Page 109 of Honeyfires

The fire crowned exactly where I'd predicted it would, flames leaping from tree to tree like they were playing hopscotch, superheated air shimmering ahead of the main body. The wind gusted again, stronger now, and I felt the direction shift another five degrees. West. Pushing directly toward our position.

I watched a spot fire kindle fifty feet ahead of us. Then another at thirty feet. Then one at twenty feet, close enough that I could feel the heat of it on my face.

The fire was about to make a run. I'd seen this before. In California, on a ridge not unlike this one, where the wind shifted and the fire exploded through our position so fast that three firefighters barely made it out, and two—didn’t. I'd been twenty-six then, still new enough to be taking orders instead of giving them. I'd watched it happen. Watched the crew scatter. Watched the fire consume everything in its path.

I wasn't twenty-six anymore. I wasn't taking orders. I was the crew forewoman, and these were my people.

I keyed my radio. My hand was steady. My voice wasn't.

"All units, this is Alves. We're pulling back. Now. Move!"

"Alves, what the hell are you doing?" Rodriguez's voice exploded through the comms, crackling with disbelief and fury.

"Saving our crew. Follow me!" I didn't wait for his response. I grabbed Stevens by the arm, yanking him away from the tree he was cutting. "Move your ass, rookie! Drop your gear and move!"

"But Cap said—" Stevens started, his eyes wide with confusion.

"I know what Cap said!" I shoved him toward the evacuation route we'd scouted that morning. "Everyone, fall back down the ridge! Now! Go, go, go!"

Chaos erupted. Stevens hesitated for half a second. Cap said one thing, I was saying another, and in that moment I could see him trying to reconcile the conflicting orders. But Jackson was already moving, dropping his Pulaski and grabbing the rookie's other arm.

"You heard the crew boss! Move!" Jackson's voice cut through Stevens' paralysis.

Miller was shouting orders down the line, his command voice overriding everything else. "Evacuate! Everybody out! Move your asses!"

The crew scattered like a flock of startled birds. Davids and Emerson looked back at me, confusion and something like accusation on their faces, but they were moving too, grabbing essential gear and running for the ridgeline. We'd scouted the escape route that morning—standard procedure, always know your way out—and muscle memory took over even as minds struggled to process what was happening.

We had maybe thirty seconds.

I counted them in my head, in my heartbeat, in the screaming certainty that this was either the best decision or the worst mistake of my life.

Twenty-eight seconds later, the fire crowned exactly where we'd been standing.

The sound was like a freight train, like a jet engine, like the end of the world. Super-heated air exploded across the ridge, flames fifty feet high consuming everything in their path. Trees exploded from the heat, sap boiling and igniting in microseconds. The spot fires we'd seen kindling merged with the main body, creating a wall of flame that moved with terrifying speed.

If we'd stayed on that line, we'd be dead.

All of us. Stevens and Jackson and Miller and Davids and Emerson and me. Ash and bone and grief for the people waiting for us at home. Six more names on the memorial wall. Six more families destroyed by fire.

But we weren't there. We were fifty yards down the slope, scrambling over rocks and through brush, putting distance between ourselves and the inferno. I could feel the heat on my back, could hear the roar of it chasing us, but we were moving and we were alive and—

"Petra!" Jackson's shout cut through the chaos. "Stevens is down!"

I spun around, my heart in my throat. Stevens was on the ground twenty feet behind us, clutching his shoulder. Even from here I could see the way his jacket was smoking, could see the ash and debris scattered around him.

Burning debris. A chunk of it the size of a baseball, still glowing orange, must have hit him during the crown fire explosion.

"Miller, help me!" I was already running back toward Stevens, every instinct screaming at me to get away from the fire, but Stevens was down and that meant we weren't leaving. I was not leaving anyone behind, and especially not the kid.

Miller reached him first, his bulk between Stevens and the advancing flames. I grabbed Stevens' other side, and together we hauled him to his feet. His face was twisted in pain, his breathing ragged.

"My shoulder," he gasped. "Fuck, Petra, it hurts—"

"I know, kid. But you gotta move. Can you move?" I was already assessing even as we dragged him forward. Second-degree burns on his shoulder and arm, maybe worse. Smoke inhalation from the super-heated air. Shock setting in.

"I can move," he gritted out, and goddamn if the rookie didn't start stumbling forward under his own power, Miller and I supporting him on either side.

The helicopter extraction took twenty minutes that felt like twenty hours. Rodriguez had called it in the moment we evacuated, the pilot bringing the Bell 212 in low over the ridge to extract us from a clearing half a mile from the fire. We loaded Stevens first, Miller going with him to keep him stable. Then the rest of the crew, one by one, until it was just me and Rodriguez on the ground. He’d rappelled down to help the moment the bird had arrived.