Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

Luca didn’t respond. He tore off his goggles, doubled over, and retched on the ground.

  “Maybe a touch of altitude sickness,” Matteo declared. “Not bad. He’ll be OK. He needs to rest. We might have to go down now.”

  “Can’t we leave him for a moment?” Karl asked. “I could just run up there and take a peek at the caldera.”

  “No,” Matteo, said firmly. “I’d have to accompany you. We’re not allowed to leave a client alone, not even for a minute.”

  Renato stepped forward. “I could stay with him.”

  “No, wait. I can make it,” Luca said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He wobbled and attempted to stand up.

  Matteo shook his head, grimly. “No, I don’t think you should go up.”

  “Yes! I can do it,” Luca rallied. “Let me try.”

  He straightened up with determination. Karl helped him on with his pack, and Luca stood before the guide, wobbly but determined. Matteo scanned the group, skeptically.

  “OK, but we need to stay together.”

  “Fine,” Luca said and started up the path.

  Karl followed, watching closely.

  Halfway around the first switchback, Renato assessed the condition of the boy. Luca was staggering along with his head down, concentrating on getting to the top. Karl was distracted by his friend’s weakness.

  Now was the time to make his move. Renato unzipped the outside pocket of his jacket and fingered the pistol. The guide would be the first to die, then the Italian boy. He’d force Karl back down the slope and then they’d take the jeep and drive down the mountain and grab the ferry to Naples. A plan was formed. Renato caught up to the boys.

  Karl stood at the lip of the South-East Voragine Crater with Matteo next to him. They were both panting heavily. Climbing to 11,000 feet was tough. Karl bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

  All around them, a fog-like mist crept across the landscape. The volcanic miasma seeped up out of the crater and flowed over the lip, bringing with it the sickening stench of sulfur.

  “Luca!” Karl shouted over to him. “Just one second. I’ll take a quick look and then we’ll go down right away.”

  Luca waved and gave him the OK sign. He sat on the ground, gray faced and breathing heavily.

  “Go ahead. Take a look,” Luca called over.

  Karl moved closer to the edge of the caldera, trying to see if there was a lava lake. But the lip of the crater was too deep, with no view of the bottom. The magma would be 1,000 feet down. Still, he could see a faint glow from the interior of the pit. Molten particles were spewing up regularly as if the volcano were juggling hot rocks.

  Karl watched for a minute, entranced. The projectiles looked like glowing orange tennis balls that rose and fell. A timpani chorus of booms and explosions were coming from inside the mountain.

  Matteo put a hand on Karl’s arm with a cautionary gesture. All around were signs that pointed to the potential hazard:

  Attenzione/Attention

  Pericolo/Danger

  “Is this the main crater?” Karl yelled, gesturing to the open pit.

  “Yes, but there are more. Voragine is the largest. This is normal Strombolian activity. Etna is always active.”

  Karl unzipped his parka. “Is it getting warm, or am I just feeling that way from the climb?”

  “It’s a lot hotter standing on the edge,” Matteo affirmed. “We’re safe here, but we wouldn’t want to get any closer. Sometimes the rim collapses. We lost a hiker at this exact spot about ten years ago.”

  Just then they heard a loud rumbling lower down in the pit. Karl flinched. Matteo scanned the other peaks a half mile away, and a dark gray cauliflower-shaped cloud of ash was billowing out of the earth.

  “The eruption is over there,” Matteo indicated with a gloved finger. “That crater is called Bocca Nuova. It’s sending up ash. I think it’s time to leave.”

  Just as he said it, the far crater started off-gassing. The noise was a low fizz that immediately climbed to a jet-engine whine. The decibel level was deafening.

  Matteo turned and shouted over the racket.

  “Let’s go! It’s too dangerous to stay!”

  Karl looked over and saw Luca gesturing emphatically at Renato, shouting something.

  That’s when Karl saw the danger.

  At the National Institute of Geophysics and Volcanology monitoring station in Catania, the chief scientist picked up the phone. Mount Etna was starting to erupt. As with all stratovolcanoes, it was almost impossible to predict the exact timing of an eruption. They had been expecting some activity, but nothing of this magnitude. He had to alert the Civil Defense authorities. Sawhorses were set up on the roads surrounding the volcano, in the event they needed to block traffic. The mountain was completely evacuated, but the ITAL-TREK tour company reported that a few tourists were still unaccounted for.

  There was no time to lose. Lava fountaining had begun, and dense fallout of ash was being recorded three miles away. The reservoir of magma about twenty miles beneath the summit was becoming superheated from the friction of tectonic plates. Within the hour, huge sheets of flame would shoot up into the sky and everything on the slope would be destroyed.

  Karl shouted “No!”

  Matteo saw the glint of a gun muzzle. Then there was a burn in his chest. Another pain bloomed in his shoulder. All of it happened silently. The sound of the pistol was drowned out by the volcano. Time stopped, and there was only searing agony.

  His legs collapsed, and he fell to the ground. His cheek was pressed into the basaltic gravel, as if weights were holding him down. Blood was pooling on the ground, soaking into the volcanic rock particles.

  Painfully, he turned his head. The lip of the volcano was only two feet away. Foul gasses were pouring out in heavier concentrations. Molten lava would soon follow. He closed his eyes in despair. He was dying. His body would be buried in the eruption. No one would ever know what happened.

  Karl looked in horror as the guide lay gasping, eyes glazed over. He had no idea how to save Matteo. Renato had shot him! The gunman’s eyes were hard, and his mouth turned down in a sneer. This was not the jovial fellow who joined them on the lower slope.

  Slowly, the pistol swiveled toward Luca. The boy sat on the ground, cowering in fright, with no ability to resist or flee. Something had to be done, or Luca would die.

  Karl felt a hot flush of panic. He could not give in to fear. He had to do something quickly. The only thing in his possession was a small backpack. But, weighing about thirty pounds, it might be of some help. He held it by the strap and sprinted across the distance, swinging it in a wide arc.

  Karl let out a huge bellow, to draw Renato’s attention away from Luca. The gunman turned at the noise, and his eyes widened. It was too late to duck. The bulk of the pack slammed solidly into Renato’s chest, driving him toward the edge of the volcano. As he stumbled backward, his foot hit a rough patch of scoriae.

  The next moments played out in agonizing detail. Renato’s mouth opened into a perfect O as one foot left the ground. He balanced on one leg, flailing wildly. His body, top heavy with the weight of his backpack, cantilevered toward the yawning chasm. Arms windmilled in an attempt to fight the pull of gravity, but the desperate struggle was too late.

  Slowly, as if in a dream, Renato toppled into the volcano.

  Karl stood motionless as the gunman did a backward somersault, his form splayed against the glowing sparks. And then Renato was gone.

  Karl gasped in horror.

  It was unbelievable. He just killed a man. The look on Renato’s face as he tumbled would haunt him forever.

  Karl turned back to Luca and saw his friend slumped on the ground panting like a sick dog. Luca was almost in complete collapse.

  Karl started toward his friend. A deep trembling under his feet told him there was no time to lose. Mount Etna was erupting!

  Luca realized that several of the vents near him were shooting up hot gasses. Suddenly, molten lava oozed out of the ea
rth and started downhill. It was glowing orange. Longer and longer it came, never ending.

  “We have to leave, now!”

  “What’s happening?” Luca asked confused.

  Karl spoke urgently. “Forget it. We have to go!”

  Karl started down the trail, and all around him the ghostly vapors of volcanic emissions floated up out of the ground. He tried to place his boots carefully, so as not to step on the molten lava streams. Walking downhill, it was difficult to stay upright. Tremors shook the ground, nearly knocking him down.

  Visibility was awful. The particles of black ash were as dense as a blizzard. The volcano behind them was belching sparks and ash. Off-gassing sounded like bottle rockets. The intensity of the eruption convulsed the earth under their feet.

  Karl had no idea if they had wandered away from the main trail. This seemed to be the way, but the risks of going astray were considerable. There was the danger of getting stuck in a ravine, or ending up wandering aimlessly across the landscape. That would be catastrophic, as new fissures were opening up every minute.

  Then, suddenly, through the vapor Karl had a glimpse of something square and solid. There was a building! The outlines of it were barely visible in the smoke. As they approached, he could see it was the climbing hut. They had barely glanced at the structure on the way up, but now Karl realized it was the perfect place to seek shelter. The building was fashioned into the earth like a root cellar with a stout wooden door and a tile roof.

  Karl let go of Luca’s arm and walked over to read the sign on the door. An orange neon sign was nailed to the wood planks with the word VULCANO. Karl pushed the door open and bent down to enter.

  As he stepped inside the climbing hut, it was suffocating, like drawing breath inside an oven. He took off his parka and jettisoned it. Luca stumbled in and fell onto the floor, gasping.

  “Thank God,” he mumbled.

  “Drink some water,” Karl advised, handing him his backpack.

  Luca began looking for his water as Karl began to rummage around. The interior of the hut was very dark, and there was not much to see: a wooden bench; a built-in cot with a flame-retardant mattress; a large, red metal box containing medical supplies. Several aluminum cylinders with breathing masks were mounted on the walls. Karl examined them and realized the air canisters were bolted and secured by a thin band of metal.

  He seized a mask and placed it over his face. It was not like a scuba regulator. This was a full respirator that covered the entire nose and mouth. Karl turned the valve and breathed in, filling his lungs with air. Then he set one up for Luca.

  After two or three inhalations, Karl’s head stopped spinning. His mind cleared. He was finally able to think. He now understood why they had been attacked.

  Renato had followed them up the mountain. Why would someone come after two kids like that? Karl felt a flush of shame. All this must have something to do with the stolen necklace.

  Jude Blackwell photographed Mount Etna and filled two 64 GB San-Disc memory cards with digital images. The caldera was deserted. He had climbed using the little-used western route. By the time he finished taking his photos, activity was visibly picking up. Pea-sized pebbles of glowing rock were pelting the earth; the Strombolian activity was reaching the height of the crater rim.

  Conditions were deteriorating, and the downward trek would be treacherous. As he started down, he could feel the heat through his thermal boots. His “hot suit” was keeping him from being burned, and the stiff fabric chafed his elbows and knees.

  He rapidly retreated back down the slope, keeping his eyes on the ground. There were only the faintest of marks made by previous climbers; the indentations of boot treads, barely discernable. He trudged down blearily, eyes watering from the sting of chemicals. Mercifully, his air supply partially eliminated the stench of sulfuric off-gasses.

  Rather than dwell on the danger, he focused on the mission. The trip was a success. He made it to the top and got some incredible shots just as the activity picked up.

  He reached a ridge and looked out over the barren landscape. As far as he could see, fissures had opened up, and hot gasses were shooting out like steam from a boiling kettle. Visibility diminished as the ash blocked out the sun. In the dim twilight, molten lava streaks were glowing like orange ribbons trailing down the slope.

  The noise from the mountain was exactly like the sound of combat. The rhythm varied: the volley of pistol shot, the stutter of a machine gun, or a sound like a supersonic jet. Sparks cascaded like a fireworks display. There was no question in his mind—this “code orange” was rapidly deteriorating to “code red.”

  He flinched as a rock whizzed by, missing him by inches. Volcanic bombs were starting, and one of them would kill him outright if he didn’t take shelter soon. It was time for a strategic decision. He’d go into a nearby climbing shed, then pick a lull in the activity to continue his descent.

  The ground shook with a deep cough. There was a convulsive rumble, and a blaze lit up the mountain. For a beautiful, awful moment the peak was silhouetted in a perfect ring of fire.

  Jude shouted in surprise and glanced quickly at the distance to the door of the hut—only a short sprint away. As the debris rained down, he hurtled himself through the opening.

  It was like diving into an inferno. He stumbled over something on the floor at the doorsill. Overbalancing in the awkward suit, he fell forward, losing his footing entirely, and landed on something soft in the dark.

  There was the squish of a body and the feel of bones. Trying to get a better view of what had tripped him up, he ripped off his hood and goggles. A pair of eyes was staring at him in the dim interior.

  The figure spoke to him.

  “Have you come to save us?”

  It was a teenage boy: thin, dark-haired, and bug-eyed with terror. The kid launched forward and clung to his arm.

  “Hey, steady there,” Jude said.

  He gave the kid a manly hug and thumped him reassuringly on the back. There was an awful smell of sulfur in his hair. Jude pulled away to get a clear look in the dim light.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Luca Brindisi.”

  “Well Luca, you and I are going to have to get off this mountain pretty fast. There’s an eruption going on.”

  Another voice emerged from the blackness.

  “Are you from the Geological Institute?”

  There was another boy. He had a slight accent, which Jude placed as Norwegian.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, the institute would never let anyone up in the middle of this.”

  “Then who are you?”

  Jude was tempted to ignore the question, but under the circumstances they should all know each other’s names. They’d have to descend together.

  “I’m a photographer,” he explained. “Jude Blackwell.”

  “You’re Jude Blackwell?”

  “Correct. And you are …”

  “My name is Karl. I know who you are. I have your autograph on my wall at home.”

  Even in the dim hut, Jude could see the glassy-eyed stare of hero worship.

  “That’s great,” Jude said. “Tell me about it later. For now, I suggest we all get out of here.”

  Inside the climbing hut, Jude was organizing the descent. Technically it was just a walk-down, nothing difficult. No fancy climbing gear would be necessary. But an auxiliary air supply couldn’t hurt.

  He went over to the wall and examined the air canisters. With a quick pop, he sprung the cylinders from their mounts and lined them up on the cot.

  “I didn’t know they came off,” Karl said. “I thought they were bolted in place.”

  “There’s a release button,” Jude explained. And these straps go over your shoulders. You wear it like a backpack. Now, everybody grab one.”

  Jude helped Luca on with his canister, and they all got ready to leave.

  “Here’s how it works. I’m going to start a count. I’ll say ‘one,’ Karl you’re ‘two,’ Luca
‘three.’ We count out loud and keep it up until we hit the bottom. You’re going to have to yell. If I don’t hear your number, we stop, and I go back. Got it?”

  Karl looked at him with rapt admiration. “Everything I read about you is true.”

  Jude laughed deprecatingly. “Hopefully not everything. Now let’s get going.”

  “One,” Jude shouted as he stepped out the door.

  “Two,” Karl answered.

  “Three,” Luca shouted, giving it every ounce of his strength.

  Luca realized immediately that he was not able to walk. So Jude helped pull him along. As they stumbled downhill, Luca observed his companion.

  The famous volcanologist looked like a spaceman. His body was encased in shiny fabric—hood, face protector, and gloves—and there was an air tank strapped to his back and a bulky mask covered his face. Descending the slope, his steps were careful and slow like a moonwalker.

  Luca tried to emulate the surefooted tread, but he was too weak. His lungs ached and burned. Each breath was torture as he pulled from the air canister.

  This was absolutely terrifying, but somehow the photographer instilled a new confidence in him as he led the way down. It was almost as if Jude Blackwell, in his magic silver suit, was invincible.

  “I got altitude sickness,” Luca confessed to him. “But I feel better now.”

  “You’re going to make it. Keep walking.”

  Jude looped his arm around Luca’s waist, but the boy kept stumbling on the loose debris. He’d had seen plenty of cases of mountain sickness before, but this kid wasn’t suffering from high altitude. Something else was wrong with him.

  The other kid, Karl, was a great help. He was strong as an ox and was able to support Luca from the other side.

  “I can’t believe I’m climbing on Mount Etna with Jude Blackwell,” Karl gushed.

  Just then, another explosion went off. Jude couldn’t help but marvel at Karl’s youthful stupidity. There was a fair chance they wouldn’t make it out, but he’d keep that to himself.