Five minutes.
This blanket will only protect me for that long.
Drew’s screams echo in my ears. The fear. The pain. The desperation.
It’s not real, Grady.
The fire snaps around us. I concentrate on its crackle. On the sound of it marching through the grove surrounding us. I use its roar as my anchor to reality. To remind me that this isn’t the warehouse. This isn’t a repeat of before.
Three hundred seconds.
The heat.
It’s so fucking intense.
PASS alarms go off. One after another. They sound off around me. Sirens of immobility. I squeeze my eyes shut as I battle the memories. As I will the nightmare away.
It’s not real, Grady.
But it is. This is real. Seven of us are trapped in the fire’s vortex. Taking cover in this clearing as the world around us burns.
But it’s not just Drew this time.
It’s all of us.
Two hundred forty seconds. That’s all the time we have left.
It’s like the inside of hell, like the nightmare has been brought back into reality.
All the air I’ll have.
“Grady?” It’s Bowie’s muffled voice. I can barely hear him above the roar of the fucking fire. Not Drew screaming for help. Just Bowie asking me to check in. To let him know I’m hanging in there.
“Good,” I shout when in reality I feel as if I’m suffocating.
“Dixon?”
“Good,” he sounds off.
“Veego?”
“Ten-four.” I can barely hear him.
And he continues on through the crew. One by one.
I wait for one of them not to answer. I wait to hear silence.
But there isn’t any.
One hundred eighty seconds and counting until the blanket will give way to the extreme heat.
My back feels like it’s on fire again, itchy and slick with sweat that burns in rivulets as it slides over my skin. A branch cracks somewhere overhead and I wait for it to fall on me. I brace for the impact.
For the weight of the beam as it pins me down.
You’re not there, Grady.
I strain to hear Drew’s screams. I brace for the words he’s going to say next.
But there’s nothing. Just the whoops of the guys around me as anxious adrenaline takes hold. Just the roar of the fire as it eats the vegetation and sucks the oxygen.
One hundred twenty seconds left.
I’m not going to die.
Drew, I’m not going to die.
I tense when the explosion hits. The water truck’s gas tank just went. And then I scramble through the shock to hold the fire blanket around me. Pin it to the ground with me between it and the ground that’s heating underneath me.
The wind howls. It’s the eeriest sound I’ve ever heard.
My fingers burn in my gloves as I pin the blanket down.
Eighty seconds left. I’m not going to die.
Someone shouts out a curse to combat the feeling of suffocation.
But it has nothing on my pulse pounding in my ears.
My adrenaline coursing through my blood.
My breath labored and desperate.
Forty seconds. I’m not going to die.
Dylan.
I repeat her name over and over and over. I use it like a second hand on a clock as I wait out the terror. As I pray for the fire to blow through. As I put my faith in these blankets protecting us. As I tell myself, that when I see her again, I’m going to put it all on the line.
I’m not going to die.
There’s a whoop of excitement. Someone yells, “Fuck you, bitch,” to the fire. Another shouts, “Go back to hell, you cunt!”
I laugh. We’re sick fucks.
And then the words, “All clear.”
Motherfucking music to my ears.
I shove the blanket off me and gulp in air. It’s hot and thick, because everything on the edges of the clearing is still on fire. Bright oranges and deep yellows and hues of blue on the burning metal of our vehicle . . . but I’m alive.
I’m alive.
So is the rest of my crew.
We did it, Drew.
And so I lie on my back in the middle of the High Sierras and try to stop my body from trembling. The ground beneath me is hot and the ashes suffocate what’s left of the vegetation, but I don’t move. The adrenaline takes over, owning every part of me as I stare at the small glimpses of stars in the night sky above trying to break through the smoke. As the eerie orange glow lights up everything around us.
I know I need to get up. I understand the fire is still raging around us and we have a job to do. I realize that our tanker—our only transportation—is now gone, and so we have a shit-ton of work and trekking to do before we’re in the clear.
But I don’t move.
I can’t.
A fucking tear I fight back finally escapes. Too much emotion. Too much everything.
I close my eyes to process it. To accept it.
Just one more minute.
I’m alive.
“You good, man?” I open my eyes to see Bowie. He’s standing over me, looking down, hand extended to help me stand.
Our eyes meet and he nods ever so slightly to let me know he knows the hell that just went on in my head. And that he’s proud of me for holding on.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod in return and let him help pull me up.
“Seven-in. Seven-out,” he says as he lifts his chin over his shoulder to where the guys are gathering the supplies we have left that the fire didn’t incinerate so we can work our way out of this gorge.
And we do. We work hour after hour. Our bones hurt and muscles ache and chests burn, but we do what we love. We cut prevention lines should the wind switch and bring the fire back this way.
No matter how hard we work, hot spots flare around us.
“Keep that line,” I shout to Veego and his crew as I turn to look over my shoulder.
We’re in the depths of hell. At least that’s what it looks like all around us. The smoke is so thick that the ash falls like a downpour. The orange flames lick the perimeter around us. With our tanker, food, and communication devices taken by the fire, it’s up to us to get the fuck out of here.
Out of habit, I look at my cell again, knowing there is no battery left but hoping anyway.
“Where are the goddamn Hotshots?” Dixon asks, referring to the elite team of wild-land firefighters as he stops and takes a conservative sip from what little is left in his canteen.
“My bet is they’re on the eastern ridge. That’s where they’re needed the most,” I say as I look over to him. My face probably looks like his, black with soot but streaked from sweat, eyes red and exhausted.
“It looks like our sorry asses could use them right now,” he says with a delirious laugh as he holds his arms out and does a mini-spin.
“You pussying out on us, old man?” I ask with a matching laugh. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that.”
It’s my pseudo-apology. In the middle of a firestorm. It’s my way to let them know I know I’ve let them down. That I’m not going to let them down this time.
No matter the cost.
Dix walks over to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. “You kicked ass, Grady. We never doubted you, but hell if it doesn’t feel good to have you back.” He squeezes and then lets go, nods, and goes back to holding the line.
“How much farther do we have?” Mack asks.
“Ten miles. Fifteen. Just depends if we get out of this gorge on our own or if they find us first,” I guess to the groan of the guys. They’re exhausted, starving, and want to be anywhere that isn’t covered in rocks to fall asleep, even if it’s just for thirty minutes.
“My stomach’s growling, boys. Quit the yacking and finish cutting this line so we can head out,” Johnson says. “Food’s calling my name and a hot shower is the only other thing I want.”
“Me too,” I murmur. And Dylan. The only other thing I want is her.
“Balls to the wall, boys,” Bowie says and all six of us repeat it back to him.
“Let’s do it.”