Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “I heard a noise in the field.”

  “There are houses up there.”

  Although the twilight has darkened, the outline of a house, or houses, can still be discerned and behind them balls of light seem to hang in the air—perhaps a string of solar garden lanterns? Beyond them, the land is dark as the blackout takes the country into another powerless night. Bill has no doubt that the men will head to the houses either to find transport, somewhere to hide, or even take hostages. “Jessie, Alex. Follow them across the field. I’m sixty seconds behind you.”

  As the pair make their way across the field, Bill turns to Uri and another groan escapes from the driver. “Someone who knew these people told me to show them no mercy because they’d never show us any. We’ve made that mistake once. We’re not going to make it twice.”

  “We finish them now?”

  “Yes.”

  Uri pulls at the driver’s door. It opens with a creak of crumpled metal. The man groans as Uri’s broad back blocks Bill’s view. The man shouts. Reaching inside the car, Uri’s elbows and shoulders jerk and the man’s shout is replaced by a gurgle, a crunch, and then silence. As Uri steps back, the body falls forward onto the steering wheel. The horn blasts, shattering the quiet.

  “Jesus, Uri!”

  “Sorry.” Uri reaches back in and pulls the body against the seat. Held by the seatbelt, it lolls out of the door. The passenger, conscious now, screams as Uri yanks his door open. This time Bill watches as fingers clamp beneath the man’s chin. He counts the seconds as Uri works. Sixty-nine … crunch … seventy. Thud.

  “Finished?”

  “Da.”

  “Let’s find those other bastards and let Jessie know that I lied.”

  “Lied?”

  “It was seventy seconds, not sixty.”

  Uri chuckles as dark clouds shift across the moon and its light brightens them to silver. Ahead the solar lanterns swing in the breeze. “This way.”

  Chapter 21

  Sarah folds her arms beneath her bosom and stares up at the moon. The sky is clear and, apart from the speckles of stars, the string of low-glowing solar lamps strung in Megan’s garden is the only light visible. Another night, and perhaps another day, without power.

  “Mum!” Joe calls from inside the house. Why do they use her name like some sort of echo location? He calls again, leaning out of the back door, Amy at his shoulder. “Mum!”

  “Just coming.”

  “What was it?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Mum!” Amy shakes her head in exasperation. “The noise you came out for—the crash and bang.”

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing to see out here. Something in the town I think. We’ll find out what it is tomorrow.”

  Joe grumbles. “Mum. I’m hungry.”

  Sarah’s chest tightens. “You’ll have to wait for morning, Joe.”

  “But, Mum-”

  “No,” she says with determination. “You’ll just have to wait.” She doesn’t want to worry the boy and the best way to deal with this situation is to stamp his complaints down. “We’re all hungry, Joe, but we’re going to have to wait until morning.” She didn’t add that there was nothing left to eat in the house and it would be a small miracle to find anything tomorrow in the town. She takes a quick look back towards the fields. They could forage. At this time of year there would still be blackberries and the fields were full of wheat so they wouldn’t starve. There were also the allotments down Sheepdyke Lane. No! That would be stealing. Her cheeks prick with guilt as she berates herself for even considering taking someone else’s food—but if it came to it …

  “Will Uncle Sam be having another barbecue?”

  “I bloody well hope not!”

  “Amy! Language.” Sarah chastises her daughter.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a success,” Amy replies.

  “That is one hell of an understatement,” Gabe adds as he steps out onto the mat. He holds up a glass jar with a lone but burning candle inside—it illuminates his face as it swings from the wire he’s wrapped around the jar’s lip. “What do you think?” he asks as he holds it.

  “I think Sam did his best.”

  “His best to barbecue us all,” Amy laughs.

  “No, the jar!”

  “Very good,” Sarah says placating him.

  “I’ve made three more so we can all have one.”

  “Cool! I can have one in my bedroom.” Joe reaches for the swinging jar.

  “Don’t touch the glass.”

  Joe quickly pulls back his fingers as they brush the glass lip.

  “Here,” Gabe says. “Hold it by the handle.”

  “He’s too young, Gabe.”

  “The boy’s got to learn how to handle fire, Sarah.”

  “You’re right … but there’s no way he’s taking that into his bedroom.”

  “Aww! Mum!”

  “No. It’s too dangerous, having a naked flame in your room.”

  Joe snorts. “Naked!”

  “You are so immature.” Amy sighs with teenage superiority.

  “He’s only seven,” Sarah placates, suddenly weary. “It’s getting late, time for bed you two.”

  “What! Me?” complains Amy. “But I’m thirteen. I’m not going to bed at the same time as him.”

  “Ready for bed then,” Sarah relents, “but it’s bedtime soon. I’m pooped, sweetheart. Today has wiped me out.”

  Gabe’s steady hand squeezes her shoulder and she clasps his hand with hers. “Mum’s right. We’re all tired. There’s nothing on the television anyway and no games to play on your phone so …”

  Joe looks into the jar as he holds it aloft. “It’s burning quick, Dad.”

  “You’re right. It won’t last long but we’ve got a stash of candles in the bottom drawer.”

  “And what happens when they run out.”

  “The electricity will be back on by then.”

  “What if it’s not?”

  “She’s got a point, Gabe.”

  “What about solar?”

  “We don’t have any?”

  “We could get some.”

  “How can we get some? There won’t be any companies installing now.”

  “No, solar lamps—ones you put in the garden. Like Megan’s next door. We could get some of them and bring them inside at night.”

  “She’s right.”

  “There could still be some at the hardware store.”

  “Get them in the morning. Come on in now. The candlelight is starting to attract moths and mozzies.”

  Sarah bats at the tiny midges attracted by the candle’s glow.

  “Well, they won’t get me,” Amy says with a grin. “They only go for smelly, sweaty people.”

  “Cheek.” Sarah bats at the midges swarming around her head. “They like my blood, that’s all.”

  “Smelly and sweaty,” Joe chants.

  “Get on inside, you little monkey,” Sarah laughs. “They like me because I’m special.”

  Joe laughs.

  “You’re special alright, Mum.”

  Stepping inside, the clink of windchimes swaying in the lilac is woven through with the rustle of wheat in the fields. A branch creaks. “Winds getting up,” she murmurs stopping on the doorstep as the children and Gabe disappear into the mellow light of the kitchen. The rustle comes again, louder this time. She turns to peer at the bank of hawthorns that mark the boundary of their garden and the field beyond. A twig snaps. Her grip tightens around the door’s handle. There’s something in the hedgerow. A voice? The branches shiver and then a rough bark, loud and guttural, calls from the undergrowth.

  “Deer!” Sarah sighs with relief and laughs at her foolishness as her heart taps a heavy beat in her chest. “Just a bloody deer. Silly cow.”

  The deer calls again, its throaty bark unsettling, and she closes the door. At least it wasn’t a fox tonight—their calls always reminded her of some creature, or child, in pain. Chatter and snorts of
laughter fill the kitchen as Amy, Joe and Gabe continue to banter about the mosquitoes swarming over ‘smelly mum’.

  “… and her bum.” Joe cackles with laughter. “It rhymes!”

  Sarah gives her eyes an exaggerated roll. “Alright young man. Bedtime now.”

  “Aww, mum!”

  “Stairs, now, or I’ll make you sniff my armpits so you know exactly what it is that the mosquitoes love about me.”

  Gabe snorts with laughter.

  “Oh, Mum! Gross.”

  “You too, Amy,” she retaliates. “Ready for bed or you’ll get a nose full too.” Sarah lifts her arm to her daughter. Amy squeals then laughs as she pulls away and scrambles to the door—still a child despite her efforts at being a surly teenager.

  “Hang on,” says Gabe reaching for the lamp. “Don’t leave me with the hairy, smelly monster.”

  Laughing, she hands Gabe another lamp as he ushers the children up the stairs. Her stomach growls with hunger and a roll of nausea sweeps through her belly. She thinks back to the barbecue. The day had started well. She’d enjoyed her piece of steak and, too hungry to raise any objections, the kids had eaten without complaint. Perhaps that was the key to successful mealtimes—starve them so they’re grateful for anything? She walks to the windowsill, sets a lamp there, then stares out into the dark. Her hand brushes against the leaves of a potted plant. In all the commotion of the past days, she has forgotten to water it. She places a finger on the soil. Dry. She’d have to get some water from the rain butt to feed the plants tomorrow, although … perhaps it would be better to save the water for the family. She sighs. Everything would have to change—the way they ran their lives, their reliance upon the system to provide-

  Thud!

  Startled, she knocks the plant over, spraying dried compost across the windowsill. Lumps of dark soil drop into the sink. Her heart kicks at her chest.

  Thud!

  Attracted by the light, a huge moth bats against the glass.

  It flutters away, circles, then returns, its wings leaving a dusty print on the window.

  She grabs the jar from the sill. Calm it, Sarah!

  Leaving the kitchen, and hoping the moth turns its attention to the moon, she makes her way to the living room. Sitting in the dark, its rooms abandoned, the house felt strange; it would remain in eerie silence until the sun rose and the family awoke, filling it once again with noise and light.

  The pain in Khaled’s leg is immense. From his ankle to his knee it screams at him. Stopping at the hedgerow, he’d slumped against the rise of grass at the edge of the field. Making his way through the field of corn, wheat, or whatever the treacherous stuff was, had nearly finished him off. The ears had looked of uniform height, but the earth beneath was ploughed into ankle-breaking peaks and troughs. He’d stumbled down among the crop twice, and each time harsh stalks had scratched his face and his eyeball stung where one had caught him. The anger in his belly was roiling to rage. He’d make them pay for his pain.

  He’d followed the row of lights across the fields, used them as his guiding stars, and they had brought him to a house, or rather two houses sitting together perhaps a kilometre from the town. The lights were a string of hanging solar lanterns, pretty though too dim to give much light to the garden they decorated. From his elevated position at the edge of the field he can see down to the river. The bridge sits to the right, a massive silhouette, stark and black against the midnight blue of the moonlit horizon. Below its main expanse there are ‘things’ that break the beauty of its line—dangling ‘things’ like flies wrapped in cocoons and hanging from a spider’s thread—things that were out of place along the minimalist symmetry of the bridge. He squints to focus. A cloud passes over the moon and the ‘things’ disappear against the black of the water. His head throbs with pain and the taste of blood lingers in his mouth. That pig-bitch could have killed him with that iron.

  Leaves rustle and voices carry across the field.

  “They’re coming. Move!”

  He stands, hobbles, then lurches against a branch as a loud crack sounds only feet away, followed by a hideous barking.

  “What was that?”

  “A deer probably.”

  “Will it bite?”

  “Shut up and move!”

  The moon breaks out from behind the clouds and the bridge is once again in relief. As Khaled pushes through the hedgerow into the garden he realises what the ‘things’ breaking the aesthetic of the bridge are—bodies. He’s seen them before, men and women, hung by their necks, thrown over the side of an overpass in Sinjar, the first town he’d helped to take under control. The fires had burned that night too—the house fires and the camp fires. At first the truly grotesque violence that he’d witnessed had been a shock, but after the first weeks, then months, after it had become a daily occurrence, he’d become immune to the suffering and gore. He’d laughed with the others as the men and women cried for mercy. Not all of them begged. Some of them went with dignity, but there were always the ones who begged and cried and pissed themselves as they were pushed over the edge. They’d writhe and bounce on the ropes—unless the ropes unravelled, and then they’d thud to the hard tarmac and lie broken. His teeth clench until his jaw hurts as he remembers the brothers taken from the cells. Did they piss themselves too as they were forced over the edge? This time he hasn’t the stomach to laugh. He will make the kafirs suffer for this. He will have his revenge.

  Khaled pushes at the branches as he steps through a gap in the hedgerow. Sharp thorns catch at his sleeves. Pain rips through his calf. He stumbles and cries out with pain. Hamsa grabs his jacket and pulls him to his feet. His feet kick at leaves and twigs then he squats behind a shed catching his breath. His jeans are ripped and wet with blood.

  “You’re injured. Let me see.”

  “No, there’s no time.”

  Hamsa clamps a hand on his shoulder. “They will have food,” he gestures to the house. Lights glow and move inside. “Maybe water, maybe bandages and something for the pain.”

  “We need to get away from here.”

  “You need that leg seeing to. Those men in the car—they won’t give up easily. They’ll be tracking us.”

  “You think they followed us?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “We make it quick. Get in, kill them-”

  “Kill?”

  Hamsa rounds on Jay. “Why the questions? You want to make friends with them? Huh? Khaled, I am beginning to have questions about this boy. If he is a traitor-”

  “I’m no traitor.”

  “You may have to prove that. You seem to like the pig-eating kafirs.”

  “No, no. I hate them.”

  “We haven’t got time for this. Go. Go to the house. He can prove his loyalty there.”

  Khaled steps out from behind the shed then steps back a finger to his mouth. “Someone’s out there.”

  Chapter 22

  “Mum!” Joe calls again. “Dad can’t find my ‘jamas.”

  “Coming.” Sarah takes the first steps up the stairs with a weary stride and creaking knees.

  “Mum!” Amy’s face appears at the top of the landing.

  “Amy! You scared me.”

  “Sorry, but Mum, there’s someone on the lawn!”

  “Probably just Megan looking for Maurice.”

  “No, Mum. It was a man. I think there was more than one.”

  “Show me.”

  “No. Lock the door, Mum. It looked like they were running to the house.”

  Terror is riven across Amy’s face and Sarah makes a quick turn on the stairs, slips, grabs the bannister to save her fall, then runs to the bottom. The hairs on her neck prickle as she runs through the kitchen, the soft glow of the candle casting deep shadows. Amy is right—there are noises outside. She glances to the window but can see nothing beyond the candle’s glow, the dark of the kitchen, and her own movement reflected back in the glass.

  The back door is four feet away when the handle begin
s to move.

  Cold fear grips her and she sprints forward, hand outstretched. If she can just slide the lock! Her foot slips as the handle presses down and the door begins to open. As she falls, she twists, her knee slamming against the concrete step, her head hitting the door, forcing it to bang shut. Ignoring the excruciating pain radiating out from her kneecap, she pushes against the door and reaches for the lock. Her fingers fumble, find the lock, and slide the button to closed. The room is silent as she listens. Voices mutter then footsteps move away. Reaching for the handle, she twists the key securing the door with a second lock, then staggers to stand and pushes the bolt closed. Her hands tremble as her heart beats fast and heavy against her chest.

  “Sarah!” Gabe checks through the back and front window as he runs across the kitchen. “What happened? I can’t see anything outside.” He bends and offers his hand.

  “Someone tried to get in.” Sarah takes his hand, grimacing with pain.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Sarah grips Gabe’s arm.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  “If it’s someone trying to break in then they’re being rather polite about it. You sure it wasn’t just Amy’s overactive imagination?” Gabe walks to the back door. “We’re all tired.”

  “Gabe! Don’t open it.”

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Gabe slips the bolt back and slides the lock’s button.

  “Check who it is first.”

  He twists the key. Sarah steps to the kitchen counter and takes the biggest knife from the knife block.

  The door opens.

  “Oh, Gabe!” Megan! “Have you seen Maurice? There was a terrible noise out here and I could have sworn that I heard his cries but when I call he doesn’t come. There were foxes out here the other night.” The bright light of Megan’s LED torch floods the backroom floor with its harsh light and glints on the blade’s steel.

  “Oh, Sarah. Was that knife meant for me?”

  Sarah leans back and puts it back on the kitchen counter. “Sorry, Megan. It’s been such a terrible few days and Amy thought she saw someone on the lawn coming over to the house.”

  “On the lawn?”