by Shawn Grady
He slid his bandana over his nose and mouth, untied his boots from his web gear, and shoved his feet inside them. Pulling on his gloves, he squinted through the smoke. About fifty feet away stood the triangular supports of the radio tower.
Silas tromped through scattered bushes. There his feet met a dirt four-by-four trail. A white Ford truck with a black grill sat unoccupied.
Silas checked the cab.
Nothing.
He scanned the area. “Hello? Can you hear me?”
He tried over his radio.
Still no reply.
A fierce wind descended on the hilltop. Ash and dirt peppered his face. Silas tucked his head and strapped his goggles in place.
Warren’s voice came scratchy across the radio. “Redding Jumper Crew bump out to a safety zone. The fire has jumped our line. Repeat, the fire has jumped our line.”
Heat itched at his neck. Smoke from the edge swirled and ignited in the air, twisting into a fire whirl. The cyclone furnace set bushes aglow. Choking air pressed down.
Silas scuttled to the tower and braced a hand on a steel support member, coughing and hacking. Light-headed, he wiped ash from his goggles, unable to tell if the ground swirled or just the smoke. He stumbled and twisted to his stomach. He scooped a hole in the dirt and stuck his mouth deep in it to suck cooler, cleaner air.
He had to get oxygen.
Just beyond the tower stood a large metal control box.
Silas army-crawled toward it and scrambled over rocks. He collided with the box and shuffled around to the leeward side.
The wind lessened.
He slumped in the sheltered pocket, gasping. His vision cleared. His mind focused.
And there beside him in the dirt lay a man, facedown and unmoving.
CHAPTER
03
Silas knelt by the tech and tilted open his airway. A slow breath met his cheek. His right leg twisted at unnatural angles.
Silas looked up at their sheltered side of the control box. A Jeep trail ran parallel to them and across to the far side, where it curved toward the encroaching fire. A quick glance back at the truck showed flames licking at its sheet metal roof and snaking along the underbelly.
With three sides of the hilltop engulfed by fire, Silas squatted low and surveyed his last escape option. He worked his way forward in the smoke, feeling with his boots for the far edge of the cliff. Several road widths away, the ground cut off, diving toward a sprawling forest far below. A couple spot fires punked around in the ground cover.
Silas swallowed against a parched throat. Maybe half a hose length down, the smoke thinned and a ledge jutted out from the granite hillside, a platform big enough for two.
He duck-walked back to the radio tech and dropped his fireline pack. The man’s chest moved with shallow respirations. Silas threaded out a hundred-foot length of quarter-inch rope from an unzipped pouch. He scurried to the nearest leg of the radio tower, wrapped the rope around it four times, and tied it off. He pulled the rope back to the control box and fought for breath, resisting the urge to retch.
An explosion erupted. A fireball mushroomed above the truck.
No time to waste.
Mucus ran from his nostrils, soaking into his bandana. His lungs tightened. He wrapped the thin rope around the spine of a spare carabiner that he clipped around the belt and shoulder straps of his web gear.
This was about as down and dirty as rappelling got. No eight plate. No rack. The only source of friction to keep him from plummeting down that cliff came from a thin rope wrapped around a thinner piece of composite metal.
Silas crouched by the tech. No time for splints. He took the man’s arms and pulled up his torso. From one knee, Silas tucked his shoulder toward the man and worked him into a victim carry. He shifted to a crouch, pushed with his glutes, and rose with the dead weight on top of him, thighs burning. He spread his legs for balance and clipped his last carabiner between his pack harness and the man’s belt.
The rope in front of him pulled taut, anchored to a radio tower leg no longer visible. Silas belayed with one hand, keeping the other on the tech’s legs.
Hot wind blew against his face. Brilliant flame lengths shot over the control box, rearing like a wild horse. Silas fed the rope through the carabiner until they reached the cliff edge. A heat wave hit the front of him, cooking his fingers through the gloves and stinging his ears. He leaned over the precipice and took one look down the gaping draw.
He pushed off the edge and sailed down the cliff, rope zipping through his gloves, burning his palms.
Silas fought to slow the descent. He angled up hard on the rope. It twisted and sucked his hand into the carabiner. They bounced to a halt. Silas shouted in pain. His fingers twisted at contorted angles, bearing the weight of them both.
The ledge still lay a few stories below. The figure-eight knot that marked the end of the rope dangled by Silas’s feet. They didn’t have enough to reach.
Silas winced and grunted. He pulled on the rope to relieve the excruciating confinement of his trapped hand. It gave marginal respite. He blew out a pained breath. His shoulder carrying the tech felt numb. They swayed, the rope creaking.
He had to get the weight off his hand.
He reached back to his pack and pulled from it a length of thinner rope. Holding the remaining end of descent rope between his legs, he used his free hand to tie a Prusik knot onto it with the thinner rope, leaving a dangling stirrup for his boot. With some difficulty, he worked the ball of his foot in and pushed up, immediately relieving the pressure on his hand.
Silas huffed in relief. He worked his hand free and the tangled rope let loose, dropping them a foot lower. The tech listed sideways. Silas grabbed him and wrapped his other leg around the rope for stability.
Now to just get down.
The fire swirled overhead. Increasing smoke rose from beneath. Silas twisted around to get a view of the hill below. Ground cover in the once-serene tree stands now erupted in a coalescing flame front. The bushes would soon ladder up the smaller trees to the evergreen crowns.
Out of the frying pan . . . His shoulder killed. He couldn’t hold them on this rope for much longer.
Where were Peña and Tran?
Silas reached for his radio, tucking his chin to bring his chest pack closer to his mouth. The tech slipped again. Silas jerked to catch him.
The smoke below churned black. Heavier fuels. Thicker trees. More heat to come.
They dangled on a spit, the hillside drawing heat like a chimney.
That ledge lay too far below. If he alone dropped, he would likely break his legs or back but might still survive. But that wouldn’t matter if the fire overtook him. If the tech dropped while unconscious, it would kill him. There was no way Silas could climb back up with the weight of them both. Besides, the atmosphere up top was untenable.
An orange glow flashed in the smoke below.
His attention turned to a recessed section in the mountainside at the height they dangled. To a body-sized chamber carved in the granite.
The temperature heightened. Fire wicked upward, and the skin on his calves tingled. He glanced again at the hollow.
A tomb to die in.
Using his Prusik-supported foot, he articulated his body to swing the rope. In slow pendulum arcs, he swung closer to the cliff wall. Silas wrapped his arm over the tech and tightened a one-handed grip on the rope. He reached out with his other hand for the edge of the rock recess. The swinging motion stalled, and his extended fingers slipped over pebbled sand at the edge of the opening. They swung out and away. Silas pumped at the far end of the pendulum swing, driving feetfirst this time. He sailed sideways with the tech into the crevice and spread his legs, wedging them from top to bottom. He unclipped his carabiner from the man and dumped him onto the back of the stony surface. Silas’s boot tips slipped. He pushed off on the man and swung away.
The smoke chugged harder, blackening the air. Ovenlike temperatures cooked all around him. Ti
ngling turned to stinging.
Silas swung toward the opening. Lacking momentum, only his feet reached the rock. He pushed off hard, arcing backward. At the far end of his swing the smoke engulfed him and the hillside disappeared.
The inertia shifted.
One more chance.
He sailed from the smoke and brought his body horizontal. The rope hit the rock face. He released his grip and landed with a thud inside the hollow.
CHAPTER
04
Lightning flashed on the horizon.
The screen door groaned. Mental note. Another fix-it for Elle to add to her list of home projects. She thought that renting a house near the smokejumper base in Redmond, Oregon, would be better for them than their small apartment down in Bend. The out-of-state owner had said Elle would be responsible for little upkeep. That was a gross understatement. She didn’t have the time to worry about the creaking board on the porch, the chipping paint on the eaves, etc., etc. Some things would have to stay as they were until . . . Well, some things would just have to stay the way they were.
Wedging between the screen door and front door, Elle fished out her keys. Lightning lit the sliver of sky between the horizon and the clouds. The valley lay cloaked beneath an ominous charcoal hood.
With the humidity and temperatures, those strikes would likely smolder through the evening. By midmorning tomorrow, new smokes would rise up across southeastern Oregon. By afternoon she’d be flying guys over new fires.
Before Elle got the key in the lock, the latch clicked and the door eased open. A flickering television lit the living room. Cecelia glared at Elle from behind her large red-rimmed glasses. She glanced at the wall clock, gave the door a slight push, and turned inside. “There’s a plate of pork chops and green beans in the fridge.” She snatched up a wineglass from the coffee table and walked through the hall leading to the kitchen.
The fluorescent kitchen light blinked on, stark and white. Elle glanced up the staircase toward Madison’s room and set her shoulder bag down on the dining table. Cecelia stood by the sink, downing the last swallow of red wine from her glass. A bottle sat on the countertop, cork protruding, the wine level more than halfway down. Chateau Lafite Rothschild. The ’82. Cece and Mark’s most expensive wedding present.
Fury blended with pity in Elle’s gut. How could she? How responsible was that? Elle’s little girl lay asleep upstairs, and there Cecelia was, well on her way to getting drunk. Elle had extended her tolerance far beyond that for any normal baby-sitter.
When Cecelia’s smokejumper husband died last year, Elle had fully expected the transition to be difficult for the woman. Mark had been a good man, and his death was a great loss for the Redmond base. Knowing Cecelia to be far from home and steeped in debt, Elle had considered it to be the least she could do to invite her to stay with them. No rent required. Take the time she needed.
But there Cecelia stood with no regard for Maddie’s safety, drinking a wedding-present wine worth thousands of dollars.
It was as though Cecelia wanted to make it seem that money wasn’t an object for her. That she didn’t need to stay with Elle because she couldn’t afford a place of her own. She wasn’t a charity case. And apparently she didn’t need to earn her keep by watching Madison while Elle was off flying at unpredictable hours. Cecelia wanted to pretend she was doing the favor. She was altruistically stepping in to watch Elle’s child.
Elle wasn’t going to overthink it. Who knew what was going through Cece’s mind? “What time did she go to bed?”
Cecelia stared at the cream-colored window drapes above the sink. “Maddie?”
Elle scowled, but she fought the urge to be sarcastic.
Cecelia leaned on the sink. “ ’Bout an hour ago.”
Dishes sat unwashed in the sink. “You get the chance to clean up after dinner?”
“Couldn’t find a dish towel.”
Elle exhaled. “Maddie do her chores?”
“What chores?”
“You know I always have her make her bed and pick up her room.”
“Not according to her.”
“It takes ten minutes. Did you even check?”
“What do you want me to be?” Cecelia turned toward Elle. “A detective? You want me to interrogate your six-year-old?”
“She’s five.”
“Whatever.”
Elle shook her head. “No. Not whatever. This is what I’m talking about, Cece. I trust you with her. I’ve opened my house to you—”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I could find a place anytime I—”
“Then why don’t you?” Elle flushed hot. What would she do without her? Who would watch Maddie? Inattentive adult supervision was better than none at all. Wasn’t it?
Cecelia tightened her cheeks, then separated her lips. She walked to the bottle of wine and swiped it from the counter.
Elle steadied her breathing. “You could have sold that bottle and paid some of your bills—or helped pay for someone to watch Maddie for the next four months. I’ve been patient. I’ve been nonjudgmental. I wanted to give you room since Mark died. You think things haven’t been hard for me?”
Cecelia stared at her, only anger in her eyes.
Elle swallowed. “You blame me, don’t you? Because I flew him out that day. You think it’s my fault.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where? You can’t drive in your condition.”
“I’m going for a walk.” Cecelia ambled down the hall, balancing herself off the wall.
The screen door squeaked and slammed.
Elle turned in disgust. Crumbs and dust littered the floor. Her shoulders sank. She’d clean up in the morning. She clicked off the television and climbed the stairs. An amber nightlight illumined the upstairs hallway by the bath. It reflected off a glass-framed photo of herself at four years old, in her father’s arms, his old Cessna parked behind them, the familiar N288 marked on the tail. She touched the edge with her fingertips and walked to Madison’s doorway.
Maddie lay sprawled sideways across her bed, wearing her pink fairy pajamas, one sock off. Her wooden dollhouse sat on the circular rug near the foot of her bed, the doll family tucked in for the night. Scattered throughout her room were stuffed animals all covered by some type of blanket—many with dish towels, others with pillowcases or handkerchiefs. From the looks of it, Madison had put them all to bed and then herself.
Elle tiptoed in, avoiding the floorboards she knew to creak. She stroked Madison’s straight brown hair, lifted her back to the pillow, and covered her with the comforter. She spoke to her softly and kissed her good-night.
Lightning flashed outside the room window. Elle drew the curtain aside and stared into the blackness.
Thunder drummed in the distance.
She pulled the hair tie from her braided ponytail, brought the braid around her shoulder, and unwove it, watching cloud-to-cloud flashes of electricity.
What was she going to do tomorrow?
The past two years hadn’t given Elle much time to make friends in Oregon, not with out-of-state doctor visits every month and the unpredictable hours she kept during fire season. Work and making a home for Madison took all her energy and time. Cecelia’s unreliability drove home for Elle just how alone they really were. There was no one she could call to watch Maddie on such short notice.
She certainly couldn’t trust Cecelia to care for her. Not the way things were right now. Cece had her own issues that she needed to work through.
No. Tomorrow would have to be a field trip. Go to work with Mom day. With zero sick hours left in Elle’s bank, she’d have to find someone to go to the airbase and watch Madison while Elle was in the sky.
It could work.
For the day after that she had already secured leave-without-pay to make Maddie’s next appointment at the children’s hospital in Oakland. Another specialist who she’d give her daughter’s long and mysterious medical history to. She was beginning to lose hope that modern medicine coul
d ever offer a solution. Elle drew the curtain and leaned over to kiss Maddie.
“We’ll make it, baby. Don’t worry.” Thunder boomed. “Each day has enough trouble of its own.”
CHAPTER
05
Do I get to fly in the airplane with you?”
“Not this time, sweetie.”
Madison untied the braid in her doll’s hair.
Elle glanced back from the driver’s seat. “Maddie. Don’t do that. You just asked me to braid that for you.”
“Rose doesn’t need it now.”
Elle’s sunglasses jiggled by the gearshift. “Why did she need it back at the house, then?”
“That’s when she thought she was going to fly a plane.”
Elle smiled. “Oh. Is that what girls do when they’re going to fly a plane?”
“Yep.”
“Why is that?”
“So the wind doesn’t blow it all in their faces. Then they couldn’t see and might hit a bird.”
“Ah. They might hit a bird.”
“I saw lots of them yesterday.”
“Where? At playgroup?”
“Uh-huh. They were on the picnic tables.”
“Oh. What do you think they were doing there?”
“They were just standing around, like me.”
Elle slowed to a four-way intersection with a stoplight hanging from a wire. Across the street a cow chewed cud by a fence. The light flicked green.
“Were you all by yourself, Maddie?”
“I always am.”
“What do you mean, baby? You have friends who play with you. What about Stacy?”
“She’s too scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Of my shakes.”
Elle swallowed, saw a turnout, and pulled off the road. She set the brake and shifted in her seat. Madison sat unfazed and even-keel.
“Maddie, a lot of people, a lot of kids, suffer seizures. It doesn’t make you scary or weird or anything like that. Okay?”
Madison gave a reassuring smile for her mother. “I know that. But it’s okay, Mommy. You don’t have to worry.”
