“You alright, Sam?”
“Sure,” he says taking another breath to alleviate the tightness across his chest.
“Just let me know if you … well, if you’re about to-”
“Crack up?”
“Hah! You know what I mean, mate. I know that the last few months have been rough.”
Sam nods in agreement. “It’s been eighteen, and you could say that.”
“You’re doing good, mate. And … and I’m here for you.”
He turns to Ken in surprise. As a colleague they’d had a laugh, even shared a few beers, but never really been close.
“Thanks, bud. I appreciate that. I’m good though. I’m good.”
Ken nods as the noise from the engine grows louder and, somewhere across town, another pane of glass shatters. Either someone was getting lairy or looters were taking advantage of the situation. He makes a mental note to investigate the source of the noise tomorrow then watches as headlights brighten the night along the road that runs through the centre of town.
“Someone’s coming through the market place.”
“Them?”
“Dunno.”
Sam watches the light for another second then jumps into action. He strides into the middle of the road. “Move off the road. Everyone back to the path and behind the walls,” he calls in his best I’m-here-to-manage-the-crowd voice. The groups of people gathered in the street ignore him. What if the car is full of terrorists and they’re heading up here to mow them down? It’ll be like some bloody, and terrible, game of skittles. A total gore-fest. He shudders. Ten points for the woman with the black hair! Jesus! “Get behind the walls!” he shouts, louder now. The lights grow brighter. “Everyone behind the walls!” Walking up to a couple gawping at the flames licking the roof of the first house in the terrace, he slaps a hand on the man’s shoulder. He turns with a jerk and frowns. “There’s a car coming up the road,” Sam shouts.
“And?”
“And you could be in danger. A man was rammed here yesterday by terrorists—the same lot that tried to burn down Whitecross Street.”
“Seb!” His companion tugs at his sleeve. “Come on.”
“That’s right. Please make your way to a safe place. Stand behind a wall. Move off the road.”
The car’s lights grow brighter.
Shouts erupt among the onlookers as Sam calls again for them to move out of the way and then the road is alive with movement as people run from the street, jump over low garden walls, or crash through gates. Several run to the open space of the car wash and hide behind its squat office block.
In the next second the car reaches the mini-roundabout. Oblivious, deep in conversation, and directly in its path, a small group stands in the middle of the road. A man gesticulates to a woman whilst another puts his arm around her shoulders. Their voices are raised but indecipherable.
“Move it!” Sam screams as the car pulls forward. Without a second thought he runs into the road and shoves at the woman.
“What the hell!”
The car rolls closer.
“Move it! Get behind a wall.” Sam shoves at the group.
“What?” the man shouts back then stands frozen as he notices the car, a statue illuminated by its headlights.
“Don’t just stand there,” Sam shouts, exasperated. “Run!”
As the group finally runs for cover, Sam jumps to the kerb, vaults over a low wall and crouches behind it. The car stops and sits in the road, its engine idling. The passenger door swings open and a hand grasps the top of the door’s frame. The hand is huge and is followed by a shock of white-blond, cropped hair topping a chiselled face. The man looks like he’s walked straight off the set of an eighties action movie. Arnie or Dolph? He can’t decide. From the driver’s side another broad-shouldered man stands. Now things really were getting surreal. Thor! No, not Thor, but the actor; Chris Hemswick or whatever his name was. Hemsworth, stupid! Hemsworth. Calm it, Sam! Take a breath.
Relieved that they’re not about to be mown down by terrorists, Sam walks back into the road, suddenly small as he’s dwarfed by the giant rising from the car.
“They got the petrol station then?” Chris/Thor calls.
Obviously! “Yeah. It’s been burning for hours,” Sam answers.
“Da. We heard explosion from cottage.”
He even sounds like Arnie. Sam’s head swims. What cottage?
“Jeez, Uri!”
“Sorry!”
“Where are you guys going?”
“Petrol for Clarissa.”
“Petrol for Clarissa?”
“We need to get her to hospital. It’s an emergency but we’ve no petrol.”
Sam peers into the car. There are no passengers. He pulls a frown but tries to keep his look of suspicion hidden.
“None here, mate,” offers Ken, suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam.
“Obviously.”
“So, where is she, this Clarissa?” There’s more to their story and Sam wants to know exactly what.
“The nearest station is at Saxilby Top.” Ken explains to Thor/Chris.
“That’s where we’re headed. And she’s not here. She’s got a punctured lung-”
“Ouch!” Ken sucks in his breath. Despite his training, Ken could be squeamish.
“So, where is she?”
“At the cottage.”
“Uri!” Thor hisses.
“Sorry. Not here.” Arnie continues. “Back at house.”
“And where’s the house?”
Thor bridles, defensive. “None of your business.” He disappears beneath the car’s roof.
Sam takes another stride towards the men. They’re no threat to him, although tension leaks off them and, other than the current situation, he wants to know why. “How’d she get a punctured lung?”
“Also not your business.”
“Right.” He’d make it his business. Sam raises his voice. “We’re going to blockade the road.” Thor’s head reappears. “You’ve got about an hour before it’s blocked.” Thor nods and disappears back into the car. Arnie slams his door shut and the car moves up the road.
“Well that was … different,” Ken offers.
“Huh?”
“Not every day you see a couple of celebrities in town.”
“What?”
“Arnie. That was Arnie.”
“Ken, are you losing the plot?”
“No! Why? Do you think it was Dolph then?”
“Jeez! You’re yanking my chain. Right?”
Ken remains silent and bites his bottom lip.
He’s taking the Micky! “If that was Arnold Schwarzenegger, then we’ve gone back in time by about thirty bloody years. And yes, he did look a bit more like Dolph than Arnie.”
“Maybe their love-child!”
Sam snorts.
“Well, the other one could have been Thor,” Ken continues. “He looked just like the bloke that played Thor in Infinity Wars. Did you see it?”
Sam lets out a sigh and then a chuckle. The tension across his chest has eased and for a moment the devastation of the day is forgotten.
“So, this blockade then … let’s get organised.”
Sam nods, mirth giving way to a grim determination. No one was going to set fire to his town.
Chapter 3
Coming to, Joshua stares at the light dangling from the centre of his living room ceiling. His head is banging! Why is he on the floor staring at the ceiling? He remembers and jerks to a sitting position.
“Aagh!”
He stares at the voice and light burns into his eyes.
“Jesus! You scared me,” Guy says. “You looked like Dracula sitting up in a coffin.”
Joshua’s eyes flit around the room. Blinded by the torchlight he can see nothing in the dark. Did he dream it? “Where is he?”
The torch swings beneath a face. Dark eyebrows above black eyes stare back at him with menace. “He is here,” it replies.
Joshua groans. H
e needs the toilet.
“Don’t worry, lovie-”
“Mum!”
Her voice comes from behind him and he swings around to look. His head pounds. A shape sits close by and, in the grey light, he can make out the face of his mother. Her eyes are wide as she stares back, her voice tight. “I’m alright. We’re alright.”
“The boy is awake. Now you get me food.”
“I’ve already told you—we haven’t got any food. The shops are shut and there’s no electricity. I’ve got a bag of chips and some battered cod in the deep freeze but they’re already thawing out.”
“What is in kitchen?”
“Some tins of spaghetti.”
“I do not like spaghetti.”
“Well … that’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
Silence.
“It’s in tomato sauce. Rich tomato sauce.”
“I take it. Go make it.”
His mother doesn’t move. An arm of black cloth wraps around Guy’s neck and he’s crushed against the man’s side.
“I said go get it.” Guy grunts then gurgles. “Or I slit his throat.”
Joshua’s mother stands, casts a glance of utter loathing at the terrorist, and walks in silence towards the kitchen door.
“You try to leave the house—I kill him. I kill them both.”
She makes a low and angry growl then walks through to the kitchen with a last look at Joshua. The banging coming from the kitchen as she searches through the cupboards leaves them in no doubt that she’s more than unhappy. Joshua listens to the sound of clanking and the tin-opener slicing through the metal of the tin. Two minutes later his mother, greyed-out in the moonlight, re-enters the living room, bowl in hand. As she approaches the man he shifts to hold the point of the knife over Guy’s belly. His other hand reaches out for the bowl. The torch’s light shines to the ceiling as he clasps it between his thighs.
Tipping the bowl up, he mouths at the long strings of congealed spaghetti, biting it off as it slides over his lips. Joshua watches fascinated as tomato sauce dribbles down the sides of his jaw and disappears into a thin and straggling beard. The sauce glistens among the hairs. Joshua’s mother remains silent, tight-lipped as he slurps the long strings of pasta. What a pig! If it had been Joshua eating like that he’d have got a clip around the back of the head. Tinned spaghetti was gross, and cold tinned spaghetti was even worse, but if the man was eating it at least it meant Joshua didn’t have to. The man finishes the bowl with a final slurp and then belches. Gross!
“Bloody pig!” his mother mutters.
“Stinks!” Guy pulls his head away from the man’s face. Joshua can’t help but snort and tucks his head into his arm.
“What you say?”
“Nothing. Have you finished? I’ll take your bowl.”
Joshua stands to follow his mother into the kitchen. Guy squeals.
“Sit! I tell you when you move.”
Joshua sits back down slowly as Guy continues to squeal and writhe beneath the knife’s point. How the hell were they going to get out of this?
Chapter 4
“We should have taken the petrol from cars. There are many here.”
“That’s stealing though, Uri.”
“I know.”
“Well, I really don’t want to piss off the locals by stealing their fuel. You saw what it was like back there. They’re already forming the Home Defence League.”
“Home Defence League?”
“Those blokes are not hanging around for fun. Did you notice how suspicious they were of us? They’ve figured out that they need to protect themselves. No one’s coming to help.”
“Niet. No one is coming to help. This town will be on fire tomorrow.”
“It already is.”
“No. I mean the people. They will be on fire. They have no food and no water. We are lucky—we have Bramwell.”
Bill sits for a moment with his thoughts. Uri was right. So far, they’d been insulated from hunger, sure they were on short rations, but they had a supply. Jessie and Clarissa had been smart enough to create a larder of food with a long shelf-life and Bramwell had its own water supply—buying the place had been a stroke of genius on her husband’s part. Another plus point was that they were also armed. Although … two guns with limited ammunition and a couple of bows may not be enough to get through the crisis. If it escalated they’d need an armoury and that was something they certainly didn’t have. The other thing they had going for them, which the poor sods in the town hadn’t got, was training—both combat and survival. They were lucky. Bill had never thought about having to fight a war in his homeland, but the reality was that that is exactly what they were doing. He just hoped to God that the government got its act together and stamped out the terrorists pronto.
“So, you reckon that it’s not just the terrorists that’ll be a problem?”
“You are correct, Bill. The terrorists may not be a problem for us again, but the people—they will be starving very soon. I have seen no evidence of your government taking action,” he gestures towards the window with derision. “The people, they will become the problem.”
Bill tenses. “I dunno, Uri. We’re British. We come together in a crisis.”
Uri nods but doesn’t speak.
“Just look at us in the war.”
“Which war?”
“Both. World War One and World War Two. Life was tough but we rallied. As a nation—we rallied.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“That was before.”
“Well-”
“People are different now. In the past you had an honourable zeitgeist.”
“Zeit what?”
“Zeitgeist.”
“And what’s that when it’s at home?”
“It is the spirit of the time.”
“Spirit of the time?”
“Da. Is reflection of ideas and beliefs of the time.”
Bill ponders. The zeitgeist of Britain? A Britain that seemed to be tearing itself apart. A Britain with weak leadership. A Britain obsessed by self. Jeez even the word ‘selfie’ was in in the dictionary now. A Britain obsessed by social media and self-promotion. A whole generation obsessed with the consumption of material goods, vapid celebrities its heroes. Self. Self. Self. “So, basically, we’re screwed.”
“Da. Screwed.”
Bill’s stomach rolls and an ache spreads across the back of his head. “No! I won’t believe that.”
Uri remains silent.
The cone of the car’s lights spreads across the dual carriageway picking out the cats’ eyes that mark its boundaries. Bill motors along the middle and pushes his foot to the accelerator. To hell with it. He could speed if he wanted—there were no cameras to catch him.
“Slow down, Bill.”
“No one to catch me!”
“Da, but there will be cars and lorries stopped in road. We will crash.”
Bill takes his foot off the accelerator and allows the car to slow to a cruising speed alert again for any obstacles. “Should only be a couple of more miles. Been clear so far.”
“Sure.” Uri replies.
“You don’t say much.”
“I speak when I need to.”
“Sure.”
“Pull over!” Uri tugs at the steering wheel.
“What the!”
“Pull over, Bill. There are lights ahead.”
Bill puts gentle pressure on the brakes and slides the car onto the hard shoulder then turns off the headlights. Uri makes a terrible passenger but he’s right; ahead and to the left, harsh lights brighten the area.
“That is petrol station, da?”
“Da. I mean yes. It should be.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve never been. I’m following directions remember?”
“Is petrol station,” he says with certainty.
“It is.”
“Drive closer. No lights.”
As the car pull
s parallel with the station, Bill steers the car to the hard shoulder and kills the engine. He sits with Uri in silence then steps out into the night. Bright lights fill the space illuminating the buildings. Men move about and the sound of chugging fills the air.
“They’ve got a generator.”
“Who is it?”
“No idea. Want to go and ask?”
“Niet.”
“We have to get some of that petrol, Uri. We haven’t even got enough to get back to town.”
“We get some then.”
“Get the cans out of the boot.”
Sitting the petrol can and a mid-sized plastic barrel down on the tarmac, Bill gently closes the lid of the boot. It locks with a muffled click.
“Let’s go.”
Leading the way, Bill, an empty container gripped in each hand, runs to the middle of the dual carriageway. Without the torches there’s enough light from those running on the generator to brighten the way. Within minutes he’s standing with Uri at the barrier that demarcates the grounds of the petrol station. They squat at the entrance, hidden by a wide brick pillar and a hedgerow of hawthorn.
Six pumps sit in two rows in the middle of the forecourt. Behind the station’s shop is a car wash and way over to the right is another building. A boarded up roadside café—a Little Chef with its signage still intact. Plates of fish, chips and mushy peas, and a toasted teacake complete with cup of tea, goad him. His stomach growls.
“Your stomach! They will hear us.” Uri states as Bill’s belly rumbles.
“I’m starving!” Bill admits and rubs at his guts. It has been hours since he ate the bread bun. Hours too since his last sip of water. His body was beginning to complain.
“Me too. We get food from shop.”
“Not with that lot standing guard.”
Bill stares into the forecourt. To the side, next to the shop, an industrial generator, complete with wheels and tow bar, sits chugging. Two cars sit silent and there are four cars that have been rolled off the forecourt and into the hedges.
Land of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 3) Page 2
