Zero Casualties

• Kirsten Waygood, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2011

The smoke spoke. It whispered of memories, of thoughts, of fear and joy. It wailed words of loss, of longing, of pain and grief. It hung –a wraith-like spectre, a shadow of doom an announcement to all that its rabid feast had changed the face of the earth into a mask of death. The smoke laughed.

The young cat stood bewildered within the smoke’s belly. When the flames had begun their stalk, like roaring tigers over a hill, her people had left. Not sparing a thought for their faithful companion with fur the same shade as the fire –she was alone, entirely and utterly alone. A high pitched mewling scream of despair rose from her throat, a desperate cry for salvation, but the black landscape covered its ears. Large blisters had risen on her once velvet paws, her beautiful fur had charred and disintegrated leaving her skin weeping angry tears of red and her eyes, swollen from the smoke observed the world in a half-shut glare. She pushed on, ignoring the small pieces of skin that sloughed away from her paws as she traversed the hot gravel road, no longer thinking but just moving, staying alive for a moment longer.

Later that night she finally saw lights, burning brightly within a home. For a moment she cringed back, but her domestic instincts kicked in, informing that this was what she needed to survive. A brand new chorus of pleading wails emerged from her dry and dusty throat, she scratched at the door with worn out nails begging the mute wooden door, another corpse brought about by domestication, to open and for her life to continue.

Inside a family was lounging on the sofa, broken-down sacks of flesh. The prime minister spoke to them in bright political tones from the flickering box, just as the wailing began. They turned up the volume. The government official praised the swift evacuation, raised glasses of champagne to the zero casualties and as he proudly remarked that Australians could achieve anything when they worked together the young cat’s pain came to an end. Covered by a soft sycamore tree out of reach of the flashing box, night’s gentle blanket was kind to her, hiding its eyes in gray clouds so none could gaze on the pitiful remains of the feline that only yesterday had been graceful and lithe.

The smoke spoke. It declared the arrogance of man who tried to capture its power, pitied the innocents who paid the price and foretold of a time when the foolishness of humanity would let fire devour the world, “Just wait…” it breathed.
The earth wept.