by Hunt, James
“Mom,” Nancy said, calling to her mother after she was gone. “Mom!”
Shock took hold of her system, and Nancy wasn’t sure how long she stood there before she actually moved. But as she stared down into the face of her father, his eyes barely open as he lay motionless on the cot, she knew she couldn’t leave him. She didn’t have it in her.
Nancy adjusted her grip on the poles and then lifted her end, pulling it off the bed, but then she stopped, realizing how easily her father could fall off. She needed to strap him down.
“I’m going to be right back, Dad,” Nancy said, a surprising strength in her voice. “I promise.”
Nancy sprinted down the hallway, heading toward the garage in hopes of finding more twine, or rope, or bungee cords, anything that she could use to tie down her father.
But before she made it to the garage, the sight of the fires outside caused her to stop.
Flames danced up trees, consuming them in one fiery breath as they steamrolled toward the house. Seeing the fires now, Nancy didn’t understand how she could escape, but she had already made a promise, and she wasn’t going to be like her mother and leave.
Nancy sprinted into the garage, which was like the inside of an oven. She found a pair of bungee cords and then sprinted back to her father, the fires growing closer.
Sweating and coughing from the smoke starting to creep in through the windows, Nancy quickly wrapped the bungee cords around her father, and then once he was secure, moved to the head of the gurney. She readied herself and then dragged her father off the bed.
The bottom of the gurney thudded loudly as it landed hard on the carpet, and while the gurney rocked to the left and right, Nancy managed to keep her father upright. She dragged her dad down the hall, the smoke choking her lungs as the flames reached the house.
Nancy’s muscles burned as she drove her feet into the ground, pulling her father to the back doors. When she finally made it outside, the air lightened a little, and she took a few raspy breaths, but the fires were spreading faster.
Once Nancy reached the dirt, it was harder for her to drag the gurney. But even with her hands aching and her lungs feeling like they were on fire, she never let go of the gurney.
Nancy pushed past what she believed her body was capable of, and she started to gain some ground between herself and the flames. She just had to get to the river. That was all.
But when Nancy reached her first incline, she only made it halfway before her knees buckled and both her and her father collapsed to the ground.
Nancy coughed and hacked, and when she grabbed the gurney’s poles with shaking hands, she couldn’t move it anymore. No matter how hard she tried.
Exhausted, Nancy crawled next to her father, crying, and took his hand. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Harry Simmons could barely breathe, and his skin looked more translucent and pale from the light of the fires. But he used what strength remained of him to squeeze his daughter’s hand and speak his final words. “Go,” Harry said. “It’s okay.”
Nancy shook her head, the tears rolling down in streams as they collected at her jawline and dripped from her face. “No. I won’t.”
“If you don’t go, then you’ll die,” Harry said. “Let me save my little girl.”
Nancy bunched her face up in grief and then rested her head on her father’s chest. She held him and squeezed him, not wanting to let go. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too,” Harry said. “Now go. Please.”
Nancy lifted her head and then stood, still crying. The fires were closer, and it wouldn’t be long before they caught up to her.
It took all of her strength to take that first step away from her father, and then she faced forward and didn’t look back as she ran toward the river—alone.
MOST OF THE pain had faded, though a dull ache still lingered in Harry Simmon's body. It only hurt when he spoke, or tried to move, or took a breath too deep.
A part of Harry knew he was dying, and another part clung to the hope that a miracle would save his life. But the longer he stayed in the Riker home with his wife and daughter on either side of him, listening to their whispers, he knew that he was going to die.
It was a difficult concept for him to wrap his mind around. The cold clutches that gripped his body, whom in his delirious state, seemed like the Grim Reaper himself pulling him into the afterlife.
Harry didn’t blame Margaret for leaving. At the time, if he had had the strength, he would have told both of them to go. He was too tired and exhausted for his wife’s actions to cause any physical pain, but there was a sensation of loss.
A piece of him had broken off and drifted away, out of sight and out of reach. Harry wasn’t sure exactly what had left him, but he knew it was important. Because the moment it was gone, he no longer cared whether he lived or died. He just wanted the pain to stop.
Harry’s heart had swelled so large and proud when Nancy had tried to pull him free. But he saw what she could not.
Harry had been in the banking business long enough to know when to cut ties with a bad investment. And that’s what he was at the moment. He was too much of a liability to pawn off on his daughter, and he’d be damned if he was the reason his daughter died.
The simple truth was she could live, but only if she left him. Harry was glad she had finally listened.
The fires were hot, and for the first time since he got shot, Harry felt warm. What little fluids remained in him pushed through his pores as he sweated on the gurney.
Most of his vision was gone, but Harry saw enough to know that the world was on fire around him. Confusion between the pain and loss of blood had triggered old memories to resurface, images of his life flashing before his eyes.
But as the fires increased, Harry wasn’t sure if he was still alive, or if he had already been cast to hell.
If it was hell, the final destination didn’t surprise Harry. He knew he had done enough bad deeds during his lifetime that his afterlife would be a hot one. Too many deals with the devil where he didn’t worry about the consequences of his actions.
Harry always used to tell himself that he could worry about all of those things later, but it was like sweeping dust under a rug. Eventually, all of the dust finally piled up and left a noticeable hump.
Harry had charged too many debts to his morality, and now it was finally time to pay the ultimate premium.
Three years ago, Harry had lost his father. Cancer. It was quick, thankfully, but Harry remembered sitting at his father’s bedside before he had gone catatonic. The man had been a titan of business and had forged the banking empire Harry had inherited and done his best to grow. By the time Arnold Simmons became ill, he had long since been retired. Harry had learned much from his father, and no lesson was so important as his final one.
“It doesn’t matter,” Arnold Simmons said.
“What?” Harry asked.
“What happens in this life,” Arnold answered. “People make such a big fuss about so many things. They worry about what people think, or what people might say, or do, or blah blah blah.” He coughed hard, bucking forward, and then landed hard on his pillow.
Harry wasn’t sure what his father was trying to explain. “Do you need anything, Dad?”
“I need you to listen,” Arnold said, casting a stern glare at his only son. “I’ve done terrible things. Things you don’t know about. But I did what was necessary to build what you have. And you must do what is necessary to ensure that you keep moving forward.”
Harry still struggled to follow along. “Dad, what are you talking about? Why are you telling me all of this?”
“I’m telling you because I’m knocking on death’s door,” Arnold answered. “I’m telling you because so many people have regrets about their life, but I don’t because I did things my way. I hurt people. I screwed people over. I broke the law.” He leaned up from his pillow with a very strained effort to get closer to Harry. “But I won. And that w
as all that matters. That’s what I want you to remember. You only regret when you lose.”
Arnold collapsed onto his pillow and then broke into another fit of coughing that had forced Harry to call a nurse. A week later, Arnold Simmons was dead.
It was the last full conversation Harry’d had with his father, and he hadn’t thought about that moment until right now.
Harry figured he was thinking about the past because his future was about to end. But Harry didn’t share the same outlook as his father about the choices he had made.
Because Harry regretted much of what he had done. He wished he hadn’t worked so much. He wished he hadn’t ruined so many lives. Because what was it all for? Money? Power? Neither of those things could save him now.
The fires drew nearer, and to Harry, it felt that even the ground had caught fire. The flames were all-consuming, and the first bits of heat bubbled his flesh, and it was here where the pain intensified.
The numbness and cloudy fatigue that had plagued Harry since his gunshot vanished, replaced by the intensity of a thousand sunburns rippling across his body. The scent of burned flesh flooded his nose, but his sense of smell didn’t last very long, and the last images Harry had of the place where he had hurt so many people was nothing but blinding fire.
And then he was dead.
“KEEP GOING!” Ben shouted between heavy breaths as he brought up the rear of their group. “Just keep going straight!”
Everyone was moving as quickly as they could, but the fires were catching up. The smoke had made it incredibly difficult to breathe, and Ben knew if they didn’t reach the river soon then, they would pass out from smoke inhalation.
But so far, everyone was keeping pace, even Susan, who waddled as quickly as her pregnant belly would allow.
Margaret had appeared by his side, moving quickly, but Ben didn’t see Nancy. He glanced behind him, finding nothing but the fires chasing him, and wondered what happened to the woman’s daughter.
Margaret had ditched her shoes, running barefoot, catching up to Liz, where she remained as they all continued their journey toward the river.
Ben kept a watchful eye on everyone, but the farther they sprinted through the incredibly hot forest, the slower they moved. And Ben felt his strength and concentration starting to waver. “C’mon,” Ben said, gritting his teeth and pushing through the pain and fatigue.
Now wasn’t the time to lose it. Ben was so close to pulling his family out of this, and after so much pain and sacrifice, he refused to come up short this close to the finish line.
Liz was up ahead, clutching Tommy in her arms, glancing back to check on Margaret and Ben, making sure neither had fallen behind, and each time she checked, her eyes grew wider as she saw the flames grow closer and more intense around them.
Ben had noticed the shift in intensity as well. The fire was gaining ground, picking up more steam and power as it consumed more and more resources. And it would continue to grow and spread like a virus until there was no more fuel left to burn. And that wouldn’t happen until it reached the river.
Ben knew he shouldn’t look back. He knew it would only cause more concern for himself, but as the heat grew stronger, he couldn’t help himself, so he turned.
The forest had seemingly disappeared, replaced by an ocean of flames that swirled and danced. Ben had been fighting fires for fifteen years, and during that time, he had never seen anything like the blaze behind him.
Fire was an absolute, consuming everything and anything it came into contact with. It showed no prejudice. It didn’t ask for permission, it simply took what it wanted, and left nothing but black and gray ash in its wake, leaving people to pick up the pieces of their lives and what remained.
But as Ben stared into the flames, a figure emerged. At first, he thought it was some demon that had materialized from the depths of hell, the flames acting as a portal to the underworld. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw no demon.
It was Nancy.
The girl appeared through the smoke and flames with frizzled and signed hair, sooty cheeks, and bloodshot eyes. Her clothes were dirtied and stained with sweat, and she coughed and hacked as she sprinted up next to Ben.
She said nothing as she sprinted past him up to Liz and then continued until Ben could no longer see her.
The girl was moving as though something evil was chasing her, and Ben glanced behind him one last time to check and ensure that no more demons were following him. Though with the fire raging, he wasn’t quite sure that was true.
Ben faced forward again, noting the widening gap between himself and Liz. He tried to double down on his efforts to move quicker, but his body refused to acknowledge the commands. He was gassed, running on fumes, and barely able to keep himself upright.
An explosion to Ben’s left sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body and momentarily broke through the clouded fog of his fatigue.
At first, he thought the terrorists had somehow managed to emerge from the flames to fire at him, but he knew that wasn’t possible. They were only men, and all men burned.
Another explosion happened closer, and Ben watched as one of the tree trunks exploded in a fiery burst of embers and charred wood.
The rising temperatures were cooking the trees and causing them to burst. Ben had seen this happen before during forest fires. The random explosions were dangerous because they weaponized the trees. The blast could fire off a wooden shard like a bullet.
The explosions continued, the random pops turning the forest into a minefield, and Ben pulled Connor tighter in his arms, doing his best to shield his son from the bulk of the danger, offering his flesh as armor around Connor.
Between the explosions, the smoke, and the heat, Ben knew he was falling behind. The fires had intensified, and the wall of flames he remembered outrunning now surrounded him, and his path ahead was blocked.
Ben skidded to a stop when another blast triggered the collapse of several trees. The trunks hit the earth with a heavy thud, a burst of flames and embers rising into the night sky, like a shower of sparks.
Ben glanced to his left, then to his right, and found nothing but more walls of flames around him. He was boxed in.
“Dad?” Connor lifted his head from Ben’s shoulder. He shivered from fear, his eyes rheumy.
“It’s okay,” Ben answered, coughing through his reply.
With nowhere else for them to go, Ben stopped turning. The fires had trapped them, and the flames were drawing closer.
It wouldn’t be long now until their flesh bubbled and then blackened, and their blood boiled. Ben had studied the effects of being burned alive. He knew what was coming.
The pain was intense and overwhelming, and it would last until your heart turned to liquid in your chest and scrambled the brains inside your skull. It was a terrible way to die.
“Daddy?” Connor was crying now, sobbing into his shoulder. But the fires were so loud that Ben could hardly hear it. Connor convulsed against Ben’s body, terrified of their fate.
“It’s okay,” Ben answered falsely. “We’re going to be—”
The bags. The thought penetrated the chaos of the moment, and Ben remembered the fire tent that he had swiped from the station before he left. He still had it on him in his go-bag.
Ben quickly crouched down and set Connor on the ground. “Keep close to me!” Ben said.
Connor dutifully latched onto his father’s leg while Ben opened the bag. The temperature had gotten so hot that some of the bag had melted away, but the fire tent was still in one piece, and Ben quickly removed it.
Ben had gone through training on how to use the tent, and he quickly fumbled his fingers over the zipper and ripped off the cover.
The word “tent” loosely described the fireproof device. It was more of a metallic cover that you pulled over your body.
“Lay flat on the ground!” Ben shouted. “On your stomach, hurry!”
Connor dutifully obeyed, and once he was in position, Ben laid himself over C
onnor, and then pulled the silver tarp over the top of them, using his arms and legs to pin down the tarp.
“Just hang on and keep your head down!” Ben screamed.
The device was only meant for one person, but Connor was still small enough to fit inside without too much annoyance.
When Ben had gone through the training to use the fire pod, he remembered how claustrophobic it had been.
“Daddy, I’m scared!” Connor screamed above the steady crackle of the fires, and Ben did his best to calm his son’s worries.
“It’s okay, Connor!” Ben yelled. “Just hang on! It’ll be over soon!”
But Ben knew that was a lie. He knew the fires would rage and burn, and they could get stuck in this small cocoon for hours. It all depended on how quickly the fires subsided, and if the cocoon would hold.
Forest fires could cause wind gusts of sixty miles per hour, and Ben knew that keeping the fire shawl over them was the most crucial aspect.
Most fire shelter's failures were due to human error. With the amount of chaos that surrounded someone stuck on the ground with a fire burning around them, roaring like a freight train with heat and wind so intense it was like you were in the middle of a firestorm, some people believed it was better to try to outrun the fire.
But once you were trapped, there was no escape. All you could do was pull the shelter over your body, pin it down, and hold on for dear life.
Both Ben and Connor grew slick with sweat as the temperature inside the pod grew hotter. It was like they were under a burning desert sun at high noon, baking in the heat. And the hotter it became, the less faith Ben had that the material would hold.
He had heard horror stories of firefighters being cooked alive in these things. The labs that tested the equipment said they could withstand thousands of degrees, but no one knew how hot a dry forest truly burned. There were no controls in the wild, no limits to be set.
Still, Ben held on. He would hold on for as long as he had the strength.