Monday 26th January, 3.30 pm

‘1f you want Fran to die, add two. That’s zero-two if you would like to say goodbye to Francesca.’

Fran unstuck herself from the couch and reached for the alarm. In the background a man on telly with no face and no body was saying: ‘To dump Aron dial 0800 8001. Or, if it’s Michelle you want to dump, add 2, that’s 0800 8002 if you want to say goodbye to Michelle.’

Michelle? Fran paused to confirm she had been asleep for two episodes. Yep, it was 3.30 pm. She switched off the alarm, then on and off again, but the noise continued.

There was an emergency siren coming from outside. She checked online – no updates for Ash Mountain yet, no need to panic.

‘Dad, the town siren’s going off,’ she yelled from the hall. ‘Not sure why, nothing online. I’m going to get Vonny, back soon.’

Fran grabbed her backpack and shut the door behind her.

She knew she couldn’t Leave Early, but expected she’d at least Believe Early; and not be one of those ignoramuses who are like, Hey take my pic, Check out Nature, Is that…? Can you please tell me what I’m seeing? Believing was proving difficult, however. To her right, coming in from the north-west, a gigantic wall of black and grey and red, a tsunami of smoke hundreds of metres high, had cut the world in half. She lost a few seconds to disbelief – Was it just clouds? Aliens? The 4sherry she’d had at 10.20 am? She raced back inside to her bedroom and threw on jeans, jumper, leather boots, gloves, and a beanie. She put a blanket in her backpack, ran down the hall and hugged her dad: ‘There’s a fire to the north, you follow the drill.’ Shutting the front door behind her once more, she checked that all the windows and doors were closed, that the sprinklers were on and the roof damp. She considered the four-wheel drive, but Dante had taken it to the beach with Tiffany. She considered going back inside again and staying there, which would be safe, probably, but she had to be with Vonny, no matter what, so decided against it. She considered the two remaining ostriches and, as per the fantasy she secretly enjoyed sometimes, decided against them.

On foot, the convent hall was a kilometre south-east of the farm. She knew the route too well, every dry inch, and thumbed her phone as she pounced over ditches and dead marsupials.

‘Triple Zero,’ said a woman. ‘What’s your emergency?’

‘There’s a firestorm coming straight for Ash Mountain,’ said Fran, breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. ‘It’s above McBean’s Hill. There are embers – ow, shit. It’s coming fast; something’s happened. The sky, oh my God, and the wind’s gone crazy. No-one knows here, there is nothing online. We need help.’ She couldn’t hear what the woman was saying – nothing useful. Was she on hold? She hung up and dialled her dad. Engaged.

Somehow, she was still running, and she only winced a little when three kangaroos overtook her, embers landing on their backs from the reddening sky. Thank God, her dad answered this time: ‘It’s bad, and close,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I left you alone there, but I have to be with Vonny. You stick to the plan though. We’ll be home soon.’ 5

‘On you go,’ said Dad.

There was no answer from The Captain, no answer from Vonny. She left voice messages for both as she passed the spreading desert of commuter boxes surrounding the sign:

ASH MOUNTAIN
Population: 867

Feeling the heat as she ran up the walking trail, she dialled home again. ‘Dad? I’m seeing flames. Are you okay?’

‘All good, it’s missing us. Where are you?’

‘I’m nearing the monument. Ow, I’m … Tell me what to do.’

‘Get inside, block both top and bottom doors, and stay in the middle till The Rumbling stops. You’ll be fine in there. See you on the other side in fifteen. Go.’

The bluestone tower was on the top of the hill, only twenty metres away, but she was dream-running, not getting anywhere. It was only when she collapsed that she realised the air was no longer air. Like in a panic attack, an asthma attack, she could not squeeze any in. Her eyes were burning and a missile hit her foot. When she felt the pain she scrambled to standing and staggered towards the gothic tower. A eucalyptus bomb hit her back as she opened the thick door. She closed it behind her and looked for rubble to seal the cracks. There wasn’t anything suitable – only a used condom, three empty beer cans.

It was so hot, and the world had turned terracotta.

No time to waste on cracks, she ran up the winding inner staircase to close the hatch door at the top. It was already shut. She ran halfway down again, placed herself in the recovery position, and waited for The Rumbling. 6

The sudden still was confusing. She was inside a stone tower, so perhaps that’s why there wasn’t a breath of a wind, no bird chirping, no town siren. All she could hear was her breathing. It was dusk-dark inside, weak waves of blood-orange light softening the twenty feet above and twenty feet below her curved step. Perhaps it had passed. Perhaps the thick drops of the cool change had brought boys and girls outside into gardens to rejoice in the wet.

It was too still. Thunder always accompanied the ecstasy of a cool change.

Maybe she was dead and this was Hades. Growing up she’d often wondered that.

Or the wall of grey was a spaceship after all, and she was now inside it. Fran was totally willing to go with the alien hypothesis, but then the silence stopped. A noise. What was that noise?

Several jet engines seemed to be heading towards her.

The Rumbling.

She looked at her watch. 3.37 pm. By 3.52, it should get quiet, and be safe to step outside. She covered her ears and counted sheep, and when they started burning in her mind she counted spoons, and when they melted in her mind she counted…

She would count Vonnies, that’s what: Veronica.

Beautiful Vonny.

Burning Vonny.

Two minutes in, thirteen to go. She inhaled hot dirt and resolved:

My Vonny. 7

Fran pulled the beanie over her head, and the blanket from her backpack over her body. She pressed her face to the ground and, for the next thirteen minutes, trembled no more than the seventy-foot rock in which she was encased.

Dear God Dear God Dear God.

Someone was praying, which meant someone was alive. Not Fran, she never prayed, did she? Dear God, forgive me.

It was Fran. She lifted the beanie from her head, coughed, and covered herself with it again. Holding the blanket over her head, she ascended the stairs on her hands and knees, making one blind plea per step – Dear God, Please God – till she reached the top. She wrapped a sleeve round her gloved hand to push the hatch door open, and crawled out onto the edge of the smoking lookout. This was the highest point in the Shire. If Fran took the beanie off, she’d see all the way from the Ryans’ to the Gallaghers’. She’d know everything.

Fran did the sign of the cross and said a prayer: ‘Forgive me Lord for all the times that I have wished this town burned down.’

She removed the beanie.