Black Cloud

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Georgie sipped from her takeaway coffee beaker and nearly spat out her mouthful when Sheridan Judd said, ‘To be honest, you haven’t done much to impress me lately.’

It hit a sore spot. All she’d written for the magazine in the past month, at least, was fluff and dull stuff. But every journo had dry patches. She still cringed.

Her editor went on. ‘Finish your column and what’s outstanding. Then take this week to recharge.’

Innocent enough, except for the barbed edge. Georgie anticipated what was coming.

‘And get me that brilliant story you said you were onto.’

Judd paused.

‘Or don’t bother coming back.’

Reasonably sure her editor had run out of steam and wouldn’t actually dump her, Georgie said, ‘I told you, there’s a story here.’

There was something about the pretty township of Gordon that intensified the vibes she’d sensed at Getty’s farm. All she had so far were her instincts and imagination. Yet she promised, ‘I’ll get you a top story…’

She broke off, distracted by the serious tone of the radio announcer.

‘In breaking news, there have been reports of a series of explosions and an uncontrolled fire in the vicinity of the small town of Korweinguboora in central Victoria.’

Georgie turned up the volume.

‘The number of casualties involved, extent of damage to property, and cause of the incident are not known at this stage. Emergency services have been called to the scene. We’ll bring you further information as it comes to hand.’

She straightened in her leather seat. ‘Something big’s going down not far from here, Sheridan. I’m going to check it out. Talk later.’

Her editor was still speaking when she hung up.

Sam tried to fix on a positive. Blurry, excruciating sight was better than none.

It sort of helped.

She made out the shape of a person in the haze. They were upright and in motion. She slither-crawled in that direction, soon exhausted by the effort of moving what was probably mere metres.

A few feet from the nurse, her body took on fierce shaking.

She hadn’t been in the job long, but she’d already seen too many victims of accidents and violence, several with horrendous injuries. A few that were dead. Scenes like that were always dreadful. But she wished she’d never witnessed this.

It was difficult to imagine that the burning woman was lucky to be alive.

Sam’s hearing dulled as a woozy wash came over her. She recognised it was shock. She knew she couldn’t give way to it. Denise needed her – she’d die without her help.

She took a shuddering breath. Smoke scratched her throat and swelled her airways. Her lungs strained. When she coughed, her ears popped, and noise burst back. More chaotic and louder than ever.

It took immense effort, but her ‘I’m here, Denise’ sounded reasonably controlled.

The other woman continued to shriek.

Sam drew from deeper inside to use her cop voice. ‘You need to stop, Denise. Drop and roll.’

No reaction, and the nurse’s erratic movement was fanning the flames, feeding the fire.

‘Denise, please listen.’ Sam struggled into a standing position, biting back her yelp at the sharp pain that shot up her leg. Listing to one side, she held up a hand, meaning it to be calming and authoritative. ‘You know what to do from your training. Stop, drop and roll.’

It was no good. She couldn’t get the message across.

Sam groped for ideas.

Take Denise to the ground and roll out the flames.

Impossible with a broken leg.

What then?

I don’t know!

Oh, God. Yes, I do.

She’d have to use what was left of her own jacket to douse the fire. It was going to hurt, beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.

No choice. Rip it off. Do it fast.

With shaking hands, Sam yanked the material away from where it had fused to her waistline, tearing her flesh. Finally, it was off. Panting, she blinked off dizziness.

Denise still appeared oblivious to her.

Maybe it did more to calm herself than the nurse, but Sam talked through what she was doing. ‘I’m going to wrap you in my jacket and pat out the flames. Okay?’

Denise didn’t answer, but she stilled and looked directly at Sam. Her eyes were filled with n***d fear, and underlying that, trust.

Sam murmured as she worked, aware that she was going to hurt Denise by helping her. Her thoughts scattered when she took in the strips of skin peeling off her own red-raw hands.

Oh, God! Oh, God!

At full throttle, they made it to the Mineral Springs Hotel in Spargo Creek in record time. Most locals knew it as the Korweingi Pub, despite the five-odd kilometres separating the two places and the years since the last beer was officially pulled. It traded as an antique store these days, open only for short, random hours during the week and on weekends. Could often drive by and see no vehicles out front.

On their approach, Franklin clocked two women and an elderly man clustered near a couple of cars, talking animatedly. One woman pointed up the road and another nodded. The group turned and watched as their unmarked passed by, apparently mesmerised by the wailing siren and flashing blues-and-reds on the wagon.

He and Howell had exchanged few words since the initial call. Seeing as they’d sped along Spargo–Blakeville Road and taken the turn onto the Ballan road without spotting anything amiss, the first informant’s version was clearly dodgy. Franklin’s gut shrivelled. Worried because that put the incident in Korweinguboora, close to Sam and Irvy’s welfare check at the Murray farm.

The radio crackled to life. Franklin took in the two words ‘Riley’s Lane’ and grabbed up the mic.

‘Two officers from Daylesford…’ He faltered and tried again, adding their names. ‘They were due at Riley’s Lane this morning, to see Belinda and Alec Murray. Have they reported in?’

Franklin sweated on the operator’s response.

‘Not since they notified their arrival.’

He clicked off the mic. Slammed a fist into the dashboard.

Howell slowed behind several cars travelling in the same direction, possibly locals on their way to the property to offer help. All suddenly slowing to the speed limit. As if they were going to issue tickets right now.

‘Why don’t they pull over? Morons!’

Howell peered through the windscreen. ‘Can’t.’

Franklin saw the truth in that but fumed. Howell was hamstrung by the vehicles bunched up on the curving road. Without a clear visual for oncoming traffic, he couldn’t gamble on space to cross over the centre line to overtake without risking a head-on. Likewise, overtaking on the left shoulder was out.

So much for the good time they’d made reaching Spargo Creek.

Franklin dialled out on his mobile. Unanswered, the call went to message bank. He disconnected, then tried a second number. Ended it and blew out a breath.

‘Fuck.’

‘Still can’t get onto Sam and Irvy?’

‘No.’

The wagon bounced over a pothole.

Franklin stared at the phone in his lap, dwelling on Sam and Irvy. His colleagues until he’d been attached to Bacchus Marsh. His mates.

‘They were on a welfare check.’

Howell grimaced.

‘What’s happened to them?’

His offsider didn’t answer. Instead, he glimpsed his mirrors, clicking on the indicator, and deftly accelerated past the cars.

Both uncontactable. Why? Because they’re too busy helping? Or because they can’t answer?

They were the closest car to the address. First responders to what?

Howell decelerated, signalling right.

They were nearly there.

‘How bad?’ The nurse’s voice rasped.

Sam floundered for words. Honesty would not help. But an outright lie?

God give me strength.

A man broke into her desperate prayer. He bellowed in a language she couldn’t understand, not English or Italian. Then said, ‘Hold on, we’re coming.’

Sam wheezed, ‘Thanks,’ hoping he was real, not imagined. Then scared he was the perp who had set up the explosion – if it was an ambush.

‘Get water, Vlatka!’

A female answered, ‘I have got it, Sven.’

Feet pounded in approach. Other sounds made Sam think items were being dragged or thrown out of the way. But she still couldn’t see their rescuers.

She crawled forward. Tried to yell out. Croaked, ‘Have you rung triple zero?’ It was doubtful they could have heard it.

But the woman spoke. ‘Don’t panic. The fire truck and ambulance are called.’

Sam slithered a bit further. ‘My partner–’ The words were indecipherable, and she collapsed backwards. Spent. Nothing left to fight with.

She blinked to be sure the apparition leaning over her was real. An older woman with a concerned round face. A bucket propped on her hip.

‘This will be cold, I’m sorry.’ She splashed water onto her.

Sam heard a hiss. Maybe the sound was only imaginary, but the liquid soothed fractionally more than it deepened her pain.

Denise was screaming. Sam felt herself fading. In the distance, a man cried, ‘What on earth!’

In the next heartbeat, somebody shouted, ‘LOOK OUT!’

A loud crash, the popping and snarling of debris and flames. Then Sam blacked out.