Without Warning

by Jane O'Connor

  A massive branch of mountain ash has fallen across the driveway. It is burning fiercely, crackling and spitting, emitting huge showers of sparks that are at once sucked up into the vicious wind. The flames have swallowed up the metal front gates and all the other trees are fully ablaze too. Another eddy of scorching embers rushes in from a different direction, hurls pieces of burning branch at the front windows and then savagely swirls the other way. It’s like being abandoned in the middle of hell. Suddenly, the heat under my knees is biting through my jeans—the floor is hot, firehot. I pull the wet blanket underneath me and sit on it. I consider going to find Meg again, but decide to leave her be. She might already be dead.

  The intense glow is lighting up the cars parked in the driveway. Their duco is scorching and blistering, cooking, the tail-lights melting out of shape. I wonder whether the fuel tanks are going to explode and add to the burning projectiles. I am somehow processing what I am seeing; it’s being imprinted on my brain; it is terrifying and fascinating at the same time. I must just wait it out—wait, just wait, for the signals that suggest the inferno is moving on. The heat is extreme now: steam is rising off the wet blanket, fogging up my glasses. Man, that’s got to be hot! I move off my knees to sit sideways, as my right leg has gone to sleep; I can’t feel it at all. My eyes are dry and feeling raw. I unzip my jacket to let some of the moisture evaporate; all my clothes are wringing wet. The high-pitched wailing of the smoke alarms is making me feel deranged and I keep shaking my head to try to restore rational thought.

  I don’t know what to think. I decide I’m totally in the lap of whatever gods happen to be abroad. Nothing to be done except wait, breathe slowly, wait. I start to concentrate on the others, thankful that they had time to get across to John and Julie’s before the worst of it hit. I try to calculate how long it would have taken them, counting the steps, but then decide just to have faith. They’re safe, I know they’re safe. Sean rang, so they must be there. Don’t look at the burning branch: surely Sean got Harley through the gate before that came down. I put my cheek back on the window seat and close my eyes, just let it all go away for a minute. The blanket is drying out underneath me; it’s damp and very warm. I’m sweating rivers and want to rip off my jacket.

  Distraction, I need distraction. Maybe I should gather up some things. Taking the portable files is part of our fire plan. Not now, though. I realise I’ve lost the car keys with the little torch: I put them in my pocket while I was wrestling with Meg—they must be in the hallway. I feel slightly panicked without them, can’t think straight. At least the smoke here in the study isn’t as intense as it is in the family room. There’s a wet towel across the bottom of the front door; perhaps that’s making a difference. The smoke alarms are making me want to scream. I yell back at them, ‘Shut up! Just shut up!’

  An exploding noise and huge cracking, breaking sound brings me bolt upright. The massive mountain ash that stands sentinel at the front gate has exploded, snapped right out of the ground. I watch it fall over like a matchstick, its gigantic roots waving in the air. As it hits the road, there’s a convulsive shudder that rocks the house. I can’t believe it: what sort of force could do that? Flames start to run across the top of its trunk. This isn’t just a fire, it’s some monstrous, out-of-control force. ‘Shit, it’s gone straight through John’s front fence,’ I say out loud. My thoughts are all over the place. How long have I been here? It seems like hours. The fire isn’t passing. Where’s Meg now?

  The embers are still whipping like crazy. The burning air, with its load of debris, is coming from both sides, hurling itself into a swirling lump in the middle, screaming back up the driveway and towards the front of the house. I duck down below the window seat and hear the fire hit the glass, hungry for new fuel. Is it just doing this here—creating its own frenzied weather? Things must be burning at John and Julie’s too, though it’s got to be safer there. I put my hands in my pockets. The mobile phone is there, along with the cigarettes. There is no thought of trying to use the mobile. Call who? Nobody is coming to fight this for us; that’s a given. I flick it on anyway: it says there’s no network. I’m tempted by a cigarette, but tell myself off. Having a smoke in a smoke storm—now there’s a good idea!

  Instead I turn back to inventorying every other large tree and which way they might be leaning, which one might fall next and hit the house. Where’s the safest place to be if that happens? The roofing iron is making loud noises: there’s not much I can do about the trees, but what if the roof blows off? I’m starting to feel an edge of panic, thinking about emergency escape routes. Maybe I should kick out the bay window and get onto the driveway, or try to get through the house and out the back door. Stupid, stupid, stupid: even if I did make it, the radiant heat would knock me out and there’s a high probability of more trees falling. Stay with the house, just stay with the house. They don’t spontaneously combust. As soon as the front passes, I can get outside and start putting out spot-fires.

  Suddenly I can’t stand sitting in the study. I crawl to our bedroom next door, for what I don’t know, and the floor is hot under my hands and knees, but it’s as though just moving and doing something different is somehow constructive. I automatically reach for my jewellery, which is sitting on the bedhead. That makes me laugh: Oh well, if you’re going to go through this hellfire, why not wear a diamond bracelet and a Broome pearl? There is no thought of trying to grab anything else. I am still thinking that we will get out, that Sean will be back when the light comes up and we’ll fight the fire once the storm has passed.

  But I’m extremely agitated and can’t settle. The smoke alarms are still driving me crazy. Torture. Moving around is not sensible: it’s too hard to breathe, too hot for comfort. I head back to the study. On the way I touch the front-door handle—it’s red-hot. Through the glass panels I can see that the entire side garden is burning fiercely and the row of conifers along the fence are flaming like Christmas candles. My poor old antique rose is copping a blast. The front shed will be next to go: amazing that it hasn’t already burst into flames. If it does there’ll be no exit from the front door: that would be like walking straight into a blast furnace—I’m going to have to get out through the back. Surely there’s nothing left to burn on that ground now.

  Can’t think straight. I have another fleeting thought about grabbing the portable files in the study, and the photos too: I can wheel them out in the plastic bin. But I shelve that idea; we can do it later if necessary. I’m back in the study, kneeling, rocking from side to side and waiting, waiting, waiting for things to change and improve. The wind, the noise, the continuing blast-furnace heat—surely it has to run out of steam soon. Such a prolonged burn is not normal.

  A sudden paralysing realisation hits my brain. The horses! Eliza and Ricky are out there with the three goats and they must be screaming. The horror of this is too much to deal with and I try to shove the thought aside. If you can’t do anything about it, don’t waste mental energy on it now. The idea won’t go away, though. They’ve got room to run and there’s the shelter for them to get into—if it’s still standing, that is—but the smoke, the noise, the flames will make them panic. Why didn’t I think about the horses? It all hit too fast, I suppose. Yet what would we have done with them anyway, except heed the advice we’ve been given: open all the gates and let them find their own way; don’t confine them to a small area. Well, the gates are open, thank God. I hope against hope that they don’t run into barbed wire or try to jump anything in the dark. As soon as I can get out, I’ll check on them. But I feel sick at the thought and it spins my head out; I want to vomit.

  Suddenly there’s a chink of light, it seems blinding and all my attention turns to it. Woo-hoo! I’ve been waiting for this. It is coming from ground level and slowly, slowly, begins to push the darkness upwards. It’s surreal, as if a powerful spotlight is being shone along the ground, creating a clear line below the darkness. I feel excited beyond belief—this is it! It’s starting to calm down. I j
ust have to wait until it creeps further up.

  But then, almost as abruptly, the line of light shuts down again, as if somebody has flicked a switch. Another huge blast of scorching embers whirls in from the left: this damned thing is coming from a different direction now, as strong as ever. Everything is still swirling every which way, branches are beating on the roof, iron is flapping. God, don’t tell me there’s another front coming through. The smoke alarms scream on and on and on. Why haven’t they chewed up the batteries with all that blaring? I’m almost getting used to the competing noises, but the light shutting down is almost unbearable. More waiting. The new front is attacking the front shed and the western side of the house, ripping through the dark.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been watching for. Then, all of a sudden, that line of light is coming back. There it is again at ground level, lifting the gloom. I zero in on the cars in the drive. They’re looking like a Dali painting: elongated, abstract versions of their real selves, the door handles melted down the panels like candle wax. The airbags have gone off in Sean’s car. I hear crackling noises now: to the right, the front shed is burning, flames darting out under the corrugated iron. The wind is still howling at full strength. But above the din I seem to hear my name, ever so faintly. I decide it’s some sort of trick: my ears have been seriously assaulted and maybe I’m hearing things. I tune out, but it gets louder. Somebody really is screaming my name: ‘Jane! Jane! Where are you?’ It’s unreal; I must be imagining it. Nobody could have got through that fiery nightmare out the front, where everything is still flaming viciously, the big toppled tree now one giant bonfire. I find myself wondering, for a split second, how long the road is going to be blocked by that one. Then the voice penetrates again: ‘Jane! Jane!’ I shake my head. It’s Sean, and he’s yelling from somewhere at the back of the house. I feel joyous—if he’s made it back here, it must be safe outside. From what I can see, the fire doesn’t seem to have died down any, but he’s here—he’s here! I don’t have to do this on my own any more.

  I run like crazy down the hallway, leaving the blanket behind, yelling back that I’m on my way. To my astonished relief, Meg pops up beside me! She’s heard him too and is eager to follow. As I enter the kitchen, the smoke hits me like a brick: it’s extremely thick and has a sharp, unbreathable, toxic edge to it. Poisonous. The kitchen window is framing Armageddon.

  There’s still some light, though. On the way through I notice my handbag on the kitchen bench and sling it over my shoulder. Can’t find the car keys; they’re still up the front somewhere. It’s an automatic reaction: the bag and the keys. I put the keys out of my mind.

  The journey seems interminable. I reach the bathroom and detour in to grab a wet towel, since we are going to need it. The water in the bath is hot. Sean yells that he’s fighting the fire outside the laundry. ‘Are you okay enough to get out here and help me?’ But the poisonous smoke is taking the lining off my throat and hitting my lungs like burning acid; it’s painful and frightening. I am fighting to keep going—another lungful and I’ll shut down. ‘I can’t breathe!’ I yell back. There’s a fine line between coping and wanting to just keel over and choke. I breathe into the wet towel, which provides some relief though the fabric is hot; it’s like breathing through soup. My eyes are streaming again.

  ‘Can you make it to the back door?’ Sean calls out. ‘Everything’s on fire out here.’

  I make it to the entrance of the laundry, to be greeted by a bizarre noise. A loud hissing, with a hollow roar behind it, like air coming out of one of those high-pressure hoses. I look in, but reel back: where the washing-machine hose outlet goes into the laundry tub, a vicious flame is rushing out, as if from a blowtorch. The hose has melted away and the tongue of bright orange fire is scorching up the wall behind the tub, turning it black.

  ‘It’s burning in here,’ I shout to Sean. With all my force, I instinctively throw the heavy, wet towel at the fire, in a full-on, overarm, well-aimed pitch. Splat! The weight of it wrenches my shoulder. There’s a loud hiss and steam rises. Every breath is agony now. I’m sucking in vaporised plastic and the petrochemical smell is palpable. I can see Sean outside, silhouetted against the laundry window, beating at the flames like a madman. I grab the towel again and smack it against the scorching wall, which sizzles and steams. Sean yells over the racket to say he’s got the fire under control outside. I scream back that I’ve put the flames out in the laundry tub and I’m coming out. I can’t breathe, can’t see and can’t stand this much longer. I’m one gasp away from blacking out. But I feel like we’ve struck a major blow; we’re working in unison and ready for the next round.

  Taking the wet towel with me, I race straight for the back French door and Meg slides out beside me. No time for emotional reunions: Sean is beating out flames at the side of the house, shovelling dirt at them like a machine. He says that if he can get down the side and attack the timber verandah, he can keep the flames from the house—chop off the wooden verandah somehow. He whirls around, but then stops dead: ‘The axe and the chainsaw have gone up with the back sheds,’ he says. It strikes me as a crazy plan, too big and risky a task in these conditions, but he won’t stop.

  ‘Just leave it,’ I scream at him over the wind and the roar. The radiant heat is horrendous: any exposed skin feels ready to be peeled off. Sean will fry if he goes any closer to the front shed. The Land Rover is in the carport next to it and if that explodes while he’s down there he’ll be trapped. He won’t give up, though, and keeps shovelling dirt, flinging it as hard and as far as he can, stamping on other smaller fires to put them out. The conifers along the side fence are still burning strongly. I notice with horror that the large water tank near the front shed has disappeared. It has completely melted; there’s nothing left. ‘Where has all the water gone?’ I ask Sean. ‘Evaporated before it hit the driveway,’ he yells. I’d left a large tub of water outside during our early preparations and it too has vaporised. The full tank next to the kitchen is on fire, with the water still in it.

  Again I scream at Sean to leave it, just leave it, there’s nothing we can do with a shovel and a wet towel. But he continues to fight the monster, insisting that he can still beat it. I want to fall in a heap, but I continue to pull him back. The Land Rover is burning now, flames from it licking out from the carport. ‘My drum kit’s in the back,’ Sean says. It’s his pride and joy. He hesitates in the face of the vicious onslaught and I head for the vegetable garden at the back and to the left of the house. I sit on the brick steps that lead up into the vegie garden and can see the flames slipping under the front steps and verandah, licking under the timber. I’m going to sit here and watch our house burn down. The fire is howling, buffeting, smoking, and things are still catching alight. Except, that is, for the vegetable garden: it’s a small haven, flattened but not yet destroyed. The lemons are cooking on the tree, roasted and browning nicely. I mourn the tomatoes.

  I sit on the top step, feeling defeated, and watch Sean doggedly fighting the flames. Meg has parked herself on the grass. Sean walks towards me, looking angry. He rages at the fire, furious that this thing is beating him. He heads back towards the side garden and keeps on with the shovelling and cursing. ‘I’m not giving up. We can get this under control,’ he yells through the wind. While I’m watching him, a strange thing happens: I suddenly feel an overwhelming compulsion to call somebody neutral in the outside world. Not a relative—my first thought is work. I’m not going to make it there on Monday, and I need to let them know. It’s partly that entrenched work ethic, which discourages you from letting people down. It’s more than that, though: I need someone outside to be aware that we are here, trapped. We still may not make it out of this—it’s far from over. Trees are starting to explode along the side fence.

  I automatically dial my publishing director, James. We always enjoy a joke and a laugh; we’re good at bouncing off each other and, besides, I know he will be businesslike about informing people and keeping tabs on our situatio
n. He answers and I ask him to guess what I’m doing; he thinks I’ve been enjoying a few Saturday afternoon drinks. I tell him that I’m sitting watching my house go up in flames. ‘You are kidding, aren’t you?’ he says. I tell him that I doubt if I’ll be at work next week because we won’t have a house, that I don’t know how long we’re going to be trapped here, that I’ll get back in touch when I can. I just want him to handle that side of things, keep things ticking on the work front and let my workmates know what’s going on. Apart from that, I have no recollection of the conversation. But I feel an overwhelming sense of relief that I’ve made connection off the mountain—one less thing to stress about. When I hang up, I wonder why the mobile network is back on. But I feel reassured and able to face whatever is ahead.

  Sean joins me at the steps and suggests we get across to John and Julie’s. ‘The fire is in the wall cavity, which means it’s invaded the structure now. I can’t get down the side,’ he says. Neither of us is keen to turn our burning house into a spectator sport; the feeling of being beaten is debilitating. The surrounding environment is too dangerous and unstable: trees are still falling, windows will shatter soon, the heat and smoke are deadly. There’s no safety here, with parts of the garden flaring into flame again as each breath of wind brings intense, renewed activity. We feel overwhelmed.

  Sean detours back through the vegie garden. It’s hard to make out whether the horses are there: the smoke is too thick. We reunite at the steps, Meg sitting beside me patiently. We head across to the scorched side lawn. ‘Stay on the ground that’s already been torched,’ Sean says. On the way, he tells me the others all made it across the road. When Brad, Sarah and Mike reached the pine trees on John’s front verge, though, they started to panic, he tells me. Carissa was screaming at them to follow her, but they stopped. ‘I had to get through the front garden because the trees had come down on the driveway,’ Sean continues. ‘I only just missed the big bugger falling across the road. Talk about split-second timing.’ Hearing the others yelling in terror, he had gathered them up as he went past. After the main fire front and ember strike went through, they all began attacking the spot-fires.