“She’s there,” he calls in elation as he spots a long and brightly-coloured form ahead but groans with disappointment when they reach it. It’s just an old plastic sack emblazoned with a bright logo.
The tapping comes again. Swinging his torch across the ground, the light arcs and he sees her. Leaning against the quarry wall, her dark hair is stark against the white of the chalk.
“Clarissa!” he calls.
“Here!” she rasps and knocks her fist against the ground. Tap, tap, tap!
Clever girl! “I’m coming,” Shrugging off his rucksack he kneels beside her. “I’m here.”
“Thank you!” she whispers and closes her eyes.
“Clarissa!” he urges. “Stay awake for me.” He reaches for the blanket. Her eyes flicker as he covers her shoulder. “Here,” he says. “I have some water. Drink.” He holds the bottle as she drinks, allowing just a small sip. “You’re hurt,” he says scanning her body. There’s nothing obvious other than a deep scratch across her forehead and the puffiness growing over one eye.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks with trepidation. He wants to know it hurts. Hurting is good—she’s not paralysed if it hurts.
“Everywhere,” she replies. “I think my ribs are broken—my right side.”
The pain is obvious as she draws breath. She sips at the air. He’s seen broken ribs before. This is something more. He watches as she gasps barely taking in air before breathing out.
“I think my lung may be punctured,” she says with a grimace echoing his thoughts.
“It’s possible,” he replies playing down his fears. “But you’re in good hands now.” He turns to Uri behind him. “I’ll wait here whilst you fetch the car. Bring it inside as far as you can.” Uri nods and disappears and Bill settles in to wait with her and keep her warm and calm.
He knows she struggles to speak but he can’t help asking the question that weighs heavy on his mind.
“What happened, Clarissa?”
She takes a shallow breath and closes her eyes. When she looks back at him tears have filmed them. “He pushed me.”
“Andy?”
“Yes,” she rasps with a look of fear.
“You don’t have to worry about him anymore, Clarissa. I’ve dealt with him, well, Uri dealt with him.”
A questioning frown. He nods in reply and her brow clears as understanding passes between them.
“Thank you.”
Bill pulls the blanket a little closer to her neck then takes a swig of water from the bottle. In the distance the engine starts. He listens and sighs with relief as it grows louder. He’d half expected Uri to abandon them and disappear with his wife and daughter. Bill strokes Clarissa’s forehead, a gentle touch at the hairline. He’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt her.
Chapter 32
“Where are the fire engines, Sam?” she asks echoing his thoughts. “Why aren’t they here? There’s been fires all over the town tonight and none of your mates have turned up.”
“My mates?”
“The fire service.”
Sam groans. “Most of them don’t live here and if they can’t start the engines then they can’t come out.”
“Why can’t they start the fire engines?”
“The EMP.”
“EMP? I thought that was just some kind of urban myth. The powerlines are down—that’s all.”
Surprised at her ignorance he shakes his head. “It’s an EMP alright. No idea whether it’s manmade or natural, but nothing else accounts for all the power being off like this.”
“But why would the engines not start?”
“They’ve been fried.”
“Don’t they have protection in them—for emergencies then?”
“The fire service don’t have a contingency plan for an EMP,” he states.
“So who’s going to put out the fires the terrorists start then?”
“Who told you about terrorists?”
“It’s what everyone’s saying—the fires yesterday were started by a gang from out of town. Michael and Grahame saw them off, only Michael was burned-”
“Michael Peterson?”
“Yep. He was a real hero. Anyway, the gang disappeared back to wherever they’d crawled from.” She stops for a moment. Sam doesn’t fill the gap. “Do you think it was them that came back tonight—for revenge, like?”
Sam thinks for a moment. “Perhaps.” His answer is inadequate, but the ramifications of what she’s saying make the hair on his neck prickle. He had to find Michael.
“At least we’ve got you,” she says hugging her to him again. “Our very own Fireman Sam.”
He groans at the reference, heard for the thousandth time. She snorts with laughter and apologises without conviction.
“Yeah, as if, but you should be—that was lame!” he replies. As she prattles on, her voice disappears and he follows the red taillights of the car making its way out of town. Was that the terrorists escaping? It was a bloodbath in the street and bodies were strewn across the road, many burnt beyond recognition, but had some of them escaped? Would they be back? The weight of responsibility lowers itself onto Sam’s shoulders and he shrugs off Martha and steps to the door.
“What’s wrong, Sam? You’re not offended are you—because I called you Fireman Sa-”
“No!” His reply is curt. She draws a sharp breath. “Sorry! No, I’m not bothered about that. Listen. I’ve got to go. Why don’t you go round to Shirley’s and stay there the night if you’re worried.”
“I can’t leave the pub. I’ve already had one bugger try to break in.”
“Go to Jem. Tell him I sent you. He’ll come back and help watch the place.”
“Jem Tolland? The ex-copper?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that for me?”
“Because he owes me and I’m calling it in.”
He leaves with a quick stride before she can grab him and get all soppy. There were times when he enjoyed her company, but now was not one of them.
Fractious energy rides him like a wave as he runs across town. He may be ‘retired’ from the services, but the urge to protect was too strong for him to ignore. Sod the fear—he was done with that and sod the terrorists. They’d better not come back to his town.
Chapter 33
Bakir bin Sayeed twists in his bed, the white sheets slipping down over his naked hips. Jasmine faces him and runs her hand across his jaw. Sensing her neediness, he reaches for her breast. Smoothing his palm over her nipple he takes it between his fingers and pinches.
“Hey! Don’t hurt me!” she complains.
Bakir smirks in the dark and gives it another spiteful squeeze. That will pay her for the irritating complaints last night. He’d slapped her then to shut her up, but she needs a reminder of her place. She squeals in pain as he pinches and twists, the nipple is flat between his fingers. He laughs, enjoying the sound of hurt. “You love it,” he retorts and she laughs though he can hear the reticence in her voice and the high pitch of her fear.
Outside the bedroom door his bodyguards pace the landing waiting for him to rise. Once he’s up they can rest. Let them wait. He cares not one whit that they’ve been awake throughout the night checking for intruders, checking the streets for any sign that the house has been discovered. It is their duty and he pays them well for their efforts.
He pushes Jasmine onto her back and forces her legs apart with his knees then thrusts himself at her. She groans with pleasure. Whether she enjoys it or not is nothing to him. She’s there to service him—end of story—a pretty little bitch that he’ll dispose of when he’s grown tired, and given the whining complaints she’d made last night, that would be very soon. Perhaps he’d pass her on to Rashid or Ali. They’d make her tow the line—they weren’t as considerate as him.
She moans again as he thrusts at her naked flesh but his mind is focused on the hours to come. His lips curl to a snarl as he stabs at her. More of them will burn today. He slams deeper. They haven�
��t seen the power of Bakir Bin Sayeed—not yet. Another thrust, hard and spiteful.
“You’re hurting me!”
He slaps her face. “Shut up!” Stab! Before the day is done this country would be burning bright.
Tears spring to her eyes. He slams at her again.
His soldiers, God’s soldiers, were out in force – thrust! – and this damned kafir-filled nation of whores and pig-eaters – slam! - would be burning to the ground. As he gives a final, jutting thrust, he lets the ecstasy of his orgasm overwhelm him, then loses himself to grief and calls out the name of his dead wife.
The orange glow of the small fire pushes at the dark as Harry crouches next to the flames. Only four pieces of the chicken remain from the bag they’d ‘found’ in the fast-food restaurant’s freezer. Harry’s foot still aches from kicking the door open. He pokes at a chicken breast and flips it over. It sizzles on the metal tray.
Nareen sits apart from the group huddled around the fire, hugging her knees tight to her chest, head buried. Leaving Hamed’s body at the hospital had been traumatic.
“Best chicken I’ve ever had.” Maz bites off another mouthful, spitting skin to his side.
“That’s because you didn’t pay for it.”
“Too right.”
“Nareen.” She looks up. “Do you want some?” A shake of her head. “You need to keep your strength up. We’ve got the night to get through and then a long walk tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and if we meet more of them terrorists, some killing.”
“Give it a rest, Maz.”
“It’s true! I’ll kill every last one of them if I-”
“I know where he lives.”
The chatter around the fire falls to silence.
“Who Nareen?”
“The one who’s behind it all.” Silence. “Bakir bin Sayeed. I know where he lives.”
The story continues in LAND OF FIRE, Blackout & Burn, Book 3.
BUY LAND OF FIRE
Author Notes
May 30th 2018
If you’re reading this then I guess you’ve read through the entire story. I hope that you’ve enjoyed it and thank you for giving up your time to come along for the ride.
In Blackout & Burn I wanted to explore how we survive against the odds, when natural forces, way beyond our ability to resist or change, take us by the throat and squeeze, and how we fight back when pernicious ideologies of hate rear their ugly heads and attempt to rob us of freedom.
I’ve always loved stories that pit man against the elements or overwhelming forces and wanted to write something exciting that would see ordinary, and perhaps quirky, characters in extraordinary situations. How we react to extreme situations fascinates me and it’s not always the obvious candidates that become the heroes of the hour. We’re complex beings. We have emotions, desires and needs. The quietest of men or women can become ruthless when threatened and, when the world turns upside down, we may survive by drawing on strengths we never knew we had. Those who have seemed stalwarts of morality and right can break and turn bad. The survivors aren’t always the good and the strong. What would you do to save yourself?
If you enjoyed this story then stay in touch! Join my newsletter for monthly updates on progress and news of future publications. I love keeping in touch with my readers and am happy to respond to any questions you have about my books. CLICK HERE TO JOIN for updates and to stay in touch. I’ll also send you a copy of my story The Storm, an apocalyptic rescue thriller. If you’re not keen on newsletters I also keep my Facebook page updated and you can join me or message me there.
Also by Rebecca Fernfield
A World Torn Down Series
A gripping story of survival and revenge in a world where 99.99% of the world’s population is destroyed by plague. Dan’s to blame, but will Cassie have to pay the price?
BUY A WORLD TORN DOWN
Dark Powers Rising Series
A gritty tale of dystopia after the apocalypse. The survivors cling to survival, hidden in their secret compound at the edge of a dying town. When they’re discovered the only option is escape across the moors, but what waits for them there? Food, a home, love, or something else entirely?
BUY DARK POWERS RISING
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 19