BEFORE THE FLAMES DEVOUR US – PART ONE
Los Angeles, 3:07 a.m., Monday
Night had fallen in LA. The streets were dark, illuminated only by the flashing traffic lights and the fluorescent gloom of the city’s little 24-hour stores. An unusual silence hung in the air, almost unsettling in its tension. Somewhere in the far distance, a car alarm was shrilling. A warm breeze carried a scattering of dry leaves across an intersection and brought with it the smell of burnt ash.
The stillness of the city stood in stark contrast to the inferno now reaching the outskirts of LA. Angry flames were blurring the horizon, aggressively licking the night skies, reaching hungrily for the full moon above. Glowing embers were traveling through the air. The fire was leaping from bush to bush, palm tree to palm tree, as red flames lit up the night – their untamed movement resembling a jittery, dramatic dance. With each jerky step, smooth swirl and wild turn, vegetation was reduced to nothing in a matter of mere minutes, leaving behind only heaps of ash and cinder. Soot was falling from above.
To the eye of an oblivious passerby, it might have looked like it was snowing outside. Light-grey particles were tumbling through the city, slowly descending onto LA’s empty streets and covering the concrete with the city’s own remains. But the thick, rising smoke and the dangerous heat closing in on the outskirts made one thing unmistakable:
Los Angeles was on fire.
Downtown LA, 1:19 a.m., Saturday (two days before)
Daryl’s Bar stood proudly at the corner of Figueroa Street, the purple flickering neon sign above its modern, low-slung entrance reading “Best Cocktails in LA”. Groups of loud patrons were constantly tumbling in and out of the building, the air around them thick with the scent of weed and alcohol. While the rest of the street lay in relative silence, deep basses of wild techno music rumbled through the pavement each time the bar’s dark automatic glass doors slid open – then quickly faded to a low buzz when the doors closed again.
Thomas was on his way home when he passed the thundering music blasting from the bar. He abruptly stopped across the busy street when the smell of marihuana slammed into his nostrils. Drawing in a sharp breath, his eyes landed on Daryl’s Bar.
When was the last time he had had a drink? He really wanted to chase oblivion in a bottle just this once. But as soon as that thought flashed through his mind, he was quick to dismiss it.
This is not my scene, he told himself, his tucked away police badge burning a hole through his blue jeans pocket. And I really don’t want to end up like my brother.
A small part of the man felt shame bloom in his chest for thinking of his relative that way. Yet still, he really had no desire to drown his sorrows in alcohol the way his brother did. But then he remembered that night’s tough case – a terrifying intruder wearing a sheep’s head had murdered an entire family in cold blood – and Thomas found himself itching for a distraction. He chewed at his lip, calculating.
“Fuck it,” he murmured.
Thomas crossed the street. The rest of his resolve crumbled as he set himself one goal: He was getting himself a glass of whisky tonight. Or maybe three.
Malibu Beach, 8:36 p.m., 17 years ago
Samuel hated Malibu’s scorching sun. Heat blisters marred his burned skin — he’d been too reckless to put on any sunscreen before spending the whole day at the beach with his friends.
He was sitting alone now, toes buried in the warm sand. Waves were foaming at his feet. His friends had had to leave a while ago after their parents had called them for dinner.
To Samuel’s satisfaction, his greatest enemy, the sun, was finally disappearing behind the ocean, its rays’ reflection stretching across the water like glistening flames. A row of sleek beachfront homes lined the shore, their balconies jutting out over the surf, their white walls appearing pink in the dawn.
Samuel found himself wishing to live that near to the beach. He could be jumping into the water seconds after leaving his home. Instead, he always had to walk for what felt like hours until he reached the ocean.
No wonder I’ve got that many sunburns, he concluded.
Then, I should probably go home, it’s getting late.
He stood up and clumsily brushed the sand off his grey shorts. He turned to slip into his flip-flops, when suddenly an alarming thought struck him. Did I turn off the stove when I left this morning?
Samuel’s lungs constricted. His mother had told him to shut off the stove before leaving for the beach. Had he or had he not switched it off?
He stopped in his tracks. I didn’t forget, did I? Samuel’s heart clenched in panic. He was suddenly so horrified, he did not even try to convince himself that yes, he had turned off the stove, he surely had not forgotten.
Samuel broke into a sprint, his flip-flops forgotten in the sand. He had to get home as fast as his legs would carry him, had to make sure that he had not just accidentally set his family on fire, burnt down the house, and maybe even the whole neighbourhood with it.
His heart was beating out of his chest as he bolted through the streets. Panic sent hot pulses of sheer helplessness down his spine. Not a minute later, he was already out of breath, and his shirt was drenched with sweat. Yet he kept running, not daring to slow down.
In the golden light of the dying sun, Samuel’s silhouette darted through the hot streets of Malibu like a shadow racing against time.
The concrete was unforgiving when he fell, tearing open layers of fabric and skin.
For a second that felt like eternity, Samuel lay on the ground. He had braced for something, anything – a scream, a boom – but it was like all of Malibu were holding its breath with him.
He scrambled to his feet, legs trembling. A drop of warm blood trickled down his injured knee.
Fuck.
Samuel burst into another sprint, more desperate than ever before. The sound of bare feet pounding against hard concrete filled the silence.
Somewhere in the distance, smoke arose.