LAND OF FIRE
BLACKOUT & BURN SERIES Book 3
Rebecca Fernfield
LAND OF FIRE
BLACKOUT & BURN SERIES
BOOK 3
By
Rebecca Fernfield
Ebook first published in 2018 by REDBEGGA LIMITED
Copyright REDBEGGA LIMITED
The moral right of Rebecca Fernfield to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com
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Created with Vellum
For Safiyyah, Evie, Harrison, Mia & Jacob.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author Notes
Also by Rebecca Fernfield
Chapter 1
Joshua stares at the pair of trainers from behind Guy’s shoulder; they’re all that remains of the man. He squints and grimaces, fending off the horror as his eyes follow the legs to the head lying in the road. Not that you could really call it a man. The shape was the same, but the body was contorted and the flesh blackened and raw. Bile surges to his throat. The stench in the air is rank.
“It’s still smoking!”
He turns and retches. Vomit spews to the tarmac.
“Watch my bloody shoes, Josh! They’re new!”
He retches again.
“Look at his face! You can see the bones and his nose is gone!”
“Jesus, Guy. Get away.”
“Bloody pussy! Man-up Josh.”
Sweat beads his brow as a cold shiver runs through him. “It’s gross!”
“You boys!” A woman, her red hair still in curlers, shouts from an open doorway across the road. “Come away from there.”
“Just looking, missus!”
“Well don’t. You’ll be having nightmares. Don’t you have homes to go to? Your mother’s will be worried.”
“Nosey old bag,” Guy mutters.
“Come on, Guy. Let’s go.”
“Just a minute.” Guy is curt as Joshua tugs at his sleeve. “It’s like something out of a horror film. Sick! And whiff up!”
“What?”
“It stinks.”
“Yeah.” Joshua’s stomach rolls again.
“It’s their flesh cooking—like a barbecue.”
“Come on, Guy!” Joshua tugs at his friend’s sleeve. “I’ve gotta-” His stomach heaves. Bile hits the wall and spatters back onto his jeans.
“Hurl?” Guy laughs.
How the hell can he laugh when Joshua is nearly dying? The sight of the men lying scorched, burned beyond recognition, their arms and legs contorted by the fire, was more than he could take. His dreams would be haunted for years.
Joshua wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “C’mon. This is creeping me out.”
“Pussy!”
“Piss off!”
Guy elbows his ribs as he strides from the scene. Torch in hand he lights the path and walks away from the crowd of men and women that had gathered to gawp at the burned-out cars and smouldering bodies littered across the street.
“Did you see that one with the bolt sticking out of its eye? Sick!”
Joshua groans. Yes, he had. “Yeah. Sick!” he replies, taking a breath to push down the queasiness roiling in his belly.
“Wish I’d seen it all. We missed out. Bet it was like watching a film. Messed up!”
“Hah! Yeah. Who do you think they are—were?”
“Terrorists. We showed ‘em though. Don’t mess with a Brit,” he says, punching at the air with his fist. “We’ll burn you alive—hah!” Guy laughs as he strides next to Joshua then quiets. They walk in silence for a moment. “Do you think they’ll come back?”
“The terrorists? Dunno,” Joshua returns, and looks back to the crowd. Nothing can be seen apart from silhouettes and the odd flash of a dark jacket or a pale face lit up by one of the numerous torches among the crowd.
“What’ll they do with the bodies?”
“Dunno. What do they normally do with bodies?”
“I saw a car crash on the motorway, and they took the bodies away in an ambulance.”
“Then I guess that’ll happen.”
“Nah. There’s no way of getting one here; all the power’s dead.”
“Bury them then?”
“Yeah, they’ll have to, otherwise the dogs’ll have ‘em.”
“Gross!”
“Sick!”
Joshua’s stomach rolls again as he imagines Sally, his golden Labrador tearing into the leg of one of the burnt men.
“Maybe I should bring Tilly down here tomorrow and let her chow down.”
“Jesus, Guy!”
“Why not?”
“Well-”
“We used our last tin of dog food yesterday and Mum’s got no money to buy any more. She said she hasn’t got any cash until the banks open, so why not? It’s cooked meat—just go to waste otherwise.”
Joshua dry retches and Guy snorts with laughter.
“Just shut the hell up, Guy!”
“Don’t worry baby—you’ll soon be back to mumsy.”
“Shut up! My mum’s on her own. I shouldn’t have left her.”
“Alright! Keep your hair on.”
The road ahead is dark, and Joshua’s stomach raw, as they turn the corner. Only one more street to go and he’d be home; back to safety, back to his mum, and away from the stench of burnt flesh and Guy’s incessant, gut-wrenchingly forensic, descriptions of what they’d just seen. Perhaps it would be a good idea to stay clear of Guy for a few days. They’d been friends since primary school and Joshua knew how this would play out; Guy would talk incessantly about it for hours, days and maybe even weeks. He’d live off it! Yep, he needed a few days of time-out. What he’d seen tonight had chilled him to the bone.
They’d caught the last scene of the fight as though it had been the last minutes of a particularly violent film, definitely an 18. He’d watched ‘Kill Bill’ and a bit of ‘Pulp Fiction’ with his cousin Craig last Christmas and what they’d seen on the street wasn’t much different. Craig had pretty much forced him to watch the films, said they were vintage Tarantino and part of his ‘cultural education’. Joshua had regretted it. He’d tried to make excuses and wished his mum would call him
down to go home, but she’d been too busy drinking wine and gossiping with Aunty Susan to bother.
“It’s no different from playing ‘Call of Duty’. What’s your problem? Is Joshie-woshie scared?”
“Shut up, Guy!” The boy was really starting to get on his nerves.
Guy stops and shines the torchlight under his chin. A noise of shuffling sounds from somewhere behind him. “What’s up?” he asks in a wheedling, mocking voice, whilst grotesque shadows play over his face cast by the torch’s light. The shuffling sounds again and then a face looms behind Guy’s shoulder. Joshua screams as Guy’s torch falls to the floor with a clat. It rolls across the path shining its light across the tarmac. Guy grunts, his shout strangled and wet.
Joshua shines his torch at his friend. Leaning back at an impossible angle, his feet scrabble at the ground. A man’s face, twisted and ugly with anger, sits above his head. Guy gurgles and shunts back as an arm grips tight around his throat whilst a steel blade points at his temple. Joshua stares in confusion as the light shines on his friend and the huge man grasping him. The moment is weird, as though he’s stepped into a horror film.
“Take me to your house.”
“What?”
“Take me to your house or I kill him.”
The accent is thick, guttural, not one Joshua recognises.
“My mum doesn’t like strangers in the house.”
“I kill your mother too. Now take me to your house.”
“What?” Joshua stares as he struggles to process the commands and the scene before him. The tip of the blade presses harder against Guy’s temple. The boy squeals.
“Stop!”
“You take me to your house.”
Guy tries to shout but his voice is a gurgle as the man gives his throat a violent squeeze with the crook of his arm. “Shut up!” the man hisses into Guy’s ear, his eyes locked onto Joshua. “Move!”
Joshua nods. His belly tenses. Oh, hell! He was going to puke again. He takes a breath and another step forward.
“Move it!” the man hisses, the threat in his voice intense.
Joshua picks up his pace to a stride. Every muscle in his body in shock, he walks unsteadily up the path to his door. His head swirls. He staggers then hits his shoulder against the wall as he reaches for the handle. A sheet of white, cold and calming, descends over him, washing down from his head to his toes. Bright. Everything is white and gone. Whited out. Then nothing. Just black.
Chapter 2
Clarissa’s face is drawn, her breaths rasping and skin sallow beneath the light. It had taken them three times as long as it should have to get her back to the house; Uri had driven at a snail’s pace, every bump in the pot-holed road an agony. Her eyes flicker open and she attempts a smile.
“Is it morning?”
“Shh! Don’t talk,” Bill replies. “It’s after midnight. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.”
Her eyes close again and Bill stands, wincing at the burning ache in his thighs. Every part of his body feels stiff. He rolls his shoulders to release the tension. Getting Clarissa out of the car and into the house, then sitting her in the chair, had terrified him but they’d managed and she was still alive—he hadn’t killed her, but if they didn’t get her to a hospital soon … he couldn’t think about that.
“Is she awake?”
“No.” Bill’s voice is curt.
“Oh, I-”
“Sorry, Clare. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“We’re all on edge. I understand.”
“Sure,” he nods though his face remains tight as more figures move into the room. “We have to get her to the hospital, Jessie.”
“How do we get there?” Uri asks from the doorway.
Despite sleep, Clarissa’s face is pinched.
“We’ll have to drive her—in the car.”
“Move her again?” The anxiety in Stella’s voice is obvious.
“We have no option.”
“Da,” Uri continues, “but that is not my question. How do you suggest we get to hospital? There is no fuel in car.”
Bill takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. Uri was right. And there probably wasn’t even a petrol station left to attempt to get petrol from. Bloody terrorists! He’d string every last one of them up. “Exactly how much fuel do we have left, Uri?”
“Light is orange.”
“Sod all then!”
“Da, sod all.”
“We have go back to town,” Jessie says with conviction. “We can syphon some off.”
“I’ll go back with Uri,” Bill replies. “You need to rest that arm.”
“I’m done with sitting back and resting,” Jessie returns. “I can help.”
“Help by staying here, Jessie. It doesn’t take us all to fill a tank with petrol.”
“What if they come back? You’ll need me then.”
“They’re all dead.”
“There are plenty more out there.”
“Sure, but what’s the likelihood of them coming back tonight whilst we’re syphoning off some petrol?”
“OK. OK. I’ll stay here.”
“Good. Get some shut-eye. I’ll need you on top form tomorrow.”
“Yes, sarge!”
Bill laughs. “Good girl.”
Jessie snorts but not with derision.
Another blast detonates and the glass vibrates. The fifth to ricochet through the night. Sam flinches.
“That’ll be another gas cannister going off,” Ken suggests as they continue their dogged pace.
The fire has raged for hours, spreading to the houses either side of the petrol station and, with no way of drawing water, there is nothing he or Ken can do other than keep the public at a safe distance. The fire brightens the night and illuminates the road down to the mini-roundabout at the bottom of the hill. Pushing through the crowd that has gathered to watch the burning flames, he crosses to the low and broken wall of the house opposite the station. The fronds of the ornamental palm tree brush his face, the splintered trunk reaches across the path at an awkward, drunken angle. Perhaps he should come back tomorrow to chop it down? He swings the torch back to the road. Black tyre marks streak across the tarmac in the direction of the tree, another indication of the extreme force used to attack Michael. Sam can only imagine the terror he went through. Mind you, the terrorists got their come-uppance according to Grahame who’d witnessed the later attack. Michael had fended them off. A true hero Grahame had trumpeted; the attackers had been killed, the residents had been saved a horrible death, and their homes remained unburnt, although Michael had paid a price. That was another thing Sam will have to do, take witness statements. He may not be a police officer but he knows that when things settle, questions will be asked, and evidence needed. The bastards would pay, one way or the other, they’d pay.
He shines his torch among the rubble of the broken wall. Red paint is imprinted on the bricks—perhaps from the same red car that still smoulders in the road back where the four strangers had given the terrorists a kicking. Ken kicks at the bricks.
“You reckon that’s where they rammed Michael?”
“Looks like it.”
“What the hell is going on Sam? It’s like something out of a nightmare.”
Sam looks up to the burning wreck that had been the petrol station and the myriad people standing around. The tension among the crowd is intense. “Terrorist attack.”
“I never thought … I mean I’ve seen it all on the news and read about stuff online, but hell, I never thought it’d come to my doorstep. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.”
“And where the hell are the police and the military?”
“Guess they’re in the same fix as the fire service—no contingency plan for an EMP.”
“So, nothing works.”
“That’s right.”
“Christ!”
“Yep.”
There’s silence between them as they survey the people and the wreckage. The noise of an e
ngine roaring in the distance breaks through the crackle of fire and the disgruntled murmuring among the people as Sam watches the flames leap through the pan tiles of the third house in the terrace. A woman sobs and covers her eyes as a man places his arm around her shoulder. A deep anger swirls in Sam’s belly. “Ken, if we’re on our own … I mean, if there’s no police and no military then we’re going to have to protect ourselves.”
“How the hell do we do that? This isn’t America. I haven’t got an armoury in the shed or a secret bunker at the bottom of the garden.”
“You wish!”
“What then? What’re we going to do?”
“Well, first off … I say we blockade the roads into town. That’ll stop them getting through.”
Ken nods but doesn’t look convinced. “I guess that could work, if the blockade was manned.”
“That’s exactly what we need to do. We should gather a force of protectors together.”
“Agreed. But who?”
“There’s Baz and Jack Shipton – they’d both be up for it.”
“How about Andy Pettifer and Sean Bramley; they’re both ex-army. And what about Paddy Docherty? Is he on leave?”
“No idea, but I bet Martha’ll know.”
“Oh, aye?”
“No, not like that. She’s a landlady—they know all the gossip.”
“Right.”
The sound of glass shattering breaks into the conversation and the car’s engine grows louder. Sam’s heart begins to beat faster and the familiar hammering of rising panic makes him catch his breath. Steady on, Sam. Take a breath. That’s right. Breath in. Exhale. Breath in. Exhale. Sure, Judy. I know, I know. He takes another deep breath to calm himself then turns his attention to the noise.
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