Land of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 3)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “No!” his mother screams. “You bastard. You evil, poisonous, God-damned bastard!”

  Swallowing down the bile, Joshua’s rage rises and rides through every nerve in his body. He raises the long, thin knife and jumps across the small space as the terrorist kneels on Guy’s back, the blade still pressing down on his thumb. As Joshua launches himself at the man the thumb separates from the boy’s hand. With a roar Joshua slams the knife down. It catches the man across the face and slices down his cheek as he jerks back startled by the roar. He twists and Joshua is thrown against the sofa. The attacker pins him to the cushion. Guy screams with pain into the carpet and Joshua’s mother jumps to crouch next to him.

  “What have you done, you bastard!” she screams.

  “Shut up, bitch!”

  The pressure on Joshua’s chest is immense and steel fingers grip his arm. The terrorist slams Joshua’s arm against the window sill and pain rips through his wrist. His grip loosens and the blade drops behind the sofa, out of reach and useless. A hand clamps around his throat.

  “Now you understand? Huh?” the man grunts. The hand tightens around Joshua’s throat. “Now you do as I say?”

  Despite the hand around his throat Joshua stares at the man with defiance.

  “Say yes, Joshua. Just say bloody yes!”

  Joshua scowls but nods, the hand at his throat making speech impossible.

  “Yes?” the man shouts down to him.

  “Yes, yes he understands,” his mother shouts back.

  Joshua nods and grunts as the pressure in his chest becomes intolerable. The fingers release around his windpipe and he gasps at the air, sucking it down.

  “Good! Now you go out and find me food. Not this tin shit of spaghetti mess.”

  Joshua nods.

  “Yes. We go,” his mother agrees. Her face is flushed red and tears spill over her lashes. Guy writhes on the ground clutching his hand to his chest.

  “No. You stay. He goes,” the man insists poking at Joshua’s head. “Mother stays,” he spits locking his stare on Joshua’s eyes. “I kill them both if you tell. I gut them both if you not come back.”

  Joshua nods his head. His stomach rolls as he looks into the man’s eyes. Is Joshie-woshie gonna puke? Bile begins to rise and he grits his teeth. His mother sobs and Guy groans. He breaks away from the man’s stare and looks at them. Blood spreads across the carpet around Guy’s hand, giving the greyed-out roses a dark red tinge. The thumb, sat at the centre of a blown rose, looks ridiculously small. His mother’s cheeks are flushed and tear-stained and, despite the anger that rides across her face, he can sense her fear. No effing way! Just no effing way Joshie-bloody-woshie is gonna puke. He was going to man-up, get the food, then sort out the evil-bastard-pig in their living room.

  “And bring me water!” the man shouts as Joshua steps out of the front door and into the thin light of earliest morning.

  Joshua pulls his jacket around his shoulders as he tramps through the street. At first, he’d run from the house, desperate to shout for help, desperate to tell somebody that a terrorist was sat in his living room, and that the evil pig had cut off Guy’s finger and was threatening to kill his mother. He wipes the tears away from his cheek and sniffs the snot back up into his nose. His lip is wet. He wipes at it with his sleeve. A long and slimy trail of mucus runs across the jacket’s cuff. All the shops were shut and he had no money. He’d have to steal some food for the man.

  Although there’s the first hint of light as he walks past the street where the remains of yesterday’s carnage still lay, everything remains greyed-out. He’s thankful for that. A full-colour, HD render of the scene is probably more than he can stomach right now. An ambulance hadn’t come to take the bodies away and no one had buried them. He can make out the man’s shoes still sticking toe upward. His head, and what’s left of his torso, is hidden by the remains of the blackened car. He scowls at the shoes! Wants to scream ‘you deserved what you got’. Passing the road with a quickened pace he makes his way to the centre of town. The church bell chimes. He counts; one, two … five. Five am. When had he ever been up this early? Never. Only when he’d had a sleepover at Guy’s and they’d stayed awake talking and laughing. Guy’s dad had done his nut. Stomped into the bedroom at five-thirty and shouted that he’d not gotten any sleep and that he’d got to do a shift later. Joshua had slipped beneath the star-spangled duvet and feigned sleep. Grumpy old git! They’d giggled once he’d left but then fallen asleep and not woken until midday.

  A bird chirrups and another flutters in the bushes growing among the graves of the churchyard. Joshua shudders. Bones were beneath those slabs. Were they laid inside the tombs as well? He imagines a skeleton lying there. Perhaps if you slid the slab off the rectangular brick box then you could see it? Ugh! If he could move the slab and trick the man into peering in … He imagines for a moment tricking the terrorist, with his thick and angry eyebrows, to the churchyard, getting him to peer inside the tomb and then karate-chopping the back of his neck and tipping him into the brick box. The scrape of the stone slab as he pushed it back into place would be very satisfying and he’d ignore the thumping of the terrorist’s fists against the walls as he sat on top. Hah!

  He quickens his pace. If he didn’t get back to the house soon then perhaps the man would hurt his mother. If he did! Joshua’s breath catches and pain rips through his chest. If he did then Joshua would kill him dead. Anger rides over the boy and his stride bursts into a run.

  Food. Where can he get food?

  He turns off the street to where he knows his mother buys their bread and meat. The shops are dark and most have metal grilles pulled down over the wide expanse of their windows. He grabs the metal grille of the butcher’s shop and shakes it. It doesn’t budge. How was he going to get inside? It was like a fortress. What about Herons? Yes, he’d try there. They had bread and everything, and the last time he drove past with his mum at night there weren’t any metal grills across the windows even though it was all locked up and the carpark was empty.

  Within a minute he’s standing outside the small supermarket. There are no grilles across the glass but no way of getting in either. Sweat beads on his forehead and his stomach gripes. He has to get back home soon. Words repeat themselves: get the food, get back to Mum. He stares at the doors. Break the glass! Searching across the carpark he can see nothing useful to help him gain entry although the wall at the back looks really old, its bricks narrow and uneven, it was even leaning over.

  Grabbing at a brick, soft and crumbling mortar falls to the moss-covered tarmac. It sprinkles on his trainers though he doesn’t notice and, brick in hand, he returns to the shop’s entrance. He taps at the glass of the bottom pane and cringes as the noise reverberates across the empty carpark then looks around, checking to see if he’s being watched.

  He taps harder, cringing with each knock. A small scratch appears on the double-glazed window. He bangs the edge of the brick against the glass and the door judders. Come on! He takes a breath. Sod it! He had to get inside. Pulling his arm back to its full extent, he slams the brick into the window. It cracks but doesn’t break. He slams it again and again. Each time the glass crunches. It isn’t breaking! Tears spring to his eyes. “Break!” he hisses as a sob rises in his throat. “Break you bastard! Break!” He slams the brick at the glass. It cracks and splinters. “Yes!” He hammers again and shards drop. A piece catches his hand and a red line appears over his thumb. Kicking at the shards he doesn’t stop until there’s a hole big enough for him to clamber through. He knocks at the remaining glass then throws the brick to the ground.

  The shop’s interior is dark, not helped by the numerous posters slapped across the windows that block the thin morning light. He scours the shelves. Unlike the local Co-Op this shop was still intact and the shelves full. The sharp beam of his torch picks out rows of tins of baked beans and hot dogs grouped inexplicably with boxes of dog food. After this was over, he’d come back and get some dog food for Sally.
He needs a basket. Retracing his steps to the tills, he grabs a basket then moves back along the aisle. Biscuits. Everyone likes biscuits, maybe even terrorists. He grabs a packet of Jammy Dodgers and then a pack of chocolate Digestives. He hovers over a packet of Pink Panther wafers then scoops his arm across the packets. They roll and bounce into his basket. In the next aisle he grabs two loaves of bread and a packet of teacakes along with an angel layer cake. No point getting any of the frozen vegetables as there was no way of cooking them. Although … they could have a barbecue. He shines his torch into the freezer and pulls back the sliding door and grabs a packet of still frozen burgers then reaches back to the bread section to get some burger buns. His mum would be impressed he’d remembered them. Tomato sauce? Did they have any? Doesn’t matter. Come on, Josh, got to get back. What do terrorists eat? Chocolate. He moves to the tills grabbing a family pack of crisps with his favourite Worcestershire sauce flavour then grabs two, then three bars of chocolate. Fruit? He looks around. No, no fruit here. What about tinned? Voices and the patter of feet grows loud. He freezes, listens, then pulls back behind the aisle. The torch slips from his hand and rolls across the floor, shining light on the gritty tiles. It disappears under the shelf holding packets of tea. His hands trembles as he waits. Did they see the light? It shines out towards the tills. Surely, they’d see it. As he waits the voices disappear along with the thud of their boots. He sighs with relief. Best get back. Sure, but what about when he gets there? How’s he going to get rid of the man? Would he just leave without hurting them? He remembers the night’s drama and the way the man had chopped at Guy’s fingers. No. They’d come here to kill him, well, not just him, but all of them—the whole town. He looks at the basket of food.

  Poison. He could feed the terrorist poison.

  In Year Six Mrs Summerfield had told them about how the Roman Emperor Claudius died of poisoning even though he’d had a food taster to check it. Joshua had thought that was totally gross. He wouldn’t want someone eating off his plate before him.

  Looking through the basket he realises there’s nothing in there that he could mix poison with—you couldn’t exactly mix slug pellets with a biscuit. Water. The man had said to bring him water—something to drink. He puts the basket down and runs along the aisles. In the corner is a gardening section. He points the light at the range of plastic bottles and boxes. Slug pellets. Seed trays. Miracle Gro. Yes! Weed Killer. Picking up the bottle, he shines the torch on the label. There it was – a skull with crossed bones. Cola. That would hide the taste. Would bleach be better? His mum had always told him not to drink bleach. Why anyone would want to anyway he couldn’t imagine—it stank and must taste gross. But yes, bleach would be good. It was seriously nasty stuff if you drank it. Didn’t it burn through your guts or something?

  Chapter 13

  The door of the cab opens and Hazzer steps down. He grunts as his feet reach the earth.

  “Long night?”

  “You could say that,” he answers with a wry smile.

  Loud banging sounds from inside the trailer.

  “Where do you want them?” he asks gesturing to the source of the noise.

  “In the cells.”

  As the door swings open two guards point their rifles at the shambolic group, and the stench of vomit and urine wafts out, and spreads through the air.

  “Hell, they stink.”

  “Guess they shit themselves or something,” one of the guards laughs. The other snorts with a derisory laugh.

  The lorry is backed up as close to the old police station as possible and either side of the walkway Sam has position more guards, each with a weapon of sorts. Some hold pitchforks on loan from farmer Rawlins, others garden forks, axes, and crowbars. Chugger holds a chainsaw and, as the first man steps down from the truck and lands with a scowl on the grass, he pulls at the ripcord. It roars into life, the chain turning as he holds it aloft, his threat clear, no need for words.

  “Hell, Chugger. What’re you going to do? Saw them up?” one of the guards shouts down the line.

  “If I have to,” is his droll response as he stares at the first terrorist off the truck. Sam holds back the chuckle that wants to break out from his throat and maintains his grim stare at the terrorist. His eyes flicker with fear. Good! Let them feel the terror now.

  As he holds a rifle at the man’s head, with Chugger at his side, the chainsaw grinding with menace, Baz steps forward, a thick cable tie in his hands.

  “Hands out,” Sam demands.

  The man spits. A glob of mucus lands on Sam’s jacket but he doesn’t flinch. Hazzer steps forward, pulls back his arm and swings his fist into the man’s face. Blood sprays into the sunlight as Chugger lurches forward with the chainsaw.

  “Sam said put your hands out.”

  Chugger and his chainsaw are way too close for Sam’s comfort but he holds his ground and returns the terrorist’s stare. He won’t let these animals, or his men, see any indication of fear or reticence.

  Eyes full of loathing, the man relents and holds out both hands.

  “Hold them together, dipshit,” Hazzer grunts as he grabs the man’s wrists and slaps them together. The first cable tie on, he applies another.

  “Is that necessary?” the man asks with scorn.

  “Shut it you twat.” Hazzer grabs the man by the shoulder and pushes him towards Chugger. His head misses the chainsaw’s lethal rotation by an inch.

  “Carefully does it. I don’t want to have to drag his body onto the bridge and sling it over—did enough of that last night.”

  Chugger grunts then laughs as a pool of urine seeps across the man’s shoes.

  “Name?” Martha asks holding a clipboard to her belly, pen ready to record the terrorist’s details. Sam can’t help a chuckle. It was so mundane. The man mutters his name and is pulled along the path to the Police Station.

  “Next,” Sam shouts.

  As defiant as the last, this one jumps down from the lorry. “Chugger!” Sam calls. “Make sure he doesn’t move a bloody muscle.” Sam’s heart taps hard against his chest and he takes a quick breath to push down the familiar feeling of fear that slapped him as the man’s boots thudded against the stone slab of the path. “Close the doors whilst we process this one.” He wasn’t taking any chances. These men were dangerous, cut them in half and they’d have ‘hate’ printed through them like a stick of rock.

  “Name?” Martha asks above the drone of the chainsaw.

  One by one the men are cable-tied and led into the old police station. Constructed of stone a foot thick, ‘Police Station 1837’ is carved into the stone above the doorway. The cells that once held local men and women banged-up for affray, being drunk and disorderly, and even murder, before being tried, and very often ‘sent down’ by the magistrate, have become store rooms full of toys for a day care nursery. The original heavy doors however, with their sliding spy-holes and small, iron-barred windows, are still intact.

  As the last box of toys is stacked neatly in the reception area to make room for the terrorists, an enormous key is turned in its lock and thick iron bolts are shoved into place securing the men inside the cells. Each man has been searched for weapons, their wallets, lighters, and cigarettes confiscated, their shoe laces and belts removed.

  “That’ll hold ‘em,” Hazzer comments as Sam steps back from the door.

  “It had better,” he replies.

  Chapter 14

  Out of breath, Joshua steps back into the house. Sweat has broken out beneath his armpits and down his back. The back door knocks against the wall as he pushes it open, keys clink as they swing in the lock. He should have been quieter.

  He drops the bag to the floor and takes the cola from the carrier. Stupid! He should have done this before he got back home. Why didn’t he think to poison the drink earlier? Placing the bleach next to the weed killer he can’t decide which to put in the bottle. He removes the lids and smells each. Both are foul and sting his nose. Will the cola hide the smell, the tast
e? How will it even fit in? Drink it. Taking the bottle, he swallows a mouthful of cola and then another, drinking enough to make space for the poison.

  “Joshie! Is that you?” his mother calls. Usually her voice would have a sing-song lilt. Usually she’d be in the kitchen pottering about washing dishes, or preparing his tea, or sipping a coffee waiting for him to come home with a smile, a round of toast ready to be buttered, and a glass of milk. Today her voice is strained, the pitch high.

  “Just taking my shoes off!” he calls. She wouldn’t believe that but maybe the man would.

  “Alright, love,” she calls back. “Be quick. He wants-”

  A muffled and angry voice cuts her short as Joshua points the nozzle of the bleach into the top of the cola bottle and squeezes. Don’t get it on the sides. It oozes into the dark liquid. The angry voice shouts. He can’t decipher his mother’s response but it’s terse. If she’s afraid she’s not showing it and once his mother was riled she was a force to be reckoned with. He takes the weed killer, removes the top then pours it into the bottle. The cola looks only just a little emptier than when he started, he notes with satisfaction as he wipes the drips of weed killer from the sides with his sleeve—you just can’t tell it’s any different.

  A door opens.

  His heart pounds.

  Footsteps thud across the kitchen floor.

  He screws the cola bottle’s lid back on.

  A hand presses down on the backroom’s door.

  Joshua pushes the bleach and weed killer away from him and flips his shoes off with his feet.

  The door opens and Joshua stands, bag in one hand, cola in the other. “Here!” The man scowls at him as the door bangs against the wall. “I got you cola.”

  Silence.

  Dark eyes, hooded and bloodshot, stare into his then look down at the bottle.

  “Good. Give me some. What food you get? Let me see.”

  “Biscuits. I got biscuits. And burgers—for later.”