Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  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 NINE

  “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 TEN

  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 the 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 w
ho 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?”

  The crowd remains silent. He kicks at the man’s thigh with a final grunt then turns and strides back to the barbecue station. The steak is well done—just how he likes it. The man already forgotten. The crowd jabbers. Let them talk. Let them see what happens to anyone who crosses Mad Dog Docherty.

  “Gill,” he calls to his wife. “Steaks done to a turd.” He snickers at his own joke, though his raw knuckles sting with the heat and the smoke.

  “Any sausages ready?” Shauna asks. “The kids are getting hungry.”

  “Nearly.”

  Shauna clasps her youngest daughter to her hip. The child turns away from him as he offers a smile.

  “Tell her not to be scared of Uncle Jack, Shauna.”

  The child pushes her head into her mother’s shoulder and, for a second, he regrets that she’s seen his rage, but then, she needs to know the family won’t stand for being pushed around and, he’s sure, it will make her stronger to know she’s surrounded by people who will protect her. “C’mon, chick,” he soothes. “Uncle Jack’s got you a hot dog.”

  For the next ten minutes, the afternoon continues without issue; his ‘family’ wait patiently as their steak, sausages, and lamb chops continue to cook, and the disgruntled punters have now respectfully removed themselves from around his barbecue station and joined other lines to wait for their meat. Once his family have had their fill he’ll hand the station back. He wasn’t greedy, but they had to understand that family came first, and any man who couldn’t stand up and protect his own wasn’t worth shit as far as Jack was concerned. Take the men who’d stared at him as he’d taken control of the station—they looked on with contempt, some even with anger, but they did nothing, and looked away quickly when Jack challenged them with a quick narrowing of his eyes. It didn’t take much to show people just who was in charge, and just who they should respect. His family relied on him for protection. They were safe - they would always be safe - Jack would see to that.

  As he scans the area, searching out any challengers, and flips another pork chop, the park gates are swung to a close. A rumble of discontent wafts through the air as those outside the gates protest. Jack decides he’d step in for Sam if the punters decided to get lairy. He turns another sausage. He’d make sure they played nice.

  The cook at the next station lowers the lid on his barbecue. “Sorry, folks! All the meat has gone.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve been waiting for hours.”

  Mad Dog turns with interest to the drama unfolding at the next station and inwardly thanks Jake ‘The Snake’ Calhoun for turning up on his doorstep this morning. The man was a weasel but if he hadn’t tried to sell him the stolen meat then it could be his family going without. How many of the other stations were running out too?

  A narrow box, its flaps still folded, sits beneath the barbecue of the closing station.

  “There’s another box.” A balding man with a t-shirt that barely covers his belly as it overhangs his jeans, stabs at the unopened box at the cook’s feet.

  “That’s been put aside.”

  “Put aside?”

  “Yes. Sam’s orders.”

  “Who’s it for, Nigel?” Mad Dog shouts across to the cook.

  “We’re starving.”

  Nigel ignores Mad Dog’s question. “Sorry. I can’t let you have it.”

  “For who?” Mad Dog repeats, recognising the apprehension in the man’s eyes. Something wasn’t quite right.

  Nigel’s eyes catch his then flit back to the grille. He throws himself into scraping away the greasy residue of cooked flesh.

  “Yeah,” a voice from the crowd pipes up. “For who?”

  The cook clenches his jaw. “It’s not my decision. I’m just here to cook.” His cheeks stain to pink.

  Mad Dog frowns. Why won’t he give a straight answer?

  “It’ll be for Sam.”

  “Well, he needs feeding too.”

  The crowd settles as they decide that the meat must be for Sam, or the Protectors.

  “They’ve done a good job. They deserve it.”

  “I’m chuffing starving though.”

  “Mummy. Are we getting food?”

  “Not here, sweetheart.”

  The child begins to cry. A single sausage remains on Mad Dog’s grille.

  “Here!” He grabs for the sausage, pinching it between tongs, and holds it up.

  “I’ll have it.” A small man, dark hair flat against his forehead, pushes forward, hand grasping.

  Mad Dog draws the sausage back, suppressing he urge to slap at the man’s hand with the steel tongs. “It’s for the kid,” he growls. “Here, missus,” he calls to the mother. “Let the little one have this. It from Henson’s. Proper Lincolnshire sausage.” He places it on a serviette and hands it to the woman.

  “Thank you.”

  Gill’s arm slides across his back. “And that’s why I love you.” She reaches up to kiss his cheek. He smiles down at her and winks; he was on a promise tonight!

  “So who is the meat for?” Shauna steps beside them. “There’s something fishy about this, Jack. Nigel was lying. Did you see it in his eyes?”

  “Yep,” Jack agrees.

  “So who’s it for, Nigel?” Shauna shouts across at the cook. He doesn’t stand a chance now that Shauna’s got her teeth into him.

  Nigel turns to her with startled eyes. Jack can’t help snort as an old memory surfaces. Shauna really will sink her teeth into this one. They had history, a torrid, passionate and, if he remembers correctly, illegitimate, and ultimately, violent, history, and Nigel hadn’t been the one swinging the punches.

  “Sam said-”

  “You already said ‘Sam said’,” she continues. Nigel flinches but ignores her and stares down at the grille, scraping at the metal with an intense focus to detail that would have been laudable in any other situation. Coward. Jack’s attention on the scene is total. Shauna continues her inquisition. “You said Sam told you to put it aside, but who is it put aside for?”

  Mad Dog recognises the tone of Shauna’s voice. It was one he’d come up against too many times as a kid—her complete determination to find out the truth. Once she had you between her teeth she was like a terrier—she’d shake you till your neck broke, or rather you spilt the beans. He’d always thought she’d missed her vocation; she’d have made a good interrogator—like the ones on the telly that have to ‘work’ at the
perps to get them to confess. Or perhaps some government secret service that tortured its victims until they cracked. He chuckles as she steps forward. Nigel didn’t stand a chance against his sister.

  Shauna takes another step closer, too close for Nigel’s comfort, and Jack watches with fascination as he wheedles, prevaricates, then caves in under her unrelentingly aggressive questioning. The crowd has quieted as it listens. “They’re for the men at the police station.”

  “The men?” Shauna takes a step closer to him. The rage in her voice is clipped and taut. “Which men?”

  Mad Dog knows the answer. Nigel’s efforts to hide the truth have made it crystal clear. “The terrorists, Shauna. He means the terrorists.”

  “Is that right?” Shauna prods a sharp fingernail into Nigel’s chest. His face is flushed to puce.

  “Yes.” His voice is little more than a whisper.

  “Say it louder.” Shauna shouts over the crowd. “Let everyone hear who the meat is for.” She stands inches from his face. “Who is the food for?” The crowd waits.

  The lump at the base of his throat bobs. “It’s for the men-”

  “Say it right! They’re not men. Tell the truth.”

  “It’s for the terrorists.”

  “Louder. Shout it so they can hear.” Shauna prods a precisely manicured purple fingernail at the crowd. Their attention complete, they listen in silence.

  “Terrorists,” he shouts. “It’s for the terrorists.”

  “You mean to tell me.” Shauna pauses for effect. “That food is being kept from starving children,” she jabs her finger at the crowd, singling out a man with his child held tight in his arms, the child’s face buried against his neck, “to be given to a load of evil bastards that came here to kill us?”

  “Sam’s orders.” Nigel’s voice is low, his cheeks flushed.

  “Fireman Sam!” she spits. “Who is he to say who gets fed?”

  “He’s done a bloody good job in protecting us and he’s organised this whole barbecue,” Nigel blurts back. “He’s the one who convinced the butchers and the shops to hand over the food.” His defiance is a brief spark extinguished as Shauna continues.