Bleeding Green

by James, Anne

  The hiker shook as if he had a bad case of Parkinson’s. “I …”

  “Shut the heck up, dude!” Brock yelled in a deep voice as he lowered his fist. “Go get your sorry self in the cab of the fire truck and stay there.”

  Flames that had just torn through the Florida vegetation slowed and flickered out when they reached the black zone the backfire had burnt.

  Both crews came together as the smoldering acres showed the sign of massive destruction.

  With exhausted steps, Laurel approached Brock.

  “Tired?” A rakish smile slid across her sooty face.

  He returned the smile. “A bit.” Folding his thick-muscled arms across the front of his chest, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “…‘bout killed that feller sittin’ in the truck, though.”

  She shook her head. “What was that guy’s problem? We had enough burn signs out for an army!”

  They both turned as Boyd walked up.

  Picking up a water bottle, Boyd took long swallows of water, draining it.

  Squinting his brown eyes, Brock said, “Boss, I could swear that beard of yours has more salt than pepper now than it did this morning!”

  A dry chuckle, that wasn’t a chuckle at all but more of a hoarse croak, erupted from Boyd’s throat. He shook his head as he looked at them. “This day racks right up there with some of the wackiest burns I’ve ever had!” He took his right glove off to stroke his mustache. “How’s our crazy hiker?”

  Brock’s voice was dry as the desert. “Our miracle man is flyin’ high on weed. I don’t think he knows where he is or what he is.”

  Boyd said, “Tell your crews to mop up 50 feet in.”

  Chapter 2

  The charred remains of the once lush semitropical vegetation looked like a smoky graveyard. Tendrils of smoke weaved throughout the acreage. Bare sticks poked up from the ashy gray ground.

  Laurel turned her back on the smoldering landscape and willed her aching feet to take her several yards into the unburned green vegetation. Sucking in deep breaths of fresh air, she noticed the sun getting low on the horizon. In the distance, the rooftops of a wealthy subdivision caught her gaze. A prescribed burn, with all the urban life, was a tough challenge. While some homeowners were grateful, she’d been yelled at by others as ashes dropped into their swimming pools.

  Turning back to the burned zone, she saw late-day sunlight flickering through the wispy smoke. The breeze had died down and the smoke columns had straightened up. She tugged off her sweat-drenched leather gloves, tucking them into the front pocket of her cargo pants. As she lifted the heavy helmet off her head, she dropped it on the ground and began stretching her neck, trying to relieve the tension. Matted damp, black curls covered her head. She rubbed the inside corners of her indigo eyes and looked at her crew.

  Exhaustion was taking all of them in its woozy grip. Placing the helmet back on her moist head, she strode toward the group. Her slight five-foot-eight frame displayed grace and athleticism through her confident, easy stride.

  “Hey, gang!” She reached on top of the fire truck and tugged a square red cooler down. “Gather round for a special brew.”

  The five weary firefighters grouped around her, some sinking to the ground, the first time that day they’d had a chance to rest.

  Laurel handed each member a frosty can of Lipton’s iced tea.

  Marie took her helmet off; her blond hair was still covered by an orange bandana. “Thanks, Laurel! This looks like a bit of heaven right now.” She lifted her can in a toast.

  Clinking his can to Marie’s, Brock said, “To our crew boss!”

  Laurel grinned. The soot on her face made her teeth appear even whiter than they were. She held her iced tea in the air. “To great teamwork!” Tilting her head back, she swallowed, feeling the glorious cold liquid.

  She studied her crew. They’d become a cohesive group. Working together. Trusting each other with their lives. She was always amazed at the way the toughest, brawniest men showed respect to a tiny slip of a woman. This was the world of firefighting. Deep respect toward your teammate—your life depended on each of the others, man or woman.

  Laurel leaned against the truck. “Mopping up time. Boyd wants all snags extinguished if they’re within 100 feet of the fire-line perimeter. If you can’t do this, then cut the snag down and pull it farther into the burned zone. Hopefully, this will stop some of the residual smoke.”

  “Lots of duff smoking,” Bill said, crunching his aluminum can in one hand. “Going to take a lot of water.”

  He always reminded her of a blond Viking. And he was right. The partially decomposed organic material—what they called duff—was deep all over this zone. “Let’s get on it,” she said. “Lots of smoldering stumps, as well.”

  Standing up straight, she motioned to Brock. “You drive. Marie, you take the hose.”

  Laurel looked at Bill. “You okay with a chainsaw?”

  Bill threw his shoulders back, a big grin spreading on his face. “I was raised on chainsaws! In fact my mama tells me, I was born with a saw in my hand!”

  Marie socked him in his right shoulder, laughing. “Right, Bill. You eat nails for breakfast, too!”

  Dividing into two groups, three with the fire truck and two on the E-Z-Go, they began to work the line.

  Brock inched the truck along as Marie walked with the Booster reel fire hose in her hands. They called this “bumping up”—a necessary practice on any fire.

  The air-conditioned cab offered a welcome respite from the heat. Brock enjoyed the reprieve, even as he kept a sharp gaze on Marie in the left side mirror, watching for her signals. He looked for telltale signs of smoke at the same time.

  Marie made a fist with her hand and Brock stopped the truck. Dragging the hose along the ashy ground, Marie hunched forward, straining with the effort.

  Seeing the tall pine that Marie was heading toward, Bill trotted with a fire rake in his left hand and grabbed the middle of the hose to help ease her burden. This also kept the hose off some of the hotter ground.

  Reaching the smoldering tree, Marie aimed the water at the highest section. Smoke hissed and sparks flew as water hit the tree. A red-hot ember fell on Marie’s neck.

  She throttled back on the nozzle of the hose and bent over, swiping at her neck, then opened the hose and again worked the smoldering tree.

  Laurel drove several hundred feet ahead in the E-Z Go. A 25-gallon water tank lay in the bed of the vehicle. Riding next to her was an AmeriCorps member from Louisiana. She loved the drawl of this young African-American. When Lawrence spoke, Laurel imagined the sweet fragrance of gardenias, hanging moss in huge live oak trees. Might be silly on her part, but just watching his easy mannerisms and hearing that drawl, made her body relax.

  Lawrence pointed to a fiery stump about twenty-five yards in.

  She turned the E-Z- Go and drove with caution around smoking cabbage palms, downed logs and deep holes of rooting feral hogs.

  When she stopped within a few feet of the flaming stump, Lawrence jumped out. He grabbed the small water hose and began walking with an easy stride, spraying a fine stream of water at the stump. He took another step forward and suddenly sank about three feet.

  Laurel jumped from the vehicle and ran toward him, but he just grinned at her and clawed back up to stable ground, filthy with white ash and black soot.

  “No worries, Ms. Laurel!”

  Grinning in return, Laurel thumped her right fist over her heart. “Oh, my word! You stepped in an …”

  “…ass hole!” he interrupted her.

  “Ash hole, Lawrence, ash hole!”

  “Yes, ma’am! There be many ass holes out here fightin’ this fire. Why, I think we all ought to be in the loony bin for doin’ this kinda work.” He winked with wicked delight. “We’re nothin’ but a bunch of semi-controlled pyromaniacs! At
least that’s what these fancy folks livin’ in their fine mansions think of us nutty rangers runnin’ round lightin’ fires, just so’s we kin put ‘em out.”

  “Maybe so. But by deliberately lighting this one, we just prevented a wildfire the next time lightning strikes this area! Come on, Lawrence! Let’s get a move on. I’ve something waiting for me at home that’s counting on dinner.”

  Lawrence rolled the hose up and hopped on the seat.

  “If you’re talking about that elephant dawg of yours, he must eat you outta house and home.”

  “Best alarm system I can have. Jackson’s a little on the skinny side at 180 pounds, though.” She glanced sideways at her companion, a half-smile on her face, as they bumped around obstacles.

  “That St. Bernard belongs in the zoo!” Lawrence said. “With the rhinos and hippos. Seems like he would fit in and all that.”

  Her laughter rang through the woods. Of all the rangers and AmeriCorps members she had worked with, Lawrence DeVille was one of her favorites. A graduate of The Citadel in Charleston, South Carolina, he could pull out the courtliest manners at the drop of a hat. Gallantry was his middle name. He also took care of Jackson when she was out of town, lavishing love and rough ‘n tumble play on the giant dog.

  The radio crackled with static and she braked to a stop.

  “Bill to Laurel.”

  “Go ahead, Bill.”

  “There’s an old pine about twenty feet in that’s smoking like crazy. Water’s not doing a thing. Sounds solid when I tap on it. Shall I take it down?”

  “Drop it. How does the rest of the line look?” she asked, turning the vehicle around and heading back toward the engine crew.

  “Everything else looks good. Smoke’s about out.”

  “Copy that, Bill. On my way to you.”

  The radio became quiet.

  Marie and Brock watched Bill as he strapped on the required chaps before he fired up the chainsaw. He gave them a salute and began the first cut in the tree.

  Just as Laurel and Lawrence pulled up to the fire engine, flames zoomed out of the cut Bill was making with the saw. Leaping backwards, he dropped the saw as the oxygen-happy flames curled out of the hole and licked up the side of the pine.

  Brock ran over to Bill, grasping his shoulder. “You okay, man?”

  Pale around the mouth, Bill licked his lips. “Geez! That was close!”

  Laurel walked up to them, assessing the situation. “OK, Bill?” At his nod, she turned to Brock. “Let’s take it down and pull it into the black zone.”

  Brock nodded. “Right. She’s not going to go out on her own.” He motioned to Marie, who had the hose nozzle ready and aiming at the flames. “Get some water in there,” he said, pointing to the flaming cut.

  As she soaked the hole with water, hissing steam and roiling smoke came from the tree, as if protesting this invasion in anger.

  Brock picked up the chainsaw and pulled the cord. The saw roared to life and he focused on the wedge that Bill had begun. He glanced at Marie and she stopped the stream of water. Then he walked around to the back of the tree and began cutting.

  The crew backed up as they watched him work. Quieter flames countered the bite of the saw on the bark—a duel of machine and fire. The machine won.

  Finally the mighty pine swayed and toppled over, landing with a loud whomp!

  The engine crew chained the smoking tree to the back of the truck and pulled it into the black zone.

  Boyd’s voice came over the radio. “Laurel, everything good on your line?”

  “Yes, we’ve just finished.”

  “Let’s meet at point A.”

  “Copy that, burn boss!”

  The twelve members met and slumped in various positions on the ground. Tired as they were, they had to debrief after the burn and they knew it.

  As burn boss, Boyd led the evaluation of the burn, each team member voicing a few thoughts on how the burn had gone.

  Wrapping up the debriefing, Boyd said, “See you at the shop!”

  The ranger shop was the headquarters at Timucuan State Park. The trucks would be fueled, tanked with water there, and burn pots filled with burn fuel. All the equipment had to be made ready for the next burn or in case of an emergency during the night before any crew member could go home.

  Chapter 3

  Crooking her left arm on the open window frame, the soft evening flow of air caressed Laurel’s arm. Steering the white Dodge Durango state pickup truck down the main park drive, an orchestra of insects filled the humid summer night. A song of glorious diversity floated on the Florida twilight.

  Laurel cocked her head to the side, leaning farther out the window. She could identify several different tree frog songs. In a scattering of long leaf pines the low raspy notes, tiki-tiki-tiki-tiki, of the pine woods tree frog stood out from the rest of the amphibians.

  A form appeared in the center of the road. She slowed the truck, squinting to get a better look in the gathering dusk. A bear—the distinct humped silhouette of the Florida black bear. A big head turned, studying the truck with alert interest.

  Laurel’s heart picked up a few beats. He was huge. Or she.

  She stopped the truck, staring at the healthy looking creature. Round head, a long brown muzzle, short rounded ears. Black, thick fur.

  The bear swung its massive head away from the truck and plodded forward. Not interested. Accustomed to seeing the occasional vehicle or human being, the magnificent mammal was not alarmed.

  Laurel leaned back in her seat admiring the moment. Not many people experienced such an unusual ride home from work. Living on a state park in a park residence, she relished how the unusual became more common for her. As she watched the bear disappear into the thick palmetto underbrush, she noted that the big, furry animal was heading in the direction of the seventy-five site campground.

  Attempting to suck in a deep breath of air to see if she could smell campfires and dinner cooking, she gave up. Her nostrils were tainted by the smoke from the burn. She reeked of smoke and burn fuel.

  If there was a problem from the bear in the campground, the assistant park manager would be the person on call—not her. Although once a ranger always a ranger, Laurel’s title was Park Services Specialist. She would not receive a call if there was a problem in the park that night.

  With barely a whisper of sound, the truck tires followed the sandy driveway to her concrete block home. The standard state-designated color of mirage gray was the exterior of the three-bedroom, two-bath residence. Reddish clay pots overflowing with red geraniums and blue lobelia flanked the three steps on the side porch. Any flower that wasn’t native to Florida was termed an exotic. Loving all flowers whether exotic or native was a passion. She hadn’t known that exotic was a bad word until she began working for the park service. As she had learned, a huge part of Park and Recreation’s mission was to restore the land to its original vegetation of the early 1500s. Therefore, all plants that were not from that century were termed invasive/exotics. Being conscientious, she kept all her non-native flowers in containers. Container gardening wasn’t so bad—easier on the back. She didn’t have to bend over so much.

  Before she opened the side door, she knew that Jackson was going to be just inches away, quivering with excitement at seeing his mistress.

  She held her right hand in front of her as she opened the door. Jackson’s enormous head pushed against her hand. She shivered as his large wet tongue licked her hand.

  “Move, Jackson!” Even as she ordered the giant dog, the tone of her voice reflected the huge smile on her face.

  As the wooden screen door slammed behind her, she knelt down, giving him free rein. She couldn’t possibly become dirtier anyway! Ending up on her back on the floor she convulsed with laughter as Jackson lowered half his weight on her, pinning her down. Covering her face and neck with rapid
licks, the tickling sensations caused her to twist and turn her head, seeking a reprieve.

  “Enough, you big oaf!” She pushed at him with her arms.

  Jackson seemed to interpret this as an encouraging sign to continue. His huge tail thumped back and forth between hitting the washing machine and the wall.

  Gasping for air, Laurel forced a sterner tone to her command, “Jackson, off!”

  In eager compliance, the big dog obeyed.

  Laurel struggled to her feet.

  Jackson perched on his hind haunches in the doorway from the laundry room to the kitchen, panting as if in enraptured ecstasy that his best friend had returned from a long journey.

  She began stripping out of her burn clothes and tossing them in the washing machine, hoping to prevent the smoky smell from permeating the house.

  Naked, she patted Jackson on the top of the head as she pushed by him heading toward the bathroom. A long soak in a hot bathtub full of Neutrogena bubbles would be a heavenly balm for her aching body.

  Living alone with Jackson for company was a panacea for her bruised soul. A catharsis that was healing the seeping wound of rejection, of being an outcast.

  She turned the hot water faucet on full blast. Her aching body craved the comfort this would bring to her sore joints. As the tub began to fill with bubbles, she padded on bare feet to the kitchen window, feeling the cool ceramic tiles. A tall pine forest carpeted with yellow, purple and white wildflowers was the private panorama that met her gaze. Yellow buttons, golden asters, liatris, mingled with wire grass in gay abandon. Not allowing the beautiful reverie to lull her senses until she forgot the running water, she turned the faucet off.

  Slipping into hot water, she reveled in the sensation of her scorching flesh. A nighttime bath was a daily reward for her.

  Closing her eyes, she sank down until the back of her neck rested against the top of the tub. Scenes from the day floated through her memory. As her muscles relaxed, tension seemed to seep from her body into the hot water—the reward from a long, hot day of labor.