WHEN I TRY to stand, my body reminds me what I’ve just been through: aching ribs, stiff neck, sore head and a thick, dry tongue. Being naked is the least of my worries.
The entrypad at the door leading down from the roof responds to my manual override first try. Thank cripes. I’m not up for another jump off this roof.
I cross my arms against my chest, wincing as my elbow brushes the graze on my ribs. Delicately, I pad down the stairwell. The air in here is clean, no smoke. Without an evac notice, these people aren’t going to realise the fire front is coming until it’s almost on top of them. No wonder so many died.
Scrub that. So many still might.
I’m hoping for a residential block because most of them have a laundry, but as I sneak along the hall I find only wide room after wide room with big desks and tinted glass: an executive floor. I’m part way along the hall when a door beeps and slides open right near me.
I dash back to the stairwell. Maybe I’ll bail on the top floor. I pad down to the next level, push the fire exit open and listen. It’s calm down here, just the thuck of a ball being hit every now and then, and the sound of runners squeaking on floorboards. Squash courts maybe?
After what I’ve been though, the noises of everyday life seem so out of place. Whoever is making those sounds is just going about their day, same as any other. The hallway is empty so I risk a few steps in. To one side I catch the steady rhythm of running feet; I’m guessing someone running through a holo-forest on a treadmill-track.
A gym? This is promising.
Moving fast, I slip from the safety of one alcove and into the next. I’m close to the centre of the building and the bank of lifts when I find what I’m looking for: a change room.
Ten minutes later, I slip back into the stairwell wearing slacks and a shirt with chunky heels that are impossible to walk in. Best of all I have a pair of comspecs from a bag in the corner of a shower cubicle.
I’m clumsy at first, swiping thin air as if I’ve never used a computer in my life. After a while I pull up a virtual keyboard and begin to feel more like I know what I’m doing. It takes a bit of time hacking into the grid, no shortcuts of course, but that’s the best way to locate Mum without her dot being tagged on the comspecs already.
While I’m in, I also check the location of the comspecs on the grid. I’m southwest from the research lab but still in the line of the fire front. Flying over the top of the heat and smoke must have been too dangerous for the helejet, but the fire front was too fast and wide to travel sideways.
When I call Mum it goes straight to her message bank. She must be with a client. I launch into a message: ‘Mum, it’s me. I’m fine. But the fire is heading for the northern suburbs. You need to get out now.’
I flick off, and wait. Seconds later the phone beeps. I answer straightaway.
‘Scout, is that really you?’ Her words are breathy and jagged, on the verge of tears.
‘Yes. It’s me.’ I keep my voice low and sneak a few steps away from the door. The sound of her crying on the other end makes my throat go tight. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘Where are you? I’m coming to get you.’
‘No.’ It takes a while to get her past the fact that I’m okay. The fact that I’m free. Again, she hesitates when I tell her to get out of the office building and meet me at home. Last time, the fire didn’t make it past the CBD let alone Footscray, and it seems to be tracing the same path again.
‘Really?’ A single sniff. ‘There’s been no evac notice. This cool change signals the end of the danger, doesn’t it?’
I swallow back a scream of frustration. I warned her to watch for emergency alerts, but that’s the last thing I should have told her. Without an official evac notice, she simply continued going about her life. Trusting the government to keep its citizens safe. Assuming that the smoke was from far away, and no threat.
‘Mum. Listen to me. You have to –’ A gasp at the other end makes me break off.
‘Oh my god …’
My heart slows. ‘What?’
‘The fire,’ she breathes. ‘I can see … flames. It’s close.’ She’s speaking really fast, her voice coming in and out as if she’s moving at the same time. There’s the sound of rustling. A door swishing open.
All the blood drains from my face. If she can see it, that means she’ll have to outrun it. And that means I don’t have much time either.
‘Stay on the phone,’ Mum says. Her voice is jerky as if she’s walking as she speaks.
‘No. I have to go.’ Already I’m heading down the stairs. ‘Get to a taxi okay? Don’t try to catch the train.’
‘Okay. I’ll meet you at home.’
‘And if the taxi hits a traffic jam, you get out and run. Okay? Keep moving south. No matter what.’
‘Okay.’ Her voice is fainter now. ‘Sweetheart? I love you.’
‘Love you too.’ I switch off.
The wind has picked up when I make it outside; ash and smoke thick in the air, making me cough with every other breath. I’ve only gone about three steps when I ditch the heels. I’ll be faster in bare feet.
It’s great to be on the ground, to feel it solid beneath me, but in some ways I was safer up high. On the roof I could see what was coming; down here buildings are all around me, blocking my view in every direction. In terms of the fire, I’m running blind.
When I make it to the next intersection, I’m able to see along the crossroad in the direction of the fire. Black smoke is billowing, exploding in the distance, enough to make people stop and point. A woman who looks a bit like Mum swipes her compad and starts talking quickly, glancing every now and then at the black clouds.
It makes me think of what I was doing only minutes earlier, calling Mum to warn her about what’s coming. As I watch the citizens around me, I realise what I have to do. Out of all these people, I’m the only one with an instant escape. They’re the ones who need to get away from this place, not me.
The comspecs are folded shut, held tight in my fist. Quickly I check the nearby alleyways and end up sitting on the edge of a bricked-in garden bed overlooking the intersection.
More people are reacting now, and pretty much the first thing each person does is get on the phone. Maybe the government doesn’t want to share the info, but its citizens will.
I send out alerts on all the social sites I can find, but they’re just coming from some woman called Eliza Schmidt, the owner of the comspecs. For all I know, she might be some loony scam artist. I need to send out an official alert that will trigger the alarms.
It’s easy to find the emergency alert department, but not so easy finding a way to trigger their alerts. They’re all there, ready to go with the flick of a button, but without any clearances there’s no way to do it. I press the tips of my fingers into my temple, frustration growing.
Embers and ash are falling as thick as when I was first on the roof of the research lab. A few smartcars headed in the direction of the fire pull into a side road and turn back the way they came but some just keep travelling straight for the fire, their users busy watching the screen inside their car.
A couple on foot come bolting for the intersection, only stopping for the crossing point. The urgency about them seems to trigger something in the people around and their movements sharpen and increase.
Not everyone gets it, though. Above me, a door slides open on the second floor of a residential block and a man in an old dressing gown stands there yawning. He lifts a hand to catch one of the embers floating past his balcony and then turns back inside. But how many other people are asleep? How many people are locked in a shower cubicle or busy working in an office that’s been fitted with air-con and purifiers?
I shift slightly on my butt, squaring my shoulders as I keep searching. The longer I take with this, the less time they’ll have to get away. I blow a fluff of dyed black hair off my forehead.
Mason would know.
He’s at home, easy to find. I tag him and send a message: How do I send an evac alert? Quick. Warn everyone you can. Scout.
His reply takes only a few seconds: Where are you?
That’s no help. I don’t have time. I’m typing again, desperate, when a second message comes through, just a link.
I click through to find code for the emergency alert that was sent out to fire-affected outer suburbs three days ago. Clever. I copy and forward it to citizens in the northern suburbs. Mason’s work-around was to echo an earlier alert, but at least it will look like it came from the right department.
As soon as it sends, the comspecs receive it: EMERGENCY WARNING. Firestorm moving your way. Take immediate action. Evacuate now.
An alarm rings out from the office buildings behind me and even though I’m the one who triggered it, the sound of the alert makes my muscles tighten. Suddenly the danger feels real, and coming closer.
I send another message to Mason before stashing the comspecs: Thanks. I’m OK.
The streets shift into higher gear, people pouring down around us from their buildings and onto the footpath. The smartcars heading in the direction of the fire turn around and come back the way they came as even more smartcars pull onto the streets from car parks all around.
I send one more message to Mum: I’m OK. Promise. If I don’t meet you at home, it means I’ll be back in a few days.
She’ll work out what that means. Hope she’s made it out by now.
I stash the comspecs in a pocket and pull off the woman’s shirt so that I’m just in a T-shirt underneath. Then I wrap the shirt around my mouth, tying it at the back of my head, trying to block the smoke as much as possible. I begin along the nearest street that leads in the opposite direction from the fire. My instinct is telling me to move south, so that’s what I do. Maybe I can help someone before I jump.
The wind has picked up and embers fall like black snow. People are coughing and calling to each other. To one side, two male voices rise in anger and the crowd ripples outwards.
Behind us is the distant rumble of the fire and closer is the sound of shuffling shoes in between wheezing and coughing. It’s difficult to move fast enough, there are so many of us. It’s as if we’re all stuck on a slow-moving conveyor belt, held in tight by each other and the buildings around us.
The smartcars are no faster than the people walking. Some honk their alarms. One guy climbs out of his car and pushes past other people on foot, leaving his car blocking the way. It’s not long before the crowd surges onto the road, and the cars come to a complete stop.
A deep rumbling makes me turn to find the shifting plumes of black smoke so close that I can see the flames rising beneath. The crowd shifts into a new gear, surging forward. To one side a man falls. Another man tries to grab his arm but he gets pushed down by the momentum of the crowd. Above it all, the wind picks up and the fire behind us accelerates into a roar.
My pulse rises and I concentrate on my breathing as tears blur the edge of my vision.
I try to angle my path towards a side street up ahead as I’m pulled along by the crowd. A few steps later I decide that this is getting me nowhere fast. If I stay in here, the crowd will dictate which direction I move, not me.
Behind us is the sound of breaking glass and a kind of whoosh as one of the buildings goes up in flames. Again, the crowd surges and this time I use it to manoeuvre towards the edge. The side street is busy as well but we’re not crammed as tight.
I scan the chaos around me. Buildings can burn. Bricks can collapse. Nowhere is guaranteed to stay clear. To one side I hear another whoosh. The shattering of glass is followed by shrieks and cries.
My heart hammers, my lungs screaming. Why did I waste so much time? I should have been searching for a safe place to jump: a place that would likely be safe for return. Now even my time is running out.
I make my way to the raised median strip in the centre of the road. A wall might fall, or someone might be standing here when I return, but this is the best I can manage.
I wipe my damp palms against my thighs, already scared about what I’ll find on the other side. I close my eyes and leave the chaos behind.
Three days later I return into clear space, sucking in stale air. Beneath me is only dirt, baked black and smouldering warm. No sign of the clothes I was wearing. A lump of twisted metal and plastic lies to one side.
Gradually my senses return. The graze on my ribs from the helejet jump is weeping and raw, my throat still dry and lips cracked. It hurts when I swallow. One of my toes is stubbed and bleeding, although I have no idea how or when it happened.
When I lift my head though, I’m shocked numb by the scene around me. With this single skip, somehow I’ve been transported to hell’s graveyard.
The whole world, gone in a blink.
Everything around me has been transformed, levelled to piles of black rubble and twisted metal. Plumes of smoke rise from four or five mounds around me, mixing with the stale ash I can taste in the air. I shut my mouth.
Dumbly, I turn to find more of the same. Buildings that once stood four or five storeys high have been demolished to single-storey mounds and I find myself playing a macabre game, trying to work out what each twisted lump used to be. Streetlights there? Melted bricks among metal beams?
The sky is pale blue through the ash and smoke and automatically my face lifts in search of colour, clear air. Life.
Because there’s no-one here. No sign of the people who were trying to make their way out. No hint at fallen bodies, no bones. Nothing. The devastation of the firestorm is complete.
Or maybe they made it out in time.
I shut my eyes. It’s only now that I realise what still waits in front of me, in some ways the worst. I was lucky to time skip and escape the danger, but now I have to face reality.
It’s the thought of Mum waiting for me that gives me the strength to step forwards. Another step. The only way home is through hell.
Our room is glowing blue from the standby light when I tap on the window. A few seconds pass before Mum’s face appears over the back of the armchair, a palm rubbing her eyes.
Before I realise what’s coming, I break into sobs at the sight of her here, safe.
Mum slides the window open, guiding me gently inside. Her arms reach around me, holding me tight. My face is pushed against her shoulder as tears fall like whispers.
I’m not sure how long she holds me like this. It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath ever since I heard Alistair’s words so long ago. Your mother died … I don’t have to push it down anymore, don’t have to lock it away.
So much is released, a wave of relief rising above the fear, hope. Love.
But there’s sorrow in the comfort. My tears aren’t only for us.
It was late in the day when I began to reach the edges of the burnt area. So much of the city had been destroyed that I’d begun to feel like I was the only one left. Near the edges of the fire, a lot had still been burned – but some things had survived. I was able to recognise the shapes of burnt-out cars, walls still standing tall, shrunken black forms of bodies melted together where they tried to shelter.
I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking them out, focusing on Mum. She’s here, she’s alive. It’s like a chant in my head that I can’t silence.
Mum shifts her arm, brushing the graze on my ribs and making me wince.
‘You’re hurt?’
‘I’m okay,’ I say, because how can I complain? I’m alive too. Mum continues examining my bruised knees and bloodied feet as I reach for a blanket that was on the back of the armchair and wrap it around my shoulders. ‘Mum, I’m fine.’
She gets the message and looks at my face again, cupping my head in her hands. ‘Oh, Scout. I’ve been so worried.’
She’s about to say more but I don’t want to talk about any of it. ‘You made it out,’ I say.
‘Yes. Thanks to your warning. I was busy with a report … not checking messages. I never would have stopped if you hadn’t called –’
She trails off and I try to smile but instead I’m flooded by a fresh wave of heartache.
‘Here.’ Mum guides me to an armchair, hovering before she drags a side table close and sits beside me. ‘There’s something …’ Her head lowers.
My shoulders stiffen and I lean closer, trying to see her expression.
‘Your friends are safe, but …’ Mum lifts her head and lets out a breath. ‘Alistair died in the fire, Scout. I’m so sorry.’
I pull back, pushing against the idea in my mind. ‘But he would have been sent the first alert. He had time to get out.’ She must have it wrong. Alistair survives the fire. He’s going to grow old. He makes it to 2089.
But that’s a different timeline, not this one.
‘We had confirmation yesterday, but I already knew.’ Her voice catches. ‘When he didn’t come home.’
Mum reaches for my hand as images flicker in my thoughts. Alistair’s hand gripping mine, papery and cool. I didn’t want you to find out on your own …
My eyes trace the faint blue veins on the back of Mum’s hand as she keeps talking. ‘He sent me a warning so he must have received the alert. I just didn’t see his message.’ Her tone is faint, as if she can hardly breathe. ‘There was an accident not far from his office building, complete gridlock. There were just too many people trying to get away.’
Too many people. Too late to get them out without causing mass panic. My throat constricts, biting down on my bottom lip. In another world Alistair made it out, but in this one something was changed. A second alert, sending hundreds onto the streets, blocking his escape.
An alert sent by me.