The dog walking witness told the cops she saw a guy in a suit with a blowtorch in one hand and a gun in the other hiking down this trail. The cops called us when the smoke rose.
Captain sent in the machines, but it’s too dense back here. You need the hand crew. Wasn’t like we didn’t think we’d be called. We were taking bets on it at the firehous--Marshall’s got the pot at forty bucks for a brush fire. I was going with the flaming turkey oven disaster, but hey, it’s early yet.
I’m on McLeod duty with four other guys--coming up eleven men behind the lead chain saw. Our job’s to rake the grass and debris with the McLeods, throw it onto the green side and bare the cool, brown soil to the heat of the fire.
When I talk about my job, I say we draw the line then we dare the fire to cross it. Chicks dig firefighters. Guys think I’m full of shi--but screw them--they’re not out here frying their nose hairs, filling their lungs with black smoke, busting their ass to save a bunch of half-dead trees and beat-up houses that carry way too much insurance and will never be rebuilt.
Washington brings up the rear. He’s the CYA guard. He’s the guy nobody wants to be when the wind changes and the fire flares up behind us.
Captain calls a break ten yards before we hit the manzanita. Half tree, half bush, it’s a vicious plant--full of sap that’ll burn for days, sap that sears like a branding iron. As I uncap my canteen, the tallest tree in the stand catches fire. Flames flick across the gnarled surface, bite into a long twisted branch. Mahogany sap bleeds down its trunk like the tears of a prizefighter. The branch falls, igniting the bushes below. Whiff. Crackle. Burn. It’s arresting.
Washington sees her first, a small white rabbit rousted from her burrow, patches of fur missing on her back and feet. She hops toward us, toward our road and the cool soil then raises her ears and changes directio--back to the burn zone.
Washington looks at me. I don’t know why, but I run after her, grass and brush crunchy dry under my boots, my breath raspy, the heat of the fire burning my throat. I get close and lunge, miss. As I stand, the wind shifts, sending a scorched tuft of fur tumbleweeding across my boot. Manzanita and Mother Nature--the white rabbit death cabal.
Later, back at camp, I take a hit of oxygen, then pull the rabbit out of my jumpsuit and lay her on top of the steaming body bag. |
