The pilot light clicks twice before a jet of liquid flame squeezes through the nozzle and into the hab. Through reflective lenses he watches the fire ball up and spurt out of the windows and doors, consuming the interior in a heartbeat. Thick gouts of black smoke belch out into the night sky. He moves on.
The rasping breaths of his mask. The clomp of his boots. Servos whir as his limbs carry him across the yard to the next hab. He raises the flamer’s barrel and pauses. Inside he hears movement, then sees a hand at the window, followed by a small face. Pale. Infected. Desperate. A young family peek from the dense shadows back at him in abject terror.
The contagion cannot spread. The pilot light clicks twice.
Paddy Dobson
20th November 2022