Wildfire

by Rodman Philbrick

  At first I can’t make out what they’re shouting about, but then it becomes obvious. They’ve seen us. The biker bros come roaring across the lawn, the camp ablaze behind them, and zip along the ledge, looking for a way to get to us.

  “You go ahead!” Delphy urges. “Get the Jeep started. I’ll catch up.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  I help her along. No way am I leaving her behind. I may be scared, but I’m not that scared. When Delphy falls flat on her face, I get her back on her feet. We keep going, yard by yard, struggling up the slope. Slipping, falling, doing it all over again. Focused on making it to the Jeep. Trying not to think about the craziness lurking behind us.

  Delphy manages to throw her stick ahead. I’ve got her hand, and finally we’re there.

  She crawls into the Jeep, holding her stick in both hands, like a sword. I plug the distributor wire back in, slip behind the wheel, and press the starter pedal.

  The engine catches first try.

  As I slip the shifter into first gear, I take a look down the slope and see something that just about stops my heart.

  The biker bros have found the planks we propped on the ledge, and they zoom across, side by side. Working their way up the slope as fast as they can, skidding around trees and flying high over rocks and protruding roots. Intent on reaching us, the sooner the better.

  I feel like a rabbit with a pack of wolves bearing down.

  “Sam!” Delphy screams, snapping me out of it.

  I let out the clutch and press the accelerator pedal to the floor, running up through the gears. We’re hitting forty miles an hour, flat out, and it’s all I can do to keep us from flying off the trail. Dirt bikes can go eighty miles an hour, so there’s no way to outrun them. I figure they’ll be on us in thirty seconds or less.

  Hunkered down in the passenger seat, Delphy starts to cough. A moment later, I’m coughing, too, and my eyes are stinging.

  I risk a glance behind. A cloud of dense black smoke roils behind us like a breaking wave. The wind is strong at our backs, and the smoke from the fire is catching up even faster than the bikers. That’s a good thing, but not if it means we can’t breathe.

  Seems like there’s no way to get away from the smoke, other than to try and outrun it. I concentrate on maintaining maximum speed. We’re flying over ruts, bouncing hard enough to make the steering wheel shudder like a living thing. Springs shriek with every bump. The Jeep was designed for terrain like this, but not at full speed.

  We don’t have a choice. Slowing down means dying from smoke inhalation, or at the hands of maniacs. Not a risk I want to take. So I concentrate on the trail ahead, on steering us safely through the turns. Nothing I can do about what’s happening behind us; whatever lies down the road, that’s my business.

  We enter a long curve on the logging trail. The change in direction gives us a whiff of fresh air, and we gratefully fill our lungs. The forest is dense on both sides of the trail, and for a little while the scent of pine overpowers the stink of smoke.

  The trees look like they’ll be there forever, reaching to the sky. But soon the fire will change everything, reducing the landscape to ash. Do they know it, these mighty trees? Do they have any sense of what’s coming?

  Weird what you think about when you’re trying to outrun a fire. When your brain is locked into what it means to be alive. When every moment is so intense that the colors are more vivid, and every bounce and rattle, every whiff of pinesap, says you must find a way to survive. Even if you’re the rabbit and the wolves are close behind.

  “Sam!” Delphy shouts. “Do you hear that?”

  Then I hear it, too. The banshee scream of dirt bikes at maximum velocity.

  A moment later, they burst through the smoke and are instantly upon us.

  In every car-chase movie I’ve ever seen, something impossible happens. Cars fly crazy distances through the air and land safely. They weave through wrong-way traffic like they’re threading a needle. They go down flights of stairs, flip over, land right side up, and keep going. Like that. But in all those movies, I’ve never seen anything like my friend Delphy in action.

  With an expression of fierce determination, she climbs into the back seat, clutching her walking stick. Crouches down like she’s terrified and wants to keep a low profile. But when the first biker catches up and starts screaming, “You’re dead! Stop the Jeep or die!” she suddenly leaps up, swings her stick, and wham! slams him so hard he flies off his bike and rolls along the trail like a rag doll.

  Last thing I see before he’s swallowed in the smoke, he’s on his hands and knees, coughing up dirt. His bike is wrapped around a tree and totaled for sure.

  You’d think the second biker would go back to help his fallen brother, but he doesn’t. He’s more intent than ever on trying to force us to crash. He comes up one side of us, standing on his pegs, and then veers away and comes up the other side, gunning his throttle. Darting at us, trying to rattle me. Daring me to try and hit him, and maybe lose control. All the time keeping just out of range of the walking stick.

  The dude is a fantastic rider. Too bad he didn’t concentrate on racing instead of setting fires.

  Delphy keeps swinging, but he’s clever, and either ducks or backs off at the last second, and she never connects.

  After one last swing that misses, the stick slips from her hands and goes down between the seats. She paws around, trying to find it, and the rider veers closer, taking advantage. What if he leaps in and grabs the wheel? What then? If we let him have the Jeep, will he leave us alone?

  But this is about more than taking the Jeep or crashing his brother. We’ve seen what they did, in two locations, and I’ll bet there are more. I don’t know if the brothers started the original fire, but for sure they’ve been helping it along.

  The remaining rider edges in, gets a gloved hand on the side of the Jeep. And that’s when Delphy grabs a gallon jug of water, and in one smooth motion, slams it upside his head. Like maybe dropping her stick was to fool him into coming so close. He goes over backward, landing hard in the dirt, and his bike goes straight up in the air and very nearly lands on him. Forks and wheels bent, frame twisted. The bike is finished, done.

  I’m thinking, as he fades into the smoke, that if you come after my friend Delphy, you’ve got a long walk home.

  After we’re sure we’re clear, and that they haven’t miraculously revived the chase, like would happen in the movies, I slow it down, into second gear. Delphy scrambles back into the front seat and gives me a soft little punch in the shoulder. “We did it, Sam.”

  I baby the Jeep—and us—for a few miles. The smoke is far behind us. We’ve outrun the fire for the time being. The wind is still blowing hard at our backs, no doubt driving the flames, so we don’t dare stop for a rest. Not for miles yet. But for the moment, we made it.

  In the seat beside me, Delphy curls up, trembling. Like the experience finally caught up to her.

  “You did good!” I tell her. “They were going to get us for sure!”

  “I was so scared. Way more than I’m scared of the fire. Did you see their eyes? They were empty, like Halloween pumpkins with the candles blown out.”

  “Phat Freddy said people have died in the fire. It could be their fault.”

  Delphy nods. “Do you think they got away? Their bikes were wrecked for sure.”

  “I bet they’re fine. They know this area like the back of their hand.”

  Delphy pauses, lost in thought for a little while. “Where are we? Any idea?”

  “Far to the west is all I know. I’m sorry, but this seems to be the logging trail to nowhere.”

  She sits up and looks around. “It can’t be a road to nowhere, Sam. I mean, what would be the point?”

  We drive on, gaining ground for the next few miles as we head deeper into the wilderness. The logging trail gradually rises until we’re going over thinly wooded hilltops. We glimpse low mountains in the smoky distance. I’m so into keeping on
the trail, and being careful how I steer, that I forget to check the compass on the dash.

  When I finally do check the compass, the surprise hits me like a punch to the gut. We’d been heading more or less west. Now we’re heading east. It must have happened real gradual, but it freaks me out that I didn’t notice.

  “Do you smell that?” Delphy sits up straight.

  “The logging trail has turned back on itself. So the wind is in our faces. That’s why the stink of smoke is worse.”

  “What does that mean? Turned back on itself?”

  “It means we’re going the wrong direction.” I’m sick to admit it. “We’re heading back toward the fire.”

  “How is that even possible?” Delphy wants to know. As if she’s been napping and now she’s wide-awake, demanding answers.

  I shake my head. “It’s not like we’re on a major highway, heading in a certain direction. The logging trail wanders all over the place.”

  “Looking for logs.” Delphy’s face is scrunched up in concentration.

  “For lumber. This trail goes where the trees are. It doesn’t care about compass headings, or outrunning forest fires.”

  “Okay, I get it.” She sighs. “Let me think. Turning around would be a bad idea because the other end of the trail has already been overrun by the fire, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So no matter which way we drive, we’re heading for the fire. Which means we’re doomed.”

  “Maybe not.” I try to sound upbeat. “Maybe the logging trail swings round to the west again. Some of this may be switchbacks.”

  “Switchbacks?”

  “Think of a heavy truck loaded with tons of logs. It can’t go straight up a hill. It can’t do steep. So it weaves back and forth, gaining a little altitude with each turn. That’s switchbacks. On a real, paved road they’re very precise. But carving a logging trail through the woods? Not so much. All I know is, we gained altitude over the last hour or so. We’re on top of the hills, not going around them like before.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. But we’re more out in the open than we were in the deep woods. If a plane or helicopter goes over, they might see us.”

  Delphy snorts, her eyes angry. “As if. You know our problem? Nobody knows where we are, and nobody is looking. Nobody cares!”

  “That’s not true.”

  She sighs. “I know, I know. I’m just frustrated.”

  I figure we’ve got no choice but to see where the logging trail leads. I put the Jeep in gear, and sure enough, after fifteen minutes or so of winding along the hillside, we’re headed west again. Switchbacks, no doubt about it. I try to imagine a fully loaded lumber truck trundling along in these ruts, and it reminds me how dangerous it can be, driving a big rig. One little mistake and you slip off the road and maybe flip over, trapped in your cab.

  That reminds me of what happened to Dad in Afghanistan, so I try to banish those thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the trail ahead. Keep to the ruts. Do not deviate. Concentrate on the task at hand, and the road will take care of itself. What my father called his “three mantras,” things he kept in mind that helped him drive safely, back when he was hauling pulpwood.

  Every now and then, I glance over to check on Delphy. She has her arms crossed and looks miserable. Probably wishing she’d never gotten into the Jeep in the first place. If she’d stayed where she was in the woods, not far from the fire, maybe rescuers would have found her. Maybe it’s my fault she isn’t already home.

  Following the logging trail seemed like a good idea, but what if it was a big mistake? What if instead of saving our lives, everything I’ve done has only made it worse?

  “Sam? What’s happening?”

  Delphy’s worried tone jerks me out of feeling sorry for myself. I start to pay attention to the landscape beyond the trail, and she’s right, something has changed.

  It’s as if we’re rising above tree level, away from the darkness of the forest. But that’s not it. We’re still in the low hills, nowhere high enough to be above tree level. The trail has widened into a large open area populated with skinny birch saplings. Thin enough so we can see for miles, way beyond the rolling hills to the fire itself. A great black scar that runs from horizon to horizon, fed by an orange line of fire driven by wind and fuel. Like an army of flames marching through a crack in the world.

  “This hilltop? It was clear-cut a few years ago,” I tell her. “See all those old stumps, with the birches growing up between them? That’s what happens when you cut down all the trees. New ones grow back, and the first generation is usually something like birch, which is fast-growing.”

  Delphy looks at me impatiently, not the least bit interested in all the cool woodsy stuff I learned at camp. She wants to know what it means for us, right now.

  “I’m sorry, but it looks like this is why the logging trail was built. All those miles. They wanted to bring rigs up here to harvest the really big trees.”

  “What are you saying?” Delphy grabs my arm as if she wants to shake the truth out of me.

  A truth I don’t want to speak, because it means I’ve been wrong all along.

  “This is the end of the trail,” I tell her softly. “This is as far as it goes.”

  The Jeep runs on gasoline. Step on the starter pedal and it’ll keep going until it runs out of fuel. Me and Delphy, we’ve been running on hope, but now that tank is empty, and it’s like the black clouds of the fire have entered our brains. We sit in the field of skinny birches and old stumps without speaking for a long time. Trying not to think, because there’s nothing good to think about.

  We can’t go back the way we came, because the fire has overrun the logging trail. We can’t stay where we are, because strong winds are blowing the fire in our direction. Soon enough it will climb this hill, sweep over the top, and burn its way back down into the thick forest that surrounds these hills in all directions.

  If we stay where we are, we die. But where do we go? Running off into the forest doesn’t make any sense, because if the fire isn’t already there, it will be.

  Delphy clears her throat. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Sam. What else could we do but follow the trail? It kept us alive for, what, three days?”

  “Five days.”

  “Five days, see? You did good.”

  She reaches over to pat my hand. I snatch it away.

  “Don’t pretend!” I’m almost shouting. “I messed up. I was wrong all along. I was so sure the logging road had to meet up with a real road. Why was I so sure? Because I wanted it to. Like wishing would make it happen,” I add, laughing bitterly.

  “You did what you thought was best.”

  I get out of the Jeep and scuff through the underbrush. I want to be alone and Delphy knows it. She parks herself on one of the big stumps while I wander around, kicking at stuff.

  I’m not mad at her. No way. I’m mad at myself. We nearly made it! All we had to do was bring the Jeep down the incline, across the survival camp lawn, and onto the gravel road. A state road was only seven miles away! We could have been on the road, a real road, last night. Armed ourselves with flashlights or something, to find the way.

  Instead, we played it safe and decided to wait until dawn. Then the bikers showed up and ruined everything. Even without them, it might have been too late, the way the main fire was sweeping around the lake.

  That was my mistake, not leaving while we had the chance. Because I was scared of driving at night without headlights. Because I didn’t want to wreck the Jeep again. Because I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in a real bed.

  Because, because, because. Because is going to get us killed. Unless we manage to find another path to an actual road. Something passable by the Jeep. But what are the odds, really, in an area so remote there’s not a cabin or cottage visible from the hilltop?

  Face it, we’re doomed. Which is so scary I can hardly hold it in my head. That I might really die. That I’ll be
gone, leaving my mom alone in the world. What will she do with nobody to look out for her?

  I’m wandering around the edge of the clear-cut area, half-heartedly trying to spot something that indicates a road might be nearby, when I happen to look through the birch saplings to the next few hills, which are about the same size and height as this one. Except they’re fully wooded.

  At first what I see doesn’t make sense. A red-and-white needle, barely visible in the distance. Like a skinny arrow stuck into the top of the hill. It takes me a while to figure out what it is.

  Could it be? Is it possible?

  I hurry back through the clear-cut area, and find Delphy on the stump, sipping from a jug of water. She looks up with a tight little smile. “You done kicking rocks?” She studies my face. “Sam? You found something, I can see it in your eyes.”

  “This way. I’ll show you.”

  She follows me to the edge of the clear-cut area and pushes a birch sapling out of the way so she’s got a clear view of the hilltops.

  I point. “What does that look like to you?”

  She squints. “A radio antenna? But what good does it do?”

  “It didn’t just appear out of nowhere,” I say. “Somebody had to build it. Had to bring in the pieces and put them together and raise the tower and stuff like that. So they needed a road.”

  Delphy breathes a sigh of relief. “Of course they did.”

  Then she gives me a hug that just about crushes my ribs.

  The hilltop with the radio antenna is less than a mile away, but with no clear path or trail to follow, it might as well be a thousand. Probably we could make it on foot, but without the Jeep and a real road out once we get there, there’s no way to escape. Not with the huge, horizon-wide fire racing at us, driven by hot gusts of wind almost strong enough to knock us down.

  I don’t know how long we’ve got, exactly, but at this rate, the fire will sweep over these hilltops in less than an hour, at most. We haven’t got time to clear a path, even if we had a way to cut down trees, which we don’t. So we’ll just have to give it a shot, and hope the old vehicle can find its way through the scraggly trees and bushes that cover the hillside.