Days of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Chapter 2

  Michael stands stock-still as the sky flashes red and the lights suddenly fail. The stack of biscuits he was eyeing disappear from view. At first the lights outside had been incredible, but the fabulous show of twirling greens and blues had faded and the red disappears as quickly as it appears. As the supermarket plunges into shadows, his stomach aches with hunger. A woman screams and at the far end of the supermarket a man shouts. The shop lights are bound to come back on in a minute. Reaching forward, he grasps for a packet of chocolate digestives. He can’t see the wrapper but they have the familiar feel under his hand so he’s pretty sure he’s grabbed the right packet. He hovers them over the basket until he can feel the wire then drops them in. Turning to look down the aisle, shopping basket hung over his arm, he peers into the dark towards the tills at the front. The only light is cast by the moon and, as his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, he can make out the cashier sat at her till, her head turning left then right—looks like she’s just as confused as everyone else. A silhouette crosses at the end of the aisle, another shopper making his way to the till.

  A loud clatter sounds and then a thud.

  “Ugh!”

  From the noise, he’s guessing that someone has just crashed into the trolley parked in the middle of the next aisle full of produce waiting to be stacked on the shelves. It was bad enough when they did that when the shop was all lit up like a Christmas tree, never mind in the dark!

  “Are you OK?” he hears a woman ask.

  “Turn the lights back on!” another voice shouts.

  Michael turns again to the wide plate glass of the windows and makes his way down the aisle to the tills. His stomach gurgles with hunger. He should have done his shopping yesterday, but the twelve-hour shifts were killing him and he really didn’t have it in him to go shopping after that. Today he’d had to come to the shops—there was nothing back at the house. Tess had promised to do some shopping, but she’d not bothered and he couldn’t stomach another takeaway pizza. Didn’t she know that a man needed good food to fuel his labours? If his mother had been alive she’d have had a few choice words to say to Tess. He laughs at the memory—his mother questioning him about his latest girlfriend. What was she like? Could she cook? Was she a good girl, with the emphasis on good? How would he know, he’d only taken the girl out a few times? No, she definitely wouldn’t have approved of Tess.

  In the grey light he can make out the packets of crackers and breadsticks. He reaches for a box of mini Italian bread sticks and some Jacob’s crackers. He’d put extra in his pack-up tomorrow so he wasn’t falling through after his shift. When he got home he’d have to have a talk with Tess. It just wasn’t good enough. She should be doing the washing, the cleaning and the cooking. After all, he was the one earning the money. If she worked it would be a different matter, but was the lazy mare even looking? Nope! It was time he put his foot down. She either started pulling her weight or she could do one! As his mother had always said, there were plenty of fish in the sea, but he’d prefer one that knew how to cook a good roast, or a cottage pie. After all, he could.

  He reaches the till. The cashier is still in her seat and there’s enough light to show her frown as she pulls forward and cranes her neck to look up and down the length of the supermarket.

  “I’ve called for a supervisor, but the button won’t work.”

  “Oh,” Michael replies.

  “I can’t serve you. The tills aren’t working—there’s no internet connection.”

  “Internet connection? But it’s just a till.”

  “Yeah, but they’re all connected to Head Office.”

  “OK. I’ve got cash,” he says placing the basket on the conveyor belt and reaching for his wallet.

  “Makes no difference.”

  “Oh?” he replies.

  His stomach lets out a loud grumble.

  “Someone’s hungry!” she laughs and reaches for the pack of biscuits in the basket. She slides them across the barcode detector. “Hah!” she laughs again. “Silly me. I wasn’t thinking,” she says and returns the packet to the basket.

  “Just finished me shift.”

  “Oh? You work at Bortal’s?”

  “No, Finches. I’m on the production line.”

  “Oh? They make our garlic bread.”

  “Yeah, I know. Ridiculous that it has to go all the way to the depot just to come back here isn’t it!” His stomach growls again.

  “Sounds like you’re starving.”

  “Yeah. Twelve-hour shift and I haven’t eaten for the last eight! Can I just pay cash?”

  “Sorry, love, but no. We can’t serve you if the tills are down.”

  “Can’t I just give you the money? You can put it through the tills later.”

  “No, love. More than me jobs worth!”

  “For crying out loud! When are the lights going to come back on?”

  “Dunno,” she says looking down the aisle as movement catches her eye. “Franny! When’re the lights coming back on?”

  “I dunno,” a woman’s voice calls from behind. “All the power’s out.”

  Michael looks outside and realises that the carpark sits in darkness too. He frowns then groans.

  “Looks like I’m not going to get anything to eat then!” he complains.

  “Sorry, love,” the cashier replies.

  He stuffs his wallet back into his pocket and turns to make his way to the exit. Disgruntled chatter fills the air as the scene is repeated at other tills. There was no point hanging around if they weren’t going to serve him food, but … if the power was off that meant the surveillance cameras were off too. His stomach gurgles again and a surge of nausea waves over him. “I’ll just put this lot back,” he says with a smile the woman doesn’t notice and grabs the basket.

  Walking back up the aisle he checks left then right and, confident that he isn’t being watched, picks out the packet of chocolate digestives and stuffs them into the long pockets of his jacket. He reaches into the basket again and feels for the packet of fish fingers. He slips it into his other pocket. The bread. Can’t have a fish finger sandwich without bread. He takes hold of the packet of pre-cut bread rolls and slips them under his arm, holding them gently against his ribs then places the basket onto the floor and makes his way to the exit.

  As he reaches the exit a crowd has gathered. The people stand silent, trying not to brush shoulders with their neighbours, waiting for the glass doors to open. Stepping next to a large man with a huge belly, but careful not to stand too close, he waits for a few seconds.

  “Won’t open,” the man with the belly explains as he realises Michael is stood next to him.

  “Oh,” Michael returns. The packets in his coat seem huge and he can feel the sweat beginning to break out under his arms; the need to leave the building and get to his bike is urgent.

  A woman leans forwards and bangs on the door as another woman stamps on the mat as though that will trigger the automatic doors to open.

  “Must be because of the power cut,” the man explains.

  “Yeah,” Michael returns shuffling his feet. His heart is pounding now. What if someone did see him? He needs to get out.

  “Must have taken out this part of town,” the fat man continues. “There’s no lights outside either.”

  “No,” Michael replies and rubs the sweat on his hand against his jacket. The packet of biscuits crinkles. Shh!

  The woman leans forwards and bangs at the glass again.

  “Here, let me try,” the fat man says and pushes his way through the crowd to the doors. He looks up and down the length of the doors then turns to the side as he hooks his fingers between the gap. He pulls, fingers stuck between the narrow gap, and grunts with his efforts. The door doesn’t budge.

  “We’re trapped!” the dark-haired woman says with an air of panic.

  The fat man tries again. The door opens an inch. “Hah!” He pulls again with renewed effort, grunts, then stands back. This time
the door doesn’t budge.

  “It’s got a safety mechanism in it,” a cashier from behind the cigarette kiosk calls. “You won’t be able to open it. It locks or something.”

  The fat man grunts his disdain. “I’ll shift it. I was heavyweight champion three years running.”

  The dark-haired woman chuckles. “Heavy weight is right,” she says in subdued tones.

  “What did you say?” the fat man asks, turning to her with a wrinkled brow.

  “Nothing!”

  “She just said if you can’t do it then no one can,” Michael placates. He can feel the tension among the shoppers growing.

  The fat man huffs and gives the door one final pull. “It won’t budge,” he says in submission.

  “Told you. It’s got a safety lock on it.”

  “Should be the other way round—we should be able to open it so we’re not trapped.”

  “Health and Safety!” a thin man with a balding head shouts out. His voice is officious and has the annoying whine of the self-righteous. “What if there was a fire?”

  “Don’t start, Eddie!” a woman of a similar age, though not girth, chides. No doubt the officious muppet’s wife. Jack Sprat could eat no fat. Michael snorts and quickly looks away from the woman’s double chins and the rolls of back-fat highlighted by the moonlight as it gleams off the shiny material of her top.

  “Well, it’s right. Under Section Five, paragraph four of BS 9999:2017 they’re supposed to have escape routes,” he continues and wipes his hand over his forehead, knocking the straggling hairs combed over his scalp.

  BS is right! Michael sighs. There’s always one.

  Michael can’t help but notice the gleam of moonlight on his balding head; it matches the gleam of the lycra-rich top his wife has squeezed her ample body into.

  “There must be a back door.”

  “Staff only,” the woman at the kiosk calls.

  Michael stares back to the door. They had to get out of here. The fat man reaches down and picks up the fire hydrant.

  “Hey!” the woman at the kiosk calls as he holds it at shoulder height. “Put that down.”

  “Watch out,” Eddie calls. “Health and Safety says you should keep it low—you’re-”

  Thud!

  “Hey!”

  Thud!

  The glass of the door reverberates as the fat man smashes the fire hydrant against it.

  “You’ll not get through patting it like that!” the dark-haired woman chides. “Give it some welly!”

  “Stand back!” the champion calls.

  “Wait!” a voice calls from behind.

  He ignores the plea and takes one step back, angling himself to throw the metal cylinder with force. Someone knocks against Michael’s shoulder—Betty, he recognises the older woman as one of the senior cashiers. Her eyes are wide with horror and her mouth open, the rolls of her chin touching the bow of her acrylic scarf, as the ex-heavyweight champion pulls his arms back and thrusts the cylinder at the window pane with enormous force. The glass shatters but doesn’t break. A circle of tiny shards sits where the edge of the cylinder has been rammed into the glass.

  “Go on! Do it again,” the dark-haired woman goads.

  He slams at the glass again and then again until he breaks through. The fractured glass begins to fall. He reinforces his efforts and knocks it out of the frame until there’s a hole big enough to walk through.

  “There is a fire escape—at the back!” Betty says as he throws the cylinder down and steps through the hole without a backward glance.

  “Huh!” Michael grunts in disbelief as the man disappears across the carpark. “Why didn’t you say?”

  “Well, I did try, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell us that before he picked up the fire extinguisher? Don’t you have emergency fire drills here?”

  “Well, it’s not a fire, and it’s staff only through the store to the escape at the back, and … and it’s not my job! It’s the manager’s!”

  “Grief!”

  Stunned by the woman’s stupidity, Michael steps through the door frame. Glass crunches underfoot and he takes a wide step to a clear area of concrete then walks to the pushbike stalls. The stolen packets crackle as he bends to unlock his bike, pricking at his conscience.

  A door slams followed by a grunt. Looking up, the heavyweight champion stands at his car, staring down at the bonnet. Michael sits astride his bike, the front light brightening as he begins to pedal. He straightens, keeping the bike steady and balanced, then takes his hands off the bars - a trick he’d learnt early in childhood - and reaches into his pocket for the digestives. His stomach growls and the first biscuits drop to the tarmac as he rips the packet open—damned things were broken anyway! Grabbing the top two from the packet, he stuffs them into his mouth and chews.

  With only the light of the moon and his small bicycle lamp to guide him, Michael’s ride home is slower than usual, and even though there are no oncoming cars to blind him, there are some blocking the road, their drivers standing by open doors, gawping in confusion at their unmoving, unlit vehicles.

  Silhouettes walk between a group of stalled cars and vans, and a door slams just a few feet away. Startled, Michael jerks and the bike wobbles. Calm down! It’s just a door. He slows to a stop and shines his light in the direction of the offending noise. “Idiot!” he calls, unable to help himself.

  “Shaddap!” is the reply from the pot-bellied and balding man pointing his fob at the car’s now firmly shut door. The man reaches down with a grunt and pulls at the handle. It opens. He slams it once again and mutters angrily then kicks at the front tyre. Hands on hips, fingers swallowed by his overhanging belly, the moon glints on his bald head. He stares down, mutters, and kicks the tyre again before turning towards Michael. “Damned, bloody lock,” he mutters as he passes. “Damned, bloody power cut.” He grumbles as he steps up onto the path. “What you looking at?” he asks with a scowl.

  “Nothing.” Michael knows better than to challenge the man—he was the type that would have kicked a dying dog. “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “What do you think’s wrong with my car?” he grunts with derision. “I can’t get the bugger to lock. Ever since the damned electrics went out I can’t get nothing to work. No mobile, no radio, engine won’t start, car won’t lock. How the hell am I supposed to get home? What am I supposed to do with the car? I can’t leave it unlocked!”

  “Dunno,” replies Michael, unmoved by the man’s frustration. “You can’t move it anyway. The whole road’s blocked ahead, so nobody’s going to steal it. Just walk home and come back in the morning when the leccy’s back on.”

  The man grunts, takes a final look at the car then walks away. Michael regains his balance on the bike, swings the pedal round and pushes forward. The street, lit only by the moon, seems strange although some of the houses do have light now—a dim glow that must come from candles. He pedals harder as the road becomes steeper. Taking the turn onto his own street he stops to look out to the lower town, then across the river and to the city beyond. All is black. He frowns. He’s never known a blackout to stretch that far, and the county on the other side of the river has a separate supply from this side. Is the entire grid out?

  Chapter 3

  A cold wind bites at Jessie’s cheek as the pain in her head overwhelms her senses. Her lips are wet. She licks at them; they taste of iron. Blood! Head throbbing, cold bites at her again and brushes against her neck. She shivers and lies quietly, trying to remember. The plane … the plane crashed. Everything went black and the engines cut out. She closes her eyes and frowns. The pain worsens. If her lips are covered in blood then she must have sustained a head injury! She scans her body for pain. Her shoulders ache, and her hips feel sore where the seatbelt is tight across her lap, but it’s just her head where the pain is intense. Not daring to move, and enveloped in a fog of confusion, she sits in stillness. A groan sounds somewhere … somewhere close, but �
� in the distance. She can’t think straight!

  Looking again to the sky, she frowns in confusion. If she’s still in her seat how can she see the stars? That’s not right. With a gentle tip of her chin, she looks up and gasps. Wrecked! The plane that was carrying them through the sky only minutes ago is wrecked and now she’s sitting among a mangled heap of twisted metal and plastic. She screws her eyes tight shut then looks again. The roof of the plane has been ripped open and although, from what she can see, the sides are still intact, a breeze hits her from behind. The cold brings clarity and she fumbles for the clasp across her lap. Unable to unclip the safety-belt, she sighs in frustration and leans back against the seat. She has to see. It’s going to hurt! She takes a breath and turns. The back of the plane is missing. Where are they? Where are the cadets that were sitting behind her? Her mind reels. No! Faye, Tom or Ryan! They’d all been there—in the tail of the plane. At her side, Alex sits slumped. “Alex!” she cries, patting his arm. Please, don’t let him be dead!

  A grunt sounds from the front of the plane and a figure moves. It lurches against a seat.

  “Captain!” she calls as he staggers beneath the rent in the cabin’s roof.

  “Lockhart? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Are you wounded?”

  “My head feels like an elephant has stamped on it and there’s blood,” she replies.

  “Sit still until I can check you out,” he commands.

  “I think I’m OK, but Faye and Tom … the back of the plane …”

  He looks beyond her and sags. “Yes,” he replies catching her gaze with mutual understanding.

  She fumbles again for the seatbelt’s clasp, unclips it and turns with a grimace to Alex. Thumping pounds at her temples. “Alex,” she calls and touches his arm again. She presses her index fingers to the base of his throat. His pulse feels strong.

  “Alex is alive, sir,” she calls with relief.

  “Check him for injuries.”

  Jessie twists slowly in her seat, ignoring the ache from her hips, and turns to Alex. It’s difficult to see in the grey light, but she grabs her backpack, pulls herself to stand and eases it over her shoulders. Alex groans. As she steps over him and into the aisle he shifts in his seat.