The Power of Five Oblivion

other, staggering blindly from street corner to street corner. Some had given up, falling to their knees on the pavements, praying for salvation while others stampeded over them. Children, separated from their parents, ran around in hopeless circles. Babies had been left, abandoned in prams.
    Whole sections of the city had disappeared in flames and darkness. Vesuvius was shooting at it, like some monstrous fairground game, firing huge fireballs that plummeted down, one after another. The Castel Nuovo itself had been hit. One of the towers was wrecked and the rest of the building was on fire, flames spitting out of the windows. Further to the north, the Duomo, the main cathedral of Naples, which had stood over the city since the thirteenth century, had almost gone. More than a thousand people, believing even now that God would protect them from the volcano, had taken refuge inside moments before it had been hit by one of the blazing missiles. They were pouring out again, surrounded by smoke and broken stone.
    The harbour was a nightmare of fire and smoke, of choking gases and water that was already being whipped into a frenzy. Most of the boats that could sail had already left, and had so many people crowded onto the decks that they could barely stay afloat. There were people fighting on the quays, flailing and screaming at each other, or standing there with hands outstretched, begging for a passage out. But the boat owners were forcing them back. They were on the decks, lashing out with boathooks and oars while the other crew members struggled with ropes and sails, trying to get out into open water before it was too late. As Pedro skidded to a halt, gasping for breath in the poisonous atmosphere, he felt another huge shockwave travel under his feet and had to cling to Giovanni for support. The two boys watched in disbelief as the entire quay, a giant slab of cement, suddenly tilted as if trying to set sail itself. If they had been any closer, they would have been killed. As it was, dozens of people were thrown into the foaming sea. They had no chance. There were ships all around them, rising up and crashing down. Many of them were crushed. The rest must have drowned.
    Giovanni looked around him, his hair being whipped by the wind, his eyes filled with panic. “Angelo…” He shouted out a sentence but most of it was lost in the din.
    Pedro wondered if they should have come here. At least half the city seemed to have had the same idea. A lot of the boats had already gone. For an insane moment he was reminded of a funfair he had once seen in Lima. He had only been about nine or ten years old and he had been fascinated by the dodgem cars, so many of them packed into such a tight space. The harbour looked the same … only without the lights and music. It was a hellish scene of destruction as the huge vessels smashed into each other, the water black and frenzied below.
    “There!” Giovanni pointed and shouted out.
    Miraculously, his uncle’s boat was still there, waiting for them. Perhaps it had been overlooked by the rest of the crowd because it was so small and looked so fragile; a seven-metre fishing boat with two sails and a single cabin. It was called Medusa , the name painted in gold letters on blue. There were three men on board. Two of them were desperately clinging to the ropes that kept them moored to the quay. The third, a dark, bearded man, soaked to the skin, was searching for them.
    “Angelo!” Giovanni called.
    The man didn’t hear but saw them a moment later as they ran forward, following the edge of the quay. Suddenly there were fewer people around them. Pedro leapt over a jagged crack in the concrete. It hadn’t been there seconds before. The entire harbour was breaking up, the pieces tumbling into the sea. The air was thicker than ever. Every breath was an effort. His throat and lungs felt scalded.
    The boat was heaving around as if it were a living animal and Pedro wondered how it could possibly sail out of here. The wind was too strong, coming at them in short, vicious punches. The sails were writhing, trying to tear themselves free of the masts. But as he clambered aboard, allowing Angelo to haul him off the quay with Giovanni right behind him, he heard a metallic cough and a rattle and knew that incredibly, the Medusa still had a working engine and that somehow the men had saved enough fuel for this journey.
    They were instantly away, a void opening up between them and the harbour’s