Siren

Siren Catherine Padmore (bio) You've got your pants half on, but one foot is stuck, snagged in a roll of protective fabric. Go, the siren wails. Go now. Urgency shrieks in the heart of you, but the leg won't give. Fuck. The rest of the crew snap up their jackets with ease, check helmets and breathing equipment. They move with speed and grace, joking between them and hardly seeming to notice what they are doing. Veterans all, with twenty volunteer years to your one. You're qualified now, but you still feel like a cadet, cack-handed and fumbling. Bet that's how they see you. But thank Christ the foot breaks through, and you grab your jacket and scramble into the truck. Last to belt up, as usual. The others look away. The truck's siren kicks in as station's fades. Still you feel it in your chest as the truck chews up the winding road towards the mountain. Go. Go now. Heading to an accident, most likely. A motorcyclist speeding around the sharp bends, you reckon, or some executive Audi tosser driving after five too many wines in the valley. The day's a blue one on the fire-danger chart, autumn-cool with hardly any breeze. But 10 kay in you smell smoke, see the plume. Something has kicked off, after all. A paddock fire, lapping at the edge of bush and plantation pine. If it takes hold there, it'll be a royal bastard to put out. And there's a township just over the rise. Chief's on the radio calling other crews, but for now yours is the only unit here. You strap on your mask and check your gloves, pile out when the truck stops. Close to the fire you're smoother, training taking over. The next hours blur. You work with two experienced fighters, the three of you targeting the eastern flank while others head up to the ridge to tackle the flames from the other side. Another crew arrives, and another, this time with a dozer to begin to cut a break. You direct the hose until your hands are numb, and then you pass it on. Step back from the fire-front and shake your hands until blood courses back into them, and then you're in again. And again. When the worst has passed, the chief sends you deep in the smouldering bush, watering down embers so the fire doesn't start up again in the night. Under your suit, you're drenched, the sweat trickling down your neck. Your eyes smart, the tank-pack drags at your shoulders, but you keep on. You move from one glowing patch to the next, the rest of the world shrouded and grey. Can't see more than a few metres now. And you're unmoored in time. How long have you been out in the woods? Is it night already, or just the smoke closing in? To your left, a stump still flickers. You move closer. Flames lick over it like water, its core glowing red within charred black. As you watch, the world falls away. All you know [End Page 11] is the flow of flame over wood, pulling at you. There are shapes in it, half-glimpsed things that look like something else for a second, then bleed away. You lift your visor to see them better, ignore the heat crisping your cheeks. The planes of a woman's face. Familiar. Looking at you, turning away. You reach out your hand. You almost have her. A thump on your arm. A muffled shout. "Mate, what are you doing?" You snap down your visor, shut out the world again. Water the stump until dirty smoke billows from it, until there is no flame or spark left, and then you move on. When only a dribble comes out of your hose, you return to the truck. The other crews have taken over now. Time for yours to head back. The return journey is quiet, with all of you smoky and slumped in the seats. Adrenalin's fading, and everyone carries the weight of the last hours. The smell...