to join the queues. Screams erupt as the fire takes hold and begins to spread through the grass. Flames lick at the edges of a tarmacked pathway and leap into a tree. The grass is parchment dry after a hot and rainless summer. Even the thunderstorm that had raged only the other day hadn’t relieved the scorched earth. Fire jumps to a low shrub. Red and orange flames flicker and the air moves with the heat.
Screams and shouts of ‘run!’ erupt as people at the outer edges of the crowd realise what is happening. Some watch confused. One man reaches for his phone and holds it up before realising the power is still out. Suddenly the whole park is moving as the smoke blackens and the fire spreads. Embers float, rising in an eddying swirl on the super-heated air.
“Where’s Sam?”
“Last I saw he was talking with Martha near the museum, but that was ten minutes ago.”
“Bill,” Hazzer asks, “what do we do?”
“Evacuate the people and find something to put the fire out with,”
“The museum should have fire extinguishers,” Jessie suggests.
“There were only two. Sam checked earlier,” Hazzer replies. “He took them and had them put near the biggest barbecues.” He jabs in the direction of the main barbecue area.
“Good man. Hazzer, stay calm and guide these people out.” He pats his shoulder and turns to Jessie just as Sam appears at the corner of the museum. Hands on hips, Sam stares out at the chaos. Bill waves his arms high, catching his attention. “Sam!” he shouts but the man seems bewildered. Come on! Get your act together. As Bill waves and shouts again, Jessie runs towards the museum, and Hazzer cups his hands around his mouth, takes a deep breath and bellows. “Make your way to the carpark and out of the gates.”
SAM’S HEART THUDS WITH a sickening tattoo against his chest. The park is filled with black and twisting smoke, shouts and screaming. The twisted flesh along his side and neck runs with pain. He swallows, overwhelmed by the moment. Someon
e calls his name, but the voice is at the periphery of the black smoke and screams smothering his senses. A hand taps hard on his shoulder.
“Sam! Sam!” The tap becomes a thump as the voice shouts into his ear.
“Martha-”
“The fire extinguishers, Sam. Get them.”
‘Take a breath. Nice and calm.’
Martha pushes at his shoulder. “You gave them to Mike and Helen.” Insistent, she tugs at his sleeve.
‘Breath in. Breath out. Calm. That’s right, Sam. Feel the calm around you.’
A woman trips just feet away.
“Mum!”
A new strength takes control and without thought Sam steps forward, crouches to the woman, puts a protective arm around her shoulders and helps her to stand. “Make your way to the carpark then out through the gates.” His voice is steady, strong with authority. She thanks him quickly, slides an arm across her son’s shoulder, then moves on at a slower pace towards the exit.
Martha sighs next to him, whether in relief or exasperation he doesn’t have time to decide.
“Sam!”
Bill! “There are two fire extinguishers in the park,” Sam fires at him. “Third station to your left.”
“Got it.” Bill runs to the third station without further comment.
“Martha.” Sam grabs her elbow, wheeling her to face him. “Make your way to the carpark and go out through the gates.”
“But-”
“Out through the gates, Martha.”
Standing on tip-toes, she places a firm kiss on his lips then runs across the grass and past the museum. Relieved, he turns back to the fire. Despite the smoke and the chaos of running people, he can discern a clear line where the fire is biting at the summer-browned grass. Behind the stretch of burning grass, a pathway that meanders through the park forms a boundary of sorts. Behind the path is a large and derelict tennis court sprouting with weeds and beyond that a twenty-foot garden wall divides the park from the neighbouring property. If he can put the fire out as it burns across the grass then they have a chance of catching it before it spreads any further.
As Bill reaches for the extinguisher at the third station, Sam searches the first for the other cannister. Where the hell is it? Sam knocks the barbecue’s lid closed to kill the flames and spots the cylinder hidden under a coat. He flings the coat to the side, grabs the extinguisher and makes his way to the wall of flames.
UNNOTICED, A FLAME licks at the grass and creeps beneath a tree, devours last year’s dried pine needles, and leaps into its low branches. Three children, run down the path and onto the safety of the tennis court. The youngest, a boy of three begins to cry. His sister, the eldest by eighteen months, grabs his hand and calls through the smoke. “Mummy!”
SAM STRIDES TOWARDS the fire racing out from the tipped-up barbecue and passes Bill as he opens up his extinguisher. An explosion of white powdery foam fills the air with a hiss. Bill sprays it in controlled sweeps, driving the fire back to the tarmacked path.
THE FIRE DEVOURS THE low branches of the dying pine tree, eats at its dried and rotting trunk, then leaps upwards jumping from bough to bough.
JESSIE HITS AT THE smoking grass with the fire blanket she’d found hanging by the door of the museum’s café along with a third, smaller extinguisher.
“Frannie! ... Josh! ... Ben!”
The woman’s shout is high-pitched, more of a scream than a call. Instantly alerted, Jessie turns. A woman, blonde hair scraped back, knuckles white as she grips the handle of an empty pushchair, shouts through the chaotic crowds. A man pushes past her as he grabs the arm of a teenage girl. The pair run towards the exit oblivious to the woman’s desperate calls.
“Frannie!” The shout is louder, more desperate.
Through the chaos of smoke and shouting a child’s scream. “Mummy!”
Jessie follows the voice beyond the wall of flames. Three children stand huddled on the old tennis court. A quick assessment of the terrain and it’s clear that they’re trapped on three sides. A tree to their right is aflame and, although it’s unlikely to fall, burning embers, red and angry, are swirling around them. Behind them is a wall too high for them to climb. To their left, beyond the tennis courts the wall links to the old stables and joins the corner of the museum. A door sits between the two buildings. The way is clear but the children don’t move.
“Run to the door!” Jessie shouts. Oblivious they remain huddled on the tennis court. Flames reach the top of the burning pine and its dead wood crackles. Embers whirl over the children. The smallest, a tiny boy of about three, screams as hot and burning ash lands on his head. The tree begins to lean.
Jessie has to act. Now!
Holding the blanket over her arm like a shield with the extinguisher tucked into her waistband, she takes a breath and runs at the fire.
“Jessie!” Bill shouts as she enters the flames.
The heat is immense. Holding the blanket over her legs and torso, she sprints through the flames and across the burning grass to the path then throws herself down and rolls. The small extinguisher pushed into her waistband jabs at her hip with each turn.
Old and untended, the derelict tennis courts are pitted and overgrown with grass, and edged with shrubs now showered with burning embers. Fire dances on the tarmac, lighting the dried moss, lichen, and grasses growing through its decaying surface.
Jessie bats at the embers as they fall around her and runs to the children.
The tree crackles as flames devour its needles, twigs, branches and boughs. It’s trunk splits as its bark burns and it leans a little closer to the tennis courts.
“Come with me.”
The girl, blonde plaits framing a tear-stained and terrified, heat-reddened face, stares back at Jessie. “Come with me,” Jessie repeats as she throws the blanket over the children’s heads. The tiny boy screams and a burning branch breaks from the pine tree and crashes to the tarmac sending a shower of burning needles, twigs and embers across the group.
The children scream and cling to Jessie.
“We have to go,” she urges with growing frustration as they grab at her jeans. What was wrong with them? Why won’t they move? She can pick one up and run, probably two, but not all three. She’ll have to try a different tactic. She crouches, her eyes meeting theirs as the tree shrieks, its boughs twisting. The air is full of black, billowing smoke and burning orange flames. “Listen. I know it’s frightening, but we have to run to that door. Do you see it?” Jessie points to the ancient door set within the wall that bridges the house and stable block.
“But it’s on fire,” the blonde girl says looking at the tiny fires that litter the tennis court, burning the weeds and grass that have broken through the rotten tarmac.
Behind them the tree burns with fierce intensity.
“We don’t have a choice. We have to run across.”
“But it’s burning,” the girl repeats.
Jessie reaches for the small fire extinguisher wincing as the cannister passes over bruised flesh. “I’m going to make a path, OK. Just follow me.” She unclips the nozzle, pulls the lever and sprays a circle of white foam around the children then directs the spray in front of them. “Follow the white path.”
“He won’t move.”
“Hell!” Jessie stares at the tiny boy. He clings to the girl. She bends down and scoops him up. He screams as his grip is tugged from the girl’s cardigan. The tree creaks and shudders. They have to move now. “You two.” She does her best to keep her voice calm and soft. “Each of you hold a corner of the blanket and follow me.”
The older boy looks at her with worried eyes.
Please move! “We can do this.” She pulls the blanket to cover their hair. “Hold hands. Get ready. Go!”
Spraying the foam before her, she follows the path of white making sure to walk at a steady pace. The desire to run is enormous, but the tiny boys would never be able to keep up with her pace. “Follow me. Don’t stop”. Time seems to slow as she treads to the
closed door, holding the girl tight to her chest, her head buried against Jessie’s neck.
The burning pine shatters.
The door slams open.
“Run! Jessie, run!” Alex charges forward, hands outstretched, eyes focused on the space behind her.
A whoosh of heat pushes against her back, searing the air and burning at her earlobes. Her lungs burn as she gasps for air. Alex pushes past her. She sprints to the door, knocking against the jamb as the tree smashes down onto the tennis court. Clinging to the boy she pivots then slams against the stable wall. A flash of blue and she stumbles, knocking her knees against the cobbles, her arms wrapped around the boy’s tiny body, a protective hand spread across the back of his skull.
Breathless, and hugging the boy to her, she stares out through the doorway. It is entirely filled with flames and burning branches.
Alex!
Still gripped by tiny fists, the blue blanket hides the children as Alex sets them onto the cobbles.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Mad Dog strides across the road, the sun reflects with a hard and unforgiving heat from the black tarmac. Dark patches spread from the pits of his T-shirt and sweat beads, then trickles down his temples, disappearing into the dark edges of his neatly trimmed beard. His fists clench as the Police Station comes into view.
He takes a sharp left and marches to the car park where Riley has parked the van. His men turn in greeting.
“The van loaded?” he asks.
Riley opens the van’s rear doors. An assortment of tools sits in a neat pile to one side. On the other there are coils of rope and neatly folded dust sheets along with a thick pile of plastic sheeting.
“You get the cable ties?”
“In the bag.” Riley gestures to a plastic ‘forever’ supermarket shopper hanging on a hook.
“I sharpened everything.”
Mad Dog turns to Cash and nods his appreciation. A short stocky man, he could always be relied on to remember the finer details.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 63
