Black Cloud

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Marty Howell hummed a tune, and Franklin’s mind drifted back to Daylesford. To Sam and her next move.

She’d be wasted driving the van for too long. She needed a few more years of general duties and experience in larger stations, then he could see her smashing through the extra training and exams to move up the ranks. Her empathy was the only thing to watch: a good and bad trait. Sam would fit well in a SOCIT team, be a smart investigator and great advocate for victims and their families, but he worried how dealing with child a***e and s****l offences would affect her long-term. Luckily, the brass had assumed as the rookie she’d been roped into their rogue investigation last year, and there was no black mark on her record—well, maybe just a smudge—unlike the rest of them. But he had no regrets considering what might have happened otherwise, and his mates said the same.

He took in the landscape as Howell steered the car along the Ballan–Colbrook route. Very different to the urban sprawl of Bacchus Marsh’s centre and the distinctive steep, undulating hills and mixed farms around it. Bacchus straddled commuter belt suburbia and traditional country town with a population of over 20,000, making it nearly ten of Daylesford. And the patch for their crime investigation unit ranged over the Golden Plains, Hepburn and Moorabool areas. It made things interesting.

If he got the chance for official attachment to the CI team, would he take it?

Franklin pulled a wry smile. He’d jump at it. But District Inspector Eddie Knight’s push me–pull you since October seemed to have no use-by date. It was wearing thin. He’d struggled but passed his sarge’s exam while biding his time, seeing if what effectively amounted to work-experience kid in the detective’s unit would come to more.

Still waiting.

Sam stirred and coughed. She wheezed, conscious of things in stages. Heat. Smoke. Muted sound. Tingling in the back of her neck – no, not tingling, a shooting ache. Her fingers found a sticky spot. It stung, and she pulled away. There was a horrible stench coming from somewhere. Confused, she couldn’t think what it was, what to do. Pain scorched through the fuzziness. She was hurt. Badly. All over. But especially her head.

Oh, God! I’m on fire. Can’t remember what to do.

She tried to sit up and swayed giddily, and then fell back to the ground. Dullness in her ears cleared to hissing, buzzing. Nauseous, her stomach rolled.

That’s it, roll. Drop and roll.

Already down, Sam didn’t have to drop. She tried to roll, but couldn’t. She felt around – one of her legs was twisted sideways at an angle that was all wrong. The tips of her fingers probed melted material, flesh, and bone protruding the skin.

She screamed. Couldn’t hear it.

Sam writhed and slapped at her body. Trying to beat out the flames. To detach from the singeing and melding of her skin, hair and clothes. She cried, ‘Help!’ but it disappeared into a vacuum of confusion.

Oh, God, this pain is unbearable!

Thoughts spun in her brain. Irvy. Denise Zachary. The Murrays. Who else was hurt? How long would it take for help to arrive?

She strained to lift up. A fresh level of pain hammered her skull. She yelled, ‘Irvy?’ thinking she was facing the cottage. Unsure, she shook her head. The movement made an ear pop. It still rang, but the roar of flames taking over the building was unmistakable.

Toxic fumes, the reek of burning flesh and hair, horrific pain. Sam flopped back, staring up blindly. Sick with the thought that they might’ve been set up.

The police radio crackled. Franklin was chuckling at something Marty Howell had said. But their laughter died when they heard ‘…reports of a series of explosions and fire in the vicinity of Spargo Creek. Fire and ambulance dispatched.’

Franklin plucked up the radio mic and gave the callsign for their unmarked CIU station wagon. He requested the address.

‘Still pending corroboration. Initial caller said Spargo–Blakeville Road, Spargo Creek.’

The operator paused. Then said, ‘Second informant stated Back Settlement Road, Korweinguboora.’ She stumbled over the pronunciation, emphasising the r in the first syllable.

‘We’re not far–’

Franklin cut off Howell, saying into the mic, ‘Casualties?’ He clenched the handset.

‘Unknown.’

‘We’ll be there in,’ he glanced at Howell who mouthed ten minutes, ‘approximately eight minutes.’

After he’d signed off and activated lights and siren, he answered his partner’s unspoken question. ‘My old crew are in the area. Riley’s Lane, which runs straight off Back Settlement Road in Korweingi.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yep.’

Howell planted his foot, and the Commodore shot forward. Franklin grabbed the dash to stabilise against body roll.

At this rate, we’ll be there in five.

Sam heard a sound that tore through her body, hurting much worse than her own physical pain. It repeated, while a dog whined in the other direction. She could tell the difference. Both were agonised. One was human.

‘Hold on.’ Sam’s words rasped and cracked.

Sweet Jesus. Help us.

‘It’ll be all right.’

It’s not going to be all right.

She was still burning.

Sam’s eyes rolled at the spearing pain in her fingers as she fumbled the zip on her jacket. The fine movement of grasping and drawing the pull tab was impossible, so she yanked the jacket lapel as hard as she could, letting out a whimper of relief when the gap widened around her neck. She attempted to slip off the jacket like a jumper. It ripped her skin, and she let go, panting.

She clenched her jaw, blocking out her injuries. Somebody needed her. Irvy? The nurse? One of the Murrays?

She tried to swallow to make saliva. Managed, ‘I’m coming!’

She rocked on the wet turf and slapped at the flames. Her b*a had fused with flesh, the underwire blazing. Heavy on her skin, her equipment belt chafed. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, scared of permanent damage.

It didn’t help.

It’s probably normal after a blast.

Couldn’t stop the sinking dread with, Nothing’s ever going to be normal again.

She talked over her inner voice. ‘Shut up, Sam.’ She had to hold it together for the other survivor. ‘Survivors,’ she rebuked herself.

It was all on her. And she had to quit wasting time. If they were set up, the perp could still be lurking or more booby traps about to go off.

After another round of fast blinks, Sam made out the hazy outline of her hand in front of her face and gasped. Then the other person moaned. Her gut wrenched in response.

Her best guess was that the person was further back from the Murray house. Denise had been behind her before. It had to be her.

‘Denise?’ she croaked.

The shrieks heightened.

Sam dug deep to call louder, ‘I’m coming!’

She turned in the opposite direction, into the heat. ‘Irvy? Where are you?’

He didn’t answer. Sam’s stomach lurched again as reasons for Irvy’s silence ricocheted in her mind. None of them good.

Biting her lip against the pain, she sat up. She tried to stand, stumbled and gave up on getting upright. She pulled herself over onto her elbows and half-crawled, half-slithered, dragging her useless leg as she followed Denise’s screams.

She refused to think about what the friction was doing to her burnt skin as she scraped along, snagging on bushes and shrapnel, or what she’d see when she reached the nurse.