Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “I told you Khaled,” Basim interrupts. “He is not true.”

  Khaled stares at Jay with narrowed eyes, a snarl curling on his lip. He had recruited the boy in prison himself.

  “Are you?”

  “I am.”

  “You know what will happen to you if you turn your back on your faith?”

  “I do.” Fear flickers in Jay’s eyes.

  Khaled pushes at the younger man again. “Do you care more about this child than about your brothers?” He holds the child high. It squeals in pain.

  “No! Don’t.”

  Khaled’s eyes narrow. “You have a problem with jihad?”

  “No. He’s just a little kid—that’s all.”

  “I kill you myself - gut you - if I find you are lying.”

  If the boy is having second thoughts he’d better change them back quick. Turning from Jay with a final glare, Khaled steps up to the door and stoops to the peephole. He smiles at the woman on the other side. “I do not want to hurt boy.” She smiles back and a wave of relief crosses her face as Khaled sets the boy down on the tiles.

  “Thank you!”

  His smile broadens and he holds her gaze.

  “It’s going to be alright Heath. Grandma’s here.”

  “You look too young to be Grandmother.”

  She seems to blush. He strokes at the finger poking through the peephole with his free hand and a flicker of confusion passes over her eyes. He loved fucking with their minds—all the practice on the beaches back home, of the stupid old women who came for holidays, was very useful in getting his own way. He’d lost count of the number of women he’d scammed for money—all of it, well most of it, paid in to further the cause, keep their campaigns alive. The irony was perfect the stupid women paying for their own deaths. And then there were the truly stupid ones, the ones who thought they’d found love on the beach, the perfect holiday romance, with a young man asking them to be his wife, and take him back home. He holds back a snort of contempt. “Now, beautiful Grandma, tell the men to drop weapons. We leave or boy dies.” With his final words he lifts the boy once more and slams him against the wall. His body thuds against the brickwork, right shoulder and head taking the full force.

  “No!” the stupid woman screams. She draws back from the peephole and Khaled listens as she shouts at the men. The boy writhes in pain.

  “Let them leave. They’ll kill Heath.”

  “We can’t let them leave. Sam said-”

  “I don’t care what Sam said, let them out.”

  The door rattles as it’s pulled open and then forced shut. “Martha!”

  “Open it,” Martha screams. The door opens. “Give me the boy.”

  “We get out of cell.”

  “Get out!” she screams and makes a grab for the boy.

  Khaled punches at her jaw, knocking her back against the door’s thick frame. “Wait.”

  She pushes herself upright as Khaled ushers his men through the door, alert for any movement. The child swings in his grip though his arm is beginning to ache. At least it has stopped wriggling. The child’s head lolls as he pulls its body to him, a human shield against whatever weapons the pathetic men may have. Taking large strides, he moves along the corridor. The child doesn’t move. Should he keep it as a hostage? It could come in useful until they got out of the town. The child is motionless. He can’t tell whether it is even still breathing. Perhaps the knock against the wall was too harsh? Hostage or not? The body is a deadweight in his arm. Not. Without remorse, he throws the inert body back along the corridor and runs into the sun as it slams against the wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mohammed slams the car into first and accelerates away from the kerb. The attack on the city hadn’t gone to plan and it had become obvious, once it was too late, that the residents were organised and more than willing to fight back.

  Thud!

  “Faster!”

  He grits his teeth and floors the accelerator. The old engine thrums with an angry buzz but the power just isn’t there. The speedo climbs slowly to fifteen.

  “Come on!” he shouts and bangs at the steering wheel.

  Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

  The back window shatters and Daoud screams from the back seat. Mohammed keeps his eyes on the road ahead, the headlights make a narrow cone. Damn these old cars—they have no power.

  Thud!

  The engine screams and he shifts the gear into second. “Come on! Move!”

  The thudding continues but now it is muffled, a smash against tarmac, not the metal panels or glass windows of the car. Checking in the rear-view mirror, a hole bigger than a fist, a brick-sized hole, is smashed through the window. Beyond that, the fires that burn in the fat oil drums at the side of the road pick out the silhouettes of the men. Catching sight of his face in the mirror, his left eye is already closing, and blood trickles from the gash across his temple. Pink flesh shines from the gash across his scalp.

  “The brick hit Daoud.”

  Mohammed grunts.

  “He’s not moving.”

  “Check him over. I can’t do anything. I have to drive.”

  “I think he’s dead.”

  Mohammed slams his fist against the steering wheel.

  “What now? Where do we go now?”

  Mohammed is silent. He stares at the point where the light gives way to the black of the road and the night.

  “What now, Mohammed?”

  “We go back to the petrol station. It’s where the others will be.”

  “OK. But this shit is getting to me.”

  “What does that mean?” He narrows his eyes and stares at Ali through the rear view mirror.

  “It means I want to go home.”

  “Pah.” Mohammed spits. “Go home to mommy?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m cold, tired and every time we kill one of these white pigs they kill two of ours. It’s not meant to go down like that.”

  “No one said it would be easy. Bin Sayeed said there would be martyrs, alhamdullilah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We regroup at the petrol station. Join the brothers and wait for Bin Sayeed’s orders.”

  “Do you think he will have done it by now?”

  “Killed the Prime Minister? Yes, Bin Sayeed will have burnt him alive for the English pigs to see.”

  “There’s no power though, so who is going to see?”

  “Why all these questions, Ali. Do you doubt Bin Sayeed? Do you doubt the brotherhood?” Mohammed’s voice rises to a pitch with his anger. “Do you doubt the jihad?” He stares at the boy through the mirror, watching for any sign of dissent.

  “Of course not.”

  “Good, because you know what happens to traitors don’t you.”

  “Yes.” Ali’s voice carries a note of fear and Mohammed smiles.

  “Then stop asking the questions and shut up. We regroup with the brothers and carry on with our jihad, insha’allah.

  “Insha’allah.”

  The car powers along the road at a steady fifty; taking it above that speed makes it judder. The petrol gauge is reading low. He takes the road that leads south and over the river. They had just enough petrol to get them to the intersection, but not more.

  Ten minutes later the bridge comes into view. Massive concrete pillars reach to the sky, their outline caught by the light from the moon. The intersection lies eight miles south of the bridge. The roads are dark without the overhead street lights and Mohammed slows as he follows the road to the toll booths. The barriers are down and the booths deserted.

  “What now.”

  He pulls the car to a stop. “We move them. Come on.”

  It takes ten minutes to weaken the barrier enough to bend it out of the way and Mohammed returns to the car with sweat beading across his brow. The day has been hot and the sourness of sweat clings to him. The first thing he’d do at the petrol station was wash himself down, get rid of the stink of the day’s failed mission.


  As he drives the car onto the bridge, the water beneath shines like black glass, a mirror for the sky. He tightens his hands around the steering wheel, keeping the car in the middle of the two lanes, keeping the car straight, afraid of veering too far to the left and – his heart beats harder – crashing into the barriers.

  “Mohammed! Stop.”

  He slams on the brakes. Ahead the road is blocked, the lorry sitting across the carriageway unseen in the dark until it was almost too late.

  The car stalls as it comes to a juddering stop only feet from the lorry. Mohammed slams his fist on the steering wheel and throws open the door. Torch in hand, he walks to the truck, listens for motion, for evidence of guards. This was a barricade, a deliberate blockade of the road. It would be a mistake not to have it manned. Squeezing between the two lorries he peers out into the dark. Cars fill the road, pushed up against the blockade. Nothing moves. He switches on his torch and shines it across the scene. Another group of cars sits about six metres away, their bodywork damaged, lights broken, glass litters the tarmac. The air has the smell of death, it’s not pungent, not like he’d smelt it in the rubble of the towns they’d taken back home, but it was there, unmistakable. He shines the torch in an arc, following the stench of death, shining light into the cars. There are no bodies here. No rotting corpses pollute the night air.

  The waft comes again. He shines his torch to the walkway. Nothing, but at the railings, marking the very edge of the bridge before the huge drop down to the water, a rope is tied, knotted at the top, hanging straight between the steel railings. He shines the torch along the railings and counts six knotted ropes. Without seeing where they terminate he knows what he will find. A smile breaks across his face. This was familiar. This was one of the hallmarks of the group – hanging the enemy from bridges, over the balcony of an apartment block – to let the enemy know they are to be feared. He vaults across the barrier between the road and the walkway, runs down the steep side to the tarmac below and shines the light on the bodies hanging at the end of the ropes. So many kafirs hanging. The people in the town would be terrified. He shines the torch at the closest body. Its head is dark, its clothing black. He frowns and shines the torch on the next body. Dark hair, brown skin, black clothing. His gut writhes and a sickness swirls in his belly as he recognises a friend. Daoud bin Mohammed. His tongue is black and swollen, his eyes bulge in their sockets. As he sweeps the torch along the line of men, he realises that each hanging body is one of their own.

  Feet clatter behind him. “Mohammed, what is it? It stinks here—what can you see?”

  “Martyrs.”

  Ali peers over. “Shine the torch. I can’t see.”

  Mohammed shines the torch onto the bodies. “Brother Abu Bakr.” A cold anger bristles through him. He shines the torch on the next body. “Brother Mohammed Ali.” He repeats the process until he has named each body, moving along the walkway. “They have been murdered. They will be avenged.”

  “Who did it?”

  He shines the torch towards the river bank. Its brightness doesn’t shed any light on the area but the moon’s light reveals the town sitting along its edge. “Them.” He twists on his toes and staggers back to the car. “These English think they are so clever, but they’re not as clever as us.” He slides back into the driver’s seat and switches the radio on. Static bristles back at him. He twists the knob until the signal clears then speaks into the handset.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The day is still warm though the sun is setting as Khaled scrambles up the wall and launches himself over. He lands in a car park, narrowly missing the front end of a black BMW. Just a few cars sit neatly parked within the white lines of the parking bays and only one sits at an angle, an obvious casualty of the EMP, the engine shorting whilst the owner did a three-point turn. He scans the area for signs of movement, heart pumping violently in his chest. It was them, the kafirs, who were supposed to be filled with fear, running for their lives, cowing to the might of their jihad, not him scurrying among their cars. They would pay, Insha’allah. Once he got out of here he would bring an army back and raze the town to rubble. First though, getting a good distance from the Police Station and the men who would be hunting them down, was imperative. He could run and he could hide, make himself invisible to these people whilst laying in wait, but the brothers needed to regroup and to do that they had to get away from this town. He scans the cars. All are new models which meant none were operational because of the electric storm sent from the heavens to help them with their jihad, alhamdulillah.

  Parked at the far side of grounds is an older car. “Basim!” he hisses. “The red car in the corner. Could we get that running?”

  Basim turns, squints through the twilight. “No. It’s old, but not old enough.”

  A door slams and, startled, Khaled stumbles against Basim’s boot.

  “Idiot!”

  Khaled grabs Basim by the throat.

  “Call me an idiot again and I’ll cut your tongue out.” He pushes Basim away from him though the man shows no sign of remorse. “Threaten me again and I’ll gut you.”

  “You two stop,” Hamsa hisses. “We have to get away from those idiots.”

  “Let’s go,” Khaled stabs at the air with his fist then takes the lead to the corner of the building, hugging the shadows and keeping low. At the entrance, sat to the side, a kerbside sign reads ‘Hilderspin Café. Tea. Coffee. Cakes.” His stomach growls with queasy hunger and adrenaline. Finding food would also have to be a priority. At the corner he stops, raises a finger, checks that the road is clear, then stabs at the opposite side of the road. Leaving the safety of the brickwork, curtains twitch in an upstairs room of the house opposite and a young girl stares out from behind lace curtains. If he had a gun, he’d shoot. Instead he draws an imaginary knife against his throat then stabs his finger at the girl. She drops from view and the curtain brushes against the glass. The girl already forgotten, he squats beneath the downstairs window and scans the street ahead. An engine thrums. “Car!” He prods Basim’s shoulder. Basim grunts.

  “We need one.”

  “First we get away from them.” Basim jabs a finger towards the end of the road and four armed men, all wearing protective leathers and motorcycle helmets. They scan the area, cross the road then disappear as the car passes the end of the road.

  “Go!” Without waiting, Khaled crouches then runs alongside the row of parked cars to the end of the road, determined to see where the car is going. From the noise of its engine, he can tell it has slowed and, as he reaches the top of the road, the engine idles then stops. He stops behind the last car, squats, then scans the road. To the left, a crowd is listening to a man shouting out instructions in front of the Police Station. To the right, the driver is talking to the armed men. He shakes his head and the men continue at a run up the hill. The driver locks the car, slips the key into his pocket, and makes his way across the pavement before disappearing into a building.

  “Go! Go!”

  Khaled sprints to the car, takes a sharp right into the building, and follows the man down a dark passageway. An arched walkway leads to a fenced area with gates leading to adjacent properties. His hand on the latch of a wooden gate, the man turns to the stampede of echoing feet in the narrow walkway. Before he has a chance to push the gate open, Khaled pounces. He springs from the broken tarmac and digs steel fingers into the man’s fleshy shoulders. The target buckles under Khaled’s weight and staggers forward, toppling through the now open gateway. The others follow, blocking the lowering sun and thickening the shadows.

  As Khaled attempts to flip the man onto his back, a thick arm swings out. The full force of the man’s arm thwacks against Khaled’s head and his cheek knocks against a concrete post. Bone smashes against the jagged surface and Khaled gasps at the pain. Rage builds and he throws himself against the man, grasping his throat as Basim joins the fight and forces him to the ground. The man grunts through his narrowing windpipe. Sensing victory, Khaled squeez
es until the man’s eyes bulge and he scrapes at the air for breath.

  “Pockets!” Khaled shouts. “Get the keys from his pockets.” He sits astride the man’s torso, pressing his full weight against the soft abdomen, his fingers making a tight ring around his neck. The man bucks though Khaled can feel his life ebbing.

  Metal jangles as Basim pulls the car keys from his trouser pocket. The man quiets. Khaled releases his grip and pushes away from the body. With a sudden life-saving gasp, the man raises his arm and slams his fist against Khaled’s jaw. Blood seeps onto his tongue, the distinctive metallic taste sour against his teeth. Khaled jumps back and in the next second boots the man, delivering a hard kick to his thigh and then his ribs. The man groans and twists away from the boot.

  “You stay down!” Khaled threatens. “You stay here.” The man glares back in defiance. Dare to scowl at me, pig! Khaled swings his foot back.

  Thud!

  Something hits the path near his feet and bounces off the wall as Khaled lands a kick into the man’s face. Die, kafir! Blood seeps from the gritty boot print of the idiot’s cheek. Khaled pulls his leg back again. This time he will break the pig’s nose.

  “Khaled! Leave him.”

  No. He will kill the man. Kill him for his impudence. One less kafir to pollute the world.

  He raises his boot. “For allah!”

  Pain rips through Khaled’s head, an explosion of agony that blinds him. The force of the blow smashes his head against the wall and he staggers, leaning against the bricks for support.

  “Paul! Shift it.” A woman’s voice shouts from beyond the pain.

  Thud! Pain, like a hammer blow, rocks deep in Khaled’s thigh. He drops to his knees as his leg gives way.

  “Leave him alone you murdering bastard!”

  Crash!

  Something heavy smashes into the wall beside Khaled’s face. Shards of brick kick back into his cheeks and eyes as the object bounces onto his thigh, stabbing at the muscle, then hitting his shin. It lands with a thud at his feet. The pain in his head blurs his comprehension as he tries to make sense of the attack. He staggers against the wall. A man and a woman are behind him. Pain, sharp and intense, knives his legs, back and head. Basim and Jay are running down the passageway towards the car. An electric iron sits at his feet, the cable twisted around his ankle.