Read Online Kinglake-350 by Adrian Hyland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrian Hyland
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Wood and his crew often set up the booze bus to conduct random breath tests here on a Saturday night. Every night, without fail, a woman comes staggering out of the shack, feet bare, clothes bedraggled, wine bottle in hand, and yells at them to turn those fuckin lights out.
He’s just sent another car on its way when he hears a cracked voice behind him. ‘What’s goin on?’ She’s standing there, holding the bottle, a glazed expression on her face.
‘Bushfires about, Meg,’ he replies. ‘Somewhere down the mountain.’ He glances at her shack: indefensible. Survival time seconds, not minutes. ‘Wouldn’t hang around here if I was you. Might be an idea for you to go somewhere safe.’
‘We’re staying put,’ the woman growls.
‘Dunno if that’s…’ ‘Me husband says we’re stayin, so we’re stayin.’
That’s it, he thinks. He gazes after her as she stomps back to the shack. If the fire does come through I’ll never see her again.
Another car pulls up: locals, judging by the load. Dad at the wheel, kids in the back. Black dog, panting. Chook in a cage.
‘But where are we supposed to go?’ the driver pleads when Wood doesn’t let them through. His options are limited: nowhere on the mountain is safe right now. Officially, he isn’t allowed to tell them anything, but he’s been letting all the drivers know what he plans to do: shelter at the CFA.
‘Your best bet…’ He catches the look on the driver’s face—the dropped jaw, the wide eyes—and spins around.
Jesus.
It’s there. Exploding along the treetops, less than a hundred metres away. He’s seen bushfires before but nothing like this, nothing this big, this close: massive whirls of naked flame, sixty, eighty metres over the trees.
The first wild bolt of fear shoots through his chest. The radio is still screaming: ‘Kilmore, Wandong. Kilmore!’ Still thirty kilometres away! What’s this inferno doing here? How is that possible? There’s been no warning, no mention of Kinglake at all.
There’s been an almighty cock-up somewhere.
Roger Wood has a mental flash of what’s about to happen: chaos is breaking loose. The rules have just flown out the window, and that means it’s every man for himself. Except for him. He somehow has to be there for everybody else. He thumps the roof of the car. ‘Back into the CFA at Kinglake West! Safe as you’re gonna get up here today. Go!’
As they disappear, Wood leaps into his own vehicle, grabs the radio. ‘Kinglake-350 to VKC Wangaratta! Do you read me, over? It’s here now. The fire’s in Kinglake West.’
God help us.
He can’t take his eyes off it.
The CFA vehicle comes back, its reluctant passenger on board. They had a hard time persuading John Butterworth to leave, had to chase him round the house. They finally convinced him to come with them by telling him how distressed his wife was. They beat the fire out by seconds.
Wood goes over and speaks to Lloyd. ‘Chris, when do you want me to finish the roadblock?’
Lloyd nods at the fire. ‘About now, wouldn’t you think?’
Wood isn’t arguing. This location has become suicidal, and his immediate duty—to stop people taking the road to Whittlesea—is done. Nobody in their right mind will be driving into that. He’ll head on into Kinglake West, re-establish the roadblock, shepherd people into the CFA.
Kinglake West Tanker One comes rattling up, John Grover in command, Karen Barrow at the wheel. They’re on their way in from Coombs Road. They’ve driven through a tunnel of fire to get out.
‘What’s happening in there?’ asks Wood.
‘Hell on Earth.’
‘Where’s the other tanker?’ Kinglake West Tanker Two, under Frank Allan.
A flicker of anxiety. ‘They’re trapped in Coombs Road. We lost contact. Radio communication’s hopeless.’
Lloyd nods his agreement. Like Wood, he’s momentarily mesmerised by the fire. ‘People are going to die today,’ he murmurs to nobody in particular. A straightforward
He’s just sent another car on its way when he hears a cracked voice behind him. ‘What’s goin on?’ She’s standing there, holding the bottle, a glazed expression on her face.
‘Bushfires about, Meg,’ he replies. ‘Somewhere down the mountain.’ He glances at her shack: indefensible. Survival time seconds, not minutes. ‘Wouldn’t hang around here if I was you. Might be an idea for you to go somewhere safe.’
‘We’re staying put,’ the woman growls.
‘Dunno if that’s…’ ‘Me husband says we’re stayin, so we’re stayin.’
That’s it, he thinks. He gazes after her as she stomps back to the shack. If the fire does come through I’ll never see her again.
Another car pulls up: locals, judging by the load. Dad at the wheel, kids in the back. Black dog, panting. Chook in a cage.
‘But where are we supposed to go?’ the driver pleads when Wood doesn’t let them through. His options are limited: nowhere on the mountain is safe right now. Officially, he isn’t allowed to tell them anything, but he’s been letting all the drivers know what he plans to do: shelter at the CFA.
‘Your best bet…’ He catches the look on the driver’s face—the dropped jaw, the wide eyes—and spins around.
Jesus.
It’s there. Exploding along the treetops, less than a hundred metres away. He’s seen bushfires before but nothing like this, nothing this big, this close: massive whirls of naked flame, sixty, eighty metres over the trees.
The first wild bolt of fear shoots through his chest. The radio is still screaming: ‘Kilmore, Wandong. Kilmore!’ Still thirty kilometres away! What’s this inferno doing here? How is that possible? There’s been no warning, no mention of Kinglake at all.
There’s been an almighty cock-up somewhere.
Roger Wood has a mental flash of what’s about to happen: chaos is breaking loose. The rules have just flown out the window, and that means it’s every man for himself. Except for him. He somehow has to be there for everybody else. He thumps the roof of the car. ‘Back into the CFA at Kinglake West! Safe as you’re gonna get up here today. Go!’
As they disappear, Wood leaps into his own vehicle, grabs the radio. ‘Kinglake-350 to VKC Wangaratta! Do you read me, over? It’s here now. The fire’s in Kinglake West.’
God help us.
He can’t take his eyes off it.
The CFA vehicle comes back, its reluctant passenger on board. They had a hard time persuading John Butterworth to leave, had to chase him round the house. They finally convinced him to come with them by telling him how distressed his wife was. They beat the fire out by seconds.
Wood goes over and speaks to Lloyd. ‘Chris, when do you want me to finish the roadblock?’
Lloyd nods at the fire. ‘About now, wouldn’t you think?’
Wood isn’t arguing. This location has become suicidal, and his immediate duty—to stop people taking the road to Whittlesea—is done. Nobody in their right mind will be driving into that. He’ll head on into Kinglake West, re-establish the roadblock, shepherd people into the CFA.
Kinglake West Tanker One comes rattling up, John Grover in command, Karen Barrow at the wheel. They’re on their way in from Coombs Road. They’ve driven through a tunnel of fire to get out.
‘What’s happening in there?’ asks Wood.
‘Hell on Earth.’
‘Where’s the other tanker?’ Kinglake West Tanker Two, under Frank Allan.
A flicker of anxiety. ‘They’re trapped in Coombs Road. We lost contact. Radio communication’s hopeless.’
Lloyd nods his agreement. Like Wood, he’s momentarily mesmerised by the fire. ‘People are going to die today,’ he murmurs to nobody in particular. A straightforward
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