by Tom Abrahams
“Pacific Palisades?” he huffed, working to keep pace with the indefatigable Gilda.
“Yep,” she said.
The sweat on her back was creating a vague trace of the gun in her waistband. He wondered if anyone else could see it. She pumped her arms, her stride long and powerful.
“Is it a house?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said, punching each word between measured breaths. “Not anymore.”
“Care to explain?”
Gilda slowed, perhaps sensing that Danny was struggling. She checked behind them. Claudia and Arthur were fifteen yards back but still following. She locked eyes with Danny in a way that made him both excited and uncomfortable.
“What?” he asked, snapping the intensity of the moment.
“You ask a lot of questions,” she said. “It’s cute.”
Danny’s pulse skipped a quickened beat. He didn’t respond, though he hadn’t realized he’d asked many questions at all.
She blinked, perhaps sensing his discomfort, and turned her attention to the sidewalk ahead. “We’re headed to a place that not many people know about. Even if everything around us burns, we’ll be safe.”
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Self-defense,” she said. “Protection. Times like this when the infrastructure is challenged.”
Danny didn’t respond.
“Why?” she asked. “Don’t you think you might need protection someday? Maybe today?”
“I can protect myself,” he said self-consciously.
Gilda chortled. “Really?”
Just when he was beginning to think she might be attractive, she ruined it with something as condescending as emasculation. Danny pulled his shoulders back. She had no idea what he could do when pushed to his limits. Truth be told, neither did he.
“Martial arts,” he said.
“Really? What type?”
He wasn’t sure if the question was an effort to show interest or to challenge whether he was telling the truth. Danny knew he shouldn’t care whether she believed him or not, but he did. He always cared what people thought of him.
“Shotokan,” he said. “I was a green belt.”
“So you didn’t get that far.”
“Not formally,” he said. “I wasn’t much for kata, that was the issue. But I was naturally gifted at kumite. I could sense the opponent’s movements before he executed them.”
“What’s kata and kumite?”
“Kata is like a series of memorized movements,” he explained. “It’s part dance, part meditation. Done well, it’s beautiful.”
“And kumite?”
“That’s fighting.”
“Huh,” she said. “Didn’t take you for a fighter.”
Danny started to say something defensive, something obnoxious, something he couldn’t take back. He stopped himself. There was no point. Besides, she was right. He hadn’t fought anyone since he was a kid, so who knew if his pubescent skills would translate to adulthood, if the rust would brush off easily or serve to paralyze him when the moment struck.
He stared off to his left. Ahead of them, and east of the highway, were tree-and rock-lined bluffs that held enviable perches overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Behind them, the first wisps of smoke were beginning to filter skyward. At first Danny couldn’t tell if the smoke was a mirage, the drifting remnants of fire farther inland, or if it was evidence of something much closer.
He tapped Gilda on her shoulder with the back of his hand. She glanced at him with a furrowed brow, which relaxed once she saw where he was pointing. She stopped moving for the first time and stared intently at the bluff closest to them.
At that moment, a burst of flame bloomed above a cluster of trees that peeked above the closest bluff. A mushroom of smoke formed above the flames.
A gust of wind caught the plume and carried it toward them, toward the ocean, before it swirled and headed southeast. The smoke danced in the sky like a kite caught on competing drafts of wind.
“That’s not good,” she said.
“What’s not good?” asked Arthur. He and Claudia had caught up to them. Both were winded and breathing with their mouths open, hands on their hips.
Danny pointed again toward the bluff. “That.”
The smoke was pouring over the top of the cliffside now, a black waterfall of burning hillside. Drifts of ash floated in the sky above the smoke. Behind both, an orange glow intensified.
“What does that mean?” asked Claudia. “It doesn’t look that close, does it?”
“It means they can’t handle what’s happening,” said Gilda. “It’s getting worse. We need to hurry.”
The short, piercing sound of a siren whooped ahead of them. Danny took several steps forward and stood on his tiptoes to see beyond the traffic in front of them.
A trio of police cruisers was blocking the road. Uniformed officers were standing in front of the cars, wildly gesticulating. From his vantage point, Danny couldn’t tell how the police had managed to maneuver their way to that spot on the highway. But they were there, and they were clearly preventing traffic from going any farther.
Without waiting for the others and responding to some sudden masculine need to prove himself, he moved quickly toward what was apparently a newly installed blockade. He picked up his pace until he was jogging. As he approached the police and one of them eyed him suspiciously and placed his hand atop the holster at his hip, he slowed again and raised his hands above his head.
There was already a cluster of people standing around the cops, questioning them, pointing north past the blockade and to wherever it was they were headed. Danny sidestepped open driver side doors and approached the officer coping with the fewest number of angry travelers. Although the officer was doing his best to remain calm, the sweat on his brow and the tension that framed his stance told Danny his patience was wearing thin.
The officer was young, in his mid-twenties. His hair was trimmed close to his head, and his broad shoulders carried a confidence born from wearing a badge. Like the other officers, his hand was resting on the top of his black patent leather holster. The other hand was on a rectangular compartment Danny guessed held a Taser.
At the officer’s chest, which was bulky because of the Kevlar that strained against the fabric of his shirt, was a body camera. On his shoulder was a keyable microphone connected to a portable radio on his belt.
He took one volley from a frustrated would-be driver and then another. Slowly, he took a step back and raised one hand, asking for calm.
“I understand,” he said with a soft but firm voice. “You’re frustrated. We’re frustrated. We don’t want to be stopping you here or turning you around. But you cannot go any farther. Not right now. We need to clear the area for firefighters and other emergency personnel.”
When one of the drivers tried to protest, the officer stopped him. His voice remained measured despite the obvious stress forming in his expression, in the way he carried himself.
“We are trying to keep you safe,” he said. “We’re trying to manage a—”
The man who the officer had interrupted pointed his finger at the officer’s face. He snarled as he spoke. The back of his shirt was sweat-soaked. Blood vessels stretched against his neck. The man was clearly at his wits’ end.
“You’re trapping us here,” he said. “There’s fire getting close. Traffic is stopped. What do you want us to do? Where do you want us to go?”
The officer eyed the man’s jabbing finger but exercised what Danny thought was heroic restraint. He couldn’t imagine the cop enjoyed doing his job in this environment.
“The beach,” said the officer. “Go to the beach. Leave your vehicles. Wait it out.”
Danny spied the sand and slivers of ocean between the closely built houses that filled the narrow space between the southbound lanes of the PCH and the beach itself.
It made sense. The sand wasn’t going to catch fire even if the flames jumped the highway and burned the endless ro
w of homes with a front-row view of the Pacific. It probably was as safe as any place Gilda was taking them. Without listening to the ongoing argument between the police and angry drivers, Danny backed away and headed toward his traveling partners.
He met them in front of a rusting Ford Bronco. The driver was reading a book. The passenger was asleep, her mouth agape.
“They want us to head to the beach,” said Danny. “They’re not letting anyone drive past the blockade.”
Everybody’s attention shifted from Danny to the shoreline. “We’re not driving,” said Claudia. “We’re walking. Can’t we walk past them?”
“From the beach,” said Gilda. “They’re not going to stop us from moving north on the beach. That’s probably a good idea anyhow. We avoid all of the traffic, and it keeps us farther away from the flames and smoke.”
“It’ll take us longer to walk,” said Arthur. “Moving on sand isn’t easy. I’m already exhausted.”
“It’ll be easier than dealing with all of this traffic,” said Gilda. “We can stay along the tideline, where the sand is wet and compact. That’ll make it a little easier.”
They all agreed to move to the beach. Danny noticed waves of people ahead of them heading the same way. They were leaving their cars and trucks abandoned on the frozen PCH and heading for safer ground.
Danny could taste smoke in the air. He glanced over his shoulder and saw flames reaching higher than before, snapping at the sky and devouring trees. A lone house built into the hillside was surrounded. One side of it was beginning to smolder. A man with a garden hose was trying to fend off the inevitable. No firefighters were anywhere in sight.
Danny felt a tug to go charging the cliff and help the man. It was a fool’s errand. He could neither climb the face of the bluff nor stall the advance of the flames. He couldn’t watch either. He yelled ahead to Gilda, told her he’d catch up; then he spun around and bolted back to the officers. He waved his hands above his head and stopped cold once he’d reached them.
He interrupted a woman complaining about how her predicament was more important than others around her. The officer held up his hand to stop the woman from talking and stepped toward Danny.
“What’s up?” said the officer. “I can’t understand you. You need to calm down.”
Danny realized he was talking too fast, was out of breath, and everything he was trying to say was totally unintelligible. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and pointed back at the bluff and the man with the water hose.
“That man,” he said. “Is going. To die. He needs. Help.”
The officer pivoted to search the cliffside. He tilted his head to the side, pinching the button on the side of his microphone.
He called for help and gave an approximate location. There was banter back and forth on the radio using codes and language Danny didn’t fully register. His attention was on the man with the hose.
It was like he was battling a dragon with a spoon. He’d parry and advance, only to retreat and regroup. Each attack was weaker, more tentative than the one before it. He didn’t have much time. The flames were closing fast from all directions. His roof was coated in a thin layer of smoke. Red bits of ash that looked like the tail end of an Independence Day sparkler rained down on the house. The man now had his shirt pulled up over his nose and mouth. His movements were more erratic.
Danny jerked when a strong hand touched his shoulder. He blinked from the mesmerizing scene of the lone man atop the bluff and turned to the officer.
“They’ve got a chopper headed there,” he said. “It’s close.”
Danny nodded blankly, searching the smoke-filled sky for any hint of a helicopter. He listened for the whir and thump of the rotors. Nothing.
All he could hear was the distant wail of sirens, the loud wash of the ocean as high tide approached and waves crashed ashore, and the low rumble of cars whose drivers hadn’t yet killed their engines.
The man atop the hill was backed into a corner now. He’d dropped the hose and was searching for a way out. The roof of his home was engulfed, flames racing across it with incredible speed. The man was at the edge of the bluff, his back against a glass wall cemented into a retaining wall that anchored his property to the side of the bluff.
He started waving his arms frantically, pacing aimlessly. He gripped the top edge of the glass wall and peeked over the edge. Although he was too far away for Danny to see the man’s expression, he could imagine the sheer panic drawn on his face. He was a man facing his own mortality.
Gripping the glass, the man checked over his shoulder, his shirt falling from his face, and climbed over the wall onto the narrow, rocky precipice on the other side. One leg at a time, he carefully but hurriedly moved from one side of the barrier to the other. His back was to the wall. He was gripping it with his hands and edging along its base in a nervous shuffle. He leaned out, looking for purchase below or measuring the fall, then pulled himself back against the glass.
A knot thickened in Danny’s throat. He sensed those around him paying attention to the lone, desperate figure trapped between two untenable choices: die by fire or by jumping off the cliff.
The woman who’d been complaining about her personal plight was quiet aside from the squeak she emitted from behind her hands. They were pressed to her face in horror.
Danny wondered if she, like him and everyone else standing at the blockade, knew she was about to see a man die. It seemed inevitable. He, for one, couldn’t watch it. He closed his eyes, the wind swirling around him, and offered a silent prayer for the anonymous man on the cliff. His pulse was racing. He’d seen the man too late. He’d taken too long to reach the officer. The man was going to die a brutal death, and it was going to happen in front of an audience.
But then, as he said amen, he heard the faintest hint of blades slicing through the air. It grew louder until Danny opened his eyes and saw a helicopter zooming toward the cliff.
The chopper slowed and leveled itself fifty feet above the man. It rose and then dropped again. It was obvious the violent gusts of wind were playing havoc with the pilot’s ability to keep the helicopter in a steady hover.
Behind the man, the flames were inching closer. His house was fully engulfed in large, hungry flames. Smoke filled the sky across the hillside property.
The chopper dropped again into position. It wobbled but stayed put. A door opened, and someone in a helmet heaved a basket over the side of the helicopter’s frame.
The person disappeared into the rear bay of the chopper, and slowly the basket descended. It swung wildly and spun around, reminding Danny of an unwinding yo-yo.
The chopper managed to hold its position until the basket was spinning slowly in front of the man. He craned his neck to see up toward the chopper. The smoke drifted in thick patches that made it difficult to see from Danny’s vantage point.
The man reached out with one hand while still gripping the glass wall and pulled the basket toward him. He tugged on it. The chopper gave him more slack. The basket, now waist high, was still.
A collective gasp leaked from those surrounding Danny when the man let go of the glass wall and fell forward, gripping the side of the basket with both hands.
He pulled the basket toward his body and tried scrambling into its shallow frame. But as he swung one leg into it, the chopper drifted in a sudden gust of wind, and the man was pulled free of the ground, half of his body dangling from the basket. He struggled to maintain his grip as the chopper swung away from the cliff. The man was kicking his free leg, trying to lift it into the basket. He couldn’t do it. Then his other leg, which had been inside the edge of the basket, slipped free. He was holding on, several hundred feet in the air, with only his two hands. His legs swung, and his body twisted as the basket twirled at the end of the cable. The chopper quickly moved out over the highway and hovered for a moment before descending.
The man was hanging freely. He was ghost white, his mouth was open, the muscles in his arms stretched and strained
.
As the helicopter carefully moved west across all the lanes of the PCH, the crowds of drivers and passengers stuck at their vehicles were enraptured. Everybody’s eyes were on the man dangling from the edge of the tipped basket.
The chopper dropped quickly and then stopped, hovering with the man only a few feet off the ground. They’d maneuvered to the edge of the beach, and the man let go.
When he dropped to the ground, landing on his feet before falling forward onto his hands and knees, the crowd erupted in cheers. The man waved to the chopper. Then he collapsed onto the sand.
A wave of relief washed over Danny, and the officer next to him brushed past in a rush to meet the rescued man. He darted amongst the cars until he reached the man, dropping to his knees to check on him. A small crowd gathered around them. Danny gripped his trembling knees and resisted the urge to vomit.
“You did good,” said Gilda, appearing from nowhere. “You saved that man’s life.”
He looked up, still bent at his waist, and saw her warm smile greeting him. He stood up, and she moved into him, wrapping her arms around him. She squeezed and said into his ear, “That was incredible. If you hadn’t seen him and said something, he’d be dead.”
Danny melted into her embrace and put his arms around the small of her back above the gun. It was life affirming. It wasn’t so much that it was Gilda hugging him. He was undecided about how he felt about her—there were mixed emotions and a confusing attraction there—it was the sensation of anyone holding him, of a physical connection.
However brief or platonic that connection might be, it grounded him. It reminded him he was human.
“I didn’t save him,” he said softly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, you did,” said Arthur, walking toward them, hand in hand with Claudia. “If it weren’t for you telling that cop what’s what, that idiot would have died up there.”
Danny pulled away from Gilda. He was defensive of the anonymous man who’d nearly died trying to protect his home. “He’s not an idiot,” he said. “He made a mistake.”
