Days of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Jessie turns to face her. “It has to come back on. I can’t believe they haven’t got emergency plans in place for this kind of thing. I’ve been reading about it for years—how an EMP would cause chaos, looks like other people have too.”

  “I want to get out of here, Jessie.”

  “Yes, me too,” Jessie replies. “I want to get back home to my mum and Stella. If it’s like this in a small town can you imagine what it’ll be like in the city?” She turns to look at Alex and Clare. “What about you? Where will you go?”

  “My parents are in Spain,” Alex says. “I was supposed to be joining them out there for a holiday.”

  “And my home is three hundred miles away.”

  “Oh,” Jessie replies as she realises they have nowhere to go. “Then … if you want … you can come home with me.”

  Silence follows.

  “I’ll stay with you, Jessie.”

  “I’ll come with you too.”

  “Good,” Jessie replies. The thought of having them both with her for the journey ahead gives her some comfort. “I have a feeling we’re going to need each other!”

  “How far are we from your home, Jessie?”

  “Bramington? It’s about thirty miles from here. We can be there before sunset if we set off now,” she says looking to the sky.

  Chapter 16

  Clarissa steps out of the doorway and onto the wide stone steps. Stella follows and stands beside her. She looks back at her daughter and smiles. At least she’d listened and changed into more suitable clothes and had put on a pair of walking boots. Clarissa’s own boots were well worn from the family’s trips to the Peak District. It may be unorthodox to turn up at the office in her walking gear, but she wasn’t about to walk across the city in her work shoes—not today.

  “You ready?”

  “Yep,” Stella replies.

  “Did you get the water?”

  “Yep,” she smiles.

  “You OK?” Clarissa asks with a note of concern; most of the time she couldn’t get her daughter to stop chattering, she wasn’t used to a mono-syllabic Stella.

  “Yep … well … it seems weird—there’s no traffic,” she explains and looks along the street. “Well, there is, but none of it is moving and it’s so … quiet!”

  “I know. It does seem a little odd,” Clarissa says as she looks down the street at the line of parked cars.

  “Clarissa!” a reedy voice calls.

  “Oh!” Startled at the sudden call of her name, she turns to greet her neighbour. “Good morning, Gerald.”

  “Nothing good about it, Clarissa. I haven’t been able to have a cup of tea or boil my morning egg. What’s going on? I thought you lot could run this country properly! Seems like we’re going back in time what with this power cut. It’s not 1973 you know, Clarissa.”

  Clarissa sighs. Fending off accusations about how the civil service and the government were running the country into the ground was almost a daily occurrence. She was thick-skinned—you had to be in her line of work—but it could be wearing.

  “I’m not sure what’s happened to be honest with you Gerald. It’s not really my department.”

  “Well, you’re in charge of the finances aren’t you?”

  “Well …,” she’s loathe to get into a discussion about her work with Gerald.

  “Is it part of the austerity measures?”

  “I haven’t had a cup of tea either, nor anything warm to eat,” she replies ignoring his comments.

  “Oh,” he replies a little taken aback. “Well, what on earth is the electricity doing off for so long for? Are the French holding us to ransom? Is that what it is? Cutting off our supplies?”

  “No, I-”

  “The Russians did it you know—a few years ago—they cut off the gas supplies to the Ukraine. Blasted government selling off our utilities to the frogs! It’s not what we fought for.” He turns away with a look of disgust and shuffles back through his door, the soles of his slippers shuffling against the stone of the steps then tiles of his hallway.

  “Ignore him, Mum,” Stella says laying her hand on Clarissa’s shoulder.

  “I will,” Clarissa agrees thankful for her daughter’s calming presence.

  “He’s wrong though, isn’t he? They’ve not cut the electric off have they?”

  “I doubt it, Stella.”

  “Then it must have been the solar storm last night.”

  “I’m starting to think you’re right. We’ll find out once we get to the office. Come on.”

  Clarissa takes the remaining steps with a light foot and walks briskly to the end of the road. At a couple of the windows curtains twitch and, at number twenty-nine, a young man she doesn’t recognise stands in the small front garden and folds a shopping bag into a tight square before slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. He wheels his bike along the path and mounts it just as Clarissa steps opposite his house. A young woman closes the door, a worried frown on her brow as she catches Clarissa’s gaze. The door closes and Clarissa increases her pace.

  As she reaches the end of the street the roads widen. Across the road a red double-decker bus sits slammed up against the back of a line of cars, shunted together like a crushed and twisted concertina. The bus is empty and the road, like the one they’ve just left, is devoid of moving traffic. People walk up and down the street, but they lack direction and seem confused by the dark and locked shops. Surely there was something open? She expected the takeaways to be closed, and perhaps the baker, but surely the chemist should be open? Stella echoes Clarissa’s thoughts as she points to the shops with their padlocked shutters protecting the goods inside.

  “I guess they’re shut because they have no power.”

  “I think you’re right. Have you tried your phone again?”

  “Yes, just now. Still nothing. What about you?”

  “Mine’s still dead too.”

  “How much further to the office?”

  “About another thirty-minute walk.”

  “OK,” she says slipping her arm through the crook of Clarissa’s. “At least it’s not raining.”

  “No, but by the look of that sky we could be in for some,” she says looking to the gathering clouds on the horizon.

  Turning onto the next road, Clarissa is surprised at the number of people gathered there.

  “What are they doing?” Stella asks as they get closer.

  “I think they’re queuing. Let’s cross over,” she says and tugs at Stella’s arm, guiding her to the opposite path. As they pass the growing queue, she looks with curiosity into the open shop. It’s just a grocers with the usual milk, fruit, bread, chocolate and tins. At the doorway a heavy-set man stands with his arms crossed, blocking the space. His face is fixed and hard as he checks up and down the queue.

  “Hovis!” a woman calls as she bends into the gap between the man’s bicep and the door’s frame to make herself heard to whoever is inside. “I want a loaf of white Hovis and make sure it’s well within date. Oh, and two pints of milk, semi-skimmed.” She leans back and smiles up at the tall man. He ignores her. As Clarissa passes, the woman opens her purse and offers her credit card.

  “No cards! I already told you no cards. Cash only. The machine’s not working.”

  A grumble of discontent works its way through the line and someone shouts their frustration as Clarissa clutches at Stella’s elbow and turns the corner. In the next street a larger crowd shifts and jostles. The tension is palpable.

  “Head up and shoulders back,” Clarissa says in hushed tones to Stella as they make their way through the crowds. Stella pulls herself tall and raises her head as Clarissa slips her hand through the crook of her daughter’s arm.

  The throng of people is quite intimidating and she flinches as Stella is knocked by a large man as he runs to join the crowd. Clarissa looks on with dread as she realises the crowd is waiting outside her local supermarket. She shoves her free hand in her coat pocket and grits her teeth as the first signs of a t
ension headache grips the back of her head.

  “They must be waiting for it to open,” she says keeping her voice light, though she clutches Stella’s arm tighter.

  The noise of calling and angry shouts becomes intense as they draw parallel with the shop. One in particular is louder than the others.

  “Move out of the way!” a voice calls. “Hey! Get off!” it calls again. The man’s anger threatens rage. “That’s mine!”

  Clarissa increases her pace and pulls Stella as close to the wall, and as far away from the crowd, as possible. As she passes, a man clings to a shopping trolley, the handle pulled into the soft flesh of his corpulent belly, as people grab for the food he’s piled inside. He bats at a woman as she reaches in and grasps a loaf of bread. “I said that’s mine,” he growls enraged, the veins along his neck standing proud and thick. He grabs hold of the woman then shoots his arm into the trolley and jabs it back. In his hand is the unmistakable turquoise wrapper of a tin of beans. As the woman pulls against his grip he slams the tin against her head. It catches her cheek and she staggers into another shopper as blood trickles from damaged skin. The shopper shoves her back and the injured woman’s brittle blonde hair catches the sunlight, seeming to sparkle as she falls to the ground and disappears below the throng. As she falls a man reaches into the trolley. The fat man slams the bloodied tin of beans against his hand. He yells in pain as his fingers are caught against the wire of the trolley and the metal cannister as it smashes down. “I said it’s mine,” the man growls and his belly wobbles as he slams at the man’s hand again. Pulling at his trapped fingers the thief staggers back, his hand held high, pain etched across his face. Ignoring his screams, the fat man rams the trolley forward, pushing his way out of the crowd, ramming against any bodies in his path. The tin still clutched in his hand, he raises the tin at the man with the broken hand in anger as he passes. The man cowers. Clarissa clutches Stella tighter and steps as close to the wall as she can.

  As they hurry past, she can see into the depths of the supermarket. Each window has been broken and people push in and out of the doors, food clutched in their arms, grabbing what they can from the nearly bare shelves. Others wait at the edge of the crowd and grab food from the arms of the shoppers leaving the supermarket. Among the throng, Clarissa can just make out the woman battered by the tin of beans. Her face is a bloodied mess and as the other shoppers do nothing to help, one trips and kicks at her prone body. She doesn’t move. Clarissa gasps and turns away.

  “If this is what they’re like after a few hours without electricity, what are they going to be like in a few days?” Stella asks, the fear in her voice unmistakable.

  Clarissa’s belly clenches at the thought, but she replies with a calm voice. “It’ll come back on soon, you’ll see. It has to. Then everything will calm down again.” She looks back again at the shop; we’ll have to go to Bramwell—we’ll be safe there.

  Clarissa is thankful when Stella seems to accept her response but seeing the hysterical way people were behaving she knows she’s made a mistake bringing Stella along with her. Perhaps they should have stayed at home! Isn’t that what Jessie would have told them to do—stay at home? There were supplies in the cellar for a couple of weeks if necessary, but surely it wouldn’t last that long? If it did, then the house at Bramwell was well stocked. She’d indulged Jessie there and bought all the stock that she’d listed and looking at the crazed throng, it was a Godsend that she had.

  “Let’s cut through here,” she suggests as they leave the supermarket behind and the high stone walls of one of the city’s parks appears. Clarissa links her arm through Stella’s again and hurries across the road to the park’s open gateway. She can’t help but check left then right although the vehicles remain motionless. As they step through the tall stone pillars that mark the gate’s entrance Clarissa spots a gang of youths. Wearing the obligatory hoodies and baseball caps they loiter along the path. She stops as fear overwhelms her.

  “Stella, I want to go back,” she says.

  “What? But you said you needed-”

  “I do. But I’d be happier if you were back home. The city just feels tense.” She turns, pulling Stella with her and strides out of the park and back across the road. She had to get to the office, but they were too vulnerable like this. If Stella was back home, and she had something to defend herself with, then she’d make the journey to work.

  Chapter 17

  Jessie pulls at her rucksack to adjust the strap on her shoulder as she takes a step beyond the town’s threshold. It must be midday by the look of the sun—now her only way of telling the time since her mobile still wasn’t working. She hasn’t eaten since before the flight took off last night and her legs are feeling the ache from lack of food. Her belly growls. With at least thirty miles to walk - a good six-hour slog - before she gets home, she’s going to have to find food from somewhere.

  Alex and Clare’s boots thud on the tarmac as they keep pace next to her. The three spread out across the road. There was something strange about being able to walk at ease along the road like this. Her thoughts go again to her mother and sister. Were they without electricity too? Her mother wasn’t stupid, she knew that staying inside was the safest thing to do, and she’d talked to Stella about what to do if the shit hit the fan—wait at home until she could get to them. There were supplies in the cellar: bottles of water, tins of vegetables and meat, packets of dried fruit, long-life milk, cereals and oats, a first aid kit, and weapons if they needed them—sure, no firearms, but there was her crossbow and the new survival bow she’d bought. She hadn’t had chance to really try that out, but it seemed sturdy enough, and was easy to carry. There was a camping stove with gas cannisters too, so they could have a warm drink. Still, things would be back to normal anytime soon—probably just as they reached the city the lights would all come back on and life would get back to normal. That would be typical. But, even if the power did come back on, if the blackout had been widespread, there would be some serious issues about food supply. The thought makes her chest tighten and she quickens her steps. Five hours and forty-five minutes to go if they’d been walking for fifteen! They had to make better progress than this.

  “We need to find a car.”

  “A car?”

  “We need food first.”

  “Hell, yes!”

  “Where do you suggest we get some?”

  “The hedgerows,” Jessie says looking at the trees that line the road.

  “What, like brambles? We pick them at home—for pies”

  “Yes, but I can’t see any along this stretch.”

  “What then?”

  Jessie moves to the side of the road and looks down to the grass and plants that grow in the long grass of the verge. She squats and plucks the head of a daisy; its petals are open to the sun and welcoming. “Here,” she says handing it to Clare.

  “That’s a daisy!” she exclaims.

  “It is,” Jessie laughs.

  “But it’s a flower!”

  “You’re not wrong,” Alex laughs and grabs it from her hand, drops it into his mouth and chews. “Hmm. Not bad. What else you got?”

  Jessie laughs at the less than impressed grimace on his face as he chews the flower’s petals and walks a little further along the road. “This!” she calls and reaches down to pick a stem with sharply serrated and dark green leaves.

  “That’s a nettle!”

  “It is.”

  “I’m not eating that!”

  “It’s not a stinging nettle. Look at the flowers. It’s a dead nettle.”

  “Doesn’t look very dead!” Clare says, obviously dubious.

  “No, not that way. It doesn’t sting. Here feel,” she says offering the nettle stem to her. Clare flinches then holds out her hand and touches the leaves.

  “Oh! They’re soft.”

  “Yes, and you can eat them. Here,” she says pulling off a flower. “Taste this.”

  Clare takes the tiny white flower from her fi
ngers and pops it into her mouth. “Oh, it’s sweet.”

  Jessie smiles at the obvious pleasure on the girl’s face. Her own stomach growls again and she plucks another handful and passes a stem to Alex before picking the flowers for herself.

  As he chews Alex holds up a bunch of scruffy-headed and very yellow dandelions. “I got these. I know they make you pee, but we can eat them too.”

  “Hah! Well if you eat the leaves you will be peeing and we need to conserve what fluids we have. The roots will be better. They’ve got starch in them.” Jessie crouches down and looks for a stick or something sharp to dig with. “If we collect some now, we can roast them later—if we need to.”

  “Can we eat them raw?”

  Jessie’s stomach growls.

  “Sounds like we’ll need to,” Alex laughs and bends down, picks up a shard of glass that is half buried in the soil and begins to dig around the dandelion at his feet.

  A crab apple tree leans out of the hedgerow and Jessie peers up into its canopy.

  “They’re too small,” Clare complains as she joins her and turns back to the hedgerow.

  “Yep, not ripe yet.”

  After ten minutes Clare drops the last handfuls of dandelion roots into Jessie’s rucksack, along with dead nettles, daisies, and a few burdock roots.

  Jessie zips the bag closed as she chews on a root.

  “They taste a like raw parsnip—bit woody!” Clare says as looks at the white root in her hand.

  “I think they’d taste better if they were roasted.”

  “Think I’ll stick to parsnips,” Alex says holding up the fibrous root then sticking it back between his teeth.

  “Food is food.”

  “Shame there aren’t any apples ready yet.”

  “If we don’t get moving they will be,” Jessie adds with a laugh.

  “Ugh!” Clare sighs. “What about that car?”

  “Where are we supposed to get one?”

  “Can you even drive?”

  “The older ones might be running,” Jessie suggests hopefully.