Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Sarah had, on occasion, thought about digging over some of their garden to grow vegetables but their lives had always seemed too busy, too full. Looking across her beautiful, flower-filled, and completely useless, garden she realises with dread that their home has nothing to sustain them. An ache spreads across her shoulders as she looks back to the house. As soon as this blackout was over she’d make changes and create a garden that could feed her children. The next time the shit hit the fan she’d be ready.

  She swallows as the knot tightens in her belly. Gabe’s voice repeats in her memory: ‘You’re getting over-excited’, he’d soothed. ‘The electricity will come back on soon’. But would it? ‘Yes, of course it would’, he’d argued. After all, blackouts, EMPs that take out the grid where carnage reigned, were just for fiction.

  She shivers as fur rubs against her leg. Maurice, the neighbour’s precious cat, purrs up at her expectantly. “Go home, Maurice. Go and shit in your own garden … please.”

  “Mum!” Joe leans over their stable-style back door and shouts down the garden.

  Shh! You’ll wake the neighbours. She keeps her voice low. “Coming!”

  “I’m still hungry!”

  Chapter 3

  The clack of his boots on the tarmac rings out across the empty road as George Henson rounds the corner, air rifle hanging broken on his arm. Thirty more feet and he’ll be at his shop. He’s later than he’d usually be—if all was normal, but he’d taken his time to get out of bed this morning. Deliveries to the shop were generally made before the populace arose and certainly before the shop opened. By eight am, which is when he opened his doors to the public, everything had to be in its place and all meat freshly butchered and presented in pristine condition. George ran a tight ship, an exceptionally well-scrubbed and immaculately laid out ship, and had done so for the last forty-five years.

  His chest heaves with effort. Although he’d taken his time to arrive this morning, there being no shoppers to purchase the meat, there was a lot to do to prepare for this afternoon and he’d picked up his pace to walk briskly from his home on the other side of town. He checks his watch. Five-thirty, he notes with guilty discomfort—an hour later than usual. As he rounds the corner he stops.

  Damnable thieves!

  The thick black plastic, that Sam had so carefully taped across the broken door, flaps against the tarmac, and an empty shopping trolley sits parked next to the window. He’d cleared the shelves as Sam advised so there was nothing in the shop that they’d want, unless ... He strides to the door, anger overriding any sense of danger, and stares into the dingey shop. Everything is still. The chillers are empty. All cakes and pastries had been cleared yesterday and taken home to a thankful family or distributed to grateful bellies by Sam and Martha.

  At the back of the shop is the entrance to the butchery and cold rooms. Stepping in with a light foot he walks to the centre then stops to listen. Shuffling feet and the noise of someone exerting themselves is coming from the rooms. He can’t tell how many there are, but it has to be more than one.

  Taking another step forward, he lifts his broken rifle from his arm and clicks it into action with one swift move. He’d never used a gun on a human before yesterday, never had cause to, and carrying the weapon through the streets had felt unnatural. He’d nearly left it at home, particularly after his wife’s stern frown as he’d taken it back out of the gun locker. Cheryl had argued that he’d get into trouble and that it was against the law to carry a firearm. He’d countered that he had a license, knew what he was doing, and that as there were no police around to protect him, or their property, and, given that the country was descending into chaos, he had a right to bear arms. Once again, he’d been proven right.

  He turns into the doorway.

  Ahead of him, all is still in the butchery. The first block where they slice and chop the sides of beef and pork are empty, scrubbed down from yesterday’s mammoth task of butchering the entire contents of the cold store. He’d gone home with aching shoulders and a back knotted with tension, even his jaw had hurt from clenching, though that had come more from his anger at having to give away his stock. He’d argued that the people should at least make a contribution and Sam had relented and said that he’d take a donation box with him should anyone like to donate. George had been doubtful they’d be that generous and Sam had admitted that there’d be very little cash anyway given that it was days since the banks had been open and most people used cards to purchase goods anyway.

  A grunt sounds from the cold room, followed by a laugh, and he notices the trays piled up on the second butcher’s block and, next to them, the boxes he’d packed yesterday. Each tray is layered with prime cut sirloin, rump, and T-bone steaks, and the boxes are filled to the brim with pork or lamb chops, all ready for Sam’s barbecue. He’d finally agreed to Sam’s idea only because it was pointless, heart-breaking really, to let his meat go to waste and he wasn’t stubborn enough to let the animals’ lives be for nothing when there were people going without.

  The laugh comes again from the cold room and a figure, dressed from head to foot in bike leathers with a helmet to match, steps out, two more heavily stacked trays held in its arms. Despicable traitor; one of Sam’s Protectors! The man takes five steps into the room before realising George has him in his gun’s sights.

  “Put the tray down!” George growls.

  The man at least has the good grace to show a trace of fear beneath the surprise, but he doesn’t budge and quickly flips his visor closed.

  “I said put the tray down.”

  Another figure appears behind the thief’s shoulder and stares wide-eyed at George then grunts instructions to the man in front. Before George has time to react, the man takes a running step forward with the tray and smashes it against the muzzle of the gun. Taken by surprise, and felled by the weight of the tray, George crashes against the jamb of the door. The back of his head knocks against the wood as his finger pulls the trigger. Gunshot ricochets and plaster sprinkles to the floor tiles. Taking his chance, the attacker yanks the gun from George’s hand whilst pressing his weight down on the tray now laid across his chest. George grunts with discomfort. He makes an effort to breath, but the pressure on his chest is intense and, combined with the stench of warming blood, the air unpleasant. He takes short gasps.

  “Geroff!” he grunts.

  The man ignores him. “Take the trays out. I’ll hold him.”

  “Can’t breathe!” George gasps as pressure builds in his head.

  “Ease off a bit.” The other man steps over George’s legs. “You’ll kill him.”

  The pressure eases as the attacker reaches for George’s gun then sits back on his haunches. “Don’t move,” he grunts as George gasps at the air with relief. The pressure in his head eases and he glares at the man, taking note of any distinguishing marks on his leather jacket and helmet. He peers through the closed visor but doesn’t recognise the face behind the smoked glass. An incomer, one of the myriad men and women that have moved to the town in recent years for the cheaper housing and the pleasant environment that the town had to offer. It was a joke! The town’s main shopping street, with its traditional butchers and bakers were cited as one of the attractions the town had to offer, but did these people support the town and use those shops? No. No they did not. He could no longer name each person who walked past his shop. The town seemed full of strangers and they all shopped at the big supermarkets that had moved in and destroyed his business. Sure, he was clinging on, but gone were the days when he could consider himself wealthy, when butchering gave him status in the town and a healthy income.

  As the man stands, gun aimed at George’s head, the other returns to take the remaining trays that had been stacked on the table.

  “We’re done.” He steps back over George’s legs on his way to the door and the shopping trolley outside.

  “What are we going to do about him?” the other calls as he stares down at George.

  “Tie him up.”
/>
  George groans but relief floods over him too; he’d half expected them to beat him or worse.

  “With what? I can’t see any rope.”

  The other returns. “Stick him in that room with the meat. There’s a bolt. We can lock him in.”

  George groans again.

  “Get up.”

  Without resistance, George staggers to his feet. The ache through his body is immense as arthritic knees push his heft from the floor. Following the thieves’ grunted instructions, he staggers to the cold room and notes with relief that much of the meat remains in situ. As the bolt slides to lock him inside the room, a sharp pain rides through his chest, and he gags on the stench of blood rotting in the now warming air as the pain travels down his left arm.

  Chapter 4

  “Gonna be another scorcher!” Bill picks up a log from the pile neatly stacked beneath the tarpaulin. The sky, viewed through the canopy of trees surrounding Bramwell, is already a bright blue, and the clouds that brought thunderstorms and rain during the night have been blown away and replaced by wisps of moisture high in the atmosphere. Nelson brushes against his leg as he reaches for another log. Bill strokes at the dog’s head.

  “Want your breakfast, ey, boy?” he asks as he piles the logs against his chest and reaches for a final piece of wood. “Me too. Come on then.” Chattering to the dog as it trots by his side, he returns to the kitchen.

  Already warm as he drops another log into the stove’s greedy furnace, the kitchen will be stuffy by afternoon, but without it there’d be no hot water or regular source of heat for cooking. He breathes deep as he closes the stove’s door; the smell of the place has undertones of cinnamon and lavender, and a reassuring wholesomeness. He could live in this house forever, be happy, cossetted by its homeliness, particularly with Clarissa at his side. Kettle! Stay on task, man. Get the kettle on and make her a cup of tea and then feed Nelson. “What am I going to feed you, aye, boy?” He frowns at the thought of opening another can of tuna and feeding it to the dog. Jessie would not be pleased if he scraped more of her precious tinned food into the dog’s bowl. He’d go to town later and see if there was anything left in the shops. Sam would be the man to talk to about that.

  As he places the kettle on the stove for his first brew of the day, he’s startled by a knock at the door. Who, for heaven’s sake, could it be at this time in the morning? It couldn’t be past eight. Who even knew they were here? Leaning out of the window as another light tap comes at the front door, he’s surprised to see Sam, his face flushed, chest heaving with hands on hips, expectant. Behind him, propped up against the porch’s wooden trellis is a pushbike. How did he know they were here? Bill knocks on the window, waves, then opens the door.

  Sam’s cheeks are flushed, hair bedhead style, his eyes puffy. “Morning, Sam. You look like the wind blew you here!”

  “Morning.” Sam’s chest heaves as he catches his breath. He laughs. “I wish.” Mottled skin twists and stretches along Sam’s neck and jaw. “Baz told me you were back.”

  “Yeah, last night.” Bill resists the urge to ask Sam about his accident. Michael had filled him in on some details: the fire that had ripped through the house, the woman that couldn’t be saved, the heroism that had nearly killed Sam and landed him in intensive care at the Burns Unit. Futile, desperate efforts that had led to an enquiry into his conduct and ‘early retirement’ from the Fire Service. “Come on in. I’ve just put the kettle on. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Lovely. But I haven’t got long.”

  “Oh? Busy eh?”

  “More than I’d like to be, that’s for sure.”

  “So is this a social call or-”

  “Both,” he replies. “But tell me about your night first.”

  “Sure,” Bill replies and busies himself making the tea and recounting the night’s drama, the discovery of the terrorist cell at the block of flats, the dog that had saved Bill’s life, the murder of the Prime Minister’s daughter, and ultimately, the very gruesome death of Bin Sayeed himself. “We got back before sunrise so I’ve had a few hours kip. Jess is keen to know how the town is managing; she wants to get the water purification system up and running, but she’s still fast asleep.”

  Sam nods. “She’s got a lot of knowledge, that girl. I’ll call a meeting later.”

  “Sure.” Bill strokes at Nelson’s head. The dog sits close, head resting on Bill’s knee, watchful of the stranger in the kitchen.

  “Beautiful dog.”

  “Deceptively so. He’s a beast if you piss him off.” Bill pulls at the dried blood clotted in the fur beneath Nelson’s ear.

  Sam raises his brows as he watches Bill rub the dried blood between his fingers, flick it to the floor, then take a sip of tea.

  “Now tell me why you’re here, Sam.”

  Sam coughs and sits up in the chair, fingering the handle of his mug. “Two things. I’ve come to see Michael - Jessie’s not the only one with a certain set of skills - and about this afternoon.”

  Bill laughs at the reference. “She’s more of a Liam Neeson than I am, that’s for sure.”

  “They’ve got you down as Thor in the town.”

  Bill snorts. “And this afternoon?”

  “The food distribution.”

  “Food distribution? You’re getting organised!”

  Sam nods but doesn’t meet Bill’s eyes. “Yep.”

  “Michael’s asleep in the living room; I’ll let him know you’re here in a minute.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So, how’re you distributing this food and why do I need to know?”

  “Well, there’s a good few butchers in the town and they’ve all agreed to donate their meat.”

  “Oh?”

  “Without chillers and freezers working, the meat’s just going rotten so we’re planning to distribute it among the townspeople.”

  “Laudable.” Bill ponders. “Raw meat?”

  “Yes, and I know what you’re going to say, ‘How will they cook it?’ Well, we’ve got that covered too.”

  “I was going to ask if I could have some for Nelson.” The dog perks up at the mention of his name. “But now I’m intrigued. Tell me about cooking it.”

  “Every year there’s a Bike Night held in the town and most of the butchers, and some of the restaurants, have large barbecues they sit outside their shop fronts and cook for the bikers and visitors. I’ve arranged for them to be set up in the local park in the afternoon.”

  A queasy knot twists in Bill’s stomach. “You’re going to barbecue the meat and hand it out to the people in the park?”

  “That’s right. We’ve organised some entertainment too. Martha thought that a band and some games for the kids would be a bit of light relief. We’ve got some pretty talented musicians locally.”

  “It’s a great idea.” Bill nods but bites at his lip. “But - and I don’t want to throw cold water on the idea, Sam - have you considered just how many people this event will gather together?”

  “Well-”

  “There are over ten thousand people in the town, most of them living on short rations, and getting pretty damned hungry.”

  “I know that, Bill. That’s why I’ve convinced the butchers to hand over their meat.”

  “Have you got enough meat to feed everyone? I mean every single person in this town?”

  “Well-”

  “Have you got enough, Sam, because if you haven’t …” Bill stops as he imagines the chaos that could ensue, “then you’d better have some pretty hefty security organised.” Bill watches as the Adam’s apple in Sam’s throat bobs. He hasn’t! He hasn’t considered the implications of feeding only a portion of the people who would turn up. The knot in Bill’s stomach tightens and a dull ache begins to throb at the back of his head. He scrapes the chair back from the table as he stands. “I’ll let Michael know that you’re here.”

  Chapter 5

  Sarah laughs at the grimace of disgust on her teenage daughter’s face as s
he walks across the garden with the bucket of water. It sloshes and spills on her bare feet.

  “Careful,” Sarah chides gently. “That’s the only water we’ve got.”

  “Oh, Mum!” Amy raises her brows with an exaggerated sigh. “The water will probably be back on tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps,” Sarah returns, “but if it’s not-”

  “Then it’ll rain,” Amy counters. “This is England. It always rains.”

  “Maybe.” The sky, purest blue and brilliant, carries only the faintest wisp of white. “But it doesn’t look that way to me.”

  “Mum’s right, Amy,” Gabe says as he joins Sarah on the patio. “Looks like we’re in for a dry summer.” He slides his arm across Sarah’s shoulder and she’s glad, for the thousandth time, of her husband’s gentle and calming, love. She leans into him, and a little of the tension that has settled over her since the realisation of just how vulnerable they all were, shakes off.

  “So where do I put it?”

  “Just there,” Sarah points to the area next to the round drum of the barbecue. “So glad you didn’t listen to me and get the gas one I wanted.”

  “Uhuh,” Gabe replies. “Steak just doesn’t taste the same without coals beneath it.”

  “Gas is cleaner, that’s all I was thinking.”

  “Sure, but real men don’t cook outdoors with gas. It’d give the boy a bad edication,” he says with a laugh. Used to his bad jokes, she pokes him in the ribs and joins his laughter.

  Joe runs across the grass and slides his arm across Gabe’s back. It only reaches halfway, instantly making the boy seem small and the man huge. “Are we having steak, Dad?”

  “No, sir, we’re not,” Gabe’s glance to Sarah holds a pained expression; a reference to their earlier conversation.

  As she’d thrown Maurice’s ‘present’ back over the fence for Megan to deal with, and scanned the inedible garden, the family’s complete unpreparedness for disaster had hit her hard; the shit had hit the fan and they, Sarah and Gabe, had failed their own children.