Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “He’s not worth it, Sam.”

  “I told him earlier.” Haydock raises his voice, playing to the gathering crowd, gaining confidence. “There’s no insurance for this. Who’s going to pay for this mess.”

  “Insurance! Is that all you can think about? Sam was just trying to feed people. They’re starving. He did his best-”

  “People could have died today!”

  “No one died, no one was even hurt.”

  “Pure luck! It is an unavoidable fact that the decision of Sam Monroe, who I have to add is not an elected representative of this town, nearly brought about the destruction of the town’s park and one of its most important and historic buildings.” He gestures to the still smouldering building.

  “Give it a rest, Haydock. The house hasn’t burned down—it’s just the ivy up the front that’s burnt—the rain put it out.”

  “And what would have happened if the rain hadn’t come? The whole damned lot would have burned down.”

  “It was the idiot who knocked over the barbecue—it’s his fault not Sam’s.”

  “Sam’s the idiot. Who in his right mind sets up barbecues on grass this dry?”

  “That’s not what you said earlier, Colin. You said you couldn’t wait for your bit of steak.”

  Haydock looks down at Sheila and scowls. “Shut up woman.”

  In the next second, Sheila’s right arm flies through the air and a slap reverberates across the burnt grass as her palm lands across Haydock’s cheek. “It’s always the same. You wind me in with your sweet words and as soon as you get your feet under the table its back to the same old Colin—irritating beyond belief. You’re an arse Colin. Always have been and always will be.”

  A flush rises beneath the soot on Councillor Haydock’s face. “And you, my dear, are a termagant. Not that someone of your ilk would know what that means,” he finishes with a smirk and a roll of his upper lip.

  Sheila raises her arm again and catches Haydock another slap. “I know exactly what that means.”

  “You’d never know they were once engaged.”

  Sam snorts. “You’re kidding?”

  “Sam!”

  Sam turns to the voice and watches as Stewart runs through the iron gates waving his arms.

  “Sam!” Sweat beads from Stewart’s forehead, his chest rising in great heaves. “Sam ...”

  “Steady on Stu. Catch your breath.” Dread waves over Sam as he watches the overweight man catch his breath, three others run up behind him. “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve gone. The terrorists,” Stewart pants, resting his hands on his knees, his face puce with exertion. “They’ve gone.”

  “What!”

  “The terrorists have escaped?” Colin interjects. “How completely useless are you Sam?”

  “Shut up, Haydock,” Stewart shouts back.

  “Tell me. What the hell has happened?”

  “Not here.”

  “Walk with me back to the station.”

  As they round the corner of the museum out of earshot, Sam pulls Stewart to the side. “Well?”

  “Mad Dog took them.”

  “Helped them escape?”

  “No. He’s taken them for execution.”

  “Jesus!” Sam pushes his fingers through his short fringe. “Where’s he taken them?”

  “To the bridge.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The men stand in a huddle at the back of the van guarded by Chugger with his chainsaw.

  “Don’t even think about running. I’ll chop your feet off with Bessie,” he shouts with a menacing swipe of the rotating saw. Bessie burrs in the wind.

  “Old Chugger’s in love with that Bessie,” Riley laughs as he hands a coil of rope to Mad Dog.

  Mad dog snorts. “I think he’s found his vocation. Executioner with menace.”

  “Jack,” Riley says as he passes Mad Dog another coil of rope. “I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for this.”

  Their eyes meet above the hessian and Jack holds the man’s gaze. “Don’t get me wrong. I think we’re doing the right thing,” he stutters as Jack’s eyes bore into him, “I just don’t ... don’t think I can be the one ...”

  “I get it.” Jack replies. Riley was one of his oldest friends. He didn’t doubt his loyalty, but he’d never been one for getting into the nitty gritty of a fight. “We’re all in on this, Riley. It’ll be easy. You just need to help tie the ropes onto the barricade.”

  The man looks at him uneasily.

  “Riley. These men declared war on us the moment they decided to arm themselves and attack the town. Make no mistake, if they’d had the chance they would have killed us. We’re protecting our own. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Mad Dog swings his leg over the barrier that separates the road from the path and runs down to the walkway. A five-foot railing lines the entire length of the bridge met either end by suicide fencing. Jack can’t think of the bridge without the chop, chop of a helicopter. It seemed every month, and sometimes weekly, in the winter when the days were short and the nights long and dark, that a helicopter would hover for hours above the bridge. They’d speculate about its presence. Was the helicopter hovering because the jumper was still on the bridge or were the rescue team looking for the body? Sometimes it would be a young girl, other times an older man. Sometimes they could be talked down. Other times they jumped and then it was game over. No one survived. Falling one hundred feet to the water meant you might as well be hitting concrete. Jack had never been able to understand how anyone could jump to their deaths. Just how desperate and tortured did you have to be to force yourself off the side? He certainly didn’t have the guts. He takes hold of the railing and shudders as he peers down into the fast-flowing and murky water. The nappy factory that had been built along the river’s bank had been painted to blend in with the river. From some angles, you really couldn’t see the factory which was amazing given the size of the place. You’d think blue would be the colour of choice, but no, what camouflaged the ugly warehouses along the bank was a murky purplish-brown.

  He slings the rope over the barrier and ties it into place. “Six feet apart,” he shouts to Riley. “Make sure the ropes are tied six feet apart.”

  The five ropes in place, anchored six feet apart, the men are marched out of the van and forced down to the walkway. Four remain silent, but the fifth is snivelling and pulling against the cable ties.

  “I have a wife. Please. I have child. Please. Please. I beg you.” He drops to his knees as the end of the rope is tied around his neck. For a second a wave of pity washes over Mad Dog.

  “Fucking English,” a voice shouts. “All die you pigs.”

  The wave of pity dissipates and he steps to the pleading man. “You have a wife and child?”

  “Yes, yes.” The man’s eyes light up with hope.

  “Tell me, what are their names.”

  “My wife, she is Khadeeja. My son, he is Yasim, my daughter, she is baby, she is Noor.”

  “And you love them?”

  “Yes, yes, I do.”

  “The way I love my wife and my children perhaps?”

  The man’s eyes flicker with uncertainty as an edge creeps into Mad Dog’s voice, but he nods. “Yes, like you. Like you.”

  “Then perhaps you should have thought about them before you came to my town trying to kill my wife and my kids,” Mad Dog replies as the man continues to plead. “Now you can serve a better purpose.”

  “Yes, a purpose. Let me serve another purpose. Please, I can do for you a purpose.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mohammed bin Saleem.”

  Mad dog leans in. “Well, Mohammed bin Saleem. I’m going to let you send a message to all the Islamists, extremists, and jihadis who want to try to do us harm.”

  The man nods in wide-eyed anticipation.

  Mad Dog continues. “It’s a very important message.”

  “Yes, yes. I tell them. You tell me what I do.�
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  “It’s simple. All you have to do is hang at the end of this rope. You don’t even have to say anything.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry. The rope will break your neck. You’ll die within a few minutes and then your body is going to dangle below the bridge, shouting out its message loud and clear until your flesh rots and your head separates from your body and it falls into the water. That, Mohamed Bin Saleem, you racist, bigoted, hate-filled monster, is the purpose that you can do for me.”

  All thoughts of mercy gone, Mad Dog stands back and surveys his handiwork. Five men kneel with their hands tied, ropes around their necks. The thrum of an engine catches his attention. A red car speeds down the slip road and onto the bridge.

  “Could be Sam!”

  “So what? He’s not man enough to stop us.”

  “Could be them soldiers?”

  Mad Dog takes another look at the advancing car and steps quickly to the row of men. Nothing and nobody was going to stop him. “Haul ‘em up,” he commands. Hands grab arms, two men for each terrorist. Grunts, sobs, shouts, pleading. “Push them up against the barriers—waist to the railing.” Mad Dog instructs as the car speeds towards them.

  “Grab the ankles,” he barks.

  A trickle of urine puddles near his boot and wets his hand.

  “Lift.”

  The car screeches to a stop and doors slam open.

  “Hey!”

  “And over.”

  Ten legs are lifted in unison and five men are somersaulted over the bars. They jolt and buck in a macabre dance of death as the ropes tighten with their weight. Mad Dog had expected more noise, but they dangle soundless below the bridge, suspended in mid-air, bucking like maggots hooked on a fishing line.

  Two figures run towards him, their heavy footsteps creating a sharp echo as the noise rebounds on the massive concrete pillars that hold the suspension bridge.

  “Too late,” he shouts up to the man and woman leaning over the barrier. First the woman and then the man vault over and run down the side to the walkway. “You missed the party.”

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Mad Dog recognises this one as the ex-soldier they’ve nicknamed Thor. “Delivered justice.”

  Mad Dog expects an argument but the soldier remains silent and the woman peers over the edge of the railings.

  “You’re not going to try to stop it?”

  “Stop what?” the man asks and Mad Dog smiles.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “It’s not a pretty sight, Sam. Perhaps the ladies should wait back here.”

  The heavy door leading through to the corridor of cells opens a fraction as Baz pulls at it. He waits for Sam’s reply. “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “You may want to wait here, Martha.” Sam fingers the length of iron he’d picked up from his office before venturing to the cells.

  “I’m not squeamish, Sam.”

  “It’s bad, Martha,” Baz reiterates above the shouts from the one cell that still holds prisoners. “Real bad.”

  “I’ve seen stuff—on the telly. I watch NCIS. Nothing will shock me. Come on, get on with it.”

  The door widens to allow them through.

  The first thing that hits Sam is the smell. The fug of male sweat and fear that had filled the corridor on his last visit has been replaced with a stench that wraps itself over his lips and crawls up his nose. He holds down the urge to gag.

  “Watch where you step. The floor’s a mess.”

  “It’s covered in blood!”

  The small tiles, worn over the decades, are covered with bloody boot prints and smears.

  “Stay back there, Martha.”

  “But-”

  “No. Just stop back there.”

  Stepping into the corridor, the door of the empty cell is wide open. Tell-tale black scuff marks litter the back of the door to waist level.

  “Looks like they tried kicking their way out.”

  “No chance with these doors—they’re four inches thick and the hinges are solid iron—none of this cheap imported Chinese crap.”

  Sam grunts as he scans the space. The walls, once institution green, have been over-painted with cream, the same paint that covers each wall throughout the building. In here though, unlike the clean surfaces of the other rooms, a new pattern has sprayed across the walls—the iconic red spatter of a murder scene.

  “Did they execute them here?”

  “Only this one.” Baz shines torchlight into the corner, illuminating a slumped figure, leaning at a skewed angle against the wall. Sam grimaces. The top of the body is squared off presenting a horizontal plane of broad shoulders.

  “Where’s the head?”

  Light shifts to the torso and dead eyes stare out into the hallway from the severed head.

  Martha lets out a small groan of disgust and undisguised fascination. “It’s staring at me,” she whispers. “Can’t you close its eyes?”

  “Not me,” Baz replies. “I’m not touching it.

  Noise rumbles behind the closed door of the other cell and Sam slides the peephole door across. The waft of body odour, faeces and urine stings his nose and the shouting rises to a cacophony as the six men still trapped there realise he’s looking in.

  “You let us out.”

  “Human rights! Is against human rights.”

  “Guantanamo! You are Guantanamo!”

  “Shut up, Khalil.”

  “English pig bastards.” A man pushes off from the wall and steps towards the door, his face distorted with hate.

  “Shut up, Khalil.” An arm darts out, pushing the man back and a shadow falls across the peephole. A pair of eyes meets Sam’s. “Sorry, we sorry. You let us out. This is not human. The man, he come back. He slaughter us like animals.” The man gestures to the body.

  “Human rights. We have human rights.”

  “Sorry, please, but what happened to our brothers?”

  “Kill the English.”

  The man at the peephole twists and smashes his fist into Khalil’s jaw and he slumps to the floor. “Sorry, please. We will not cause trouble. Please, you tell us what happened to our friends.”

  Sam locks eyes with the man. “What friends?” He slides the peephole closed.

  THE PUSHCHAIR RUMBLES along the pathway as Monica strides towards the Police Station. Tears streak her face. She wipes them with a sleeve as she reaches the crowd of shouting men and women gathered outside. The noise wakes the boy and he whimpers.

  “It’s alright, baby,” she soothes. She puts on the brake and crouches beside him. At four years old he’s too big to be wheeled about but she had been in a hurry and there was no way he could have kept up. The crowd of men and women is thick. If she pushes forward Heath could get hurt. She unclips the safety harness, hugs him to her hip, then wheels the pushchair forward again. “Just hold on, Heath. Hold tight to Mummy.”

  A man jumps onto the low wall and holds onto the railings as she pushes her way through the people blocking her path to the gate. He shouts across the crowd. “Sam has brought terror into our town.” Councillor Colin Haydock. Monica groans. His arrogance had mushroomed since he’d been elected—it had been bad enough when he taught history at the local comprehensive.

  “He helped keep them out.” A woman’s voice retaliates. “He helped capture them.” Sheila Baines!

  A thick arm knocks against her as a man cups a hand round his mouth. “Hang the bastards!”

  Heath grips her tight, pulling at her hair. She wheels the pushchair forward, using it as a shield, knocking against boots and shoes. “Excuse me! Excuse me!”

  People step out of the way and she inches closer to the gates. A tear slides down her face as Heath buries his head beneath her hair.

  Sidney had raged about Sam all last night furious that he hadn’t been allowed to finish the terrorist in the wheelbarrow off. But Sam had been right. There would be consequences if the authorities found out once everything was ba
ck to normal, but discovering that Sam had put meat aside for the terrorists when there were bairns going hungry had tipped Sidney over the edge. Nothing she’d said could dissuade him. They’d argued. He was going to help protect his family the best way he knew—by making sure the men imprisoned at the Police Station were no longer a threat. He didn’t care, he said, if they locked him up, no terrorist was going to harm his wife and child. She’d smiled then – his wife! - and loved him just a little more, but when he turned to leave with the men following Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty, fear had hit her like a thump to the belly.

  “Excuse me!”

  The crowd parts, letting her through to the gate. It’s locked. Tears spill onto her cheeks.

  She’d followed Sidney out of the park then made her way home on trembling legs but the anxiety had become too much and now there was only one person she could confide in, only one person who would make her feel alright, and that was her mum.

  PEERING THROUGH THE slatted blind, Martha stares at the crowd. “They’re baying like a pack of animals,” she says with disgust. “That Colin’s got some bloody nerve.”

  “I’ll make some tea, shall I?” Baz asks.

  Sam slumps in the chair. The day had started off badly and was only getting worse. He laughs. That is an understatement—the day had been catastrophic. “Baying for my blood?”

  “Haydock’s stirring them up.”

  “Monica!” Martha knocks on the window. “It’s Monica and Heath. Unlock the door, Sam.” She grabs the keys from the table without waiting for his response and disappears to the front door.

  “Her daughter?”

  Sam grunts the affirmative.

  “You should go out and talk to them, Sam.”

  “Martha’s bringing them in.”

  “No! Haydock and that lot out there. Put their minds at rest.”

  “That there’s only six of the murdering bastards left, and Mad Dog could come back at any time and take the others?”

  “Well-”

  Sam stares at Baz. Is that what everyone wanted—to take the terrorists out and execute them? “If he comes back, we’re not letting him in.”