Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  He rests the bike against the wall of the station and glimpses at the men sat at their table in the Guard Room as he passes the window. They sit in animated conversation, laughing, at ease but alert. Good men, each one. He pushes on through and checks in with them before making his way to the office. All is well. Nothing to report. Prisoners fed and watered at eight am. Each one taken out to the toilet. Or rather, the trench that served as a toilet. Without water, using the actual toilets in the building wasn’t possible. The situation could have become nasty, in the worst way, if Chugger hadn’t suggested an outdoor latrine that could be covered over with wood-shavings. They’d set up a make-shift fence so that there was at least some privacy but not enough that the guards couldn’t see the prisoner at all times. Sure, it was undignified but, given the circumstances, it was the best they could offer—it was also more than they deserved.

  He sits down with a thud into the manager’s chair and leans back into its soft and cooling leather. Inhale. Exhale. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and lets the tension ooze away. He could quite easily fall asleep.

  A soft tap at the door and Martha enters without waiting for his response. “You’re back.”

  “I am,” he replies with a grin. “In body, if not in spirit.”

  “Did you see Michael?”

  “Yes. I’ve arranged for Uri to collect the radio and handsets from Michael’s house and he’s agreed to listen out for any communications. We need to know if the police or military are operational. We need some help around here.” An invisible weight presses against his shoulders and back, squeezing at his chest. “If we don’t get water to the town soon ...”

  Martha takes a step closer. “You alright?”

  “Yes, but ...” he hardly dares say it, “I think I may have made a huge mistake organising this barbecue.”

  “Why? No, of course it’s not a mistake. The people need food and the meat needs to be cooked or it’ll all just go to waste.”

  “I know, but Martha, I don’t think we’ve got enough meat to feed everyone who needs it.”

  “Well ... they’ll just have to have smaller portions, Sam.” We can cut the steaks up. I bet George and Blake have cut them up as they normally do, and his steaks are big.”

  “Yes,” Sam says with relief. “I think you may be right. What would I do without you?”

  She laughs and walks across to the chair and bends down to kiss him. He pulls her to his lap and throws his arms around her. Sinking into the softness of her warm body he closes his eyes and lets her smell overwhelm him. “Why do you always smell so good?” he asks and gives her a gentle squeeze.

  “Hah! I’m just naturally gorgeous I guess,” she replies and strokes at his hair. “I won’t smell great for long though.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s no water for washing and I used the last of my wipes this morning.”

  “So, you’ll be stinky soon then?” he teases.

  She laughs in return at his jibe. “Yep, and so will you.”

  “We’ll be stinky together then.” He squeezes her once more and, overcome by his need for her, thankful for the ease she brings to his soul, he strokes her back. “So ... perhaps we could be Mr and Mrs Stinky?” The words slip out of his mouth without thought, an instinctive need for her taking over. His heart pounds as she quiets and pulls away from his embrace. Where the words have come from he has no idea, but he knows, with absolute certainty, that making her his wife is exactly what he wants.

  “You mean ...”

  “Yes, Martha. I want you ... need you ... to be my wife.”

  “But ... don’t you think I’m a little ... old for you?”

  “Martha. You are beautiful to me and twelve years isn’t such an age gap.” He waits. “So, will you?”

  She sniffs and he realises that tears have welled in her eyes and threaten to spill over her lashes. Oh hell! She doesn’t want to. He can’t think about that!

  “Then yes, I will, Sam!”

  “Yes!” He tightens his embrace and they twirl in the large office chair as she presses her lips to his.

  Heavy footsteps in the corridor and the door swings open.

  “Oh!” Baz stares into the office. “I thought something happened.”

  “It has.” A ridiculously large smile breaks across Sam’s face. “Martha is going to be my wife.”

  “About time somebody made a respectable woman of her.” Baz winks and begins to close the door.

  “Oy!” Martha throws an imaginary object at Baz as he disappears.

  “Mrs Martha Monroe,” Martha rolls the words on her tongue. “Has a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly is better than Lilicrap,” he teases.

  “Oy!” She slaps Sam’s shoulder with a gentle pat.

  Sam ignores her mock scowl, returns the laugh, then becomes serious once more. “Right. Enough of this.” Coming back to his senses, Sam remembers the day ahead. “We’d better get this barbecue organised.”

  They discuss the proceedings for the next few minutes: the meat is to be cut into smaller portions and heavier security is to be organised. Martha also suggests that lines demarcate the queues leading to each barbecue station. “It’s the only way of keeping order, Sam. Otherwise it’ll be a free-for-all.”

  The onerous nature of the task is dawning on Sam as Martha continues with suggestions as to how they can keep things in order; there’s so much that needs organising between now and when the first hungry people would arrive to be fed. “You’re absolutely right.” Sam stands to leave. “I’ll talk to George myself.”

  URI CROUCHES NEXT TO the coffee table. Motes dance in the warmed air as streaks of sunlight shine into the room. His white-blond hair shimmers like a golden halo as he attaches the radio’s wires to the battery. He mutters in Russian. The moment is tense.

  “But Uri, I would like to take Anna to the barbecue.”

  This was a private conversation and it was unusual to hear Viktoria speak to Uri in English. Michael could only assume it was for his benefit—so that he could back her up.

  Uri replies to his wife in Russian as he stands and turns away from her frown. “There, Michael. It is ready. You try now.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Michael leans forward, taking care not to move his legs too quickly. The skin of his lower legs is taut, they feel tight and he wonders if he will ever get them working properly again. At least, thanks to Clare’s diligence, they were clean and mending, free from infection. The Tramadol Uri had brought back from Grahame when he went to collect the CB radios helped too. The pain, once the pills wore off, was a bugger, but this morning, for the first time, he’d not been quite so desperate to take the next dose. They made him feel shit - like the world wasn’t quite real - which was disconcerting. He wanted to be fully aware and operational, particularly now that Sam had given him the job of organising communications.

  “But Uri,” Viktoria tries again. “We have been stuck here for days. The barbecue sounds like fun. There is going to be music-”

  Uri’s jaw clenches. Michael focuses his attention on the radio.

  “I told you, Viktoria.” This time he answers in English. “Barbecue is dangerous. You and Anna are safe here. We ask Bill to bring back food. We stay here.”

  Viktoria stares back at her husband, defiant. Michael twiddles the knobs on the radio’s consul. Viktoria huffs then turns on her heels and disappears into the kitchen.

  Clare clears her throat as Uri stares into the now empty hallway. He mutters in Russian then follows Viktoria to the kitchen.

  “Something’s wrong in paradise,” Michael quips. Clare shushes him with a gentle elbow to the ribs. “Steady on, girl! That’s assault, that is.”

  Clare laughs. “You are a terrible patient. Now, show me how this works.”

  He switches the radio on. It crackles. Michael does his best Burt Reynolds impression. “Breaker one nine.”

  “That is a terrible accent, Mikey!”

  He snorts.
He likes it that Clare has given him a nickname. He likes it that he can make her laugh.

  The radio crackles and a voice replies. “What’s your twenty?”

  FIVE MINUTES AFTER giving Martha a final kiss and squeeze, Sam stands before the butcher’s shop. The black plastic that he’d taped across the doorway is ripped and flapping in the soft morning breeze; George must already be in there organising the meat ready for collection.

  Sam wipes at the sweat damping his forehead as he steps over the shop’s threshold; there may be a breeze this morning but the day was already hot and, without a cloud in the sky, only likely to get hotter—perfect for a day of fun at the park.

  “George,” he calls as he walks to the back of the shop not wanting to give the older man a shock. No answer, but if he was busy in the cold room then perhaps he wouldn’t hear. Or maybe there was just his assistant here at the moment. “Blake!” he calls as he steps into the preparation room. All is pristine. The double butcher’s blocks that sit at the centre of the room have been scrubbed clean and all seems in order. The door at the far side is locked and the cold store bolted. Where is he?

  “George!” he calls out, unsure if there are further rooms, perhaps an office upstairs. Looking for an alternative door, Sam notices the white flakes and odd chunks that lie scattered across the pristine floor tiles. Even on the well-scrubbed butcher’s blocks there’s a covering of pale dust. Looking up, a ragged hole sits in the otherwise brilliant-white ceiling. George did have an explosive temper, but ... He studies the hole closely. “Bloody hell!” he exclaims to the quiet room. “He’s taken a shot at the ceiling.” He scans the room with fresh eyes. Blood smears the door frame. The imprint and scuff marks of boots is clear across the tiled floor, trapped in the white dust. A man, or men, have walked between the door and the cold room—the bolted cold room. What the hell has George been up to?

  Striding to the door, his heart hammering in his chest, he steels himself against what he might find in the room. Perhaps the girl from yesterday? He slides the first bolt back. But why wouldn’t he have come to find Sam or one of the Protectors? Too early in the morning perhaps? Or, and dread sinks in Sam’s belly, has he shot her and hidden the body in the cold room? He slides the second bolt across, takes a breath, and opens the door.

  The stench of warmed and rotting blood wafts to his nostrils but it’s not that that makes his breath catch. Slumped against the wall, head lolled against his shoulder, is George, his usually florid complexion waxy and pale. “George!” The man makes no effort to speak, makes no indication that he’s heard Sam’s shout.

  Crouching, he scans George for injury and taps at his cheek. Come on man! Wake up! “George!”

  The heavy jowls are cold and clammy. Sam moves into action. Grasping George’s legs, he heaves the unresponsive man across the floor until he’s laid out flat. Checking for obstructions in his airways, Sam tips the head back then forces his own breath into George’s lungs. The man’s chest rises. Another rescue breath. He interlocks his hands over the chest-bone and begins to push. One. Press. Two. Press ... thirty. Rescue breath. Repeat. His arms ache and he’s heady from the breaths. No sign of life. He shouts. “George!” Another breath. Another push on his chest. Nothing.

  “Breathe, George!” he shouts in frustration. “Breathe, damn you!” He raises his fist and hammers a blow against George’s breast bone.

  A gasp rattles in George’s throat and his eyes flick open and stare at the ceiling. He takes great gasping breaths. His chest heaves.

  “George!”

  The cadaver-ish pallor still coats his jowls but a slight flush of pink has returned to his cheeks.

  “Just lay still.”

  The butcher stares about the room, confusion written across his face as he takes another breath. He gulps then stares at Sam. “Meat,” he rasps.

  “You’re OK now. I’m here.” Sam lays his hand on George’s shoulder with a reassuring pressure. “Just lay still. I’ll get help.”

  “Thieves.”

  “Don’t try to talk. Just lay still.”

  “Protectors ...” he takes another breath. “Helmets.”

  Protectors? What was he trying to say? “Someone broke in?”

  “Yes. Yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “Your men ... Helmets ... Protectors.”

  Sam pulls back. Each one of his men had been carefully chosen. He hadn’t just accepted anyone. “They’re all good men, George,” he says with an edge of defence. “They’re doing their best to keep us safe. Did you recognise the men who broke in?”

  “Not faces—too many incomers these days. Not local.”

  That would narrow it down. A few of the boys were recent arrivals in the town so it would be easy to prove that it wasn’t one of his Protectors that had stolen the meat and attacked George.

  “Just forget about that now. We need to get you a doctor.”

  “They took my rifle.”

  Dread knots at his stomach. “Forget about that now.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The trolley had been a pain to push back up the hill. The meagre rations of food Jake had eaten over the past days were telling on him now and the muscles of his calves ached with fatigue. They’d burned as he’d pushed the heavy load up the hill. The damned wheels had found every damned pothole in the road and stuck on every raised edge of damned paving slab. The stench from the meat had wafted back at him too and made him gag.

  ‘You sure this meat’s alright?’ he’d asked Aron as they’d finally reached the turn-off for their road. The trolley had stuck against the corner of yet another raised slab and Jake had almost lost control, only Aron’s quick reaction had saved the load from tipping over and landing in the long and turd-infested grass of the verge.

  ‘Yes,’ was his terse reply and they’d pushed the trolley the last hundred yards to his house checking for nosey neighbours then locking it in the garden shed. There was no way he could take it into the house. Tina would kill him. Part gypsy, and proud of it, she still clung on to their ways and kept the house immaculate. Smells were not allowed, and certainly not trays full of bloody and dripping meat, even if it was steak.

  Jake’s stomach aches with hunger and his mouth waters at the thought of the steak. He takes another swig from his second can of beer. “Let’s cook some now,” he says to Aron just as the man leans back to take a gulp from his can and props his boots on the shining top of the coffee table. Jake leans forward and slaps at his leg. “We’re not allowed to put feet on the coffee table,” he whispers. “If Tina catches you-”

  “If Tina catches you doing what?”

  Flippin’ hearing of a bat! “Nothing, love,” he replies quickly as Tina walks through the door. He considers his petite wife for a moment. She’s as immaculate as her house—blonde hair brushed into a neat ponytail with a fashionable quiff at the front, pinned at the sides, simple white and pristinely ironed T-shirt, and blue jeans with navy plimsols complete with snow-white trim. In her hands is the fold of fabric that Jake recognises as her pinny. She stood out among the other women on the estate like a sore thumb, but for all the right reasons. “Morning love,” he continues as she waits for an explanation.

  “Sorry, Tina,” Aron says quickly. “I put my feet up on the coffee table. Jake kindly pointed out the error of my ways.”

  A broad smile breaks across her face and Jake sighs inwardly with relief; scene avoided!

  As she turns, she unfolds the fabric and ties the pinny around her waist. Cleaning again! What could there be left to clean? The past couple of days had been a nightmare. Tina, so house proud, had struggled more with the lack of water for cleaning than for drinking until Jake had suggested boiling some of the rain water and using some of that for the cleaning. He follows her quickly into the kitchen.

  “Tina, you can’t use all of that water for cleaning,” he says as she pulls at the bottle of water they’d boiled yesterday.

  “But I’ve got to clean.”

  “
We won’t have anything to drink.”

  “There’s three bottles of water in the pantry and six bottles of wine plus the four boxes of beer you got from the supermarket the other day.”

  “We can’t live on alcohol.”

  “You certainly try!”

  “The bottles of water were the last I could get. All the shops are empty now.”

  “Did you get the meat I asked for?”

  “Yep,” he replies with a broad smile.

  “So where is it then?”

  “In the shed.”

  “In the shed?” She sighs. “Bring it in then. If you get the fire going I can give it a mustard rub.”

  Jake’s mouth waters.

  “I got steak.”