Page 11 of Up In Flames

The first thing I do, even before I enter the cab, is to lower the seat to the floor. Otherwise, I’ll have to spend the entire drive doubled over since my head exceeds ceiling height. The truck seats were re-engineered just for me, to give me space.

The other firemen are my crew, my family. We take care of each other. I don’t expect anything different, but every time I sink the chair to the floor, I still get a warm feeling of belonging.

“This is bad,” Stan mutters once we’re on the road, sirens flaring. In this part of the Blue Ridge Mountains, people make way for us, but a good portion of the route turns into single-lane driving with no shoulder and a sharp drop for anyone foolish enough to get too close to the guardrails. We get stuck behind some oldster going twenty-five. The chief gives a few light taps on the horn, but honestly, there’s nowhere for the guy to go.

Stan and I both hold our breaths, except for the occasional muttered, “Come on.” By the time there’s a shoulder for the man to slip onto to let us pass, we’re both so tense that the air feels like sharp glass. The chief steps on the gas, and we go flying, just in time to enter the straightaway. Five more miles, and we take the exit at an inappropriate speed.

“Yo, Stan. Remember you’re not driving your sports car,” Martin mutters over the speaker. He’s steering in the back.

“Wish I was. Sorry, Martin.”

Suddenly, a wall of fire springs up in front of us. We turn to the right to drive parallel, the heat from outside fighting against the air-conditioning in the cab. Martin must be boiling his shorts, exposed as he is.

I look at the GPS. “Another half mile, Martin,” I say, pressing the button so he can hear me. “You okay?”

“Peachy. Nice sauna back here.”

Yeah, I bet.

We arrive at what looks like a party of trucks. Half are lined up on the right, half on the left, all of them spraying water to create a firebreak, while the guys not on hoses are buzzing down the brush.

“We’re taking Harleysville’s line. They’re out of water,” the chief says, tapping his horn to let the Harleysville guys know to move out for us.

I’ve never heard of Harleysville, but they must be close by to have gotten here so quickly.

Doesn’t matter. Their truck, already running, backs up into the makeshift road that’s been created between the trees and slips past us with hardly an inch to spare. The driver nods but doesn’t wave, all his concentration on moving in a straight line.

As soon as he’s gone, we slip into his place. They’ve done a good job at wetting the area, plus, a lot of the forest is still green from last month’s storms. But the fire is hot. Really hot. And moving fast, right at us.

As we pour out of the vehicle, I run for the hose and begin unspooling it. Since I’m so big, and my strength matches my size, I don’t need any help. That leaves everyone else to start chopping at the trees and cleaning more shrubbery in the hopes of increasing the break. One spark is all it will take to light timber that hasn’t been wetted enough.

Sweat drips down my skin. The heat swells up around me in visible ripples. It’s a lot like standing in the middle of Hell and deciding to lift weights and do some cardio. I belatedly pull the mask up over my mouth after smoke sears into my lungs, before I stride toward the tallest flames. They outreach me by several feet, a virtual wall of death not ten yards from where we stand.

“What the hell you doing, Sam?” Martin shouts. He grabs the back of my jacket and tries to pull me back, but I’m a lot stronger than he is. I shake him off.

“Look.”

When he sees where I’m pointing, he blanches. The fire’s found a path between two towering trees that practically hug together about thirty feet off the ground. The bare branches provide a canopy of kindling bones that scrape the sky. Not a single strand of foliage grows between them to indicate life. Dry wood. The worst. And the trees are big. Flames lick up the bark, spreading like an anti-gravitational spill upward.

Bad. Real bad.

Marvin backpedals, calling for help.

I aim the hose high and let the water pour, bracing my feet wide to accommodate the recoil, but I already know that the flames are going to move faster than the water. The air sizzles and smokes, but the fire’s ravenous.

Martin and Joe have another hose. They’re trying to help out, but it’s like spitting into a volcano. When those trees fall, they’re set to fall our way, which means we either disengage and move out—on both lines, since the trees are so tall—or we somehow prevent the trees from falling in our direction.

Without time for rational thought, I call for Stanley and Paul. Throwing them the hose, I leap into the air and catch at one of the lowest branches of a neighboring tree with the tips of my fingers. Pulling myself up, I jump to the trunk of the dry tree and begin to scale up the bark, using whatever knots I can find as a kind of ladder. I need to get it down before it crashes on my friends. And I need it to come down in the other direction—back into the inferno.

Ignoring the calls from my team, I continue upward, coughing as I go. I weigh nearly three hundred pounds. If I can get up high enough, I should be able to bend the dead wood in the direction I need it to fall. A quick glance down shows the guys understand. They’re working in concert to try to bring down the other dead tree in the same direction I’ll be pulling mine. Guy LaRoche is using the ladder from one of the trucks. He’s got metal chains attached to him, though the angle of ascent is going to be all wrong. But the truck is already repositioning, spilling water from the reserve tank for when the sparks fly on impact.

Assuming we get the trees down in the right direction.

I keep climbing, and when the tree begins to scream beneath my boots and the scent of melting plastic permeates even my mask, I know the fire has caught the dry timber and is now licking up at my heels. Taking my axe, I hack a few quick cuts into the bark before I curl inward. Without waiting for common sense to derail me or fear to overtake me, I leap out and up. All my muscles shake from the effort of defying gravity, but I don’t need them to work for long.

But I’m still not in place when I catch a handhold at the spot where the trunk bifurcates.

Once more.