“Here’s one that’s open!”
The group splinters in a fevered rush to check the cars, knock on doors and cajole owners to hand over their keys and help to push their precious vehicles out onto the road and into the path of any vehicles that attempt to get into town. A door slams and Sheila shouts an expletive that would have made his mother’s hair curl.
“Sheila!” he calls as she runs back into the road, her torchlight doing a jig as she sprints. “Come and help me.”
The van slots into place, nose street-ward, it’s back end flush to the tall wooden fence that edges the road. A tree, more than one hundred feet high stands on the other side of the fence. Across the road another car is pushed against the barrier that sits along the back of the verge. This fence is flimsier—chipboard panelling erected only a few weeks ago to guard the new supermarket development. Sheila had been vocal about it; said the field was needed as a buffer for the town against the busy dual carriageway, had even organised a protest, but the bulldozers had come anyway and torn up the field, dug up the footings, destroyed the habitat, squashed the numerous dog turds left by the field’s main traffic. Councillor Haydock had said it was progress. Sheila had rebutted that it wasn’t progress when you were tarmacking the planet. Haydock had countered that the town was growing and becoming popular with commuters. Sheila had seethed about back-handers and talked about ‘Team Thanos’. That had confused Sam. Ken had explained about ‘Agenda 21’ but that had confused Sam even further.
“Colin!” Sam shouts as the man stands still.
“Can you hear it?” He turns to Sam with a frown.
“The engines?”
“Yes. They’re getting fainter.”
Sam stops for a moment and listens. Councillor Haydock, the advocate of ‘progress’, was correct. The tension eases a little and the muscles of Sam’s stomach relax. Still, they couldn’t wait.
The next minutes are spent rolling further cars up the road. The gap has been narrowed to the length of two cars, perhaps a Mini Cooper and a BMW, in Sam’s estimation.
Ken stands hands on hips, his breath coming hard.
“Sterling work,” Grahame says patting Sam on the back.
“Thanks, but we haven’t finished yet.”
“Couple more cars should do it though, aye?”
“Yep.”
A car door slams and Jason walks back from the blockade. The hum of an engine, an engine being thrashed, sounds in the distance. Alert, Sam listens. Jason stops, turns his flashlight back to the blockade then swings back and bathes Sam in light. The squeal of tyres rings in the air. Sam’s heart beats hard.
“We need to close that gap!” he shouts.
“No rush is there?” Councillor Haydock retorts.
“Listen!” Sam shouts.
“Someone’s speeding!”
“Boy racers no doubt,” Councillor Haydock sniffs.
“You are a twat!” Sheila explodes. “It could be the terrorists coming back to burn us all in our beds.”
“Excuse me!”
“You heard me. Do I have to spell it out or do I need to pay you to hear?”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“We have NOT got time for this!” Sam shouts. The steady thrum reverberates in the quiet above the noise of bickering voices. There were multiple engines. A rush of cold washes over him. Sheila stops. Councillor Haydock stops. “Something’s coming. Now move it and get that gap closed!”
A flurry of movement, torches jiggle, jolt, shine, catch glimpses of faces, lumpy and shadowed in the harsh light. The noise grows. Sam can’t tell which direction it’s coming from but it could be the main carriageway. It isn’t from over the bridge, that has its own distinctive hum, like angry, swarming bees, but it could be from the south, from the carriageway that joins the main motorway. He tries to listen as he runs, but the sound of his breath, and the calls of the others as they shout for more cars, more help, more muscle, flattens the noise to a mingled hum.
At the gap he stops. Jason, Sheila and Colin push at a red VW Golf. It’s too small. It won’t fill the gap. The engines are definitely growing louder.
“There are no more cars!” a panting voice states.
Sam swivels to the voice. “That’s ridiculous. There are thousands of cars in this town. There must be another one.”
“Yeah, there are loads, but not ones we can use.”
“What?”
“Most are locked and we can’t find the owners.”
The noise of the engines fills Sam’s head. They have to get that gap closed.
“What about that one?” He points to the back end of a silver Mercedes-Benz.
“That’s Councillor Haydock’s.”
“And?”
“And he said we weren’t to touch it.”
Sam clenches his jaw. “Oh, really.”
“Colin!” he shouts. “The keys to your car—we need them.”
“My car!”
The screech of tyres sounds from the near distance—from the other side of the roundabout. Sam turns as he shouts ‘yes’ at Colin. The view at the end of the road is blocked by the trees growing on the wide roundabout, a circle of woodland hovering over the carriageway that runs beneath to the bridge. They wouldn’t be able to see the car until it was almost upon them.
“Give me the damned keys, Colin,” he says and strides towards the man. Colin fumbles and keys jangle.
“Give them over, Colin!” Sheila demands. “Or I’ll let everyone know exactly what I’ve found out about you.”
He stares at her, eyes wide and questioning then dips his hand back into his pocket. Metal clinks and he shoves the keys at Sam.
“Thanks. Saves me smashing the window. Now get to the front and help push it round.”
Within seconds the car is covered in hands pushing it to the road then pushing it up to the blockade. Lights shine bright at the top of the road. Too late. They were here!
“Push!” he shouts.
The car is twenty feet from the gap, its lights a blinding white.
“Push!”
The Mercedes-Benz stops rolling as the other car approaches, hands disappear and feet run to the verge. Only Sam and Jason remain as the car slows and slips through the gap.
Now what!
Brakes jam, the car jolts to a stop and the engine stalls.
“Close the gap!” a voice shouts from the open window.
Thor! He’s back.
“They’re on our tail! Block the road.”
The noise of engines thrums louder. “Push!” Jason grunts next to Sam and then a pair of massive hands lie next to his on the boot—the massive blond with the accent—Arnie or possibly Dolph.
The car rolls. Sheila turns the steering wheel. It sticks at an angle, front end skewed across the gap, and fills the space just as the road ahead is flooded with light. Tyres squeal as two cars screech to a jarring stop half way up the road. They sit, engines idling, then reverse with a squeal of tyres and disappear. Sam’s shoulders sag.
“Hell! That was close.”
“They will be back” the huge blond says.
“Then we’ll be ready,” Sam returns.
Chapter 6
Bill watches as the lights disappear. There is no sense of relief. They’ll be back and probably with reinforcements.
“I didn’t catch your name,” he says to the younger man with the scars running from his collar into his short beard.
“Sam.”
“This was your idea?” Bill motions to the blockade of cars.
“Yes,” Sam replies. “I ascertained that we could be under further attack and so devised a plan to blockade the road.”
“Right.” The bloke seems on edge, his words odd and a little stilted, as though he was trying to convince himself he had things under control. “Well, you saved our bacon, and the town’s.”
“Did you get the fuel you needed?”
“That’s something we need to talk about.”
“Oh
?”
“The situation is getting serious.”
“It already is,” a blonde woman with thickly curling, though messy, hair buts in.
“Yes, it is, madame.”
“It’s Ms. I’m divorced,” she says with a – is she flirting? – shy smile.
Bill nods. His new close-shaven look was obviously having an impact on the ladies! He takes a breath and - Yep, she was pushing her chest out at him - ignoring her, he turns back to Sam.
“The attacks aren’t just random events. They’re happening across the country. On the way back here, we spotted more fires; there’s at least two in the city across the river.”
“Oh, hell! My sister lives there!”
“We all have family somewhere, Sheila,” Colin adds.
“They had guards at the petrol station at the motorway intersection. My guess is that’s part of their strategy. That way they’ll keep their vehicles operational whilst destroying our supplies.”
“That’s why they targeted the petrol station.”
“Yes. And attacking our emergency services is another way of crippling ordinary civilians.”
Sam takes a breath and Bill watches as the man’s jaw clenches, the melted skin twisting unnaturally. “What do you suggest?” he asks.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Well,” he thinks back to Bramwell and the others waiting for him. They were his priority. “I’ve got to get my … friend to hospital. She needs emergency treatment.”
The blonde is suddenly animated. “She? … but we need protecting!”
“Sheila’s right. We need protecting,” Colin adds.
“I have to get Clarissa to the hospital. Sam is more than capable of organising defences. Aren’t you Sam.”
“Yes,” he nods.
“He’s just a fireman—and he’s off his rocker.”
“Shut up, Sheila.”
“I’ve got … had a few issues since … since my accident,” Sam admits as he strokes at the scarred skin on his neck.
Bill looks at him and recognises the subdued tension. This man was giving everything he had to be here, more than he had. Bill could understand that completely. “I think,” Bill says looking directly into his eyes - let him understand what he’s about to say - “I think that you’ve kicked it into touch tonight, son.”
Sam’s eyes brighten, his shoulders slacken a little, and tension seems to leave him. He smiles back at Bill. “You reckon?” he asks though his voice is low, soft in its question. Bill holds his gaze. “Son, from what I’ve seen here tonight, you’re back in fighting form.”
The Adam’s apple in Sam’s throat bobs. A tentative smile.
“And you’re really called Sam?” Bill asks. He can’t help himself.
“Yes,” Sam returns with a small pull of his brows.
“And you’re really a fireman?”
Sam laughs. “Jeez! Am I never going to be able to … Hell!”
The tension collapses as Bill chuckles.
Uri frowns.
Sheila cackles.
Colin disappears.
Bill pats Fireman Sam on the back and returns to the car. The last thing he wants to do is get in the car and leave this group to fend for themselves but staying is also the last thing he can do. He has to get back to Clarissa and take her to a hospital … before it’s too late. His stomach knots.
“Uri! Come on,” he shouts across to the huge blond. The woman who’d given Bill the eye only minutes ago is holding Uri’s attention, talking ten to the dozen at him. “Uri!” he calls again as he watches him step away and the woman grab hold of his arm. She has no shame, that one! Uri pulls his arm from her grip and strides to the door.
“Looks like you’ve pulled then!”
“Pulled. What is this?”
“The woman. She wants you.”
“Pah! Viktoria is my only woman.”
Bill checks in the rear-view mirror; no headlights in the distance, only the bobbing of torchlight as Sam and the others organise the town’s defences. Perhaps once Clarissa was safely at hospital he could come back and help. Although surely by then the government would have organised a response and knocked the terrorists back into their holes, or rather, smashed them into kingdom-come, or, more likely, put them on trial and sent them back into the community on bail, accommodation paid for by the British taxpayer, to continue spreading their hate. He sighs and grinds his teeth. He’d make sure there were as few as possible to go on trial.
Bill starts the engine and powers the car forward then stops. He had to get Clarissa to a hospital but which one? He had two choices and both were risky. Over the bridge the fires were close - too close - to the hospital. Hell, it could even be the hospital that was blazing on the north bank. The other way took him straight past the petrol station commandeered by the terrorists, and the one thing he can’t risk is a car chase with Clarissa in the back. He cringes. If the car jolts … with a punctured lung and fractured ribs!
“Why you stop?”
“We have to deal with them. I can’t take Clarissa to the hospital until we’ve got control of the petrol station. We can’t just drive merrily past a bunch of murdering bastards and not expect some flack. The other hospital is across the bridge and-”
“The city is on fire.”
“Exactly. It’s under attack and the fires are too close to the hospital for comfort.”
Uri groans. “What do you suggest?”
“Well, given that there’s bugger-all sign of the police or military intervening to take control of the bastards we’ll have to take the scumbags down ourselves.”
Silence.
“You up for that?” he asks unable to keep an edge from his voice as he turns the car back towards the blockade.
“Da. We teach the bastards lesson,” Uri replies. Bill senses the anger that boils beneath the man’s calm exterior. Uri may have been trained as a calculating and ruthless killer but he was also a man with a wife and child to protect. Uri’s rage at the atrocities Bill’s country was suffering may not come from a loyalty to the nation, or a fierce need to protect its people, but it was welcome nevertheless.
“Da,” Bill replies. “We bloody well will.” He winds down the window and leans out. “Sam!” he calls. “I need your help.”
Chapter 7
A thrill of fear had washed over Sam as he’d stood and listened to Bill explaining his predicament: how the petrol station had been commandeered by terrorists, and how he had to take critically injured civilians past it. Bill’s plan was audacious, thrilling, terrifying, deadly. It could also perhaps save the town from further atrocities. Bill had to be ex-army, perhaps a marine, maybe even SAS.
As Sam explained his own plans for the defence of the town, Bill’s confidence in Sam’s ideas, and his ability to carry them through, had given him the strength he’d needed. Explaining about his plans to protect the town as the others listened had been hard, but when he’d felt his confidence slipping, and the familiar panic rising, it had only taken a look at Bill’s intense gaze to know that he believed in him. His insecurity had morphed into determination; they would work together to protect the town.
As Bill and the huge Russian step back to their car to go home and collect some of their ‘team’, Jason crosses the road towards him. He’s barely out of breath, even though he’d set off at a run to gather forces and had just run back up the hill to report back. After this was over Sam was definitely going back to the gym—perhaps he could even go with Jason.
Figures walk along the length of the blockade and several youths have taken up positions on top of the cars. A woman walks to the row of vehicles and her husband walks away—a changing of the guard. His team was already beginning to gel.
A garden chiminea, offered by one of the nearby residents, stands squat and pot-bellied. Pushed up against the wall, its glow brightens the path. A metal grille has been placed on the top of its chimney, a tin kettle sits with steam rising from its spout. Sheila takes
the kettle and empties the boiling water into a teapot, it’s fluted spout and flowered body incongruous to the scene. A tray of mugs sits on the ground, a fruit loaf by its side.
The lid of the teapot clinks as Jason reaches Sam. “How many did you get?”
“Five cars plus three bikes.”
“Pushbikes?”
“No!” Jason laughs. “Motorbikes.”
Sam sighs with relief and laughs at his error. “So, they’re all running?”
“Yep.”
“Drivers and riders?”
“Yep. Stan, Rachel and Mike have offered to help. They won’t let anyone else use their bikes so they’re up for the job themselves.”
“Good!”
“Bilbo said he’s too old for this kind of thing but he’s offered his car. Bingley, Patel, and three other lads are up for driving their cars and there’s a fair few who want in on the action. Sanders and Bradley are on leave from the forces.”
“Bloody well done!”
“Thanks.”
“They’ll need to be armed.”
“We have one air rifle so far but Sheila has said that Greg Rawlins goes hunting and he’s got a few rifles in his gun locker. Baz has gone to talk to him.”
“Good,” replies Sam though he hopes it’s the lads from the forces that end up with the rifles and not some of the hotheads Jason mentioned—he doubted they’d have the skill to handle one.
In the distance a car’s engine thrums and mixes with the high pitch of a motorbike. Sheila pours the tea into the mugs.
“Milk’s all gone, but I’ve got sugar,” Sheila says as she pours the last of the tea into a mug. “Plum bread?” she asks as she steps up to Sam with a plate of sliced fruited loaf splayed like fallen dominoes. “It’s buttered. I’ve not got cheese to go with it though.”
Sam takes a slice. Sheila watches him as he bites into the cake.
“Mmm,” he says as she holds his gaze. “Lovely.” She smiles at his appreciation.
“It’s proper Lincolnshire plum bread—made from my granny’s recipe.”
Land of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 3) Page 4
