I need shelter.
Then I notice a group of rocks, boulders about chest high, which tumbled down into this ravine eons ago. They squat together and I scramble to them because there’s a small opening. Several times, I attempt to bear weight on my injured foot, but my ankle gives out beneath me.
Above the crackling noise, trees ignite with a popping sound. The column of smoke extends to the sky, a blight against a sunset of fiery orange and red.
The fire roars and flames shoot thirty feet into the air.
My tiny ravine feels very inadequate. But what else can I do? I can’t climb out.
I need options if things get too bad.
Too bad?
Who the hell am I kidding? I’m up shit creek and the damn water is on fire.
Think, Evie. Think! How do you survive?
I think back to a campfire I shared with a pair of hikers, Seth and George. I met them over a month ago in Colorado. They taught me how to build a fire and gave me tips and tricks, like the best way to build a fire for cooking and the best fire for warmth. They said something about wildfires.
All I can remember is them saying to keep your wits about you. Well, I’m pretty much at my wits end. What else? What did they say?
Be aware of your surroundings.
This applies in every situation.
Attempt to evacuate.
I tried that and did well until I launched myself over the edge of the ridge. Now, I’m paying for that mistake with an injury which makes getting out impossible.
Seth mentioned the wind. But what did he say? Something about traveling with the wind, or against it? It doesn’t make sense to travel with the wind. Wind feeds fires. So, I need to head into the wind?
Canyons and gullies are exactly where I’m not supposed to be. George said they could act like a chimney, funneling deadly heat upward.
Well, shit. Now I’m trapped inside a fire-funneling chimney.
Keep your wits about you, Evie. Don’t let panic set in.
That damn, rational side of my brain tries to make sense. I need to listen to it.
Look for natural firebreaks. Seth’s words poke through my panic.
Well, I’ve done that. The grouping of boulders isn’t a firebreak, but it will shield me from the flames, reducing the radiant heat to a life-surviving level.
Despite my ravine being a potential fire-funneling chimney, the lack of vegetation and rocky ground are a win.
You can’t outrun a fire.
Everybody knows fire travels faster than humans can run. It travels faster than deer can run, and now my heart hurts for all the animals trapped in the fire without a way to escape.
Focus!
I can’t allow my soft heart to distract me from survival. Seth said something about digging a ditch. Or am I thinking about surviving a tornado? I’ve learned too much about the outdoors that it’s all getting muddled in my head.
But then, I remember George showing me how to lay face down, feet pointed toward the fire. He told me to cover myself with dirt or rock and let the fire pass.
Let it pass?
Like, let it pass over me?
I’m so terrified I can barely breathe, but I am breathing. The choking smoke is above me. Not that my situation can’t change with a shift in the winds. I keep thinking about canyons funneling hot winds.
I make it to the boulders and there’s the tiniest opening big enough to fit my head and shoulders. It’s dark inside and it’s getting darker outside.
That red glow? It’s not from the sun. The fire is growing. Roaring. The fearsome sound is straight out of a nightmare.
I wiggle into the space between the boulders, but there’s not a lot of room and my legs stick out from the knee down. I pull out and dig a trench, keeping George’s words in mind.
Dig a trench. Cover yourself with dirt and rock.
I have nothing but my hands. I unwrap the cloth from around them and set it to the side. Then I dig and prop rocks along my little trench. It’s not much, but I cover my legs with dirt while trying to twist back around to lay on my stomach. I used all the water during my mad dash, but the rags for my hands, and the one around my head, are still damp.
It’s the best I can do.
With boulders overhead, and my feet sticking out, I hunker down and pray.
5
Asher
I leave Brody and Cage with mom and race back to the house. It’s too early to think about evacuation, but I know fire. The wind blows toward us. I’m not taking chances with mom’s house. As for the vineyard? If that fire spills down the hill, our entire livelihood will be at risk.
My brothers will extend the clear space surrounding mom’s house. She keeps a fire break, or rather I do, one of my obsessive compulsions after seeing far too many homes destroyed by wildfires.
The thin column of smoke behind me grows.
That’s bad.
The drought doesn’t help. All the vegetation is dry; primed to feed a fire’s hunger. If we’re not careful, we’ll have a firestorm on our hands. As I gallop away, Brody fires up the chainsaw while Cage goes to town with the rake. They’ll do what they can to protect the house.
When I get to the barn, George is waiting. Brody must have called ahead.
“Get him inside and gather the mares from the fields.” I turn over Knight’s reins.
“Already on it. Juan and Miguel are getting them now.” George steadies Knight. “I’ve got Andy on the tractor clearing the road.”
My foreman is amazing. He’s got our men already at work. Juan and Miguel will keep the horses safe, corralling them in small fenced enclosure next to the barn. If we need to evacuate, it’ll be easiest having them contained rather than chasing them across a field. Terrified horses fleeing fire is not a good thing.
“I’m hooking up the trailers, just in case,” George adds. “You think I should move them now?”
“Hopefully not.” We have twenty-five horses to evacuate if the need arises, and barely enough hauling capacity to do it.
With Andy working the roads to push back any vegetation which may have overgrown from our last pass at the beginning of spring, I’m hopeful. Our vines should be safe. The main house, barn, and working buildings are in the center of our property with a large clear space around them. Even if we lose the vines, chances are the main structures will endure. With the exception of the barn, the buildings are constructed mostly of stone. We’ll survive and rebuild.
It’s my hope this is nothing more than an exercise in preparedness.
Always ready to respond at a moment’s notice, I sling my go-bag over my shoulder after pulling on my protective gear. A quick stop at the sink to fill the bladders of my hydration packs, and I race out of the house.
Over my shoulder, the faintest ruddy glow is visible at the base of the smoke. The damn fire is establishing herself. She’s going to be a feisty bitch. I feel it in my bones, but that’s not why I curse. Wind rolls over the ridge and pushes the angry flames down toward the valley.
It’s coming right for us.
Less than ten minutes later, I report for duty at the airstrip. Fear mixes with adrenaline until they blend into one and the same, making me feel alive. If this job was easy, everyone would do it, but it’s not. The men in my helitack crew are a tough breed, hardened by Mother Nature’s crucible to endure and survive. Half the team is present. The others are minutes away. Our pilot inspects the helicopter while I head to the briefing room.
We’re a part of a large organization. Unlike my best bud, Grady Malone, who’s a professional firefighter, most of us are seasonal employees and volunteers. Over the years, I’ve worked several jobs within the Forest Service. I served on a hand crew for three seasons before becoming a hotshot, crews who work the hottest part of wildfires, then I hired on as a smokejumper the following season.
An insane job, we parachuted into remote and inaccessible areas to fight wildfires. I’d still have that job, except it’s not compatible with work. Last
season, I switched to a local helitack crew.
It fits me.
Fighting wildfires is a kickass job, but family responsibilities tie me to home. Until my brothers step up to help out, it’s just me.
My helitack crew uses helicopters to rapidly deploy into trouble spots. Often, we’re the first responders to a wildfire. Let’s face it, rappelling out of a hovering helicopter is pretty fucking badass. It almost makes Cage’s ascent of Mount Everest look like child’s play—almost.
Joe ‘Tarzan’ Grayson looks up as I walk in and gives a chin bump. “Hey, Ace.”
Freddy ‘Highball’ Jameson does the same. “You ready to give this bitch your all?”
“Damn straight.” I smile at the banter.
Like me, Tarzan and Highball are seasonal employees, temporary hires for the late summer fire season.
Pete ‘Smokey’ Larson is our lead. He does this full time and gives a long pull of his scruffy beard.
“Hey, Ace.” Smokey waves me over. “You called this one in?”
“I did.”
“We’re waiting on Dice and Cosmo, then we’ll load up.” Chance ‘Dice’ Houston is a new addition to our crew. Tyler ‘Cosmo’ Andrews started with me, and he hates his nickname. Smokey turns his gray gaze on me. “You got your gear?”
Of course I have my gear, but it’s his job to ask.
“I’m ready.”
Smokey peers at the map spread out on the card table. Four empty coffee mugs anchor the corners. He gives another rub of his scruff. “It’s right by your place.” His brows draw together. “Spilling down from the ridge…”
“Moving downslope last I looked.”
He turns his heavy gaze to me. “Damn winds aren’t doing us any favors. Not that I’m saying it, but I wish the winds pushed it the other way. With all the new construction…” He gives a shake of his head.
He doesn’t need to say anything else. We all look at each other. This new breed of environmentalists refuse to clear the brush around their homes, claiming minimal impact, but they don’t respect nature. Their refusal to clear the vegetation around their homes places not only their property in danger but their lives as well.
“Well, that’s not our problem. Local fire assets are managing that.” He points to the top of the ridge, at the leading edge of the fire. “We’re assigned here. Firebreaks in case the wind shifts.”
I give a nod. It’s a solid plan. We have the training and resources to reach the ridge. Our pilot will set us down and we’ll get to work making sure if the wind does shift, that fire won’t have anything to burn, stopping her right in her tracks.
My buddy, Grady, and the rest of his team from Fire Station 13 will be on the lower fire roads doing pretty much the same thing, expanding the fire breaks put in by the forest service for precisely this reason.
We’re different legs of a multi-legged stool, providing safe and effective wildfire response.
The last of our crew rush in. Chance and Tyler are out of breath, but kitted out in their gear. We all are.
Smokey greets Chance and Tyler as the rest of us hover over the map. We’re imprinting the terrain into our brains because we’re going to be in the thick of things just as soon as we can load into the helicopter and fly into position.
The epicenter of the fire is marked in a big red X, along with its current spread. From there, predictive models attempt to guess where it will spread and how fast.
It’s peak fire season in northern California. Months with little to no rain make conditions ripe for fire. Add to that the hot Santa Anna winds and we’re looking at a long hard night of backbreaking work. Our shift is slated at twelve-hours, but we’ve been known to pull thirty- and forty-hour stretches.
Sometimes longer
If it weren’t for George, I wouldn’t be able to volunteer. He runs the estate when helitack and firefighter training pulls me away for days on end.
This job is grueling, but I love it. Some say we’re everyday heroes, but we’re really adrenaline junkies looking for our next fix. As for our workplace? It sometimes looks like the jaws of hell have opened before us, but we love staring down death and walk into that without fear.
Smokey completes our briefing, then we’re off. Grabbing chainsaws, axes, rakes, and other firefighting tools, we’re ready to fight the flames.
Twenty minutes later, we rappel out of the helicopter in advance of the line of fire. She’s spreading fast, gaining speed as the dry brush fuels her lust to consume and destroy.
Our goal is to keep the fire from destroying more forest land. Grady’s job is to keep it from reaching the town. I’m not sure which of us has the worst job.
The greedy bitch sucks air in to fuel her destructive blaze. The resulting wind makes for one hell of a choppy flight. Our insertion is insane and we circle around the fire and come back at it from the side.
It’s clear where the fire started and I wonder at the idiot responsible. This fire is clearly the result of human carelessness. It’s not due to lightning. The skies have been clear for days, which means there’s probably some hiker who thought the rules about fire didn’t apply to them.
The ridge is a blackened crisp. Charred scrub and ash twist in a mockery of life. Devoured by the fire, it’s a deadman’s land. The fire is done with this patch of ground. She’s moving on, seeking nourishment in the valley below.
The roar of the fire drowns out the hissing of the rope as I rappel down the line. We carry heavy equipment, chainsaws, axes, and shovels. I’m on the shovel crew, assigned to dig a trench as a fire break in case the winds shift.
Most of the smoke blows eastward, following the path of the inferno, but we’re still choked out and wear masks to protect our lungs from smoke. Our heavy protective gear hampers our movements, but we take no chances.
I’m the last man down and give the all clear signal to our pilot. The nose of the helicopter dips forward, then he takes off, returning to base to pick up the bucket.
His primary job is to support our crew, but he’ll head back to headquarters to grab a tough, lightweight, collapsible bucket which allows him to pick up water and deliver it on target while we slave away with shovels and chainsaws.
We all multitask.
I free my shovel from where it hangs on my back and join Tyler at the blackened edge of the ridge. In some ways, we’re lucky. The fire did the initial job for us. All we need is to turn the earth and create a ten-foot swath of land stripped down to bare soil. It’s the barrier which will save the forest behind us.
Once we finish, we’ll work the leading edge of the fire, following it downhill until we meet up with local firefighting support crews.
Tyler gives a grin and shoves the blade of his shovel into the soil. “Ten bucks I win.”
It’s a standing bet between us and I take him on. The first to clear fifty yards wins. The loser buys the first two rounds for the team. I’ve only lost once and might be more proud of that than wise.
“You’re on, Cosmo.”
He grimaces at the nickname, but says nothing. He can’t, and while he’s on us to change it, he knows it’s a lost cause. The thing with nicknames is once bestowed they stick. I should know, not that I mind mine. Ace is kind of a cool nickname and I prefer it to the name my mother gave me.
He got his after a particularly grueling job. It was his first with our helitack crew and Smokey bought him a drink afterward for a job well done. The bartender put his whiskey down on the bar while Tyler got distracted by a hot chick. Turned on by the smell of burnt ash and sweat, she clung to the tired Tyler, then complained about the soot on his face. Eager to seal the deal, he rushed to the bathroom to clean up.
Full of himself, and what he thought would be an easy lay, he strutted back, making a big deal of himself, and absently grabbed his drink. He tossed it back in one gulp, then spewed it back out all over the girl’s slinky sequin dress. He lost the girl, claimed a name, and is now known as Cosmo amongst the guys.
We go to it, scra
ping burnt vegetation to expose the bare soil underneath. He moves to the left while I work along the ridge to the right. I clear nearly the full fifty yards when an irregularity catches my eye. Leaning on the handle of my shovel, I peer at the burnt ground and the odd indentations in the soot. I drop the shovel and take a closer look.
It looks like bootprints.
On top of the burn?
I radio Smokey.
“I’ve got something.” The radio crackles and static is returned while I wait for Smokey to respond.
“What’s up, Ace?”
“Bootprints.” I peer at the tracks. It looks like a kid, but what would a kid be doing up here?
The allure of illegal fireworks comes to mind. My brothers and I are guilty of that. Our father tanned our hides after we lit leftover bottle rockets in the vineyards and set fire to half an acre of his prize-winning grapes.
Needless to say, that was the first and last time we ever did that.
“On my way.” As lead of our team, any irregularities are his to deal with.
While waiting, I check out the area. Sure enough, the tracks point out from the hot zone. Whoever those belonged to fled the fire. There’s charred matter beneath the footprints which means it was burning when this person ran.
But where are they now?
I scratch my head and follow the tracks to the edge of the ridge where they disappear. Am I following a ghost?
Smokey comes up behind me. “Hey, Ace, whatcha looking at?”
I gesture for him to follow me and take him to the tracks. “Look. They head out of the fire, while it was burning.”
Smokey squats and examines the bootprints. An old-timer, he’s been doing this for over twenty years. I’ve been fighting fires as a volunteer since I was eighteen. It’s been nearly a decade and he still makes me feel like the young buck on the team. I’m not, but that’s beside the point.
“Not a man.” He places the span of his hand over the boot print. “I think it’s a woman.”
“I was thinking a teenager firing off fireworks.”
“Could be, but we won’t know until after the investigation. Did you see where they were headed?”
Firestorm: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World) Page 4