Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “I said out.”

  Some of the men shrink back against the walls. Others stare back in defiance. The largest takes a defiant step forward “No! He stays.”

  “That’s your second mistake, mate.” Mad Dog tells him.

  The man grunts. “What is my first?”

  “Picking on this town.” Mad Dog lays Percy back over his shoulder. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way then. Cover me, Chugger.”

  Chugger grunts, and the heavy buzz of his chainsaw fills the air. Before the man has a chance to react, and in one swift movement, Mad Dog steps inside the cell and launches himself, hands clawed and outstretched, at the defiant man. Mad Dog forces his thumbs into the man’s mouth, thrusting them to the back of his throat, his huge fingers grip the back of his skull and he swings the head onto the wall. Chugger takes a protective step, chainsaw buzzing maniacally, between Mad Dog and the other inmates as the man splutters and chokes. Pulling the man out of the cell, and into the corridor, the chainsaw’s menace keeps the others at bay. The door slams shut and the cell bursts with shouts.

  “Open the peephole,” Mad Dog commands as he presses the large man up against the wall. His eyes bulge as Mad Dog’s thumbs press hard against his tonsils. “I want them to see this.”

  As the peephole slides open, the corridor fills with shouting. The door vibrates, as the prisoners hammer against it. Eyes stare out. Mad dog begins.

  Fingers still inside the man’s mouth, Mad Dog slams his head against the wall and simultaneously brings his knee up to the man’s crotch. The head makes a satisfying thud and the prisoner emits a gurgled scream, bunching over. Extricating his thumbs from the man’s mouth, Mad Dog punches at his jaw. Knuckles graze across his nose and blood spatters against cream paint. Giving him no time to recover, Mad Dog punches from the other side. The man’s head knocks hard against wall. The red haze rises and Mad Dog dances to the buzz of the chainsaw. Punch. Punch. Punch. Blood sprays in arcs, spattering the walls like a cliched scene from a pulp fiction movie. Within a minute the man sinks to the floor, his lips split, his nose broken, eyes closed and already beginning to show the swelling of damage. The men inside the cell have quieted.

  The chainsaw idles. “I think he’s done, Jack.”

  Mad Dog pants. His knuckles sting and his arms ache. “He will be … Take his head off.”

  “Ey?”

  “We’ve got to show them we mean business. Cut his head off.”

  Chugger stares at Mad Dog incredulous. “Serious?”

  “Serious.”

  Chugger stands rigid as their eyes lock. The cell erupts with noise. Mad Dog takes hold of the terrorist’s hair and pulls his chin from his chest. “This man came to kill us. Came to kill our wives and our children. He came to kill our country. They want us to live in terror, Henry. They want to destroy us and they need to be taught a lesson.”

  Chugger’s face drops to a deadly determination. “Hold him up then.”

  Mad Dog pulls the man from the wall and drags him to the middle of the corridor.

  “You’re not really-”

  The shouting from inside the cell rises to a cacophony. Mad Dog turns to the screaming men and smiles as he tightens his grip around the fistful of hair and lifts the man’s chin to elongate his neck and give Chugger and his chainsaw a clear path. “This is what happens when you try to kill us, you cock-sucking arseholes!” He turns back to Chugger. “Do it before he wakes up.” The chainsaw’s teeth rotate. “Come on, man! Do it!”

  The chainsaw’s grinding teeth hover level with the man’s throat.

  “They’ll kill us all if we don’t make a stand.”

  “Burn us in our beds.”

  “Exactly.”

  The man’s eyes flicker.

  “Now!”

  As the chainsaw slides into position and begins to cut, the man’s eyes widen. He bucks, but his scream is cut short as the chainsaw chews through skin, cuts through his voice box, then saws through vertebrae. Its blade reappears within seconds at the back of his neck. The headless body slumps bloodied and jerking to the floor. Mad Dog raises the head in triumph. “This is what happens when you attack us!” he shouts at the peering eyes. “This!” He shakes the head. The cells fall silent. Mad Dog turns to Riley. “Get me a bag to stick this in, and let’s get these shitheads up to the bridge.”

  Chapter 14

  The rain had come down in a torrent, and the fire had hissed then sizzled as the drops fell, making the fire smoulder then die. Sam surveys the damage; a blackened arc of grass surrounds the area where the barbecues had stood and several of the nearby trees are charred. Only one has been destroyed and that had been an ancient pine already half-dead. The carcass lays across the old tennis court, its trunk snapped like a burnt matchstick. Small groups have gathered and stand talking among themselves, pointing to the grass, the tree, the ivy smouldering on the museum. Their gaze lands heavily on Sam’s shoulders as they mouth at each other, turn back to the burnt grass, and continue to dissect the event.

  “Did you see how fast that fire moved?”

  “It was unreal.”

  “Sam was quick to act. He …”

  “The barbecues should have been on the tarmac.”

  “Like a wildfire.”

  “It’s so dry …”

  “The grass and trees were like tinder.”

  A couple walk past. “How did it start?”

  “There was a fight at one of the barbecue stations. It tipped up. The next thing boom! The grass was lit and people were screaming and running to get out of the way.”

  A familiar voice rises above the others. “It’s a miracle it didn’t spread across the entire park.” Haydock!

  “It was put out quickly. They had fire extinguishers-.”

  “No thanks to Fireman Sam!”

  “Sam was right in there. Did you see him?”

  “The Protectors did a good job. It was all over within minutes.”

  “Those children nearly died. If it hadn’t been for that brave young girl I hate to think what would have happened.” Haydock again! “It’s Sam Monroe’s fault it started in the first place. Gross misconduct on his part.”

  “I think that’s pushing it a bit, Colin. Those kids were never really-”

  “He’s not the right man to be leading this community. I-”

  “Shh! He’s standing right there.”

  Haydock was becoming a perpetual thorn in Sam’s side and this time his words cut deep; the burden of failure weighed heavy on his shoulders.

  “I’m just saying that I don’t think he’s the right man to-”

  “Colin! Keep your voice down.”

  “I suppose you think that you’re the right man to-”

  “Shh! He’s coming over.”

  “I’m not one for holding back, Sheila. If it hadn’t been for the rain then the whole park would have gone up in flames.” He shifts his foot back onto the still living grass as Sam approaches. The adrenaline that had surged through Sam as he’d sprayed the fire with foam and then helped evacuate the park as the rain poured had settled in his belly as rolling nausea. Chest tight with the strain, he grits his teeth as he takes the last step to Councillor Colin Haydock.

  “Got something to say to me, Haydock?”

  “He didn’t mean it, Sam.” Lipstick is smudged across Sheila’s lips, layered with particles of soot, darker around her nostrils and upper lip. Haydock’s mouth is a mirror image of soot and lipstick. Sam stares from one to the other in confusion. They hated each other yet here Sheila was sticking up for him and the evidence seemed to suggest that they’d been kissing!

  “You don’t speak for me, Sheila!”

  A wave of dislike floods over Sam as Councillor Haydock’s eyes flit across the burnt grass. “If you’ve got something to say about me, be man enough and say it to my face.”

  Whatever layer of civility Sam had has gone, stripped away by the trauma of the afternoon. If Haydock continues to wind him up, he’s goi
ng to clock him one.

  Haydock turns to face him, his face set hard. “This,” he says sweeping his arm in a wide and dramatic arc gesturing to the burnt grass, “this wasteland is the result of your inadequacy.”

  “It’s hardly a wasteland, Colin. It’s not that bad.”

  Ignoring Sheila’s efforts at damping the situation down, Sam steps forwards, dislike hardening to anger.

  “This, I repeat.” Colin’s eyes narrow. “Is your fault.”

  Sam takes another step forward, his mouth contorting to a snarl. His fists clench.

  Haydock takes a step back, his feet slipping against the gnarled roots of the tree. He falters but doesn’t fall, steadies himself against the tree’s trunk then stares back at Sam with defiance.

  “I call for a motion of no confidence.”

  “For God’s sake, Colin!”

  “It was an accident.”

  A larger group has gathered to listen. Martha takes Sam’s arm by the elbow, pulling him back from Councillor Haydock.

  “He’s not worth it, Sam.”

  “I told him earlier.” Haydock raises his voice, playing to the gathering crowd, gaining confidence. “There’s no insurance for this. Who’s going to pay for this mess.”

  “Insurance! Is that all you can think about? Sam was just trying to feed people. They’re starving. He did his best-”

  “People could have died today!”

  “No one died, no one was even hurt.”

  “Pure luck! It is an unavoidable fact that the decision of Sam Monroe, who I have to add is not an elected representative of this town, nearly brought about the destruction of the town’s park and one of its most important and historic buildings.” He gestures to the still smouldering building.

  “Give it a rest, Haydock. The house hasn’t burned down—it’s just the ivy up the front that’s burnt—the rain put it out.”

  “And what would have happened if the rain hadn’t come? The whole damned lot would have burned down.”

  “It was the idiot who knocked over the barbecue—it’s his fault not Sam’s.”

  “Sam’s the idiot. Who in his right mind sets up barbecues on grass this dry?”

  “That’s not what you said earlier, Colin. You said you couldn’t wait for your bit of steak.”

  Haydock looks down at Sheila and scowls. “Shut up woman.”

  In the next second, Sheila’s right arm flies through the air and a slap reverberates across the burnt grass as her palm lands across Haydock’s cheek. “It’s always the same. You wind me in with your sweet words and as soon as you get your feet under the table its back to the same old Colin—irritating beyond belief. You’re an arse Colin. Always have been and always will be.”

  A flush rises beneath the soot on Councillor Haydock’s face. “And you, my dear, are a termagant. Not that someone of your ilk would know what that means,” he finishes with a smirk and a roll of his upper lip.

  Sheila raises her arm again and catches Haydock another slap. “I know exactly what that means.”

  “You’d never know they were once engaged.”

  Sam snorts. “You’re kidding?”

  “Sam!”

  Sam turns to the voice and watches as Stewart runs through the iron gates waving his arms.

  “Sam!” Sweat beads from Stewart’s forehead, his chest rising in great heaves. “Sam …”

  “Steady on Stu. Catch your breath.” Dread waves over Sam as he watches the overweight man catch his breath, three others run up behind him. “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve gone. The terrorists,” Stewart pants, resting his hands on his knees, his face puce with exertion. “They’ve gone.”

  “What!”

  “The terrorists have escaped?” Colin interjects. “How completely useless are you Sam?”

  “Shut up, Haydock,” Stewart shouts back.

  “Tell me. What the hell has happened?”

  “Not here.”

  “Walk with me back to the station.”

  As they round the corner of the museum out of earshot, Sam pulls Stewart to the side. “Well?”

  “Mad Dog took them.”

  “Helped them escape?”

  “No. He’s taken them for execution.”

  “Jesus!” Sam pushes his fingers through his short fringe. “Where’s he taken them?”

  “To the bridge.”

  Chapter 15

  The men stand in a huddle at the back of the van guarded by Chugger with his chainsaw.

  “Don’t even think about running. I’ll chop your feet off with Bessie,” he shouts with a menacing swipe of the rotating saw. Bessie burrs in the wind.

  “Old Chugger’s in love with that Bessie,” Riley laughs as he hands a coil of rope to Mad Dog.

  Mad dog snorts. “I think he’s found his vocation. Executioner with menace.”

  “Jack,” Riley says as he passes Mad Dog another coil of rope. “I don’t think I’ve got the stomach for this.”

  Their eyes meet above the hessian and Jack holds the man’s gaze. “Don’t get me wrong. I think we’re doing the right thing,” he stutters as Jack’s eyes bore into him, “I just don’t … don’t think I can be the one …”

  “I get it.” Jack replies. Riley was one of his oldest friends. He didn’t doubt his loyalty, but he’d never been one for getting into the nitty gritty of a fight. “We’re all in on this, Riley. It’ll be easy. You just need to help tie the ropes onto the barricade.”

  The man looks at him uneasily.

  “Riley. These men declared war on us the moment they decided to arm themselves and attack the town. Make no mistake, if they’d had the chance they would have killed us. We’re protecting our own. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  Mad Dog swings his leg over the barrier that separates the road from the path and runs down to the walkway. A five-foot railing lines the entire length of the bridge met either end by suicide fencing. Jack can’t think of the bridge without the chop, chop of a helicopter. It seemed every month, and sometimes weekly, in the winter when the days were short and the nights long and dark, that a helicopter would hover for hours above the bridge. They’d speculate about its presence. Was the helicopter hovering because the jumper was still on the bridge or were the rescue team looking for the body? Sometimes it would be a young girl, other times an older man. Sometimes they could be talked down. Other times they jumped and then it was game over. No one survived. Falling one hundred feet to the water meant you might as well be hitting concrete. Jack had never been able to understand how anyone could jump to their deaths. Just how desperate and tortured did you have to be to force yourself off the side? He certainly didn’t have the guts. He takes hold of the railing and shudders as he peers down into the fast-flowing and murky water. The nappy factory that had been built along the river’s bank had been painted to blend in with the river. From some angles, you really couldn’t see the factory which was amazing given the size of the place. You’d think blue would be the colour of choice, but no, what camouflaged the ugly warehouses along the bank was a murky purplish-brown.

  He slings the rope over the barrier and ties it into place. “Six feet apart,” he shouts to Riley. “Make sure the ropes are tied six feet apart.”

  The five ropes in place, anchored six feet apart, the men are marched out of the van and forced down to the walkway. Four remain silent, but the fifth is snivelling and pulling against the cable ties.

  “I have a wife. Please. I have child. Please. Please. I beg you.” He drops to his knees as the end of the rope is tied around his neck. For a second a wave of pity washes over Mad Dog.

  “Fucking English,” a voice shouts. “All die you pigs.”

  The wave of pity dissipates and he steps to the pleading man. “You have a wife and child?”

  “Yes, yes.” The man’s eyes light up with hope.

  “Tell me, what are their names.”

  “My wife, she is Khadeeja. My son, he is Yasim, my daughter, she is bab
y, she is Noor.”

  “And you love them?”

  “Yes, yes, I do.”

  “The way I love my wife and my children perhaps?”

  The man’s eyes flicker with uncertainty as an edge creeps into Mad Dog’s voice, but he nods. “Yes, like you. Like you.”

  “Then perhaps you should have thought about them before you came to my town trying to kill my wife and my kids,” Mad Dog replies as the man continues to plead. “Now you can serve a better purpose.”

  “Yes, a purpose. Let me serve another purpose. Please, I can do for you a purpose.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mohammed bin Saleem.”

  Mad dog leans in. “Well, Mohammed bin Saleem. I’m going to let you send a message to all the Islamists, extremists, and jihadis who want to try to do us harm.”

  The man nods in wide-eyed anticipation.

  Mad Dog continues. “It’s a very important message.”

  “Yes, yes. I tell them. You tell me what I do.”

  “It’s simple. All you have to do is hang at the end of this rope. You don’t even have to say anything.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry. The rope will break your neck. You’ll die within a few minutes and then your body is going to dangle below the bridge, shouting out its message loud and clear until your flesh rots and your head separates from your body and it falls into the water. That, Mohamed Bin Saleem, you racist, bigoted, hate-filled monster, is the purpose that you can do for me.”

  All thoughts of mercy gone, Mad Dog stands back and surveys his handiwork. Five men kneel with their hands tied, ropes around their necks. The thrum of an engine catches his attention. A red car speeds down the slip road and onto the bridge.

  “Could be Sam!”

  “So what? He’s not man enough to stop us.”

  “Could be them soldiers?”

  Mad Dog takes another look at the advancing car and steps quickly to the row of men. Nothing and nobody was going to stop him. “Haul ‘em up,” he commands. Hands grab arms, two men for each terrorist. Grunts, sobs, shouts, pleading. “Push them up against the barriers—waist to the railing.” Mad Dog instructs as the car speeds towards them.