The Year of Fire

7/30/2019 The Year of Fire

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The Year of Fire 2013, James Scholes

THE YEAR OF FIRE

Copyright 2013 James Scholes

Cover photo courtesy of Colin Scholes

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The barn was old, run-down. It may have seen days of prosperity, buttoday was not one of them. Once it had been red but now the paint

had mostly faded and the wood was starting to split. The doors weresolid, with reinforced steel around the rim and hinges as big as fists oneither side. A large wooden beam held them shut. I dropped the beamto the ground, swung the doors open.

They creaked with protest, held back by years of rust. I lookedinside: there was nothing but a few bales of old hay and a carpet ofbird crap on the ground. Shafts of light streaked through the dust but itwas just a barn.

I walked inside, inspected the wood. I wasn't an expert in thesethings but the building looked stable enough. The wood was mostlystraight and showed very little sign of rot and decay. The splitting onthe outside was just cosmetic; the frame itself would last longer than Iwould.

The windows that ran along the walls were devoid of glass and Icould see the house from here. Maree my wife was sitting in herchair on the porch. The sun would work its way over the horizon and

then I would have to move her, but for now she seemed quite contentto just sit there. I wondered if she needed some water but, no, not foranother two hours. I didn't want to get her too full or else she wouldwet herself.

I took a few more steps inside, stood inside the centre of thestructure, looked around. There was an old horse saddle sitting againsta pen that ran most of the length of the barn. I don't know the firstthing about horses and I didn't intend to learn, but I knew the saddlewas as old as the rest of the barn. It was beyond saving; I would throwit on the bonfire with the old wicker furniture and the broken rockingchair that had come with the rest of the house.

That was all that was in the barn, except the hay bales. Therewere about six of them stacked against one wall, but they had started todisintegrate so it wasn't entirely clear how many bales of hay there hadbeen to begin with. I walked up to one, ran my fingers through it and

watched it fall away, as thin as hair but rough and itchy. It stuck to my

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windcheater where I wiped my hands. I picked the fibres off carefully,although I needn't have bothered: there was enough dog hair over my

clothes as it was.There was a bark and then a pattering of paws, heralding thesource of all the dog hair. Koko, a mongrel of a sheepdog ran into thebarn, barking happily and bouncing around. I gave her a friendly pat onthe head but she wasn't interested in me; she was interested in diggingunder the hay.

Hang on, it'll fall, I warned, ignoring the fact that she couldn'tunderstand a word I said. I started pulling the hay from the top down

and spread it out behind me, making it safe. It had mostly turned tocompost and I wished I had a pair of gloves with me, as it was messywork. Koko was still digging. Eventually, the dog found what it wasafter: a mouse that scampered away, the dog barking after it. She racedout the barn door and left me in peace.

I looked at the mess I had made but it didn't matter; a fewstrands of old hay weren't going to make much more work than whatwas already needed. I pulled down a few more, purely because I had

started something and felt I should make a proper effort at creating amess.

I stopped when I saw the gate.It was a wooden gate and, beyond, there was a room behind it. I

could see through the gaps in the wall, as it wasn't a solid door but hadopen slots at regular intervals. In the room inside there was some typeof metal cage. I walked outside and paced out the perimeter of thebarn. The back wall had no windows and there were no gaps in thewoodwork so I couldn't see through the wood. I then paced out theinterior and there was a marked difference. The hidden room was aboutten feet deep, by the feel of things. Why they would cover it with balesof hay was a mystery.

I set to work, because now I wanted to know what was behindthe door. I knew it would be nothing but old machinery, perhaps abroken tractor, but there was nothing much else to do and I had plenty

of time to do it.

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It took an hour to clear the rest of the hay and I found that thedoor was locked with a heavy-duty padlock. I scratched my head,

wondering why they would put such a heavy lock on such a flimsy door:it would take an hour to saw through the padlock, but five minutes tosaw through the wood. As it turned out, the bales of hay had done mywork for me: most of the wood was rotten and fell away with a gentletug. The lock fell to the ground, useless and discarded.

I opened the gate and stepped into the room. There was a metalcage that covered most of the room. Inside there was a generator, ametal rail and a pulley and thick metal cable. It was an elevator.

There was no lock on the wire-mesh door and I tested the floorof the elevator gingerly. It didn't so much as wobble. I put all my weighton it making sure to hold onto the metal cage in case it collapsedbut the elevator floor was solid and stable. I inspected the cable itwas fine and then moved onto the generator. What fuel may haveonce been in the tank was well and truly evaporated but I didn't see anyreason why it wouldn't fire to life.

Intrigued, I jogged back to the house and got some oil and a

jerry can full of fuel. I took the time to move Maree out of the sun.Are you okay? I asked, but she didn't respond. The doctors

had said that she would get worse, and I had believed them. I had justhoped that perhaps there would be another year or two when she wasstill my wife and not a vegetable. She didn't even look at me any more,just stared straight ahead. I took her water bottle and carefully sprinkledwater down her face sometimes she forgot to blink. Or maybe shecouldn't, it was hard to tell. Her eyes were always so dry. I made sureshe took a drink, guiding her hand over the bottle and tilting her headback. Her hands were lifeless, her lips more so, but she swallowed thewater. There would be a time when I would need to run a tube downher throat, but that wasn't today.

I'll make dinner soon, I told her, gave her a quick kiss on theforehead, and jogged back to the shed. I filled the generator with fuel;there was a cord that had to be pulled for the machine to start like a

lawnmower and I gave it a manly yank. The generator started first

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pull.There was a control box with two buttons: one red, one green. I

pressed the red button and gave a little yelp. The elevator startedmoving, slowly but surely down the shaft. I had no idea where it wasgoing; I assumed there was a cellar underneath the barn. Perhaps wineor drugs or maybe moonshine. I would be disappointed if there wasnothing but more hay.

The light from the barn disappeared and I was in darkness, butstill going down. I had a torch in my pocket and I turned it on. Thewalls were solid concrete, with hardly a mark other than from where the

elevator had rubbed going up and down. I wondered how far I hadtravelled and then began to grow afraid as I kept going down. Therewere no markers to show depth, just a blank wall.

I looked at the buttons but there were only the two. I presumedthe green button took me back to the surface, but what if it onlystopped the elevator? I was ill prepared for a rescue and nobody knew Iwas down here. Perhaps Koko would notice I was gone, but she wouldhave had a hard time getting Maree to respond. If anything happened

to me, I was on my own.The elevator stopped. A klaxon sounded, harsh and loud a

single blurting beep. I shone the light and saw that there was a longhorizontal shaft. I opened the door and started walking. Part of mewanted to yell 'hello' but I knew that would be stupid. There was nothingdown here except whatever I brought with me. I shone my feeble torchback and forth along the walls but there was nothing but barrenconcrete. The tunnel was circular but the floor looked like bitumen. Itran dead straight and seemed to run for a long time.

The owner before me had complained that the land had neveryielded any crops. He had sown every year and nothing but a fewsickened leaves and plenty of sweat. He had been complaining abouttoxicity in the soil, reckoned there was too much salt. I had nodded ashe ranted, wondering why he was giving me so many excuses to lowerthe price. I had no intention of growing crops but I had planned to get

a few cattle, more for the company and the look of the thing then for

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any intention of farming.I had moved out here for Maree. Her doctors had said that she

was suffering a case of nerves or depression. Then they had said therewas something wrong with her brain, but they didn't know what. Theywanted to open her skull and rummage around, see what they couldfind. I told them that if they were going to open my wife's skull theyhad better know exactly what they wanted to do. The surgeon hadlooked confused, as though it had never occurred to him that I wouldsay no. Instead, we had moved out to this farm, away from everythingthat might have caused Maree's illness if it was an illness. I would

have said she had suffered a stroke if I saw her like that for the firsttime today. However, her decline had been gradual. First she hadstuttered and then she couldn't hold her knife and fork and one day shehad gone for a drive and found she couldn't get out of the car's seat;she had been confined to a wheelchair from then onwards.

Fast forward a few years and now she sat on the porch, staringat nothing whilst I poured water in her eyes to keep them moist. It waslike she had gone to heaven but her body had forgotten to die. What

really made me suffer was the way I had grown accustomed to her likethis. I could hardly even remember the sound of her voice.

I had reached a door.I shone my light across its features. It looked like the door to a

cartoon safe a giant spinning wheel in the centre of a bulbous metaldoor, with an electronic keypad on the side. I shone a light on the sideof the keypad, saw it had a serial number. I took out a pen and paperfrom my pocket and dutifully wrote the serial number down, making asmall sketch of the lock. Past experience had taught me that you couldget a long way with a serial number and the internet. With luck themanufacturer had gone out of business and the master codes could bedownloaded. If not, then perhaps there would be a schematic so Icould override the code.

I inspected the keypad some more. The plastic was aged; at onepoint it had been black, but now it was a light brown. The numbers had

aged, too, and in my light it was easy to make out the six digits that were

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part of the code. I pressed a button, just to see what happened.Nothing. There was no power, so perhaps the door was unlocked. I

tried the wheel but it refused to spin. It turned just a millimetrebut then hit a definite lock.I was getting no further today, but was incredibly satisfied with

myself for such a magnificent find. All manner of ideas were swarmingthrough my head. Clearly, whatever was the purpose of thisunderground bunker had long been forgotten. Even if there wasnothing behind that door except a vacant space, I could fill it with abilliards table or a couch and television.

All I had to do was get the door open... and hope to God thatthe elevator's green button did indeed take me back to the surface.

I'm just going into town for a bit, I told Maree. It was the next dayand she was sitting in a chair inside. The weather looked threateningoutside, so I thought it best if she spent the afternoon indoors. Koko

seemed content to rest by her feet. The dog looked up as I walked outthe door but didn't race to join me, so I drove into town by myself.

There was an electronics store next to the chemists.Where are your lights? I asked the girl by the counter.Down the back, was the bored reply. I nodded in thanks and

checked out their fluorescent tubes.These have gotten expensive, I commented as I placed an

armful of tubes on the counter and a second armful of electrical wireon top.

We can't get them from China anymore, she explained. Soprices have gone up.

They can't export or we can't import? I asked, but she wasn'tpaying attention. Thanks, I said instead and walked back to my truck.

People were milling around the chemist's front door. Curiousdespite myself I walked over to see what all the fuss was about. There

was a television playing in the front window. There was no sound, but I

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could tell it was a news bulletin.What's happened? I asked the guy next to me.

The president's been shot down, he said. Look: Air ForceOne.I followed his outstretched finger to the picture on the

television. I could see the tell-tale blue and white motif on the burntfuselage. There was smoke everywhere and foreign fire-fighters withhoses. The fire-fighters looked bored.

What happened to the president? I asked.He's dead. They took him. There was genuine sadness in the

man's voice, whether because a man had died or because our Captainhad died, I couldn't be sure. The picture cut to amateur footage of arally somewhere. In the centre was an effigy on a stick, just a torso anda head and people chanting with anti-American slogans. It took me amoment to realise it wasn't an effigy, but what was left of the manhimself.

Jesus... I cursed, shaking my head. A few of the women glaredat me it was a God-fearing town, after all but their sentiment was

the same.I didn't vote for him, said one of the glaring ladies, but

nobody deserves to be treated like that.We should cut off their aid, the man next to me spat. Filthy

foreigners.Let 'em starve.Burn them all.Take their fuel, that will show them!The anger in the crowd grew slowly but surely. I took a step

back, realising that I was a new-comer and, as such, the closest thing toa foreigner for a hundred miles. I got back in my truck and drove backto the ranch. Men and women were dead importantmen and women.Would it have made any difference if it hadn't been the presidenthoisted above the crowd, I wondered. Even those that weren'timportant to the country were important to somebody, I mused. Just like I

was important for Maree, and she had been important to me. They all

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deserved to be mourned and treated with respect, not hoisted like a flagin the town square.

Yet it wasn't anger I felt. It was fear.

I couldn't run the cable down the elevator shaft, it was just too long.Instead, I rigged a switch on the elevator generator and wired a plug.Turn the switch one way, and the generator would power the elevator;turn it the other and it would power the lights that I had rigged down

through the shaft.I had spaced them quite some ways apart. I reasoned that I

could get more and make it more pleasant down here later, but for nowI just needed to be able to see where I was going and what I was doing.The light was better around the door, as I needed to see the finer detailof the keypad.

The internet had been unable to provide me with a master codefor the keypad, but it had given me instructions on how to force it to

unlock the door. I had done a bit of reading and learnt that this kind ofdoor only used power to move the lock bolts back and forward. Thatway, if the power failed, the door would remain either locked or open.The keypad had dated to the nineteen sixties, which was a blessing as itmeant there were no transistors, just a few old valves and thick wiringto handle the current.

I had the faceplate lying on the ground and was inspecting thewiring with my torch to see the finer detail. In my spare hand I had aprint out of what I should be seeing. The print-out was a neatly drawnhand sketch, and a lot neater than the real thing. After ten minutes Ihad isolated the wires that I needed to fuse, so I got my wire cuttersand severed the circuit, then wired up some extra wire to a simplecontrol switch that I could use to flip the lock.

I flicked the switch and there was a satisfying thump from deepwithin the metal door. I smiled to myself and took hold of the metal

wheel. This time it spun and after a minute the door was open and I

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could look inside.Another door: the same lock system. It was an airlock, I

realised. I looked at the thickness of the door it truly was like a bankvault and wondered what was beyond the seal. Moreover, what wasthe airlockfor? Was it to make sure whatever was inside stayed inside, orwas it to make sure whoever was outside stayed outside?

There was only one way I was ever going to find out, so Iperformed the same trick to the inner door of the airlock. When Ipulled on the wheel there was a distinct hiss and the musty smell ofout-of-date air. I pulled out my torch thankful for a fresh set of

batteries and walked inside.It was a missile silo. Part of me had expectedhopedwas the

better word to find one. I had heard about them being sold asmansions for the alternative set. Millionaire hippies. I had neverexpected to own one.

I certainly never expected the missile to still behere.The missile took up most of the space of the silo. Large metal

struts ran from the wall to support it with thick rubber hands so as not

to cause damage or promote rust. The missile looked like a Saturn Vrocket the rocket that placed men on the moon and was paintedmostly white, with a few panels of black. In the place of the 'USA' tagthat always adorned the moon rockets was the word 'Berlin', like a giantpostage stamp of death.

I shone the torch up and down. The place was huge. I wasstanding on a ledge that ran the circumference of the silo, abouthalfway up the length of the shaft. The torch beam barely touched theroof at the top. From what I could see, there was a pair of foldingdoors that would open and allow the missile to launch. I ran a fewcalculations in my head and deduced that the silo was standingunderneath the property's weir. When the doors opened the waterwould fall to the bottom. I pointed my torch and saw nothing but ametal grate, mostly hidden by the giant engines. I whistled to myself,impressed at my luck.

There was a control room a quarter turn from where I stood. I

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walked over and tried the door. It was unlocked and inside there was alarge computer on the wall and two terminals in front of a glass

window, overlooking the silo. There was a red folder on a desk and anold-fashioned microphone. On the wall there was a red telephone.There were no numbers or dial, just the handset and the cradle. On awhim, I picked it up and listened. There was a dial tone, but nobodyanswered. I replaced the handset, wondering if a light had just gone offat NORAD, reminding them that there was a missile they hadmisplaced; the very embodiment of the rat race spend a fortunecreating these weapons of mass destruction and then promptly forget

all about them.I took a look at the computer and was surprised to see that it

still had lights. There was no keyboard but there was a slot that lookedvery similar to something from a cash machine. I shrugged and turnedmy attention to the red folder.

Punch cards! I said aloud, my voice echoing throughout theconcrete silo. Inside the folder there were hundreds of punch cards, allneatly pressed with their individual array of holes. I looked back to the

cash machine slot that was the monolithic computer and deduced thatthe punch cards were fed into the machine. Looking back at the cards, Isaw titles attached to each of them.

The first was 'Moscow', as was the second and third. Then'Leningrad' and 'Berlin'. I flicked through more pages and was surprisedto see London, Paris, Toronto, Sydney... all the major cities were listed.The part that gave me chills was that each card was blank, devoid ofany text all the city names were attached to the folder. All it wouldtake was one careless moment and the card for Moscow would bereplaced with the card for London. Perhaps this folder was created in asimpler time, when men could be relied upon to do their work correctlywithout fail, and machines and their operators never, ever made amistake. Perhaps there had been a second folder, since removed, thatacted as a fail-safe, a double-check. Regardless, the neatly trimmed andarranged cards of death were all in their place, ready and willing to be

called into action, to be stuck into the slot. I looked back at the silent

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missile. It seemed that the missile's moniker was just one of thepossible final destinations. It truly was a world-ending machine, at least

for one sorry city.Slowly, I put the red envelope back on the desk.

Do you want some more bourbon? I asked Maree, cruelly. She wasstill in her chair, and I was in mine. She had a glass of bourbon on herside table but she hadn't touched it, hadn't touched anything. I stared at

her for a few seconds, watching for a tick, or a blink, or a faintmovement in the lips. Nothing. She was gone.

I finished my drink, poured myself another. The bottle was nearempty, but I was pretty full. The radio was on and I felt like I was backin time, just me and my wife and my dog at our feet. A simpler time,perhaps, but that might have just been drunken arrogance shiningthrough. What was simple about a nuclear missile? The people thatbuilt it, designed it, decided to launch it... there was nothing simple

about those people.I shook my head. Part of the problem, I realised, was that we

only picked up one radio station and it played music from the forties.There were never any announcers, just constant warbling, some times inFrench, occasionally Italian. We were sitting in the dark, but the moonwas full and there was plenty of light.

We interrupt this broadcast for a special announcement... I slowlyswam to attention, trying to focus on the radio. The newsreader wascrisp, precise, a little unsure that he was supposed to be on air. I drankmy drink, poured one more.

War, apparently. That was to be expected, judging by thepictures I had seen on the news the other day. It had taken longer thanI would have thought, but perhaps they had to wait for the VicePresident to be sworn into his higher office. It was a good thing theydidn't know about my missile, I decided. They had more than enough

of their own, of course. It was just a matter of making sure nobody

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used them.I wondered what I could do to make the silo useful. Obviously

there was nothing I could do with the rocket. I could syphon out thefuel I knew, just knewthat the rocket was fully fuelled, ready to flybut I wasn't sure if I could use the rocket fuel in my car. It wasprobably best not to tamper with anything I didn't understand, but itwas a massive room and to waste it was... well, it was a waste.

I was still thinking of billiards but I came to the horribleconclusion that I no longer had anyone to play with. A leaden weightsettled in my stomach and I found my eyes drifting to my wife in the

chair. It wasn't her fault, but of course it was. She just had to wake up,blink, stand up, clap her hands and it would all be good again. Surely itwasn't that hard. Was she doing it for attention, I wondered? Apunishment, perhaps. God, maybe she just never wanted to cook again.

I shook my head at my own inner monologue. No, it wasn'tMaree's fault. She was sick, her body broken. Something wasn't talkingto whatever it was supposed to be talking to and that was that. Toblame her just wasn't fair. If I were sitting in a chair like that, unable to

move... hell, I would be going insane.Are you still there sweet? I asked quietly. I wondered if she

could still see and hear, still taste. Was her mouth dry? Could she feelher lips cracking, her nails growing? What did it feel like when I wateredher eyes? If she ever came back, would she be heror would she havegone insane? A coma would have been better, I knew. A coma wassomething you could deal with. This was a parody of life sitting in achair. Would she still enjoy sex, I wondered.

The announcement on the radio repeated itself and then themusic came back, suddenly loud in my ears. I jumped, startled, pouredanother drink but the bottle was empty. I couldn't be bothered gettinganother one, perhaps I would just sleep in my chair.

I fell asleep, dreaming of hurricanes and tornadoes and burningfire and all the while there was Maree, naked in the field, dancing andscreaming and laughing all at once and I was in the chair, drunk and

unable to move, my feet heavy like cannon balls and all I wanted to do

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was dribble.

Nursing a hangover, I drove into town. People were everywhere, butthey were doing nothing, just milling about.

What's going on? I asked good-naturedly by the newsagent.There's talk of another invasion, said a lady reading a paper.Which one? I asked.Does it matter? she said with a tone of voice that clearly

didn't think so.What's that bring us up to? asked her companion, a man in a

grey suit with silver hair.Three, she said. There's a map and everything. I never

realised all these foreigners were so close together.I left them there and walked into the supermarket. There wasn't

much food on the shelves, and no bottled water. I made my waythrough the aisles, collecting as much canned food as I could. I found

some more booze, too, and paid the cashier.Stocking up? she didn't look surprised.No more than usual, I answered.We don't know when the truck's due, she told me. It could

be another week.Is there a shortage?Everything's tied up with the war, she said. There's talk of a

draft.Don't they have drones and things? I smiled at her.I'm worried they'll draft Johnny.He your brother?He's my boyfriend, she said. He's no fighter. He wouldn't

last a day.I don't think it will come to that, I told the frightened girl.

We don't do things that way anymore.

Yeah, but everyone says this time it's different. We've all got to

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do our bit, that guy on the TV keeps saying.What guy?

You don't watch TV?I don't have one no reception. She looked at me as thoughI were some kind of weirdo. It's due next week, I lied, not knowingwhy.

Oh, well, there's this ad that they keep playing, every time.Some army guy.

I'll watch out for it, I promised, and wheeled my trolley outof the store.

There was an army guy on the street, too. He was standing onthe back of a truck and had drawn quite a crowd.

What's going on? I asked the nearest neighbour, whom Ididn't recognise.

They're recruiting, he said.For the war.Yeah.Which one?

There's only the one, the man looked at me as though I werestrange. Haven't you been paying attention? We're fighting everyone.

What about?What the hell does it matter? the man spat and walked off,

angry. I turned my attention to the recruiter, a bald, middle-aged manwith a face full of wrinkles and the kind of skin you only got fromspending your time outdoors. This was a man that wasn't fighting, andhe hated it.

I tuned out but hung around, just in case I caught a bit ofgossip.

Why don't they just drop nukes on everyone? I heardsomeone say.

Yeah. What's the point of having all these things and not usingthem. Why should all our kids die? Just bomb the bastards.

I nodded silently, not agreeing but knowing that to shake my

head would arouse suspicion. It was interesting how one's perspective

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changes once they own their own nuclear missile. In theory I couldenter one of those punch cards and wipe a city off the map. In theory.

Having that power, however, had never entered into myconsciousness. It was like knowing that you could strangle a cat, but notdoing it. In many respects there was absolutely no reason not toperform an act of violence it was purely our own humanity stoppingus. One day, of course, curiosity takes its toll and the cat had better befar away.

Today, however, I drove home with my supplies and amelancholy for things unknown.

It was later when the army recruiter arrived at my house. I had justbought Maree inside and given her a bath and was sitting on the porchwith a beer and Koko at my feet. The olive green army car was visiblelong before it was on my property: a column of dust could be seenbefore it had even crested the horizon.

It pulled to a stop and the recruiter got out. His driver sat boredin the front seat.

Good afternoon, I said, standing.Good afternoon, the man smiled. His eyes were warm but he

walked as though he carried bad news.Is this about the missile? I asked, nervous.Excuse me?The nuke, I said.I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, the man

said. I recovered myself.I'm sorry, I said. I thought I read something in the papers...

I trailed off.I need to ask: are any of your sons at home? the recruiter

asked.I don't have any sons, I told him.

What about daughters?

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No daughters, either. Just me and my wife.How old's your wife? he asked.

Its rude to ask a lady her age, I reminded him.How old are you?The same as my wife, I smiled. What can I do for you... I

looked at the rank insignia on his shirt Sergeant?We're recruiting for the war effort, he said.I heard you in town, I told him.We need all able-bodied men. You look to be in pretty fine

shape.

There's a bit of rust, I promised. I'm afraid I can't help youout. There's only really me and the dog. My wife... well, she's had a turnfor the worst. Doesn't get up or say anything. I spend ninety percent ofmy time looking after her.

You could put her in a home.She's already in one, I gestured behind me.Have you heard about national service? It's been reinstated,

he said.

Are you saying I'm being recruited for the war?No, I'm seeing if you want to volunteer. National service is for

the young kids, really. What the army really needs is men. Men likeyourself.

I'm afraid I don't think I can help you. My life is here.You'll be doing your country a great honour.No. Thank you, I said. A silence settled over the porch. I

wasn't going to volunteer any more conversation. The recruiter nodded,knowing he was done and handed me a business card.

If you find yourself lying awake at night give me a call, hesaid and then they were gone, chasing the same column of dust out ofthe farm.

I turned the card around in my fingers, threw it in the bin.

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* * *

Damn it! I cursed, fiddling with the radio. The station had droppedout. I twiddled the nob but I got nothing but static in all directions.There wasn't even a hint of humanity on the radio band.

I'm sorry Maree, but I'm afraid we'll just have to play mah-jong, I said and turned around. Maree?

I stood there, afraid to move. Maree was dribbling but it wasmore than just dribble it was a froth. The moment of panic passedand I ran over to my wife, supporting her head, letting the dribble

bubble out her chin.Maree! I called into her face, staring into her eyes, but there

was nobody staring back. Maree...The convulsion had passed but I could see that she was tired. I

picked her up her body was so frail these days, like a set of twigsand carried her to bed. I lay her down, made sure her head was elevatedso the snot would run down her throat.

Come back to me, I kissed her forehead gently and walked

outside. I called for Koko but she didn't answer. I wondered if she everdreamed of chasing the cattle I would get. She would love it, bossingthe cows around, yapping at their heals.

I called for Koko again but I didn't even hear a bark. I walkedover to the barn she had taken a habit of lying in the shade insideand stopped when I saw her, lying on her side, a peaceful expressionover her beautiful dead face.

The town was deserted. I pulled into the service station and picked upthe pump, waited for the attendant to set off the meter. Nothinghappened. I looked up and saw that their wasno attendant.

I walked to the doors, thinking he was in the back room, andsaw the padlock still on the door. I looked around, but there was

nobody. Walking back to the road, standing in the middle of the

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bitumen, I could see that I was the only one around. The street wascold and quiet.

Screw it, I said to myself and went back to my truck, grabbedthe bolt cutters. I let myself inside and flicked the pump switch myself.I thought about leaving twenty bucks on the counter but decidedagainst it. Twenty bucks might come in handy, and free fuel was freefuel.

I filled up and then drove slowly through town. I stoppedoutside the pub it always had at least one poor soul inside butthere was nobody there. I saw that a few shop windows were broken

and everything else was pretty bare. People had left. Where to, I had noidea.

There was a roar overhead. I looked up and saw twin smoketrails in the sky. I followed the trails with my eyes and just made out thegrey blot of a jet snaking across the sky. There was a muffled explosionand the ground shook like an earthquake, sending dust from therooftops to cascade onto the street.

I got into my car, started her up and drove out of town. To my

left eastwards there was a gigantic column of smoke. The skyglowed red and flickered, like from a bushfire. I stopped and got out,shivered at the way the wind moved, as though it were thick like frothedmilk. I could feel the heat from the fire, but it was soft and pleasant,and the fire was many miles away. A city was burning, I knew.

I drove back to the farm, tuning my car stereo as I drove. Therewas still nothing but static, but the pitch was higher and changed everyfew metres. It sounded as though the universe itself was trying to speakto me, through my radio. It was not to tell me good news.

Koko's grave stood near the barn and a silent tear clogged upmy left eye as I drove passed it. I turned away, climbed the porch intothe house.

I'm home, I said, knowing nobody would answer. I walkedinto the bedroom to kiss my wife on the cheek and stopped. Oh, wasall I could say.

Maree had died when I was away. How, I couldn't say, but her

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eyes were glazed over and she was no longer dribbling and, for the firsttime in God-knows how long, the room wasn't filled with the wretched

wheeze of her lungs struggling to sustain her.Oh, I repeated, feeling alone for the first time. She wouldhave to be buried, too, but not yet. Let her sleep in her own bed for anight, free of the pain that I know she had suffered.

I walked outside. The sun was about to set but the sky was blackfrom the smoke. I could smell it now, the horrible smell of industryburning. There was a flash a huge, blinding flash and I knew thatthe world had turned on its head.

I blinked, waiting for my eyes to see again. The world looked...different. The house was white with purple blots, the ground was greenand the sky was red. I blinked and blinked until the house becamebrown and red and rusted and the ground became yellow with droughtbut the sky remained red.

There was a roar and the wind slapped me on the face, hot anddead. I could taste metal. I looked back to the horizon and saw themushroom cloud rising over the horizon, so little in the distance but

still too close for comfort. It was already high in the sky and Iwondered what city had just been destroyed. Austin, perhaps. MaybeHouston.

There was another flash, another blinding burst of light and awave of heat. Ahh, that was Houston. It was odd how warming thenuclear fire had felt as it washed over me. I looked and saw that thegrass had turned brown and that my watch had stopped. I coughed,wiped blood from my chin.

I was disoriented but I could see my barn. I staggered inside,suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to get underground. EverythingI touched felt exactly as it should and yet it felt like it was killing me,like a poison that leached in through the skin.

The generator coughed and spluttered but fired and took me farbelow. The concrete was warm and I was afraid that my bastion wascontaminated but I relaxed as the cold quiet fingers of calm reached

out from the silent walls and cooled me down.

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I ran the lights and wiped my blood from my mouth. When Ireached the giant doors I wondered if I should shut them, decided it

was too late for that.My missile stood proud and erect and I fancied it was a littlebigger than it had been before. It seemed to be looking at me, asthough it were begging to be used. Was it time to join the war? Iwondered. Would my missile even fly?

The control room was, as ever, a picture of calmness. Thecomputer was still processing blindly away, waiting eternally for thepunch card that would make it do something. The red phone was still on

the wall.On a whim, I picked up the phone. There was no dial tone.

Silently, I placed it back on its receiver, found myself staring at it asthough my last link to the outside world was gone.

There was nothing left but to stare at my missile, and then mygaze lowered to the red folder on the table. All those cities... cities I hadnever been to but had heard about, seen on the news, read novels thattraced their cobbled streets.

It seemed like fate that the only thing I could talk to was acomputer and the only language it understood was a punch card, andthere were so many in this folder. I tried to remember who we werefighting, but I hadn't paid enough attention. The details had seemedirrelevant at the time but now, with death at my fingertips, it seemedimportant.

No, I realised, it was even less important than it had beenbefore.

I picked up the folder, turned it upside down and dropped it.Punch cards scattered across the room, falling out of their plasticpockets like so many cards from a pack. I picked up one at random andlooked it over. I picked up a second and compared the two. There wasno way to tell whether I was looking at Moscow and Tehran, orWashington and London. The cards remained silent as to theirdestination, with the plain folder silently mocking me, each tell-tale label

happily housed in its protective plastic sleeve. It was of no

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consequence.I dropped one of the cards because I didn't like the shape of its

holes. Thisone looked much better. I turned and faced the computer,stared at the slot that would accept my card, like a sacrificial offering.Only it was not my sacrifice, but my missile's.

I held the card to the slot and waited. Just like the strangled cat,there was no reason to insert the card. Just like the strangled cat, therewas no reason not to. There was nothing but the most random ofmoments, when the brain would decide if reason and humanity and,above all, the status quo should remain or if the slightest moment of

chance would take over and the cat would finally be strangled.There was no question of guilt, there was no question of

remorse. Ultimately, the missile was the key to its own fate. It was builtfor a purpose, one destructively simple purpose.

And so was I.

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The Year of Fire

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