The backseat passenger holds the petrol can and crouches as he unscrews the lid. He strides to the station’s entrance and tips the can up. Liquid sloshes over the concrete slabs and splashes onto the pebbles. He trips on the edge of the slab. Petrol spatters his thighs and dark spots spread over his jeans, a wet patch grows at his knees. He mutters in a language Michael can’t understand—harsh and guttural, then stands back and reaches into his pocket.
The other men stand and watch.
Taking out a box of matches he lights one, cupping his hands around the flame to protect it from the light breeze. He throws the match at the door but instead it drops from his fingers and lands on his leg. His knee bursts into flame. Michael’s instinct is to run and help but he stops himself with a jolt and steps back behind the shrub.
The shorter man, his dark beard unfashionably long and wispy, dances around his friend as flames spread along the fabric of his trousers. The other grabs a blanket from the boot and wafts it at the man. For a moment the flames lick higher. The burning man whimpers and then he’s on the ground being rolled over. Within seconds the silent drama is over and the burning man pats at his smouldering jeans with the blanket.
“Idiot!” the man hisses in a whisper.
“Shut up!”
“Be quiet and get up.”
“Finish the job.”
The two men make no effort to help and walk instead to the building that shares the grounds with the Police Station. Impressive, built of stone in the early nineteenth century, it was once a children’s home and then the local library and had been extended to include the local offices of the county council, but upstairs, accessed through the servants’ staircase, are flats, or as the more pretentious owners call them, apartments. Young professionals live side-by-side the retired and the unemployable, who live in luxury at the council’s expense, barely tolerated by the other residents.
The man with the smouldering jeans throws the blanket towards the car, picks up the can of petrol, and walks after his friends to the entrance.
Be locked!
The door opens and the men disappear inside. At the top of the building, beneath the cream stone, a curtain twitches and a man’s face peers out. Grahame Medley—he’d recognise that old codger’s face anywhere. The man scowls down at Michael then disappears with a flick of the curtain. What was he doing there? He was sure he lived down Pasture Road. As he mulls over the question, he reappears with a woman’s face behind his shoulder. The dirty old bugger! Michael smirks and then waves and jabs at the door. Grahame frowns, turns to say something to the woman, then flicks Michael the V and disappears.
“Ungrateful sod!”
The heavy entrance door re-opens and Michael ducks behind the boot of the car as the smouldering man reappears and strides back to the Police Station. Michael edges around the car staying out of view. In one hand the man holds a length of twisted paper, in the other a lighter. He flicks at the lighter with his thumb and holds it beneath the paper as he squats. Flames singe its edges. He holds it up allowing the fire to burn bright. The paper blackens as Michael makes his move. He jumps up and sprints to the man, slamming his fist, thumb tucked inside clenched hand, just the way his dad had taught him, into the man’s jaw. The hard and angular joints of his fingers dig into cheekbone. The petrol can arcs through the air and sprays its liquid. Fuel spatters Michael’s jeans as the man is thrown against the doors and slides unconscious to the steps.
Job done!
With a final look at the slumped man, Michael turns to the apartments. The other men were inside and their intent was clear—to burn the place down. He had to stop them or warn the residents if he could. A voice, high pitched and angry, shouts behind him as he walks through the door of the building’s main entrance. He ignores it and mounts the wide staircase to his left, confident that the men are on one of the floors above. A scream from outside pierces the quiet of the building. Michael takes the steps two at a time to reach the window on the first landing. It looks over the gravelled drive below and the entrance to the police station is just visible. Smoke billows around the car and the man writhes on the concrete slabs of the station’s steps as flames leap up his trousers. He kicks his heels at the ground as though pushing himself away from the flames then pats at his legs. Flames leap to his arms. Michael watches in horrified silence as the fire spreads along his sleeves and up to his neck. Within seconds it engulfs his head. Screwing his eyes tight, blacking out the scene, Michael turns away from the window. There was nothing he could do; the man would just have to burn.
As he climbs higher, the smell of petrol is intense. He takes the stairs with a soft tread two at a time. On the next landing both men are engrossed in their work, wetting the carpets that line the landing, spraying petrol from plastic water bottles. The fuel sprays in arcs through the sports tops and drips down the walls.
“Hey!” Michael calls. He has to stop them and interrupting the spraying and dousing was the only way he knew how. They turn in unison and petrol squirts towards him. For a second the flow of petrol wilts then, with a crunch of plastic, one of them points his bottle at Michael and squeezes. Its flow arcs across the landing and down the stairs then sprays across his jeans.
The taller man mutters to the other, guttural noises that catch at the back of his throat. His hand moves towards his jacket pocket. Michael reaches for the bannister and powers himself up the stairs. Within two seconds he’s on the landing. The man’s hand is deep in his pocket as Michael reaches him. The hand jerks out of his pocket and holds a lighter to the ceiling. He catches at it with his thumb and smirks–a silent taunt. Ignoring the gesture, Michael lunges forward and grabs his wrist. The man jerks his arm and both men stumble along the hallway then crash against the wall, pinning the other man under their weight. Cold liquid soaks through the cotton of Michael’s jacket to his skin as the squeezy bottle is squashed. The petrol fumes are intense.
An arm locks around Michael’s neck. As the terrorist’s forearm closes against his windpipe Michael clenches his fist and slams it back, making a sharp jab at the man’s face. His hand strikes against a nose, an eye socket. The man growls in pain. Without hesitation, Michael slams his fist into the man’s face repeatedly until the arm loosens from his neck. Blood smears his hand. A hard kick of his boots. The man growls. Michael swivels to his attacker.
Nose bloodied, eye bloodshot he scowls at Michael. The lighter sits at the top of the stairs and as Michael lunges to grab it the bloodied man twists and jumps to his feet. His arm outstretched, a hand grabs Michael’s throat and he’s pushed to the edge of the landing. Kicked by his boot, the lighter tumbles off the edge. With a surge of power, Michael digs his feet down hard and lunges forward then rams the terrorist to the wall behind. The man’s head slams against the plaster but his hand remains around Michael’s throat. The pressure is intense. Gasping for air, he grunts at the pain and his eyes bulge. With a rapid jerk, he rams his knee into the man’s crotch. He buckles. Taking his chance, Michael kicks him hard in the belly as the other man retrieves the lighter and runs back up the steps.
“Time to burn!” the running man shouts. His accent is thick. Michael can’t place it.
The lighter sparks into flame as the lid flips up. Michael charges and barrels into the man, grabbing for the lighter. A hand grabs for Michael’s throat. Not this time! He bats the hand away and locks his hand around the man’s wrist then forces the lighter towards his face. The small flame dances in the leaking gas. Fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of Michael’s throat. The man smirks. Michael growls, teeth bared, as he forces the lighter beneath the man’s chin. The acrid stench of singeing hair fills his nostrils. The man’s eyes widen and then he growls. His eyes flicker with pain then desperation as Michael holds steady, putting all his strength into keeping the lighter beneath his chin. Smoke clouds around his hand and spirals to the ceiling.
The man screams.
“Drop the lighter!”
Fingers loosen and the lighter fa
lls to the carpet. The man desperately pats at his beard.
As Michael reaches down to retrieve the lighter arms lock around his chest and he’s thrown against the wall. Caught unawares, his head cracks against the plaster and pain sears across his temple. One heavy kick and he’s laid out on the floor. A boot rests on his neck. He tries to pull away but the pressure increases. The pain is intense. Vertebrae push out of line.
Two pairs of boots, leather darkened with soaked-in fuel, stand inches from his head.
“You’ll burn along with all the other kafirs,” a voice spits. “Hussein, light the fire.”
“But we’ve only done this floor. I thought we were supposed to do at least three – the higher the better.”
“Shut up and do as I say.”
“But Bilal said-”
“Just light the carpet. It’s enough.”
The foot lifts and a kick lands in Michael’s side. He grunts as the pain shoots through his belly and ribs. A hand reaches down and grabs his hair, pulling him up to stand. He shouts in pain as he feels his hair ripping from his scalp.
“We light the fire with you!”
Fear turns to rage and Michael roars then twists, bringing his leg to crash against the man’s hip. His hair rips as he swings and escapes the man’s grasp. Michael grabs his shoulders and in one swift move twirls him to face the stairs and pushes. For a second, he balances on the top step, arms out to his side, then he unbalances and topples forward. His head hits against the risers as he rolls and crashes to the bottom then smashes against the thick, carved balustrade. He lies silent, unmoving.
Turning, Michael faces the man with the singed beard. He has another lighter in his hand, a small steel zippo-style lighter. He flicks the lid with a trembling hand and a smirk.
“Put that away,” Michael shouts.
“Make me,” he returns with a thick accent.
“Sure!”
Without a second’s hesitation Michael lunges for the man. He steps back and Michael misses. The man reaches for the plastic bottle still half-full of petrol that lies next to the skirting and grabs it. He points it at Michael holding the lighter close. “Stay or I shoot you.”
Although his English is imperfect, Michael understands his meaning – one movement and he’ll be sprayed with petrol then set alight. The man at the bottom of the stairs groans.
Michael holds the other lighter in his hand. “Put it down or I,” he flicks the lighter and holds up the flame, “burn your friend.” He takes a step back. The man’s eyes flicker past Michael’s shoulder then catch his gaze once more.
“He dies, he is martyr,” the man replies with a smirk.
“What? And goes to heaven with all his virgins?” he retorts with derision.
The man nods.
“Ain’t no virgins where you’re going when you die,” Michael retorts.
“We go to heaven,” the man replies nodding skywards.
“Nah, mate. You’ll be going to hell.” He lunges forward, grabs at the bottle and knocks the lighter to the floor. Petrol sprays across the room and across his front.
Doors bang further along the corridor.
“What’s going on here?”
“Allahuakbar!”
Clink!
The shout fills the hallway and the carpet disappears in an explosion of orange flames. Within less than a second the fire has reached Michael’s feet and before he has time to turn it runs up his leg where the petrol had sprayed only minutes before. Screams fill his ears. He can’t tell if they’re his or the terrorist’s caught behind the wall of flames.
A force tugs at him. He’s lost in the heat. The hallway is a blur. He thuds to the floor.
“Roll him over!” a voice calls. Another screams. He’s pushed down and his face is on the carpet, the fibres scratch at his skin. More banging. Screams fill the hallway.
“Get him up!”
A new sound sits at the edge of his comprehension—a man’s scream, riddled with agony.
He’s pulled again and pushed.
“Get up!” Grahame shouts. “The back stairs. Come on!”
Arms hook beneath his and he’s dragged.
A figure runs past. Hissing. His heels drag along the carpet.
“Janet, Barney, take him.”
“It’s OK. I can walk.”
“No, love. Let us help you down the backstairs. Grahame and Billy are on it.”
“On it?”
“They’ve got fire extinguishers. Sue has gone to let the others know—we’ll get them out. Let’s move, come on love.”
Her voice is tender with an underlying urgency and not a little pity. There’s pain—somewhere—everywhere. His legs?
The double doors clat and thud again as they reach the end of the hallway and begin to descend the back stairs. Excited and frightened voices fill the hallway behind him and someone pushes past.
“Steady on!” a man’s voice reprimands. Barney? The figure disappears down the stairs. “Come on love, come to the side. We’re a bit slower than they want us to be.”
Michael is eternally grateful for her kindness. The pain sears his shins and he hisses through his teeth.
“Never mind, lovie. Let’s get you downstairs and into the fresh air then we can take a look.”
The steps down to the outside seem endless but eventually Michael reaches the bottom. By this time the pain in his legs makes him want to scream. He bites his lip.
“You’re lucky.”
“Lucky?” he winces as Janet leads him past the communal bins and across the gravel to the low wall that separates the back yard from the resident’s car park.
“Yes. Grahame’s a first responder. He knows what to do in a crisis. He’s the one that put out the fire. It was creeping right up your front,” she says with a nod to his jumper.
He looks down. The plastic of the polyester fabric has melted the fibres together and they’re singed and blackened. His belly knots at the horror he’s been saved from. He looks up at the building. There’s no evidence, other than the people gathered in the yard that anything is wrong inside. The back door swings open and Grahame walks out. Talking stops as he crosses to Michael.
“Two of them in the building you say?”
“Yes, one at the bottom of the first stairs, the other one … well, you saw him.”
“Yes,” he nods. “Well, the one at the bottom of the stairs must have recovered and escaped the other, well, the other one is still on the landing—what’s left of him.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, thankfully. He would have been in a terrible state otherwise.”
“He got what he wanted then.”
“How’s that?”
“He wanted to be a martyr so he could go to heaven and find his virgins.”
“Hah!” Grahame snorts and spittle spray from his lips. “Fine chance. Idiots!”
“Yeah, they are, but dangerous with it. There was another one—at the Police Station. They had a red car. It was parked in the drive at the front.”
“I saw that—cheeky bastards. Billy’s just gone to see if the car’s still there.”
As his name is spoken Billy walks around the side of the building.
“Over here,” Grahame calls. Billy nods and quickens his pace. “Well?”
“The fire at the Police Station didn’t take hold. It’s burnt a few bushes outside, but it must be flame retardant or something—there’s barely a scorch mark, but …”
“But?”
“The other chap obviously wasn’t flame retardant.”
“Ah. Well, you reap what you sow, as they say.”
“Aye, that you do.”
“Grahame, we should get Michael to a doctor—his legs are in an awful state.”
“Chance would be a fine thing, Janet. You can’t get a doctor for love nor money on a normal day, never mind in this mess. It’s closed anyway—it’s the weekend.”
“Oh. Well …”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. J
ust need to rest up.”
“Rest up! Lad, your legs are burnt to a crisp.”
Michael flinches.
“Grahame! You always do put your foot in it.”
“Sorry! No need for a doctor. I’m a first aider. I can fix them.”
“Surely a hospital would be better?”
“It would, but given there are no vehicles on the road-”
“The terrorists had one!”
“Well, apart from the terrorists’ car-”
“Which has gone.”
“Yes, well, apart from the terrorists’ car there are no vehicles on the road so you’ll have to make do with my help. You know what they say, ‘A third class ride is better than a first class walk.’”
“Sure,” Michael agrees although he’s not sure what taking a third class ride has got to do with his legs.
Grahame turns to the man at his side. “Barnaby, I’ll need some bottles of cool water, a blanket, and some clingfilm. Can you find some of those?”
The man looks down at Michael’s legs and grimaces. “Sure,” he replies. “I’ll be right back.” He disappears back into the building.”
“Are you sure it’s safe in there?” Michael asks then takes a sharp breath as he shifts on the wall.
“Does it hurt, lovie”?
“Does it hurt?” Grahame scoffs with a tut.
“Yep,” Michael returns with a tight smile. The pain is immense and he flinches again as he tries to move. The lower legs of his jeans are burned through, the flesh scorched red and tinged black.
“I’ve got painkillers,” Janet says brightly. “Do you want some, lovie? I’ve got some Tramadol.”
“Tramadol?” Grahame interjects, “They’ll knock out a cow!”
“They usually do!” the woman adds with a snort.
“I’ll have it!” Michael says. The thought of being knocked out right now is very appealing.
“You just sit still whilst I fetch them. They’re upstairs in the bathroom. Grahame. Is the fire out?”
“Yes, it’s safe to go upstairs. Just don’t go out onto the landing on the third floor—not unless you want nightmares,” he laughs at his joke then sits next to Michael on the wall. He screws his eyes up as he looks down at Michael’s burnt jeans. “And bring some scissors. I’ll need to make Michael a new pair of shorts.” He laughs again and elbows Michael gently on the arm. “Get it? New shorts?”
Nights of Fire_An EMP Survival Thriller Page 9
