Lies Like Wildfire

by Jennifer Lynn Alvarez

  I think I’m the first to realize that things between us will never be the same. This secret, this crime, will bind us in a knot so tight we’ll never escape it—not at our weddings, not at our kids’ Little League games, not in our nursing homes. Whether we get caught or not, it will follow us to our deaths. We are five separate souls on one fast-spinning plate, and if anyone loses their balance, all of us will fall.

  I vow right then not to let that happen. I will keep this plate spinning. I will keep us out of prison. I will protect the monsters.

  6

  July 7

  6:22 p.m.

  Fire: 0% contained

  My Jeep bounces down the dirt road with the windshield wipers on, clearing the ash. We peer out the windows, looking for Luke and Mo on the four-wheeler, and the cabin is silent. I’m about to turn around and head back when the furious winds suddenly shift. The smoke rises and the view clears.

  I accelerate, driving as fast as I can as the Jeep thumps over potholes and culverts. Everyone braces against the ceiling and doors, but no one asks me to slow down. We have to catch up to Luke and Mo and get them out of Gap Mountain. Embers drop and brown haze shrouds the sky. If this isn’t hell, it’s a damn good imitation.

  “Watch out!” Drummer screams.

  A bear lumbers onto the road, shuffling and confused. I slam on my breaks, turn hard, and the Jeep slides for a second on two wheels. I glimpse Drummer, his chin tucked, his mouth gaping. Then the Jeep rights itself and halts with a jolt that throws us all forward, then back.

  The bear stands just a few inches from my grille, a small one, maybe a yearling. She rears and chuffs at the Jeep. I crack open my door to shoo her away just as she turns and runs back into the woods. I return to my seat, clutching my chest. Then I think to ask, “Has everyone got their seat belt on?” I hear belts clicking and Violet muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god.”

  I shift into first and keep driving. “Watch the sides of the roads in case Luke crashed the four-wheeler. I’ll watch the front.”

  My hands shake like mad as I shift into second gear. We cross an area the wildfire has passed through already and go silent. The landscape is black and charred. Small, industrious flames linger, eating up anything flammable. The road is covered with smoking branches and debris. I engage my four-wheel drive and steer the Wrangler around obstacles, sometimes driving off the road.

  “Is that a deer?” Violet asks.

  I hit the brake and we all stare at where she’s pointing. The fire swept through so fast that it turned the deer and her fawn to ash right where they were standing. They remind me of the Bible story about the woman who looks back and is turned into a pillar of salt, except these two look more like pillars of pepper.

  “If animals can’t make it out, how can the people?” Violet asks, her voice tremulous.

  Drummer reaches back to touch her, and I notice his eyes glimmering with tears. The last time I saw Drummer cry was when his dog got cancer. He refused to admit the dog was sick—because that’s Drummer, ignoring the ugly shit—until the day he found it dead on his laundry room floor. He called me to come take care of it, and when I got there, Drummer wailed like he was being murdered. I had no idea how to help him, so I offered to dig a grave and bury the dog, but that made him cry harder. Now, watching him touch Violet, I realize what I should have done: I should have held him.

  I try to calm everyone down. “The rescue workers will get the people out. Don’t worry.”

  Ahead is downtown Gap Mountain, and we still haven’t seen any sign of Mo and Luke. “Shit!” I cry. “There’s my dad!” I slam the brakes again, but I can’t hide my Firecracker-red Jeep Wrangler. Besides, it’s the only car on the road that’s not fire or police. Everyone else is gone or heading in the opposite direction.

  My dad, two blocks away, sprints toward us, wearing an N95 face mask.

  “Look, the post office is on fire!” Luke shouts.

  I peek over the wheel. Behind my dad, orange flames lap at the office’s wood siding like greedy tongues. A fire truck is on-site, and firefighters are trying to save it and the buildings around it. Embers must have started this fire, because the real blaze is still in the trees. The flaming dragon is now forty feet tall, miles wide, and, we later learn, traveling at three football fields a second with an ember cast of one mile.

  When my dad reaches my window, I roll it down, and smoke fills the cabin, making us cough. From her place on the floor of the Jeep, Matilda barks.

  “Why aren’t you heading to Bishop?” he asks fiercely.

  Tears fill my eyes. “Luke and Mo took the ATV to try to get to their houses. We can’t find them.”

  “Which road are they on?”

  “Sanders.”

  My dad nods and speaks to his deputies through his walkie-talkie. “We’ll find them,” he says to me. “You guys turn around and get outta here. Now!”

  “Dad, wait.” His veins are bulging and his hands shake with adrenaline. “Is everyone…okay?” He knows what I mean—are the citizens of Gap Mountain okay? Has anybody died?

  My dad grips the Jeep’s windowsill. “Too soon to tell.”

  I believe he knows more than he’s saying, and I’m terrified we’ve killed somebody. “Dad?”

  He slaps the car door. “Turn around. Get to Bishop. Text me when you’re safe.” And then he’s gone, running toward the blaze.

  God, he’s not safe. I grip the wheel. I can’t breathe, and suddenly I feel utterly lost.

  “Fuck, move over, Han.” Drummer drags me out of the seat and switches with me as I dissolve into panic. “Take deep breaths.” He slams the Wrangler into gear and whirls around, squealing the tires as he drives back toward Route 395.

  The blaze reaches Pine Street just as the first airplane full of pink fire retardant roars overhead. Bulldozers churn past my Jeep, heading toward the forest to knock down trees and create firebreaks. I send a mental cheer to Cal Fire, but this isn’t good news. It means our fire is massive and raging out of control. It means the cost of fighting it is skyrocketing before my eyes.

  Drummer takes a side road to the highway while I text Mo repeatedly, getting no answer.

  Violet checks her social accounts on her phone and starts yelling out what she sees. “The laundromat is gone,” she cries. “Stony Ridge is”—she chokes on her words—“it’s on fire, all of it!” Then her voice pitches higher. “Gap Mountain High School is burning.”

  “What?” Drummer yells.

  “The high school is on fire!”

  “This isn’t fucking happening,” I whisper. “This is going to kill Mo.” We know how much she loves that school. She was on the leadership committee, student council, and dance team and was president of the culinary club.

  Violet stares at her phone, her eyelids splayed wide, her mouth slack.

  “Hey, we don’t know what’s true yet,” I point out. “Go to a real news site.”

  “There’s the highway!” Drummer shouts. He jerks the Wrangler onto another shortcut and then rockets down an embankment and onto the shoulder of Route 395, almost slamming into a Nissan Pathfinder. The driver honks his horn and won’t let us in. The car behind him slows for us as Drummer pulls into traffic.

  Both lanes are moving in the same direction now. No one cares that the left side is northbound and the right side is southbound—everyone is heading south anyway. Rescue vehicles will have to use the shoulder. “It’s the fucking apocalypse,” says Drummer.

  Nixle alerts keep coming, and I read them out loud from the passenger seat. The last one makes the world slide out from under me:

  Gap Mountain and surrounding areas—Evacuate now.

  Fire 0% contained.

  Numerous structure fires in Stony Ridge neighborhood.

  Possible fatalities.

  My breath stalls and Violet collapses into
tears. The silence in the Jeep is like the eye of a storm. Drummer glances at me, and our past ricochets between us: running through sprinklers as kids, camping in the backyard, jumping on my ratty old trampoline, riding horses, swimming in the Gap—the memories swirl up and drift out the window. None of it matters anymore; our childhood just got squashed like Godzilla smashing Bambi. Possible fatalities. Have we killed people?

  “We’re going to hell,” Violet says, her teeth chattering.

  Suddenly, Drummer flips his head around, and his blue eyes round in terror. “Get out of the car! Get out!” he screams.

  We all look back. The wind has shifted again, and the wall of flames has reached the road. The sky is dark, almost black, as the fire bears down on us, chomping cars and exploding them just a mile or so back. Since traffic has all but stalled and the fire is moving faster than the cars on the highway, people flee their vehicles and run. They pass my Jeep, carrying children, animals, and boxes. One lady has a lamb in her arms.

  For one brief second, we’re frozen, and then we fling our doors open. Matilda bays like a wolf and follows as we leap out, all but Drummer. He slams his door shut and rebuckles his seat belt. “I’m going off-road,” he says. “If I can outrun the fire in the woods, I’ll meet you all up ahead.”

  “No!” I cry. “You won’t make it; you’ll get trapped in there! You’ll die!”

  “We need a vehicle, Han. Run, I’ll try to meet you up ahead.”

  “Don’t go!” I scream.

  He shakes his head, guns the engine, blasts out of the southbound lane, and disappears into the forest. The fire is traveling even faster between the trees than it is on the highway! The flames pass from limb to limb, and the embers shoot out and ignite spot fires that race ahead of their ravenous mother.

  My heart slams. The smoke and ash sting my eyes. Flaming firebrands fall from the sky and explode on the asphalt. The fire marches toward us like a terminator, flinging cars out of its path as if they’re toys. It wants us. It wants its creators.

  “Come on!” Violet shouts. She snatches my sleeve, and we sprint down the highway, dodging cars and slower people. Matilda gallops beside me, already panting in the heat.

  Toxic ash blankets our hair and skin, and we lift our shirts to cover our mouths. Violet and I are still wearing our bikinis under our clothes, but we are not the same girls who swam in the Gap hours ago. We are killers. Possible fatalities. God, it can’t be true.

  It’s a hundred degrees today, but on this black pavement with the blaze chasing us, it feels much hotter. My arthritic dog starts limping and whining softly. Her red hair is brilliant against the blackened sky, recalling the deep russet of her puppyhood. I pull on her collar. “Come on, girl!” Matilda wags her tail, a weak thump, and tries to walk faster. Her brown eyes are apologetic, as if she’s thinking: I’m sorry I got old.

  I dare a glance back and see the wildfire gaining. A man dives into a ditch as the voracious flames pass over him. “Holy shit!” I cry. Fear floods my brain. I glance at Matilda; she’s flagging.

  “We can’t outrun it!” Violet screams.

  “Yes we can!” I scoop Matilda into my arms, and somehow we run faster. I struggle beneath the weight of the dog, my terror cycling faster than my blood. The fire bears down on us, and a sob fills my throat. Is this how we’re going to die?

  7

  July 7

  6:55 p.m.

  Fire: 0% contained

  I quickly fall behind Violet, because Matilda weighs eighty-five pounds and I’m trying to run with her in my arms while wearing flip-flops. Violet glares at me. “Put the dog down, Hannah!”

  “What? No!”

  She whirls and grabs my arm, her fist a vice, her eyes like black stars. “You’re going to die if you don’t.”

  I pull back. “She’s my dog.”

  “She’s too heavy. You have to leave her.”

  “But I can’t, V. I can’t leave Matilda alone!” I shake my head.

  “Hannah!” she screams, tugging on me. “Put the damn dog down and come with me. I need you!” The flames reflect in her dark eyes.

  I heave a breath. “I can’t.”

  Violet gapes at me, stunned, maybe hurt, and then drops my arm and runs, leaving me behind.

  I set Matilda down, grab her collar, and try to encourage her. “Come, Mattie! Heel!” The approaching flames slow to lay waste to a minivan but then erupt again when they meet gasoline and the van explodes. I fall on top of Matilda, clutching my ears. She cries out when I land on her hips. “I’m sorry!” I pull her back onto her feet.

  Next to us, a horse trailer has stalled. The animals neigh and kick inside as the owner races to the back. “Move your dog,” he calls. “I’m gonna let ’em out.”

  I drag Matilda out of the way, my ears buzzing, the heat crinkling my skin. The man opens the trailer door, and four horses snap their safety ties and leap out. They gallop down the highway, skidding and whinnying and leaping over scattered belongings. One knocks a woman over, and people start screaming, warning others to watch out. Tears stripe the owner’s ash-covered face, and then he bolts, chasing them.

  Matilda licks my hand. “Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her leash and pulling. The wind gusts and embers strike us. The ashes are laden with chemicals, burned up cars and homes, photographs, plastic toys, and the bodies of animals and people. We’re breathing it in, absorbing it into our bodies, and a coughing fit envelops me.

  I pull hard on Matilda’s leash, forcing her to run. She rallies but she’s overheated, and her burst of speed doesn’t last long. We trot down the yellow centerline of the highway, not moving fast enough. I’m Dorothy, she’s Toto, and we just want to go home. Deep cries warble in her throat, and I imagine the arthritis in her hips is killing her on this hard pavement.

  As the fire gains on us, I try to pick her up again, but she struggles and I can’t hold a thrashing dog. Humans race past us, and most don’t give us a glance. It’s a stampede.

  We jog about a half mile before Matilda halts and plops down. She turns her huge brown eyes to mine and wags her tail as if she’s saying goodbye. “No,” I whisper, a lump balling in my throat. “Come on. You can do it.”

  I try to pull her up, but she won’t have it. She’s done. The fire is coming, and when it arrives, sheer terror will force me to abandon my dog. Sobs shake my body. I bury my nose in her fur, inhaling the familiar dog scent beneath the smoke. “I love you, Matilda.” She wags her tail and sinks her head into the crook of my neck.

  The fire roars closer, heating my flesh. My tears dry before they fall.

  Then the rumble of an aircraft’s motor overcomes the rushing blood between my ears. I glance up and spot a huge fat-bellied firefighting aircraft. I wipe my tears as it zooms lower. Dozens of people stop and look up.

  The plane flies to the edge of the inferno and dumps several tons of fire retardant on it. The bubble-gum-pink chemicals douse the nearest flames and coat the cars and road near it. Around me, people’s voices rise in a cheer.

  The fire roars and bites at the retardant but cannot cross over it. I sputter, gasping in amazement. The blaze’s southern march is stymied, and my heart soars. The firefighters bought us time. They saved my dog.

  I urge Matilda into a walk, and she lurches to her feet. After several yards, I spot a child’s red wagon in the back of someone’s abandoned pickup truck. I hoist it out, whisper a silent thank-you to its owner, and help Matilda into the wagon. Taking the handle, I pull her along and join the rest of the zombie herd on the long trek toward Bishop. The fire flickers behind us, trapped and angry, as its western edge enters the open woods and roars toward Yosemite National Park.

  The folks whose vehicles didn’t burn return to their cars, and the traffic starts moving again. We must look like refugees, half of us on wheels, the other half marching along the shoulder, carrying what we
can: kids, food, photos, and pets. Drivers with available space stop and offer rides to families with young children.

  A little blue pickup truck full of fishing and camping gear rolls up next to me. The driver leans out his window. “Need a lift?”

  I glance over to see a young guy with an unshaven jaw and a baseball hat. He’s in his mid-twenties and not anyone I recognize from Gap Mountain. He’s soaked with sweat from the heat, and a thin layer of ash has collected on the outside of his vehicle. His eyes shift toward my dog. “He doesn’t look comfortable.”

  “She,” I say automatically. Matilda’s paws are splayed wide, and her balance seems precarious in the toy wagon. I imagine dragging her all the way to Bishop and feel suddenly exhausted. My feet hurt, my throat is parched, and my adrenaline is leaking out of my toes. I peer into the stranger’s eyes. He looks safe enough. “Do you live in Gap Mountain?” I ask. “Are you evacuating?”

  “No, I live in Bishop. I was just coming home from a fishing trip when this fire started. Here, I can slide this cooler onto the floor and make room for you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  I help Matilda climb into the small cab. She flops onto the passenger seat with a loud sigh and won’t budge, so I end up sitting in the middle. The man tosses the red wagon into the truck bed and then slides into his seat and starts driving. The cab is cramped, and his leg is so close to mine, we’re almost touching. His eyes flit toward my bikini, which is visible through my sheer, sweat-soaked tank top, and then back to the road. I cross my arms, cheeks flaming.

  “I’m Justin,” he says, a smile curving his lips.

  “I’m Hannah. Thanks for picking us up.” I glance at his glove box, wondering if he has a gun. A hysterical giggle rises in my chest. I can see the headline now: GIRL MURDERED WHILE FLEEING WILDFIRE.