Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns

by Rhonda Parrish

  Frankie flickered and his fire dimmed.

  Acetylene repeated her chant. Again. Again. Once for each overturned brazier. With each repetition, Frankie’s fire guttered as his brightness faded. With the last, his ladder collapsed and he fell back into the furnace room.

  His defiance and raging roars became a slow hiss; a whining keen as his form lost coherence. His afterlife had been pain, but it’d been all he’d had. Fire’s alive in a way. It needs to breathe. It can grow. Be nurtured. And it can die. Nothing remained of his flame body except a shimmering heat mirage, until that, too, was gone. Peace at last. Even if he hadn’t deserved it.

  “Goodbye, Frankie.”

  Despite Frankie’s death, the natural fires still burned. My uniform had taken the brunt of the damage, but I’d definitely need to replace my kit. First, I had to get out.

  Acetylene asked, “Midnight Man? You alive?”

  “Toasted, but not toast,” I called back.

  She sighed with relief. “You look terrible.”

  “I’ve been worse.”

  I hauled myself from the furnace room and walked Acetylene out of the now ruined crematorium. Fortunately for us, the door where Triple Tombstone had set his wards had burned up—we were free to leave, and wouldn’t have to answer questions from the Mort Cheval Fire Department.

  “What if he comes back?” Acetylene asked, fingering Frankie’s—now her—ring.

  “We’ll be here,” I said. “Midnight Man and Acetylene.”

  Outside, I saw no sign of Triple Tombstone’s body. Only blood in the grass. He’d lied about how many lives he had in the bank. No surprise there. I turned to Acetylene. “We have another fire to put out. Ready to join the Fight?”

  Breath of the Caldera

  Wendy Nikel

  “DRAGONS, HUH?”

  Years ago, when she’d first started fighting fires, Trish Banzier’s father had warned her that most crews had their own hazing traditions, but even after the two-hour video presentation, complete with “photographic evidence,” she still couldn’t believe anyone would actually fall for such a ridiculous story.

  The video ended and, as the lights went on, Banzier stared down the base manager for the West Yellowstone Smokejumpers, waiting for him to break into laughter and tell her it was all a joke so she could re-join her team. She hadn’t worked for five years on a hotshot crew and all spring on Yellowstone’s gruelling training regimen just to lose her nerve on the first real day at her dream job. Nothing—not even dragons—was going to take that from her.

  “You’re telling me, sir,” she said, looking around for a hidden camera or two-way mirror from which her new teammates might be watching and laughing at her initiation, “there are dragons living underground in the caldera, and that nearly half of the Yellowstone forest fires are caused by them wandering to the surface and . . . breathing fire? That the supervolcano is all just a cover for the existence of dragons?”

  “Afraid so, Banzier,” the manager said grimly. “They tend to emerge from their dens in the summertime, when it’s hot and dry. The rangers put up roadblocks and try to guide them back through the hydrothermal vents if they catch ’em quick enough, but you know how dragons are.”

  “Can’t say I do, sir.” Banzier crossed her arms.

  “They’re temperamental. Dangerous.” He leaned across the desk. “We couldn’t tell you until you were officially in, but the important thing for you smokejumpers is to treat it like any other fire. Parachute in, assess the situation, contain the blaze, and─most importantly─keep these valuable members of the park’s natural ecosystem secure and secret.”

  Banzier set her jaw. How long were they going to keep this prank going? No matter; she’d outlast them, just like she’d outlasted all the other recruits during training camp. They’d have to do a lot better than this if they wanted to psych her out. She touched the piece of half-melted metal in her pocket.

  “I won’t let you down,” she said.

  “Good.” The manager leaned back in his chair, unaware that the comment wasn’t for him. “Glad to see you’re taking this so well. Most folks wouldn’t, you know. No telling what might happen if word got out.”

  The siren went off, and the manager nodded grimly. “Time to get your first look at the park’s most endangered species.”

  BANZIER REFUSED TO mention the D-word.

  Not when she joined the seven other jumpers aboard the Dornier 228 and the pilot leaned over with a wink and shouted, “First real fire, eh?”

  Not when one of her teammates leaned in and asked if she’d gotten “the whole story” yet.

  And certainly not when the team leader, Coolidge, passed her a flat plate of silver like you might find on someone’s wedding registry.

  “What’s this for?”

  “They like shiny things,” Coolidge said. “It’s in case you need a distraction.”

  “Uh-huh.” She set it on the seat beside her and, to calm her nerves, triple-checked her chute. She wished they’d drop the stupid dragon gag—she had enough to worry about. She’d been fighting fires since she was eighteen and had jumped dozens of times, but that was just training. Now, she was an official smokejumper. She couldn’t afford to mess up.

  “Stay close this first jump.” Coolidge patted her shoulder. “We’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Unable to find her voice, Banzier nodded and ran her thumb over the melted badge, feeling the sharpness of its edge through her thick gloves.

  “What’ve you got there, Rookie?”

  Banzier tucked the badge into her pocket. “It was my dad’s.”

  Before Coolidge could respond, the spotters called for Banzier to jump, and she grabbed her gear—over one hundred pounds, wedged tightly into a pack she’d stitched herself—and took a deep breath. The spotter slapped her shoulder, and she jumped.

  Air whipped past her, already hazy and thick with smoke. This was her favourite part: the freefall, with the forest all around her, nothing man-made as far as the eye could see, save for the jet droning above. Just her and the clouds and miles and miles of vast, green wilderness.

  Her chute deployed flawlessly and she assessed the scene as she navigated the currents, keeping an eye on her teammates’ chutes. It was important to stay close, yet not so close that they’d risk becoming entangled. Red-orange flames licked the trunks of lodgepole pines, but the fire hadn’t spread far yet. There was still time to contain it.

  The ground approached, but as she prepared for the landing something moving near the fire’s head caught her eye.

  A gust of wind caught her chute and, distracted as she was, she didn’t pull it back under control in time. It veered sharply away from her teammates. She landed roughly in her tuck-and-roll, then tumbled down a small escarpment, closer to the fire than she ought to be, with not a single one of her teammates in sight.

  There was no time to chide herself for the error. On the ground, in the midst of the fire, every second counted. She struggled to her feet and, as she unclipped her chute, she reached into her suit to ensure her father’s badge was still there.

  A shadow fell upon her. Something massive towered over her, blocking the wind. She turned and let out a low curse.

  A dragon.

  An honest-to-goodness dragon that looked just like she’d seen in picture books as a child: scaly and long-necked and vicious. It had teeth that glowed like hot steel and claws that were each the size of a shovel. Smoke rose from its nostrils, and it stared at Banzier with milky eyes.

  No, not at her, she realized. At the badge.

  She tried to shove it back into her suit, but it was too late. The dragon roared and lunged toward her.

  Banzier ran. The team’s warnings hadn’t prepared her for this. Why hadn’t she listened? And what was she supposed to do now with this thing lumbering through the forest behind her? Where was her team?

  She stumbled, falling to the ground, and braced herself. Her suit would withstand two thousand degrees for four se
conds, but how hot was the dragon’s breath?

  It can’t end like this. Her heart sank with each rumble of the earth as the beast moved in closer, and she gripped the badge. It’d been foolish, she knew, to think it’d protect her when it hadn’t protected her father.

  Then she remembered: the hydrothermal vents.

  She rolled just in time. The dragon bellowed as its claws slashed the air where she’d just been. Banzier held the badge over her head and raced toward the nearest vent. She’d had to learn all the vents’ locations during training; now she knew why. Panting, she waved the badge in the smoke-tinged air. It glinted in the sunlight, and—when she was sure the monster was looking—she took careful aim, and then tossed it into the steaming crevice in the earth.

  The dragon dove after it, squeezing its massive body through the tiny crack like a mouse slipping beneath a door.

  Banzier fell to her knees.

  Her crew raced up behind her, whooping and hollering and offering to buy her beers.

  “Nice work, Rookie!”

  “Nerves of steel!”

  “Thought you’d be barbeque for sure!”

  “All right, folks,” Coolidge yelled, clapping her hands. “The rookie’s dealt with the source for us. Now, let’s take care of this fire before the wind picks up.”

  As the rest of the crew gathered their supplies and jogged off toward the fire line, Coolidge reached down to help Banzier to her feet. “Nice recovery, Rookie. You’d have made him proud.”

  Cilantro

  Annie Neugebauer

  “COME ON. A little poison never hurt anyone.” My elbow bites into my husband’s ribs. We’ve realized I forgot to rinse the cilantro before adding it.

  The kitchen smells like fresh, meaty garlic and watery tomato blood—sweet and earthy beneath our warm fluorescents. A tiny moth flutters and bumps along their plastic casing.

  “Ha. Ha.” Moments later, his comeback: “Except all the insects killed by it.” A real zinger, my man.

  “Well, yeah. If they didn’t use pesticide on their pests, we wouldn’t have anything to make our picante with.”

  It’s a low blow. A small dose of salt in an old wound already going green around the edges. Jason is a freelance consultant to farmers and gardeners who want to make their practices more organic and environmentally buzz-word-able. He tells already-struggling growers, like my dad, that to sell their produce for twice as much they need to invest in four times the labour to yield half the product, and that unless they can switch to all indoor production there aren’t any guarantees their entire crops won’t be wiped out on a bad year. It’s how we met—when my dad told Jason to fuck off and I felt bad for him, asking him to come inside for a decidedly non-organic cup of coffee.

  It’s also why most of the farmers who usually give us free food are fresh out of cilantro this year. I bought this oversized bunch at the big chain store Jason calls Volde-Mart. His cause strikes me as perfectly noble; it’s his use of it to further his own personal gain at the expense of others that has worn me down over the years.

  He stares into the bowl of red salsa tinged with green and white, his nose wrinkling. He knows exactly what chemical concoctions I’ve forgotten to rinse off.

  “What kind of bugs eat cilantro anyway?” I ask. My family never grew it, and like many girls raised on a farm, I learned as little as possible about the family business and got the hell out of there when I turned eighteen. I pluck our biggest wooden spoon from the canister and stir.

  “Cutworms, mostly. Other things too.”

  My eyes are still watery from the onion. I sniff, nudging Jason out of my way. When we were first married he’d rave over the meals I made for him. He overlooked my hodunk roots as I overlooked his hoity-toity ideals, like a farm-crossed Romeo and Juliet. Now he whines about his clients seeing me at the store, complains that I don’t cook enough, and never thanks me even when I do.

  What I want to say is, “If you’re going to be a little bitch you can make your own dinner.” What I actually say is, “If you’re that worried about it, you don’t have to eat it.”

  But he will, I know. Jason’s nothing if he’s not an opportunist. Animals like us can never resist a free meal.

  I’VE ALWAYS QUIETLY resented that Jason convinced me to quit my job in advertising to help him build his business. In retrospect I wonder if that’s actually why he married me—not love, but utility. I had connections with farmers all across the state thanks to my dad, and I knew how to market.

  But today it’s actually lucky that I work from home, because Jason is so sick he didn’t go to work. Maybe not rinsing the cilantro really was a mistake. We did put a lot in this time—too much. It’s made our picante taste sweet with that soapy tang, so I add an extra jalapeño to balance the flavours, making it spicy enough to make our noses run. Could he really be that sensitive to residual pesticides? Maybe it’s all in his head. But as I peek into the bedroom to check on him, it doesn’t seem like it’s in his head.

  Our blackout curtains are closed tight against the noon sun that infuses the rest of the house with summer glow. He’s stacked extra pillows over the seam to seal out that fine ray down the middle. In the forced twilight of the room all I can see of him is a pale, pupal lump under our down comforter. It’s pulled all the way up over his head, probably because the room’s so cold.

  I hover in the doorway, leaning in while holding onto the frame, peering through the dimness, listening for breathing. I pad across the carpet and sit on the edge of the bed, picking out the dark cave of his face under the edge of the blankets. He’s facing me, eyes squeezed shut with a fierceness that conveys pain. I put my hand on his forehead to feel his skin, expecting a fever.

  His eyes flash open, wide and almost panicked.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. His skin feels cool and clammy. I raise my voice to a low murmur. “How do you feel?”

  “Like shit.” His voice comes out hoarse and wet at the same time. “Why is it so bright in here?”

  I look at the tiny strip of light coming in over the top of the curtain rod. “Do you have a headache?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Maybe you’re working on a migraine.” He’s probably about to have his first aura. I stand, wiping my hand on my sweats, and toss an extra blanket over the curtain rod. “Can I get you something? Tea? Water?”

  “I’d love some more picante,” he slurs.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if it’s what made you sick?”

  “Then it’s your fault, isn’t it? God damn, you’re not my mom. Besides, you’re not sick.”

  My face slips blank at his words, chest twisting. It actually makes him more mad if I don’t act hurt, so in a pleasant voice I ask, “What else sounds good?”

  He sighs in annoyed defeat. “A salad is fine.”

  “Sure.”

  I almost skip washing the lettuce, but then I wash it twice out of guilt.

  He eats the whole bowl in five minutes, huddled under the blankets, not bothering with the dressing, and goes back to sleep, pulling the bedding over his head.

  The first seed of real unease blooms in my chest.

  WHETHER OUT OF guilt, vindictiveness, or simple curiosity, I eat two more big bowls of the picante. It’s soapy-spiced but still delicious. I don’t get sick. Whatever Jason has, it’s not from that.

  AT BEDTIME I look in on him again. He’s snoring so softly I can barely hear it, his body exposed to the cool air. I almost climb into bed next to him, but I pause. He looks . . . bloated. A tiny shiver fights its way up my spine, and I try to stifle it. I tell myself it is absolutely not from revulsion.

  But his skin does look soft and doughy, almost creased into puffy rolls at each joint. It wouldn’t hurt for him to start sleeping with a shirt on.

  Jesus, I’m terrible. So he hasn’t been hitting the gym as much as he used to. Neither have I. Plus, he’s sick. Everyone looks terrible when they’re sick.

  Maybe I shouldn’t
disturb him. He needs the sleep.

  I quietly refill the glass of water on his nightstand and leave. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight. If he’s not feeling better in the morning, I’ll call a doctor.

  A SOFT SOUND wakes me. The box under the TV says 2:23 a.m. The house is dark and still and silent. I wait, listening.

  Something indiscernible. The faintest shuffling, followed by a muted thump.

  “Jason,” I breathe, folding back the throw and hurrying down the hall. I round the corner and stop in the bedroom doorway. The blankets cover him in a lumpy mass. Has he added more?

  “Jason?”

  He doesn’t move.

  I edge into the room. “Are you okay? I thought I heard something.”

  When he still doesn’t answer, I sit on the corner of the bed. “Babe?”

  I pull the top of the comforter down. Empty. He’s not in the bed.

  “Jason?” I stand and pace down the hall, checking the bathroom and office. He’s not there. I go back through the living room and peer into the kitchen and dining room. Those, too, are empty. A strangeness slinks through me, as if I know something my mind hasn’t acknowledged yet.

  I ease down the hallway and into our bedroom, flicking on the lamp that sits on the small wooden desk near the door. It casts an orange glow across the tan carpet.

  “Jason?”

  My abs tighten involuntarily. It’s the feeling I get when I know someone’s about to scare me, but Jason’s way too sick to jump out at me for laughs. Still, I say too loudly, “If you’re in here, answer me.”

  There’s no answer, but I know he’s here.

  I hem forward and toss the blankets back into place, as if he could be tucked under the fold. Then I circle the foot of the bed and look in the corner, behind the small recliner we’ve wedged there. With a slimy swallow, I sink to my knees and lift the bed skirt, peering into the darkness beneath. The emptiness startles me.