by Keir Graff
I never would have guessed it, but Trent’s wall had a purpose after all, serving as half of a corral where we could pen the cows until we figured out what to do next. Alpha and Beta prowled in front of the open side, making sure the cows didn’t escape.
“Do cell phones work here?” asked Reynold.
I shook my head.
“I told you that we should have built our own cell tower,” scolded Anjali.
“So now what do we do?” asked Blake. “The fire is just going to keep coming.”
“Everybody stay calm while we have a quick meeting,” said Trent.
“Calm? Calm?!? That’s easy for you to say, buddy—your hundred-million-dollar mansion isn’t burning in the woods,” sputtered Reynold.
“As if your home is more important than anyone else’s!” said Lyndon. “I built MY house with MY OWN HANDS. Forget I ever agreed with you!”
“The two of you aren’t invited to this meeting,” I said. “Everyone else can come.”
While Reynold and Lyndon quarreled, the rest of us stepped off to the side and formed a circle.
“Well, Dagmar,” said Trent grimly, “you’ve been wanting to leave all summer. I guess you finally got your wish.”
“If this is how wishes come true, I would have wished for something else,” I told him.
“Vladimir, what do you think we should do?” asked Anjali. “After all, you have military training.”
Vladimir squinted. “Fortify position and radio reinforcements.”
“We can’t stay here,” said Summery. “And we don’t even have a radio.”
“This is not military situation,” agreed Vladimir.
“We need to rescue ourselves,” I said as Trent, Leya, and others nodded their heads.
“And how do you think we should do that?” asked Leya.
“I have a plan,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tree!
All right, let’s get to work,” said Trent, clapping his hands.
I had expected the grown-ups to say No or But or Wait a minute, that will never work, but instead they listened and accepted my plan without suggesting a single change. As we prepared to put it into action, I almost wished they had, because if it didn’t work, it would be all my fault.
On the other hand, if it did, I would be saving the lives of eleven humans, seven pets, and approximately two dozen cows.
The first thing we did was put all the animals except for Alpha and Beta—and the cows, obviously—inside Helen Wheels. When I finally unknotted the scarf that held Totoro to my chest during our escape through the woods, both the cat and I were completely soaked in my sweat. Cats are great for warming up on a cool evening, but carrying one through a forest fire is like doing a fun run in the desert with a hot water bottle in your shirt.
I gave him a couple quick pets and scooted him inside while Penelope did the same with Farrell, Carl, Yma, and Russell.
“Won’t the cat try to catch the bird?” I asked as we closed the door behind them.
Penelope just laughed. “Totoro? He has a hard time catching cat food.”
Next, we grabbed everything we could find that held water—from the plastic bucket and watering can to food tubs and our big cooler—and formed a bucket brigade stretching from the pump to the compound. We put Lyndon and Reynold on opposite ends so they wouldn’t argue, and while Lyndon worked the pump and filled the containers, Penelope grabbed each one and handed it along to Summery, who handed it to Leya, who handed it to Santi, who handed it to Anjali, who handed it to Reynold, who handed it to Blake, who handed it to me.
Each person had to do a little running between handoffs, but the system still worked a lot more smoothly than if we’d all been doing our own filling and carrying.
When the containers reached me, I carried them up a ladder and splashed them over the wooden shingles and sides of the house, soaking it as well as I could—realizing when I saw a soggy coatimundi that one of the windows was still open and water was getting inside.
After the house was completely drenched, I stowed the filled bucket, tubs, and cooler in the back of the truck, in case we needed more water later. Then I collapsed the extendable aluminum ladder and put that in, too.
Meanwhile, Trent and Vladimir had been busy getting the house ready to roll. It was still on the trailer, so it already had wheels, but after arriving at our new location, Trent had wedged jacks and cinder blocks underneath so we could walk around inside without it rocking back and forth. Now all that stuff had to be pulled out and tossed aside so we could tow it back to the road.
When the bucket brigade’s work was done, I raced back along the line.
“We’re almost ready!” I told everyone. “Give yourself a good soaking before we go!”
We took turns working the pump so we could all get completely wet again. After the heat and wind and ash and smoke, it felt so good to stick my head under the cool, rushing water.
If we make it out of this fire, the first thing I want to do is go to the beach, I thought. I didn’t even care if it was a cold beach. I just wanted to be wet and chilly and to breathe clean air.
As we gathered back by Helen Wheels, the only support still in place was a jack that held up the trailer tongue. All Trent had to do was back his pickup into place so we could hitch them together.
The cows were mooing again, moving around restlessly, and it was all the dogs could do to keep them in place. Smoke had blanketed the pasture and was getting so thick I could hardly see out of the compound.
Then, above us, I heard the droning of a plane’s engines. It got closer and closer and, when it seemed to be above the Bertholds’ forest, turned and started pulling away.
“I’ll bet that’s a Cal Fire plane,” said Trent. “They probably just dropped a big load of retardant.”
“Hooray! Finally!” I cheered as Blake, Santi, and a few others joined in.
“I ordered a helicopter, not a plane,” fumed Reynold.
“The firefighters don’t work for you,” Summery reminded him. “Just like me and Vladimir.”
“We can’t wait for them, because they might not even know we’re here,” I said.
“Trent, back up the truck,” urged Leya.
Trent hurried over, climbed in, and—
Nothing happened.
Through the window, I could see Trent pound the steering wheel with his fist.
“Uh-oh,” said Santi.
Trent turned the key again. The starter turned over, but the engine didn’t seem to want to catch.
I was beginning to wonder if we could possibly hitch the cows to Helen Wheels and have them pull us to safety when the engine finally roared to life.
Now we really cheered. Everyone watched as Trent, guided by Leya and Vladimir, slowly backed the truck into place. It took way too long, because first he was at the wrong angle, then he was too far off to the side, but eventually he had it lined up so the knob on the trailer hitch was directly underneath the tongue of the trailer. Leaving the engine running, he hopped out while Leya lowered the jack until the trailer and truck were connected.
The fire had crossed the pasture by now and was closing in on the compound. Ribbons of smoke streamed toward us while the hot wind raised the temperature from open-oven to blast-furnace. It was time to go.
“All right, everybody in!” I shouted, throwing open the door to Helen Wheels.
Nobody moved. Reynold, Anjali, Lyndon, and Penelope all just looked at each other.
“You want us to go inside that . . . tiny . . . house?” asked Reynold, blinking.
“That’s right,” I told him.
“I presumed I would at least get to ride in the truck,” he said.
“Daaaad,” groaned Blake, kicking the dirt in embarrassment.
I took a deep breath and was ready to yell
something really rude, but fortunately Leya saved the day.
“We would be honored to have you in our home, however small it may be,” she said. “Please, won’t you be our guests?”
Even someone as rude as Reynold Berthold couldn’t refuse that kind of hospitality, so while I held the door open, Reynold, Anjali, Lyndon, Penelope, and Summery all climbed inside.
Leya started to follow, but Trent grabbed her arm. “Don’t you want to ride up front?”
“Despite the circumstances, we are their hosts,” she said. “Santi and I will ride with them.”
It was definitely going to be a tight squeeze. Helen Wheels was cozy enough with just four humans and no pets—now it was going to be like having a book club meeting in a phone booth.
Suddenly, there was the biggest gust of wind yet, and the air around us filled with smoke, ash, and glowing pine needles. Smoldering pine cones thudded against the roof and walls of Helen Wheels as the cows surged and lowed in their makeshift pen.
“Time to go—now!” shouted Trent as one of the cows escaped past the frantic dogs and galloped down the road.
Santi and Leya jumped into the house while Trent ran for the truck and Vladimir quickly attached the chains to the trailer.
Blake and I had one more job to do before we could climb in the truck: herd cows.
First, we called Alpha and Beta back. Then, yelling and waving our arms, we tried to drive the cows out of the pen and down the road after their escaped friend. But they didn’t go anywhere. From their frightened bellows and rolling eyes, it was obvious they were confused and terrified. And the thunder of the approaching fire was so loud it practically drowned out our voices.
All of a sudden, I wished Leya wasn’t inside the house. And that we had horses. And real cowboys. And, while I was dreaming of things we didn’t have, private helicopters for each and every one of us, even the cows.
But we didn’t have those things.
And the fire was getting closer.
Trent honked the horn and flashed his headlights. We had to move. But the cows weren’t getting the message. Vladimir was right behind me and Blake, but his commando training clearly hadn’t included a unit on how to motivate panicky farm animals.
Scared and exhausted, with no idea what to do next, I did something I’m not particularly proud of. I punched a cow.
Not in the face or anything—I hit it on its hindquarters, and I definitely hurt my hand more than I hurt the cow. But it worked! Suddenly, the cow started trotting up to the road. Seeing that, another cow followed. And another, and another, until the little herd was all headed the right direction.
“Yee-HAW!” I yelled.
“That was awesome!” shouted Blake, setting the dogs loose again.
“You are good cow puncher,” said Vladimir admiringly.
Alpha and Beta streaked after the loping livestock as if they were born to do it, one dog on either side of the herd, although I’m not sure the cows had any intention of leaving the road.
Trent leaned on the horn again, reminding us not to stand there admiring the cows, and Blake and I ran back to the truck and piled in, squeezing onto the small bench seat in back. Vladimir took shotgun and slammed the door.
Revving the engine, Trent put the truck in gear and rolled slowly forward. Helen Wheels weighed four or five tons, even when it wasn’t fully loaded.
“Um . . . guys?” said Vladimir, putting his face close to the windshield.
“What is it, Vlad?” asked Trent.
“Tree . . .”
“Three what?”
“No, tree!”
We looked. A line of fire was blazing up behind the cattle pen and heading right for the road. The wind was tossing all the trees hard, and one of them, its branches blazing, was starting to fall over.
When it crashed down in front of us, it would completely block the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Tiny Fire
Trent stomped the accelerator so hard I was surprised his foot didn’t go through the floorboard. The engine of his old truck roared, and the tachometer needle jumped into the red. But we didn’t exactly peel out like a race car. Instead, the truck-and-trailer combo went from a walk to a jog to a slow run—heading straight for the part of the road that was about to be engulfed by a fallen, flaming tree.
“AaaaaaAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!” screamed Blake, ducking down in the back seat and covering his eyes.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” I yelled, my eyes wide open and my fingers digging into the upholstery so hard I ripped the fabric and got foam under my fingernails.
“Maybe stop?” suggested Vladimir in a quiet, reasonable tone.
The cows and dogs had already cleared the spot where we were speeding to our certain doom. Trent gripped the steering wheel and kept the pedal to the floor while his eyes watched the toppling tree above us. It had started its descent slowly, as if its roots were reluctant to give up their grip on the soil, but now it was falling faster, just as we were accelerating toward where it was going to land.
What if it hit us?
What if it hit Helen Wheels?
What if it landed in the middle, trapping us on opposite sides?
“MAYBE STOP?” suggested Vladimir again, this time at the top of his lungs, as Trent’s truck finally got going faster than any of us could run.
I could feel the trailer tugging on the truck and looked back to see Helen Wheels bouncing up and down and side to side on the dirt road. Santi was probably about to start barfing, if he hadn’t already. Just thinking about somebody barfing in the tiny house made me want to barf, too, so I wished I hadn’t thought of that. But maybe thoughts are contagious, because Blake opened his window, stuck his head out, and spewed all over the side of the truck.
I looked up. The tree was definitely going to hit us.
The engine roared.
“We’re going to make it,” Trent said calmly.
The tree swept down out of the sky, its burning branches like the brushes of a demonic car wash.
All four of us yelled together. I heard yelling from Helen Wheels, too. They definitely shouldn’t have been looking out the windows.
I braced for impact. There was a deafening, heart-stopping CRUNCH . . . but we kept rolling. We had made it! I whipped around and looked out the back window of the cab. Helen Wheels had made it, too. It was still jouncing and bouncing along as we roared down the road with the fallen tree behind us flaming orange and red like an evil sunset.
Our screams of terror turned to shouts of relief. Trent honked the horn, and Vladimir and I pounded the ceiling as Blake pulled his head back in, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled weakly.
“Maybe we’re going to survive after all,” he said.
“Forget maybe!” I told him. “We’re definitely going to make it now!”
And then we all lurched forward when Trent stomped on the brakes.
* * *
■ ■ ■
EVEN THOUGH THE cows were being encouraged down the road by two giant dogs that barked and nipped at their hooves, they couldn’t go as fast as a truck. As we accelerated away from death-in-the-form-of-a-flaming-falling-tree, we suddenly found the cows right in front of us, and if Trent hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did, we would have turned the beeves into roadkill. (Beeves: plural of beef.)
This wasn’t going to be a quick escape, after all. Instead of flying down the road at top speed—that is, the top speed of an old truck pulling a tiny house full of mammals—we were now forced to roll along at a pace so slow I could have jumped out and run faster. And thanks to the wind and the fallen tree, the fire had jumped the road and was now burning along both sides, spreading faster than we could drive.
Again I heard a plane overhead, but the smoke was just too thick to find it. Could they see us? Did they know we were there? Any fire
crews in the area would definitely know about Blake Berthold’s giant glass-and-steel mansion, but there was no way they knew about our tiny house, which wasn’t even supposed to be there.
The narrow two-lane road went slightly downhill, giving me hope that we would drive out of the fire soon. After all, heat rises and fire goes up, right?
“Turn on radio,” said Vladimir suddenly.
“This seems like an odd time to listen to music,” said Trent.
“Not music—news update,” said Vladimir, reaching for the dashboard to do it himself.
The first station he found was playing a dance track, and the volume was LOUD. It was weird to hear something so silly and normal while the forest was burning down around us. The next station was playing a sad country song, which seemed more appropriate, but still, not very useful.
After finding commercials, a baseball game, and a traffic report from a hundred miles away, Vladimir finally tuned in to a crackly local news station with a reporter giving updates about the fire.
“. . . Cal Fire crews are mobilizing to attack the fast-moving blaze, which fortunately has started in a largely unpopulated area . . .”
“Largely, but not ENTIRELY,” I objected.
“Shh!” said Trent.
“. . . although in dry, windy conditions, there is concern it could soon threaten nearby towns. Planes have already made several drops of slurry, and all residents of the affected areas are encouraged to seek safety immediately.”
“No DUH,” said Blake, and this time I shushed him before Trent could do it.
“Do not stop, do not pass Go, just get out of there as fast as you can,” said another voice on the broadcast, a man identified as a local fire official.
“Does he have any advice for people with cows?” I asked as the station cut to a commercial for, of all things, backyard barbecue grills.
It was agonizing to sit in the back seat and watch the waddling rumps of the cows as they trotted slowly down the road. But there was literally nothing I could do. Feeling antsy, I turned around and looked back at Helen Wheels.