‘I will, Dad.’
He picked up Flynn’s phone and handed it to him, then he was off, running back up the hill. Flynn should have called out to him to slow down, to not chance falling over, but that would be babying Aaron when what he needed was his dad’s confidence in him and his ability to do the job he’d been given.
His son was amazing. The best thing in his life.
He was going to do everything he could to live up to the gift of that fact. He was going to push past the livewire of fear that was infesting him with every breath of smoke-tinged air, and man up. Be the father he’d always wanted to be. Prove Prita wrong.
He looked down at his phone. Reid had hung up. He called him as he limped up the road, told him he’d be there, could hear the sound of the pump in the background. ‘You already filling up?’
‘Yep. The other one’s up by the barn. You’ll need to bring it down to fill up—I haven’t had a chance to fill them up after the last fire.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
‘I’ll be done by the time you get here. I’ll meet you down at the fire face.’
‘Where is it?’
‘They’re on the fire track near the ridge. The fire was started near where we picnic with the camp kids.’
Shit. Another place Prita had been to recently. Mac and Reid had called her out there just last week when one of the camp kids had sliced his hand open on a sharp rock when they’d stopped for lunch. Carter had been on the ride too.
This was further proof—as if he needed it—that someone was after Prita and they didn’t care what they destroyed to get to her. Well, they sure as hell weren’t going to destroy anything further. He was going to make certain of it. He would protect what was his.
Chapter 25
Flynn filled the tanker and when it was full, got into the cab and drove as fast as he could towards the mouth of hell. Rage drove him, allowing him to choke down his fear as he drove through drifts of smoke to where the CFA volunteers were battling the growing flames. When he got there, rage pushed him to get out and hook up his full tank to fire hoses then go join those fighting the flames. Even as the heat pushed into him and the roar and crackle filled the air so there seemed to be no other sound, rage didn’t allow his fear to strangle him. He ran to one of the CFA trucks, dragged on the spare gear that had been brought for those who came to the fight later, shoved on a mask so he was breathing in oxygen untainted by smoke, took one of the hoses, marched down to the fire face, and fought like he’d never fought before.
Fought himself. Fought the flames. Fought the heat. Fought the heaviness of the hose and the fatigue that pulled at him alongside the terror. Not terror of the flames. It had never truly been the flames he had an issue with. It was what they left behind, the scent of burned things clinging to him, making him shiver and sweat and sink into the dark thoughts that brought on the nightmares and self-doubt. With the oxygen mask on, he couldn’t smell the smoke. Only his rage and sweat and the determination that was a savage tang in his mouth, his nose, his throat. He focused on the now. Not the past. Not what was to come. Only that the fire wouldn’t win today. It wasn’t going to take away anything else he loved.
He fought the battle past the climbing wall and the tree surfing course, trying to save as much of that as possible, but more intent on stopping it from getting into the bush leading to the paddocks. The tree surfing course was lost and the climbing wall was severely damaged—he saw as much as he ran a new line to beat back the fire to the east that was pushing past them and up the hill—but those things could be rebuilt. He couldn’t lose any of the buildings. Couldn’t let this near the houses. The people. The horses.
Finally … finally … they managed to get the blaze under control. The fact the wind had died down and it had rained last night had been a godsend, but the quick response from the team after Mac had called it in, and the reserves that had arrived, the extra tankers that allowed them to continue to fight, was what stopped the fire from getting any further into his property than the edges of the southern paddocks.
He heard the cheer go up as the last of the flames were doused, but he had no voice, no breath, no energy to join in. His mask was fogged up and he shoved it off, took a deep shuddering breath. Oh god. That was a mistake. The scent of burned wood and eucalypt, the acrid undertone of burned flesh—the bush animals that were so often the sad, overlooked casualties of bushfires—hit him and he had to fight not to gag, not to turn and run trembling to one of the stud utes and drive as fast as he could, far far away.
Instead, he stood there, shaking, eyes roving over the smouldering ruins of the bush, heard Reid say something to the men just up the track behind him, thanking everyone, organising clean up teams, Mac barking at those he picked to stay and watch with one of the trucks to make sure the fire didn’t blow up again in the breeze that so often came with the twilight. Hell, it wasn’t even night. It seemed like he’d been fighting for days.
‘Here.’ Reid arrived at his side with a slap on his shoulder and passed him a canteen.
Flynn
