The church bell strikes eleven as William Able-Baxter, or Bill as his friends and the women at the shelter call him, pulls the cardboard around his legs. He reaches for the newspaper laid at his side and pulls off a sheet. He crumples it and stuffs it beneath his jumper. Not next to the skin mind you, that would be too uncomfortable. No, between his shirt and his jumpers—that’s the best way to insulate yourself. The past few months had been a crash-course in survival!
Tonight wasn’t so bad - quite warm really - and quieter than usual too. He’d sat and watched the celestial display with awe, revelled in its beauty, and enjoyed the gasps of delight from the onlookers, then chuckled at the mayhem when all the lights went kaput.
He’d watched in the light of the fading aurora as they’d all squawked and made a fuss or stood about in confusion. Sure, at first it had been a shock to see the cars play dodgem as their brakes failed, but no one, at least on this street, had been hurt. It was hard to get any speed up in the city and today that had been a saving grace. But he had to admit, it had been quite entertaining. It was odd though; the sky had lit up like Blackpool promenade, beautiful really the way the colours had mixed like that, and then the streets lights went off along with all the lights in the bars, shops, and restaurants. Now it was quiet. After the initial squawking and fuss, the takeaways and restaurants had closed their doors, and the shops had emptied leaving the late-night shoppers to make their way home.
The woman had caught his eye again. She’d been one of the last to leave the building opposite, a long time after her colleagues had left. Must be a workaholic, but she does seem like a real lady—always smartly dressed and professional, pretty too with dark glossy hair that reminded him of chocolate, the stuff that’s more than seventy percent cocoa, not the cheap stuff mind, the expensive stuff with the posh name that costs twice as much, and skin … - he struggles - with skin like a rich and milky coffee. He sighs as he zips his jacket to just below his chin. Sure, he was homeless, but he wasn’t dead. He still notices that kind of stuff!
Each morning she’d arrive and then leave at the same time. Today had been different though—probably had to work late, one of the last to leave and from the conversation he’d overheard with the security guard, she thought she’d been locked in. He’d sat and watched her as she made her way home then felt a wave of anxiety as she’d disappeared down the dark street—alone. He’d thought for a moment about following her—just to make sure she got home safely since it was dark - and the man she often left with – maybe her boyfriend? - was nowhere in sight - but had dismissed the idea. Following her home would make him some kind of stalker, even if it was with the best of intentions, and he may be homeless, but he wasn’t that! No, there was the moon to light her way. She would be fine.
He pulls at the cardboard again. The blackout had done him a favour. He’d sleep well tonight without the usual noise and the smells from the takeaways making his hunger just that little bit more excruciating. He shuffles back against the door, thankful for the wall at his side—it gives him at least some protection from the cold breeze sweeping down the road between the buildings. Here, he was hidden from passers-by, at least until they glanced his way. Most of the time he was just invisible. He coughs then pulls at another sheet of paper, scrunches it, and stuffs it beneath his jumper.
CHAPTER 6
DARK HAS DESCENDED and the only light now is from the moon and the stars. The gorge that had consumed Briggs, Ridley, and the plane looms as a black cavern as Jessie stands grasping the thin sapling at its edge and peers down.
“Jessie!” Alex calls from the pile of logs he has gathered.
She ignores his call, not wanting him to intrude on her pain.
“Jessie!” he repeats, his voice closer now. “Come away from the edge.”
She grips the tree, digging her nails into its bark as she continues to stare down.
“Jessie,” Alex says as his hand lays on her shoulder. “You did your best. There was nothing you could do.”
“But I could have tried harder.”
“How? It was an impossible situation.”
“I can’t believe they’re gone.”
“Come back with me. You need to sit down.”
She shivers.
“We should make that fire, Jessie,” Alex suggests. “Come and help me find some wood. You know I’ll need your help,” he laughs.
She’s thankful for his attempt to soothe her.
“Yes,” she says with a smile remembering his failed efforts. “I’ll help.” She turns from the dark gorge and walks back with him to their ‘camp’.
Five minutes later, and clutching hands full of twigs for kindling, she returns to the space where Alex has begun to build a low wall in a semi-circle. Clare returns with an armful of ferns.
“Just lay them down there,” Jessie suggests pointing to the growing semi-circle of logs.
She crouches and places some larger twigs on the ground as the base to her fire then lays some kindling on top. She’s chosen the area carefully, making sure it’s at a reasonable distance from the newly made sleeping area: not too close that it’ll burn them, but not too far so they don’t feel the benefit. Opening the tin, she takes out a few short pieces of hemp twine and pulls them apart until the fibres mix together to form a bundle of fibres.
“What’s that?” Clare asks as Jessie reaches for a small tin from the pouch.
“Char cloth,” Alex replies.
Jessie takes a square of black cotton from the tin and lays it in the nest of hemp. She places it gently on top of the bundle of thin, dry twigs and reaches again into her pouch. The cold of the steel makes it easy to locate and she pulls it out then reaches in for the pear-shaped piece of flint. Both feel cold to the touch, both smooth and reassuring. Alex squats next to her, his breathing steady as he watches her strike the flint against the steel.
“The idea is to get the spark into the cloth,” she explains as she drives the flint down the length of the steel. Sparks ignite and disappear into the air.
“Hold it closer,” Alex suggests.
She follows his suggestion without comment though she can’t help feel a touch irked. She strikes the flint again.
“It’s in! Oh …” Clare exclaims as the sparks touches the black cloth then immediately dies.
“It’ll happen. Just got to keep trying.”
Alex and Clare are silent as Jessie strikes the flint against the steel until at last a spark catches and begins to burn the cloth. A curve of brilliant orange seems to eat its way through the fibres and Jessie picks up the nest of hemp, cradles it in her hands and blows gently. Smoke filters through her fingers, twisting into the night. She blows again and the char cloth burns and the smoke thickens. As the hemp burns, she places the glowing nest onto the kindling and a few dry twigs on top, crouching down and blowing gently to keep air pushing through the new-born fire. Within five minutes the flames are eating at larger logs, pushing back the dark of the night and beginning to warm her hands. She sits back with relief. It had worked. She’d done it! She sits back on her haunches, closes her eyes and says a prayer of thanks for Ridley’s teaching. He was going to help them survive even if he wasn’t there to lead them.
CHAPTER 7
CLARISSA WATCHES from the glass of her dressing room out onto the streets, relieved to be back home. Her feet ache with the long and unexpected walk back—three miles was a long way in those heels and the cityscape seemed foreboding against the black of night. Here and there lights were appearing as people adjusted to the power cut. She walks back through to her bedroom. The oil lamp sheds a yellow glow across the bed but doesn’t reach the corners. She sits on the bed and pulls the briefcase to her, flips it open and fumbles inside. Her fingers search from side to side. It’s not there! She was sure she’d put the memory stick in there when she left the office. She pulls out the papers and spreads them across the bed, even in the imperfect light she can see that the last page is only half-printed, logging the exact moment
when the blackout forced everything to shut down. Damn! It looks as though she’s left some of the papers on her desk along with the memory stick. Lifting the oil lamp, she holds it above the papers and peers at the text. Yes, there was the first anomaly. The hairs on her neck creep again as she realises the ramifications of her discovery. Gotcha!
She thinks back to her journey home. It hadn’t been easy walking through the dark streets, but she hadn’t fallen or dropped her bag, so the stick can’t have fallen out. If it has! No, it must still be on her desk. She’d have to go back to the office in the morning and find it, as well as the papers still on her desk; they were certainly for her eyes only and much too sensitive to be mislaid. It was her discovery and could perhaps mean a promotion! She yawns, the arc of the light brightening the corners as she stretches, then sits the lamp back on the bedside table. Checking once more in the empty bag just in case she has missed the memory stick, she gathers the papers and slips them back inside before pushing it beneath her bed. Perhaps she should lock it in the safe? No, Clarissa. Don’t be paranoid.
A knock at the door and Stella steps in.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“I’ve found all the candles I can and there are two torches with batteries,” she says holding up the goods.
“Is that all?”
“It’s all I can find.”
“Did you check the cellar?”
“… No.”
Clarissa laughs at the hesitation in her daughter’s voice. “I can’t blame you, darling. It is horribly creepy down there, but it’s where Jessie keeps everything. You know what she’s like about being prepared. Hand me one of those torches and we’ll check together.”
Stella sighs in relief as Clarissa takes a torch and stands.
“Did you hear those blasts?”
“Yes, they sounded as though they came from the other side of the city.”
“I think they did. There’s a fire too. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you think they’re related? The power being cut and then the blasts.”
“Perhaps. Maybe the blast was because the power was cut; a gas leak or something?”
“Yes, but everything’s dead. The mobile phone network, the internet, the television, the streetlights. Do you think it was an EMP?”
“One of those things Jessie keeps talking about?”
“Yes.”
“An electromagnetic pulse? Aren’t they from the sun? Some sort of solar storm.”
“Yes. That’s what Jessie said. They come from the sun or … a terrorist attack.”
“A terrorist attack?” Clarissa asks looking back to the windows with their undrawn curtains. Nothing can be seen but the reflection of the oil lamp in the glass. “Sounds like a plot from a film.”
“Well, Jessie was talking about them last holiday at the cottage. Do you remember? She was telling us how there had been a pulse and it had interfered with some satellite signals and then she was talking about what she’d do if the ‘shit hit the fan’-”
“Stella! Language.”
“But that’s what they call it.”
“Who?”
“Preppers and people who think the end of the world is coming. S. H. T. F. Shit hit the fan.”
“OK, Stella. You don’t need to repeat it.”
“Sure, but-”
“Let’s check in the cellar shall we and see what Jessie has squirreled away for us down there.”
Clarissa takes the torch Stella offers, then ushers her daughter down the stairs and to the door that sits beneath the stairs. She opens it to a waft of mildew and shines her torch into the black hole that is the cellar. She clicks at the light switch. Worth a try. It flicks up but the light remains off. Taking a tentative step, she descends.
A shout sounds from the street and she stops and points the torch to the wide front door.
“Stella, just nip and lock the door,” Clarissa urges as she keeps the light trained on the door’s handle.
“Sure,” Stella replies and runs across to the door.
“Can’t be too careful.”
“Where’s Andy?”
“At home, I presume.”
“Can’t we get him to come round. I’d feel safer.”
“He’s only a colleague, Stella. I can’t ask him to come round!”
“Well, why’s he here so often then?”
“Well, he’s my friend, Stella.”
“Oh, really!” Stella responds with a laugh.
“Yes, Stella. He’s a friend, just a friend and anyway, I’ve got no way of contacting him. Come on. If you’re not careful I’ll be making you go down into the cold, dark and creepy cellar first!”
“Hah!”
Clarissa smiles, enjoying the banter, relieved that her usually nervous daughter seems to be holding herself together, and takes a tentative step down into the cellar. Although she feels reassured now that the front door is secure, Stella had a point; she did wish Andy was here.
CHAPTER 8
THE FIRELIGHT FLICKERS as Jessie lies down on the bed of ferns. She pulls at the coat laid across her midriff. It doesn’t stretch to her feet and her legs are cold. She shivers but is thankful that they at least have this one improvised blanket, even if they do have to share it. Clare nudges up behind, her body warm against Jessie’s back.
“Alex,” she whispers as Clare snorts then pulls at the coat.
He pokes at the fire with a stick.
“Yeah?”
“Get some sleep.”
“Sure, I will—in a minute.”
“You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.” He nods his agreement but doesn’t move.
Turning onto her back, she looks at the sky and the clusters of bright silver that fill it. She’s never seen the stars so bright before. Thinking about the vastness of the cosmos makes her head spin and she closes her eyes against its beauty for a moment. The pain that she’s worked hard to keep in check since Briggs and Ridley plunged down into the gorge overwhelms her and sadness sits heavily across her chest. As emotion threatens to wash over her, she takes a breath. Push it down, Jess. Stay in control. She’s back in the plane, watching through the window as it banks, and the city lights shine in the distance. The pilot was making the final adjustments to their flight path when the blackout happened and, if that was the case, then the bright lights must have been coming from the nearest city to the base. There were other lights beneath them too—farmhouses or hamlets or small villages perhaps. If they could get to one of those, somewhere with people, then she could get help for Briggs and Captain Ridley. Despair washes over her; they couldn’t be dead—they just couldn’t. What the hell had happened? The lights went out and the plane lost power. There was only one thing she could think of—an EMP, the only question now was whether it was a solar pulse or a nuke. There had been no mention that the aurora was from anything other than a low-grade solar storm. Could it really have caused this level of damage? Whether natural or manmade, if it was an electromagnetic pulse big enough to knock a plane out of the sky, then things on the ground would be out of kilter too. Would she even be able to make that call for help? What if it was a nuke? She takes another breath as anxiety rises again. If it was a nuke! ‘Stay calm. Stay in control.’ Yes, Captain.
Her thoughts turn again to her mother and Stella’s phone call. What if their mother hadn’t returned? She fights the urge to get up, throw on her rucksack and run blindly through the woods to get to them. Her mother would be home now. She had to be. ‘Keep it calm, Lockhart.’ Her mother would do everything she could to get back home, Jessie had to trust to that, and then she’d be there to help and they’d all leave for the safehouse. Until then, they knew what to do. Didn’t they?
She’d talked to Stella about it often—about being prepared if the worst happened and they both knew about the cellar. Perhaps she should have taken it further and gone through a dummy run? They’d know exactly what to do then. She clenches her fists at the though
t of her mother and Stella alone in the house in the city. If things did go badly wrong, and this truly was a powerful EMP, then things could get really bad. You only had to look at what happened to places where other types of natural disasters occurred to know that. People become ruthless when their lives are at stake, but then again, sometimes people did pull together, and this was England after all, and surely here, in this civilised nation, that wouldn’t happen. Not really. Would it? She stifles a groan as her memory shifts to a BBC report she’d watched on knife crime in London and another about the thirty-six percent hike in violent crime last year and sighs. Sure, this was England, and up here they were safe, but down there … well, if criminals were making the streets unsafe before then, in a crisis, it would be carnage. Her stomach knots as she remembers the hooded figures on the screen talking to the reporter, just kids really, but kids armed with fifteen-inch blades and ready to ‘dip you’ in the chest if you so much as looked at them.
A cold breeze brushes at her legs and the trees creak. The pain of grief descends over her again as she looks in the direction of the gorge. Her mother and Stella needed her, but Ridley and Briggs had to come first. Frustrated, she sighs, welcoming the small relief it brings to the tension in her chest. The shit had finally hit the fan and she was stuck up here miles away from where she needed to be. Unsettled, she rises, covers Clare with the coat and sits next to Alex. He pokes at the fire with a stick and places another branch into the flames.
Days of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 1) Page 5
