Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Have you seen her?” he says breathing hard and leaning heavily against the door. He can feel sweat forming at his hairline—he hopes she can see.

  “Who?”

  “Clarissa.”

  “Clarissa? No. I thought she was with you!”

  “She was, but then we got separated. I’ve been searching for her for the last hour. I thought she’d taken the hump or something and come back here.”

  “You argued?”

  “No. No!” he says quickly. The last thing he wants is for people to think there had been any kind of altercation. “I needed to rest for a while,” he says between breaths. “So I sat down whilst she went further up the pathway. She said she wanted to see the sun lowering over the hills and watch the quarry turn pink.”

  “And she did not come back?”

  “No! I followed her, eventually, but couldn’t find her. I thought we must have missed each other, but if she’s not here …”

  “No, she is not here,” Viktoria responds with concern.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I have not heard her come in, but … she could have. I fell asleep for a little time,” she says motioning to Anna laid against her. “The past days have been so … difficult. I think it caught up with me.”

  He gives her a small nod and a smile. He couldn’t care less whether the silly woman was tired—he was tired—tired of them all and desperate now to get away, but without transportation he was stuck and there was this whole rigmarole to go through before he could make his escape. “You look tired and poor Anna … she’s been through so much these last days.” Viktoria nods with an appreciative smile on her face. He always could charm the ladies. “Well, Clarissa must be around here somewhere so I’ll have a look. She’s bound to turn up.”

  “She will,” Viktoria replies, leans back and closes her eyes.

  Andy turns and pulls the door to.

  “Andy!”

  “Yes?”

  “If you do not find her please let me know. She has been good to us … you think she could be in trouble?”

  He stops and pulls his best worried frown. “I hope not, Viktoria, but if I don’t find her in the next ten minutes I’ll have to go back out and look!”

  “But is getting dark now,” Viktoria says with concern looking to the window.

  “I know, but I have to find her. Don’t worry—I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

  “OK,” Viktoria replies and closes her eyes once more.

  Andy closes the door and clicks the latch then heads for the kitchen where he takes two of the bread rolls Clarissa had baked that morning along with a bag of dried fruit. He hesitates for a moment then grabs a pack of biscuits and a chocolate bar. Sod it! Why should he starve to help ration out the food? As soon as they were back with that car he’d be gone.

  Chapter 27

  Salman leans forward in his seat and adjusts his back, pulling his shoulder away from the seat. In his excitement he’d forgotten the burn and it smarts. Ahead the sign post reads ‘10 miles’. Nearly there. The car is filled with music and the chatter of Khalid and Masood on the back seats. This is their first time out and they’re excited. Khalid laughs and the pitch makes Salman’s ears ring.

  “Shut it!” Salman says to the boy.

  “All right, Salman. Keep your hair on.”

  “This is serious. They killed our brothers. We have to avenge their deaths,” he says with determination as he catches the boy’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. The last of the daylight is leaving the roads and the boy looks almost dark-skinned in this light even though they make fun of his light skin. It was always pot-luck when they came out, these mixed-race kids—half-breeds Bin Sayeed called them. They weren’t true blood, not like him and Masood but they were willing to serve so Bin Sayeed tolerated them.

  “White Boy!” Salman shouts back to Khalid. “You still think you got what it takes to burn the town down?”

  “Of course I do,” Khalid returns with a snarl. Salman smirks. Khalid hates it—being called White Boy, but it was his job to rile him.

  “Don’t call me that! My father was Turkish. It’s only my mother who’s a kafir.” He spits the words. They’d done a good job on him over the past months. Turning him from a boy without any self-respect into one of their own, well, one of the dummies who were prepared to blow themselves up anyway. Young and stupid, without a father’s guidance, the produce of his whore-mother’s holiday romance, fodder for the cause. It was easy really—radicalisation they called it—bringing them to the truth is what he and Bin Sayeed knew it was. And what was the truth? That all the kafirs must die or become slaves to make way for the Islamic State. They wouldn’t rest until the world was theirs to control—the way it should be, the way God wants it to be. They, the unbelievers, were vermin to be stripped from the world and he, Salman was part of the glorious work. Sure, when he’d first seen the beheadings and burnings he’d balked at the scenes, but as he came to realise it was the only way, as he’d learned that it was God’s will that deviants and enemies were eradicated, he’d relished each atrocity. Now, he would be carrying them out himself. As he slows the car to take the slip road, the heavy barrels in the boot of the car roll and bang. He smiles. There was enough petrol in there to set fire to half the town and that’s just what they were going to do tonight. The people wouldn’t know what hit them—or what burned them. He chuckles to himself as he shoots over the junction—no point checking for traffic—theirs was the only car on the road. Bin Sayeed had been smart like that—made sure they were still able to get around when all the kafirs would be squirming around like worms.

  “Where first?” Masood asks from the back.

  “The petrol station.”

  The lights of the car behind him glare in his mirror. “Stupid, Saleem. Why does he have to drive so close!”

  It was planned this way—they’d set the petrol station alight first then the police station and fire station which were, to his delight, conveniently located opposite each other.

  As they roll into the town and down the hill Salman slows, turns off the road, and parks outside the petrol station. The place is dark and the shop is closed. Good. As he pulls in he notices a clutch of tall red canisters—propane gas—even better. He stops the car and gets out. Saleem and Abde pull their cars up at the side of the road and the men get out and join him on the forecourt. Within minutes the canisters are lined up and the first rag doused in petrol. Crowbar in hand Salman hooks it beneath the metal door of the petrol tank where the vats below the concrete floor of the forecourt sit. It’s tougher than he’d realised to open the lid and he makes a whoop of delight when he does.

  “Light it!” he says to Khalid and points to the petrol-doused rag held in Saleem’s hands.

  The rag bursts into flame. Saleem holds it aloft with a triumphant smile then drops it to the petrol below. Flames shoot out of the hole.

  “Run!” Salman shouts. The flames are far higher than he’d expected.

  The first blast comes as they drive away and the car erupts into screams and whoops of delight.

  “Now the Fire Station.”

  Bam!

  The blast fills Jessie’s ears. “What the hell was that?”

  A thick and angry black cloud churns through the air.

  “Explosion!”

  “At the petrol station!” Alex adds.

  “Back in the car,” Bill commands. “Let’s go and see what’s going on.”

  Flames dance along the roof-line as they take a left at the top of the road. A car pulls out at the junction forcing Bill to slam on the brakes.

  “What the hell!”

  The car swerves, pulls away with a screech of tyres, the driver mouthing silent abuse. Behind him, two more vehicles race across the junction.

  Another blast rocks the car.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Didn’t Michael say that the terrorists turned up in a red car yesterday?”

  “Yes, he did. An old Ford
Cortina”

  “Well, the car that just pulled out in front of us was a red Ford Cortina.”

  “I think they’ve come back to finish off the job,” Jessie says as she looks at the flames leaping from the buildings either side of the road. “They’ve set fire to the Police and the Fire Station this time and, from the look of those flames,” she gestures across the rooftops, “they’ve set fire to the petrol station too.”

  “Petrol station’s the only one that’ll make a difference.”

  “They’re back and they’ve brought friends this time,” Uri stares out of the back window to the convoy of cars that is disappearing down the hill.

  “Let’s follow them.”

  “I’m on it,” Bill replies as he powers the car forward and makes a quick and precise three-point turn.

  “Keep your distance,” Uri urges. “We want to see where they’re going but not let them know we’re on their tail.”

  “Kill the lights,” Alex suggests.

  The road ahead becomes black and the car moves down the road with only the last purple haze of twilight left to guide them.

  “It’s not as dark as you think, is it.”

  “No,” Bill replies without elaboration, his attention focused on the red taillights of the cars ahead.

  Twenty seconds later Bill takes the same left turn. Ahead, the cars have stopped. Bills slows and stops the car and quickly turns off the engine. They sit in silence as the men step out of the cars. Dark figures walk between the open doors.

  “There’s about ten of them.”

  “Hell.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 28

  “Jessie, wait,” Bill chides as she reaches for the door’s handle. “We need to have a plan. We can’t go out there gung ho!”

  “We have to stop them. They’re going to burn down those houses. The petrol station, fire station and police station –that’s just a statement. This is the second phase—just like in the city—burn then kill.”

  “I know.”

  “So, let’s go!”

  “Niet! I do not have weapon.”

  “There’s a survival bow in the boot and my crossbow.”

  “I have no skill with bow.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Your gun’s in the boot.”

  “What!”

  “It was the best place to keep it. I thought-”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Hey, you can argue later,” Alex butts in. “Those men are getting ready to burn this place down.”

  Bill runs his hands through his hair with an anxious stare at Jessie then Uri. “Jessie! There’s no way he can have that.”

  “We’re going to have to trust him … We need him, Bill. There’s only four of us and ten of them. They’re all armed and about to start petrol-bombing this place.”

  “Sure,” he replies though his voice holds no conviction. “OK, Jessie. Uri gets his gun—just for this. Alex gets the survival bow and you’ve got your crossbow. You any good with a bow Alex?”

  “Yes, not as good as Jessie, but I’m capable.”

  “Good.”

  “What about you, Bill? What weapon do you have?”

  “They’re getting ready to attack!”

  “So are we,” Bill replies. “Uri. You take the right side. Alex you’re with him. Jessie come with me.”

  “What about a weapon—for you?” Jessie repeats.

  He reaches down and, when he pulls back, a blade glints in his hand. “I’ve got this,” he says turning the six-inch blade. “Let’s go. Slowly. We don’t want them to know we’re here.”

  A red light brightens the boot’s interior as Jessie passes Alex the survival bow and reaches for her own crossbow. Reassured, she slings the quiver over her shoulder. At the side of the boot is a small wrapping of fabric. Inside are four knives—sharp and lethal in the right hands.

  “Bill,” she whispers. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Bill slips the knives into his pocket. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” she replies.

  He crouches as he runs, keeping to the shadows.

  Bow loaded, Jessie takes aim. In her sights is a tall man, his thin face half in shadow, as he holds a lighter in one hand. In his other he holds a bottle stuffed with a rag. He touches the flame to the rag.

  “Petrol bombs,” Bill says without emotion. “You might want to take him out about now, Jess.”

  “I certainly do,” Jessie replies tightening her jaw. She raises the crossbow to her shoulder in a fluid, well-practiced arc and draws back the bolt. The flaming rag moves back and the man’s head shifts. Her fingers pull the trigger. The bolt darts through the night just as the thin man twists to lob the bottle.

  The flame judders and lurches in the dark.

  He screams.

  The bolt pierces his shoulder, stabbing deep into his flesh.

  The bottle drops to the floor and smashes. Liquid splashes and sprays across the tarmac, dousing him in petrol. His body slams against a car as flames devour the road.

  The street is alive with shouting men.

  Jessie reloads.

  The man pushes away from the car, patting at his jeans, his top, his arms. Flames dance on the fabric. He screams.

  A shot fires and a dark figure slumps against the wall and falls onto the road. The flames follow the trickles of fuel as it runs down the camber in the road to the kerb.

  More shouts. A body, dark against the flames, jumps across to the burning man. A coat flaps and swings at him. The hems of his jeans are alight. Flames race up each leg.

  Shouts rise—high-pitched and excited.

  Glass shatters as a bottle arcs through the night and breaks through into the ground floor window of a house.

  A cheer.

  “Did you hear those bastards?”

  The road is alive with men and flames. Dark figures run, flames burning bright in their hands. Jessie holds her position, picks her next target. Sees him.

  Another bottle is held high, its wick of cloth burning bright against the dark of the sky. A curtain twitches in an upstairs room, a girl, no more than fourteen. The man smirks, takes aim and strides forward. Jessie pulls the bow taught. As she releases the bolt he stumbles, his foot catching in a shallow rut in the road. The steel rod misses and clatters onto the road. He recovers and pulls back his arm.

  The girl disappears.

  Jessie reloads.

  He twists his body to throw his deadly bomb.

  Jessie breaks cover.

  Too late!

  The man pulls his arm back to its full extent, twists, and lobs the firebomb. It smashes through the upstairs window just as Jessie pulls the trigger. The bolt hits home and slices straight into his temple. The man drops and his head thuds against the tarmac.

  The girl in the house!

  Scanning the street, Jessie searches for the others. Alex is taking aim and Bill is grappling with a man. Uri is nowhere to be seen. She’ll have to go into the house alone.

  The front door is locked. No time for pleasantries. She kicks at it with force. It judders and the frame splinters. Kicking again it breaks open and she stares into the dark hallway.

  Upstairs!

  Shouting mixes with a child’s cry as she takes the stairs two at a time.

  Screams fill the house as she reaches the landing.

  “Get out or I’ll kill you,” a woman screams.

  “No! I’m here to help,” Jessie reassures. “I saw them throw the petrol bomb through your window. I saw your daughter,” she continues as the teenager comes into view. Three faces, gaunt in the moonlight shining through the landing window, stare at her. A child sobs.

  “Shh! Rachael. It’s going to be alright.” The older woman pulls the child tight to her side, an arm locked around her shoulders.

  “There’s fire in my bedroom. I closed the door.”

  “Smart girl,” Jessie says to the girl. “Now let’s get you out. This way,” she commands.

/>   “Ava, you go first,” the mother urges scooping the younger child into her arms.

  “It’s too dangerous to go out the front door,” Jessie warns.

  “The street is full of men throwing bottles.”

  “Then what-”

  “We can go into the garden, mum. Come on,” the girl urges.

  Smoke curls up from under the bedroom door and fills the landing as Jessie reaches the bottom.

  The woman disappears down the hallway, curses as she knocks against a table in the dark and then they’re gone. Jessie turns to the front door and spies through the letter box. The street is alive with flames and dark figures running between the cars. She coughs at the smoke filling the hallway.

  Bow reloaded, Jessie throws open the front door. Glass smashes only feet away and she jumps to the right as petrol spatters the wall. Flames burst into life and leap at her side.

  “Jessie!”

  Movement in her peripheral. Metal glints. A man grunts.

  She twists to look. A raised arm, machete in hand. A scowling face, blade held high, charges at her. Another bottle smashes, closer now and she jumps, forced into the path of the machete. She crouches then springs to the left.

  The blade slashes down and catches at her arm. Pain, dull and hard. She staggers back. Hate flickers in his eyes and dances with the flames as he raises the machete again. The fire blocks a retreat. She presses against the ground, hand tight around her bow, and jumps away. He’s quick and mirrors her actions, raising the blade. Jessie slides against the wall, pushing herself away, the flames follow.

  This can’t be how she dies—burning and hacked to death!

  She raises her bow, the last defence as the machete arcs. Excitement fills his eyes and he shouts in triumph.

  This can’t be-

  He wavers, frozen. Eyes widen, brows furrow. His shout becomes a grunt. A rod pierces his chest. His back arches. The sharp tip of the bolt shines bright in the firelight as he staggers then crashes against Jessie. The machete clatters against brick. Head knocked against the wall, she pushes at his shoulders and he falls with a heavy thud across her lap. The tip of the arrow jabs at her thigh.