Land of Fire_An EMP Survival Thriller

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Chapter 25

  Bin Sayeed waits behind Mohammed as he knocks on the door in the stuffy corridor. It opens a fraction. A man’s face appears between the gap and the door opens just enough to let the men through. Tonight would be the grand finale of their work. It had taken years, but Mohammed and Faisal had done well, integrating themselves among the dirty pig-eaters and getting Bin Sayeed the information he needed. When the English talked about the Irish Troubles they’d called the groups of Irish men living among the natives, waiting and ready to fulfil their assignments, sleeper cells, but the IRA terrorists that had come to the mainland had been amateurs compared to Bin Sayeed, and limited in their aim. All they’d wanted was to force the government to accede to their demands back home. His vision was far greater.

  “Salam,” he greets the men. Sunlight fills the room as he makes his way to the table. “Show me,” he commands. A cigarette packet is held out and he takes one, lights it on the proffered match and then stares down at the map laid out on the table. The room stinks. Above the smell of fried food and cigarettes is the unmistakable stench of body odour and alcohol. “It smells like a brothel in here,” he snaps. “Open a window.”

  He looks back down at the map with its route plotted out in black marker pen. “How far is it from the house back to the city?”

  “About thirty miles.”

  Bin Sayeed grunts. “And you’re sure they will be here tonight?” he asks stabbing at the destination ringed in red.

  “One hundred percent. It’s emergency protocol. This is their safehouse.”

  “Some safehouse,” Bin Sayeed scoffs as he takes another drag from the cigarette and picks up the detailed blueprints of the house photocopied by Faisal at work. “It is very secure,” he says scrutinising the plans.

  “It was,” Faisal laughs.

  “You’ve made the adjustments then?”

  “Yes. We will be able to walk in there and take the whole family. I drew up the security detail for tonight myself. Jamal and Daoud are both working their shifts and the other officers can be disposed of once we arrive. They don’t stand a chance.”

  “Westminster? Yes. He’s ready. It helps that he’s the deputy to their security adviser.”

  Bin Sayeed snorts with a derisory laugh. “Idiots! You know.” He leans back in the chair and takes another drag of the cigarette. Smoke billows from his mouth as he exhales. “My father told me the English were once a nation of warriors. What is left of that spirit now? Take a look in the streets. Fat. Lazy. No interest in anything but themselves. It makes it almost too easy. Not one of them could run for a bus never mind fight for their country.”

  “They shouldn’t be allowed to breed,” Khalid adds.

  “We will fight for their country,” Faisal laughs. “Fight for it and dominate it.”

  “One day Islam will dominate the world.”

  “Insha’allah.”

  “He does will it. We have the proof. He gave us the blackout to help our efforts.”

  A collective murmur of agreement.

  “Get me a drink,” he demands then takes a slug of the whiskey offered. Tonight he would make a wound so deep in their collective conscience that they would beg for his mercy, bow to his demands, and cower before his soldiers. “They will live in fear from this day onwards,” he smirks. And after this day he will go back home. There were enough soldiers to keep the country on its knees until it was truly broken. He could die in peace, in his homeland knowing that he had brought England to the yoke of Islam. Once it was destroyed then they would begin the job of rebuilding it to be fit for the new nation. In his country they knew better than to bow to the demands of minorities and that was why this nation was dying and his, the nation of Islam, was rising. His muscles tense and he clenches his jaw. Every last one of them would die if he had his way. Jamal was right. They shouldn’t be allowed to breed. Perhaps that would be the next stage—forced sterilisation. Wasn’t there a pill that made women sterile? Yes, he’d read about it; it was being used somewhere in Nigeria on female children and one of the side effects was sterilisation. There were enough brothers and sisters working in the health service to make it possible. If he could begin shipments here … perhaps he wouldn’t leave quite yet. He smiles. He would talk it over with Faisal tomorrow. Certainly, it was not as bloodthirsty and personally fulfilling as the current campaign, but it would mean fewer of his men’s lives would be lost. Genocide by stealth. They had already begun a concerted effort to populate the country with their own. The only drawback that he could see was that it would take a long time to accomplish, but then, perhaps playing the long game was the smartest thing to do.

  “Yallah!” he shouts and stamps his feet on the floor as he tips the chair forward. “Let’s go.” He takes another swig of whiskey and strides for the door. Prayer and food would have to wait. The night would be a long one and he couldn’t wait to get started.

  “You have the video camera?” he asks as he turns to leave.

  “So, you’re telling me that Bin Sayeed’s plan is to abduct the Prime Minister’s family and then burn Parliament down with them in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And film them … it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Evil, Goddamned bastard.”

  “Yes.”

  “How the hell are we going to stop them? I have no idea where the Prime Minister or his family will be.”

  “Sounds like Bin Sayeed and his cronies do.”

  “How the hell would they know a thing like that?”

  “Infiltration into the highest levels of government. Sleeper cells,” Bill replies.

  “Hell!”

  “This country is lost!”

  “If we don’t know where the PM is, then what are we supposed to do?”

  “We know where Parliament is.”

  “And?”

  “We wait for Bin Sayeed and his cronies there.”

  “And rescue the family and stop him burning the place down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Well, this is …”

  “Some scary shit.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if we fail.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “We won’t fail.”

  “They’re organised. They’ve managed to get the information they need, no doubt information that has the highest security clearance, on a need-to-know basis, top-secret, kind of shit. What the actual!”

  “Could have hacked the system?”

  “Why do they need to hack the system when they’ve infiltrated it? Unbelievable!”

  “The bastards are everywhere. The other week I was looking for a job and MI6 had a job advert on a website. They were recruiting for spies! I mean – FFS! On a website!”

  “FFS?”

  “He means for fu-”

  “Yes, I know, but sounding out the initials is kind of dumb.”

  “You calling me dumb?”

  A groan. “Children!”

  “Bill. What are we going to do?”

  The dog nuzzles at his hand. He strokes its head, glad of its calming presence as his head explodes with questions and his belly is gripped by anger.

  “We go to Westminster Palace and wait for them. It’s likely that they’ve already got someone waiting on the inside.”

  “Probably more than one.”

  “Probably.”

  “So we check it out.”

  “Yes.”

  “Parliament’s in London, right? So how far is that?

  “Hundred miles or so.”

  “Best get moving then.”

  As the air fills with the roar of motorbike engines, Uri starts the car.

  “Got enough fuel?” Bill asks as he slips into the passenger seat. As he looks over at the dashboard, and the array of dials and lights, a flurry of fur and paws jumps onto his lap. He jerks back in surprise as
the dog fills the space before him.

  “What the!”

  Laughter from Jessie as she squeezes onto the backseat. She pulls the back door closed with difficulty. Even Uri manages a laugh as the dog’s legs slip off Bill’s legs and scrat at the seat. Within seconds it is upright, its backside seated firmly in the footwell, its eyes staring expectantly at Bill.

  “Looks like you’ve got a new best friend,” Jessie laughs.

  “He cannot come with us,” Uri states.

  “He looks friendly enough.”

  Bill stares down at the dog. “Sorry, bud, but you can’t come with us.” He takes hold of the dog at the scruff of the neck and gently encourages it to leave. The dog sits still, pulls away from his hand then licks it.

  “We have no time for this,” Uri says and moves the gear into first.

  Jessie laughs from the backseat.

  “Come on, girl!”

  “Is not beetch.”

  Beetch? “Out you go,” Bill encourages, pushing at the dog’s shoulder and rump. The dog sits firm.

  “Is dog.”

  “I know it’s a dog.”

  “He means it’s a boy.”

  “Is obvious.”

  Bill reaches down to lift the dog’s leg and push it out of the car. His hand presses against something he’d rather not touch. “Agreed,” he says with a grimace. “It’s a boy.”

  Jessie’s laugh is raucous from the backseat and even Jasmin raises a smile.

  The car rolls forward. “Close door, Bill. Dog will have to come with us.”

  Bill grunts as he reaches for the door and slams it shut. Looking at the mutt, he should be annoyed, but the truth is, he’s secretly pleased.

  Chapter 26

  The small screen glows, illuminating Bin Sayeed’s face as the van makes its way through the narrow lanes. Hemmed in on either side by tall hedgerows, only a narrow cone of light brightens the way. Clouds skim the moon, darkening the sky.

  “Careful!” Bin Sayeed chides as the van jolts and he’s thrown to the door.

  “Sorry.”

  “Slow down then,” he says with irritation and returns his attention to the screen.

  Waving at him from the colourful rectangle of the video recorder’s screen is Khadeeja. She sits in the sand by the beach, her black hair waving in the breeze, her smile bright—a moment of perfect happiness. The day had been hot, too hot for them to venture outside until later afternoon, and she’d urged him to take her somewhere private where she could swim in the sea and feel the wind in her hair. Later that evening they’d made love and afterwards laid together and laughed until the night had cooled enough for them to sleep.

  The following morning had been hectic as Saleem had ordered them back to the compound to plan their next attack. It was then that Khadeeja truly shone: her passion for the cause, her brilliance as a strategist. He’d thrilled at her hatred for the West and shared her need to destroy it. She was his soulmate and together they were going to crush the non-believers until they begged for mercy.

  Her ideas for the terror attacks in England had been taken up by Saleem, and Bin Sayeed had sat with pride burning in his heart as the gathered men had listened with respect as she’d outlined her ideas for the next stage of the infiltration and overthrow of Europe. Speaking with absolute conviction, she’d convinced him that their jihad should be taken to the next level. The terror attacks that had gone before were amateurish, killing just dozens at a time, they weren’t making the impact Allah desired. No, nothing less than the genocide of all non-believers, she’d argued, was the only course of action.

  For a moment a flicker in her eyes as they stare directly at the camera’s lens reminds him of the woman back at the flat. Jasmin. He pauses the screen and looks instead to the grey tarmac bright in the headlights. Jasmin could never replace Khadeeja—the woman was only there to satisfy his needs. He clenches his fist. He hated her, despised the fear that leaked off her. Guilt stabs at him as he remembers the despair in Jasmin’s eyes as he’d raised his arm to punch her again as rage, loss, despair, whatever it was that roiled inside him, had spilled over. He hadn’t been disloyal to their love. He hadn’t! This woman was just a whore to satisfy his physical needs. He didn’t even like her. Khadeeja would understand. Wouldn’t she? He grits his teeth. The woman was a mess now; had stopped looking after herself, and either whined or tried too hard to please him. It was pathetic. After today, he’d have her removed. After today, he’d be true to Khadeeja again.

  Unpausing the video, he watches his wife as she walks to the sea, her long hair flowing in the wind and lets the anger ride over him. That night had been the last time he’d held Khadeeja in his arms. As they’d sat the following day with Saleem and the gathered leaders, a drone had discovered their location and, within the hour, their compound had been bombed into rubble and dust.

  They hadn’t won though, the kafirs, the dirty, pig-eating non-believers. Bin Sayeed would continue Khadeeja’s work and bring Europe to its knees, just as she’d planned.

  “We’re here.” Khalid slows, turns left, and drives the van onto a rough track. The van jolts along the deeply rutted dirt road then comes to a stop. As the lights cut out they’re plunged into darkness until Bin Sayeed fills the cab with torchlight.

  Jumping out of the cab he walks to the back of the van, opens the doors, and takes out his rucksack.

  “This way,” Faisal says as he pulls on his own rucksack.

  They move as a pack through woodlands that surround the safehouse until it comes into view. Unlike the towns and villages that surround the area, the interior of this house is brightly lit, and exterior lights brighten the façade and surrounding lawns. Bin Sayeed makes the signal – a single flash of vertical torchlight held for two seconds – and then crouches. Within two seconds the lights around the house switch off.

  The men rise in unison and speed across the grass to the back of the house. A single, guiding light shines. Within twenty seconds they’re at the back door and entering the kitchen.

  “Second floor,” are the only words Daoud speaks as Bin Sayeed steps into the kitchen.

  Bin Sayeed sweeps past Daoud, - a mental image of the map detailing the house’s floorplans clear in his mind - and runs through the kitchen and up the first flight of stairs, confident that he’ll meet no resistance. On the second floor he stops and waits.

  The lights switch off.

  Shouts from downstairs are followed by the repetitive thud, thud of muffled gunshot. Moving along the corridor, footsteps from behind closed doors thud on carpet, a voice calls out, and then a door opens.

  “Carrie! The power’s out,” a boy’s voice shouts; the son. “Carrie!” A door opens on the other side of the corridor.

  “Shh! You’ll wake Dad,” the daughter replies.

  “But the light’s out. Where’s Davis? I can’t see a thing.” Davis is dead, or he should be by now.

  Mohammed joins Bin Sayeed at the top of the stairs as he listens to them speak, the boy obviously scared of the dark and on the verge of panic. “Ready?” Bin Sayeed asks in a whisper as Khalid treads the stairs, his footsteps almost silent.

  “Ready.”

  In the next second the men, flashlights on full beam and trained on the faces of the teenagers, pelt down the hallway. Giving them no time to react, Bin Sayeed grapples the boy to the floor whilst Khalid wrestles the girl. Daoud and Faisal make their way to the end of the corridor and the father’s room. The girl screams as she’s thrown against the door’s jamb, and her brother cries out in pain as his shoulder slams to the floor.

  “Carrie! What’s going on?” a man’s voice demands as a door further along the corridor slams open. The Prime Minister. “Davis! Daoud!” he shouts.

  “All under control, Sir,” Daoud replies as Khalid holds his hand to the girl’s mouth. Bin Sayeed’s is clasped over the boy’s.

  “What the hell is going on, Douad?”

  “Get him,” Bin Sayeed hisses as Daoud trains his torchlight ont
o the figure. The Prime Minister, without his usual dour and perfectly tailored suit, stands blinded by the intense light, paunchy and slack-shouldered in his striped pyjamas. This was going to be almost too easy.

  The boy struggles beneath Bin Sayeed’s grip, but is no match for the older man’s strength. As Daoud, Faisal, and Mohammed fall on the Prime Minister, Bin Sayeed pulls the boy to his feet, elbow hard against his throat, knife’s point firm between his ribs, and walks him down the corridor. “Walk out of the house without a struggle or I stab this knife into your kidneys,” he whispers close to the boy’s ear. The boy makes a mewling noise and Bin Sayeed squeezes his elbow tighter, enjoying his fear, suppressing an urge to finish the brat right now. It would be easy to snap his neck and let him slip to the ground, then he could finish the others. The satisfaction would be enormous. His elbow tightens and the boy gasps for breath. A smirk slides onto Bin Sayeed’s face in the dark—he was going to enjoy watching him burn.

  As he takes the first step onto the stairs, the growls of anger, and the scuffling of resistance disappear. At the bottom of the stairs a flashlight has been stood in the centre of the hallway to illuminating the space. A body lays across the final steps but as Bin Sayeed descends it is dragged then rolled into the dark. Other bodies litter the hallway: a guard lies belly down, spread-eagled and still twitching as blood pools around his head; another slumps against a backdrop of spattered blood and gore with what is left of his head lolling against his shoulder. In the kitchen two more men lay prone and blood-drenched, their still bodies sprawled at awkward angles. His men have done a thorough and very deadly job, Bin Sayeed notes with satisfaction.