The door swings open.
Michael’s breath catches as a huge blond appears, his massive frame fills the doorway of the ancient cottage. He has to stoop to step inside the room.
Michael puts up his arm in a defensive submission as the man strides towards him.
“Please! I’m hurt. I can’t move.”
The blond continues to bear down on him and Michael’s heart pounds hard in his chest. He leans back, his hand held out, palm flat. He was a gonner! The footsteps thud. Michael screws his eyes tight shut. There’s nothing he can do to protect himself from this giant. A hand grasps his outstretched one and Michael opens his eyes. The pain he’d expected doesn’t come. Instead the man is leaning over him, concern in his eyes.
“Let me help you,” he says. His voice is thick with an accent. Russian. Was he the owner? “You are burned,” he states without emotion.
“Yes.”
“Up,” the Russian commands and pulls at his arm.
“Too painful!” Michael exclaims.
The Russian pulls the coffee table away and crouches next to Michael, scoops his arms beneath him and lifts him onto the settee. Michael sucks breath in through his teeth as the pain pulses. “Thanks,” he says as he lies back against the leather. Getting to the toilet would have to wait.
Other voices fill the house and suddenly the room is full. Eyes stare at him and he leans back and closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath then opens them to look at the horde that fills his room. It had been so peaceful only minutes before and now it was alive with activity and the air is full of questions and tension. The Italian-looking woman pushes through and stands beside him.
“Clarissa, be careful,” the bearded man warns.
“He’s hurt—you can see that he’s sick,” she returns then squats down beside him.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Clarissa.” Her voice is clipped, very English, so not Italian. “This is my cottage.”
Michael groans, a mixture of mortification and relief. If these were the owners they don’t seem too bad, at least not too angry although you could cut the tension in the air with a knife.
“I’m sorry,” he says and leans back against the settee.
“Could you tell me what you’re doing here?”
“I’m sorry-”
“You already said that!” the bearded man interrupts.
“Yeah. Sorry!”
“Well?”
“After the blackout—things were turning to shit in the town. I found this place—knew it was empty and it had a stove and it was away from the chaos. It had only been one day and people were already turning on each other. I had no food, but I know how to hunt-”
An appreciative murmur from someone in the crowd.
“Yeah, I can hunt. So I knew I could find myself some food, but didn’t have anywhere to cook it, apart from a barbeque and I’d used up all my charcoal cooking some fishfingers.”
“Fish fingers?”
“Well, I was out hunting when I saw this place and saw that it had a stove that didn’t need leccy so I could cook here … and given the way people were starting to behave I thought I’d be safer here.”
“He’s right.”
“Sounds like the whole country’s going to pot.”
“And what happened to your legs?” Clarissa asks peering down at the burned flesh beneath the cling film.
A blonde woman breaks from the group. “Can I look?” she asks.
“I dunno. They’re painful.”
“I’ve got some first aid training. I may be able to help.”
“Can you wait? Janet gave me some pills—I’ll take one first.”
“OK,” she says. “Tell me where they are and I’ll fetch them.”
“On the table in the kitchen.”
“Thank you, Clare. So,” Clarissa continues. “How did this happen?”
Michael wipes his forehead again. The sweat seems thicker now, but fear always did that to him. “In the town—a group of men tried to run me down then they set light to the Police Station.”
“Jesus!”
“Did they set fire to anything else?” the bearded man asks.
“Yes, the apartments next to the Police Station. They came from out of town—at least I saw them come in down the main road into town. They had jerry cans and bottles full of fuel. I tried to stop them.”
“Did you stop them?”
“Yeah. The fire was put out before it could burn the apartment down.”
“And the men?”
“Two of them died in the fire. One of them got away.”
“It’s happening here too then?”
Michael frowns and stares at the younger woman with her dishevelled pony-tail of glossy black hair. She looks very similar to Clarissa. Perhaps her daughter? “What do you mean?”
“Terrorists are trying to burn as much of the country down as they can. They’ve gone all out to destroy us whilst the blackout has shut down communications.”
“So it is country-wide,” the tall blond says turning back to the group.
“It would seem so.”
“Are you telling me that terrorists across the country are attacking us?”
“Yes, we think so. We’ve informed the authorities.”
“Hah! There’s none of them around here.”
“No police?”
“No. The Police Station isn’t manned any more—hasn’t been for years. The nearest manned station is in Hull or Scunthorpe.”
“What about the Fire Station.”
“Nope. No personnel there either.”
“Hell.”
“Hell is right. Bloody government cutbacks. They should stop sending out foreign aid and look after those at home first.”
“Perhaps they won’t come back.”
Michael grimaces.
“Pain?”
“Yeah.”
“Take this,” Clare says as she holds out the tablet in her hand. She passes him the glass of tepid water from the coffee table. “It’s the last but one though. Jessie, do you have any painkillers here.”
“Sure, but only paracetamol.”
“That’s not going to be strong enough.”
“Then we’ll have to go into the town to get some.”
“He should be in a hospital.”
As the Tramadol takes effect the warmth spreads over Michael again and despite the beating of his heart his eyes close and he drifts back to sleep, thankful for the kindness of strangers, thankful to whoever invented Tramadol and saved him from the pain.
Chapter 18
Bill steps closer to the sleeping man and surveys him. He’s young, well at least a decade or more younger than Bill, but not as lean or muscular as he should be—too much sitting around eating junk food and gaming no doubt. At his age Bill had been in the marines a good eight years, had been on numerous special ops, killed three men and one woman, rescued hostages from Somali pirates, broken up with his first love, and watched a friend die in agony after a roadside attack on their convoy. He can’t help a smile as he notices the man’s red superhero pants but cringes when he sees his legs. They look a mess.
“He rode back here on a bike?”
“Yep, a bicycle.”
“Well, they look to be in a bad way, but if he managed to get back here on his own then they’re not as bad as they look. Must hurt like hell though,” he sucks in his breath as a wave of remembered pain makes his toes curl. “He needs to keep them clean. It could be worse.”
He straightens, knocks against Clarissa as she looks over his shoulder, then turns to Jessie and Alex. The closeness of Clarissa is distracting.
“We should get him to a hospital.”
“The closest one is twelve miles away.”
“There’s not much fuel left in the car.”
“Then we should get some.”
“From where?”
“The petrol station?”
“It won’t be running.”
“Maybe they’re
running it on a generator?”
“We might have to syphon some off.”
“Steal it you mean?”
“Well, needs must … this lad needs medical attention.”
“I can look after him until then,” Clare offers. “He does need more painkillers though.”
“He does—paracetamol won’t do the job.”
“He only has one Tramadol left.”
“Perhaps we should go into town and ask the lady who gave them to him for some more?”
“Janet. He said her name was Janet.”
“Sure. We’ll go and see Janet then we can get petrol and take him through to the hospital.”
“It might not even be operational.”
“The hospital? They’ll have a back up system—generators that run on petrol.”
“Assuming the generators weren’t effected by the EMP.”
“That’s settled then. We go back into town, find the woman who gave him the pills and ask for more, then fill up the tank with petrol.”
“Agreed.”
“First things first though. Food.”
“Agreed!”
A collective sigh erupts in the room. Michael murmurs on the couch, shifts a little then lets out a long, slow and sonorous fart.
Clarissa snorts then claps her hand across her mouth and Bill laughs from his belly. The room quickly clears.
“Perhaps they can check out his bowels at the hospital too,” he jokes as they leave the room.
Clarissa titters again at his shoulder. “It is certainly smelly!”
“It stinks!”
“Poor boy! He can’t help it,” Clare adds.
“Poor boy?” Bill laughs as he steps out into the passageway. “Poor us.”
A tap on his shoulder. “Bill, can I have a word please?” Jessie asks. “Outside?”
He follows Jessie out into the garden. The day is still warm though the shade from the trees is casting shadows and cooling the air around the cottage. A breeze rustles through the leaves. It was certainly a beautiful place to live and Bill could well understand why Michael had decided to squat here. It was just the kind of place Bill would love to spend some time. Well, he was, but not in quite the circumstances he’d like to be in.
“What is it, Jessie?” he asks though he already knows the answer.
“Uri.”
Exactly! “Uri? You mean you don’t trust him.”
“Obviously and not as far as I can throw him, which is exactly nowhere.”
“Agreed. I’m keeping my eye on him, don’t you worry.”
“Thanks. When we go to town-”
“He should come with us.”
“Agreed,” Jessie replies and Bill laughs at her sigh of relief.
“Good to know we’re on the same page.”
“It is. So, what’s the plan?”
Her confidence in him is restorative. “We should go into town before sundown and see how the land lies. We find out where Michael got his painkillers from and try to get some more from that source. If that is unavailable we go to the local chemists.”
“It’ll be closed or locked up.”
“Yep. That’s not going to stop us.”
“Sure.”
“After that we fill up the tank and take a tour of the town-”
“A tour?”
“Yes, to see how the locals are managing. They may have rallied and organised themselves or it may be a free-for-all. We need to spread the word about the terrorist attacks and organise some form of protection if the police and military aren’t already on the case.”
“I don’t think there will be a police presence and if there is …” Jessie pauses and her face hardens. Bill remembers her story of the reception she’d received back at the police station in the city. “Then we need to keep our mouths shut about the terrorists back in the city—at least my part in discovering the plot. The police weren’t exactly very understanding last time.”
“They’re bound by rules and regulations and sometimes that gets in the way of common sense. Until this crisis is over, and there are no more terrorists on the loose trying to kill innocent people, and there’s no military or police response, it’s every man for himself.”
“Agreed.”
“Bill! Jessie!” Clarissa calls from the back door.
Turning to the call of his name, Bill is captivated by Clarissa’s smile. Her dark hair hangs loose about her shoulders and some of the weariness in her eyes has disappeared. She’s obviously taken a moment to titivate her hair and freshen up.
“Just be a minute, Mum.”
“Alright, Darling. Andy has got the stove working so there’ll be a pot of tea ready soon.” Bloody Andy! “If you’re desperate though there’s water and a plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. You might like to hurry up, seems Alex rather likes a Garibaldi or two.”
She laughs then disappears back into the cottage and Bill stares after her. He’d like nothing more than to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her to him, bury his head in her dark hair and smell the soft skin of her neck.
“Bill!”
“Huh!” he turns back to the voice with a start and then an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, I was just thinking about those biscuits.”
Jessie gives him a quizzical nod as he explains his jumpiness. “We’d best go in. It’s true. Alex is a biscuit monster.”
Stepping ahead, she disappears through the door and Bill takes one last look around the woodlands. Tomorrow he’d go in and explore. There was nothing he liked more than walking through the woods—well, perhaps waking with Clarissa wrapped in his arms would beat it. He sighs and follows Jessie and instantly clenches his jaw. Andy’s laugh is overly loud, filling the kitchen. He pushes down the urge to punch the man in the face. He’d better not have his hands on Clarissa’s backside again! There’s no way he’d be able to stand the sight of that.
As Bill steps into the kitchen Andy guffaws and gesticulates as he talks to Clarissa. If Bill could just reach across the table he’d slap the back of the man’s head. You’re jealous! No. He’s just an arse. A white plate sits at the centre of the well-scrubbed pine table and on it only a single Garibaldi biscuit remains. As far as Bill is concerned it has his name written on it. He steps forward and leans to take it just as Andy’s arm jabs out, grabs the biscuit and stuffs it into his mouth. Biscuit crumbs fly as he continues to talk at Clarissa. Bill suppresses a growl of frustration as Clarissa catches his eye. He turns to leave and bumps straight into Stella.
“Oops!” She knocks towards the door, her back catching against the frame.
“Sorry!” Bill apologizes and grabs for her arm, steadying her.
“Biscuit?” she asks regaining her balance with a bright smile and offers a plate of custard creams.
“I will. Thanks,” he says reciprocating her smile and taking three. He crunches down hard on the first crisp biscuit as Andy prattles on. If that Andy doesn’t shut up soon … he chews at the biscuit with force.
“Another one?” Stella asks as he swallows the biscuit in two bites.
“Sure.” He takes a fourth biscuit without registering it and stares at Andy’s back. God but he’s irritating!
“… probably the North Koreans nuking us.”
“It was a natural occurrence,” Uri returns. “Not nuclear.”
“Then why are we being attacked? Could have been the Russians,” Andy replies. Bill sneers. Another of the man’s failings—he knew just how to tweak people and revelled in it by the look of malice in his eyes—twat!
“Pah! What does Russia want with Britain?” Uri returns with a derogatory bite. “Putin can crush you beneath his feet if he wanted—no need to use nuclear power—there are so many other, easier, ways he could destroy your infrastructure if he wanted.”
“Well, it’s unlikely to have been the North Koreans. They’ve just sworn peace.”
“Thanks to Trump.”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, Kim Jong-Un was hellbent on nuk
ing the US until Trump came along and called his bluff.”
“Yep, it’s the only language a bully knows. At least Trump had the balls to stand up to him-call his bluff.”
“Is called brinkmanship. A strong leader is what you need in this country. Then there wouldn’t be terrorists scurrying around like rats trying to burn everything down.”
“Like Putin?”
“Da, like Putin. He has balls, not like your Prime Minister. These men—they need keeping in place. Spare the rod, spoil the child as you say in England.”
“Uri, do we have to talk politics?” Viktoria asks as she steps into the kitchen and offers a biscuit to Anna. “Anna is tired and I need somewhere to wash and rest.”
“She’s right. We all need to rest—at least I do,” Clarissa says with a weary smile. Bill fights the urge to slip his arm around her waist and pull her head to his shoulder. He’d give her the support she needs. He’d be the place she could rest. “Stella, Jessie. Help me upstairs please. We’ll need to rearrange the bedrooms so there’s enough places for us all to sleep. The stove’s on and heating the water so there’ll warm water in a while. No big baths though—we have to make it stretch.” He’d share a bath with her to save water. Stop! Bill’s cheeks burn with the passion he feels rising. What the hell was he thinking? She wouldn’t want a homeless loser like him.
Chapter 19
Sam hunches over the table and rolls the cigarette paper over the tobacco. He’s down to the last pinch from his last packet. Last ever packet? It should be, but he needs to steady his nerves. His heart began to race at the first stench of smoke yesterday and the smell is stronger than ever today. He licks the paper and walks to the window, peers out and lets the curtain drop back. Nothing to see from this angle.
He lights the paper, takes a drag and coughs as the tobacco smoke hits the back of his throat. Damn! Opening the door, the day is warm but the stink of burning is like an assault on his senses. His heart thuds hard. His hand trembles. He clenches his fist. The skin still tight, scar tissue preventing a strong fist. Damn you! He takes another drag of the cigarette, coughs again, and stamps his anger onto the concrete step then slams the door shut. Nothing he could do about the fire—it wasn’t his problem any more. His belly growls. In the kitchen the fridge stands as a white and mocking slab at the end of the counter. He opens the door, grunts, then slams it shut. It’s empty. He knew it was empty. Idiot! No amount of opening and closing and looking inside will make the food appear.
Nights of Fire_An EMP Survival Thriller Page 12