by Tom Abrahams
“That’s all great information,” Lane interrupted. “We do have a link to those necessities on our website and app. But what I asked you was to provide the signs that a family needs to be looking for so that they know when it’s time to evacuate.”
“Again,” said Robles, “that is a personal decision. I can tell you that when we, and our partner agencies, make the decision to order an evacuation, we’ve done so because the time is right. We don’t wait too long. We don’t jump the gun. It’s a thoughtful process.”
Lane Turner’s eyes narrowed. He pointed his pen at the camera. “So are you saying that residents shouldn’t evacuate until you order it?”
Robles exhaled audibly. He rubbed his chin. “No, I’m not saying that. What I am saying is that residents need to pay attention. If they feel as though they need to evacuate, they don’t need to wait for us. They know their home, their neighborhood, the best routes to take when leaving. But I can’t tell them to leave. Too many circumstances go into what is a personal decision, up until the point we order people to leave their homes. It’s emotional, it’s—”
Lane Turner pointed the pen at the lens again. “What if people get trapped?”
“The first thing you want to do is stay calm,” Robles said. “If you are in a car, park it as far away from vegetation as possible.”
The half of the screen showing the anchor dissolved to aerial video of the flames tearing through a collection of hillside homes, torching them, and leaving nothing but char in their wake. A graphic at the top of the screen indicated the image was live. The firefighters had dubbed it the Mount Chapel Fire, named after the trail where it was first spotted.
As the aerial view shifted and widened, it was apparent the fire was spreading. At the top of the screen was an oblong parking lot that sat perched at the end, and beneath, a snaking road that traveled east and west, then looped south and back to the lot. The road resembled a wavy moustache and the lot an open mouth with the upper lip curled like singer Billy Idol’s. In the middle of the lot was a collection of buildings still standing, but immediately threatened by encroaching flames.
South of the lot, and parallel to the end of the road, was a series of small, narrow buildings. Barker thought they might be trailers. Flames were licking at them, beginning to burn them.
Before Oscar Robles could answer Lane Turner’s question about being trapped, the anchor interrupted and apologized. The aerial images stayed on the screen, but Robles’s face was replaced with Turner’s. The anchor was taking notes as he looked off camera, presumably at a monitor on the news set.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Oscar, but I’m told what we are watching on the screen next to me is the Mount Chapel Fire. It’s one of sixteen confirmed fires from San Luis Obispo to Cuba Vista. Most, as we’ve reported, are concentrated between the Angeles National Forest and Cleveland National Forest.”
The aerial image widened more, giving a more expansive view of the devastation. Where there weren’t lines or pockets of fire, there was thick smoke drifting upward, obscuring clear views of the ground below.
“What we are seeing here with the Mount Chapel Fire is the impending destruction of an iconic Los Angeles landmark. If the camera could please zoom in again. Give us the previous depth of field.”
Whoever was operating the helicopter-mounted steady cam obliged the anchor’s request and zoomed into the curvy mustache road and the oblong parking lot. Heavy wafts of smoke drifted across the image.
“That building there is the City of Los Angeles Central Communications Facility. You can see the orange tile roofs, and what may be difficult to make out is the destroyed tower at the base of those buildings. It’s also known as the Mount Lee Communications Facility Site. It supports all of the cell and radio traffic for LA Police and Fire.”
The helicopter swung around the side of the parking lot and the buildings again, and the tall red and white tower came into view. The camera zoomed in closer, and it was now clear there were fire crews there working to protect the facility.
Becca nestled closer. The firefighters appeared as though they might be trapped. Then Barker noticed a large red and white helicopter sitting at the edge of the parking lot. He hadn’t noticed it before because of the smoke that drifted into and out of the frame. The chopper appeared to be an emergency escape for the four firefighters dousing the communications center with some sort of red spray.
“That, of course, is critical for our first responders,” said the anchor, “but what I want to draw to your attention and, certainly it’s not as critical as the tower there, but beneath it on the hillside is the Hollywood sign. As you can likely see, it is catching fire live, right here, on the air. It’s difficult to see it from this vantage point, but those large white letters perched magnificently on that hillside are burning.”
Barker narrowed his focus on the television screen. Becca tightened her grip. He reciprocated the grip and rubbed his thumb across the top of hers to reassure her he was staying. But he had to get a closer look, however infinitesimally closer, at the screen on the wall, its sixty inches a portal into the terror unfolding outside and all around them.
The anchor was correct; the Hollywood sign was burning. The helicopter circled around and moved farther away from the burning hillside. As it did, the sign came into view. It was like something on the Warner Brothers lot or from the Universal Studios tour he’d taken as a kid with his mom and dad. The forty-five-foot-tall letters were engulfed, burning from the bottom up. Only the Y hadn’t caught yet, for some odd reason, but it was only a matter of time. Black tendrils of smoke plied their way skyward across the three-hundred-and-fifty-foot length of the lettering.
It had stood there since 1923, originally spelling out Hollywoodland, and had held its spot in the Santa Monica Mountains for more than a century now. It stood watch over Hollywood itself from its home on Mount Lee. It was both famous and infamous. It was the site of Peg Entwistle’s 1932 suicide. The struggling actress, successful in New York, had become disenchanted at her lack of success. She used a workman’s ladder to climb to the top of the H and then jumped to her death. Hollywood legend had it that the day after her suicide, she’d received a letter offering her the lead in a play at the Beverly Hills Playhouse. Now the sign was smoldering and turning to ash like the dreams of so many who’d come to California seeking bright lights.
Barker had no way of knowing the legend of the sign. He just knew it made for a great selfie backdrop. The parlor was silent aside from the drone of the news anchor’s description of the live pictures they could decipher for themselves.
Then Gem returned with a red-haired woman replete with freckles and bearing a commanding presence. She was full-figured, dressed in black pants and a silver silk top. Her large hands were clasped in front of her. But her face was too steely and her gaze too intense to signal prayer.
“All right,” the woman said. “I need all of you to go to your rooms and pack bags. We’re leaving the house.”
“What?” asked the tall blonde. “Now?”
“Yes,” said the woman. She looked at Barker and skipped the pleasantries. “Who are you?”
“Barker Mayfield,” he said. “I’m visiting Becca.”
The woman smirked. “That’s obvious.” Her eyes shifted to Becca and narrowed. “Miss Stephens?”
Becca sat up straight, inched away from Barker, and put her hands in her lap. She whispered to Barker, “That’s Mrs. Zagrecki.”
Barker stood and crossed the room with his hand extended. He smiled and respectfully approached Zagrecki.
The tension in the woman’s face relaxed. Her eyes softened, and she took his hand, her grip as tight as any man’s, and she shook vigorously. “I’m Melinda Zagrecki,” she said. “We don’t typically allow men in our house without occasion.”
Barker let go of her hand. “I didn’t plan on coming in,” he said. “It was only because of what’s going on outside. Please don’t be upset with Becca.”
Zag
recki’s smirk curled into a smile. “She’s not in trouble. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’ll need help getting this house ready for us to evacuate. I’ve got a list of things we need to do downstairs. The girls and I will handle upstairs. You can’t go there.”
Barker wiped his hands on his pants, realizing his palms were sweaty. He nodded. “No problem. Happy to help.”
“Good,” she said. “Girls, stay calm. Work together. No panic. We’ll be fine. Just do as I ask of you. I have a plan.”
Zagrecki returned her hands to prayer position in front of her and drew them to her face. She scanned the room and sighed. “All right,” she finally said, “let’s get going. We’ve got a lot of work to do and not much time to do it.”
CHAPTER 11
Friday, October 17, 2025
Angeles National Forest
Loretta was breathless. Her lungs burned, not from smoke but from exhaustion. Her throat was thick with the knot of emotion. Her mouth tasted like charcoal, dry, ashy, full of grit. The bottoms of her raw feet were bleeding. She was dry of tears but congested from having sobbed for most of the last two hours.
The smoke was thin in a clearing where she sat cross-legged amongst the scrub and dirt. She picked a splinter from the pad underneath her big toe and then pinched the injured spot, thumbing away the bloom of blood that leached from the wound.
She found four more, focusing on the nearly invisible slivers buried underneath her skin. She picked and picked, hyper focused on the shards, until she’d pinched or dug them out from her foot. When she was finished, she held the last of the splinters in her palm and stared at it blankly. Finally, she blew it from her hand and blinked into focus the world around her.
In the distance, and in all directions, was the smoke from the wildfires that had chased her to this temporary oasis. She couldn’t stay here long, but from this spot she could see approaching flames with enough distance to make another run for it. She squeezed her eyes shut and lay back onto a patch of weeds that had found their perch in the sandy soil of the forest. Her eyes stung from the combination of smoke, sweat, and tears that had irritated them as she’d worked her way from one trouble spot to the next in search of help.
She hadn’t yet found any. Her husband wasn’t going to be rescued. He’d sacrificed himself for her. She’d let him do it. Selfishly, she had let him give his life in the hope she could save hers.
She imagined the love of her life burning to death, the flames and smoke overwhelming him and consuming him. Her chest tightened, and her stomach lurched. She rolled onto her side and retched. It was nothing but bile, and the taste of it caused her to gag again.
She was at once nauseous and ravenous. And she was thirsty. So thirsty. She tried to think of the last time she’d had anything to drink. The night before? When she’d taken a swig from a hydration-tracking water bottle to wash down her Loestrin pill. She touched her abdomen at her navel and shuddered. Another, deeper wave of profound sadness swelled in her gut.
They’d put off children, thinking they’d have time. Their life was too good, and they were consciously selfish enough to not want children. They’d agreed to establish their careers first, travel, and enjoy each other without the responsibility of another completely dependent life.
That was the plan. Only recently had the pangs of maternal instinct begun to jab at her when she saw strollers, playgrounds, and nursing mothers swaddling their newborns as they sat under umbrellas at street-side cafes, sipping their yerba mate tea.
Now there was no plan. There was no tomorrow. She clawed at her shirt, gripping the fabric in her sore, swollen fingers. The thought sapped her energy, zapped her will. Maybe she should lay back and close her eyes. It was so tempting; the thought of letting the smoke and flames overwhelm her. She could be with her Sam again. He might not have even crossed the gates yet. They could do it together. He could carry her over the threshold like the day they were married. That image sent a shot of warmth into her chest, and for a split second she thought she could feel him next to her, his touch on her body, his scent filling her nose. It was masculine. Clean but with a hint of musk. She could hear his voice.
“Move,” he whispered. “Get up and move.”
Her eyes misted, and she curled into a ball, sobbing, considering the loss of her soul mate. He was the best man she’d ever known: kind, compassionate, smart, loving, funny, and ultimately selfless. A wave of guilt washed over her, supplanting the nausea and the thirst.
She shouldn’t have left him. She should have died in his arms. Their story should have ended on the same page. She cursed herself for having left. It was something for which she would never forgive herself. After what felt like hours but was likely minutes, Loretta calmed herself. She couldn’t let her emotions kill her now. The only thing worse than leaving her husband to die was letting him die in vain. She had to get to safety. She had to find help, wherever it might be.
Loretta wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and rolled onto her knees. She pushed herself to her feet, losing her balance for an instant, and steadied herself. She took as deep a breath as her lungs would allow and bent over at her waist. She gripped her knees and inhaled again, drawing snot into her mouth. Then she spit repeatedly onto the ground, trying to cleanse the taste of bile and ash. She really needed water.
She stood up straight, light-headed but aware of her surroundings, and searched the tree line for gaps in the rising columns of smoke. About two hundred yards ahead of her, she could see a clear line of trees. They were green and healthy. They stood tall against the slightest hint of a blue sky. She scanned to the left and the right. The gap in the flames and smoke was the length of a football field. It was a wide enough gap to make a break for it. From her spot in the clearing, she had no way of knowing if the virgin path would lead back up toward danger or descend to safety. It didn’t matter. Not really. It was something.
She sucked a breath into her aching lungs and leaned into her first step, almost falling forward. She planted one stinging foot in front of the other, acutely aware of the pricks of pain from the splinter wounds. It was her focus on the pain that propelled her forward, toward the tree line.
As she reached the first of the pines, leaving the chaparral-pocked clearing behind, wisps of smoke drifted past her, carried on the breeze that whistled through the trees. She was walking uphill now, using the thin trunks of the pines and firs for balance, straining her thighs.
The tension in her muscles told her the climb was steep. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and listen to her surroundings. Aside from the rustle of the branches swaying above her, it was remarkably silent. Her path was absent the crackle and snap of flames. The scent of smoke was there, although faint. She’d walked farther than she’d thought. There was no clearing behind her, only trees sloping away from her.
It was darker in the forest now. She craned her neck to peek through the canopy above. Hints of bright blue leaked through the dense foliage. Beneath her feet, brown needles and dead leaves crunched as she resumed her slow uphill trek.
She couldn’t remember their elevation but did recall Sam telling her they were camping at the point where the high desert transitioned to more of an alpine terrain. As she breathed in thinner air and felt the dizziness of light-headedness and the beginnings of dehydration, she was clearly nowhere near where she needed to be.
The canopy overhead shook, and then her ears pricked at an unfamiliar sound in the sky. It was a distant whir at first, then a hum. It was getting louder. She stopped again, leaning on the twisted, rough amber trunk of a redwood, and searched the jagged spaces between branches.
The hum became a whipping sound, then then a thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
A helicopter!
Without thinking about the absurdity of it, she called out in desperation, her voice cracked and barely audible.
“Help,” she tried to rasp. “Please help.”
The noise that squeaked from her mouth was alien to her
. It didn’t sound human, let alone like her own voice.
She waved her hands over her head, nearly losing her balance again, and in the small spaces of blue sky, the helicopter flew past her. It looked like the reflection of a jet plane on waves, resembling a mirage.
She wondered first if it was real. It was. It had to be.
Right?
It had to be.
She wondered if getting back to the clearing was smarter than continuing her trek. From the open space, a chopper could see her. It could land or drop a basket and take her to safety. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been walking. Ten minutes? Thirty? Two hours?
She couldn’t be sure of anything. Turning back to the path as of yet untraveled, she wondered if that was the better route. If she found another clearing ahead in the higher elevations, she’d be even more visible. The helicopters would be more likely to see her, wouldn’t they?
She resolved to keep moving in the same direction, to go against convention and find a higher perch from which to seek rescue. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled, feeling the air escape her lungs.
Loretta imagined her husband talking to her, encouraging her. He was with her as she climbed higher and higher, maneuvering her way amongst the trees.
“You can do this,” she could hear him saying to her. “It’s easy. One step and the next. You can do this.”
The knot returned to her throat, aching now. In her mind, she answered him, her voice clear and strong.
“I’m doing this for us,” she said. “For you. I can’t let you die for nothing.”
In her imaginary conversation, the one she knew wasn’t real as she pushed past the prick and sting of pine needles poking at her wounded feet, she could see him listening to her with a knowing smile on his face.
It was the same look he’d given her when she’d insisted on taking dystopian fiction as both warning and primer. He was supportive, if not somewhat suspect. It was the smile of a loving husband indulging his wife’s peccadilloes. They were important to her, so they became important to him.
