Nights of Fire_An EMP Survival Thriller

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Viktoria stares from her husband to the small group of people. She seems less confused than Jessie would expect. She must know what her husband is. Angry that the woman has been part of the duplicity she wills her to stay put and not disappear back into the car as she slips the crossbow out of the bag. Viktoria steps back towards the car. Jessie has to act now. The bolt clips into place. “Alex, duck.” In one swift move Alex crouches down and Jessie raises her crossbow aiming it directly at Viktoria’s head.

  Bill steps forward. “Move away from the car,” he shouts at the Russian. “Keep your hands where I can see them or your wife won’t see another day.”

  Uri moves back without complaint though anger flashes across his face.

  “That’s right. Back away. Now, drop your weapon.”

  “I have no weapon.”

  “Left side,” Jessie reports to Bill and takes a step towards Viktoria.

  “I said drop your weapon.”

  “OK!”

  “Slowly!”

  Uri reaches into his jacket.

  “OK!” he barks.

  “Give it to them, Uri,” Viktoria calls as she clutches their daughter to her chest.

  “Don’t worry, darling.”

  “Give it to them!”

  “OK!”

  He retrieves the gun slowly and lets it dangle from his fingers then places it on the bonnet of the car. Bill strides across, reaches for it slowly, grabs it then steps backwards keeping his eyes on Uri, noticing every move Viktoria makes.

  “Now. I am unarmed. I mean you no harm.”

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  “Judge?”

  “Step away from the car and walk back up the road.”

  “But my family-”

  “Take them with you.”

  Viktoria takes a tentative step back and Jessie nods. “Go with him.”

  The child cries as Viktoria runs to her husband. They stand as a tight group.

  “Where will they go?” Clarissa asks as Uri soothes the child. “Have they got supplies. They have a child, Bill-”

  “He tried to kill you, Clarissa. He’s a trained killer.”

  “I know—and that scares me to death, but … but the child is innocent, and his wife … they just look like a normal family.”

  “Normal they ain’t.”

  “No, but they’re in the same boat as we are.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re struggling to survive and you heard what Jessie said about the city—people are being murdered in the streets. I couldn’t live with myself if that child was … if anything happened to her.”

  “Hell, lady,” Bill exclaims.

  “You’ve got his gun—he’s unarmed.”

  “Yes, but he’s still dangerous.”

  “Clarissa’s right,” Andy interrupts. “It’s dangerous back in the city—the child could get hurt.”

  “Everyone back to the hedge,” Bill commands. No one would hurt them whilst Bill was around.

  Satisfied that Clarissa is behind him along with Clare and Andy he strides across to Uri though keeps a safe distance. They certainly didn’t look dangerous. The man’s face is drained of colour and there’s dark soot around his nostrils. He looks drawn and tired despite his obvious strength.

  “Please,” the Russian says as Bill reaches them and points the gun at the woman’s head. “My family—my daughter—she’s been through so much. Please put the gun down. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

  “Uri?” The woman’s face is ashen and a worried frown creases her brow. “Who are these people?”

  “A job that went wrong,” Bill answers for him.

  The woman nods. She understands. She’s part of it all.

  “Yes, a job that went wrong” Uri agrees. “A job I no longer will fulfil,” he continues locking his eyes to Bill’s.

  “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  The child turns at the sound of his angry voice. Like her father, her face is drained of colour and soot-stained, white where tears have made tracks down her cheeks. Uri strokes at her bright blonde hair. Just a father trying to soothe his child. She can’t be more than three years old.

  “Is she hungry?”

  “Clarissa! I told you to stay back there—it’s not safe-”

  “We mean you no harm,” Viktoria adds quickly.

  “We’ll go back to the last town,” Uri says as the child whimpers. “Perhaps we can find food there.”

  “I’ve got food—at my house.”

  “Clarissa!”

  “It’s alright, Bill,” Clarissa soothes.

  “But he’s a kill-”

  “Please!” Viktoria blurts holding her hands over the child’s ears.

  “Sorry,” Bill apologises. What the hell? I’m the one apologising? “There’s probably not enough food for us all,” he continues.

  “There is,” Clarissa counteracts.

  What is wrong with this woman? Doesn’t she realise how dangerous this man is?

  “Come back to my house. I can make warm soup and hot bread.”

  Bill’s stomach growls.

  “Clarissa,” he whispers as she smiles at Viktoria. “This man wanted to kill you just the day before yesterday. He’s tried it twice.”

  “He didn’t though, did he.”

  “No, he didn’t, but not for want of trying and now you want to invite him into your home!”

  “I know it seems odd, but I don’t see a killer, I just see a man who wants to keep his family alive. Things change.”

  “He’s a hitman, Clarissa.”

  “Yes, but the rules have changed since the blackout. He’s also a father who wants to keep his family safe.”

  “So what happens when the lights come back on?”

  “Clarissa,” Uri interrupts. “Your daughter—she saved my child’s life in the city. It means I owe you a debt and I give you my word that I won’t hurt anyone.”

  “Don’t listen to him.”

  “The contract is over as far as I’m concerned.”

  “See!” Clarissa says with triumph.

  “No, I don’t see.” What is going on here? He locks eyes with Uri. “You can travel with us until we reach the next town.” He has to protect Clarissa from herself. “Then you’re on your own.”

  “No, Bill,” Clarissa counters. “The child’s hungry. We have food at the house.” She turns to Uri. “Family comes first, doesn’t it Uri.”

  He nods.

  “Then you’re welcome to come to my home. I have food enough for you and your family.”

  He nods. “I have space in the car for three people.” Bill listens in disbelief. “Perhaps you both would like to travel with us? You will feel that I am … less dangerous that way.”

  Chapter 17

  “There it is,” Clarissa says becoming animated once more pointing at the signpost. “It’s only two miles to town. Another three and we’ll be at Bramwell.”

  Bill leans forward to read the sign and sits back with relief. The journey has been tense. Despite Clarissa’s efforts to engage the men in conversation they’d remained silent and only the women had talked and entertained the child.

  There were a few good things about being in the car with Uri: one, no more walking; two, he could keep an eye on him with a loaded gun at his side; and three, he was close to Clarissa even if she was on the backseat; and not forgetting four, it was an Andy-free zone. There is something he really doesn’t like about Andy. It’s not a jealous rivalry of course. It’s just there’s something slimy about the way he sidles close to Clarissa and gives her that smile of his, like a snake hypnotizing its prey before it coils round and squeezes the life out of it. He could quite happily punch him in the face. He turns to the backseat and looks at Clarissa once more—something he’s found himself doing too often. He’s just protective, nothing more. She was feisty, but a woman should have a protector and today that was him. Andy was nothing more than a white-collar desk-jockey. Sure, he was smart, but he di
dn’t have much else going for him and he’d certainly lucked-out in the personality department.

  Bill had tried to keep the smirk to himself when Andy had been told to get on the back of Alex’s bike. Without a helmet that was going to be one uncomfortable ride. He hadn’t been able to hold back a chuckle as Andy had swung his leg uncertainly over the bike’s seat as Jessie showed him how to hold on. Imagine getting to forty-odd years old and never having ridden a motorbike. Bloody pussy! Not a real bloke at all. At least he had that to offer Clarissa. He was a proper bloke. Not some namby-pamby sit-at-your-desk-all-day flabby, snarky git.

  “I can’t wait for you to see Bramwell,” Clarissa says breaking into his reverie, a bemused frown creasing her brows. He realises then that she’s been watching him stare at her. Embarrassment pricks at his cheeks.

  “All safe back there?” he asks without thinking. Damn. He was making a fool of himself now.

  “Erm, yes!” she laughs in return. Not a making-fun-of-him kind of laugh, more amused. She smiles again and holds his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. His heartbeat quickens.

  “Just checking,” he says gripping the handle of Uri’s gun a little tighter then turns to watch the road.

  “Take the next left, Uri.”

  Uri slows the car and takes a smooth left. The town behind them, they’re in the open countryside with just fields either side. In the distance is a river and to the left an enormous bridge spans a wide river.

  “That’s the Humber Bridge. It was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world until the Japanese trumped us.”

  “Oh? You know about it?”

  “Yeah,” Bill returns. “My old man—he helped build it.”

  “He was a contractor?”

  “No, one of the architects.”

  “Oh!” Clarissa replies.

  Is that admiration in her voice? “He was smart—my dad.”

  “Just like you.”

  “Hah! Well, I’m not sure about that.”

  “Well, I think you are. You saved my life. If it hadn’t been for you, Uri would have knocked me off,” she laughs and he wonders at her resilience.

  “What’s knocked off mean?” the blonde angel in the back asks. Bill turns and gives her a wink. She smiles then turns her head into her mother’s sleeve and looks at him from under her lashes. Beautiful little kid.

  “Could we save this conversation until later please?” Viktoria asks.

  “Oh, sorry! Yes, of course.” There he was apologizing again!

  Well, it was certainly a conversation they’d have to have—later. There was no way he was letting Uri off this lightly, even if Clarissa didn’t seem perturbed by his presence.

  The car pulls down the road and, as the road narrows to a single lane, trees grow over to form a canopy for a section and the sun is blocked.

  “It’s just up here. See where the road bends? Just after that is Bramwell. It’s on your left. Don’t go too fast or you’ll miss it—it’s quite hidden.”

  As the car takes the bend and slows, Bill has a new appreciation of Clarissa—the location for the safehouse is perfect. If the two bikes hadn’t been parked along the verge he wouldn’t have known it was here. As they slow Jessie and Alex step out onto the road and flag them to pull over.

  “Something’s up,” he says as Uri slows the car.

  “Da,” the Russian replies. “Smoke.”

  “Are you expecting someone, Clarissa?” Bill asks as he unclips his seatbelt.

  “No.”

  “Well, you have visitors,” Uri states.

  “Someone’s inside.”

  “We noticed.”

  “Any idea who it could be?”

  “Nope. No one else knows about this place. We’ve always kept it quiet.”

  “Could be an opportunist then.”

  “An opportunist?”

  “Probably a squatter.”

  Michael lies on the sofa. The Tramadol is wearing off and the pain in his legs is becoming unbearable. There are only two tablets left in the strip given to him by Janet. He rests back against the cushions. The leather has warmed where his calves rest. He looks down at his still cling-wrapped shins. He hasn’t had the courage, or the will, to undo the film. Perhaps he should have stayed in town with Grahame? He had no idea how to look after the burns. Janet had said to keep them clean, but how? They were seeping and blistered. Perhaps he should take off the cling-film? But what if it’s stuck? He groans at the thought and cringes at the image of the cling-film peeling off and taking his burnt skin with it. No, he’d wait. He reaches for the water from the coffee table and takes a sip. Pain rides through him—deep and sharp and bitter. He growls and lets the noise roll from his belly. It didn’t matter how much noise he made—no one could hear him—no self-important neighbour to thump on the walls and tell him to stop the racket. He lies back and resists the pain, sweat beads at his hairline.

  He’d woken earlier, desperate for a wee, and barely made it to the backdoor - no point filling the downstairs toilet with piss he couldn’t flush away - before he collapsed. When he’d come to he was drenched in sweat, and the ache throughout his body had kept him on the floor for another ten minutes at least—well, it felt like ten minutes. Eventually, he’d managed to walk to the kitchen table and take another Tramadol before setting about cutting off what remained of his jeans. They’d become uncomfortable and chaffed at the waistband. In his dreamy, drug-induced state, it had seemed a good idea. He’d taken the scissors from the drawer in the kitchen and cut down the left side from the waistband then done the same to the right. They’d fallen away. He’d even managed a chuckle—this must be the way they make them for strippers; cut down each side and fastened with Velcro at the seams. Hah! Perhaps he’d do just that—a novel way to entertain the ladies! No, that was going too far and who said he’d ever meet a lady anyway? They were certainly thin on the ground in town if the women he’d come across were an indicator. Tess certainly hadn’t been a lady. Sure, she’d looked great at first—a bit on the heavy side, but which of them weren’t these days—but she’d looked nice all dolled up. It had taken a couple of weeks of them living together before she’d let the façade slip and allowed her inner slob free reign. Ugh! Thank God he’d got rid. Fat old lard arse.

  He takes another sip of water, replaces it on the coffee table, leans back on the pillow and farts. It rumbles then permeates the room. Belter! He smirks then frowns and grits his teeth as pain rides over his shins again and travels up his legs. He closes his eyes and wipes at his brow. Sweat covers the back of his hand. Time for another pill.

  He sits up. Slowly does it! Moving very carefully, he swings his legs off the settee. As he sits upright with his feet firmly on the floor, the pain is unbearable. He waits for it to subside. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and his stomach rolls. If he vomits it’ll go all over his lap. Let it—he’s past caring. He looks out of the window. His view is filled with the trees of the surrounding woodland. He’s unable to see to the road. Good. No one can see him either—not that he’s worried about someone seeing him in his underwear—but if it’s those men from the town coming back for another go!

  He grabs the arm of the settee and pulls. He’s almost to a standing position when movement catches his eye. He freezes. The pain in his shins is too much as the muscles work and he sits back with a thud whilst staring out of the window, searching for the flicker of movement. His heart beats rapid, his belly rolls. There it is again! His eyes flit right and catches sight of a squirrel running up the silvery bark of a tree. He sighs and smiles, tension easing despite his pain. It was a red squirrel.

  “Still some of you left then, aye?”

  Time to have another go. He grabs the arm of the settee and pulls, changes his mind, and sits back down, overwhelmed by burning fatigue in his thighs and the deep and biting pain in his lower legs. Walking wasn’t going to be an option—the pain was too much. He’d shuffle on his arse then. He reaches across for the coffee ta
ble and lowers himself to the floor. The silky threads of the Persian rug that covers much of the floor in the living room are cool on the back of his legs.

  As his backside thumps down to the rug he hears voices. The cottage is small and the front door leads directly outside. He listens hard. Yes! Voices at the front door! The door’s handle moves. His heart thuds in his chest. Has he locked it? Yes. Yes, he was sure that he had. A face peers in at the window. Michael has the sudden urge to defecate and bobs down behind the coffee table. Another face appears at the window just as he leans back and lies down. They must have seen him resting on the settee—seen his bright red underpants with their superhero logo, seen his legs, red raw and charred and wrapped in clingfilm. Injured—easy prey. The urge to empty his bowels gripes at him. Calm it, Mikey-boy! His heart wants to rip out of his chest.

  The latch clicks up and the door thuds against the frame but it doesn’t open. Locked! A reprieve. He shuffles. Gives up.

  Tap! Tap! Tap!

  They’re knocking. They know he’s here. Do terrorists knock? There’s nowhere for him to hide. He lies against the floor, chest heaving, and listens to the insistent rapping. Footsteps crunch and a door bangs at the back of the house. Had he locked it? Cold washes over him. No! The room begins to spin.

  Footsteps and the door opens and then a figure bends over him. He shuffles close to the sofa and holds his arms over his head. Nothing happens. He squints and looks straight into the eyes of a young woman. She’s attractive even though her face is bruised and there’s blood caked in her hair. Surprised, his eyes dart to the man at her side. He’s all beard and piercing blue eyes—older. Both staring hard, deep frowns crease their brows, but he sighs with relief. They don’t look like terrorists. Another face appears at the door—or rather faces! An Italian-looking woman steps into the room followed by a sandy-haired bloke in a pink shirt with a tie. It’s the apocalypse mate—you’re a bit over-dressed.

  Michael raises a hand and waves then makes a tentative smile. The gawping crowd turn and shake their heads and talk among themselves. Footsteps pad along the inner corridor. There’s more?