“This place has been commandeered.”
“Commandeered?”
“Yes, someone’s taken it over. It’s deliberate. Doesn’t look like the owners either. Those cars have been rolled into the hedges. Look at that one,” he says pointing to a silver BMW 3 series. “The driver’s window is smashed. They’ve taken off the handbrake and rolled it forward.”
Uri grunts in agreement. Both men sit and watch. Somewhere out of sight voices rumble. Someone shouts and then a figure walks from behind the shop. Bill stares. His hand clenches the handle of the barrel. The man is holding an automatic rifle and he’s dressed in the now familiar black of the extremists terrorizing the towns and cities! Where the hell do they get their guns from? He would have no idea how to get hold of illegal arms in England. Abroad, sure. Here? No.
“Terrorists!”
“Shh!” he hisses.
“They have strategy in place. They are organised.”
“Yes.”
Watching the man in silence, Bill scans the forecourt. Another figure appears and then a third. He waits.
“Only three.”
“Looks like it.”
“Then we can take them.”
“They have guns, Uri.”
“So do we,” he replies patting at his chest.
“Can you get them from this distance with that?”
“Da.”
“It’s your show then,” Bill says watching the men walk across the forecourt. “Take them out.” Bill has every confidence that Uri can dispose of the men within the next minutes and relaxes on his haunches. His thighs burn with crouching. He pushes to a stand behind the brick pillar, relieving the ache in his muscles, stretches out his back, then crouches down again. Uri pulls the trigger. The hammer trips. Nothing.
“Is jammed.”
“Hell!”
Uri takes out the magazine, reloads, and takes aim. He pulls the trigger. Again, it fails to fire.
“Needs repair.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have to go old-school then.”
“Da.”
The bright arc lights flood the area surrounding the pumps but, beyond the brightness, the area is deep in shadow. Bill keeps to the shadows as he makes his way parallel with the shop. Uri behind, they crouch low and wait. One of the men sits on the shop’s raised platform and stubs out a cigarette on its herringbone brickwork, then sits back, legs bent, feet splayed, resting his head against the wall. An automatic rifle lays across his lap. His straggling beard quivers as the wind blows at him and he reaches for another cigarette. A dark-bearded male with a shock of the thickest black hair and monobrow Bill has ever seen sits in the driver’s seat of a blue Ford Capri, another vintage piece, lovingly restored and gleaming in the lights.
Bill gesticulates to Uri to go around the back and deal with the man in the car. Bill will deal with the rifle. He pulls his knife from the sheath strapped to his leg. Uri digs into his pocket and holds up his knife, sharp metal glints as it extends with a satisfying click then locks into place. Uri runs ahead, hugging the shadows, and disappears behind the back of the building.
A shout and the man leaning against the shop’s wall stands. He shouts back in an Arabic dialect Bill doesn’t understand. Stepping off the platform, the terrorist runs to the car as the engine starts. The other car’s engine starts and then they’re gone. Still crouched, Bill waits. Uri signals for him to join him.
Damn! “They’ve gone.” Bill’s adrenaline is surging and he’d been ready for the confrontation, welcomed the chance for a kill.
“They will be back.”
“Yes,” he replies with a disappointment edged with relief, “and in the meantime we fill up the barrels.”
“They could be back anytime.”
“True,” Bill says eyeing up the pumps. “Sod the barrels,” he says with determination. “Let’s fill up the car.”
“But they could be back.”
“We can get a full tank. It’s worth the risk.” He gives Uri a challenging stare.
A glint of excitement stares back from Uri’s blue eyes. “I stay here and fill barrels. You get car and fill tank.”
“Agreed.”
Heart racing, Bill runs across the forecourt, jumps the low hedge and runs down the embankment to the car hidden in the dark on the other side of the dual carriageway. His heart thuds hard in his chest as he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. If he can get the tank filled they can get Clarissa to the hospital no problem. She’d looked so pale asleep in the chair, pale and in pain. He clenches his jaw. She’d looked like Colin had before just before he’d died. He pulls the car onto the road and makes a smooth acceleration to the large roundabout at the end. The headlights illuminate the signs. A red ‘H’ for hospital gleams on the painted metal board. They had a choice of hospitals then; this way, or over the bridge and into the city. Bill makes his choice; it would have to be the city hospital—twenty miles closer and without a gang of terrorists waiting for them at the end of the road.
He makes a sharp turn to avoid the roundabout and speeds up the exit to the petrol station. No sign of any other vehicles. Heart pounding, he pulls onto the forecourt and then motors down to the first pump. Jumping out of the car he pulls at the pump’s nozzle. The digital display reads £65:13. He pulls the nozzle’s trigger. Nothing.
“Uri. Go inside and turn this thing on,” he calls.
Uri nods and strides to the shop. Glass crunches underfoot as he disappears into the empty shop.
The pump hums to life. Digits roll to zero and Bill thrusts the nozzle into the car’s tank, squeezes the trigger and lets the petrol flow. His heart pounds, and sweat beads at his forehead, as he listens out for the returning cars above the hum of the pump and scans the dark beyond the brightness of the forecourt. The trigger clicks and the pump stops; a full tank.
“Finished! You finished Uri?” he shouts to the broad back of the blond crouching down at the opposite pump.
“Da. I have three filled.”
“Let’s go then!”
“Let me finish last one.”
“Nah. We’ve got enough, let’s go.” Stay calm. Keep it cool.
“Niet. I fill this.”
Bill pops the boot open and strides across to Uri. If the man wasn’t going to listen then he’d speed things up by loading the car. He heaves the cans, one in each hand, and carries them back. He scans the dark beyond the brightness. Nothing. “Uri, come on!” he says as he walks back across to the pump. Bill grabs the filled barrel and crouches, leans it over then takes hold of the bottom. He stands and grunts with the weight.
“Roll it.”
He’s right. Bill leans the barrel to its side, rolls it to the car, then lifts it into the boot, first landing it on the bumper with a grunt, then dropping it to the boot’s floor with another. He stands and peers into the dark. Lights!
“Uri! They’re coming back. Move it!”
Uri pulls the nozzle from the barrel, screws on the lid, and rolls it to the boot. With one heave it’s inside. The lights grow brighter, wider. Two sets appear on the roundabout. Bill turns the ignition. Nothing. No way! You are not doing this. He turns it again. The engine thrums. He slips it into first and the car pulls away. Lights shine behind them just as they slip behind the squat building that houses the shop. Bill holds the car, handbrake on, clutch down, ready to move. Winding his window down, he listens. Engines thrum and a car door slams. Go!
Foot to the floor, he powers the car forward then takes a sharp right and speeds up the exit road. Two cars are stopped beneath the forecourt’s roof, doors flung open. Men stare. He shifts up a gear and swings the car out and onto the road. Another gear shift and the car powers forward. Not bad for a vintage model. Must have a new engine. Into fifth and he takes the roundabout with a sharp turn then speeds back along the dual carriageway. He kills the lights. This stretch of road is straight and the moonlight is enough – just enough – to light
the way forward.
He checks the rear-view mirror.
Lights!
He floors the accelerator. Up ahead a slip road leads off the carriageway. He leans forward, squinting into the greyed-out night and takes a left. The car bumps and jolts. He pulls it back to the road. Uri clings to the handle above the door. The car climbs the incline and jolts.
“Slow down! We crash in this dark.”
Bill rights the car to the road once more, checks the rear view then slows. The lights have gone. He slows a little more, heart pounding.
“Looks like we lost them.”
Uri twists in his seat to the rear window. “We have.” He bursts out laughing and slaps his thigh. “My God! That was some ride. You drive like mad man!”
Bill laughs and slaps at the steering wheel. “Wooh!” He exhales with force then leans back and grips the wheel. He quiets. The terrorists were heading straight back to town.
Pushing down on the accelerator, he switches the lights to dipped beam. If they’d blockaded the road into town the terrorists wouldn’t get back in. If they’d blockaded the street then neither would they. If they hadn’t … He switches the beam to full and floors the accelerator.
“What is it?” Uri asks craning his neck to the back window. “They are not behind us.”
“No, but they’re heading back to town. We have to get there before they do.”
Chapter 5
Sam counts the men and women gathered round. Eleven. Eleven men and women who were willing to help him protect the town.
“Is this it?” Ken asks, discouraged. “There are nearly twelve thousand people living in this town and only eleven turned up?”
“For now. I’ve sent Baz to call on Docherty and Sean, and Andy has gone to find Shipton.”
“Well, if we can get them on board at least we’ve got some men with something about them. This lot don’t look like they’d say boo to a goose!”
“Shh! That’s not fair. Jason’s on the rugby team and I wouldn’t want to come across Sheila in a dark alley on a cold night, and they don’t need to say boo to a flippin’ goose—they just need to help block this road off.”
“And the other roads. There’s two more on the other side of town that need blocking off.”
“I know,” Sam replies pushing his fingers through his hair. “Jason!” he calls shining his torch at the man. Jason’s dark skin glistens through his cropped and air-shaved head as he squints at the torchlight. Sam strides across the road to meet him. Broad shouldered, T-shirt filled to over-capacity, Jason stands inches above Sam. He suddenly feels inadequate—perhaps he should take up rugby. Once this is over he’ll go back to the gym.
“Alright, Sam. Ken,” Jason nods. Ken takes a step back. The small group gathers around.
“Right,” Sam begins.
“What’s the plan of action?” a middle-aged man with the first signs of spread sitting at the waist of his jeans asks. He pulls up the waistband then sits his hands over his hips. Sweat darkens his burgundy T-shirt.
“As far as I can ascertain,” Sam begins again looking around at the pinched faces, “there have been two terrorist attacks in the town. The first was an attempt to burn down the police station and the old library, and the next was on Whitecross Street. On both occasions they’ve attempted to destroy vital emergency services-”
“The Police Station is unmanned! Not exactly vital!” the paunchy man interrupts.
“They didn’t know that!” Ken retorts.
“On both occasions,” Sam continues, “they’ve attacked vital services and also targeted civilians. On both occasions they’ve entered the town through this road.”
A murmur through the group.
“Not likely to come back though are they. They’re all burnt to a crisp and making a mess on Whitecross Street.”
“Well … true. Those particular terrorists won’t be bothering us anymore.”
“No, but others could!” Sheila pipes up, large blonde curls bobbing against her shoulder, the bleached hair shining in the torchlight.
“That’s right, Sheila. So-”
“They had guns. We need to get some guns.”
“Well-”
“And machetes.”
“Well-”
“We need to arm ourselves.”
“If they come back I’ll chop their fekkin’ heads off.”
Take control, Sam! “Listen. I agree. We need to protect ourselves, but the first thing we have to do is blockade the road.” No response. “There are three roads that lead into the town. Each one needs blocking off-”
“And guarding,” Ken interrupts.
“Yes, thank you, Ken. And guarding.”
“I’m in charge around here!” a voice pipes up from the dark.
Sam groans. Councillor Colin Haydock.
Sheila groans. “Sam’s-”
“I’m the one voted in by the people of the town to represent them.” Councillor Haydock pushes through to the front of the group, shunting Sheila as he barges past. “I should have a say in how they are to be protected.”
Ken groans.
“What do you suggest?” Sam asks. The man is as irritating as hell but Sam won’t be impolite. He’d better hurry up though; they had to get the cars across the road pronto.
“What does he know? He’s a bloody councillor for crying out loud—just sits and yaks and bickers with the other fat-arsed buggers supping tea and dunking their biscuits.”
Someone snorts with laughter. Sheila?
“I’m listening,” Sam continues.
“Well,” Colin looks around. “I, er …”
“Told you—just a bag of hot air.”
“Alright, Sheila. With all due respect-”
“Pah!”
“With all due respect, Councillor Haydock, we need to take positive action-”
“Yes, positive action,” Sheila interrupts glaring up at Colin.
What is her problem? “… and I suggest that we blockade the road,” Sam continues.
“Blockade the road? Then no one will be able to get in and out. It’s an offence to block the road.”
“Offence. Is he stup-”
“Sheila! Give it a rest—let them speak.”
“In the circumstances,” Sam continues, “I think that we can forgo the usual laws. We’re in a state of emergency and that means we do what we have to do to protect ourselves. If that means blocking the road, then that’s what we have to do.”
“Yes, but-”
“Where do we block them, Sam?” Jason asks with the emphasis on his name. He takes a step closer to Sam, towering above the crowd, shining his torch into the councillor’s face and making him squint before he shines it up the road. Its strong beam picks out the white reflective stripes running along the middle of the road to the large roundabout at the top of the hill.
“We block it off at the entrance—just before the roundabout. All the way across. Not just on the road, but right up to the trees and fences either side.”
“Gotcha.” Jason strides away and pulls at the door of a car parked at the side of the road.
Usually this stretch of road, the main drag down into the town that brings traffic in from the north, south, and west, is empty of parked vehicles. Now, there are several cars and one white van parked along the kerbs. One juts at an angle from the verge, stopped where its driver crashed when the blackout struck. Jason pulls at the door of a red Mini-Cooper. “It’s locked!” he calls back. Of course they’re locked! The owners may have abandoned them but they’ve made the cars secure before walking home.
Sheila pulls at the handle of the van’s door and screams. Sam jumps, his heart thumping hard as a face appears in the van’s window. A man scowls out as he winds down the glass.
“What the hell you doing?”
“Sorry!” Sheila responds.
“Get away from the van.”
“Don’t you take that tone of voice with me!”
Why can’t this be easy? Sam stride
s to the van. Shoulders back, chest out, chin up. “Good evening, sir.”
“Alright,” the man nods in return.
Sam takes a breath. “We’re creating a blockade and we require all vehicles in the vicinity to be moved and placed across the road.”
“Erm …”
“It’s essential that your van is part of that blockade. If you could step down from your vehicle please, sir.”
“You a copper?”
Sam takes another fortifying breath and decides to brazen it out. “Sir, I’m with the fire service. We have reason to believe that a terrorist campaign is underway and we require your vehicle to form part of our defences. Please step out of the vehicle.”
“If you’re not a copper you’re not taking my van nowhere.”
“Sir-”
“Let me deal with this,” Jason interrupts.
In the next second the door’s van is pulled open and Jason has grabbed the man’s shirt. He pulls him out with a thud and the van driver stumbles across the verge to the road.
“Hey!” the driver calls.
Sam takes another breath. His heart beats hard. He won’t let the panic rise. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. That’s right. Thank you, Judy.
Jason bears down over the driver sprawled on the verge. “You heard what Fireman Sam said-”
“What!”
Sam groans.
“We need your van for the blockade. Give me the keys.”
“No!” He frowns. “Fireman Sam?”
“Give me the keys,” Jason repeats.
In the distance an engine roars.
“Give him the keys!” Sam shouts and strides across to the pair.
“You Fireman Sam?” the van driver asks with a smirk as he picks himself up.
A fist arcs and the man thuds to the ground.
Oh, hell!
“Now. Give me the keys,” Jason repeats and grabs at the man’s jacket. Sheila fumbles through the pockets.
“Got them!”
“Sam, can you hear that?”
“Yeah, cars.”
Sam’s bowels clench. They had to get moving.
“Listen! There’s cars on the road. We need to get this blockade in place. Check all the cars. If they’re locked, go to the houses. Tell them it’s an emergency and we need their cars and their help. Hurry!”
Land of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 3) Page 3
