Claws

Claws of orange slash through the city, leaving a black scar as they crawl between buildings and devour homes. They scramble up skyscrapers, from where they hurl glowing chunks of concrete down onto the smouldering buildings below. Bright sparks are coughed up into the night sky, and soar on the wind, dancing over the libraries, banks, and malls. Spitting and crackling from the fire merge to form a low growl, crescendoing into a roar that shakes the ground.

I look to my left and see the blazing beast reflected in the eyes of a stranger. Their blank face stares out towards the city, eyes transfixed on the rhythmic dance. I turn back, try to pinpoint my house – I can usually glimpse it from this spot up on the hill – but I can’t see anything through the smoke.

Last night everything had been fine.

The clock ticked on the wall.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The dishwasher echoed from the kitchen.

Swish.

Swoosh.

The couch groaned under the weight of the dog adjusting her position. Everything was fine.

A breeze swept through the dry trees outside. The neighbour’s doorbell rang out. The fan spun above me, circulating the humid air around the room. Everything was fine.

Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, laughing together for once. My younger sister played video games in her room instead of banging on her drum kit. Hallelujah.

The sound of the pen clenched in my hand resonated through the room.

Click.

Clack.

Everything was fine.

Click.

Clack.

Everything is fine.

Click-

“Daniela!”

Shoot. My full name.

I push the feeling of unease that had risen up into my throat back down into my stomach and stand up; the soft tip tap of Hillary’s claws on the vinyl floor follows me out of the room.

When I poke my head around the corner, I see my mother squinting at her phone and my father peeking over her shoulder, trying to poke at the screen.

“I can’t get this stupid thing to work,” she says.

Her screen flashes bright with a news headline – Mexico Sees Northern Lights.

“How do I get rid of this?”

“Here, Mum, let me have it,” I say, and hold out my hand.

She maintains her grip on the phone as she continues to peer at it. Another ad pops up – From Beautiful Auroras to Satellite Interference: Everything You Need to Know About Solar Flares.

“I just want it to go away! Where’s the wordle gone?”

I hold the phone still and press the small grey x in the top corner, returning to my mum’s game.

While in the kitchen, I grab a few ice cubes out of the freezer, sneaking one to Hillary, who snatches it out of my hand and then, unused to the cold, slippery texture, lets it fall out of her mouth. I leave her to make a mess all over her front paws and the kitchen floor and return to the loungeroom, chucking the other two ice cubes in my mouth. When I flick the TV on, I see through squinted eyes and a cold stab in my head, a middle-aged man in a suit speaking about traffic and heatwaves and whatever else 7 News deems important.

And for tomorrow, more high temperatures expected with a maximum of 40 degrees at 3pm and a minimum of 27 degrees overnight. Next up, an interview with NASA scientists who have discovered some unusual solar disturbances, and what this could mean for you. See you after 7.

The TV cuts to an ad break for spare tyres and car parts after the news tune fades out. I flick my friend a quick text asking if he’s free tomorrow before collapsing on the couch, shifting until I find a cooler spot. My damp skin bonds with the leather, threatening to rip away with each small movement. Hillary trots back into the room, ice cube devoured and still panting. She slobbers all over my face and then closely inspects the floor before choosing a cool spot to collapse on.

I hear a knock on the door.

“Can you get that Danny? It’ll be the pizza!” my mum calls out from the kitchen.

I wince as my bare skin tears away from the leather on the couch, and I drag myself over to the door. A 17-year-old boy stands at the door in a Pizza Capers cap with our stack of boxes, and I hand over the cash from the coffee table. He pretends not to notice my messy, brown hair, stripy boxer shorts and oversized tank top. Gorgeous as always.

“Have a good one.”

I yell at Ellie to get out of her room, and that dinner is here, and that yes, we got cheesy garlic and no she can’t play drums now it’s dark outside and we’ll get another noise complaint. I check my messages, seeing a notification. Message failed to send.

Something twists in my gut, and I clamp it down. It’s probably fine. Shitty Wi-Fi isn’t exactly uncommon. I laugh to myself and forcibly shake my head, taking a deep breath. No reason to panic.

As my family makes their very slow way over to the kitchen counter for dinner, I grab the TV remote and start scrolling through the channels.

That’s when the TV screen goes black.

I pause, then groan in a way that my mother would tell me is far too dramatic for my own good, complete with my head thrown back and a slightly-too-forceful throw of the remote at an unsuspecting pot plant, hauling myself over to inspect the TV. Nothing seems out of the ordinary as far as I can see, although I am in no way an expert on the technical workings of the television, so I go outside with the flashlight on my phone to have a look at the antenna.

Before I can get too far, my eyes go wide, and I stand in awe at the sight before me, dropping my phone with a dull clatter against the concrete. Flowing brushstrokes of bright green writhe and shimmer in the sky, fading in and out of view over the rooftops. Purple and blue dance with an otherworldly elegance, so bright they cast shadows that cower in the crooks of gardens and fences. The usually dark, late-autumn sky glows with swathes of pink and yellow now joining the canvas, outshining the streaks of light that would have peeked between curtains and doors on any other night. One by one, my family and neighbours wander out of their houses, all staring at the sky until the street is full of people standing under the lights. Nobody dares to breathe, the only sound the occasional birdsong as if it were early morning.

Somebody cuts through the silence with the click of their camera, and like a gradual wave, people begin to murmur to each other, breaking the tension. Pressured by the laughter around me, I relax my face and pick up my phone, wincing at the large crack that slashes through the glass.

Hillary whines as she begs at my feet for food, having given up on glaring at us from the front porch. I reach down to scratch the soft, familiar fur behind her ears when a faint buzzing emanates from out in the street, and my head tilts to the side. Hillary whimpers again, looking up at the sky from beside me. The buzzing starts to grow, louder and more frantic, until I feel a weight in my chest. Pressure builds in my ears, and my arms and legs start to tingle with a crawling sensation that creeps through my body.

Someone yells out and we all look up, not at the sky, but at the powerlines, which hum with energy. Sparks start to fly out of the pins that join the wires, igniting the dry wooden poles and the dead grass. The buzzing reaches a high-pitched whistle and, with an ear-crushing bang, the powerlines simultaneously blow. After a split second of blinding white light, everything goes dark.

I wake up to screams and crying and my mother holding me tightly, her warm hands gripping my shoulder through the fabric of my shirt. She holds me close so that I feel like a little kid again, like nothing could go wrong as long as I’m in her embrace. I move to cling to her, my head tucked underneath her chin and hands curled around her sides.

“Danny, you have to get up. We need to go.”

I pry myself from her and ignore the crackling fire that grows from the power poles like toxic fungi, spreading its spores through the now dark night sky. I don’t see the flames that brew in houses through cracked windows. I don’t hear the smoke alarms wailing. I don’t notice the people shoving and pushing, trying to get away, and I certainly don’t look at, don’t see, don’t hear, don’t notice the people who didn’t make it out in time.

My dad shoves us into our old ute but when he tries to start the engine, nothing happens. He turns the keys, again and again but the car doesn’t start and we don’t have time, we need to go we need to get out.

My mother grabs me by the hand, pulling me out of the car and through the mass of people running, all running, but there’s nowhere to go. My father and sister do the same and we desperately try to stay together. My eyes water with the sharp, acrid stench of smoke and burning plastic, burning wood, burning carpet, burning burning burning. The fire doesn’t discriminate, and whether they’re vacant or not, it consumes the houses, the smog from everything that ignites clogging up my throat and stinging my eyes.

I focus on the feeling of my mum’s hand in my own, the sticky sweat that combines in our clammy palms, the feel of her nails digging into the back of my hand. She weaves through the crowded street as I trail behind her, my heart in my throat. I can’t think or breathe or see I just put one foot in front of the other and keep going keep walking keep moving don’t stop, come on Daniela, that’s it let’s go, just follow me and keep going keep walking keep moving.

The heavy anchor of my mother’s voice suddenly cuts off as we’re met with a wall of flames blocking our way and, oh no, we’re going to die. My mother doesn’t miss a beat, retracing our steps back through the crowd and with no other option we sprint down a side alley, fire blazing above our heads and the houses on either side beginning to crumble. A loud crack echoes above us and as if in slow motion I feel my mother push me forward towards my sister. I stumble into my father’s arms, which drag me away from the heat. When I turn around my mother lays pinned, face down on the ground by a large sheet of metal, upper body twisted in unnatural ways. Her glassy eyes stare at the ground, and her mouth hangs open, voice lost in the smoke between us. My dad grabs me by the waist and drags me away, my arms reaching out as we leave her behind.

We run past burning homes, stopping on top of a clear hill, and I numbly recall a distant memory of playing with my friends on the swings as a young child. My dad tries to call 000 but the phone doesn’t even ring before cutting out.

So now I stand here on this hill, looking out at the ruins that are my home. Were my home.

In front of me, the city burns. Next to me stand other survivors. Behind me, a cold, wet nose against my hand, the feel of familiar fur, and the soft tip tap of claws.