Nights of Fire_An EMP Survival Thriller

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Fingers lock around her elbow. “He’s right—the man with the beard,” Alex says as he tugs at her arm. “People need to protect themselves. They can only do that if they know what danger they’re in. We need to tell them what we know.”

  The thud of the man’s body as it broke on the pavement still rings in Jessie’s ears as she nods in reply. Alex was right. They should tell them all about the terrorist’s plans, their ‘Days of Fire’.

  As she steps towards the bearded man another shout rises from the crowd.

  “Someone save her!”

  It has taken at least thirty minutes of brisk walking to get a few streets from Berkeley Street. On the journey, Nareen has been horrified at the destruction the last nights have brought. Shop windows are smashed and their shelves empty. Cans, bottles, shopping baskets and paper litter the streets along with random items of clothing. As she passes yet another shop with a shattered window, she notices blood smeared along the door and pools of dark and drying blood along the pavement. In the distance thick columns of smoke rise into the sky.

  There are not as many people on the streets as she’d expected, but then, if the shops are empty or closed, what would they be out for? She wouldn’t be out on the streets either, if she didn’t have to be here. As she turns the corner she stops. The road ahead is alive with noise and people shouting.

  A man runs out of the entrance of a block of flats and then there are a dozen people in the street. They stand back and look up at the building. Nareen follows their gaze and notices the smoke. The building is on fire and at least two bodies lie broken on the ground, their arms and legs twisted at grotesque angles. A leg twitches and she gags.

  A window slams up and a woman leans out. Smoke billows behind her. “Help!” she screams and swings her legs out and sits on the window’s ledge.

  Nareen stands in horrified silence as she watches the woman begin to hitch herself further over the edge.

  “Someone save her!” she calls into the crowd. The woman twists and dangles from the ledge. The drop is too far! She’ll never survive, or worse, be grotesquely broken like the bodies lying on the street. “Help her!” Nareen calls again. A weight of dread presses at her as she looks frantically at the people in the street. Some are oblivious, some nurse their own damaged flesh and others stand and stare in quiet horror.

  A tug at Nareen’s sleeve. “Come with me,” The woman’s accent is thick. “We get that,” she says pointing to the awning above the shop at the base of the apartment blocks. “We pull it out and she can fall.”

  The woman’s legs dangle directly above the awning. Nareen runs forward with the blonde and jumps up to grab the folded canopy. Her fingertips clip the edge of the fabric. She’s not tall enough. Again! She jumps and her fingertips pull at the awning then slip. As she jumps again a strong arm grips around her knees and she’s lifted. Grabbing the metal frame of the awning, she pulls and the fabric unfolds. A small group has gathered and they each reach up to hold the awning in place.

  “Get ready!”

  “Jump!” the blonde calls up.

  “Sheila!” another woman shouts. “Jump! We’ll catch you.”

  Smoke billows behind the woman. She releases her grip and falls. Nareen tightens her grip and waits for the impact.

  Bang!

  The woman lands with a thud, the awning breaks under the impact, and the frame is yanked from Nareen’s hands.

  Men grunt as the woman rolls into them, sliding over the broken awning. The fallen woman groans as one of the men heaves her to him then lays her on the ground. The awning hangs at an angle from its mooring, its metal frame bent, its fabric ripped.

  “Sheila! Sheila are you alive?” her friend sobs as she crouches over her. “Are you broken? Are you hurt?”

  Nareen turns to leave and catches sight of the woman whose quick thinking had saved Sheila. She reaches down to pick up a child. White-blonde hair splays across the woman’s shoulders and Nareen thinks back to her own child. How lucky she was to know that Alyssiah was safe at home. How different it could be for her. The petite woman smiles as their eyes meet until a man, huge and broad-shouldered with hair that matches the child’s, stands next to her. She watches the family as they embrace then walks away from the horror with renewed determination. She wasn’t willing to give up on Alyssiah’s father yet.

  Chapter 7

  Making her way through the chaos Nareen reaches Berkeley Street. She stands at the corner and peers down the long road. It is empty apart from a lone man who turns left and disappears. Perhaps she misheard or they’ve already gone? As she scours the road, movement catches her eye and a figure, dressed entirely in black, moves at the crossroads. Although they’re too far away to see her, she pulls back and catches her breath. Her mouth is suddenly dry and her heart races. She presses close to the wall and looks again down the road. This time there are more figures. All are dressed in black, some with bandanas covering the lower half of their faces. As she watches, they assemble themselves in the middle of the road. Metal glints in the brightening sun. They’re armed!

  Unsurprised, though shocked to see the spectacle of men wielding axes and machetes, she peers into the group looking for Hamed and is disappointed when she can’t discern him—they all look the same from this far away. A figure at the front punches his arm into the air. A rectangle of black rises at the back of the group. A flag. She recognises it immediately. To Nareen it shouts of death and violence, of hatred and barbarity. She shudders. It’s the same flag she’s seen on the news reports of extremists walking through London calling for the beheading of anyone who disparages them, for Sharia law to be the law of Britain, and as the backdrop to videos from the Middle East showing the beheading of hostages. She remembers vividly the disturbing video filmed in London last month that Hamed had shown her of a man claiming that he would marry his nine-year-old daughter off if she was menstruating and ready for sex. She’d clung to Alyssiah then and thought of divorce for the first time. These were the men that her husband, the father of her child, had chosen above her. He was one of them. Sickened, her heart thuds heavily. Sickened, she knows they can never be a family again. Sickened she knows she has to stop him.

  As the group begins to pick up pace she can see their weapons more clearly. Several appear to have machetes, crowbars and knives and at least two that she can see have rifles, hunters ready for the kill.

  She scours the group of men as they approach. All in black, faces half-hidden, she struggles to recognise Hamed and scrutinises each figure until she recognises his gait, the breadth of his shoulders, and the slimness of his frame. She takes a breath and steps out into the road. He doesn’t see her. As the group approaches, the urge to run back to the safety of the shadows is enormous, but she has to try. A pair of eyes scowls at her from between black cloth. The butt of a rifle jabs into her shoulder. Knocked back, she steadies herself then steps forward again.

  “Shame on you!” Another shouts. “Get back to your house.”

  Anger overwhelms her. “This is a free country. I can go where I want.”

  “Nareen!”

  “Hamed, come-”

  Angry, he grabs her arm and pushes her back onto the path. “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here? These men are monsters.”

  “They’re soldiers of Allah.”

  “Satan more like,” she hisses.

  “Shut up!” he says with a furtive look back at the throng of shambling men. “They’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t care if they do. They’re monsters—murderers.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Come home, Hamed,” she pleads and grabs his arm. “Think of your moth-”

  “Hamed!” a rough voice calls. “Leave her.”

  Hamed pushes her towards the wall. “Go home, Nareen,” he hisses. “Go back to your child.” Hardened against her, he turns and re-joins the group.

  Undeterred she runs to walk at his side. In one last, desperate effort she grab
s his sleeve. “Hamed, I’ll-”

  As he jerks his arm away steel fingers wrap through her hair. Pain sears her scalp. Yanked from Hamed and pulled backwards, her only view is the blue sky until it is blocked by a bearded and scowling face above hers.

  “Go home, whore.”

  She twists and screams for Hamed to help as the hand tightens through her hair. Thrown with force, her head hits the wall. She screams as the first vicious kick lands on her thigh. A second kick sinks into her buttock and she pulls herself tight against the attack and curls against the wall.

  “Stay down, whore. Go home and wait for your husband.”

  She recognises him—the same man preaching hate in the video Hamed had watched just two weeks ago. Instinctively she knows to keep still; if she stands to defend herself he’ll have no mercy. She curls tighter and waits. His eyes bore into hers until she looks away and then he’s gone. As she watches the men walk to the end of the street she shouts her defiance. Hamed doesn’t look back.

  The pain in her legs makes her wince as she stands, but she walks up the road to an area of scrubby land littered with bottles strewn near a low and broken wall. She picks up a brick and a glass bottle and follows the group. Within minutes she catches up with the men. She hangs back, not wanting to be seen either by them or with them. Holding the bottle tight in her grip she wavers. What does she hope to do? How can she stop them alone? She can’t, but she can warn the people ahead. She takes a breath to calm the hammering in her chest then picks up her pace, first running then sprinting past the men, ignoring the painful hurt of her thigh.

  “Nareen!”

  Forcing herself to ignore Hamed’s call, she runs ahead, heart pounding, legs burning. He’s had his chance. He let that man attack her. He can never be the husband she needs. Their marriage is over. All she can do now is save people from his hate.

  Back on the street where the apartment block still burns, smoke billows from the entrance. The street is full of people. Running into the crowd, she grabs the arm of a large man standing with his arms folded looking up at the building. His muscles bulge beneath his t-shirt.

  “They’re coming!” she gasps.

  He looks down at her with a frown, rings of decorated iron glint in his beard. “Who?”

  “Terrorists—extremists. They’re armed and they’re coming. They’re trying to kill anyone they find in the streets.”

  His face drops as she speaks and he looks over her head to the street beyond.

  “Where?”

  “A couple of streets away.”

  “How do you know.”

  “My husband—he’s with them—they’re the ones setting fire to the buildings.” He looks at her with incomprehension. “Please … you’ve got to help me warn everyone.”

  A woman with pillar-box red hair, skin a rich and milky coffee, steps next to the man, a deep frown between her brows. “What did she say?” Her eyes are piercing, blue.

  Nareen is suddenly small next to the towering pair. “The men who set fire to the building,” she explains with a glance towards the smoke-filled entrance, “they’re coming up the road. I think they’re going to attack you all.”

  “Terrorists?” she asks. Her eyes widen as she spits the words.

  “Yes!”

  Red hair glints in the morning light. “Harry!” She grabs his arm. “Let’s get out of here!”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not going to run, Jenny.”

  “We can’t stay here—they’ll kill us.” She tugs again at his arm.

  “Not if we kill them first,” he replies with grim determination. “Maz! Jake!” he calls across the road then strides away.

  The woman with red hair stares down at Nareen for a moment then follows Harry. Standing in the middle of the road among the chaos of injured and terrified people Nareen is alone. Time slows as she watches the men talk then become animated. Any second a murderous gang will walk around the corner and start the bloodshed. The men nod, stare down the road then stride across to the restaurant across the road. They try the door and when it doesn’t open they break the glass and step through to the dark interior. The red-haired woman runs between the survivors on the street telling everyone she meets about the threat marching towards them. Tension rises. She points at Nareen and then to the restaurant. The crowd thins as people run away or break through the windows of shops and disappear inside.

  Harry re-appears from the restaurant and strides to the middle of the road. He lays a bundle of cloth onto the tarmac and opens it. Kitchen knives, chopping blades and other utensils, sharp and damaging to flesh, spread out with a clank. Another man holding a small kitchen flame thrower joins him. Another carries a large red fire extinguisher. Within minutes the men and women that remain on the street are armed. Silence falls. In the distance the thud of marching feet can be heard above the low buzz of chanting. As the terrorists draw closer the survivors are armed and ready for battle.

  Beside Nareen a woman with long dark hair and skin similar to her own, shrugs off her rucksack and drops it to the ground.

  Chapter 8

  “They’re here then,” Jessie says to Alex as her bag hits the ground. The young Asian woman disappears after the tall woman with red hair. It reminds her of a glace cherry as it glints in the sun.

  “Sounds like it,” Alex returns. His face is ashen, riven with fatigue, but the determination that glints in his eye is unmistakable. “I suggest we get these people to move back then …” his voice peters out as movement at the end of the road catches his attention. Figures, dressed entirely in black shamble out from the side street and onto the road. They lack the cohesion of a trained unit but Jessie doesn’t underestimate their murderous intent.

  “Everyone back!” she calls.

  Alex shouts at the men, women and children standing in the street to run back up the road. As he shouts his orders a young boy darts from a side street. His chest heaves, his face flushed.

  “They’re armed. They’re going to attack!” he shouts, arms flailing as he runs.

  Jessie grabs his jacket and pulls him to a stop. “Tell me what you know,” she demands staring into the black of his brown eyes.

  He looks back in alarm at the advancing horde, pulling against Jessie’s grip. She holds firm. “I need to know.”

  “I walked up behind them and listened,” he pants, catching at his breath. “They were talking about killing as many people as were in the streets. They were shouting about dancing in the blood of the English.” Jessie’s stomach clenches and he yanks his sleeve from her grip. “They’ve got axes and knives and machetes.” She lets the boy go and turns back to the crowd of men. The boy was right—they’re armed and even if they were untrained they could cause horrific injuries with those weapons.

  At the back of the group a black flag rises. Words in white, indecipherable to Jessie, are printed on the black cloth. She may not be able to read what they say, but she recognises the flag with a surge of anger. The enemy, and it was on her streets!

  “They’re going to kill us.”

  “They’re going to try.”

  Jessie turns to the voices. The man with the beard and the woman with red hair stand just feet away. Beyond them are a bank of people armed and standing their ground.

  A shout rises from the advancing horde of black-clad figures. The flag thrusts higher.

  “Get ready!”

  The terrorists slow to a stop.

  The thud of feet stamping vibrates behind her.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Beside her a man, his over-long hair pulled back into a pony-tail drums a crowbar against a car’s wheel. He stares out at the terrorists, cheeks flushed, a glint in his eyes. He’s enjoying this!

  The terrorists hang back and shuffle. The flag bows and waves. Jessie scours the men. Most have knives. Three have machetes and one an axe. Two have rifles; one looks like a hunting rifle but the other is a military grade automatic.

  The thud of feet on the street behind grows loude
r.

  Jessie throws her rucksack to Alex. “The survival bow—it’s inside.” She unzips the crossbow’s bag.

  Crossbow clear of its bag, she loads it with a sharpened bolt.

  “Allahuakbar!”

  He’s not listening!

  A wave of black surges forward, machetes held high. The rifles stand behind, weapons raised, sights focused.

  The automatic would be her first kill.

  A roar erupts behind Jessie as she raises the crossbow and then the street bursts with screaming, shouting men and women. She stands her ground. Raises her bow. She has the automatic in her sights. She fingers the trigger. A body knocks against her. The woman with red hair runs past.

  Damn!

  She rights herself. Focuses. Catches him in her sights. No! It’s not him, it’s the hunting rifle. Damn them to hell!

  Crack!

  A body jerks, thrown backwards by a bullet.

  Crack!

  Blood haemorrhages across its belly. It stumbles and falls.

  Jessie pulls the trigger as the rifle shifts its focus and takes aim.

  The bolt slides through the air, its silver shaft glints in the morning sun and pierces the man’s left eye. He falls to the ground, disappearing behind the jumble of thrashing arms.

  The automatic fires a chatter of bullets. They hit a woman only feet away from Jessie. He’s seen her. She could be dead if he was a better marksman. Get cover!

  Jessie twists and runs to the side of the street, vaults over the bonnet of a car and reloads as she waits for the car to be sprayed with bullets. Another bolt locked into the crossbow. The bullets don’t come. She looks out over the car’s boot. The automatic has disappeared. She searches the crowd. Nothing. Where the hell is he?

  Movement across the street catches her eye.

  A figure jumps to the roof of a car.

  It’s him!

  The roof of the blue BMW buckles as he stands. He points the gun into the fighting men and women, shifting the automatic to his hips and stops.