Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  He nods in agreement as he rubs his eyes; they burn with tiredness. She was right. He had to get some sleep but there was just so much to do. The familiar panic begins to rise. He takes a breath and clenches his fists to stop the tremble. The Police Station needed guarding, the prisoners had to be kept inside, and the groups of youths had to be kept outside, and then there were the food supplies. With nothing coming in, the only food left was in people’s homes or in the few shops and supermarkets that hadn’t already been looted. Sam had posted guards at the ones with food still inside, but he need to strengthen those defences. Sleep would just have to come later.

  “Come here,” he says to Martha as he takes another digestive. She stands closer and he wraps his arm around her hips, pulling her to him and resting his head against her thigh. She returns his embrace and strokes his hair. Having her close soothed him.

  “I’ll ask Trev if he’s got a camp bed and a sleeping bag. You can take a kip in here then.” He nods his acceptance, his cheek rubbing against the smoothness of her jeans. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see. Everything will be alright,” she soothes as she gently kneads the muscle in his shoulder. It would take a long time before everything was ‘alright’ but he’ll believe her for these moments. He closes his eyes and lets the tension flow from his body as Martha rubs at his shoulder and soothes away his anxiety with her words. As he drifts into an exhausted sleep the office door slams open.

  “Sam!”

  Sam sits upright with a jerk and stares with uncomprehending eyes at Hazzer in the doorway. “Yes.” He struggles to pull himself to awareness. His head throbs and nausea swirls in his belly.

  “You’re needed.”

  Inwardly he groans, outwardly he straightens in his chair. “What’s the problem?”

  “Ben’s outside. He’s got one in a wheelbarrow—says he was holding Bridget and her lad hostage. He chopped off one of their fingers.

  “They’ve escaped?”

  “Ey? No. Not one of them,” Hazzer replies gesturing in the direction of the cells. “No, another one.”

  “Another one?” Sam asks still in the confused fug.

  “Yes. A terrorist—in a wheelbarrow—outside. Come on.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bill stares round at the chaotic scene in the hospital; the Accident and Emergency waiting area is full to capacity, and the corridors beyond are lined with patients and relatives, some sitting, some on trolleys, some leaning against the walls as the lights overhead flicker, cut out, then return. Disgruntled murmurs, groans, and the occasional shout, reverberate in the muggy room. Unable to find anyone to take her details, or a wheelchair to sit her in, Clarissa leans against him. The past forty minutes have been spent waiting for the return of the flustered administrator they’d first spoken to, but she hasn’t come back and now his patience is at an end. A nurse pushes through the double doors and disappears into a side room then reappears with a doctor, his white coat flapping as he strides towards them.

  “Get him, Uri,” Bill urges with a thump to the giant’s arm.

  Uri steps forward, blocks the doctor’s way, and grabs his coat. “This lady—she needs you,” he explains as he pulls the doctor round to face Clarissa.

  “You a doctor?” Bill asks as the man tugs at Uri’s grip.

  “Yes. Now, takes your hands off me. It is an offence-”

  “She needs a doctor,” Jessie cuts in. “We’ve been here for nearly an hour and no one is coming to help.”

  “Try four,” a man sitting close by buts in.

  “We’re working under very difficult, almost impossible, circumstances,” the doctor replies wearily. “This power cut is stretching us to our limits. Now,” he continues with a deep sigh, “if you’ll please take a seat in the waiting area, I’m sure someone will attend to you soon.”

  “Waiting area!” someone close calls out. “Might as well be a morgue. If you don’t start seeing patients soon they’ll all die of bloody waiting!”

  The doctor sighs. He looks as weary as Bill feels.

  “Someone tried to kill her last night,” Jessie explains holding the doctor’s attention as he tries to move away. “We think she’s got a punctured lung!”

  The doctor looks at Clarissa for a moment then along the corridor to the waiting nurse. “I’m sorry. I have another emergency to attend to. As I said-”

  “What’s more of an emergency than a punctured lung?”

  The doctor stares back at Jessie. “A woman is giving birth. The baby is stuck. If I don’t get to them now, both mother and baby could die. That is what is more of an emergency than a punctured lung. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gives his arm a hard tug, releases the fabric from Uri’s grip, then strides down the corridor and disappears through the double doors.

  “What do we do now?”

  “You need to find the right kind of doctor for a start. He’s a gynaecologist. I doubt he has the training to fix a punctured lung.”

  Bill twirls to look at a young woman. Dressed in the uniform of a paramedic, with her dark hair pulled back into a tight pony-tail, she doesn’t look more than twenty. Her skin is a shade darker than Jessie’s though her eyes are a rich hazel, and her words, though perfectly spoken, have an accent.

  “What kind do we need?”

  “There was a case here last week of a twenty-three-year old male with a punctured lung. He had been stabbed. Doctor Barzanji treated him.”

  “Do you know where Doctor Barzanji is?”

  “I do.”

  “Please,” begs Jessie. “Can you take us to him?”

  “You ...” she stops and shines a small torch on Jessie’s face. “You look as though you need help.” She turns to Michael and scans his legs. “And what happened to you?”

  “We had a run in with some terrorists.”

  She catches her breath. “I told them!”

  Bill frowns at her odd response. “Told who?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Follow me.”

  As she points to the long corridor ahead, Uri steps forward, places his hands beneath Clarissa’s backside and gently cradles her in his massive arms.

  “Thank you,” Jessie says.

  “No problem,” Uri replies.

  The woman takes them along the corridor, up a flight of stairs, and then along another corridor before ushering them through to a waiting area. Bill looks at the rows of empty chairs with relief.

  “Wait here, please,” she says then strides along the corridor and disappears through a door.

  “Do you really think she can help?”

  “If the doctor downstairs wouldn’t help, why would this one?”

  Unable to wait, Bill follows her to the door. It sits ajar, and Bill leans in to listen.

  “No, no, no, keca min!”

  “Please. Come out to see them.”

  “They must go through the proper channels, Azade.”

  “They’ve tried and there is no one to help. Most of the staff didn’t come in for work. The doctors are too busy.”

  “Which is why I am here trying to take some rest.”

  “The woman has a punctured lung.”

  No reply.

  “The man’s legs are burned and the girl is covered in blood.”

  “Have they been in a car accident?”

  “No. They have been attacked.”

  “Attacked by who?”

  “By them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yes, the terrorists.” Her voice catches.

  The man mutters something Bill doesn’t understand then a chair scrapes back. “I came here to keep you safe! But they follow us.” His voice is full of pain.

  “Please, bav. Come and help.” Silence. “Please, bave min.”

  “English, Azade. Speak English when we are not at home.”

  “Please, father. Come and help them.”

  Footsteps sound from the other side of the door before it swings open. Taken aback, the doctor stares at Bill with a deep frown cut into his brow
. His dark skin is lined, his hair silvered, and his eyes, a dark hazel, are bloodshot. He seems beyond tired.

  He holds Bill’s gaze for another moment before speaking. “Bring the woman,” he says then opens the door fully. A desk sits to one side, a computer at its centre, the screen blank and without power. A tall window lets in the light over a narrow hospital bed half hidden by a curtain. Further back in the room are two more beds, both covered by a length of paper.

  “How did this happen?” the doctor asks Clarissa as Uri lays her on the first bed. He places a stethoscope against her ribs. A dark bruise covers half her side and the skin of her belly is scratched. Raised red welts are striped across her ribs.

  “She was pushed,” Bill replies for her. “She fell about seventy feet or so. She said she’d fallen against a tree—it saved her fall.”

  “I asked her,” the doctor reprimands. He looks down at Clarissa for confirmation. She nods.

  “Is it punctured?” Jessie asks.

  “She has a pneumothorax to the left lung caused by blunt force trauma. Do you see the puncture wound here?” he asks.

  Bill and Jessie lean forward. The torchlight shines on an area of bruise. At its centre is a hole.

  “So, is that where the rib stuck out?”

  “No. Her rib didn’t puncture her lung. This was caused by a sharp object as she fell. This is good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, it means that she does not have sharp pieces of bone sticking into her lungs.”

  “But her lung is still punctured?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she need an operation?”

  “Yes, she does but the theatres are closed. There is no power to perform surgery.”

  Jessie groans.

  “Do it here,” Clare interrupts. The doctor turns to look at her. “Doctors can fix this kind of injury in the field. You can do it here. You don’t need to go into theatre to fix this.”

  The doctor frowns. “We’re not in the field. This is a hospital, in a town in the north of England.”

  “Perhaps that’s true,” Bill says, “but she’s right. Where we’ve come from we might as well be in the field, it’s turned into a warzone.”

  “You know you can do it, baba,” Azade adds.

  “It has been a long time, but ...”

  “How can he fix it without taking her into theatre?”

  “I don’t think there’s another option. You’re the only doctor we can find.”

  “He just needs to cut a hole and stick a tube in.”

  “Please!” Jessie begs.

  The doctor returns her gaze, notices the darkening bruise in her hairline and walks to a tall cupboard at the side of the room. Reaching in he pulls out a box and hands it to Jessie.

  “Sterile wipes,” use them for your wound. He glances at her sleeve and then at Michael as he rests back on the chair. “When I finish with Clarissa I look at you two but I do not have the equipment here. Excuse me please. I will be back in five minutes.”

  Bill turns to Azade. “I heard you talking to him. I listened at the door,” he admits without shame. “I heard him say that he came here to keep you safe. What did he mean?”

  “We came from near Rabia in Iraq when ISIS began to take control of the villages and towns near our home. At first my parents tried to stand up against them, but they were too many, too vicious. We fought - all the people - we tried to fight back, but ... we came here after my mother and brother died in the fighting.” She stops and Bill doesn’t press her. He knows exactly what she’d been through.

  Her father walks back through the door. In his hand is a coil of tubing and a scalpel.

  “What’re you going to do with those?” Jessie asks with concern.

  “I’m going to cut a small hole in her chest and place the tube inside.”

  Jessie groans.

  “Air has escaped from your mother’s lung into the chest cavity. I have to remove that air. I will suck-”

  Michael groans.

  “I will suck the air out of the cavity. This will pull the lung to the wall of the cavity and it will re-inflate. She will be able to breath again. It will heal in a few days.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is. She is lucky. There is no pressure building up inside. If that happened she would die.”

  “Can you fix it now?”

  “Yes, I can fix it now.” He bends to Clarissa. “Clarissa.” She nods. “I will wipe the area where I must cut with an anaesthetic wipe. It will make it less painful for you. You will be uncomfortable when I place the tube inside.”

  “Yes,” she replies with little more than a whisper.

  “It will only take a few minutes. I will help you breath again but you must stay still. Understand?”

  She replies with a stronger voice and he ushers them out pulling the privacy curtain around the bed.

  “I’m staying,” Bill insists. Leaving her alone wasn’t something he was willing to compromise on. The doctor nods his acquiescence.

  Bill turns away as the doctor works but can hear Clarissa’s breathing becoming easier. It steadies as he finishes.

  “Now, Clarissa, you must take deep breaths. Do not be afraid. Your lung will heal but you must not get pneumonia.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  “Rest here while I see to the others.”

  In the next hour he works to replace Jessie’s stitches with ones that will dissolve and applies fresh dressings to Michael’s legs whilst questioning them about the attacks. Who was carrying out the atrocities? What exactly were they wearing? What exactly did they say and how were they armed?

  As Bill gives a final thanks to the pair, the doctor takes him by the arm. “If they come, Bill,” he says with absolute gravity, “show them no mercy. They will show you none.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sam stares down at the dying man. His head lolls over the end of the wheelbarrow and red spittle seeps from his mouth. His legs are curled to his chest and he groans as the barrow is dropped to the ground.

  “Got a little something for you, Sam,” Ben Fordham says with dry understatement.

  “I take it that he’s one of them—from last night?”

  “We think so. He held little Joshie Dale and his friend Guy hostage at Bridget’s house last night.”

  “He hurt them?”

  “Chopped Guy’s thumb off.”

  “Bastard!” Sam seethes staring at the pink bubbles gathered at the crusted edge of the man’s lips. “How come he’s in this state then? What happened? And where’s the lad he hurt?” Sam asks catching sight of Bridget. She clings to her son, but the other boy, Guy, is nowhere to be seen.

  “Bridget happened. Well, Joshua poisoned him first, and then Bridget took him down,” Ben replies. “We took Guy back home.”

  “He’ll need medical treatment.”

  “We’re working on getting him to hospital.”

  Sam nods his approval then glances again at Bridget with curiosity. At five foot nothing, and a little thick around the waist, he’s more than intrigued as to how the terrorist came off the worst. “She took him down?”

  “Yep. Joshua said she was ‘awesome’. She used to be a kickboxer apparently—won medals, even competed at national level.”

  “Oh,” Sam returns struggling to imagine the petite but rather chunky middle-aged woman flying through the air karate style. The terrorist groans, eliciting a ‘shut up’ from Ben.

  “I guess he’s like a prisoner of war then,” Ben offers as attention turns back to the terrorist. “What are we going to do with him?”

  “Just what I was wondering.” Sam returns.

  “I think he needs medical attention,” Ben continues.

  “You don’t say,” Sam replies looking down at the contorted face of the man. Under normal circumstances, he would be seeking medical attention with urgency, but today he was in no hurry to alleviate the man’s agony. “What did Joshua poison him with?”

>   “Glyphosate cocktail with a shot of bleach.”

  “Weed killer?”

  “Yep, he gave the bloke a drink of cola laced with Roundup and Domestos.”

  “Ugh! No wonder he’s groaning. That stuff will be burning through his guts.”

  “Not a nice way to go.”

  “He definitely needs medical attention.”

  “So, we take him to hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “No!” a voice shouts. “Hang him!”

  “Yeah!” another joins in. “Hang him.”

  Sam looks up at the faces of the gathered crowd. Anger and fear is riven across each one.

  “He’s in agony. He needs medical attention,” Sam says with a raised and firm voice.

  “He’s a terrorist. I say we finish him off.”

  Sam baulks at the thought.

  “They’re right,” Councillor Haydock chimes in. “We should take a vote.” He turns to the crowd. Now he wants democracy? “This man tried to burn us in our beds last night. He took two of our young boys and their mother hostage. He mutilated a boy and caused life changing injuries. What say you? Should we hang him for his misdeeds? All those who say ‘aye’ make yourself heard.”

  Sam’s ears fill with the resounding shouts of ‘aye’.

  “All those who say ‘nay’.” Silence.

  “Hold on a minute!” Sam shouts. This was getting out of hand.

  “That’s what they’d do to us!”

  “I’ve seen it on the telly! They threw people off of buildings. They set fire to soldiers—burned them alive.”

  “Kill him!”

  “Kill the terrorist!”

  The crowd draws in. The terrorist groans and Haydock reaches for the handles of the barrow. Sam slaps his hands away and looks out across the sea of faces.

  “We demand justice,” a woman shouts.

  “Only a judge can decide his punishment,” Sam returns. If he didn’t take control of this then the consequences for them all could be disastrous. “Listen!” he shouts to the crowd.

  “Hang him!”

  “I want this man to be punished just as much as you do.”

  “If you did, then you’d kill him. He came here to kill us—burn us and our children whilst we slept.”