Days of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  The familiar anxiety she’s struggled with since her father’s death – the need to protect her mother and sister - strokes at her. The rise in terrorist activity, especially in the cities, had done nothing to alleviate it. She’s done everything she can to make preparations in case the worst happens, but is what they have in the cellar at home enough? She looks again at the smoke. Was last night’s disaster really the result of a mass coronal ejection? She kicks the stones at her feet as a thought occurs to her. Natural disasters were uncommon in England, and the threat to England from a man-made EMP was minimal compared to the US, but had another country perhaps used the solar storm to attack them? Could England really have been nuked? No! It just seemed too far-fetched, but something had gone awry last night. Once they got to the town they’d find out.

  After another sip of water, she steps away from the safety of the ledge and makes her way down the hill from the last of the rocky outcrops. From here it was easy walking, rocky for sure, but easy—the kind of terrain she was familiar with. Memories of hill walking with her father rise as she looks down over the grassy slopes dotted with grey rocks and threaded with well-trodden paths of fell-walkers or perhaps sheep. She looks up to the sky. From the position of the sun, it must be nearly ten o’clock.

  She scans the clouds. What would the sky look like anyway if they’d been nuked and an EMP had ‘exploded’ above in the atmosphere? Just like the aurora last night! Perhaps that was it! There had been the aurora the met office had warned about, the ‘rare’ but completely harmless show of lights that they’d expected, but then there’d been the intense flash of red. Was that the point when they’d been attacked? Tension aches across her shoulders. She pushes down the fear rising in her belly and looks across the horizon. To the west is a bank of grey.

  “There’s a storm coming,” she says picking up her pace. “Last one to the town buys the coffee!”

  Alex laughs and matches her pace.

  “Wait up!” Clare calls.

  Clarissa paces in front of the tall, paned window of the home office. The soft carpet dulls the clack of her shoes as she moves from the open fireplace, past the walnut desk with its elegantly carved legs, and across to the panelled wall on the other side. She’s washed the blood from her face and pulled the glass from her scalp, or rather Stella has. The night had been terrifying in so many ways and there still seems to be no semblance of normality. The car hasn’t arrived to pick her up this morning and she’s received no communication from the office. Come to think of it, she’s had no communication from anyone, and even Sally, her assistant, who was always on time, hasn’t turned up at the house even though she was sure they’d scheduled a day for her to be here now that Stella was home from university. She sighs then sits down in frustration on the over-large leather chair and swivels to look out of the window. By this time of day, the cars should be gone. Wasn’t anybody at work? She leans a little closer to see the street more clearly. The cars may not be moving, but her neighbours were. Yes, there was Abbie, shopping bag in one hand, arm slipped through her husband’s. Now that’s unusual! He’s also carrying a shopping bag. As she continues to watch, Mr Benson from number seventy-two walks past with a rucksack. She frowns and shakes her head. Were they really panic buying?

  Her stomach growls and she reaches for her camomile tea—anything stronger would make her already stretched nerves jangle. The tea is cold, but she doesn’t mind. She drains it without sipping at the dregs then walks across to the door and up the stairs to the grandfather clock on the landing. Ten o’clock. Where was Lisa? There was no other choice. She’d have to walk to work. Yes, she’d do just that—she had to retrieve those papers and the memory stick! Stella could come with her. She didn’t feel comfortable about leaving the girl alone in the house, so she’d just have to come and be bored at the office for a few hours instead. At least that way she’d be able to collect the papers and the memory stick as well as find out what was going on with the power, and, hopefully, when everything was going to return to normal.

  She walks along the corridor, reassured by the familiar creak of the floorboards. She laughs - they’d seemed so sinister in the dark of night - then knocks on Stella’s bedroom door. A light voice sing-songs ‘come in’ and she enters, not for the first time appreciating the sweetness of her daughter’s nature.

  “Darling! We’re going to have to go to the office.”

  “We?”

  “Uhuh.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I’m afraid so. I can’t contact anybody and I really do have to go in and there’s something important I need to do. Perhaps we can find out just what’s going on too.”

  “But you said the power would come back on soon.”

  “I know, but I think that perhaps I was wrong. I’ve never known it be off like this for such a long time.”

  “OK,” Stella replies folding the corner of her book and placing it on her bedside table.

  “Monster!” Clarissa exclaims with mock horror.

  “Monster?”

  “Yes! You folded the corner of the book over—sacrilege!”

  “Oh, Mum! You are silly. What does it matter?”

  Clarissa laughs. “It doesn’t really, though some people would have you hung, drawn and quartered for it.”

  Stella stands and walks towards her. “Grab a warm jacket and put on your walking boots,” she says looking down at her daughter’s bare feet. “And get a t-shirt that covers up your tummy! You know I hate those tops!”

  “Oh, Mum!”

  “Come on. Let’s get busy.”

  “Coming,” Stella replies with an exaggerated dissatisfaction.

  Uri swings in the leather chair and looks out to the sky through the window. Mid-morning. He’d give it another hour or so and then make his way to the house.

  Chapter 14

  Rain begins to patter on the tarmac as Jessie walks across the threshold of the town. The sign, a large oblong of dirty white, stained orange where the screws holding it to tall, grey tubular legs have rusted, reads ‘Stainthorpe’. A car sits just beyond the threshold, its front hidden by the ditch it has fallen into. “Let’s check it out,” Jessie says to Alex and Clare as they walk beside her and quickens her step. “It doesn’t have that tape across it to show the police are aware. Someone could be inside.” As she reaches the car she breathes a sigh of relief. The front end is smashed and the side panel ripped off, but there’s no one inside.

  “It’s empty. They must have walked back.”

  “Can’t have happened long ago, though … if the police haven’t been.”

  “Maybe they don’t know it happened so didn’t come?”

  Alex reaches forward and touches his hand to the car’s bonnet. “It’s cold. The engine hasn’t been running this morning.”

  “I guess they haven’t seen it yet then. Come on, we can go into those offices up there,” Jessie says pointing to the row of squat buildings to her right. To her left is a sprawling yard filled with rusting cars and trucks. There’s no sign of anyone working. They walk to the pre-fabricated block of offices and stop. The white paint is peeling from the stuccoed walls and the windows are grimy with dirt. Inside, the offices are dark.

  “Looks like they’re empty,” Clare says as she steps up to the window and peers through the wire mesh that is screwed to the outside. “It’s an office and there’s a phone, but there’s no one inside.”

  “We’ll have to check the next one then.”

  “But there’s a phone here,” Clare says.

  “Yes, but there’s no one here to let us use it.”

  Clare gives her a withering look. “Since when has that ever stopped you, Jessie?”

  Jessie laughs. “Try the door then.”

  Clare smiles in return and reaches for the dull metal knob. It twists a half-turn then stops.

  “It’s locked.”

  “Let’s check the next building down,” Alex suggests.

  She agrees and they make their way
further down the road and closer to the roundabout at the end of the street. Beyond, Jessie can see two large buildings: one is a DIY store and the other a Bingo hall.

  “Have you noticed that there aren’t any cars running?”

  “Yes, it is really quiet. I keep expecting one to come round the corner any second.”

  “There’s one just parked in the middle road up there,” Alex adds pointing along the road.

  A blue estate car sits at an awkward angle in the road, its front end pointing into the circle at the centre of the roundabout.

  “It’s not parked though,” Jessie suggests. “It looks like it just came to a stop there, from the way it is.”

  Clare gives her a questioning frown. “Would a car just stop working if an EMP hit?”

  “Well, their electrics would be damaged I guess,” Jessie explains. “and if the car is controlled by a computer, which most of the ones after the early 1980s are, then yes.”

  “So, if the cars have been hit, how’re we going to get home?”

  “Find one from the early ‘80s.”

  “1980s! Are there even any cars left on the road made then?” Alex asks scanning the road ahead.

  “Vintage models perhaps?”

  “It’s so quiet,” Clare exclaims as they continue moving down the road.

  “I know! It’s a bit creepy, don’t you think?”

  “Uhuh.”

  “There’s another office here. Let’s check it out.”

  Jessie strides across to the office block. With its breeze block base and corrugated sides, it sits ugly and squat surrounded by grit, deep hollows, and potholes where water is puddling as the rain begins to fall in earnest.

  She leans forward and peers through the mesh-covered glass. Inside is dark but she can make out a telephone. Alex reaches for the door.

  “Locked,” he says with obvious disappointment. “We’ll just have to go into the town centre and find one there.”

  “Or we could go into the Police Station?”

  “If they still have one.”

  “Why wouldn’t they have one?”

  “Cut backs. My dad is always banging on about how the Police Force is being cut back to the bare bones. A lot of the old Police Stations aren’t manned anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come on,” Jessie says, “I’m starving. We’ll find a phone, or a Police Station, then get something to eat. I’ve got some cash—at least we can get a sandwich or something.”

  “A sausage roll for me! Or a pasty,” Alex says brightening.

  “I’ll have a cheese and ham bake if they’ve got a Ned’s in town,” Jessie adds as her stomach begins to gurgle.

  “Ugh!” replies Clare. “How can you eat that stuff? The meat they stuff in there is scrapings–all eyeballs and bits of anus!”

  “What!” Jess snorts as they approach the roundabout. “It can’t be-”

  She stops and her eyes widen as she takes in the scene. The road is littered with cars, a few seem to be waiting at the traffic lights, though the lights show no sign of life. To the left a white van has mounted the kerb, narrowly missing a telecommunications box, but hitting a tall poplar. Two cars, both black, both with distinctive boy-racer custom jobs are crashed into the barrier. At the traffic lights, a white Mercedes sits across the yellow box, its bonnet bent into the railings that demarcate the centre of the crossing. The only signs of movement are the gulls that wheel in the sky.

  “What on earth!” Clare exclaims.

  A new feeling of dread sits low in Jessie’s belly as she takes in the scene. Where were the people? The whole road just seemed abandoned, like a still from a disaster movie, or a post-apocalyptic film where everyone is dead.

  A noise catches her attention and she turns to listen. A shout followed by a bang then a grunt. A man, his bald head red with exertion bowls out from the side of the church wall, its ancient grey blocks a contrast to his white t-shirt. He lurches forward, a bundle held tight under his arm, and runs across the grass. Within a second, another man appears, his arms pumping hard as he runs after the bald man. As the second man closes in, he launches himself, arms outstretched. His hand clamps down on the bald man’s leg. He stumbles and falls to the ground, instantly pinned down by the other. The bald man grunts, his face squashed against the grass, and Jessie watches as the larger man pulls at the package gripped under his arm. He yanks and holds the package up in triumph, gives the prone man a kick as he tries to move, then runs back towards the church.

  “A loaf!” Jessie exclaims. “It was a loaf of bread.”

  “What? That bag he grabbed from the bald bloke?”

  “Yes! It was just a loaf of bread.”

  “Perhaps he stole it?”

  “Which one?” Jessie asks as she watches the bald man push himself to a crouch. His t-shirt is stained with grass and mud marks his cheek.

  “Are you alright?” Jessie walks across to him. His eye is already beginning to swell and bruise.

  “Yeah,” he replies breathless.

  “Did he take your bread?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Yeah,” is his monosyllabic reply.

  “Why?”

  “Because it was the last loaf, but I got hold of it first,” he replies with defiance. “I had hold of it and paid for it then he grabbed it, greedy sod.”

  “So why were you running?”

  “Like I said, he wanted the bread. They all want the bread.”

  “Why isn’t there any bread?”

  “Dunno. But they’re saying none’s gonna be delivered. Nothing’s working. No internet, no telly, no electric. You can’t get into the supermarket. I had to get this from the corner shop. Harry’s the only one who opened his door this morning, and he’s only taking cash. The shop was bare when I left. Like I said. I got the last loaf. Gave Harry his fiver-”

  “Fiver?”

  “Yeah! Daylight bloody robbery it is. Harry said it was market forces and if I wanted the bread, I’d have to pay for it.”

  “But it only happened last night!” Clare says as the man begins to turn.

  “What about the police?” Jessie asks. “Aren’t the police doing anything?”

  “Pah! No. There’s no sight of them. Not here anyway,” he finishes then crosses the road and walks back to towards the church.

  The hairs on Jessie’s arms prickle and not from the breeze that is blowing at the rain.

  Chapter 15

  Barry stares out at the crowds beyond the supermarket’s wide glass windows and his stomach clenches. A man leans up against the glass, his breath making his mouth opaque, and peers in. He locks eyes with Barry and raps against the window, mouthing to him. Barry mouths back with exaggerated movements of his arm, opening his mouth wide to enunciate the words. “Closed! We’re closed.” He jabs his fingers towards the sliding doors and imitates turning the lock with imaginary keys. The man glares and mouths something crude back. “Well!” Barry huffs and turns on his toes to Gladys. “There’s no need to be so rude!”

  “What’s up, love?”

  “That lot out there! The man with the flat cap just called me a wank-”

  The glass behind him vibrates, and fear rips through him cutting off his flow of words. The knot in his belly tightens and he reaches in his pocket for the antacids—might as well take them now, before the burning acid in his stomach really starts to kick in.

  “They do seem pretty annoyed,” Gladys returns looking over his shoulder as Barry turns back to face her, the chalky pastille crunches between his teeth.

  “What’ll we do if they break in?” White and chalky crumbs spray towards Gladys. “Sorry!” he exclaims at her look of disgust and wipes his hand across his lips.

  “Well …,” she looks across the crowd and takes a deep breath. “What you asking me for? You’re the manager!”

  “Yes, but-”

  “You wanted to be in charge, Barry,” she says with a touch of spite and the flicker of a smile.

>   “Sure, but-”

  “You’ll have to decide then won’t you,” she finishes and turns on her heels and makes her way to the cluster of staff that had turned up for duty this morning. He eyes the gaggle of women as Gladys reaches them. They turn, nod in his direction, and Eve, with her too-bleached blonde hair and terrible split ends, raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. A bead of cold sweat forms at Barry’s hairline. Damned women! He knew that taking the manager’s job would be tough, especially after Gladys had been in the running too, and obviously the clear favourite, and, if he’s honest, the more capable of them both, but was it his fault that senior management had chosen him above her. No! No, it wasn’t. He turns back to the windows. The crowd seems to have grown even in this short space of time. His bowels clench along with the urge to defecate. They’ll have to hold the fort whilst he pays the men’s room a visit.

  He pushes open the door to the stalls, unbuckles his belt, sighs as the too tight trousers release his flabby belly, and sits in the dark. Minutes later a sour stench fills the room. Without the light, he fumbles for the toilet roll and wipes himself clean. Stinks of fear! Man-up, Barry. He frowns as he stands and fastens his trousers, sucking in his belly to hook the clip, then tightens his belt to hold it all together. He turns to flush the toilet. The handle has no resistance. There’s no water in the cistern—nothing to flush away the offending turd! He sighs. Once the electrics are back on, then he’ll have to sneak back in and sort it out. That was the only plus to being the only man in today—at least he had the toilet to himself.

  “Barry?” a voice calls. “You in there … Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  Barry remains silent.

  Gladys coughs.

  “Barry?” she repeats. “If that’s you then God help you! Stinks like you’ve got a rat stuck up your arse.”

  Trust Gladys to be crude! He doesn’t reply.

  “I know it’s you Barry! You need to come now. They’ve broken the glass and if we don’t do something they’ll be inside,” she says with a hint of urgency—just a hint mind you, that Gladys was a tough old bird.