“Get it, Paul!”
The man lurches forward, grabs the cable. The iron slams against Khaled’s ankle as it twists around his leg and then disappears. The man grunts and Khaled, his head still reeling, lurches after the others. A whipping noise fills the air. He staggers against the wall. Pain shoots through his shoulder as the man whips the iron at his back. Khaled grunts, relieved that the iron caught only his shoulder. The car’s engine revs as Khaled reaches halfway along the passage. Glass smashes at his feet.
“Want more?” More glass smashes against the wall, shards hit his back. “We’ve got more.”
Khaled doesn’t wait to find out what her ‘more’ is and staggers to the kerb. Another bottle smashes behind him. His head feels wet and his mouth is filled with the metallic sourness of blood. Bitch! English pig-bitch. He’d come back and slice a mouth across her belly.
The car door opens. A hand grabs his shoulder and forces him into the car. The engine thrums and lurches as gears crunch. With a squeal of tyres, the car leaves the kerb and careers up the road.
“Idiot! How will we get away if you make that much noise?”
Basim grunts. “Drive if you can do better.”
“I can.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know,” he says biting at his words and leans back in the seat. “But I can still drive better than you.” Rage pulses through him as the agony subsides and his thoughts clear. Blood trickles to his eyebrow and diverts to his temple, a consistent flow. He wipes at it with the back of his hand then wipes the mess off on his trousers. “Get us out of here.”
Tyres squeal as Basim takes a hard left. Ahead is a crossing. Buildings smoulder in the near distance.
“The brothers destroyed the petrol station. And look, the houses burned down too.”
“Shut up and drive.”
“We can’t go up that way.”
“Why?”
“The road’s barricaded. Remember? When we followed that red car—the road had been closed with cars.”
“So now what?”
“Take the right; it leads out of town.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Bill stares after the car as it heads up the road, tyres squealing. Jumping down from the wall where he stands with Sam, he pushes through crowd, grabs Uri’s arm and calls to Jess and Alex. A man staggers from an open passageway. Even from this distance, Bill can see that his face is bloody with damage. The man stabs a fist in the direction of the car as a woman joins him.
“Terrorists!” Her voice bellows. “Terrorists!”
“They have car,” Uri states.
“So do we. Jess, Alex. Get the car.”
Without question the two turn and force their way through the crowd.
“Catch the bastards, Bill,” Sam urges.
“I will.”
Uri ahead of him, Bill strides to the car, a rifle slung across his shoulder. As their car leaves the kerbside another pulls in behind and the doctor steps out and disappears into the crowd.
The scene that had greeted Bill when he’d run back into the Station had enraged him: Martha leant over the motionless child, a swelling already darkening along the side of her face, crying that she daren’t move him. He was breathing but injured. In that second, he’d determined that the terrorists wouldn’t see another dawn.
Uri shifts gear and the car makes a smooth transition from second to third. It powers up the hill to the top of the road and then to the mini-roundabout at the intersection of the main road into town.
Alex is silent on the backseat as he checks over his rifle. An old Remington shotgun that the local farmer had loaned to Sam’s Protectors, Alex had taken it as though it may fall apart in his hands. The rifle came with a cardboard packet of ammunition which was already two-thirds empty.
“When you shoot,” Bill had said, “make it count.”
“It’ll hit home,” Alex had assured him. “Don’t worry about that.”
As they reach the junction Uri slows then stops. The sun is setting quickly now and the road ahead is hazy with twilight.
“Which way?”
“Right,” Bill replies with certainty. “The road ahead is blocked. To the left is back into town. Right is the only option.”
“It leads to the edge of town,” Jessie explains. “The road narrows to a single track but they could get out of town that way.”
Bill won’t let them escape. “Right it is then.”
Turning right, the road ahead is a slalom of parked cars although under Uri’s expert handling the car flows through the obstacles and makes easy progress. The road is one of the more prestigious in town; either side, large detached houses are set to well-kept lawns and pristine driveways. Victorian villas sit beside Georgian townhouses and even the row of terraces are substantial buildings with carefully maintained, original facades or tastefully renovated in-keeping with the period. A woman walking a sleek greyhound stops to watch them pass, pulling at the dog’s lead as she notices the rifle sitting across Bill’s chest.
Brake lights shine out of the purpling light. “There!” Jessie leans between the front seats. “Brake lights at twelve o’clock.”
“Step on it,” Bill urges as Uri swerves with expert precision between a parked Audi and a stalled Nissan Duke.
“Da.” His reply is unhurried though he grips the wheel a little tighter and rolls his shoulders. “We get them.”
Red brake lights flash again as the terrorist’s car slows to weave between a white van and the back of a too-closely parked estate car. The gap is narrow but not one that Uri would have found trouble with.
“They’re not great drivers.” Jessie echoes Bill’s thoughts as the brake lights flash red again. “Not a patch on Uri.”
“Hold on.” Uri swerves, rocking Jessie across to Alex on the back seat. “I may take that back.”
Uri gains on the terrorists.
“Pull alongside. I want to see how many are in that car.”
Uri accelerates and draws alongside the weaving vehicle. Bill counts. Uri pulls back, narrowly avoiding more parked cars.
“I count five.” He recognises the front passenger from the bridge, and the hatred in the snarling faces of the others was more than familiar. Doctor Barzanji’s voice rises in his memory. ‘Show them no mercy, Bill. They will show you none.’ I won’t Farhad. Not this time. “Take them out, Uri.”
“Sure. Hold on.”
Bill grabs the seat belt as Uri drops into third gear then floors the accelerator. The car powers forward and smashes against the boot of the terrorist’s car. Jessie and Alex grunt with the force and Bill strains against his seatbelt as it tightens across his torso. Ahead, the road narrows to a single lane. It passes the final house at the edge of the town then winds into the countryside.
Uri rams the terrorists’ car, crunching the boot and crumpling the bonnet of the Ford. Smoke rises from the engine and it sputters.
“Damn!”
“They’re going to get away.”
“No way.” Uri steers the car over to the verge. A short distance ahead, the road widens for a passing place. Uri accelerates, swerves onto the verge, then overtakes the terrorists. The car rocks and jumps over the uneven ground. Bill tightens his grip on the seatbelt. Uri reaches the passing place. The terrorists draw level. With a tight pull to the right, Uri smashes into their side. Foot to the accelerator, hands gripping the steering wheel, he maintains the car’s direction, and shunts the terrorists towards the hedgerow. A tree looms from the gathering twilight. Bill raises his arm across his face as the trunk becomes massive. At the last second, Uri pulls away. Metal screeches as it scrapes along the bark. As they move beyond the tree, the terrorist’s car swerves right, it’s left headlight clips the tree and it mounts the trunk, flipping over before disappearing through the hedgerow and into the field.
Bill crashes forward as Uri slams on the brakes. “We got them.”
JESSIE’S TORCH SHINES across the field. A deep gouge is slashed thr
ough the yellow wheat where the car’s violent landing has torn up the dark earth. A hawthorn lies broken, its splintered trunk sticking out from the shattered windscreen. The wheat rustles. Jessie arcs the light across the fields as a voice moans from within the wreck.
“Shine the light into the car, Jessie.”
“But-”
“There’s someone injured in there.”
The torch swings to the car and she lights the interior. The driver is strapped in behind the wheel and the front passenger is slumped against the car door, his head resting in the depression of shattered safety glass. Blood colours the glass red.
“Backseat’s empty.”
“How many were there?”
“I counted five before.”
“Damn.”
“I heard a noise in the field.”
“There are houses up there.”
Although the twilight has darkened, the outline of a house, or houses, can still be discerned and behind them balls of light seem to hang in the air—perhaps a string of solar garden lanterns? Beyond them, the land is dark as the blackout takes the country into another powerless night. Bill has no doubt that the men will head to the houses either to find transport, somewhere to hide, or even take hostages. “Jessie, Alex. Follow them across the field. I’m sixty seconds behind you.”
As the pair make their way across the field, Bill turns to Uri and another groan escapes from the driver. “Someone who knew these people told me to show them no mercy because they’d never show us any. We’ve made that mistake once. We’re not going to make it twice.”
“We finish them now?”
“Yes.”
Uri pulls at the driver’s door. It opens with a creak of crumpled metal. The man groans as Uri’s broad back blocks Bill’s view. The man shouts. Reaching inside the car, Uri’s elbows and shoulders jerk and the man’s shout is replaced by a gurgle, a crunch, and then silence. As Uri steps back, the body falls forward onto the steering wheel. The horn blasts, shattering the quiet.
“Jesus, Uri!”
“Sorry.” Uri reaches back in and pulls the body against the seat. Held by the seatbelt, it lolls out of the door. The passenger, conscious now, screams as Uri yanks his door open. This time Bill watches as fingers clamp beneath the man’s chin. He counts the seconds as Uri works. Sixty-nine ... crunch ... seventy. Thud.
“Finished?”
“Da.”
“Let’s find those other bastards and let Jessie know that I lied.”
“Lied?”
“It was seventy seconds, not sixty.”
Uri chuckles as dark clouds shift across the moon and its light brightens them to silver. Ahead the solar lanterns swing in the breeze. “This way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sarah folds her arms beneath her bosom and stares up at the moon. The sky is clear and, apart from the speckles of stars, the string of low-glowing solar lamps strung in Megan’s garden is the only light visible. Another night, and perhaps another day, without power.
“Mum!” Joe calls from inside the house. Why do they use her name like some sort of echo location? He calls again, leaning out of the back door, Amy at his shoulder. “Mum!”
“Just coming.”
“What was it?”
“What?”
“Oh, Mum!” Amy shakes her head in exasperation. “The noise you came out for—the crash and bang.”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing to see out here. Something in the town I think. We’ll find out what it is tomorrow.”
Joe grumbles. “Mum. I’m hungry.”
Sarah’s chest tightens. “You’ll have to wait for morning, Joe.”
“But, Mum-”
“No,” she says with determination. “You’ll just have to wait.” She doesn’t want to worry the boy and the best way to deal with this situation is to stamp his complaints down. “We’re all hungry, Joe, but we’re going to have to wait until morning.” She didn’t add that there was nothing left to eat in the house and it would be a small miracle to find anything tomorrow in the town. She takes a quick look back towards the fields. They could forage. At this time of year there would still be blackberries and the fields were full of wheat so they wouldn’t starve. There were also the allotments down Sheepdyke Lane. No! That would be stealing. Her cheeks prick with guilt as she berates herself for even considering taking someone else’s food—but if it came to it ...
“Will Uncle Sam be having another barbecue?”
“I bloody well hope not!”
“Amy! Language.” Sarah chastises her daughter.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a success,” Amy replies.
“That is one hell of an understatement,” Gabe adds as he steps out onto the mat. He holds up a glass jar with a lone but burning candle inside—it illuminates his face as it swings from the wire he’s wrapped around the jar’s lip. “What do you think?” he asks as he holds it.
“I think Sam did his best.”
“His best to barbecue us all,” Amy laughs.
“No, the jar!”
“Very good,” Sarah says placating him.
“I’ve made three more so we can all have one.”
“Cool! I can have one in my bedroom.” Joe reaches for the swinging jar.
“Don’t touch the glass.”
Joe quickly pulls back his fingers as they brush the glass lip.
“Here,” Gabe says. “Hold it by the handle.”
“He’s too young, Gabe.”
“The boy’s got to learn how to handle fire, Sarah.”
“You’re right ... but there’s no way he’s taking that into his bedroom.”
“Aww! Mum!”
“No. It’s too dangerous, having a naked flame in your room.”
Joe snorts. “Naked!”
“You are so immature.” Amy sighs with teenage superiority.
“He’s only seven,” Sarah placates, suddenly weary. “It’s getting late, time for bed you two.”
“What! Me?” complains Amy. “But I’m thirteen. I’m not going to bed at the same time as him.”
“Ready for bed then,” Sarah relents, “but it’s bedtime soon. I’m pooped, sweetheart. Today has wiped me out.”
Gabe’s steady hand squeezes her shoulder and she clasps his hand with hers. “Mum’s right. We’re all tired. There’s nothing on the television anyway and no games to play on your phone so ...”
Joe looks into the jar as he holds it aloft. “It’s burning quick, Dad.”
“You’re right. It won’t last long but we’ve got a stash of candles in the bottom drawer.”
“And what happens when they run out.”
“The electricity will be back on by then.”
“What if it’s not?”
“She’s got a point, Gabe.”
“What about solar?”
“We don’t have any?”
“We could get some.”
“How can we get some? There won’t be any companies installing now.”
“No, solar lamps—ones you put in the garden. Like Megan’s next door. We could get some of them and bring them inside at night.”
“She’s right.”
“There could still be some at the hardware store.”
“Get them in the morning. Come on in now. The candlelight is starting to attract moths and mozzies.”
Sarah bats at the tiny midges attracted by the candle’s glow.
“Well, they won’t get me,” Amy says with a grin. “They only go for smelly, sweaty people.”
“Cheek.” Sarah bats at the midges swarming around her head. “They like my blood, that’s all.”
“Smelly and sweaty,” Joe chants.
“Get on inside, you little monkey,” Sarah laughs. “They like me because I’m special.”
Joe laughs.
“You’re special alright, Mum.”
Stepping inside, the clink of windchimes swaying in the lilac is woven through with the rustle of wheat in the fields. A branch crea
ks. “Winds getting up,” she murmurs stopping on the doorstep as the children and Gabe disappear into the mellow light of the kitchen. The rustle comes again, louder this time. She turns to peer at the bank of hawthorns that mark the boundary of their garden and the field beyond. A twig snaps. Her grip tightens around the door’s handle. There’s something in the hedgerow. A voice? The branches shiver and then a rough bark, loud and guttural, calls from the undergrowth.
“Deer!” Sarah sighs with relief and laughs at her foolishness as her heart taps a heavy beat in her chest. “Just a bloody deer. Silly cow.”
The deer calls again, its throaty bark unsettling, and she closes the door. At least it wasn’t a fox tonight—their calls always reminded her of some creature, or child, in pain. Chatter and snorts of laughter fill the kitchen as Amy, Joe and Gabe continue to banter about the mosquitoes swarming over ‘smelly mum’.
“... and her bum.” Joe cackles with laughter. “It rhymes!”
Sarah gives her eyes an exaggerated roll. “Alright young man. Bedtime now.”
“Aww, mum!”
“Stairs, now, or I’ll make you sniff my armpits so you know exactly what it is that the mosquitoes love about me.”
Gabe snorts with laughter.
“Oh, Mum! Gross.”
“You too, Amy,” she retaliates. “Ready for bed or you’ll get a nose full too.” Sarah lifts her arm to her daughter. Amy squeals then laughs as she pulls away and scrambles to the door—still a child despite her efforts at being a surly teenager.
“Hang on,” says Gabe reaching for the lamp. “Don’t leave me with the hairy, smelly monster.”
Laughing, she hands Gabe another lamp as he ushers the children up the stairs. Her stomach growls with hunger and a roll of nausea sweeps through her belly. She thinks back to the barbecue. The day had started well. She’d enjoyed her piece of steak and, too hungry to raise any objections, the kids had eaten without complaint. Perhaps that was the key to successful mealtimes—starve them so they’re grateful for anything? She walks to the windowsill, sets a lamp there, then stares out into the dark. Her hand brushes against the leaves of a potted plant. In all the commotion of the past days, she has forgotten to water it. She places a finger on the soil. Dry. She’d have to get some water from the rain butt to feed the plants tomorrow, although ... perhaps it would be better to save the water for the family. She sighs. Everything would have to change—the way they ran their lives, their reliance upon the system to provide-
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 68
