Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Thanks, Cash. No point carrying an axe if it can’t even cut through butter.”

  “Oh, they’ll cut through more than butter alright. Butcher’s standard they are.”

  “What about the other?”

  Riley steps forward and reaches beneath the dust sheets. He pulls out a long faux leather case and hands it to Mad Dog. “Fully loaded. Another round in the side pocket.”

  Mad Dog grunts his appreciation, takes the bag and slings it over his shoulder. No point giving anyone concern by carrying a firearm in clear view. No point giving themselves away either.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Riley steps into the van and passes axes, knives, crowbars, and a long-handled lump hammer to the crew.

  “Watch those blades,” Cash urges as Riley hands out the knives. “I nicked them from Henson’s and he keeps them sharp, and I mean real sharp. They’ll cut through bone like a slab of butter.”

  Satisfied grunts. Mad Dog looks on the long and heavy blades with fresh eyes. The knives were designed to pare flesh from bone, slice through bone and cartilage. His plans didn’t involve wholescale butchery but, if it came to it, then these were the perfect weapons.

  “Aye up!” Riley calls as he puts a protective hand on the open van door. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Walking up the street, from the direction of the Police Station is Chugger. At his side is his infamous chainsaw.

  “Is he coming for us?”

  “Who? Chugger? Nah.”

  “But he’s working for Sam.”

  Mad Dog steps out as it becomes obvious Chugger is heading in their direction.

  “How do, Chugger. What gives?”

  “I heard talk that you want to pay the Police Station a visit.”

  “You heard right. You got a problem with that?”

  Chugger stares hard at Mad Dog. The man’s breadth almost matches Jack’s own but Mad Dog towers above him. Still, head-butting with Chugger wasn’t something he’d take on lightly - Mad Dog wasn’t the only one with a reputation for channelling the spirit of a Beserker - plus he had the advantage of the chainsaw, and that gave him a psychotic edge that even Mad Dog balked at.

  “Nah, mate. Its been sticking in my guts that those animals weren’t finished off.”

  A lopsided smirk creases Mad Dog’s mouth as he listens. “We’ve had a chat—since we heard you were coming-”

  “News travels fast.”

  “Aye—and me and the lads—we’ve decided not to stand in your way.”

  “A wise choice.”

  “Sam’s a good bloke, but he made a mistake bringing them here. So, if you need me on board,” he raises the chainsaw, “then I’m with you.”

  “Good man.”

  “Can’t believe they saved food for them whilst our kids starve,” Riley adds as he reaches for the bag of cable ties from the hook inside the van. Riley pockets the keys. “Time to put a stop to this shit.”

  “They won’t have mouths to eat through by the time I’ve finished with them.”

  “I’m gonna make the bastards a new arsehole to shit through.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twelve. Six in one cell and six in the other.” Chugger replies. “The lads caught another group that were hiding in the toilets at the park.” His chainsaw hangs beside his leg. “I should have chopped them to pieces when they got off that lorry.”

  “Police should have done it when they got to the borders.”

  “The whole lot of ‘em want nuking.”

  “Let’s just concentrate on sorting out the ones that tried to kill us.”

  “Sam’s an arsehole letting them live.”

  “Who says he’s boss anyway?”

  “He’s not. He just thinks he is.”

  “He’s afraid,” Mad Dog explains. “He was too afraid of the consequences to execute them. The police, government, justice system, career politicians – they’d all come after him once this is over. He’d be the one on trial.”

  The men grunt in agreement.

  “No way terrorists are taking food and water from my kids’ bellies.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Leather jacket zipped to the neck, and Bowie knife strapped to his calf, Mad Dog places Percy over his shoulder. Named in honour of his Uncle Percy ‘Slasher’ Docherty, the improvised cat-o-nine-tails, a three-foot chain woven through with barbed wire wound into a nearly seven-inch ball at the end, is a weapon he won’t stint to use. Uncle Percy had earned his name back home in Northern Ireland when the troubles were still, well ... troubles. According to family lore, Slasher Docherty had saved more than a few Loyalists from Republican vengeance. Uncle Percy, so the stories went, had lost control of his violent inclinations on more than one occasion, slicing and dicing when he was only meant to put the mockers on the paramilitary thugs. Mind you, no one crossed Uncle Percy, and Mad Dog was damned sure no one would cross him either. The fanatical loons locked up in the cells would be shitting in their pants before the sun set on this beautiful English day. Let them see that they’d picked the wrong town to mess with.

  What Sam and the liberal, self-serving arseholes that inhabited government, didn’t appreciate was, that people like that, people who wanted to kill you dead in the street, or blow you up in your beds, needed the queasy, watery sensation of absolute fear squirming in their intestines at the very thought of facing the English. Sam wasn’t the man to do that job. Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty was. He’d do it for England, he’d do it for the people of this town, he’d do it for his wife and his children. He’d do it for Queen and he’d do it for Country. The government sure as hell wasn’t up to the job. Once he’d finished with the animals you’d only have to whisper ‘England’ to a jihadi and they’d shit themselves.

  The van’s engine thrums, its heavy vibrations mingling with the pounding of Mad Dog’s heart, his body alive with adrenaline. Powered up, he cuts at the air with a gloved fist, gesturing for his men to move forward.

  At the old Police Station, Mad Dog steps through to the reception area. The door ahead, the one that will lead him to the cells is propped open with a wedge of wood. The place had changed though he could still see the room as it was when he’d been a teenager attending the Magistrates Court. The place echoes with the old magistrate, his gavel knocking on the desk, his shout of ‘Send ... him ... down’ issued in a deeper tone for effect.

  Sweat trickles down Mad Dog’s back as he strides to the open door. Same place, same layout, just painted cream. A door closes and locks—Sam’s Protectors locking themselves inside their mess room; no see, no talk. Good lads—they’d made the right choice. As Chugger had said, there was no point getting beaten up for the sake of a bunch of murdering bastards that wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.

  He turns to his men. “If anyone tries to stop us—none of ours get hurt.”

  “Got it.”

  “Clarify hurt.”

  “ABH not GBH.”

  “Got it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Get that door closed,” Jack commands. “And close the one behind us.” He wasn’t about to make things easy for the terrorists if things didn’t go quite to plan, mind you, he had no intention of plans not going his way.

  Despite the breeze, as the doors close, the place is rich with a mouldering and muggy stench; the stink of sweat, rancid breath, shit, and piss. Mad Dog slides the peephole of the first cell open. The stench becomes intense. He scans the small room: six men sit, squat, or lie on the carpeted floor. Two stand and glare at the peephole. A slop bucket stands beneath the small, barred, and locked window, no doubt one source of the offending stench. He slams the peephole door shut as one of the men bares his teeth and lurches forward. The flying spittle, and bared, grubby teeth remind him of Shauna’s chihuahua. A nasty little mutt that looked cute but that snapped and snarled like a demented beast at anyone who tried to stroke it.

  Mad Dog eases Percy off his shoulder and w
raps the first foot of chain around his gloved hand. “Chugger, start the motor.”

  The buzz of the chainsaw fills the corridor. With Chugger at his shoulder, and Percy in his right hand, Mad Dog opens the door. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, his hair brushes the top of the frame. The man with the snapping yellow teeth lurches at him but jumps back as Chugger steps forward with his chainsaw. The rotating blade fills the cell with its angry buzz.

  “You!” Mad Dog jabs a finger at the youngest man in the cell. “Come here.”

  Mad Dog smirks as the lad’s eyes widen, fear flickering in their depths, as he steps forward. A scowl sets on Mad Dog’s face as a protective arm shoots across the lad’s belly creating a barrier.

  “Out,” Mad Dog barks at the lad. He pushes against the arm but a hand pushes back at his shoulder and he steps back.

  The man spits at the lad in pigeon English. “You no move.”

  Either the bloke is speaking English for Mad Dog’s benefit or the lad doesn’t speak their language. Either way, the lad will move. Percy clinks on the floor, its barbs scratching against the caustic tiles.

  “I said out.”

  Some of the men shrink back against the walls. Others stare back in defiance. The largest takes a defiant step forward “No! He stays.”

  “That’s your second mistake, mate.” Mad Dog tells him.

  The man grunts. “What is my first?”

  “Picking on this town.” Mad Dog lays Percy back over his shoulder. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way then. Cover me, Chugger.”

  Chugger grunts, and the heavy buzz of his chainsaw fills the air. Before the man has a chance to react, and in one swift movement, Mad Dog steps inside the cell and launches himself, hands clawed and outstretched, at the defiant man. Mad Dog forces his thumbs into the man’s mouth, thrusting them to the back of his throat, his huge fingers grip the back of his skull and he swings the head onto the wall. Chugger takes a protective step, chainsaw buzzing maniacally, between Mad Dog and the other inmates as the man splutters and chokes. Pulling the man out of the cell, and into the corridor, the chainsaw’s menace keeps the others at bay. The door slams shut and the cell bursts with shouts.

  “Open the peephole,” Mad Dog commands as he presses the large man up against the wall. His eyes bulge as Mad Dog’s thumbs press hard against his tonsils. “I want them to see this.”

  As the peephole slides open, the corridor fills with shouting. The door vibrates, as the prisoners hammer against it. Eyes stare out. Mad dog begins.

  Fingers still inside the man’s mouth, Mad Dog slams his head against the wall and simultaneously brings his knee up to the man’s crotch. The head makes a satisfying thud and the prisoner emits a gurgled scream, bunching over. Extricating his thumbs from the man’s mouth, Mad Dog punches at his jaw. Knuckles graze across his nose and blood spatters against cream paint. Giving him no time to recover, Mad Dog punches from the other side. The man’s head knocks hard against wall. The red haze rises and Mad Dog dances to the buzz of the chainsaw. Punch. Punch. Punch. Blood sprays in arcs, spattering the walls like a cliched scene from a pulp fiction movie. Within a minute the man sinks to the floor, his lips split, his nose broken, eyes closed and already beginning to show the swelling of damage. The men inside the cell have quieted.

  The chainsaw idles. “I think he’s done, Jack.”

  Mad Dog pants. His knuckles sting and his arms ache. “He will be ... Take his head off.”

  “Ey?”

  “We’ve got to show them we mean business. Cut his head off.”

  Chugger stares at Mad Dog incredulous. “Serious?”

  “Serious.”

  Chugger stands rigid as their eyes lock. The cell erupts with noise. Mad Dog takes hold of the terrorist’s hair and pulls his chin from his chest. “This man came to kill us. Came to kill our wives and our children. He came to kill our country. They want us to live in terror, Henry. They want to destroy us and they need to be taught a lesson.”

  Chugger’s face drops to a deadly determination. “Hold him up then.”

  Mad Dog pulls the man from the wall and drags him to the middle of the corridor.

  “You’re not really-”

  The shouting from inside the cell rises to a cacophony. Mad Dog turns to the screaming men and smiles as he tightens his grip around the fistful of hair and lifts the man’s chin to elongate his neck and give Chugger and his chainsaw a clear path. “This is what happens when you try to kill us, you cock-sucking arseholes!” He turns back to Chugger. “Do it before he wakes up.” The chainsaw’s teeth rotate. “Come on, man! Do it!”

  The chainsaw’s grinding teeth hover level with the man’s throat.

  “They’ll kill us all if we don’t make a stand.”

  “Burn us in our beds.”

  “Exactly.”

  The man’s eyes flicker.

  “Now!”

  As the chainsaw slides into position and begins to cut, the man’s eyes widen. He bucks, but his scream is cut short as the chainsaw chews through skin, cuts through his voice box, then saws through vertebrae. Its blade reappears within seconds at the back of his neck. The headless body slumps bloodied and jerking to the floor. Mad Dog raises the head in triumph. “This is what happens when you attack us!” he shouts at the peering eyes. “This!” He shakes the head. The cells fall silent. Mad Dog turns to Riley. “Get me a bag to stick this in, and let’s get these shitheads up to the bridge.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The rain had come down in a torrent, and the fire had hissed then sizzled as the drops fell, making the fire smoulder then die. Sam surveys the damage; a blackened arc of grass surrounds the area where the barbecues had stood and several of the nearby trees are charred. Only one has been destroyed and that had been an ancient pine already half-dead. The carcass lays across the old tennis court, its trunk snapped like a burnt matchstick. Small groups have gathered and stand talking among themselves, pointing to the grass, the tree, the ivy smouldering on the museum. Their gaze lands heavily on Sam’s shoulders as they mouth at each other, turn back to the burnt grass, and continue to dissect the event.

  “Did you see how fast that fire moved?”

  “It was unreal.”

  “Sam was quick to act. He ...”

  “The barbecues should have been on the tarmac.”

  “Like a wildfire.”

  “It’s so dry ...”

  “The grass and trees were like tinder.”

  A couple walk past. “How did it start?”

  “There was a fight at one of the barbecue stations. It tipped up. The next thing boom! The grass was lit and people were screaming and running to get out of the way.”

  A familiar voice rises above the others. “It’s a miracle it didn’t spread across the entire park.” Haydock!

  “It was put out quickly. They had fire extinguishers-.”

  “No thanks to Fireman Sam!”

  “Sam was right in there. Did you see him?”

  “The Protectors did a good job. It was all over within minutes.”

  “Those children nearly died. If it hadn’t been for that brave young girl I hate to think what would have happened.” Haydock again! “It’s Sam Monroe’s fault it started in the first place. Gross misconduct on his part.”

  “I think that’s pushing it a bit, Colin. Those kids were never really-”

  “He’s not the right man to be leading this community. I-”

  “Shh! He’s standing right there.”

  Haydock was becoming a perpetual thorn in Sam’s side and this time his words cut deep; the burden of failure weighed heavy on his shoulders.

  “I’m just saying that I don’t think he’s the right man to-”

  “Colin! Keep your voice down.”

  “I suppose you think that you’re the right man to-”

  “Shh! He’s coming over.”

  “I’m not one for holding back, Sheila. If it hadn’t been for the rain then the whole park would
have gone up in flames.” He shifts his foot back onto the still living grass as Sam approaches. The adrenaline that had surged through Sam as he’d sprayed the fire with foam and then helped evacuate the park as the rain poured had settled in his belly as rolling nausea. Chest tight with the strain, he grits his teeth as he takes the last step to Councillor Colin Haydock.

  “Got something to say to me, Haydock?”

  “He didn’t mean it, Sam.” Lipstick is smudged across Sheila’s lips, layered with particles of soot, darker around her nostrils and upper lip. Haydock’s mouth is a mirror image of soot and lipstick. Sam stares from one to the other in confusion. They hated each other yet here Sheila was sticking up for him and the evidence seemed to suggest that they’d been kissing!

  “You don’t speak for me, Sheila!”

  A wave of dislike floods over Sam as Councillor Haydock’s eyes flit across the burnt grass. “If you’ve got something to say about me, be man enough and say it to my face.”

  Whatever layer of civility Sam had has gone, stripped away by the trauma of the afternoon. If Haydock continues to wind him up, he’s going to clock him one.

  Haydock turns to face him, his face set hard. “This,” he says sweeping his arm in a wide and dramatic arc gesturing to the burnt grass, “this wasteland is the result of your inadequacy.”

  “It’s hardly a wasteland, Colin. It’s not that bad.”

  Ignoring Sheila’s efforts at damping the situation down, Sam steps forwards, dislike hardening to anger.

  “This, I repeat.” Colin’s eyes narrow. “Is your fault.”

  Sam takes another step forward, his mouth contorting to a snarl. His fists clench.

  Haydock takes a step back, his feet slipping against the gnarled roots of the tree. He falters but doesn’t fall, steadies himself against the tree’s trunk then stares back at Sam with defiance.

  “I call for a motion of no confidence.”

  “For God’s sake, Colin!”

  “It was an accident.”

  A larger group has gathered to listen. Martha takes Sam’s arm by the elbow, pulling him back from Councillor Haydock.