THE INFERNAL BEAST

Stanley Ashmore was panting, on the brink of exhaustion, when finally he reached the outskirts of Westmoreland. His heart pounded in his ears, loud enough to deafen him to the sounds of his pursuer. But Stan knew that he was still being followed, knew that the pursuer would never give up until he was dead.

In his youth, Stan had been considered quite an athlete, at least by the standards of an Australian country town. But for the last thirty-five years, he had been slowly going to fat, sitting behind a teller’s window at the State Savings Bank in BeauLarkin. So Stan was now in no condition for running.

Yet running was exactly what he had been doing, seemingly for hours. Running through the dense forest of wattles, pines, and eerie, grey-white ghost gums, all the way from Mount Abergowrie on the northern edge of Glen Hartwell, to the outskirts of Westmoreland, nearly five kilometres away.

"A ghost town," said Stan between panting breaths, looking out at the narrow streets of decaying, weatherboard houses. Westmoreland had been deserted en masse in the late 1970s when a plague had decimated the town and its neighbour Wilhelmina.

Stan hesitated for a moment, catching his breath, and then decided that perhaps a ghost town was as fitting a place as any to hide ... Considering what was chasing him.

"Can’t ... go ... much further ... anyway," wheezed Stan as he stumbled out of the forest and started down the pot-holed bitumen road.

Westmoreland was nothing more than thirty or so single-fronted weatherboard houses, a bank, and a general store lined up along Cockerall Road (which is paved), and Philomena and Harvey Streets (which are both mere dirt tracks).

Stan stopped at the corner of Cockerall Road and Philomena Street and looked down the dirt track for a moment. Bitumen burns, dirt doesn’t! he thought, wondering if it would be safer to head down the dirt path. But then, realising that his pursuer could take the fire along the dirt road, Stan continued up along Cockerall Road, looking first left, and then right as he ran.

The neglected houses looked like wooden faces, sneering at Stan for his feeble efforts to escape the monster that followed him. The glass-fronted NatWest Bank, on the corner of Cockerall and Harvey, seemed friendlier after his years as a bank teller. But as he started toward it, he realised that the large plate-glass window front provided no protection against his pursuer. So, reluctantly he forced himself to head toward one of the sneering-faced weatherboard houses.

After a quick check of the doors and windows, he managed to gain entrance through a broken rear window. Then, after a moment's rest to allow his panting breath to return to something like normal, and his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he set out to make the house secure.

It took Stan more than half an hour to cover all the doors and windows with dust-laden chairs and the backs of cupboards. But finally, he was satisfied that he was as safe as it was possible to be from his pursuer.

He dusted off an armchair as best he could, and then settled down to wait for the monster to give up the chase. It was already growing dark outside, so he decided that he would have to stay in the house until morning before it would be safe to set off for Glen Hartwell again.

Stan had almost fallen asleep in the armchair when he heard the sound of crackling wood. Fire! he thought. He sat up straight, for a moment thinking that he was at the Hart sheep station. But then, remembering where he was and why, the crackling took on a far more ominous meaning.

He sat listening for a moment, before determining that the crackling was emanating from the wall to his right. He went across to listen with an ear against the wall, feeling around the wooden panelling with his hands, until locating a hot spot where the wood was warm to the touch.

After a few moments’ investigation, he discovered that the hot spot was confined to an area about two hundred and twenty centimetres in height, by approximately eighty centimetres in width.

By the time Stan had confirmed its dimensions, the spot had become too hot to touch, although the wall only centimetres away was still cool.

The wood panelling began to smoulder, then billow with swirls of thick, grey smoke, and then slowly burn.

Stan stood spellbound, paralysed with terror as the burning area slowly lost its rectangular shape and began to take on the rough outline of a human being.

Although unable to turn and run, Stan had started to back deeper into the darkened room by the time the flames finally broke right through the wood panelling to reveal his pursuer: a gigantic creature resembling a man, but a man who seemed to live in the heart of a small ocean of swirling flames. Red, blue, and yellow fire danced along the creature’s body, flickering out like an aura of flames as the man-beast smiled evilly.

Stepping through the hole it had burnt into the wall, the Infernal Beast began slowly advancing toward its quarry.

"No! No, don’t!" pleaded Stan

Ignoring his entreaties, the grinning creature stepped up to wrap its long arms around Stan to crush him in a powerful bear hug. A bear hug, which would have killed Stan, if only the flames had not killed him first.

The Infernal Beast held Stan in its embrace of death until he had burnt to a blackened husk, which crumbled and then fell to the floor. Then turning, the creature walked back across to the panelled wall and squeezed out through its own outline burnt clean through the wall of the house.


Until recently, Ernie Singleton’s life had been relatively uneventful,. Until ten days ago when he had started to suffer from crippling aches in his stomach and in his bone joints.

"Well, I'm damned if I know what's wrong," said Gina Foley, chief surgeon and administrator of the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

Ernie had been poked, prodded and subjected to every kind of torture known to modern medicine, without Gina getting any nearer to localising what was causing the pangs that wracked his body despite the strongest painkillers that she could legally prescribe him.

For the last three days, Ernie had been lying around the farmhouse (while Brian Horne called around every day to take care of the most urgent tasks around the sheep station) sitting, standing, and lying down in a vain effort to find the best position to alleviate his aches and pains. Until tonight, when he stumbled from the farmhouse, in a desperate hope that the night air might work some kind of miracle fresh-air cure.

To his amazement, as soon as he stepped out onto the back porch, he felt a loosening of the tight knot in his stomach and a slight easing of the aching in his joints.

Buoyed up by his sudden good health, Ernie climbed over the metre-high, chain-link fence that ringed the farmhouse yard, then stumbled, walked, then galloped past the dog yard a hundred metres behind the farmhouse, where nearly fifty Kelpies, Barb-Kelpies, Border Collies, and other farm dogs were chained up, using halved 200-litre drums as kennels.

As he ran past, the dogs yapped and wagged their tails in delight, having not seen their master for the past ten days. However, Ernie was too excited by his new-found mobility to stop to play with the dogs. Without hesitation he ran past the dog yard, heading for the three-hundred-hectare sheep yard beyond, then for the forest further on.

The further he ran the faster he ran, until he ran right out of his clothes, loping along as effortlessly as the best of his farm dogs. He ran through the sweet-smelling forest of blue, red, grey, and ghost gums for many kilometres. Then developing a great thirst, he headed toward the shallow bank of the Yannan River to drink.

A wide, deep waterway near Glen Hartwell, on the outskirts of LePage, where Ernie had stopped, the Yannan tapered out until it was barely half a dozen metres wide and less than a metre deep. Still, it was deep enough to cast a reflexion and show Ernie the image of a large black wolf staring up at him.

What the ...? thought Ernie backing away quickly.

Then as the image of the wolf moved slightly, he realised that it must be the reflexion of a wolf standing directly behind him.

Almost falling into the river from fright, Ernie swung around, expecting to see the black wolf only centimetres behind him.

To his astonishment, there was no sign of the wolf. Where the Hell did it get to? he wondered, looking all around. After a moment he saw a clear line of five-toed paw prints in the thick carpet of pine needles covering the forest floor, leading from a grove of blue gums to the Yannan. He gazed at the spoors for a moment, thinking: Do wolves have five toes on each paw? Or four, like most other canines?

He continued to scan the shadowy forest for a while, vainly looking for the wolf, before turning back toward the river ....

To immediately see the reflexion of the black wolf gazing up at him again.

This time he spun around quickly, expecting to see some sign of the wolf fleeing back to the grove of gum trees. But again he caught no sight of the creature. The damn thing can sure run! he thought, with a mixture of fear and admiration for the creature.

He spent a couple of minutes scanning the forest, following the path of the five-toed prints, in the hope that they would lead him to the wolf’s hiding place.

It was only as he noticed that the wolf spoors did not double back toward the forest at all, that he also realised that they were the only footprints on the forest floor. His own feet had left no tracks!

But that’s impossible! thought Ernie, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement. But then the solution struck him: My god! The wolf spoors are my tracks! That’s the only possible explanation!

Looking back toward the shallow water of the Yannan he saw the reflexion of the black wolf again, saw the puzzled look in the large, very human, blue eyes and knew that it was his own reflexion: he was the black wolf!

My God! How can it be true? wondered Ernie. Although no great aficionado of werewolf literature, he had read enough stories to know that supposedly a werewolf has to be bitten by another werewolf or wolf before coming down with the taint.

Though shocked by the revelation of what he had become, Ernie realised that the run through the forest in wolf form had somehow cleaned out his system, forcing out most of the cramps and pains that had wracked his body for the past ten days.

By the time he finally returned to the farmhouse and to human form, he discovered that most of his aches were gone. Replaced by a hunger so overwhelming that it bordered on famine and forced him to spend most of that day on a non-stop eating binge to quell the hunger and get his strength back up. To the point where he had emptied the refrigerator and would have to go into Merridale tomorrow, cramps or no cramps if Rowena didn’t bring some groceries tonight.


It was late February 1983 and Victoria and South Australia had recently been scorched by the Ash Wednesday bushfires, which killed seventy-two people and destroyed hundreds of thousands of hectares of prime forestland. Although the worst of the fires were over by the twenty-fourth of February, a few fires still burnt around the outskirts of Daley and Glen Hartwell, in the South Eastern Victorian countryside.

It was everything that Ronald Meldon, the recently appointed chief of the Greater Daley Fire Department, could do to prevent the fires from reaching right into the heart of the townships themselves.

"How the Hell am I supposed to combat a major bushfire disaster, with only three fully trained firefighters and a dozen or so unpaid volunteers?" grumbled Meldon. He was taking a quick break a hundred metre from the towering wall of flames, which threatened to completely raze the foliage atop Mount Abergowrie on the northern outskirts of Glen Hartwell.

"They managed to put out the fires at Macedon and Cockatoo with virtually no paid fire-fighters at all, only volunteers," replied Sergeant Danny Ross. A tall, powerfully built, barrel-chested man, Ross was known affectionately as "Bear" by his close friends and colleagues in the Glen Hartwell area.

"Yes, but with the loss of over thirty lives," pointed out Meldon, a tall, thin yet muscular man, who usually looked at least ten years younger than his age of forty-five. But after the last fortnight of battling bushfires, he now looked and felt closer to sixty: "So far I’ve been lucky, with only two major burn victims, and no fatalities. But sooner or later my luck will run out ... Unless somehow we manage to put out these last three fires quickly."

"It should be only another day or two now, surely?" said Bear, stretching to alleviate a nagging crick in the small of his back: "It seems like we’ve been making pretty good headway over the last couple of days ...?"

"We’ve been making headway, then losing ground again every couple of days, in cycles, over the last two weeks," corrected Meldon: "If the cycle continues, things should start getting worse again sometime today, or early tomorrow."

"Oh, don’t even say it," Bear said, throwing Meldon a pleading look. Although a strong, energetic man by nature, after working fourteen hours a day for more than two weeks fighting fires, Bear had started to become painfully aware of his own human frailty. His body ached from head to toe, and he longed for the day when he could return to normal police duties. Like Meldon, Bear still had not fully settled into his job, and still was not one hundred percent confident of his ability to handle the responsibility. He only hoped that his failings would not cost anyone their life or health before the last of the bushfires were out.

"For the life of me I don’t know how these damn fires keep starting," said Meldon, as he and Bear started back toward the fire front: "It seems as though the moment one fire is doused another starts up. Often so far apart they can’t possibly be related to each other."

"Arsonists?" asked Bear. He was surprised at the idea since rural people usually have a much healthier respect for other peoples’ property than do their city-dwelling cousins.

"Out here?" asked Meldon, thinking the same thing as Bear: "Not likely ... And this isn’t exactly a tourist area, so we can’t blame them either." He placed his pack on his back, and then said: "Frankly it doesn’t make any sense."

Nodding in agreement, Bear put on his backpack, checked that it was still more than half full, and then set off back to the fire front.

As he fought the fire, Bear Ross had to keep looking around for Ronald Meldon and the other men, who were strung out around the fire at roughly ten-metre intervals. Although they appeared to have this current fire virtually under control, he knew it only needed a sudden gust of wind to reverse the direction of the moving wall of flames, for it to surround the men and cut them off, as had happened when eleven volunteer fire-fighters had been killed in Cockatoo not long ago.

On his right, he spotted Brian Horne and half expected to see Ernie Singleton near him. The two young men had been good friends all of their lives, but over the last few months, they had become almost inseparable. Although at twenty-five he was a few years older than the other two, Bear, Brian, and Ernie had become a regular trio since Bear’s arrival at Glen Hartwell five months ago. So now it seemed strange that Ernie was nowhere in sight. Until Bear remembered that for the last couple of weeks, Ernie had been suffering from severe stomach cramps, which kept him from fire fighting.

Looking back to Ronald Meldon for a moment, Bear nodded to the fire chief and then took a few tentative steps forward into the forest, ever wary of the hot ash and burning pine needles underfoot.

Unable to stand the direct heat of the flames, the firefighters were forced to spray chemical foam onto the inferno from metres away, then allow each reclaimed portion of the blackened forest to cool down before they could advance toward the retreating wall of flames. A hard and exhausting process, which had Bear longing for another break after less than half an hour. He paused to catch his breath and started to turn round to look for Meldon again, when he saw the eyes.

Bright yellow eyes, looking out at him from deep within the burning forest ... Fifteen metres ahead of where he stood.

Thinking at first that it was a kangaroo or a farm animal, Bear began slowly to advance, heading deeper into the fire zone than he normally would have dared. He was ten metres further into the forest than Ron Meldon or the other fire-fighters, when, to his horror, Bear could clearly make out the figure of a man, standing in the middle of a mountain of flames which flickered and rippled all around him.

My God! The poor bastard’s on fire! thought Bear as he started to race forward, trying to ignore the searing heat which threatened to set him alight, despite his 'fireproof' suit.

Bear was still a few metres away from the burning man when the heat of the bushfire became unbearable, forcing him to back out of the fire.

Silently Bear pleaded with the man, gesturing for him to try to walk forward the last few metres toward him. But to the police sergeant’s dismay, the man just stood his ground.

Stood his ground and grinned idiotically.

Even more shocking than his grin, though, was the fact that the man actually seemed to be enjoying the heat of the flames that engulfed him. As he grinned, a small tongue of red flames shot out through his parted lips and light wisps of grey smoke puffed from his nostrils.

Then, as the man began to copy his gesture, and began beckoning for the sergeant to walk forward into the burning forest, Bear Ross found himself half-believing that he was standing face to face with the Devil. Although a good Catholic all his life, Bear had never quite been able to believe in the physical existence of Heaven and Hell. Until now!

Now he fully believed in the existence of the Devil. A smiling, beckoning Devil, who was trying to will Bear forward to his doom.

Without being aware that he was doing so, Bear began to walk forward toward the outstretched hand. Although his flesh registered the fact that he had gone too deep into the forest for safety, all that his eyes could see was that irresistible, beckoning hand.

He would have walked straight into the wall of fire if not for Ronald Meldon and Brian Horne pulling him back to safety.

"Are you crazy, Bear?" demanded Meldon, more from fear for the safety of his friend, than from anger, after they had wrestled the big man away from the danger zone.

"The Devil!" said Bear stupidly, immediately wondering whether Ron was right, whether he really was crazy. Could I have really seen it? he thought.

"The Devil?" asked Ronald Meldon, wondering if he had heard correctly.

Wisely, Bear chose not to respond to Meldon’s query. Instead, he allowed himself to be led away from the fire front for a short rest, before insisting, despite the concern of the others, that he was all right to return to firefighting.


Bear Ross arrived at the Singleton sheep station shortly after 9:30 PM. As he parked his sky-blue Ford Fairlane near the chain-link fence, which ringed the farmhouse yard, he glanced at the aquamarine HR Holden Premier parked near the woodpile and knew that Brian Horne was already inside.

He found Ernie Singleton lying half-propped up on the sofa in the living room, obviously in a fair amount of pain, with Brian sitting in one of the three brown leather armchairs, which ringed the room.

Accepting Ernie’s offer of a cold can of Foster's Lager, Bear collapsed into one of the other two chairs.

"Phew," said Bear wiping one arm across his brow: "What a bastard of a summer this has been."

"It must be unbearable near the fire front?" asked Ernie.

"It’s unbearable anywhere," said Bear popping the tab of the can to have a long swig: "But near the fire, you’d just about swear the air itself was on fire it’s so hot. Those fireproof suits don't exactly help either, they stop you from getting burnt, but they don't help keep you cool ...."

After a few minutes’ gossip about the fire upon Mount Abergowrie, Bear finally summoned up the courage to tell the other two men of his encounter on the mountainside.

"The Devil?" asked Brian, incredulous, after Bear had finished his tale.

"I swear it, Brie, that’s exactly what it looked like: the Devil standing in the burning forest, beckoning me forward toward him."

Seeing the look of disbelief in Brian’s eyes, Bear insisted: "I know it sounds crazy, but I swear that’s what I saw!"

"You said yourself the heat was unbearable out there," reminded Brian: "Maybe you suffered some kind of heat-stroke or something...?"

"I’m not the kind to have hallucinations!" protested Bear. Although he knew that there was no specific kind of person that hallucinated. I guess that is the most likely explanation, thought Bear reluctantly: More logical than believing the Devil really was standing in the fire calling me forward to my death!

"What do you think, Ern?" asked Brian; realising Ernie had not expressed an opinion on the matter so far.

Both men looked toward Ernie: Brian hoping he would agree Bear must have suffered from heat prostration; Bear hoping Ernie would concede at least the possibility of the Devil’s existence -- after all they were both practising Catholics, and their religion preached the physical reality of Satan.

Remembering his transformation into the Black Wolf the night before, with his two friends waiting to hear his opinion, Ernie didn’t know what to tell them. My God, what can I say? he wondered: Up until last night I would have agreed with Brian ... But now ... I mean is the Devil standing in the middle of a forest fire any more preposterous than the fact that I'm a werewolf? But, of course, he could hardly say that to Bear and Brian, afraid to tell them of his condition in case they thought him crazy. Brian obviously thinks poor Bear is loony after his tale, what would he think of me if I told them mine?

"Well," said Ernie: "It’s hard to believe, of course ... But the church does preach the physical existence of a Devil. And we’re told it’s a sin not to believe, since not believing in the Devil makes him stronger ...."

"Yes, yes, all right," agreed Brian, dismayed by Ernie’s unexpected line, not used to having to argue along theological grounds: "But even if there is a real Devil ... And I say 'if'! What would he be doing wasting his time in a dinky little place like Australia starting small-time bushfires?"

"Forty-six people have died so far in this small-time bushfire, in Victoria alone!" reminded Bear, angered by Brian’s sarcasm.

"Even so, that’s peanuts to the Devil: after the Black Death, the Great Fire of London, the Flu epidemic of 1919 ... What’s a measly forty-six lives?" demanded Brian, not wanting to offend his friend, but unable to treat the idea of a Devil in the Australian bush with anything except derision.

"There’s no need to take that attitude!" insisted Bear starting to get up from his armchair to leave.

"Calm down," placated Ernie: "There’s no need to come to loggerheads over it. Either you saw it or you didn’t ... Personally I’m prepared to consider the idea."

"But how could...?" protested Brian, not wanting to anger Bear, but unable to take the suggestion seriously. He was still trying to think up a suitable rebuttal of Bear’s story when they heard the back door of the farmhouse slam.

There was the sound of rustling in the kitchen as Rowena put away some groceries she had brought for Ernie, followed by the sound of heels in the corridor as Rowena, Holly, and Gloria all strode up toward the living room.

"How’s the invalid?" asked Gloria Ulverstone, as the three women reached the living room.

"don't ask," said Ernie, still not one hundred percent recovered.

"Too late, she already did," pointed out Holly Ulverstone with a laugh.

As the women entered together, Ernie marvelled, for the umpteenth time, at how alike they were. Despite the fact that at twenty-five Gloria was five and six years older than Holly and Rowena Frankland respectively, they could easily have passed for triplets. All three were tall, lean, and beautiful, with high-boned cheeks, long, honey-blonde hair, and large, wide-set, pale blue eyes.

Afraid the women would laugh at him, if told of his experience in the forest, and not wanting to appear foolish in front of Gloria, Bear turned to Brian and whispered: "don't say anything ...."

"That’s okay," whispered Brian, nodding in agreement.

"don't say what?" demanded Holly overhearing.

"Trust big ears to hear," said Bear.

"Nothing much," said Brian: "We were just discussing the idea of livening things up later with a girlfriend swapping orgy."

"Oh, is that right," demanded Holly, pretending to be offended.

Racing across the living room she jumped onto Brian’s lap, almost sending the armchair toppling over backwards, spilling beer over herself and Brian from the can of Fosters Lager he was holding.

After receiving a peck on the cheek from Rowena and Gloria, Ernie sat up with a groan to allow the two women to sit on either side of him on the sofa.

"The dogs seemed a bit skittish as we came in," said Gloria.

Ernie looked across at her, his brow wrinkling in wonder. The station dogs had been pleased to see him the night before when he had left the farmhouse in human form but had been less pleased when he had returned as the Black Wolf.

"Well, you know the simple solution to that, don't you," teased Holly, a confirmed cat-lover and dog-hater: "Shoot the lot of them and get yourself some cats."

"Cats are parasites! They eat you out of house and home, then lie around sleeping all day!" insisted Ernie for the umpteenth time, having played this game with Holly many times in the past: "At least farm dogs earn their keep by helping out around the station."

"A few maybe, but no way is this station large enough to have work for the fifty or more dogs you’ve got tied up in that flea yard out back."

"In case you haven’t noticed, I breed dogs to sell to other sheep or cattle stations. That’s why I have more than are needed to work this property."

"In that case, it’s about time you sold a few ... Say forty-nine or fifty! Besides, cats are much more affectionate than dogs."

"Is that right?" demanded Ernie: "We’ll just see about that!" He gave three short, sharp whistles, then called: "Tan! Gordo!"

Before the words had finished there came a thundering of footsteps in the hallway outside as the two black Barb-Kelpies, who had been sleeping in the kitchen, came racing up the hallway to greet their master.

"Oh my God, it’s 'The Man from Snowy River' all over again," said Gloria at the racket, which sounded more like a herd of horses than two dogs racing up the corridor.

As the first black snout came into view in the doorway, Ernie pointed to where Holly was still sitting on Brian’s lap and said: "Say hello to Holly."

The two dogs raced across as instructed. While Gordo began furiously licking at her feet and shoes, Tanya jumped up onto an arm of the chair and furiously licked at Holly's face.

"Ugh! Ugh, call them off!" shrieked Holly, desperately trying to cover her face with her hands to ward Tanya off, only to shudder as the dog furiously lapped at her bare arms: "Call them off!"

"Not until you admit dogs are more affectionate than cats!"

"All right, all right, I admit it!" conceded Holly.

Ernie slapped his thigh and called: "Come on Gordo, Tan."

The two dogs dropped away from Holly, to her obvious relief, to race across to Ernie.

After a few minutes, the dogs settled down on the floor, and the three couples paired off: Bear pulled his armchair a little closer to the sofa so he could hold hands with Gloria; Rowena began to snuggle up to Ernie. However, recalling the events of the previous night only too clearly, Ernie began to ease away from Rowena, until he was almost squashing Gloria up against one end of the sofa.

Ernie was pained to see the hurt look in Rowena’s eyes as he rejected her advances. He longed to take her into his arms to reassure her of his love for her. But he was afraid to. After only one transformation to the Black Wolf, he knew almost nothing about the nature of werewolves. However, legends said that werewolves are insane killers who ravage the countryside, killing man and beast alike. Always killing first the ones they loved in human form.

Seeing the sadness in Rowena’s beautiful blue eyes, Ernie sensed what she must be thinking and wanted to kiss away her fears ... But his own fears held him back. As much as I don't want to lose you, he thought: Until I know a hell of a lot more about what I really become during my transformations, and how often they take place, I can’t allow myself to get too close to you, babe!

After a while the tension between Ernie and Rowena began to affect the others and the conversation soon tapered out. Until they were sitting around in silence, waiting for an excuse to get up and leave.

Finally, the tension was shattered by the shrilling of the telephone.

"I’ll get it," offered Holly. Leaping off Brian’s lap, she dashed into the corridor.

"It’s for you, Bear," she announced when she returned.

"For me?" asked Bear, puzzled.

He wondered who could be calling him at Ernie’s. God, please don't let it be an emergency! he thought, recalling Ronald Meldon’s concern that if the bushfires around Glen Hartwell continued, sooner or later someone would be killed in the blazes.

After talking on the telephone for five minutes, Bear returned to announce: "I’ve got to leave, that was Sam Hart. It seems his brother-in-law, Stan Ashmore, has gone missing, so ...."

"So what the Hell does he want you to do about it?" asked Brian: "Since when has Glen Hartwell been large enough to have a missing person’s bureau attached to the police force?"

Bear shrugged in resignation, secretly relieved to have an excuse to depart, without anyone being dead: "Since now I guess."

"So, how does he expect you to find Stan anyway?"

"Scout around through the forest on the off chance of locating him, I suppose. If it weren’t for the bushfires I’d organise some kind of major manhunt ... But at the moment with whole towns still being threatened by the fires, I can hardly call people off fire duty just to look for one man. So I guess for now it’s just me."

"But don't you have to report back to Ron tomorrow, to help with the firefighting?" asked Holly.

"That’s right, at five-thirty sharp," agreed Bear. Looking round at the clock on the side table, he saw that it was nearly eleven-thirty. He yawned into one hand then said: "Still that gives me six hours to find Stan before I report back to Ron."

"But what are you supposed to do for sleep?" demanded Gloria.

"Sleep? Sleep?" joked Bear: "I’m sure I’ve heard that word before somewhere. But I just don't seem to be able to place it?"

"Come on then, you might as well drop me off on your way," said Gloria getting up to go with him.

Since Holly and Rowena had both come with her, she handed the keys to her Morris Minor to Rowena; knowing Brian would drop Holly home.

Shortly afterwards Brian and Holly also departed.

For a short time after the others left Ernie and Rowena sat at opposite ends of the sofa trying futilely to make small talk, before finally Rowena gave up and announced: "I’d better be leaving too."

Ernie stood on the porch outside the back door, watching in dismay as Rowena drove away in Gloria’s yellow Morris Minor. He sighed his frustration at being unable to explain to Rowena how he really felt about her, and why he was afraid to get too close to her at the moment.

He watched until Rowena was out of sight, and then turned back toward the farmhouse. Only to be doubled over by a shooting spasm in his belly, like a large fist twisting through his intestines.

Ernie fell to his knees on the wooden porch, waiting for the pain to abate, knowing that he might be waiting for hours. When at last it did ease, after a few minutes, he found himself trapped inside his clothes, which had suddenly become too large.

With a little difficulty, he struggled free and knew he had transformed into the Black Wolf for the second time.

Once more, in wolf form, he discovered that his aches and cramps had vanished.

A few seconds later, he bounded out into the backyard, setting the farm dogs barking as he effortlessly leapt the metre-high, wire-mesh fence and loped away toward the forest a quarter kilometre away.


Bear Ross quickly dropped Gloria off at her flat in Boothy Street, Glen Hartwell, then made his way back to Merridale to stop in at the Hart Station, where his first two questions were why had they called him and not Mel Forbes, who was in charge of the Merridale police, and how had they traced him to Ernie’s.

"I tried to ring Mel and Andrew Braidwood," explained Sam Hart, a tall, thin, weasel-faced man: "But no one answered, so I rang around a few places trying to get them, before trying you. I got you on the eighth try."

"I guess Mel and Andrew would still be firefighting," suggested Bear: "Either that or home, resting after a hard day at the fire front."

Sam flushed red from anger, knowing that Bear intended it as a criticism of Hart, who was one of the few locals not helping fight the fires.

"Of course," agreed Sam: "I should have thought of that ... I’d be there myself, helping out, if it wasn’t for my bad lungs ... They’d never stand all that smoke ..." He rambled on for a few minutes apologising for not helping fight the fires, before going on to repeat almost word for word what he had already told Bear over the telephone: "My brother-in-law, George’s brother, Stan Ashmore, came down from BeauLarkin a few days ago to visit ... Anyway he went out bushwalking before lunch yesterday and still hasn’t returned yet."

"Before lunch yesterday?" asked Bear. He wondered what chance Stan had of still being alive, and what chance he had of finding him, alive or dead, in the forest after a day and a half: "Why didn’t you phone Mel or me before this?"

"Well ... I thought he’d have to be missing for at least two days before he’d count as officially missing."

"In Melbourne or Sydney maybe," said Bear: "But in the bush it’s important to get a search going as soon as possible ...."

"Then you don't think there’s much ...?" began Georgina Hart, an operatically large brunette. She burst into tears as she realised her brother was probably dead.

"Well ... I wouldn’t give up just yet ..." said Bear, looking from the spindly thin Sam to his obese wife, angry at himself for not having been more subtle. But what’s the point in giving her false hope? he thought, realising that she was right, there was very little chance of her brother still being alive after more than a day and a half.

Looking back to Sam, Bear saw him smirking and realised there had been no love lost between Sam and his brother-in-law.

"I ... I wanted to ring Mel yesterday before tea time," said Georgina between tears, receiving a glare from her husband, confirming Bear’s suspicions that Sam had stopped her from reporting Stan missing and had possibly killed him by his actions.

If only there was some way I could charge you with murder! thought Bear. But he knew there was no law to cover it. He wondered whether it would be better or worse for Georgina to lose her husband as well as her brother. But seeing her two black eyes, despite the dark glasses she wore and realising she was a bashed wife, he thought: Better off! You’d definitely be better off without this bastard! He made a mental note to question Georgina again later when Sam wasn’t around, knowing, however, that there was little chance that she would testify against Sam on a wife-bashing charge.


The Black Wolf had been travelling at a steady pace for the last hour or so and was about a kilometre outside Westmoreland when he heard the distant crackling, which he recognised as a bushfire.

The wolf stopped, puzzled by the sound. He knew the fires were not in that area. Surely I can’t have got myself that turned about? he thought. Ernie had lived in the region all his life and had the bushman’s exceptional sense of direction; as the Black Wolf his senses were greatly heightened, so there should be even less chance of him getting lost in the dark.

The Black Wolf stood still for a few moments, listening to the sound, before being forced to concede that it definitely was fire crackling. But out this way? he thought, starting forward to investigate.

After a few minutes, he came to an area where a bushfire had burnt clearly as recently as the previous day. He trampled through the blackened charcoal forest, which looked like a bizarre negative of a white Christmas scene. Black trees stood in a forest blanketed in black snow of burnt leaves and pine needles.

Nothing could still be alive out here! he thought. Remembering that Georgina Hart’s brother, Stanley Ashmore, had been reported lost in the forest, Ernie hoped Stan had not wandered out that way and got caught in the passing fire.

The charcoal carpet of the forest floor crunched beneath the Black Wolf’s paws as he walked along. At first cool, the forest floor gradually began to warm up the deeper he journeyed into the dead forest.

He began to feel slightly nauseous from the burnt meat aroma of the blackened animal carcases -- mainly opossums and native cats, but also an occasional wombat or wallaby. He stopped for a moment to look in horror at a great red kangaroo, which had paused beside a tall blue gum tree. Kangaroo and tree alike had been engulfed by the passing flames. Baked crisp, cracked and pitted by the fire, the animal looked like a giant mound of charcoal, which had been expertly carven into the shape of a kangaroo.

Tearing his eyes away from the roo, the wolf continued deeper into the ebony forest, until realising that he would have to turn back or risk being asphyxiated by the rising smoke, or seriously burnt by the smouldering ash and leaves which he was forced to sidestep.

He stopped for a moment, took one last look at the charcoal forest, then turned to leave ...

When out of the corner of an eye he caught a flicker of yellow away in the distance. Hearing the crackling of wood up ahead, he thought: The bushfire! But the tiny flicker seemed much too small to be an entire fire front.

For a few moments, he peered ahead, trying to make out the outline of the object flickering away in the distance. Finally, he conceded defeat and, at the risk of getting the pads of his paws scorched, started forward, having to leapfrog from side to side to avoid the hottest patches as he proceeded toward the more recently scorched section of the forest.

Eventually the Black Wolf reached the area where the flickering light had been, but there was now no sign of it. He looked forward for a moment in case the light had travelled further away. Then, with a sigh of frustration, he turned to retrace his steps and came face to face with the Infernal Beast.

Like Bear Ross earlier, the Black Wolf’s first thought was that the creature was a gigantically tall, heavyset man, standing in the centre of a mountain of fire. Except that now there was no fire, apart from the small sea of flames, which swirled and eddied around the creature.

When the beast exhaled, a small stream of grey smoke snorted out of its nostrils, and a thin tongue of fire played from between its partly opened lips, which seemed to sneer at the wolf. The creature opened its mouth wide, and breathed out heavily, expelling a long tongue of flame toward Ernie.

Although the flames fell well short, Ernie instinctively jumped backwards in fright and landed on a mound of hot ash. With a yelp of pain, he jumped forward again.

Grinning idiotically, the Infernal Beast started slowly toward the Black Wolf.

Careful not to tread on the hot ash again, Ernie backed away, matching the Infernal Beast step for step, determined not to allow the distance between them to decrease to less than three or four metres. But the wolf had only taken a few steps backwards before realising there was no advantage going that way since it would take him toward wherever the latest bushfire was currently burning.

Instead, he feinted to the creature’s left, then as it lurched that way, rocketed past on its right. Although he felt his fur scorched slightly as he went by, the wolf managed to get past the Infernal Beast before it realised that he had outsmarted it.

As the Black Wolf disappeared into the blackened forest, the Infernal Beast let out a shriek of rage, which made Ernie’s eardrums quiver, as it started through the forest after him.


It was after 1:00 AM by the time Bear Ross finally left the Hart station, clutching a large, black-and-white photograph of Stan Ashmore. Bear almost dropped his car keys from fatigue as he slipped in behind the steering wheel of his Fairlane to start toward Harpertown, thirty kilometres beyond Glen Hartwell.

Since there was no Kodak plant within a hundred kilometres of the area, the general store operator in Harpertown, Bob Montgomery, helped out by developing and printing for the locals. For a small regular fee, he also did priority printing for Bear and the other local police.


Although the feint had given Ernie a ten-metre head start on the Infernal Beast, he was not able to increase the gap between them. Hearing the crackling of flames as it followed, Ernie sensed that the creature would never give up the chase until he began to tire and it finally caught him.

The wolf galloped along through the blackened forest, making pinpoint turns to avoid high-speed collisions with the charred conifers and gum trees, when suddenly the ground disappeared from underfoot and he went rolling along his side, down a steep incline.

Quickly climbing to his feet, the wolf bounded forward and almost ran straight into the waters of the Yannan River. Although the current was not very strong, and in human form he could easily have swum across, he was held back by an inner terror that the werewolf legend (as he had read it in books in his teens) might be right. More than one book said: 'The werewolf as an impure creature, cannot cross the pure surface of flowing water!'

So, as the Infernal Beast started down the steep bank toward him, Ernie pivoted and raced along the bank, heading in the direction of Merridale. However, the Dale was still a few kilometres downstream. He had started to tire and began to doubt whether he could continue to outrun his pursuer for much longer.

Sensing that the race was almost over the Infernal Beast let out another shrill screech. This time from expectation. It raised its arms, spread its fingers wide, aiming them at the fleeing wolf, then by a concentrated effort of will, managed to make long streams of flames shoot from its fingertips, using its hands like flame-throwers. The yellow-white flames fell well short of the Black Wolf, but the gap between them had now closed to less than eight metres.


It was nearly two o’clock by the time Bear returned to Glen Hartwell, clutching a dozen glossy, black-and-white copies of Stan Ashmore’s photo, making a mental note to return the original to Georgina Hart that day. He remembered her tearful request for him to be careful with the photograph, which was the only large picture she had of her brother: "Please, please don't lose it," she had pleaded: "If ... if you don't find Stan alive ... that’s the only real keepsake I have of him."

Parking the Fairlane on Boothy Street, Bear walked up to the apartment block where he lived and entered flat number seven. In the past, he had been embarrassed by the smallness of the two-room flat, but now as he stepped into the main room (lounge room-bedroom-kitchen) his only thought was to grab an hour or two of desperately needed sleep before starting the search for Stan Ashmore and helping Ronald Meldon with the fire fighting. As he collapsed on top of the small, wire-frame bed to the right of the door, too exhausted even to change into his night clothes, he thought: But what am I complaining about? Ron gets it worse than me. I’m only at the fire zone twelve to fourteen hours a day, he hasn’t been away from there in more than a week, having to grab a stray hour of sleep on a mattress in the fire command tent.

He had little time to ponder his own situation or that of Ron Meldon, however, since his head had hardly hit the pillow before he was sound asleep, snoring like one of Ernie’s sheepdogs.


Again and again, the streams of fire whooshed from the fingertips of the Infernal Beast, landing ever nearer and nearer to Ernie, until at last he could feel the heat of the flames over the oppressive heat of the summer night. He knew that in only seconds the streams of fire would make contact and leave him charred crisp like the kangaroo.

Shrilling its pleasure again, the Infernal Beast held off sending out its flames, choosing instead to make a leap for the wolf, which was now only a metre or so ahead of it. As its fiery arms began to descend to give the Black Wolf its embrace of death, Ernie knew he had no choice now. Propping, he weaved out of the Infernal Beast’s grasp, then turned and leapt straight into the waters of the Yannan River.

As he leapt, the Black Wolf fully expected to be hideously disfigured by the waters burning him like acid, or else be repelled by the water, possibly to be thrown back up into the arms of the shrilling Infernal Beast. Instead, to his pleasant surprise he surfaced almost midway across the river. Well, that’s one werewolf legend I’ve managed to explode! thought Ernie.

He started to dog paddle across to the opposite bank, with the sounds of the Infernal Beast ringing in his ears, as it shrilled its rage at being cheated of its intended victim.

Again and again, the creature shrilled its disappointment, as it raced along the bank of the river, keeping pace with Ernie, looking for a bridge to cross to reach him. But there was no solid bridge across the river for at least twenty kilometres in either direction. In between there were a number of shallows where a car could drive across, or an animal, or man in waders, could wade across. But the Infernal Beast’s natural habitat was fire; even the shallowest water was enough to douse its fire and kill it.


Bear managed to get a little over two and a half hours sleep before his alarm clock went off, waking him to set out for the nearest fire front.

Walking around the edge of the small clearing in which a temporary base camp had been set up a hundred metres from the fire zone, Bear located Mel Forbes easily enough by his snowy white, crew-cut hair. Like Bear, Mel was a big man, over 200 centimetres in height and 110 kilos in weight, but at forty-eight, he was almost twice Bear’s age. Although Mel was sergeant of Merridale’s two-man police force, Bear as Senior Sergeant was the head cop of the entire BeauLarkin to Willamby area.

When Bear first moved to Glen Hartwell he had found it a little overwhelming to have a number of other sergeants under his command. It was a big step up from senior constable to senior sergeant. Even more so because of the age difference between himself and Mel. Bear had expected the older man to take offence at having a man half his age promoted over him. But to his pleasant surprise, Mel turned out to be a gentle giant of a man, an easygoing type who was one of the first to regard Bear as a friend when most of the other locals were actively treating Bear like a leper for usurping Terry Blewett’s place as sergeant of the Glen. A thirty-year police officer, Mel probably would have had to have retired from the police force years ago, if he were in Sydney or Melbourne, but in a small country town where it was near impossible to get good police sergeants to stay long, Mel had been allowed to stay on until he felt like retiring. To date he never had, although periodically he hinted of a desire to do so soon, although Jim Kane had told Bear the first time they met: "don't let that gruff exterior fool you, the police force is Mel’s second great love in life, after his wife Darlene. They’ll have to drag him out by the heels kicking and screaming when he reaches sixty-five!"

After quickly explaining about Stan Ashmore’s disappearance, Bear handed one of the black-and-white photographs to Mel saying: "We’ll all have to try to keep a bit of an eye out for him ... Although God alone knows how we’re supposed to make a proper search for him while fighting the fires as well?"

"Maybe we can assign Terry and Andrew to have a bit of a look around for him," suggested Mel without much enthusiasm. He knew that if they were to have any real chance of finding Stan alive they really needed to launch a full-scale search.

"I suppose that’s all we can do for now," agreed Bear: "Although I might give Jim and Con a ring to see if they can spare a little time over the next couple of days. If we don't find him by then, he’s not going to be found alive ..."

"In this blasted heat he’s not really likely to be alive even now, after two days in the bush," pointed out Mel, voicing Bear’s own fears: "It might pay you to activate the women as well," he said, referring to three pro rata policewomen whom Glen Hartwell only took on payroll when they needed extra policing: "Though I don't know how keen they’ll be on doing a little bushwalking in this heat."

The two policemen talked for a moment longer before Bear went to distribute photographs of Stan to Terry Blewett and Mel’s constable, Andrew Braidwood. He was not looking forward to seeing Terry, who had acted surly around Bear since his arrival in Glen Hartwell in October 1982. Terry made no secret of the fact that he thought he should have got the sergeant’s position in Glen Hartwell after the retirement of Lawrie Grimes in June the previous year.

That done, he went to report to Ronald Meldon, the local fire chief.

"Where do you want me, Ron?" asked Bear, walking across to where Meldon was checking his fire fighting equipment. Unlike Bear who had stopped work at nine o’clock the night before and had not reported again until nearly 6:00, Ronald Meldon had worked right through the night, only stopping for ten-minute rest breaks every two or three hours, so he looked even more haggard than he had the previous night.

"Well, not here, that’s for sure," replied Meldon, looking up from his equipment: "This fire is nearly out. We’re leaving a skeleton crew of three or four here to do a little mopping up. The rest are packing up to move on to the next most urgent fire."

"Then we’re down to just two fires now?" asked Bear hopefully.

"Afraid not," said Meldon. He started to pack his gear onto one of the ancient fire engines, which stood nearby, one of two twenty-year-old vehicles, which his predecessor, Gary Reynolds, had spent a decade unsuccessfully trying to convince the state government to upgrade: "Still three; we’ve just had a report of a new fire, on the opposite side of the forest."

"The opposite side of the forest?" echoed Bear.

"Just beyond Westmoreland."

"Westmoreland, that’s a ghost town isn’t it?" asked Bear.

"That’s right," agreed Meldon: "don't ask me how a fire started all the way out there ... But by all reports, it’s larger than either of the other two, more likely to spread into the surrounding towns, so it gets first priority."


Ernie returned to the sheep station shortly before dawn and had just climbed in through the open bedroom window when he transformed back to human form. Although dry (the scorching summer sun had dried out the fur of the Black Wolf long before he reached the farm), Ernie felt wretchedly dirty after his race through the charcoal forest and swim through the Yannan, and managed to have a quick bath before being hit by the now expected famine-like hunger after his night run. He only just had time enough for a very quick soap, rinse, and towel dry before the famine struck, forcing him to race down to the kitchen to finish the last of the groceries brought by Rowena the night before.

In a little over an hour and a half he had consumed all the groceries, however, his hunger still raged in his belly. Food! I’ve gotta get some food! he thought.

don't panic, he thought as he rummaged through the empty food cupboards above the kitchen sink: There are people in Ethiopia far worse off than you! However, though logic told him this was so, the famine that raged like a fire in his belly told him that no one in the whole world could be hungrier than he was at that moment.

He almost tore the doors off the cupboards in his haste to get at anything edible. However, his sole discoveries were a couple of handfuls of cornflakes at the bottom of a pack (with no milk to go with them), and some slightly mouldy slices of bread which he eagerly wolfed down, along with liberal helpings of warm water from the taps over the sink (which refused to give up cold water due to the outside water tank being overheated by the summer sun).

As the fist of hunger wrenched at his intestines, he searched the kitchen from top to bottom for any skerrick of food, which may have fallen down behind the refrigerator or under cupboards. He was almost on the point of whimpering from frustration when he picked up the aroma of slightly rancid meat. Unable to detect the source at first, his searching became more feverish as he tossed empty food cartons and saucepans out of his way in his quest for anything to eat. Finally, as his hunger came close to bringing him to his knees, he realised that the smell originated from just inside the back door. Looking across expectantly, hoping to see some morsel of meat fallen from the table earlier, all he saw was a large plastic bag, the kitchen tidy, where the refuse from previous meals lay, waiting to be taken out to be given to the dogs. Slowly heading across toward the green bag he thought: My God, have I reached the point of scavenging through the garbage for rotten food fit only for dogs to eat? But as his hunger burnt like a fire in his belly, he knew he had indeed reached such levels of desperation.

He had grabbed the green plastic bag and started to riffle through the slimy contents when he was saved from the indignity of eating any of the half-rancid contents by the sound of car tyres on the gravel path outside. He hurried across to the kitchen sink to quickly wash his hands for fear of someone seeing what he had been on the brink of doing.

To his relief, he soon heard the voices of Brian Horne and his retarded brother, 'Weird' Warren outside the farmhouse.

Warren and Brian arrived back at the Singleton station to find Ernie almost crazed with hunger. Although they had brought back three bags of groceries, which under normal circumstances would have lasted him up to a week, as he started to devour the food in a frenzy, Brian joked:

"We’d better race back to the Dale, I don't think these three bags will last him till tea time."

Taking Brian seriously, Warren started to race back to the Premier, closely followed by Tanya and Gordo yapping happily at his heels. He reached the porch before realising Brian was not following.

Seeing a large can of dog food (a rare treat for Gordo and Tanya who normally had to settle for crunchy dog pellets) amid the groceries, Brian grabbed it and said: "We’d better dish this out for the dogs quick smart, or you’ll beat them to it."

"Very funny," said Ernie between mouthfuls.

"Well, just be sure to take the food out of the cans before eating it," teased Brian: "I know iron is good for your diet, but you don't want to overdo it."

Doing his best to ignore the sarcasm, Ernie went on with his gigantic meal, while Brian and Warren went out to do the most urgent farm chores before heading off to help with the firefighting.


The bushfire raged on a slight rise less than a kilometre outside Westmoreland. Although the town was deserted, the standing buildings and bitumen road down the centre of the town were possible fuel for the fire and had the potential to feed the flames out of control, making it impossible to keep the bushfire away from the nearby town of Glen Hartwell where three thousand lives could be lost if the town could not be evacuated post-haste. It was on that basis that less than half an hour after the fire-fighters had arrived at the Westmoreland fire zone, Bear Ross had suggested the police officers leave the fire fighting to examine the town, to see if it would be practical to tear down (or blow up) the buildings before the fire had even started in that direction.

"It seems a shame to blow up a local landmark when it might not even be needed," said Mel as they set out. But he knew that the ghost town was more expendable than Lenoak or Glen Hartwell where many lives could be lost.

It was twenty minutes later when Bear Ross, close to collapsing from fatigue and lack of sleep, heard from Mel Forbes that they had located what they believed to be the body of Stan Ashmore.

"You’re not sure?" asked Bear, surprised, knowing Mel was usually faultless in his investigations.

"No ... the body is too severely burnt."

"Burnt? Then his body was found out of town?"

"No, in one of the houses in town," replied Mel. He started down Cockerall Road, toward the house where Andrew Braidwood and Jerry 'Elvis' Green were waiting.

"But the fire hasn’t entered the town yet," pointed out Bear. When Mel failed to reply, he said: "Then what killed him?"

"You tell me?" said the older man. He pointed to a series of giant footprints burnt deep into the bitumen, from one end of the road to the other.

"Holy Mother of God!" said Bear, instinctively crossing himself as he knelt to examine the nearest footprint. The prints were nearly fifteen centimetres deep, with five toes clearly outlined on each track. It was impossible to imagine how they could have been made by anything other than a pair of burning human feet.

"That’s nothing," said Mel. He led Bear across to the weatherboard house where they had found what they believed to be the remains of Stan Ashmore: "Wait until you see this."

"See what ...?" asked Bear.

A second later he saw the man-shaped hole where the clear outline of the Infernal Beast had been burnt right through the weatherboards into the house.

"After you," said Mel, waving a hand toward the outline. Then, seeing Bear’s puzzled look: "That’s how we entered in the first place. He barricaded all the doors and windows before it got him."

"Before what got him?" asked Bear as he stepped through the man-shaped outline and into the room (instinctively ducking as he stepped through the outline, although it was not necessary; despite being more than 200 centimetres tall, the outline easily dwarfed him). He found Elvis Green (local coroner and avid Elvis Presley fan) and Andrew Braidwood (a tall lanky man, with blond straggly hair) kneeling over a large pile of blackened ashes, which vaguely resembled the remains of a man.

Bear had the black-and-white photo of Stan Ashmore folded in a pocket of his clothes, but it was impossible without thorough forensic testing, to make any kind of identification from the mound of ashes on the floor. Before what got him? Bear thought, repeating the question to himself. Remembering the events upon Mount Abergowrie, the eyes peering out of the bushfire at him, the gigantic man enveloped in flames, beckoning him to walk forward to his doom, Bear had a good idea of what had killed Stan Ashmore. Looking back at the hole burnt through the wall, man-shaped except for its enormous proportions, Bear thought: The Devil got him! But he knew he couldn’t say that in front of Mel or the others. He was unable to take his eyes away from the sight of Andrew Braidwood using a short-handled spade to scoop the human ashes into a thick plastic rubbish bag to be taken to the morgue for proper forensic testing.


Wilfred Lomax strode through the forest at an even pace, not hurried, intent on distance rather than speed. Beneath his feet crunched pine needles and dry leaves, while away in the distance the bushfires crackled ominously as they reduced the state’s precious timber to charcoal. But Wilf was not afraid to be out in the forest, he knew the nearest fire was at least a dozen kilometres away on the opposite side of the forest.

Wilf was aware Eileen would tell him off for taking foolish risks if she knew he was even this close to the fire front. Although she well knew after sixty years of marriage that he would not be put off his daily constitutional, come rain or shine. Since the start of the bushfires some weeks earlier Eileen had been nagging him to put off his walks until the last of the fires were extinguished. But still, thought Wilf: What’s the point in living, if you can’t take a few risks at my age?

Broomstick thin, with wispy, snowy hair, to anyone who didn’t know him, Wilf looked like a frail old man, but in his day he had been a local sporting hero. He had won most of the local running races in the 1920s and 1930s and had just failed to qualify for the Australian team for the controversial 1936 Berlin Olympic Games. He had been robbed of any further hopes of Olympic glory by the cancellation of the 1940 and ’44 games. By the time of the London Games in 1948, he had been too old. So Wilf had settled for the mundane life of a factory hand in Megarithe Chemicals, a local glue and plastic manufacturer outside Glen Hartwell. However, he had kept in shape, and even now pushing eighty, Wilf walked at least ten kilometres every day (to the consternation and embarrassment of many of the younger locals who were unable to keep up with him).

The old man had walked almost from Merridale to Glen Hartwell when he heard a sound like fire crackling ahead of him. He stopped, puzzled by the sound, knowing the fires were not in that area. Could I have got myself that turned about in the bush? he wondered. But after sixty years walking the forest from Glen Hartwell, all the way to Harpertown and back, and in the other direction, past Pettiwood, as far as Briarwood, two-thirds of the way to Willamby, both by day and by night, it seemed unlikely that he would get lost now.

The old man stood still for a few moments, listening to the sound, before conceding to himself that it most definitely sounded like fire crackling. But out here? he thought in surprise, starting forward to investigate.

Seeing a large man standing in the forest by himself, Wilf started to call out to ask if he was all right. He stopped in astonishment as the man held his hands before him like the Frankenstein monster in an old movie and yellow flames whooshed out in front of him as though his hands were flame-throwers, to ignite a large blue gum. Although the forest was dry from the recent drought, Wilf was astonished to see how readily the tree took to flames, becoming a raging inferno before his eyes. It was only as the 'man' turned to aim toward a tall ghost gum half a dozen metres to his right that Wilf saw that he was swathed in a sea of swirling flames and realised this creature was responsible for the bushfires which had ravished South Australia and Victoria over the last six weeks.

Common sense told Wilf that he should flee before the Infernal Beast spotted him, however, the old man was entranced by the sight of the creature using its hands like flame-throwers to ignite first one tree then another, slowly turning away from Wilf in a clockwise motion.

Held spellbound from fascination more than fear, Wilf watched in awe as the creature completed its slow circle until finally, it was facing directly toward him.

For a second the creature stepped backwards startled as though it had been observed in some illicit sex act; then recovering, as Wilf finally came to his senses and turned to flee, the creature sent out one last burst of yellow flames which drowned the old man in a deluge of fire, making him scream as his flesh ignited and began burning furiously.

Wisps of grey smoke snorted from the nostrils of the Infernal Beast as it watched in satisfaction while Wilfred Lomax was consumed by its flames, which burnt the old man to cinders in only minutes.


Holly Ulverstone could hear the fires crackling away in the distance as she traipsed through the thick brush a few kilometres north of Glen Hartwell. Despite pleas from Gloria and their father not to venture out into the forest until the last of the fires were under control, Holly was determined not to stop searching until she had found the last of her cats, alive or dead. At the onset of the bushfires, six weeks earlier, seventeen of her cats (all but the four youngest kittens) had disappeared into the forest, afraid of the crackling fire, although it still had not come within four kilometres of their cattle station outside LePage. She had only a short time to go until she was due to return to Glen Hartwell High to make a second attempt at her Higher School Certificate, having narrowly failed the previous year. Under normal circumstances school would have started back already, however, it had been delayed a month due to the bushfires. So, she was determined to locate her missing cats before she had to return to school in a fortnight’s time. Of the seventeen which had gone missing, to date, she had found fifteen -- seven dead, four so badly burnt that they had had to be put to sleep by the local vet, and four in good condition. This left only Moxie (named for her feisty temperament) and Scragger (due to his unkempt, scraggy appearance, not helped by the loss of an eye in a fight with a Kelpie nine years earlier) to be found.

Holly knew that Gloria would be angry if she ever suspected Holly was so close to the fire zone. Despite the fact that in another year she would be starting university, Gloria still sometimes treated Holly like a child. For the last ten years, since a drunk driver had killed their mother, Gloria had had to take over the role of mother to Holly and still found it difficult to think of her sister as a young woman. Still, thought Holly: What she doesn’t know can’t hurt me!

Holly trampled through the blackened forest, thinking: Nothing could possibly be alive out here! She hoped that she would not find Scragger or Moxie, preferring not to find the cats at all than to find them dead or horribly burnt.

The charcoal floor of the forest crunched beneath Holly’s feet as she walked through the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest. At first cool, the forest floor gradually began to warm up, the deeper she journeyed into the forest. Soon she was stifling from the hot air, which rose from the smouldering leaves and fallen trees that lined the forest.

Eventually, Holly conceded she would have to turn back or risk asphyxiation from the rising smoke, or serious burns from the smouldering trees and hot ash, which she had to wend her way through. She stopped for a moment, took one last look into the fire-blackened woods ahead of her, and then turned to leave ... when out of the corner of her left eye she detected a small patch of orange.

Turning toward the orange patch, she called out "Scragger?"

"Rowrrr," came a strangely muffled answer.

Holly hurried off in that direction, hoping against hope that Scragger had not been injured in the fire, but knowing in her heart that it was a strong possibility if he was in the area.

As she drew nearer, Holly could see the orange patch was definitely Scragger, although he had his back to her as she approached. Hearing the sound of footsteps, the large tomcat turned around and Holly jumped back in shock. Oh, my God, you poor thing! she thought, staring in horror at the sight of the large black, charred lump at the front of the tomcat’s face. It looked as though the fire had crisped half of his head.

My God, how can he possibly still be alive? she wondered forcing herself to step forward the last few metres to comfort the tabby.

Instead of welcoming her approach, he lifted his head defiantly and "Rowrred," again, warning her to stay away.

"It’s only me, Holly," she called, heartsick as she approached the large tomcat.

She was still a couple of metres away when Scragger turned his head slightly to one side with a loud crunch, like breaking toast.

Oh, God! thought Holly, fighting to keep down the bile, threatening to rise in her throat.

"You poor..." she started to say. But she stopped as she got within a pace of the tabby cat and realised that she had been mistaken.

The large lump of charcoal was not part of Scragger’s head as she had first thought, but rather the charred remains of a large kangaroo rat which he was eagerly chomping away on.

"Rowrrr!" snarled Scragger again, warning Holly away from his meal.

"You big, horrible lump!" cried Holly from a mixture of anger and relief. "Here I was sick with worry, thinking half your head had been turned to toast, and instead you’re just gorging yourself on some poor creature caught in the bushfires. You scavenger! You’ve probably been having the time of your life for the last two weeks cleaning up after each fire sweeps through."

"Rowrrr," agreed Scragger as he happily crunched upon the last few bites of the kangaroo rat, no longer concerned that Holly was going to steal his feast.

"Talk about the barbecue of the century," cried Holly. She stormed across to the tomcat, which allowed himself to be picked up, although careful not to drop the last few precious mouthfuls of the tasty rat. "Brian was right! There’s no point worrying myself sick about you, you’ll outlive the lot of us you great gluttonous lump!"

Straining beneath the weight of the tomcat, Holly turned to leave, when she heard the sound of rustling deeper into the forest, toward where the fire was still burning.

"Moxie!" she called out. She stepped forward tentatively, finding it difficult to select safe footholds in the ever-hotter forest floor. Although unsure how she would carry both cats home, since Scragger was such an armful, Holly decided that after two weeks of searching, she could not afford to risk losing Moxie again, if indeed the rustling emanated from her last missing cat.

"Moxie?" she called out again as she continued warily forward toward the fire.


The sky-blue Ford Fairlane was still a couple of hundred metres from the farmhouse when Georgina Hart stepped out into the yard and started across to the gate to await the arrival of Bear Ross and Petra Drysdale (one of Glen Hartwell’s three pro rata policewomen; a tall, plump, matronly type in her early forties). As they pulled up by the woodpile outside the farmhouse yard, Georgina burst into tears, expecting the worst seeing the long faces of the two police officers.

Looking across at Petra as she opened the door on her side, Bear thought: So much for my hopes of breaking it to her gently! He was grateful they had stopped off to collect Gina Foley before starting out for Merridale.

As they climbed from the police car Georgina became hysterical, screaming: "No! No! He can’t be dead! He can’t be dead!" over and over. Petra and Bear led her into the farmhouse with Gina following behind, already preparing a sedative to inject into the operatically large woman to quieten her down.

"So, he’s dead then?" said Sam Hart casually as they passed him on the back porch, obviously not the least upset at the news. Then as his wife continued to bawl hysterically: "Can’t you shut her up a bit?"

Shocked by Sam’s indifference to the death of his brother-in-law and noting fresh bruises on Georgina’s pudgy face, it was all Bear could do to stop himself from lashing out at Hart, wanting to make Sam feel some of the pain that he enjoyed inflicting upon to his wife. But realising that it would only hurt Georgina more than Sam, Bear forced himself to control his anger as they pushed past Hart to enter the farmhouse.


Still carrying Scragger, who had now finished his tasty treat, Holly ventured deep into the forest until she could almost feel the soles of her shoes melting. If I don't turn back soon, it’ll be my feet melting! she thought. She decided that there was no point risking life and limb journeying any further into the fire zone.

Oh, well I guess I’ll have to settle for one prize for the night, she thought hefting Scragger a little higher, almost staggering under the great weight of the large cat.

"You’re my favourite anyway, aren’t you, you big lump?" she asked Scragger, who treated her to a stony silence. The tomcat was more interested in scouring the charred terrain with his one eye in the hope of locating more barbecued kangaroo rats or other tasty treats, having feasted on a feline gourmet’s smorgasbord over the last fortnight.

"Well, I guess we’d better head..." said Holly turning to leave ....

She stopped in mid-sentence as she came face to face with the Infernal Beast. At first, like Bear Ross earlier, she thought that the creature was a large man enveloped in flames. But unlike earlier when Bear had sighted the creature in the midst of one of the bushfires, this time there was no fire in sight, except the small, flickering nimbus of flames which swirled around the body of the manlike beast.

"Are you all right?" asked Holly; still vainly hoping that the advancing creature was human. However, as she stared at the enormous beast, which was well over two metres tall and as bulky as a grizzly bear, common sense told her that no man could be so large. Also, the evil grin, which seemed to split its face open literally from ear to ear, wider than any human grin could ever manage, forced her to concede that this creature could not possibly be human.

The Infernal Beast had approached within eight metres of Holly when she found her feet and started to back away.

At the sight of the towering creature surrounded in swirling flames, Scragger began to hiss furiously, kicking and scratching at Holly, fighting to escape from her grip. Eyes glued to the monstrosity approaching her, Holly hardly noticed as the tomcat leapt out of her arms and went thundering off into the forest.

Although afraid to turn her back on the creature, Holly knew that if she was to have any hope of escaping, she must turn and run.

I guess this is where I’m supposed to fall and be eaten or stomped by the monster! thought Holly. She had seen innumerable old horror films where the heroine always tripped while being chased by the monster. However, as a sensible country girl used to roaming through the countryside, Holly did not intend to fit the clichéd stereotypical fragile heroine.

As calmly as possible in the circumstances, Holly turned and started to run through the charred forest, in a direction which she hoped would lead her toward LePage, where she lived, unaware that she was actually heading toward Lenoak, two towns away from Glen Hartwell. As she started to run, Holly heard a loud whoosh but did not have time to wonder what it was before a large stream of yellow-white flames shot past her a few metres to her right.

Fascinated yet at the same time terrified by the large stream of fire shooting toward her, Holly longed to turn for a quick glance to see how the Infernal Beast was shooting its fire at her. However, unlike the Hollywood heroines who would have Done just that and been killed for their curiosity, Holly had sense enough to keep her attention focused on the forest ahead of her as she ran.

Despite her best efforts, from time to time she stepped on a hot spot and felt the soul of one boot suddenly heat up. Each time she was glad that she’d had the commonsense to change into a pair of thick working boots before wandering out into the forest.

Holly ran through the forest for more than an hour, until she was well away from the fire zone and able to run freely without fear of stepping on hot ash. However, she still was unable to make out any of the local features to determine where she was or even whether she was running in the right direction to reach LePage.


Instead of following them into the house, Hart started out into the back yard saying: "Well I’d better be getting back to the farm. I’ll leave you to see if she’s all right."

"For God’s sake she’s your wife, don't you care what she’s going through?" demanded Bear, wondering even as he spoke why he was wasting his breath.

"Course I care," said Sam unconvincingly: "But I’ve got the farm to look after. It won’t run itself you know. Anyway, you can look after her better than I can, you’re trained for that kind of thing."

You don't need training to care for someone! thought Bear. But as Gina started to remove Georgina’s blouse to give her an injection, he realised he had no time to waste arguing with Hart. Besides it’d be a waste of effort, he thought: I’d get further arguing with a brick wall, and the wall would probably have more compassion than that heartless bastard!

"Hold her still," said Gina. She pinched Georgina’s right arm to raise a blood vessel and injected a strong sedative into her to put her to sleep.

As the drug started to take effect and Georgina became drowsy, Gina said: "We’d better get her up to bed before she goes under." She knew that although Georgina, like many big women, wasn’t really as big as she appeared, at more than a hundred kilos, she would be a handful even for Bear after she passed out.


Holly had been running for hours, with the Infernal Beast in close pursuit. It was all she could do not to shriek whenever a roaring whoosh of flames shot past her, trying not to think about what would happen to her if the creature got its aim right. She still had not worked out where she was, or which direction she was heading in, when she crossed a gravel road and suddenly found herself confronted by a two-metre tall spiked fence, looking like a wall of a private estate.

If I could just find a gate? she thought, thinking that she could get help from the owners. However, as she hurried along the grass verge outside the property, she came to a large white metal sign proclaiming "SHADY REST, MAIN ENTRANCE 500 METRES", with an arrow pointing the way to go, and knew that she was at the local cemetery.

Holly jumped back from the cemetery in shock, although she was aware that she had less to fear from the Shady Rest than she did from the monster chasing her. Holly recognised the cemetery now from the time in 1973 when she had attended the funeral of her mother, Irene. She recalled as a girl of nine, being shocked to see her father Neil, a burly, rough-edged country type, crying openly at the funeral. She had never seen him show emotion before and remembered Gloria fainting and almost falling into the grave on top of their mother’s coffin, being saved by the strong arm of their father reaching out to pluck her to safety. Now her only interest in the cemetery was that at last, she had some idea where she was and how much further she would have to run to escape the creature trailing after her.

As another stream of fire shot past her head, Holly turned and raced back to the dirt road that she had just crossed, knowing that it must be Theodora Drive -- which led from Westmoreland to Glen Hartwell, separating into Baltimore Drive and Boothby Street as it reached the Glen. Starting down the road she thought: I just hope this monster can’t follow me right into Glen Hartwell. Surely, it will be afraid to enter a town where there are thousands of people. She was aware though, that Theodora Drive led in two directions, toward Glen Hartwell, and toward Westmoreland, which, apart from the Queens’ Grove Sanatorium, was a ghost town. She only hoped that she was not running toward Westmoreland. However, after a few minutes, the gravel road gave way to bitumen and she soon realised, to her relief, that she was heading in the right direction when she saw the recently painted white line down the middle of the road -- which ruled out it being the road into Westmoreland.


As soon as it started to darken, Ernie had transformed into the Black Wolf and had set out on his accustomed night run.

After a few hours, he had started to turn for home when he picked up a strange smell. A cloying, sickly sweet aroma that smelt faintly like badly barbecued meat. Although sickened by the smell, at the same time he was fascinated and was unable to resist the temptation to investigate.

After a hundred metres or so, the aroma became almost overwhelming; the Black Wolf found itself fighting back bile, which threatened to rise in its throat. Scouring the blackened forest floor as best he could in the poor night light, Ernie finally made out the figure of a small furred creature lying half-charred on a bed of blackened pine needles. At first, from the shape of the head, the black wolf assumed it was one of Holly’s cats. However, as he got closer, he saw the small wings tucked across its back and realised the creature was a fruit bat, which had perished in the fires.

The Black Wolf was still sniffing at the charred bat, relieved that he had not found one of Holly’s cats, yet at the same time nauseated by the cloying aroma of the dead bat, when from behind him came a loud screech. Jumping forward in shock, the wolf spun around and looked back to where a large Mulga bush stood, less than two metres away. From the midst of the bush shone a single yellow light, seemingly burning with evil intent as the hellish screech rang out a second time.

Deciding he had had enough exploring for one night, Ernie turned tail and set off at a run in the general direction of Merridale.

A few seconds later the Mulga bush began to rustle, as out stepped Scragger. The large, tabby tomcat confidently strode toward the half-charred remains of the fruit bat to begin feasting.


Holly was within sight of the outskirts of Glen Hartwell when the Infernal Beast let out a loud, high-pitched, almost metallic shriek, startling Holly. Although unsure whether it was a shriek of rage that the creature had not yet caught her, or a shriek of pleasure as it closed in on her, the shriek acted as a spur for Holly who was already on her second wind.

As she reached the start of the Y junction where Theodora Drive split into Baltimore Drive and Boothby Street, Holly thought: With any luck that thing won’t have the nerve to follow me right into the Glen. However, as she started up Boothby Street, she heard the heavy, lumbering footsteps of the Infernal Beast behind her, as well as an unusual hissing; splattering sound that she had not heard before, and she knew the Infernal Beast had not even hesitated at the edge of Glen Hartwell.

Almost collapsing from fatigue, Holly ran up past William Jantz Way, Providence Street, Abel Tasman Drive, and Rebecca Small Place without noticing where she was heading, and almost continued past Mitchell Street before realising this might be a safe harbour. Racing up to the corner of Blackland and Mitchell Streets, she headed across the small lawn toward the Mitchell Street Police Station, hoping against hope that either Bear Ross or Terry Blewett would be inside the station. However, as she approached, the dark interior of the three-room police station told her that it was locked for the night.

"Let me in! Let me in," pleaded Holly in desperation, pounding her fists upon the screen door in the faint hope someone might be inside the station.

Hearing the shrill screech of the Infernal Beast only metres behind her, Holly instinctively jumped aside in terror and narrowly avoided being fried alive as a long stream of yellow-white flames whooshed past her and scorched a large black patch into the white wall of the police station.

Almost crying from frustration and fatigue, Holly set off as fast as her weary legs would take her up Mitchell Street, past Wentworth Street, up to Baltimore Drive. She almost continued up toward Biblical Drive, but caught a flash of yellow down Baltimore Drive and realised that someone was working in one of the offices or small stores lining the Drive.

Oh, please, she thought as she started toward the small flash of yellow: don't let it be just a night light!

After a few moments, however, she saw that the light was in the office of the coroner, on the corner of Dien Avenue and realised that Elvis Green must still be in his office working right through the night as he sometimes did.

Hoping that the glass doors out front were unlocked, Holly raced up to the office, staggered across the small lawn and heaved against one of the two plate-glass doors. At first, the doors would not budge, making Holly whimper in frustration, thinking they were locked. However, she pushed a little harder and discovered that the door was unlocked after all -- she had merely been so exhausted that her first push had been too feeble to budge the door.

Whimpering from fear and fatigue, Holly forced the glass doors open and started down the corridor to Elvis Green’s office at the rear of the building. Still afraid to look back for fear of being captured by the Infernal Beast, or having her face seared by the monster’s flames, Holly staggered down the corridor which seemed a kilometre in length, although it was really only thirty metres or so. She gasped for breath, fighting to prevent her aching knees from collapsing under her as they threatened to do.


In the office at the back of the small building, Elvis Green sat at his desk catching up on paperwork. Although the bushfires had not claimed any firefighters yet, the fires and searing heat had taken their toll on the senior citizens of Glen Hartwell and its neighbouring towns. The Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital was full to capacity with heat prostration victims and half a dozen people had died over the last ten days, requiring Elvis to work well into the night. Not that he minded the late hours. Elvis was a loner and a night person by nature so the late nights suited his private life.

Despite his preference for night work, however, Elvis was having trouble concentrating due to the stifling heat of one of the worst summers in Australian history. Even without the added heat of the bushfires that ravaged the countryside, for the last month, the daytime temperature had not dropped below 38 Degrees Celsius, and even the nights were in the thirties. Running a hand across his sweaty brow, Elvis thought: But what am I complaining about, it must be 50 degrees plus out at the fire fronts. Pity help the poor bastards actually fighting the fires.

He had almost made up his mind to take the rest of the night off when he heard a pounding on the glass doors out front. Who the hell can that be, at this hour? he thought. He wondered why they did not just enter since the doors were unlocked.

Elvis had started to rise when he heard the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside his office.

"Yes, who is...?" he began.

He opened the office door as Holly staggered through and collapsed into his arms.

"Holly?" he said in astonishment.

Catching her, he held her up as her knees finally gave way under her.

"Out ... out there!" cried Holly pointing back down the corridor.

"What?" asked Elvis. He looked back toward the glass doors.

"The Devil," cried Holly: "Back there!"

"The Devil?" asked Elvis, wondering if he had heard correctly. For just a second as he gazed back down the corridor, Elvis caught a glimpse of yellow-white flames outside the doors. My God, could the fires have advanced right into the heart of town? he thought. He wondered what had happened to the men fighting the flames in that case.

Then, after a second, the yellowish flash vanished from sight.


It was almost noon the next day. Exhausted Bear Ross was desperate for a rest from the firefighting, when Andrew Braidwood called him away from the fire front.

"Lunchtime?" asked Bear hopefully.

"Not quite," said Drew. He hesitated for a moment before blurting out: "All Hell has broken out in the Glen."

"Over what?" asked Bear.

"Over the so-called ‘Devil’s footprints’."

Thinking of the footprints in Cockerall Road outside, Bear asked, "But how did anyone find out?"

Terry looked puzzled for a moment. Then realising that they were talking at cross purposes, he said, "No, not the ones in Westmoreland ... I meant the ones all around Glen Hartwell ... The streets of the Glen are covered in hundreds of ‘Devil’s footprints’."

"Oh, Lord!" said Bear, remembering Holly Ulverstone’s tale of having been chased through the streets of Glen Hartwell by the Devil. "Where exactly are they?"

Taking a notepad out of his shirt pocket, Terry flicked the pad open and read out: "They enter Glen Hartwell from Theodora Drive until it splits, then continue up Boothby Street, past William Jantz Way, Providence Street, Abel Tasman Drive and Rebecca Small Place, to Mitchell Street where they cut in. They continue up Mitchell, past Blackland Street, then cut in toward the police station, making a hell of a mess of the front lawn. Then they cut back into Mitchell and continue up past Wentworth Street to Baltimore Drive, where they cut in and continue past a number of streets before stopping at the condoner's office at the corner of Baltimore Drive and Dien Avenue. Just as with the police station, they cross the lawn toward the front door, destroying part of the lawn. Then they reverse direction up Baltimore, back past Matthew Flinders Road et cetera, back toward the end of town before vanishing off the road midway back toward Westmoreland."

Bear realised that the route detailed was the same one that Holly claimed that the devil had chased her along the previous night. Thinking aloud, he said: "Then why in hell didn’t any of us see the footprints when we raced to the condoner's office last night to see to Holly?"

"Because it was a dark night and we all travelled by car," pointed out Drew.


That evening at a little after 11:00 p.m., Ernie was sitting in the living room brooding, when he heard a long shrill whistling shriek out back. A moment later it was followed by the hysterical whining of a dog in great agony.

Ernie raced outside to investigate.

Inside the dog yard, he saw the red-plumed figure of the Infernal Beast waving its arms around wildly, sending out whooshing bursts of fire toward the cringing station dogs. At its feet lay the charred carcases of Tanya and three other dogs. Ernie had already started into the dog yard when he felt his head start to swim and fell to his knees. At first, he thought it was an attack of the aches and cramps which had wracked his body for weeks and feared that he would be at the mercy of the Infernal Beast, unable to defend himself as he writhed beneath the crippling pains. But then realising that he was about to shapeshift into the Black Wolf, he hurriedly stripped out of his clothes so he wouldn’t be trapped inside them in wolf form.

At first, the Infernal Beast didn’t pay much attention to the large wolf, mistaking it for just another of the cringing, whining station dogs. But as Ernie galloped almost within reach of the flames that it whooshed out, memory dredged up from the depths of its feeble brain. The creature remembered its race through the forest in pursuit of the large wolf a couple of nights ago, and how the wolf had outsmarted the creature by leaping into the waters of the Yannan River to escape.

The Black Wolf waited until the monster was almost upon him, before turning tail to lope toward the back of the sheep station, heading toward the forest. He effortlessly leapt the metre-high fences separating one paddock from another, and then started into the forest itself, looking back from time to time to make certain the Infernal Beast was still pursuing him.

Heading toward Westmoreland, Ernie knew that he would have to pace himself more skilfully than he had the last time he had been chased by the creature. He would have to run smarter, not faster, if he intended to stay out of the Infernal Beast’s clutches all the way to the ghost town. Whereas the last time he had been running from blind terror, today he had a plan. At last, he knew how to destroy the Infernal Beast (he hoped!) as long as he could keep ahead of the flames shot out toward him by the monster as they thundered through the forest.

From time to time the Infernal Beast let out its shrill screech or unleashed a burst of flames from its hands, but the Black Wolf knew those things were intended more to frighten him than harm him. But today he was not frightened, he was only angry at the senseless murder of the Barb-Kelpie bitch, Tanya, and the other station dogs. Angry and determined to stop the Infernal Beast before it took any more lives!


A little before 11:30 PM Bear and a few of the others stopped to take a short break from the firefighting. They had made excellent progress with the Westmoreland fire (to the relief of the local sheep and cattle station owners) and hoped to have the fire doused by midnight or 1:00 AM at the latest.

They had set up a rest tent a hundred metres from the fire front, from which Helen Horne, Rowena and Samantha Frankland, Gloria and Holly Ulverstone, and one or two other locals were serving food and drinks to the fire-fighters.

Holly was serving coffee to Ronald Meldon and Bear when into the clearing raced a large Black Wolf. Almost twice the size of a black Barb-Kelpie, the wolf stopped by the open flap of the tent, as though wanting the people inside to see him.

"My God!" cried Holly.

The first to see the wolf, she pointed back over Bear’s shoulder toward it.

They turned to see what she was pointing at and Bear said: "Relax, he’s probably just fleeing from the bushfires."

Bear got up to investigate, and as he approached the wolf began wagging its tail.

"See, he just wants to be friends."

"He was probably attracted by the smell of food," suggested Gloria. She handed Bear a large slab of iced jaffa cake and he waved it around in front of himself, trying to entice the wolf to come forward for it.

He almost got close enough to touch the wolf, when it suddenly turned tail and fled a few metres across the clearing.

"Here boy!" called Bear, holding up the jaffa cake and whistling as though the wolf were an ordinary dog.

"It’s a shame Ernie isn’t here," said Helen Horne, not noticing the pained look in Rowena’s eyes at the mention of Ernie’s name: "With his talent for handling dogs, it’d probably be eating out of his hands by now."

Half a dozen people left the tent and joined in the attempt to capture the wolf. But although still wagging its tail, the Black Wolf had no intention of allowing itself to be caught.

Bear was still trying to capture the Black Wolf when he heard a high-pitched shriek from the other end of the clearing. He ran across to investigate, and from the fire front lurched the figure of the Infernal Beast.

"Oh my God!" cried Ronald Meldon, seeing the flaming creature and mistaking it for a man: "The poor bastard’s on fire."

Bear retreated toward the other side of the clearing at the approach of the Infernal Beast, expecting the others to follow suit. But as Meldon and the other firefighters raced toward it, he realised they thought the monster was human.

"Look out, it’s the Devil!" he called.

But only Holly heard and looked toward the big man in astonishment, wondering if she had heard correctly.

Seven men and women quickly surrounded the Infernal Beast. They raised the nozzles of their backpacks toward it and began covering the creature from head to foot in fire-retarding foam.

As the white foam coated it, dousing its life-giving fire, the Infernal Beast began to screech shrilly, from pain and fear. Twisting and turning every which way in agony, it tried to shoot out its lethal flames at the firefighters; however, its powers had deserted it under the death-giving foam. So it attempted to lash out at the people with its large arms, but it was already too weak from the loss of its flames to be able to harm them as they covered every square centimetre of its giant body in a mountain of foam.

"Do you think he’s dead?" asked one of the firefighters as the creature fell in a heap on the thick carpet of pine needles.

"Poor bastard, he hasn’t got a chance," said Meldon. He shook his head ruefully.

At the opposite end of the clearing, the Black Wolf stood watching the proceedings with a broad toothy grin on his canine face, savouring the death of the Infernal Beast for a few moments. Then he turned and raced into the forest, heading back toward the Singleton sheep station on the outskirts of Merridale.


The period immediately afterwards was a time of regrets and confusion. Early that morning Elvis Green was greeted at the morgue in Baltimore Drive, Glen Hartwell, with the corpse of the Infernal Beast.

Its flames doused, and the creature looked more like a gargoyle than a man. Although basically human in shape, it was a bright orangey colour, with just a hint of devil’s horns on its forehead and smooth, rubbery skin.

"But rubber which doesn’t melt," explained Ron Meldon as they dumped the carcase onto a metal table in the operating theatre near the back of the small morgue.

After an unsuccessful attempt to perform an autopsy on the creature, Elvis had the carcase packed in ice and sent it off to the East Melbourne laboratories of the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), in the hope the government lab might be able to determine what the Infernal Beast really was. However, he heard nothing more from them until six months later when he rang through to Melbourne. At first, the CSIRO research director pretended to know nothing about any such mysterious carcase. But finally, he admitted that they had received it, but didn’t have any idea what the creature was.

Despite his assurances that he would keep Elvis informed of any new developments, the man never called back, and the CSIRO switchboard refused to connect him when Jerry called back.


Bear Ross was just as confused as Elvis. He had thought the creature was the supernatural devil and therefore invincible against natural weapons until he saw it killed by fire extinguishers. But surely you can’t kill the Devil with foam-throwers? he thought. He never found a solution to his dilemma. But after the death of the creature the two remaining bushfires, which had been burning out of control for weeks, both went out in a matter of hours. And Glen Hartwell and the surrounding towns became strangely immune to fire after that, even avoiding the minor brush fires which all forests have every summer, making the fire department almost redundant (although they were still needed to fight occasional industrial fires in the manufacturing section of Glen Hartwell) for more than twenty-six years. Up until the time of the February 2009 Black Saturday Bushfires.


After leading the Infernal Beast to the Westmoreland fire front (aware that his strategy could have backfired costing the lives of the fire-fighters), Ernie had returned to his sheep station to bury the carcases of Tanya and the other station dogs killed by the Infernal Beast.

As he lowered the corpse of the Barb-Kelpie bitch into the ground, Gordo began to whine mournfully. Gordo and Tanya had been mates for five years and now the large black dog was lost without his bitch.

Hurting from the sheepdog’s grief, Ernie thought of his own possible loss. His own uncertain future with, or without Rowena Frankland, because of his werewolf taint. A few weeks earlier he had bought a small diamond engagement ring, ready to give to Rowena. Now the ring lay abandoned in its box at the back of a drawer of his dressing cabinet, possibly never to be given to her.

THE END
© Copyright 2024 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia