Ring
of fire
David Agranoff
DEADITE PRESS
P.O. BOX 10065
PORTLAND, OR 97296
www.DEADITEPRESS.com
AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY
www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com
ISBN: 978-1-62105-272-2
Ring of Fire copyright © 2018 by David Agranoff
Cover design by Deadite Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Printed in the USA.
This one is for my father who stuck with me in my darkest hours.
“There has never been a law of nature to guarantee that our species would retain its dominance forever, once we had achieved it. It could almost be said that the laws of nature make it impossible for the dominance of any species to be permanent”
—William R. Cotton, Overshoot (1980)
“As crude a weapon as the cave man’s club, the chemical barrage has been hurled against the fabric of life - a fabric on the one hand delicate and destructible, on the other miraculously tough and resilient, and capable of striking back in unexpected ways.”
—Rachel Carson, Silent Spring (1962)
Prologue
The smell of disease was faint, and the end of the world was carried softly on the breeze. The Engineer put a single finger in the air and felt the wind come out of the east. Santa Ana was blowing in from the desert bringing its unusually warm air. It was perfect for his purpose. He walked back to the SUV he left parked on the gravel road. He left his backpack in the back seat. He reached in to grab it and shut the door.
It was far into the rural back roads of San Diego County in a legal netherworld between county desert and Cleveland national forest land. The road was well used by hunters in the know, and today as the sun poked over the mountains to the east, it was empty. Just his SUV provided to him by the Army Corp. of Engineers.
The Engineer walked the path for twenty minutes just far enough that he could no longer see the road. His breath was labored. He had always been a healthy man until the cancer moved into his lungs. The coughing got worse each day but he managed. His condition made him perfect for this job.
“You are the spark of the cleansing fire,” he whispered to himself, as he walked up to the ridge overseeing a valley of dried brush. Hunters would sit in that spot where deer came down the mountain to drink in the San Diego River. The Engineer sat on a boulder, his feet still on the ground to catch his breath. He looked out over the dry field and the underbrush the county was supposed to clear. This hillside was a tinderbox.
The time was right. The disease had spread throughout his body, as it had through the city, and the country. It needed to be cleansed. He had to destroy the infection.
The Engineer pulled out his zippo lighter. He had just refilled the fuel. It had been more than a year since he used it to light his last cigarette. He flicked it open and thumbed it to ignite the flame. It was a strong flame inches high.
He stared at it. “You are the spark of the cleansing fire.”
You have orders he told himself and The Engineer tossed the lighter into the brush.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the flames inching across the field. He felt the heat nearing his skin, the acrid smoke filled his lungs. The Engineer laid down and waited for the cleansing fire.
Chapter One
24 Hours later . . .
The smell woke her up. Austin rolled over in her tent. In the fog of sleep she had forgotten that she was here away from Lindsey. She had slept at her apartment for three nights, but things were a little off between them now. That is why she was back in the tent again. The faint light of dawn was coming through the thick green wall of her tent. She rolled on her back, her head on the makeshift sweatshirt pillow and covered her nose. The smell was awful, like she had woken up in Pike Fish Market during a heat wave. She had hung out with crust punks since before she left home and lived on the streets for enough years to have dealt with some very bad smells.
Still, Austin held her nose to her arm to do her best to block it.
“What the fuck?” A shaky voice spoke beyond the tent.
She thought she had pitched far enough away from the river trail, but the tweakers sometimes just crashed in the brush. It was a popular landing spot for the homeless under the half-mile long bridge carrying the trolley above the river bed. She heard the sound of the trolley train zooming down the track above her and the slight trickle of the San Diego River. These were sounds that were always in the background when she camped here.
“That ain’t good.” Another tweaker voice.
Austin sat up and reached for her sweatshirt. She shook it out of its pillow shape and slid it over her head. She slipped on the low cut Chuck Taylors she borrowed from Lindsey and stepped out. The bright southern California sun had not established itself. She had pitched this spot under the train bridge in the dark and now realized why the ground was so soft.
She was in part of the river bed, overgrown with weeds and grass it had not been underwater in the past year of drought. The river flowed behind her, barely more than a creek at some points the water only traveled through a small percentage of the natural river bed. Two other tents were across the water and a concrete walking trail that went from the Fashion Valley mall six miles to the ocean.
The men reacted to her getting out the tent.
“Hello,” said the greasy looking man holding an open beer with a smile she could see from the distance. The other man only briefly noticed Austin. She had lived on the streets since her mother disappeared, and quickly learned her inherited beauty didn’t serve her. With beautiful red hair that she often dyed purple or green and jade eyes, she endured a fair amount of street harassment. She didn’t want men’s attention so she pierced everything, shaved her head and tried to be as much of a freak as possible most of her whole life.
Now this man with the beer was looking at her like she was on a platter. She had softened her look at bit, needed to feel herself. Half her head shaved, natural hair color and only a septum ring remained. She expected to be stared at, but before she told the bastard to stop staring she realized he was not looking at her.
Austin turned around and looked past the tent. The flow of the river had almost stopped. She now saw what the smell was. The surface of the river was packed with dead fish. She looked down the river and even where it was twenty feet across it was filled with the dead floating bodies of fish. A flock of two dozen pelicans had swarmed in the sky above and dive bombed the river to grab fish. Seagulls were gathered on the shore squawking at each other.
Austin’s eyes got wide, as close as she was to the river, the smell of gas fumes were coming off the water. Austin reached down and pulled the spikes out of her tent, zipping it up and pulling at it with everything still inside across the trail.
The two sketchy men laughed at how fast she was pulling her stuff away. Austin stared at the river in disbelief.
“Robbins is right . . .” She whispered. Not quietly enough.
“Sheeet.” The drunker of the two men laughed. “He’s a crazy motherfucker.”
She could hear the two men dragging their feet away.
“Maybe we should like get the fuck out of here.”
***
Robbins walked through this neighborhood early in the morning. He was a homeless black man and out of place near these small but overpriced homes, these southern California homes that would be considered small and hard to market in the mid-west, but went through bidding wars
here. The closer to the ridge overlooking the valley the homes got bigger, the price tags went up. Robbins pushed his luck with getting police attention up here.
The houses along the street backed up to Mission Valley, some built just feet from the cliff and the drop-off. The roar of the early morning freeways, the 8 going east and west, the 15 going north and south was loud. Robbins pushed through the bushes and sat on the hill. From this spot he was high above the valley. When he got to his spot and sat down he was just a few feet from the drop off that seemed as tall as a high rise building. The cars below looked like ants in a maze. He could barely see the construction crews that were building condos where dairy farms once stood and decades of football had been played. He watched the trolley cross the valley above what he knew was the San Diego River below.
Lights were coming on in the house to his right. The rising sun was not high enough yet to light the inside, but Robbins felt the rays on his face. This was one of Robbins favorite spots to watch civilization from. The freeways were like veins pumping blood around the body of the city. He took out his notebook. He was almost done with his book. He called it Civilization Suicide for almost a year before renaming it Tipping Point.
He knew they were calling the police inside. He pulled out his binoculars, they were the same ones his father watched the Chargers with at Jack Murphy stadium back in the day. He looked out towards the east and the rising sun. He could see into La Mesa out towards Grossmont College and thought the sky looked strange. Smoke was rising in the distance.
***
The ringer was turned down but the phone rattled and did a jumping bean dance on the nightstand. Scott Rivers rolled over in the hotel bed and covered his eyes to the bright Arizona sun. The light was sneaking past the blinds enough that he wished he had his sunglasses. He pushed the covers aside and put his feet down as the phone continued to buzz. He turned the phone over and looked at the screen.
Annie.
He had a feeling it was her. The superintendent of their team, the Wolf Pack, had no real days off during fire season. She always called each of her three squad bosses even if it was Tucker’s job as foreman. He slid his finger to open the call.
“You dressed.”
No hello often meant an emergency.
“Just barely.”
“You fire ready?”
Scott looked at the clothes, beers and pizza boxes scattered around the hotel room. His pack and freshly greased boots were right beside the door. That was all that mattered. Tucker would knock on his door any minute to round him up.
“Yeah, ready to go.”
He should have been ready, but since the fire east of Tucson was eighty-five percent contained he took the chance to rest. As far as wildfires went this one had been a cakewalk. They were in and setting control burns and hand lines long before the fire came close to civilization. They left it without fuel, and they never even had eyeballs on the fire. Annie had wanted to give them a night to party. Hotshots train for strength and endurance, working sixteen hour shifts, sometimes longer. It wasn’t often that they got a room and let go, but the fire season was almost over. They were supposed to go back to headquarters in Boise later in the afternoon.
Scott made his way to the bathroom, balanced the phone on his shoulder and pissed as Annie talked.
“Forest service in California has a bouncing baby outbreak near Cleveland National. Lone Peak is gonna have boots on the ground before us.”
Scott didn’t say anything. He had a mixed sense of relief from pissing, and knowing that a crew he respected like Lone Peak was working the fire with them. Annie encouraged the tough guy competition until things got hairy.
“Are you pissing?”
Scott almost laughed, but as he went to the sink to wash his hands it hit him. “Cleveland National near San Diego?”
“That’s the one. Might get time to see your brother this time.”
Annie knew what she was saying. Scott picked up his things. “He doesn’t want to see me.”
“Sorry if you thought I was interested in your drama. I need you at the helipad in thirty.”
Scott felt a tinge of panic. He would be cutting it close.
“Hey, Annie, what is this we’re walking into?”
“Details on the chopper. All I know is it is moving fast and all hands are being called on deck.”
The call ended. Scott slid the phone in his pocket and started throwing clothes toward his bag. He didn’t want to go back to San Diego even if it was for a job. He had not been back since graduating college. It had been almost 15 years. He talked to Victoria and his brother a few times when he had to but it was tough. He knew it was childish to hang on to anger, and he and Jake needed to move on.
Tucker knocked on the door hard enough to be heard over a concert.
Scott opened the door to the foreman standing in his full fire gear. Scott laughed. “What took you so long?”
He had the stuff in his bag and was out the door heading toward the van. Tucker followed, catching up to walk beside him.
“Alpha and Charlie company are on the road bringing our buggies.”
“Bravo gets the chopper, thanks!” It was sarcasm that Tucker often missed. His gray tips gave away his advanced age. He was not old for a human, but for the hotshots team he might as well have been Grandalf.
“You might not be thanking me when we get there. Your squad is going right into the oven.”
Scott stopped and Tucker turned to look at him. “You didn’t know that was sarcasm?”
Tucker shrugged and they kept walking to the van.
Riccardi Bravo Company’s spotter already stood by the van waving him forward. Scott was the last of the crew to load up. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone as he walked.
Jake and Victoria – home.
Scott jumped in the van and selected the number.
***
Victoria Rivers didn’t slow down when the phone first rang. She had both lunch boxes lined up and ready for sandwiches. She had the mayo, turkey slices and lettuce lined up when her barely teenaged daughter ran through the room.
“Tiff, can you answer that?”
Tiffany sat down at the table with one ear bud in and was scrolling on her own phone. Her mother knew right away her daughter was choosing not to hear her. The phone rang a second time as she spread the mayo on the wheat bread.
“Tiff! Answer the phone!”
The teenager rolled her eyes and picked up the cordless phone. “Hello?”
Victoria pointed with her butter knife. “Rivers residence . . . say it.” She watched the eyebrow go up on her daughter’s face. Something interesting.
“Uh . . . I think he already left,” Tiffany put her hand over the phone. She spoke in quiet voice. “He says he is Uncle Scott.”
Victoria hoped her face stayed neutral. She waved for the phone. “Finish the lunches.”
Tiffany laughed. “Sure.”
Victoria stepped out of the back door by the kitchen and stood in the back yard. “Scott?”
“Yeah it’s me.”
There was a long pause. Victoria squeezed her open fist into a ball.
“Jake had a doctor’s appointment. He left already.”
Victoria looked at the sky. Something looked different. Her attention faded from the phone to a slightly orange glow in the sky.
“I need to talk to him.”
Victoria didn’t really hear him. She walked the length of the house and stepped into the front lawn. Her jaw dropped when she saw the sky to the east. The rising sun was behind a haze.
“You’re coming here for work.”
Scott was silent for a long moment.
“Yeah, some kind of fire in east county.”
Victoria turned to walk back towards her front door. “He is gonna be pissed if I give you his number. I’m not sure which of you is more stubborn.”
“I’m calling Vic, I am prepared to eat some shit.”
Victoria let out a deep sigh
. “Can I text you his cell number.”
“Yeah that’s fine. Vic I just . . .”
“Stop.” Victoria stopped at the door. She leaned her head against the door. “I need to make lunches I can’t do this.”
She clicked the phone and walked back in the house.
***
Jake Rivers sat in the waiting area. He finished skimming the copy of the Union Tribune on the table. He pulled out his phone, and opened Twitter. He had wanted to avoid this because he did far more of his job on Twitter than e-mail these days. He didn’t want to do work while waiting for the doctor who was twenty minutes late already, but the longer he sat he felt pulled to work. One of the older men waiting kept looking at him trying to figure out where he knew Jake from.
He only had two years in the NFL, but he was handsome and it had been enough to get him in the door at NBC as an analyst. He covered the local team until they left. It was a competitive business. Everyone wanted to break stories first and foremost. Player injuries or who was back at work-outs–it was a constant struggle to get the story first. He was only behind the desk on Friday and Saturday night but on camera throughout the week, so he got recognized often.
A door opened. “Mister Rivers?”
Several people in the overcrowded waiting room seemed deflated that it was not their name being called. The Blue Shield office was always full, but this was the health care provider that the local station provided. He was stuck with it. He got up and smiled for the nurse. She led him down the hall. He stopped by one of the examination rooms but she kept walking. Jake picked up his pace to catch up.
The Nurse held open the door to Doctor Wilson’s office. In her thirties and looking impossibly young, Doctor Nancy Wilson had only seen Jake twice. He had liked that she didn’t care about sports and didn’t know who he had been or was. He was just another person.
Jake felt his phone buzzing in his pocket as he stepped into to her office. He looked at the phone as he was about to decline the call. It was a 208 number. Boise. He only knew one person from Boise and his brother had not called in years. He didn’t have time to think about.
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