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

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to just sit here waiting. It’s like hiding away, waiting to be found.”

  “Sure, I get it. What do you want to do then? Join Sam’s Militia?”

  She laughs. “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I want to take Bin Sayeed down.”

  “Down?”

  “Out then.”

  She’s deadly serious and silence sits between them as their eyes lock, all humour gone.

  “Out,” he repeats. “Out as in kill him?”

  “That’s what ‘out’ means, isn’t it?”

  Taking Bin Sayeed ‘out’ would be a pleasure. It would also be dangerous—perhaps too dangerous for their little group of misfits—even if they were talented and blessed with a particular set of skills.

  “Well?”

  “It would need balls.”

  She laughs. “I’ve got balls—you just can’t see them.”

  “You’ve got the balls, Jessie, no doubt about that, but … taking on Bin Sayeed … who knows what we’ll find. He could be armed to the teeth.”

  “He could be.”

  “He could be prepared, armed, and ready to take us on with an army of terrorists behind him.”

  “Most likely.”

  Taking out the man behind the atrocities would give Bill enormous satisfaction, although it was unlikely that Bin Sayeed was the mastermind. He was a player, a pawn among a vast network of terrorists. “You realise that Bin Sayeed’s just one link in the chain?”

  “Yes, but he’s a link that needs to be broken,” she replies with determination.

  “He is.”

  “And if we break the chain perhaps they won’t be able to mend it.”

  “Fine chance!”

  “Worth a try though.”

  He nods. What she was talking about was huge. They would be risking their lives.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. You’re deciding what our chances would be.”

  Bill nods. No smile this time. “Slim.”

  “My dad always said it only takes good men to remain silent for evil to prevail.”

  He nods again. “Your dad was correct.”

  “I won’t be a silent man.”

  “No one could accuse you of that, Jess.”

  “We have to do something—whatever the consequences. I know where he lives. I’ve seen his ‘army’ of terrorists and fought them in the streets. You’ve seen what they’re doing. They’ll go to any lengths to kill as many people as they can. There’s been no response, at least not any that I’ve seen, not from the police, the army, the navy, the air force. Maybe they are out there fighting against these people, but they’re not here, and chances are they don’t have the intelligence that we have. We can make a direct strike and take out one of the bigger cogs in the wheel. Chop its head off.”

  “Literally?”

  “Well, not literally, not unless we get lucky, but you know what I mean.”

  Jessie’s enthusiasm is contagious and Bill’s mind churns with thoughts of everything they’d need: the men, the vehicles, the weapons. He sighs. What men? What vehicles? What weapons? They had nothing but a couple of motorbikes and a car, one gun without bullets and another that had refused to work the last time it had been needed, plus a group of men and women who were already beyond tired. Add to that the fact that they had no idea what they’d find when they got there and the situation didn’t look too favourable for them. He smiles. It was just the kind of challenge Bill thrived on and, from what he could tell of Jessie, her too. He’d have to reign her enthusiasm in a little though.

  “We can’t just go barging in, Jessie. We’ll have to gather intelligence first.”

  “We can do that. We can go down there and watch him.”

  “Perhaps we can get Sam to work on one of the prisoners? They might tell us what we need to know.”

  She’s quiet for a minute. “Torture?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it that but we’d have to put pressure on them for sure—unless they came forward willingly.”

  “Hmm. But we don’t have that kind of time. It could take days and I wouldn’t trust what they said, even the information I got from the terrorists back in the city could be bogus.”

  “It’s all we’ve got to go on. If we talked to the prisoners and they corroborated that information then we could be sure we weren’t just wasting our time.”

  “Will Sam co-operate?”

  “I can ask.”

  “Ask?”

  “I can be persuasive.”

  “How quickly can you get the information.”

  “Like I said, I can be persuasive.”

  “I want to leave this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Yes. The sooner we take Bin Sayeed out the better.”

  “True, but-”

  “And we need to get down there before sunset—there are no lights remember.”

  “I remember.” Bill is silent for a moment. Jessie was right. Other than gathering forces, provisions and equipment there was little point in delaying the mission. Without communications and a reliable source of intelligence they would have to gather any information they needed at source. “Agreed. We go this afternoon, but Uri drives. He’s been akip since we got back and I need some sleep myself.”

  “You can sleep on the way down.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “So, you’ll go and talk to Sam about getting confirmation of the address from one of the prisoners?”

  “Yes,”

  “Jessie! Bill!” Stella calls from the back door. “Lunch is ready.”

  “But first, I eat. I am absolutely bloody Hank Marvin!”

  Jessie laughs. “Coming,” she calls to Stella then continues talking to Bill keeping her voice low. “After lunch we’ll get organised. We can leave by two if we get a move on.”

  “That’ll be pushing it, Jess.”

  “I’ll be here getting everything organised whilst you go to town. We can leave by two, three at the latest.”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” Bill laughs. He liked her decisiveness. She’d make a great leader if she got the chance, although having everything ready by three that afternoon would be a struggle, two would be impossible. His powers of persuasion may be finely honed but he wasn’t a magician, but after lunch he’d talk to Uri about a little visit to town.

  Harry turns back to face the road as the door closes. Nareen had been exhausted as they’d walked the last mile back to her home and the look on her face as her mother-in-law opened the door was one of pure devastation. She’d staggered then and fallen against the older woman.

  The door clicks to a shut and the heart-breaking sound of a mother’s grief muffles. Harry walks up the path, past the neatly mown grass of the postage stamp-sized front garden with its border of gaudy flowers and closes the gate. The metal latch clicks shut.

  Jenny reaches out to him and he slips his arm around her waist. She rests her head against his shoulder. “Let’s go home, hun.”

  “I know where he lives.”

  She stiffens and turns to stare at him. “And?”

  “And I’m going to kill the bastard.”

  Chapter 19

  Doctor Farhad Barzanji thanks Maria as she disappears back through the double doors of his consulting room. The last few days, since the blackout, since the aurora that was supposed to just be a spectacular display had shot them back to the Stone Age, had been hell. No, not hell. That had been back home under Saddam and then the terrorists that were destroying his land and his people, but they had been hellish. He rubs at his eyes as they burn and sips at his tea—strong and sweet. Maria was a good nurse, a good woman, he wouldn’t forget this small kindness once the country was back to normal.

  A rap at the door and it swings open.

  “Doctor Barzanji, you’re needed in A&E.”

  He stares back at Maria, the
mug still touching his lips, and nods as he closes his eyes. How much more of this strain could his body take? Weary, he finishes the warm tea in two mouthfuls and follows her out through the door. The corridor is quiet, all appointments cancelled. He thought some patients would perhaps try to make it to their appointments even without transport running, but he’d been wrong. Not a single patient had turned up to his clinic and so he’d stayed at the hospital to help where he could.

  “Details, please,” he requests as Maria strides before him.

  “Male, early twenties. Ingested glyphosate and sodium hypochlorite.”

  “Glyphosate and sodium hypochlorite!” Farhad cringes. A cocktail of weed killer and bleach. Perhaps the situation was becoming too much for people? Would they now have a stream of attempted suicides to deal with as well as the sick and the injured? It wasn’t unusual for the suicide rate to go up in times of conflict and crisis but surely not after such a short time.

  “There are two men with him although they seem very keen to get back home. I asked them to wait for you, but I’m not sure I convinced them.”

  “Odd.”

  “Yes.”

  Farhad’s heart hammers as his breath comes hard. The past few days had been hard on him. The lack of sleep and constant walking and dealing with crisis after crisis was exhausting and his body was letting him know. He was too old for this shit. His body, tortured during Saddam’s persecution of his people and then worn to exhaustion with the onslaught of ISIS, just wasn’t as strong as it used to be, not as strong as it should be for a man of his age. How he’d survived was a miracle, they’d all marvelled. He wondered too. The dark days were too many to remember though his dreams wouldn’t let him forget. He shudders and pushes at the door to let Maria through.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledges. “He’s in bed four.”

  The Major Trauma section of the Accident & Emergency ward was alive with people. Doctors, nurses, auxiliary staff, and family members all passed along its short corridors. The equipment here was working, but only because the majority of the hospital had been shut down, patients, unless critical had been sent home. For how long it would continue to work was a question on everyone’s mind. Farhad had expected the electricity to come back on yesterday, not still be relying on the generators. It was like a scene from a field hospital—worse because there they were prepared. It reminded him of the hospitals he’d seen on the television of places ravaged by war. Sure, it wasn’t the same—there weren’t the children damaged by the destruction of bombs falling from the sky onto their homes and schools, but the despair and chaos was the same, even though some of these people needed a small lesson in keeping things in perspective; an ingrowing toenail was not a medical emergency.

  Farhad pulls back the curtain. Two men stand at the back wall, their arms crossed, alert but unsympathetic. They seem more like jailers than friends.

  “Good morning. My name is Doctor Barzanji. Could you tell me what happened to your friend please?”

  “He’s no friend,” the taller one spits.

  “Oh?”

  “We only brought him here … so we-”

  “He’s a terrorist.”

  Farhad’s skin prickles as the hair on his head stands. A shudder passes through is body.

  “What do you mean?” he asks looking down at the man. Dressed completely in black the man’s dark skin is ashen. Blood seeps from his mouth and his breathing is laboured. He’s conscious but only just. Whoever he was, getting treatment was critical.

  “He’s one of them extremists. They’ve been trying to burn us all down. This one took a woman and her kids hostage.”

  “Yeah, the bastard chopped off one of the lad’s thumbs. Just a kid.”

  Farhad’s stomach churns and an old, familiar anger riles.

  “And yet you brought him here for treatment. Where is the boy?”

  “They were following us. He’s in another cubicle. The nurse said they wouldn’t be able to sew his finger back on.”

  Farhad looks down at the man. Their eyes meet for a second, both bloodshot, both burning with hate. He can barely stand to look at the man. He looked like one of them. Normal. Just any mother’s son, any man’s brother, except for the loathing in his eyes. Monster!

  “The nurse tells me has ingested poison. How did this happen?”

  “One of the lads fed him weed killer and bleach.”

  Farhad stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his doctor’s jacket. “I see. And at what time did this happen? How many hours have elapsed?”

  “We’re not sure. Sometime around dawn. The pig had sent Joshua, one of the lads, out to find food. The boy said something about it still being dark but nearly light when he broke into the shop and took the stuff.”

  Farhad does a quick calculation. It was summertime in England and dawn was about four am. “So, the poison has been in his system for about seven hours.”

  “I guess. Will he make it?”

  “What do you care?” the other one returns with derision.

  “I don’t. I want to know if he’s going to die or not.”

  “Hope so.”

  Farhad listens to the men as he checks the patient’s vital signs. His heartbeat is irregular and his blood pressure low, all commensurate with the poisoning. The man groans and pulls his legs to his chest. Already in shock, if he didn’t get treatment very soon he was likely to sink into a coma.

  “You can leave now if you wish,” he says to the men as they continue their discussion about who’s keenest to see the terrorist dead. Their chatter stops.

  “Right. Come on, Baz. Let’s go.”

  They waste no time in turning heel and Farhad watches them disappear down the corridor then pulls the privacy curtain closed. Turning back to the man, he takes a pillow from beneath his head.

  “For Rabia,” Farhad whispers as he draws close.

  The man’s bloodshot eyes widen as the pillow’s shadow falls across his face.

  Bin Sayeed saunters through to the living room. He takes a swig from the bottle and puts it down on the table before pulling a cigarette from the packet. He coughs as he inhales then slumps down in the chair. The room is flooded with light from the afternoon sun. He stands and looks out over the city. The plumes of smoke still rise in the air though the fires seem to be dead—the smoke just remnants of the horror that had consumed the tower blocks and buildings through the night. He counts them. Eight plumes. The brothers had been busy. He laughs, takes another drag, coughs and then coughs again. He bends, one arm against the wall as the coughing consumes him. His breath rattles in his lungs and the ache in his chest is intense. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. Gaunt, thinner than last month.

  “Bakir!” Jasmin’s voice calls from the bedroom.

  Wasn’t the dirty slut dressed yet? “What?” he barks.

  She quiets. Good. He doesn’t want to have to listen to her again. Why did he need her when he didn’t even want her, couldn’t even stand having her around? Lonely. Sure, he was lonely. He stubs the cigarette out then stares back across the city. If the dirty pigs thought the fires were an atrocity—just wait until tonight—then they’d know about it

  His plans are outrageous. They will shock the nation beyond recovery and his name would forever bring terror to their hearts. He smiles. One day all of this would be under their rule. One day. The government here was weak. Too afraid of offending, too liberal. When it belonged to them they would rule with a fist of iron—all would follow their rules and their laws. Idiots! The Romans once ruled the world and look what happened to them. Where was their empire now? Nowhere; brought down by barbarian hordes, their forces stretched too thinly, their borders too weak, their governments too corrupt, their flow of money outwards too vast, the walls they built not strong enough. The brotherhood wouldn’t stop until the entire world was an Islamic state and he, Bakir Bin Sayeed, would go down in history as the man who brought England to its fold. Insha’allah!

  Chapter 20

&n
bsp; Sam’s stomach growls with hunger as glass shatters. He turns to the group of men and women gathered outside the locked entrance of the town centre’s supermarket. Nothing amiss. No one throwing bricks at the glass or smashing at it with a hammer. He’d asked them to wait for the manager, told them that Grant would be here soon, and they were listening—for now.

  The noise of breaking glass splits the air again, coming from lower in the town, perhaps from King Street with its row of traditional butchers, bakers and tea shops. He strides to the top of the road and looks down the gently sloping hill. The old coaching inn sits to his left, a disused bank, transformed into a gauche pawn brokers to his right, he can see all the way to the bottom of the road. Movement catches his attention halfway down the street where Henson’s the butchers-cum-bakers sits, it’s awning folded back, its doors guaranteed to be locked. A figure stands outside, arm pulled back. In the next second the arm thrusts forward, brick in hand, and the sound of glass crunching rings in the air. The figure disappears through the doorway. It’s not one he recognises. It certainly wasn’t George Henson. At six foot-four, and with a belly that you saw coming first round the corner, he was unmistakable. This figure was slight—just a kid by the look of it. If George caught them, there’d be hell to pay.

  Sam runs down the road and skids to a stop outside the double fronted shop. To the left, glass-topped aluminium chillers sit stark, disinfected and empty. Rows of green plastic leaves topped with small red flowers act as dividers between the sections that would hold their freshly butchered meat. A wide mirror sits across the wall, and on its shelves sit cartons of eggs and stuffing mix, along with jars of various chutneys. The raider takes two cartons of eggs and places them gently in a canvas bag hanging from its arm. Hood up, Sam can’t see its face. It turns and Sam pulls back behind the pillar between the shop’s two doors. Peering round, he watches as the hooded figure stops before the tall drinks chiller then moves behind the pastry counter. On the bakery side of the shop, pies, scotch eggs, flans and Cornish pasties sit beneath waxed paper and on the shelves behind the counter are rows of covered cakes. Sam’s stomach grumbles as he watches the figure lift the covers from the first tray of cakes. A face reflects back at Sam as it reaches for a Bakewell Tart. Their eyes connect in the mirror, the girl’s hand frozen mid-air. In the next second, she grabs the tart, pulls it off the shelf then ducks beneath the counter.