Six months before, the track had been washed away in a flood, now, Ben thought grimly, it was about to be incinerated. Shit. Shit. Shit. With heart hammering, he urged the truck faster. He and the crew would die if they couldn’t out run the fire. Too many had perished in the fires ravaging the national park, two hundred kilometres north of Adelaide. Hell, no way he wanted to be a statistic on the night’s news. He clung to the rear of the vehicle. Acrid smoke burned his throat and lungs. He was combusting in the heavy protective gear. He dropped his helmet and poured a bottle of water over his head, the moisture barely registering as scorching wind whipped across his face and hair, stinging his eyes. His vision blurred and he blinked furiously, eyelids gritty. Explosions, like thunder. Crash. Boom. The deafening roar of fire behind him as the forest was consumed. He glanced back. Oh, shit. On either side of the track, thirty metre high eucalypts became giant torches, shooting flames another thirty metres into the sky as fire leapt from tree top to tree top.
