Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  As they make their way to the park, the roads fill with a steady trickle of people and, as he reaches the park’s entrance, he’s relieved to see that instructions are being followed; the imposing wrought iron gates have been closed, shutting off the large entrance so that only the smaller pedestrian gate can be used. The trickle of people is forming an orderly queue and passing through the gate without issue. A child bounces a ball, catches it and throws it back to his father. Smiling, the man returns it.

  Once inside, a smile breaks across Sam’s face. Six large barbecues are lined up across the grass, access to each one demarcated by a roped walkway. Ten smaller barbecues are grouped and ringed off by rope with definite entry and exit points marked by signs written in large and unmistakable black marker. Smoke rises as the coals burn. Protectors stand at each barbecue and at the entrance to each station.

  “It’s all very organised, Sam,” Martha declares.

  Sam scans the area noticing that his instructions have been followed but the arrangement of the barbecues and the clearly marked entrance and exit points are an addition to his efforts. A familiar figure steps out from the trees on the far side of the park. Bill. With a rifle slung over his shoulder, combat-style fatigues, black T-shirt and backpack, he looks every inch the soldier. As he strides across the grass, the lithe figure of the girl who’d explained about purifying the water steps out from the far side, and next to her is a man Sam hasn’t seen before but, from his gait, close cropped hair, and defined muscles, there’s no mistaking his training. Each one walks with a purpose, alert to their surroundings, and each one is armed. He searches among the trees for the blond giant, sure that he will make an appearance at any moment.

  “We’ve posted guards along the perimeter and at each entrance to the park,” Bill explains as he reaches Sam.

  “Is the gun necessary?” Sam gestures to the automatic rifle slung across Bill’s torso.

  “It is. The people will be reassured and intimidated.”

  “Intimidated? It’s supposed to be a fun afternoon.”

  “It will be.” Bill pats the stock of the rifle. “Don’t underestimate what hunger can do to people. You’ve got a half-starved horde on its way.”

  Sam casts a glance at the groups dotted over the grass. Families with young children sit on chequered picnic blankets, an older couple sit in deck chairs facing the area marked out for the band, a middle-aged mother and father stand patiently with lookalike teenagers towering above them, and a younger couple sit up against the thick trunk of the towering elm, the man’s arm lovingly resting across the woman’s shoulder as she leans against him. It was hardly a horde.

  “Well-”

  A shout rises from the main entrance and the tension headache across the back of Sam’s head tightens as the noise is followed by a scream laced with anger. He turns to the gates in unison with Bill.

  “I’ll go.”

  Although the people swarming through the gates appeared innocuous enough: mothers, fathers, children, young men and women, Bill was on high alert. That was the problem. They were now swarming and, looking more closely through the groups of overweight, middle-aged men and women, and young families pushing toddlers in their prams, the tension in their body language was obvious. One or two shared a joke, but many were tight-faced, frowning across the carpark and the grass beyond as they moved towards the barbecues.

  A young woman, dressed in jeans with midriff bare beneath the rise of small breasts, pushes through the gateway, stepping over the wheel of a buggy, jostling the woman in front. Bill catches the look of anger that rides across the shoved woman’s face. Her jowls wobble as she turns to the middle-aged and paunchy man at her side. Bill doesn’t need to hear their words to understand their exchange; the look of spite and irritation that crosses their brows is enough. Stepping forward, Bill stands in plain view, rifle across his chest; let them see him, armed and in control. The flabby woman looks taken aback as their eyes meet and quickly shifts her gaze. A young boy tugs at his mother’s hand and points to Bill. Following his pointing finger, she catches Bill’s eyes, stares at the gun, then puts a protective arm around her son’s shoulder, hugging him to her. Bill attempts a half-smile to put the boy at ease.

  Checking across the area, Bill notes the numerous stewards; the bright yellow of their high visibility vests pops against the backdrop of trees, grass and milling groups of people. Further afield, Sam’s Protectors walk along the park’s boundary; at least three, all armed, stand guard at the smaller gated entrance as people stream down the path towards the park’s centre, an area that had seemed large only an hour ago, but which was now closing in on Bill.

  Smoke rises from the lit barbecues and, at the first waft of seared steak, Bill’s mouth begins to water. The people around him surge and shouting breaks out at the gate.

  “Watch it!”

  “Let me through!”

  Grunts, yells, and expletives follow as the gate becomes blocked by another surge from the waiting crowd on the other side.

  “Steady!” Bill steps forward, heartbeat rising.

  The crowd that has already passed through picks up pace and moves towards the smoking fires, but at the gate a large woman jolts against the stone wall as an older man pushes past her. As he twists to get by, another man attempts to squeeze through the gap and the older man is forced against the woman’s soft flesh. White beard resting on her head, his belly crushes against her ribs. She screams as her face scratches against the rough stone. The younger man, his face contorted with effort as his back slides over the gate’s metal doorjamb, shouts in anger. Disgruntled voices rise to a cacophony as the three bodies block the entrance. Beyond the gates the street is filled with people as far as Bill can see. The crowd surges yet again as people push from the back, urged on by the mouth-watering aroma of sausages, beef, pork and lamb sizzling above hot, smoking coals.

  The younger man finally squeezes through and Bill watches with breath caught in his chest as the larger, older man jerks forward. If he falls, he could be trampled. The man stumbles, his fingers scrape against the stone path but he rights himself and staggers forward almost at a run. The woman’s cheek releases from the scraping stone and she too stumbles away from the entrance and makes her way to the barbecues.

  “Order!” Bill shouts as the crowd surges and the narrow gate fills once more.

  “Open the large gate.” Alex’s breath comes hard. “I saw the crush.” He gestures to the gate. “I think we should open the gate.”

  A woman screams as she’s knocked against the metal of the smaller gate’s frame.

  “Hell!” Bill strides to the larger gate. Alex is right; these people weren’t prepared to wait in an orderly fashion. What had Uri said about the zeitgeist of the nation? It certainly didn’t seem to be what it was. Why can’t they just wait patiently? He slides the huge bolts across the top and then the bottom of the iron gate whilst Alex lifts the steel rod that holds the gate in place from its hole in the road. The crowd swarms, filling the space between the gates and the road.

  Pressing up against the bars, hands grasp metal as Bill holds the gate in place. “Ready?”

  Alex nods. “Ready.”

  The gates creak as they swing open. Bill pushes back against the crowd, forcing a slow opening of the gate. The pressure is immense and shouts rise from the crush. He pulls the gate back to its full extent.

  “Walk to the barbecues and form an orderly queue,” he shouts as a wave of people swarms past. “Slowly. Stay calm. Walk please.”

  A youth barges through to the front, forcing a young woman against the gate’s metal frame and Bill grabs his collar yanking him to the side next to him. “Wait your turn,” he growls into the man’s staring eyes. Defiance meets his insistence as the younger man tugs at Bill’s grip.

  “Gerroff!”

  “I said wait your turn.” Bill releases him with a shove and the man stumbles up the light incline and disappears once more into the crowd.

  The gates open,
tension dissipates, the crowd filters through and thins as it spreads into the park. A young boy, ball in hand, smiles up at Bill as he passes. Classical music fills the air and Bill hopes that at some point the orchestra will play something a little more upbeat than Wagner.

  “Not quite what you’d expect on a sunny summer afternoon,” Alex quips.

  “No, but perhaps a wise choice.”

  “Wise?”

  “Yeah. It’s slow and steady. Might help calm this lot down.”

  Alex grunts as the people continue to flow past and, although there are a number of incidents at the gates as the numbers swell, Bill, with the help of Alex and two other Protectors is able to keep the situation under control. The minutes pass as people filter through and make their way to the lines waiting for the meat. Bill watches them with fascination; they come in all shapes and sizes: tall and thin, short and heavy-set, flabby, lithe, sinewy, muscular, fresh-faced, haggard, some pretty, some beautiful, many unattractive, and some downright ugly. Each is unique, but one thing unites them—fear. It leaks from each and every one.

  Chapter 9

  “Do I have to wait here?” Joe whines as they stand in line. There are fifteen people ahead of them in the queue for the meat. Sarah’s eyes meet Gabe’s in a questioning frown. “Dad?” Joe whines again. “Do I?”

  Sarah looks out at the gathered people. The majority are snaked between the ropes that create walkways to the barbecues but others sit in the afternoon sun in the large area of grass that makes up the main area of this part of the park. Some are eating, some have already eaten and several sit on picnic blankets whilst a group of kids kick a ball at the far end away from the main crowd.

  “Jacko’s over there.” He points to the group of boys.

  “Go to him then,” Gabe relents.

  “Yes!”

  “Are you sure?” Sarah questions as they move another foot towards the cooking meat and Joe slips beneath the barrier, running off towards the group of boys.

  “I can see him from here. He’s just playing with his friends.”

  Sarah shifts anxiously as she watches Joe weave between the families sitting on the warm grass. Only last month she’d stood in almost the exact same spot watching him play with a football at the open-air theatre. He’d complained of being bored and she’d relented, allowing him to escape during the break between acts whilst the amateur, and she had to admit, not very talented, actors changed for the next scene. Then, before this crisis, she’d had no qualms about letting him run over the grass and weave between the families on their picnic blankets and deck chairs. She’d looked on with maternal love, and not a little pride, as he’d manoeuvred the ball, practicing his footwork, then teamed up with a schoolmate to kick the ball about. There had been no angst, no sinking dread in her belly, no tightness across her chest, but that had been then.

  “Relax a little, honey,” Gabe soothes with a solid hand on her shoulder. His presence is calming but even as he distracts her with a jovial commentary she keeps a keen eye on her son.

  The queue moves forward. Gabe taps her shoulder as she becomes aware of the gap and a large body of people moving with purpose alongside them. Turning, she watches as a huge man, head shaved with precision, his beard immaculately shaped, strides with purpose towards the barbecue. Immediately behind him is a swarm of men and women intermingled with children. A woman clutches a child to her hip, determination settled across her pretty face. She flicks at a strand of wayward dark hair as she walks past Sarah. Shauna Docherty, sister of ‘Mad Dog’ and, if the rumours are true, which Sarah knows they are, just as relentless in her pursuit of victory over anyone who dares to cross her as her more infamous brother. Sarah watches with intrigue, and a sinking stomach, as the group moves adjacent to the front of the queue. Within the next second, Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty stands behind the barrel of coals. The chatter among the people waiting lessens as they strain to listen to the conversation between the ‘chef’ and Mad Dog. The ‘chef’ directs Mad Dog to the neighbouring barbecue station and Sarah sighs with relief as the queue moves forward without issue and the group of newcomers shifts away from their line. She checks again for Joe, the tightness in her chest easing as she spots him kicking a ball back to his friend. The ball slips between the boy’s legs and Joe jumps in triumph.

  “Joe scored a megsy.”

  “What?”

  “It’s what they call it when they kick the ball between a player’s feet. A megsy.”

  “Megsy?”

  “Yeah, middle leg equals meg.”

  “Oh.” Gabe laughs and turns to watch his son.

  Angry shouts break into Sarah’s thoughts and she twists to the noise. Grumbling fills the air as the line of people turns to search for the source of the angry voice.

  “Get off!”

  “Step away,” a low voice, deep and booming, growls.

  The hairs on Sarah’s neck prickle. She recognises the voice immediately. Jack ‘Mad Dog’ Docherty. Standing on tip toes she peers across the crowded space to the barbecue station. Mad Dog towers over the ‘chef’. In his hand is a plastic bag. Blood drips from the bottom corner.

  “I said shift over,” he growls.

  “No,” the chef retaliates.

  Sarah stares in disbelief at the man’s recalcitrance; he was obviously unaware of Mad Dog’s reputation.

  The plastic bag disappears from view and in the next second the chef’s head and shoulders seem to levitate as Mad Dog thrusts his huge hands beneath the man’s armpits and swings him out of the way.

  “Hey!” Gabe shouts as the man lands with a thud and moves towards the scene.

  Sarah grabs his arm. “No, Gabe.”

  “What? But he’s bullying his way to the front of the queue!”

  “That’s Mad Dog Docherty.”

  “So?”

  “Just leave it, Gabe.”

  “But-”

  “Seriously, he’s not someone you want to make an enemy of.”

  The group of newcomers surges to the front and surrounds the barbecue. Shouts of anger dwindle to grumbles of dissatisfaction as the queue of men and women realise just who has commandeered the barbecue. Helpless, Sarah only breathes a sigh of relief that their queue is still moving forward, that they’ll get their food soon. Gabe’s eyes flit to Mad Dog and then to Sarah.

  “You really want to just stand here and do nothing, Sarah? That’s not like you.”

  “There’s a reason they call him Mad Dog, Gabe. We’re in the queue. We’ll get our food.”

  Gabe frowns but turns his attention to Amy. “Go to your brother, keep an eye on him.” His arm slips around Sarah’s waist; a protective tug and she’s firm against his side. “It’s too crushed here,” he explains, “she’ll be safer in the open space.”

  Dread sinks deeper within Sarah as she watches her daughter, blonde hair bouncing on her back as she strides with teenage self-consciousness towards her brother. “Do you think there’ll be trouble?”

  “Could be.” He scans the field then turns his attention back to Mad Dog.

  Chapter 10

  Mad Dog tips a can of beer to his lips then reaches into the bag, pulls out a large steak, and slaps it on the grille. He looks across the crowds with satisfaction. This is the life! A beautiful summer’s day, the people he loves most in the world around him, steak for a late lunch and a cool, well, warmish, beer. He flips the thick slab of meat. The coals sizzle. And he hadn’t even had to set up the barbecue. He takes another swig of beer then chokes as the can flies from his hand, knocked by an object that thwacks against his forehead with a firm but soft squelch. His eyes snap shut and he staggers back, catches his boot on a large cool box, crushes the fallen can underfoot, loses his footing, and lands arse first with a heavy thump. A collective gasp waves across the crowd. From within, someone laughs.

  “Bull’s eye!”

  Other voices join the laughter.

  Though startled, it takes less than a second for Jack to be on his feet and t
he laughing voices disappear. The stench of shit fills his nose with each breath. At his feet sits a nappy, flattened on impact, its smeared contents spilling onto the grass. It takes a split second for the nagging of humiliation to transform into rage as another missile arcs through the air. The attacker’s position revealed, Mad Dog locks his stare to the man’s face and sidesteps the object. It falls without contact on the grass behind. The man is a stranger, a newcomer, obviously unacquainted with Jack’s reputation, but a man who was, nevertheless, about to discover exactly why Jack had gone by the moniker of ‘Mad Dog’ since the age of fifteen. A thrill waves through Jack and he bursts into action.

  Throwing the barbecue fork to the ground he launches into the crowd, aiming straight for his quarry. No one humiliated him and got away with it. No warnings. No second chances. That just wasn’t Mad Dog’s way. The idiot was in for a beating he would never forget, perhaps never recover from.

  Bodies shift, making a pathway to the offender as Jack bowls through the crowd; always alert his ‘family’ know better than to get in the way. His eyes trained on the belligerent attacker, he powers forward. The man is no light-weight. It wouldn’t be a fair fight—none were when you went up against Mad Dog, but it wasn’t as lopsided as it often was. He relishes the challenge. Within the next second, he’s only feet away. The man stands firm as a circular clearing appears around them. Jack’s heart thumps as he reaches his target; he welcomes the rage that grows from deep in his belly and strengthens every fibre of his muscles. With only feet between them, the red mist surges. He roars, startling the man, and hurls himself forward. Feet lift off the ground as he springs forward and punches at the man’s face with a massive fist. Knuckles slam into bone with a heavy thud and the man staggers back. He doesn’t fall with the first punch but with the second he buckles and with the third blood sprays across the grass. With the fourth he’s down and then Mad Dog loses count until the ache across his shoulders, and the screams from behind, bite at his awareness. He stops, steps back, and scowls across the crowd. “Who else wants a go?”