Days of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 1)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Someone tell them to break the glass!” she calls. Her shouts go unheard. “Break the glass!” she shouts to the people banging at the window. She stares at the men unfolding the ladder then turns and sprints back home. She’ll have to find a hammer herself.

  Katy lies at the bottom of the stairwell as they step over her. A hundred people, desperate to escape the fire that is ripping through the building. The blast had shocked them all. It came out of nowhere without forewarning. It was rude—really not the done thing! Didn’t they know she didn’t like to be startled. Pain sears through her belly as another boot kicks into the soft flesh. The screaming really is too much. She tries to shuffle to the side, but there’s nowhere to move—feet surround her, heavy, kicking feet that couldn’t give a damn about the poor old woman they tread on. Breathing is hard as the feet kick and then the pressure on her chest is overwhelming. She’d thought about death of course, but never expected it to be like this. She’d imagined a comfortable death with her family around her, at least pretending, in that moment, that they cared for her. So hard to breath. They’d surround her and cry their crocodile tears. Can’t breathe. A heavy weight lands on her and the last of Katie’s breath is expelled from her lungs and the dark that she’s fumbled in for the last thirty minutes becomes black.

  Clarissa turns and runs out of the house and back down the street to the fire. Heart pounding in her chest, she stares at the scene. The ladder is nowhere near tall enough to reach the window and the faces have disappeared. She runs into the melee of people gawping at the blazing fire. Glass shatters as another window buckles beneath the heat of the flames, this time from the floor above. A group of men stand across the road from the building, pointing at the entrance, perhaps discussing how to help. She runs to them and thrusts the blanket and hammer at them.

  “Here!” she says knocking the fabric against the arm of a man dressed in a thick coat, a hat pulled low over his head. “It’s a fire blanket.” He looks at her in confusion. “If you’re going in,” she explains.

  “No, love,” he replies. “You can’t go in. We already tried that. The fire’s cutting off the upper floors.”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem if they had a sprinkler system.”

  “Even if they did, it wouldn’t work—the power’s out.”

  “What shall we do then?” Clarissa asks turning to the building. “There were people in there.”

  “There’s nothing we can do. We need the fire service to get to them. They’re the only ones with a ladder long enough.”

  A stone seems to drop in Clarissa’s belly as she clutches at the hammer. “I brought a hammer to break the window,” she says.

  “Aye,” is the man’s dour response.

  “We can’t just let them die.”

  “It’s probably too late, love.”

  She turns again to the burning building, noticing how the smoke is curling up into the sky, black against the grey of early morning.

  “There’s another fire on the other side of the city,” she says though she speaks to herself.

  A window shatters and flames dance in the empty space of the window frame. A sharp pain scratches at her cheek and a woman screams. Another blast sounds and suddenly there’s chaos on the street as the men and women who’d gathered to watch run from the shower of glass and rubble flying through the sky. Clarissa ducks as the blast tears through the street and turns to run. A sharp pain hits her shoulder and she staggers, lurches then picks up speed until she reaches the door of her house and Stella’s horrified stare.

  “Mum!”

  Something warm trickles down Clarissa’s face and into her ear. She touches her skin to investigate as she steps through the doorway, and her fingers come away sticky and red.

  A grey light is breaking across the sky as Uri steps onto the road where his target’s office sits. A sheet of newspaper flits across the road in front of him and his eyes are drawn to the mess of rags that is bundled in the doorway. Poor sod! He digs into his jeans pocket and fumbles for the change. He doesn’t want to wake the man so places the coins without a clink next to his feet. The tramp doesn’t move and Uri walks onwards with a light step to the building with the ornate façade across the road. At the bottom of the wide steps he looks up. It was a masterpiece of architecture, surrounded now by the hideous concrete monstrosities of the sixties and glass ones of the nineties. The city planners had no soul - not as far as Uri was concerned - and if these buildings represented the zeitgeist of the nation then God help them all!

  The city, just like so many historic cities around the world, had become ugly with just the occasional building that spoke of a time when men were less concerned with how much building they could get for their money, or how cheaply they could make it, and more invested in creating something beautiful. For Uri, the minimalist structures they threw up in the name of progress ripped at his soul.

  Him and Viktoria—they should move to the country—somewhere that would soothe him, somewhere he could bring his daughter up closer to nature. He sags as reality hits him. It was unlikely that Bolstovsky would ever loosen his grip. Be practical, Uri! He pushes his thoughts to the job in hand. He climbs the steps and reaches into his pocket for his keys. The street lights were still out so it was unlikely that the alarm would go off, not that that was a problem for Uri, it just made things easier.

  Inserting the key, he listens, then twists, and pulls at the handle. Yes! Easy. He pushes the door open and walks through the foyer. Second floor, third door on the right. His footsteps sound sharp as they tap across the tiles in the quiet of the morning. He shines his torch into the corners until he finds the camera he’s searching for. Reaching up, he slices the camera’s wire with his knife then climbs the stairs. The blackout may be helping him right now, but there’s no telling when the electricity will be back on—could be any minute. He repeats this process until he reaches the second floor and cuts the cameras’ wires there too. One, two, three. There it is. A black door, solid and reassuring with its thickly painted panels—the kind of door that would look wonderful stripped down and hung in the right home - not the rough luxe type, that was so gauche – but one in the countryside with open beams and log burners where he’d spend his days with Viktoria and Anna. He shines his torch to the handle and notices the plaque, ‘Clarissa Lockhart’. He smiles. This was it.

  Entering the office, a grey light falls across the mahogany desk where a large monitor sits with a few papers next to it. He shines his torch to the text. Yes, these are the papers he has to collect, but there seem to be some missing. He gathers them regardless, folds them twice then slips them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Checking beneath the desk he smiles. He squats and pulls the PC towards him then unscrews the cover with the tip of his blade. Within minutes it is disembowelled and the hard drive is securely in his pocket. He replaces the parts and screws the cover back on. No one would guess that it had been destroyed. Let them try and retrieve data from that! Now where was the memory stick? He had to retrieve that and the laptop. Searching round the office, he finds no evidence of either. Not to worry. Once he had ‘introduced’ himself to Clarissa, she was sure to hand them over.

  The walk through the night has been long. He pulls up the large office chair and sinks down into its soft leather, thankful to take the weight off his feet. He’d wait a while in the office and, if she didn’t turn up, he’d make a visit to her home. It may be easier to dispatch her that way. As the office brightens with the dawn of day, Uri allows himself to imagine the house he’ll build in the countryside then falls into a light sleep.

  Bill reaches for the coins the man had so quietly left and looks up to her office window. The man is asleep in her chair. Funny thing to do, that—break into a building then fall asleep. A sheet from a red-top newspaper bowls along the road, blown by the cool morning breeze, and even from this distance Bill can see that it’s page 3. He grunts then drifts off back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  JESSIE TURNS AGAI
N to look at the city and her heart hammers. The valley, where towns and villages sit dotted across the land, could be a warzone. Thick and twisting plumes of black smoke reach high into the sky and here and there she can see the orange flames of fires that still burn. She counts. There is the evidence of at least five small and three large fires in the city. Even in the outlying towns fire seems to have raged. In the far horizon, where the population is even more dense, more plumes of black smoke rise to the heavens.

  “Jessie, those fires …”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe that the power going out could cause so many. What’s going on?” Clare asks as she stands beside her.

  “I don’t know,” Jessie returns with a shake of her head as she continues to stare across at the landscape. The sight of the fires, especially the ones in the city where Stella and her mother would be waiting, makes her anxious.

  “Do you think those lights last night caused them?”

  “Could be,” she replies with a puzzled frown and picks up her rucksack. “I guess … but there are so many! Alex, what do you think?”

  He remains silent as he takes off his boot and knocks it against a nearby rock. Grit rolls out and onto the floor.

  “You don’t have an opinion, Alex? That’s not like you,” she laughs.

  “I do have an opinion,” he replies without mirth as he pulls the boot back on.

  “And?”

  “Well, there are two things.”

  “Yes.”

  “One is that they’ve been caused by last night’s blackout. There are so many things that are dependent on electricity to run and that could have had the knock-on effect of setting fires—perhaps?”

  “Yes, but so many?”

  “It cut off the plane’s engines so perhaps cars have been knocked out too. If the brakes suddenly stop working then they’re going to crash and some of the fires could be the result.”

  “Sure, but they would be small—the smoke from those fires is huge.”

  “Some of them look like buildings on fire.”

  “Maybe the cars crashed into the buildings?”

  “And two?”

  “They’re deliberate.”

  “Deliberate?”

  “Yes, arson.”

  “Why would someone set fires?”

  “To take advantage of the situation, I guess.”

  “Could be,” Jessie says with a knot tightly twisting in her stomach. She looks across to the city. “My mum and sister are there,” she says pointing to the array of smoky plumes that hang over the dark buildings of the city. “I promised Stella that I’d be home. She needs me. They need me.”

  “I understand,” Alex returns. “But what about Captain Ridley and Briggs?”

  “Yes, of course … we need to find them first,” Jessie replies though the knot in her belly twists tighter. “I meant after we’ve looked for them I need to go home.”

  “Well, let’s go then!” he says.

  Clare shrugs her shoulders as Jessie raises her eyebrows, taken aback by his terseness. It wasn’t like Alex to be so, well, off-hand. He must be feeling the strain of the situation—just as she was.

  “OK. Let’s go,” she replies and steps over the deep ruts left by the plane’s landing. The dark earth has been ploughed, turned and mixed with the rotting leaves and twigs of the forest floor.

  Approaching the edge of the gorge she braces herself as her heart begins to race. The sheer drop doesn’t frighten her, she’s sure-footed and unphased by the deep sides though she does have a healthy respect for danger. No, it’s seeing Briggs or Ridley broken and in pain that makes her tense. The horror of their fall has played over and over in her mind and she’s weary from forcing the images to shut off. She takes a breath. ‘Keep it calm, Lockhart’. Sure, sure I will. But what if you’re hurt, I mean really hurt. What then? What if I fail you then? ‘Stay in control. I trust you. They trust you.’ She takes another step closer to the gorge. Small rocks dislodge as her boot falls just shy of the edge.

  “Not too close,” Clare warns.

  “I’m fine,” Jessie returns as she bends to peer over. Below, the land opens up to a massive hole lined with trees, boulders and ferns.

  “Ugh! It must be three-hundred feet to the bottom,” Clare exclaims as she looks down. “Is that where the plane went?” She points towards the snapped and broken branches of a tree.

  “I think so.”

  “Where is it then? I can’t see it.”

  “You can see the track it left,” Jessie explains as she notes the trail of broken branches, “but it stops there,” she says pointing to the thick canopy where the trail ends.

  “It’s like it swallowed it up.”

  “I guess it did.”

  “Do you think he could be alive?” Clare asks.

  “Captain Ridley?”

  “Yeah. I can’t see … I don’t think … Briggs wouldn’t have survived that, but Ridley … he was inside the plane. Maybe he did.”

  Clare was right. It was doubtful that Briggs, especially as he was attached to the exterior of the plane, had survived the fall. If he had, he was sure to be grotesquely injured. Jessie shudders at the thought. But Captain Ridley would have the advantage of being protected inside the cabin. “Yes, I think that perhaps he could have.”

  “How are we going to get down there?”

  “We can climb down,” Jessie replies looking at the tree-filled sides, mapping out the route she would take.

  “Climb down?”

  “Yes. The trees and boulders will help. Look over there,” she suggests pointing to a place further along the edge. “It’s not so steep.”

  “That’s a good spot,” Alex joins in.

  “One of us should stay here,” Jessie suggests.

  “I’ll stay,” Clare offers without hesitation. “Someone needs to be topside. If something happens I can make my way back and raise the alarm.”

  “Good thinking,” Jessie replies. “You ready?” she gestures to Alex.

  “Yep.”

  “OK, Clare. Give us a couple of hours then make your way back to the town.”

  She nods. “I’ll take a look for the rear of the plane. I may find some supplies.” She shrugs her shoulders.

  “OK,” Jessie replies. “Ready?” she asks turning to Alex.

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  Jessie walks for five minutes until they reach the side of the gorge where the drop is manageable and begins her descent. Allowing Alex to lead, they work their way down the slope quickly, keeping as close as possible to where the crash site should be.

  After ten minutes Jessie hears the unmistakable trickle of running water. She scans the rocks for signs of the stream. “Alex, hang on a minute,” she calls as he sidesteps down the slope. “There’s water.”

  “You beauty!” he calls back as he grasps the branch of a young tree and pulls himself up. “Where?”

  Jessie points across to where the ground seems to split. “Over there. I can hear it.”

  “I see it!”

  A trickle of water runs out between rocks and the roots of a tree. Jessie crouches and bends to scoop a mouthful of water in her hands. She swallows with relief as the cool liquid soothes her dry throat. As Alex crouches and bends to the stream, Jessie shrugs off her backpack, takes out her empty water bottle then holds it beneath the trickle until it fills. “There’s enough for us both,” she says as she screws the lid back onto the aluminium bottle.

  “Thanks,” Alex replies with an appreciative smile. He stands and looks down the slope. “The plane can’t be much further,” he says turning to Jessie with hands on hips.

  She stands and follows his gaze. “Let’s find them.” She drops the water bottle into her bag and continues the descent.

  Another twenty minutes of slipping down the slope, reaching for the next branch, and stepping to the next root or rock follow before Jessie spots the plane.

  “There,” she calls as they reach what must be very
near to the bottom of the gorge. “Do you see it?” she asks pointing to a panel, the white of its panel bright in the sun’s rays.

  “Yes, I see it,” he replies and pushes ahead.

  Jessie doubles her efforts and makes her way down, stepping carefully between the rocks that jut out of the soil and side-stepping down the steep side until she reaches the cockpit.

  She stands at its side. The nose is upended, the glass of its windshields broken, its sides crumpled and mud-smeared with deep and long scratches where the trees’ shattered branches have sliced through its shell. Taking a breath, she steps closer, wipes away the morning’s condensation and peers in through the window. She gasps and pulls back. At least three bodies hang from the seats. She screws her eyes tight.

  “What is it?”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Oh,” he replies then steps forward, wipes at the glass and looks inside. He groans and looks away, takes a deep breath then returns to the window. “Haywood, Patel, and Thirsk are still strapped into their seats. They don’t … I think you’re right … they’re dead. I can’t see Captain Ridley.”

  Jessie blinks away tears. “He’s not there, so … so he could be out there and … alive?”

  “It’s possible Jess, but it’s an awful long way to fall.”

  “Sure, sure I know that, but until we find him, we can hope.”

  “Yes,” he replies and steps away from the plane. He turns to face her, his face grim. “We can hope.”

  “We should look further up—follow the plane’s path,” Jessie suggests with a sickening thud in her chest. “You know, perhaps he’s alive and making his way back up to the top?”

  “It’s possible,” Alex replies without conviction.