Alex Knightly - Sudden Darkness - A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Thriller

Clive smiled. He enjoyed Mark’s dark humour—it was a common thing in the force. But something about what he’d heard made him uneasy. Was he really that out of it these days? He’d been a bit surprised by the amount of traffic on the roads at that time of the morning, but he hadn’t noticed any crashes. Had he been that self-absorbed by his own problems?

Mark noticed his confusion. “Just outside. A taxi that was passing ploughed into a van.”

Clive shook his head. “Now, wait a minute. Cars crashing, the power’s out…” he swallowed. None of that was as important as the other thing Mark had mentioned. “You said the radio. It can’t be. It’s all battery operated. As you should know—we’ve changed the thing enough times.”

“I know. That’s why it surprised me. I’ve tried it.”

“Are you sure the battery hasn’t worn down?”

“Certain.”

“Even so, shouldn’t we—”

“Already have,” Mark interrupted. “I changed it. Twice, in fact. The damn thing’s still dead.”

Clive shook his head as he realised the implications. “Jesus, Mark. With no phones, how’re we supposed to get in touch with anyone?” He stopped and the cogs started working in his mind. The Right Honourable Charles Macintosh was a notorious Luddite who refused to embrace modern technology. To that end, he’d insisted on keeping his landline. Clive beelined for the front parlour now.

“I’ve already checked,” Mark called after him. “It’s dead too. Clive, I really don’t like this.”

Clive entered the musty room and strode over to the phone to check for himself. He turned around, trying to process everything he had just heard. Maybe the IPCC was the least of his worries.

Before he could speak, there was a phlegmy cough from outside the door. His heart sank.

“What on earth is this racket? You’re paid to look after me, not act the nuisance. At least make yourselves useful and make me a cup of tea. Bloody housekeeper is nowhere to be seen as usual.”

Mark shrugged and Clive moved to the door with a sigh. It was his turn. Mark had been dealing with the old goat since the previous evening. He moved through to the kitchen at the back and held the old kettle under the tap, cursing when he realised the water was out too. Of course it was—it had been a trickle in his flat when he ran the cold tap to splash water on his face before he left.

“You’d think,” Mark said quietly, “that the old prick might realise we’re not paid to wait on him hand and foot.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the water was out?”

“Good excuse to get away.”

“We’re supposed to be protecting him, not hiding,” Clive muttered. He turned and leaned against the counter, frowning. An idea had stuck in his head and he was having trouble processing it. “What’s going on, Mark? There’s been no word that it’s an attack, but then how could there be with the phones and radios out?”

Mark shook his head. “You’re right. I’ve been sitting around here waiting for someone to come and update me but there’s been nothing. And why would there be? Old Charlie’s an embarrassment to the government these days. They’ll be focusing on getting the PM and the cabinet secured in the bunkers under Whitehall. No-one cares about a racist old Tory who rarely ventures out in public anymore.”

“What time are you on ’til?”

“Twelve. Then I’m pissing off out of here to find out what the hell is going on.”

“Who’s on after you?”

“Nathan.”

Clive winced. Nathan wasn’t a bad lad, but he was one of those ambitious kids who saw protecting an old PM as beneath him compared to the more exciting assignments in the branch.

“I know,” Mark said, looking at him sideways. “Nothing like a young gun to make you feel like a washed-out has been. Still, it’s better than being back on the beat.”

“Is it?” Clive shook his head. He’d thought about that a lot. Long gone were the days he’d travelled all over the world and worked with elite government officers in other countries to keep everyone safe. Patrolling the streets seemed to him like a far more dignified way to spend the last years of his career than making tea for a horrible old snob.

Mark folded his arms across his thick chest. “What got you here, mate? Since we’re opening up and all. You’re still in good nick, fitness wise. I can tell. And you’ve never been one to rock the boat with the higher-ups.”

Clive froze. “Come on. We should go check on him. Especially when we don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Annie hadn’t slept. How could she, when every time she closed her eyes she found them opening again to check if the streetlights had come back on?

They hadn’t.

She sat up, shivering as she grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bed. She had underestimated the strength of the heating in the place because it was colder now than she ever remembered it being. She’d also underestimated the damp—the air felt so clammy that she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel warm again.

Was it an EMP? she wondered. Is that even possible?

She wrapped the robe around her, deep in thought. She had a tendency to think the worst, so she knew better than to panic. She climbed out of bed and pulled her laptop from its battered case.

She had worked in business continuity in Manchester years ago and that was what she was doing in London now, but she was out of practice. Her current contract was for a startup that had quickly gone global and she’d been excited to get back into the sector—until she realised her division was little more than a PR exercise to appease one of the more conservative directors. Rather than come up with a plan for real worst-case scenarios, she had been told to dial it down and stick to something easy to solve.

Now she regretted shutting up and taking the money. Her knowledge of electromagnetic pulses was hazy. As far as she knew, their use as a weapon was still theoretical. Which was a good thing, of course. Set one of those off, the theory went, and you could wipe out an entire country’s grid. Not just the power network, but every single piece of circuitry, no matter how small.

She shivered even though her robe was thick and warm. She hit the power switch to her laptop, but the screen remained black. She slammed the lid down. It was looking more and more like an EMP, but she didn’t have a hard copy of the notes she’d taken before she came down to London to take this job.

She was alarmed by the tears that had come so easily. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. She wasn’t a crier. She often got carried away thinking of doomsday scenarios, but it had never driven her to tears before.

There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this , she told herself. Now, get up and stop feeling sorry for yourself or you’ll be late.

She moved on autopilot to the bathroom. She squeezed toothpaste onto her toothbrush and turned the tap on. It spluttered and gurgled. She turned it off quickly.

I should save water.

She hurried to the kitchen, swallowing back the feeling of dread that had risen inside her.

If this was a natural solar event the meteorological service would have warned us. And if it was an attack… well, that’s just ridiculous. We’re not at war with anyone.

She grabbed a saucepan and held it under the cold tap until the last drop had gurgled and hissed its way out. She found the next biggest pot and did the same thing with the hot tap. There wasn’t much. The tank mustn’t have had a chance to refill after her shower the night before.

She slammed lids on the pots, irritated. The water company should have had generators. Her mind started to wander; to try and explain this oversight, but this time she wouldn’t allow it. She grabbed a breakfast bar from the cupboard and allowed herself some water to wash it down.