Town of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Sharing her concerns with Gabe had been a relief. She explained that, for the past days, since the blackout, she’d managed to put together reasonable meals from the cold cuts of meat and salad stuff they’d had in the fridge, but they were down to two packets of dry pasta, one small bag of rice, a packet of cheese sauce mix, and a variety of tinned beans and tomatoes that she had no way of making edible for the children. He’d agreed that as soon as the power was back on they’d start planning how to make their home a little more disaster proof. In her mind Sarah was already tearing up the grass and borders at the end of their long garden and tilling the earth to make it ready for vegetables.

  “I’m hungry, Mum.” Amy’s complaint breaks into Sarah’s thoughts.

  Her maternal guilt stings just a little sharper. “There’ll be steak later, sweetheart. Uncle Sam is organising a fun day at the park.”

  Amy groans. “Not interested,” she sighs with exaggerated dissatisfaction.

  Sarah rolls her eyes at Gabe’s amused smile. “Well, you’ve got no choice in the matter. We’re going. He’s doing a barbecue and the whole town’s invited.”

  “The whole town?”

  “Yes,” Sarah suppresses a laugh at her sudden interest. “Including the Thompsons.”

  A blush stains Amy’s cheeks. “But …” Amy pauses, suddenly a wide-eyed and startled deer. “I need to wash my hair!”

  “Well, then you’re in luck,” Sarah continues, “because we’ve got some water you can use.” She gestures to the bucket at the girl’s feet.

  “That! I am not going to wash my hair in that. It’s for watering the plants.”

  “Not anymore,” Gabe returns.

  “Ew!”

  “It’ll be OK,” Sarah placates, “we’re going to boil it first—to kill all the bugs.”

  “Ew!” Amy repeats.

  “What bugs? Let me see.” Joe pushes past Sarah and cranes his neck to look into the bucket. “I can’t see any bugs.” He pulls back disappointed.

  “You can’t see them,” Gabe explains. “They’re microscopic, but there are probably thousands of bacteria, parasites, viruses and other stuff-”

  “Ew, Dad!” Amy interjects. “Parasites—like worms that grow to ten foot in your belly.”

  Gabe laughs though Sarah peers into the bucket of water with a flash of terror. Apart from washing in the stuff she had begun to realise this may be their only source of drinking water.

  “No,” Gabe explains. “No ten-foot intestinal worms; they’re at least twenty.” His throat rumbles with a low chuckle as he pokes at the coals.

  “Dad!”

  “Other stuff?” Sarah asks.

  “Don’t worry, honey. Whatever is in there will be killed when we boil it. It’ll be good for washing.”

  “What about cooking.”

  “Sure, it’ll be good for cooking.”

  The tension eases a little. They had the barbecue and a source of water for cooking, at least for a few days.

  “We can have cheesy pasta tonight in a tomato sauce,” she says with relief as she mentally scans the cupboards in the kitchen; the last of the milk with a dehydrated cheese sauce and the remaining packet of tagliatelle.

  “What about drinking? Can we drink it?”

  “It’ll need boiling for about fifteen minutes to make it clean enough to drink.”

  “Oh,” Sarah says looking at the still tepid pan. Her mouth was already very dry and from the complaints the children had been making they were struggling with the lack of liquid too. “Can we put another, smaller pan on so that we can get drinking water quicker? I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Literally?” Gabe teases.

  “You know what I’m like without my cup of tea in the morning,” she replies.

  “Yeah, she’ll start growing fangs,” Joe adds with a cheeky grin.

  “And hairs on the back of her hands,” Amy adds with a small cackle.

  “Alright you two.” Sarah laughs as they both descend into giggles. “Careful or I’ll bite!” She growls with a comical snarl and swipes at them with imaginary claws.

  A click catches Sarah’s attention and then the neighbour’s door opens. Megan steps out onto the path. Light plays on the silk folds of her dressing gown, bringing the fuchsia peonies, blossoming across her bosom and belly, to life. A frown creases her brow until she notices the family on the patio.

  She waves and tightens the dressing gown’s belt. “Beautiful morning … I thought I could smell smoke.” Megan takes a step closer to the low fence. “Bit early for a barbecue.”

  “We’re boiling up water for washing and cooking.”

  “What a good idea! I’ve loaded up the dishwasher but of course it’s completely useless. Where did you get your water from? There’s not a drop in our taps.”

  “The rain butt,” Gabe replies.

  She looks across her own garden. “Will it be safe?”

  “Yep, and if it’s boiled for fifteen minutes you can even drink it.”

  Sarah notices the crestfallen look on Megan’s face. “What wrong?”

  “Well, we have some water in the butt, but don’t have a barbecue.”

  Sarah wants to invite her over, but that would mean sharing their precious resource and access to water was already at a critical level. “Gabe,” she says in a low voice that she hopes won’t carry. “What do we do? Should we invite her to come for a cup of tea?”

  “It’s the decent thing to do,” he replies turning his back to the woman.

  “Yes, but-”

  “I know—we can’t share our water.”

  “What if she brings her own water.”

  “We can boil it for her.”

  Sarah sighs with relief. Gabe always understood. “Megan,” she calls. “If you bring a pan of water over we can boil it for you.”

  “Oh, Sarah! Would you?” The look of sheer relief that floods Megan’s face assuages the guilt Sarah feels for not offering a cup of tea from their own supply.

  “Of course,” Gabe replies, “come on over.”

  As Megan disappears back into her house to find a suitable pan, Amy and Joe run onto the still dew-sodden lawn and play catch. The sun is bright and morning air soft, without its usual crispness, but a tightness sits across Sarah’s chest as she watches her children dance across the grass throwing the ball high and catching it with joy.

  “You know, Gabe, this blackout isn’t all bad. Look at those two. It’s so nice to see them playing together. If the electricity was still on they’d be glued to the television or one of their devices.”

  He pokes at the burning charcoal. “That’s fine for now but if this power outage continues for much longer we’re going to be in serious trouble, Sarah. We have one barrel of rainwater. Some people out there won’t even have that and it’s likely they don’t even know how to make it safe.”

  “I know.” The grip across her chest tightens. “I felt so bad about not asking Megan over for a cup of tea, it just wasn’t neighbourly, but …”

  “I know. You didn’t want to share.”

  She sighs with relief. “No! I absolutely did not want to share our water. It’s all we’ve got and-”

  “It’s OK, Sarah. I understand. We did the right thing. We have to protect our own.”

  Sarah strokes Gabe’s back as the neighbour’s door re-opens and Megan steps out with a smile, pan in hand. The cat jumps up onto the fence next to her and then jumps down into Sarah’s flowerbed.

  “Oh, Maurice. Naughty boy!” Megan chides. “Won’t be a minute,” she calls over the fence. “Just getting the water. How much should I get?”

  “Just the panful will do.”

  Chapter 6

  Sam’s legs ache as he pedals down the last stretch of road before reaching ‘home’. The weight of responsibility makes him catch his breath as the Police Station comes into view. Outside is a group of young men and women talking to the Protectors he has posted on permanent rotation outside. He hadn’t banked on there being so mu
ch opposition to the terrorists being held in the town—seemed like everyone had an opinion of just what should happen to them. He wished now that he’d taken Bill’s advice and housed them somewhere less central. However, at least the cells here were secure.

  He takes a breath and makes his best effort to look in control as he swings the bike onto the side entrance to the station and wheels it to the back. The situation at the front with the group appeared to be under control. He had every confidence in his men, they were all more qualified than him to be doing that particular job: of the four, three were ex-military and one was still in service. If anyone could keep the Police Station secure it was them.

  More pressing, and what was really preying on Sam’s mind now, was the communal barbecue. The look in Bill’s eyes as he’d asked about the amount of meat that was available for the people that would arrive to be fed had set off in Sam a response that he could barely control. His heart had begun to trip painfully in his chest and his hands trembled. He’d stuffed them into his pockets to hide their tremble and almost sighed with relief when Bill left the room to let Michael know he was there. For those seconds he’d pressed down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him; the desperate need to get back home and disappear beneath his duvet, lock himself away from the world. Inhale. Exhale. Stay Calm. The therapist’s soothing voice repeated in his mind. Focus for a moment. Choose an object. Any object. He’d stared at the large white dog, and its huge brown eyes. Now let all other thoughts disappear. He’d taken deep breaths and stared at the dog, examining its fur and snout, the blood that made it shine pink, and the rising panic had subsided. With relief he realised he was getting better at avoiding full-blown panic attacks. When the dog had plodded across to him and sat by his side then nudged at his hand with its head, he’d felt the tension flow out of him and, by the time Bill returned, his heartbeat had slowed. He’d stroked the dog and marvelled at how relaxed it made him feel to pet it. Perhaps that’s something he should do—get a dog. Come to think of it, Judy, his therapist, had mentioned about it before but he’d been in no place at the time to even consider taking on that responsibility.

  He rests the bike against the wall of the station and glimpses at the men sat at their table in the Guard Room as he passes the window. They sit in animated conversation, laughing, at ease but alert. Good men, each one. He pushes on through and checks in with them before making his way to the office. All is well. Nothing to report. Prisoners fed and watered at eight am. Each one taken out to the toilet. Or rather, the trench that served as a toilet. Without water, using the actual toilets in the building wasn’t possible. The situation could have become nasty, in the worst way, if Chugger hadn’t suggested an outdoor latrine that could be covered over with wood-shavings. They’d set up a make-shift fence so that there was at least some privacy but not enough that the guards couldn’t see the prisoner at all times. Sure, it was undignified but, given the circumstances, it was the best they could offer—it was also more than they deserved.

  He sits down with a thud into the manager’s chair and leans back into its soft and cooling leather. Inhale. Exhale. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and lets the tension ooze away. He could quite easily fall asleep.

  A soft tap at the door and Martha enters without waiting for his response. “You’re back.”

  “I am,” he replies with a grin. “In body, if not in spirit.”

  “Did you see Michael?”

  “Yes. I’ve arranged for Uri to collect the radio and handsets from Michael’s house and he’s agreed to listen out for any communications. We need to know if the police or military are operational. We need some help around here.” An invisible weight presses against his shoulders and back, squeezing at his chest. “If we don’t get water to the town soon …”

  Martha takes a step closer. “You alright?”

  “Yes, but …” he hardly dares say it, “I think I may have made a huge mistake organising this barbecue.”

  “Why? No, of course it’s not a mistake. The people need food and the meat needs to be cooked or it’ll all just go to waste.”

  “I know, but Martha, I don’t think we’ve got enough meat to feed everyone who needs it.”

  “Well … they’ll just have to have smaller portions, Sam.” We can cut the steaks up. I bet George and Blake have cut them up as they normally do, and his steaks are big.”

  “Yes,” Sam says with relief. “I think you may be right. What would I do without you?”

  She laughs and walks across to the chair and bends down to kiss him. He pulls her to his lap and throws his arms around her. Sinking into the softness of her warm body he closes his eyes and lets her smell overwhelm him. “Why do you always smell so good?” he asks and gives her a gentle squeeze.

  “Hah! I’m just naturally gorgeous I guess,” she replies and strokes at his hair. “I won’t smell great for long though.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s no water for washing and I used the last of my wipes this morning.”

  “So, you’ll be stinky soon then?” he teases.

  She laughs in return at his jibe. “Yep, and so will you.”

  “We’ll be stinky together then.” He squeezes her once more and, overcome by his need for her, thankful for the ease she brings to his soul, he strokes her back. “So … perhaps we could be Mr and Mrs Stinky?” The words slip out of his mouth without thought, an instinctive need for her taking over. His heart pounds as she quiets and pulls away from his embrace. Where the words have come from he has no idea, but he knows, with absolute certainty, that making her his wife is exactly what he wants.

  “You mean …”

  “Yes, Martha. I want you … need you … to be my wife.”

  “But … don’t you think I’m a little … old for you?”

  “Martha. You are beautiful to me and twelve years isn’t such an age gap.” He waits. “So, will you?”

  She sniffs and he realises that tears have welled in her eyes and threaten to spill over her lashes. Oh hell! She doesn’t want to. He can’t think about that!

  “Then yes, I will, Sam!”

  “Yes!” He tightens his embrace and they twirl in the large office chair as she presses her lips to his.

  Heavy footsteps in the corridor and the door swings open.

  “Oh!” Baz stares into the office. “I thought something happened.”

  “It has.” A ridiculously large smile breaks across Sam’s face. “Martha is going to be my wife.”

  “About time somebody made a respectable woman of her.” Baz winks and begins to close the door.

  “Oy!” Martha throws an imaginary object at Baz as he disappears.

  “Mrs Martha Monroe,” Martha rolls the words on her tongue. “Has a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly is better than Lilicrap,” he teases.

  “Oy!” She slaps Sam’s shoulder with a gentle pat.

  Sam ignores her mock scowl, returns the laugh, then becomes serious once more. “Right. Enough of this.” Coming back to his senses, Sam remembers the day ahead. “We’d better get this barbecue organised.”

  They discuss the proceedings for the next few minutes: the meat is to be cut into smaller portions and heavier security is to be organised. Martha also suggests that lines demarcate the queues leading to each barbecue station. “It’s the only way of keeping order, Sam. Otherwise it’ll be a free-for-all.”

  The onerous nature of the task is dawning on Sam as Martha continues with suggestions as to how they can keep things in order; there’s so much that needs organising between now and when the first hungry people would arrive to be fed. “You’re absolutely right.” Sam stands to leave. “I’ll talk to George myself.”

  Uri crouches next to the coffee table. Motes dance in the warmed air as streaks of sunlight shine into the room. His white-blond hair shimmers like a golden halo as he attaches the radio’s wires to the battery. He mutters in Russian. The moment is tense.

  “But Uri, I
would like to take Anna to the barbecue.”

  This was a private conversation and it was unusual to hear Viktoria speak to Uri in English. Michael could only assume it was for his benefit—so that he could back her up.

  Uri replies to his wife in Russian as he stands and turns away from her frown. “There, Michael. It is ready. You try now.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Michael leans forward, taking care not to move his legs too quickly. The skin of his lower legs is taut, they feel tight and he wonders if he will ever get them working properly again. At least, thanks to Clare’s diligence, they were clean and mending, free from infection. The Tramadol Uri had brought back from Grahame when he went to collect the CB radios helped too. The pain, once the pills wore off, was a bugger, but this morning, for the first time, he’d not been quite so desperate to take the next dose. They made him feel shit - like the world wasn’t quite real - which was disconcerting. He wanted to be fully aware and operational, particularly now that Sam had given him the job of organising communications.

  “But Uri,” Viktoria tries again. “We have been stuck here for days. The barbecue sounds like fun. There is going to be music-”

  Uri’s jaw clenches. Michael focuses his attention on the radio.

  “I told you, Viktoria.” This time he answers in English. “Barbecue is dangerous. You and Anna are safe here. We ask Bill to bring back food. We stay here.”

  Viktoria stares back at her husband, defiant. Michael twiddles the knobs on the radio’s consul. Viktoria huffs then turns on her heels and disappears into the kitchen.

  Clare clears her throat as Uri stares into the now empty hallway. He mutters in Russian then follows Viktoria to the kitchen.

  “Something’s wrong in paradise,” Michael quips. Clare shushes him with a gentle elbow to the ribs. “Steady on, girl! That’s assault, that is.”

  Clare laughs. “You are a terrible patient. Now, show me how this works.”