Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Baz is silent. Sam stands up and strides to the window and watches as Martha instructs Baz to open the gate. His authority, his control over the situation was slipping—perhaps it was even gone—perhaps he never had it in the first place. The men he’d assigned to guard the terrorists had just turned a blind eye when Mad Dog arrived. No one had admitted that, they’d pleaded they’d been overwhelmed by his gang. They must think Sam was born yesterday to believe that bullshit! They were ex-army, trained in combat. Each man had seen action. No, they were just unwilling to stop him—perhaps agreed with Mad Dog. The knives in Sam’s belly stab at his innards. When normality returned – and it would – they’d all be up in court.

  Martha reappears, her arms around the shoulders of a tear-stained woman with matching bleached-blonde hair hugging a young child to her hips. Sam recognises them from photographs displayed on the mantle above the fireplace in Martha’s flat at the pub.

  “Sam.” Martha’s face beams with pride as she holds a protective arm across her daughter’s shoulder and strokes at the boy’s hair. “This is Monica and Heath.”

  Shitter Fairweather’s kid. He could see the resemblance. “Hi.” Damn! Think of something! He’d been nervous about finally meeting Martha’s daughter and grandchild, but he hadn’t expected it to be in these circumstances; caught off guard and up to his balls in crisis. Now his brain just wouldn’t function. Martha’s face crumples. Hell!

  “Please.” He jumps out of the chair. “Take a seat,” he offers. The woman looks to her mother, unsure.

  “Sit down, love.” Martha smiles at Sam and ushers her daughter to the chair. The child clings to its mother, his head buried against her neck. Poor little sod must be terrified.

  Hazzer stands transfixed.

  Stop staring! “Martha’s daughter and grandchild,” Sam says as Hazzer continues to stare.

  “Monica and Heath,” Martha explains.

  Sam nudges Hazzer. “I know,” he replies startled. “Shi-. Fairweather’s bairn.”

  “That’s right,” Martha’s voice carries a defensive edge.

  “Cup of tea?” Sam offers filling the awkward gap.

  Monica looks relieved. “You’ve got hot water?”

  Martha’s smile has returned. “We borrowed one of Trev’s camping stoves.”

  “Does the lad want a biscuit?” Baz offers the packet to Heath. The boy peeps out from under his mother’s hair and takes a biscuit from the packet. “There you go.” Baz side-steps closer to Sam. “Do you think they should be here, Sam?” He turns his head away from the women. “ I mean, the kid ... it’s not really the place ...”

  “Well ...”

  “I’ve come to see my mum.” Monica’s voice cracks and her eyes moisten with tears.

  Martha’s arm returns around her daughter’s shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re with me now. Nanny’s here for Heath.” she croons then lowers her voice and turns to face her daughter, her back turned to Sam. “What’s up, love? Is it that ...” Martha glances at Sam and asks just above a whisper. “Is it Sidney?”

  “Yes, but not that way. We’ve been good—things have been good.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Her voice wavers and tears spill over her lashes. “He’s gone to join Mad Dog. I told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Joined Mad Dog?”

  Sam groans.

  Thud!

  “What the hell was that?”

  A window shatters. Martha screams. Heath begins to cry.

  “Get away from the windows,” Sam commands.

  The window broken, the noise of chanting fills the room. “Get them out! Get them out!”

  “I don’t think they’re very happy about the prisoners,” Baz says.

  Sam groans. “That’s an understatement.”

  Monica turns to her mother. “I heard Haydock kicking off about Sam.”

  “Someone needs to teach that man a lesson.”

  “Sheila was out there giving him what for.”

  “He always was a self-interested little twat. He couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.”

  “Well, twat or not, he’s stirring up trouble.”

  Deflated, Sam slumps back in the chair. “Let him take over.”

  “What?” Martha’s shout startles Heath and he buries his head against his mother’s neck. “Sorry!” Martha strokes his head. “No. You can’t do that, Sam.”

  “Why not, Martha? Perhaps it’s me that can’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Look what’s happened under my watch—the park set on fire with thousands of people in it and then half the prisoners taken out and slaughtered. I’ve had enough. I really think I’ve had enough.”

  “Sam, if it wasn’t for you this town would have been overrun with terrorists and people murdered in their sleep. What happened today wasn’t your fault. Everything was going well until that group got lairy.”

  “Yes, and what were they getting lairy about, Martha?”

  “Well-”

  “I’ll tell you what: because of the prisoners here; because I’ve brought them here; because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “It was.”

  “Bill told me it was a mistake.”

  “You tried to do the right thing.”

  “Perhaps I should have finished them off on the bridge.”

  “There’s laws about stuff like that. You were just doing what’s right.”

  Sam slumps further into the soft leather of the manager’s chair.

  The front door slams and in the next seconds Bill strides into the office followed by Jessie. Suddenly ashamed of the despair that had overcome him, Sam strides to greet them.

  “Did you get there in time?”

  “In time to see them swing.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t try to stop him?”

  “It was too late and I’m not in the mood to defend terrorists’ human rights.”

  “Too bloody right.” Jessie appears at his shoulder.

  “Looks like you’ve got more pressing problems.” Bill gestures to the broken window. “Colin Haydock’s doing a number on you and the crowd is baying for blood.”

  “Perhaps we should ... execute the prisoners?”

  Sam groans.

  “We should at least go out and talk to Haydock. Calm the crowd.”

  “How do you suggest we do that.”

  “Reassure them that everything is under control.”

  “Hah! Jesus, Bill. We’ve got armed groups running amok inside the town executing prisoners left, right and centre. It’s hardly under control.”

  “Sam.” Bill takes a step closer. “If you don’t reassure that crowd and get Haydock on side, then there will be riots here tonight and this Police Station will be the first place they try to break into.”

  Sam nods. “I shouldn’t have brought them back into the town.”

  “True, but it was a tough call—I know that. They’re here now so this is the situation we have to deal with.”

  “And Mad Dog?”

  “That’s also a situation we have to deal with.”

  As Bill goes over their best course of action, the sun is lowering in the sky, casting shadows on the buildings and the shuttered shop windows. The ache of exhaustion waves over Sam.

  “... and we should impose a curfew.” Bill takes hold of Sam’s arm. “Let’s talk to Haydock and get these noisy buggers to go home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jay watches Basim as he pushes his thumbnail into his noise, scrapes at the inside then transfers the mess under his nails into his mouth. His eyes dart to the wall opposite as Basim catches him watching. The man says nothing, but scowls and scratches at his beard.

  Jay leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. The smell of shit and piss fills his nostrils with each breath and the stench of unwashed and sweating bodies clings to his throat in the hot cell. How the hell had he ended up here? What the hell was he doing? At this moment he is sure that he must h
ave lost his mind. Khaled, he was certain, was insane.

  “Karim!”

  Hassan’s gurgling scream as the chainsaw had begun to cut through his throat would live in his mind forever. His innards twist at the memory, and his sphincter contracts. A tear wells in his eye. The only person in the world he wanted right now was his dad.

  “Karim!”

  ‘You haven’t joined a religion,’ his father had shouted when he’d picked him up from the gates of HMP Olney on that cold February morning. ‘You’ve joined another criminal gang.” His dad had been right. He’d just traded one vicious gang of thugs for another, but in Olney you were either with them or against them, and they ruled the place so he had joined them. He hadn’t signed up for this shit though. After his release he’d promised to go on the straight and narrow, be a good boy for his Mum – a pain rips at his heart as her face rises in his memory - but they, the ‘brotherhood’, had different ideas. He’d converted or ‘reverted’ as they put it, and that meant he was one of them. If he wasn’t one of them, then he was as good as dead—for real. So, he’d gone along to their meetings, gone along with their ideas, digging himself deeper and deeper into their shit, until he was so deep it was up to his balls and he couldn’t see a way out.

  “Karim!” A finger prods at his forehead. He grits his teeth, forcing himself not to shout at the man scowling into his face. His mind screams. My name is Jay!

  HEATH PULLS HIS THUMB from his mouth. Sitting listening to the grown ups was boring. The men had gone out to make people go home and Mummy and Grandma were too busy talking to each other to bother to take notice of him. Every time he asks a question, they just tell him to ‘wait a minute’ or ‘do some more drawing’. He was bored, bored, bored, and also hungry. He slips out through the half-open door and makes his way to the big room he’d seen when they came in through the front door. There had been boxes of toys stacked up and he’d seen a bike and a scooter leaning up against the wall. His mother’s voice grows smaller and then disappears from his awareness as he makes his way to the boxes. Through the clear plastic he can see cars, dolls, dinosaurs, and farm animals. He reaches up for the lid of the box with the cars. Pushed up against the plastic is a black car with silver wheels and, strapped to it with an elastic band, a remote control. It’s a racing car, just like the ones Daddy watches on the television.

  He pulls off the elastic band, turns the car over, slides the switch to ‘on’ and presses the lever on the remote control. Nothing. The car doesn’t move or make a sound. He wiggles the levers. The red light is on so it should work! He picks up the car, checks its wheels, puts it back on the ground and tries again. Nothing. Frustrated, he drops the control and walks across to the bike. It’s a push-along, just like the one he has at home. It’s a bit small, but he can still ride it. He wheels it around the room, going faster with each push, then wheels out into the hallway. Grandma’s voice floats through the open doorway. His mother replies. They don’t even realise he has gone. With a push of his foot he powers the bike forward to the other end of the hallway and knocks into the big door. It edges open. Inside he can hear voices. Perhaps someone who will play with him. His stomach rumbles. Perhaps Baz will be there. Perhaps he has some more biscuits. He pushes the bike forward and wheels it into the corridor.

  KHALED HOLDS A FINGER to his lips to quieten the men, then turns to the child. The black tyres of the yellow push-along squeak against the tiles as he scoots it along.

  “Hallo!” Khaled’s sing-song is sweet. The child turns to his voice with widening eyes. “Hallo!” he sings, keeping the child’s attention.

  The child stares from across the corridor, unsure of where to look.

  “I like your bike. I have a little boy and he likes to ride his bike too.” The boy’s eyes lock on Khaled’s. “He’s just like you.” Khaled knows the drill—get them on your side, let them know there’s common ground, then pull them in. He’s well versed in persuasion and coercion. The boy doesn’t respond but doesn’t shift his eyes either and Khaled knows he has a chance. “My son is the same age as you. His name is Ryan,” Khaled lies. “What’s your name.”

  The boy looks up and down the corridor, his small fingers clinging to the handlebars of his bike. “Heath,” he says and pushes the bike a little further along the corridor. The smell of bleach curdles in Khaled’s stomach.

  “Don’t go,” Khaled says. “Please.” The boy stops and Khaled smiles. “Can you help me?”

  The boy scoots back on his bike level with the peephole. “I really need to go pee-pee. Can you unlock the door? My friend forgot to leave it open.”

  The boy doesn’t respond.

  “And my son will be missing me. It’s getting dark and he’s scared of the dark.”

  “Forget it, Khaled,” Basim hisses. “He’s too stupid to understand.”

  “Shh!” Khaled hisses to Basim.

  “I’m not stupid,” the boy returns with a defiant frown.

  “No, I know you’re not,” Khaled says quickly.

  “Huh! They’re all stupid,” Basim retorts.

  “Shut up,” Khaled berates.

  “I’m not stupid,” the boy repeats.

  “Prove it then!” Basim demands.

  “You realise you’re arguing with a four-year-old, right?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I will open it,” the boy states with defiance and steps off his bike.

  You’re more stupid than you realise you little idiot. Khaled smiles as the boy reaches up for the key. It turns with a satisfying click and the door releases from the frame. “Good boy!” Khaled presses down the handle. The door doesn’t budge. “Is there another lock, Heath?”

  “Dunno.”

  In another room a woman’s voice calls the boy’s name. He turns to stare back down the corridor and moves back to his bike.

  “No!”

  The boy looks back, startled at Khaled’s angry desperation.

  “I mean, please. My son is waiting for me. If I don’t get to him he’ll be very frightened. He doesn’t like the dark. You know there are monsters in the dark, don’t you?”

  The boy looks suddenly frightened.

  “He’s frightened like you are. If you let me out I can go to him. You wouldn’t want the monsters to get him, would you?”

  “No.” The boy takes a tentative step to the cell door as the voice calls from him again.

  “Quick, open the door before the monster comes.”

  The boy scrambles forward and Basim snorts with muffled laughter as the bolt is pushed back. Khaled tries the door again. It doesn’t budge. “What?” he seethes.

  “Bolt at top.”

  “The stupid kid can’t reach that.”

  “Ram it,” Basim hisses. “Quick.”

  “Get out of my way,” Hamsa demands. Taking a step back, he raises his boot and slams it against the door. The voice from the other room shouts for the child again, louder now. Ignoring it, Hamsa kicks the door once more with the handle pressed down. It crashes open with the sound of splintering wood and knocks the boy to the ground.

  “Careful!” Jay shouts as the boy is thrust back against the wall. His head slams against the plaster and he slides to the tiled floor with a look of astonished pain.

  “Why? It’s just a disgusting kaffir’s kid.”

  “He’s just a kid. Leave him alone.”

  “Grab it.”

  Basim pushes past Khaled and reaches for the child, holding it under his arms. “Now what?” he asks as the child begins to struggle.

  “He’s our ticket out of here.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Khaled? He’s just a kid.”

  Crash!

  The door slams open and the corridor fills: one man with an ancient rifle and two women behind him. The younger woman screams. A shot fires, shattering the plaster of the far wall. A warning shot.

  “Back in the cell,” Khaled shouts and backs up. “We have the child,” he shouts as he steps back to the cell’s doorway. />
  “Heath! Heath!”

  “Show them the child.”

  Basim steps forward and hangs the boy over the open doorway. He steps back and Khaled pulls the door closed. Eyes appear at the peephole. Blue and angry they stare into the cell. Khaled stares back then grabs for the child. It squeals as he pinches at its skin.

  “Don’t hurt the boy!” The blue eyes narrow.

  “Stand back. Let us leave,” Khaled returns.

  The blue eyes burn with anger. “Give me the child then we’ll talk.”

  “We kill the child.” Khaled’s patience is wearing thin and he grabs the boy’s red hair, sliding his fingers through the locks and pulling at the scalp. The boy squeals in pain. “Let us out of here. I rip his scalp if you do not open door.”

  A hand tugs at the boy. “I’ll take him. Let me hold him.”

  Khaled bats at Jay’s hand, slapping hard at his forearm. What was wrong with the man? The child wriggles against Khaled, his scream shrill.

  “Stop!” The man’s voice shouts then the eyes disappear from the peephole.

  “For the love of God don’t let them hurt the child.” A woman’s voice fills the corridor. Khaled smirks. The woman will make sure they were released.

  “Throw down the gun.” Khaled demands.

  “For God’s sake, let him go!”

  Khaled doesn’t relent and continues to pull at the boy’s hair. His screams fill the tiny cell. Khaled laughs. Let them see he means it. He grabs the boy’s clothes and dangles him above the hard tiles. “Let us out or I start. I smash his face. His nose will break first a-”

  An anguished cry.

  “For God’s sake, Khaled. Stop it.”

  “Stop! Please stop.” The woman’s scream rises above the shouting in the corridor. Blue eyes are replaced with green. “Please, please don’t hurt the boy.”

  Khaled turns on Jay with a snarl. “What is wrong with you, Karim. This is jihad.”

  Jay’s eyes flicker—does he see derision there? Is he still on their side? “What do you care about the kid?”

  “Nothing.”