He’d been low on provisions when the blackout kicked off and the half block of mouldering cheese and packet of Ritz crackers had lasted all of one evening. There was a pack of sausages in there but even before the lights turned off they were out of date. He turns his attention to the high cupboard above the kettle. A variety of packets sit in a basket on the shelf. They’re in order, not alphabetical, but by colour. A pang of regret. Sally! She must have organised the cupboard before she left. Her compulsion to clean and organise and check had driven him demented, had driven them apart, at least that’s what he’d blamed his outbursts on, but damn, he wants to wrap his arms around her again. At least when they were together he never went hungry. The cupboards were always full, the week’s meals organised and bought for. Since she’d gone - and he couldn’t really blame her, he just wasn’t the man he’d once been - the house had gone to pot and he’d slipped into a steep decline.
His belly rumbles again and he picks out a packet with a mustard coloured design. Cheese sauce. It would have to do. He reaches for the bottle of milk sitting on the counter and empties the last quarter into a mug then sprinkles in the powdery cheese sauce mix. Bubbles of dehydrated and finely ground cheese sit on the milk. He beats at them with a fork then swallows and gags on the powdery mouthful. He stares down into the mug, eyes it with disgust then tips the rest into his mouth. Protein is protein and he is starving.
Rap! Rap! Rap!
He splutters spraying cheesy milk over the kitchen counter. It dribbles down his chin and onto his top as he wipes at his face. For crying out loud man, get a grip! Wiping his hands against the back pocket of his jeans he walks to the front door.
“Sam!”
He waits for the woman to catch her breath.
“Yeah?”
“There’s a fire-”
His mouth is suddenly dry. His heart palpitates.
“And?” Keep your voice strong!
“And.” A quizzical frown. “And you’re a fireman.”
“Was.”
“There’s a fire!”
“So you said.” Sweat breaks out on his palms.
“You need to come and help.”
His heart is going to explode.
“I-” The tremble is obvious in his voice. It quivers over his vocal chords.
“I’m not a fireman now.” He grasps the door’s handle tight and pulls at the door.
The woman frowns.
She doesn’t understand.
“You’ve got the wrong man.” Panic. His chest is tight. There’s not enough air. The smoke is suffocating.
“But-”
“Wrong house!” Stupid! His heart hammers. His chest tightens. His head pounds.
“Sam!”
“Sorry!” Rapid words. “Sorry. I’m not a …” The doorway narrows. “I’m not a fireman. Wrong man.” The door slams shut.
He takes a gasping breath as his heart gallops. Pounding hooves on his chest. He flicks the latch on the door. Locked. He’s safe. Coward! Safe!
He stumbles through to the living room, draws the curtains to block out the light, keep them away, and throws himself onto the sofa. He takes a breath then exhales. His heart begins to slow. Breath. Exhale. Coward! Another deep breath. Sod off! He blows it out through his nose and covers his face with his arm.
One day he’ll be right. One day. Just not today.
Chapter 20
The bath water is only inches deep when Bill turns off the tap. Can’t use too much, there’s everyone else to think of, but he needs to wash the grime and sweat off. He could have a decent strip wash from a small bowl of water but today he’s going to indulge himself in the warm water and enjoy every second. The heaters are on and the warmth of the room hugs him like a soft and familiar duvet. It smells of lavender. A small cloth bag sits on the radiator. He picks it up and presses the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Its contents crunch between his fingers and the aroma becomes more intense.
A pile of neatly folded sheets sits on a turquoise chair. He takes off his shirt and turns to look in the mirror. He hasn’t seen himself for weeks, no months, and he’s not displeased. Any extra fat he had is long gone. The self-enforced daily exercises that staved off depression and, let’s be honest, insanity, whilst he slept rough, have hardened his muscles and they stand out in relief against the background of dainty flowers of the wallpaper behind. He rolls his shoulders and feels their ache across his back. He could do with a deep tissue massage, but since Julia wasn’t here, and she would rather spit on him than do him that favour, he was out of luck.
He thinks back to their last conversation. It had been bitter, full of recriminations and the anger he’d been suppressing for weeks, months, even years, had overwhelmed him. In that moment it had consumed him. It had betrayed him. He’d left the house listening to her screaming insults, the knuckles on his right fist bleeding. She’d ducked as he’d punched out towards her and his fist has slammed into the wall. Finding her in bed with Colin Barnes, her paunchy, pink-shirt-wearing manager, had been too much for him to take. He couldn’t turn a blind eye. He couldn’t let them make a fool of him. He’d beaten Colin, punched his flabby guts until he couldn’t get up again then turned his rage on her. Sure, he’d scared her, scared himself, but he hadn’t hurt her. He’d dragged her across the room but he couldn’t take the next step—couldn’t beat her the way he’d beat Colin. Couldn’t hurt her the way she’d hurt Bill.
Disgusted - no scared - at his rage, Bill fled before he’d lost control and battered her. That was the last time he’d seen her and he was never going back. She’d taken everything of course, the house, the car, the holiday home, emptied their joint account—everything. No, not everything, she’d left him with the debt she’d run up and now he was homeless. He should never have left the force. Should have been stronger. He stares again at his reflection. Idiot!
As he removes his underwear his flesh is a patchwork of memories. No need for a box of photographs. A deep scar runs at a diagonal from his rib cage to his belly-button. On his arm are other scars, long and white, the remembrance of flesh cut by sharpened blades, and an old burn mark where the skin is a welted pucker. His shoulder carries the twin dimples, back and front, of a healed bullet wound. His mind returns to that day.
The heat had been overwhelming as they’d driven up to the village. The air-conditioning wasn’t up to the job and stepping out onto the dusty road and into the sun was almost unbearable. Taking a breath felt like your lungs were burning.
“Only mad dogs and Englishmen!” Keller had retorted as they’d jumped out of the truck and run to the side of the compound’s wall.
“Yep,” he replied though he wished Keller would shut up and focus.
“This way,” he’d commanded and run down the side of the building to a steel door. They were painted a turquoise blue, strangely similar to the chair in the bathroom stacked with neatly folded towels. It was decorated with an intricate geometric design of steel. Odd how distinctly he remembers the door, the peeling paint, the heat curling it away from the hot metal, the roughly welded joints that fixed the flat strips of bent metal to the panel of steel. A dog trotting across the dusty track was the only movement between the walled compounds in the village. He’d wanted to refuse. Coming here at this time of day was madness he’d argued. It was safe they said. Yeah, sure! They had good, reliable, intel. A wedding in a far-off town. A skeleton guard. Only the target and two others in the house. He was unsure, but orders were orders. Forty-nine degrees in the shade. Sweat dripped down his back, soaked into his canvas jacket and evaporated. Forty-nine degrees and his lungs burned with each breath and not a soul moved. Perhaps they were right. The village seemed deserted. Seemed. It had better be.
A small door within the large gate opened and they were in. Bill nodded at the woman on the other side. He’d wondered about the intel on this one—a woman inside the compound was co-operating—was the one who’d leaked the information, given them the details of the target’s da
ily routine, where he’d be, which room he’d be in. Whether she was a wife, a maid, a double agent, he had no idea. He only knew that his job was to get in, execute the target and leave. The woman would be extracted but that was none of his business.
Slipping in through the gate he stepped into a walkway overhung with bougainvillea, a plant seen everywhere climbing up the white stucco walls of the villas. It overhung the balconies giving shade. He could understand why it was so prevalent now – it gave them shade and was probably the only plant that grew in this godforsaken, rock-strewn desert. The woman disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared, her eyes the only visible sign of her humanity. The blue of her iris had shocked him. What had led her to this place, to be here with these monsters?
Second floor, first room to the right. Go through the first room to the second and there he’d be—sleeping through the hottest part of the day. The intel was good. They said.
With Keller behind him, he wished again that it was dark, but the intel said tonight would be too late—he’d be off again, moved once more to keep him safe, to stop the world killing him. The world needed to kill him that was for sure. Bin Laden was a pussy-cat compared to this monster. A light step. Weapon loaded. Safety off. Bill reaches the second floor. Still no one in sight. He counts – one, two, three, four doors to the right. He’s outside the door. He pulls the handle half-expecting it to be locked. The handle moves down and the latch pulls back, the door opens. The room is sparsely furnished, just a rug with low cushions lining the walls. A fan rotates in the middle of the ceiling. A door leads into an antechamber. That’s where he’ll be. He checks left then right. All clear.
Bill beckons his comrade and walks across to the door. His heart beats rapidly as adrenaline pumps through his body. He feels no fear, only a desire to get the job done. Confident, professional. Hand on the door he hears the pig-like grunts. Instantly recognisable. Keller’s heard it too, but only nods, a slight and wry smile at his lips. Bill throws open the door. Points his rifle at the man’s back. Bare buttocks. Bare arse crack dark with hair. Before him a woman, her breasts stroking the bed, face hidden by long blonde hair catching on the pillow. Blonde! As the man realises he’s no longer alone he turns and withdraws from her. She falls against the mattress and rolls away grabbing at a pillow to cover her nakedness. Within a second Bill has taken in the welts around her wrists, the bruises on her body, the blackened eye. No one had told him about this! What the hell was going on?
The man jumps off the bed, lunges for the gun propped up against the wall.
Too late!
Bill fires a silent shot. One is all it takes. It hits the back of the man’s head and the force throws him against the wall. Blood spatters across the white of the walls and catches the woman’s side as she scrambles across the bed to the floor.
“No one said anything about a woman,” Bill said turning to Keller. “Who the hell is she?”
“Face looks familiar,” he returns with a shrug and steps towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Bill turns to follow.
“Please!”
He turns back.
A yellowing bruise sits on the woman’s forehead, her lip is puffed. Dark blood sits where a split is mending. She wasn’t in the briefing. She’s not his problem. He turns to leave.
“Don’t leave me here!”
“Sorry, but we … you’re not part of the detail.”
“Please!” she repeats standing with the pillow covering her breasts and resting at the top of her legs.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Helen Carlisle. I’m a journ-”
“Oh,” he says with the dread of recognition. “Helen Carlisle. I know you now. Journo turned traitor.”
“No!”
“There were videos—photos—you with a gun, headscarf on, shooting to the sky, laughing. They looked for you—before the videos. Men … good men … died because of you!”
“It was all faked—they killed Seb,” her voice catches. “My cameraman. They took us … said if I didn’t do what they wanted they’d kill him.”
“You told them-”
“I did what they wanted and they still killed him.”
“You told them what they wanted to know.”
“I tried to keep quiet, but …”
He stares into her face, their eyes lock. She turns. He hadn’t noticed on first entrance. Her back is criss-crossed with raised and angry welts. Some are old and healed, others fresh. His stomach twists.
“You’ve been here since?”
“Bill—we’ve got to go,” Keller urges from the door.
“Get your clothes on,” he commands.
She nods, a quick and desperate yes.
She scrabbles around on the floor, pulling at her clothes with trembling hands. In the distance Bill can hear the pat, pat of running feet, of boots on tiles.
“Hurry!”
As she pulls on a long and shapeless gown, Bill turns to the door. Keller is already leaning out checking left and right.
“They’re on the floor below us.”
“Get behind me. Stay close.”
Bill runs out of the door and down to the stairway that will take them to the next floor down. A figure appears at the bottom, gun raised. Bill aims and shoots. The bullet rips into the man’s shoulder and the force slams him back against the wall. Blood spatters over the white paint. He groans but pulls the gun to fire again. This time Bill aims for the head. The bullet hits home. Blood spatters against the wall and the man slides to the floor. As he fires, another figure appears. Bullets ping from the bannister. Helen screams and drops down. Bill turns and fires. The bullet hits the man in the belly. He drops and curls like a foetus. Bill beckons for Helen. She follows him down the stairs to the ground floor. The walkway, overhung with pink flowers, is the last stretch before they’re out. From across the courtyard a gun opens fire. Keller turns and takes out the shooter. Helen holds back. Bill grabs her arm and pulls her forward. A gun pops and she screams. Blood sprays over Bills hand. She’s hit. Movement above the low wall of the flat roof catches his eye.
“Looks like we’ve woken them up!” Keller shouts across from the other side of the wall, twists with raised gun and takes one out on the roof.
Another figure appears on the roof. Bill aims, fires and the man disappears behind the wall.
“C’mon,” he urges as Helen groans. Blood seeps from her shoulder, a stain of bright red blooming over the fabric of her shift.
Despite her injury she keeps pace. The door to the dusty road outside is open. Stepping out, the vehicle has gone. Unperturbed, Bill beckons to Keller and with Helen at his side runs up the narrow alleyway between two high walls. Rubbish litters the narrow gap and shots ring out. The narrowness will protect them—he’s banking on it. At the other end Blalock sits, face red with heat, sweat dribbling freely into his sideburns, hands on the wheel, engine running. Bill pulls at the door’s handle and flings it open, pushes Helen inside and then jumps in slamming the door behind him. Keller jumps into the front seat and the jeep lurches forward, hidden in a billowing cloud of dust.
As the jeep speeds through the village streets unhindered, Bill begins to relax. The woman at his side is silent though crouched in pain.
“Who the hell is she?” Blalock asks looking back through the rear-view mirror for a second as the jeep bounces over a rut. The last house disappears behind them.
“Helen Carlisle—the journalist who-”
Bam!
The jeep lurches, scrapes against a wall, is righted then speeds up. Behind them another grenade explodes. Bullets catch the rear of the vehicle. One slices through the rear window and hits the head rest of the passenger seat. Glass shatters around him and his shoulder seers with pain. His ears ring. The jeep’s engine strains as Blalock floors it. The pain in his shoulder is intense and he bites at his lip. The gunshots continue but they’re fading as the jeep bumps and jolts along the stone-strewn and pot-holed road. He turns to Helen. She’
s slumped against the door. Blood trickles down the metal frame. The glass is smeared with gore. He doesn’t need to check for a pulse.
Bill closes his eyes as he leans back. He takes a deep breath and exhales the tension through his nose. He breathes steadily until the beat of his heart returns to normal and lets the water soothe him. He takes the soap and makes a thick lather in his hands. It smells good—he’ll smell good. He soaps his body starting at his feet, getting right in between his toes. His toenails are black. He grunts in disgust and reaches for the nail brush on the side of the bath. The bristles tickle as he scrubs. He scrubs harder. Satisfied that they’re clean, he loads the brush again and scrubs at his legs, then his chest and his arms. He rubs hard, bringing his skin to pink. The bath floats with grey scum. As he scrubs he feels relieved—clean of the grime of the past days—clean of the grime of his memories.
A circular mirror sits at the end of the bath and reflects his face and chest. He forces a smile. And notices the deep lines creasing around his eyes, the thick, straggling beard filling his face. Time to sort that out. He looks around the bathroom but can’t see what he wants. Putting on a towel, he searches through the drawers. There they are. A pair of scissors will have to do. Ten minutes later he checks his reflection again. The beard is still there, but at least he doesn’t look like a ragged version of Grizzly Adams any more. The warmth of the room has dried him, the bath has soothed him and he dresses. He grimaces. His body may be clean, but his clothes certainly aren’t. He sighs. They were all in the same boat at least—none of them had clean clothes to wear. Perhaps if they went into town they could find some.
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 13
