Crucible of Fire Read online

  Jimmy acted like he was thinking about it just to be polite in case Freddy got pissed about that. “Nah, I’ll probably wake up soon. You don’t want me waking up and ruining the dream before you get to burn the school down. I’ll just wander around a little bit longer, wake up wherever I fell down. Thanks for the beer.”

  “You’re welcome. Here’s one for the road.” Freddy tossed him another beer, then took hold of the ice chest handle again and got under way, disappearing into the thick smoke in the space of a few minutes.

  Jimmy tossed his empty and opened the fresh can. He kept walking, wondering where the girls were, wondering if he was going to cough himself awake before he got to see them, thinking it was really weird to see Freddy Grogan in an astronaut suit in a forest fire.

  9

  Matt took the compass from his shirt pocket and checked it to make certain that he and Angie were still headed west. The needle held steady at due north, and they were hitting the mark he’d set. Angie had grudgingly let him take the lead since he had the compass, but she kept riding his ass, silently urging him to go faster. He was afraid if he had to brake suddenly, she’d run right over him, and he was concerned that if he went any faster, he’d end up losing control of the four-wheeler and killing himself. Even without the smoke all around them, he was overrunning the headlight.

  Riding the four-wheeler across the broken terrain was difficult. The hillside was steep enough to make overturning a real danger. Bouncing and jerking, the four-wheeler moved like a bucking bronco beneath him, stiff and surefooted at the same time. He preferred motorcycles to quads because he’d always felt like more of the machine on two wheels than he did on four.

  The motor suddenly raced as the tires started turning insanely fast, without resistance, and he knew he was airborne a heartbeat before he crashed back to earth. A wobbly moment passed before he regained control over the four-wheeler. He had to resist the urge to leap from it so it didn’t land on him. A rider couldn’t control four-wheelers with bodyweight the way he could a motorcycle. Then he had all four wheels on the ground again and was zipping right along.

  Angie was right behind him.

  Glancing to his left, Matt saw that the fire had crept farther down the hill, and he also spotted the fire line, seeing where brush had been piled to one side of the barren eighteen inches that had been chopped along the ground. He pointed the trail out to Angie.

  She barely nodded, then zipped past him like he was sitting still.

  “Wait!” Shouting did no good. Even if she’d heard him over the roar of the fire and the growl of the four-wheeler engines, Matt was sure she would have ignored him. He twisted the throttle harder, trying to keep up with her, watching for the flare of her brake light to let him know she was slowing. He didn’t want her to get hurt.

  Within moments, they reached the point where the fire line ended in a wall of flame. Angie’s four-wheeler’s brake light flared ruby in the haze and she stopped a scant six feet from the towering flames stretching from the ground to the treetops.

  She stared straight ahead. “The fire line ends here. Dad and the others have to be on the other side of this.”

  Or they’re dead somewhere in the middle of it. Matt didn’t voice that conclusion. Angie wouldn’t have let him strip her of her hope at any rate. And the thought had to have crossed her mind.

  She backed up for an instant, then sped forward again, following the edge of the fire farther downhill. Matt knew she was planning on getting around the fire, but he didn’t know if that was possible. He already knew it was very dangerous.

  But he didn’t have a choice if he meant to find Mr. Dark. The creature was out there waiting somewhere. Matt could feel that malign presence in the center of everything, like a spider nestled in its web, just waiting for prey.

  Trapped in the burning forest with no way out that he could see, Big Mort Carruthers experienced a strange calm. He wasn’t going to die. Somehow he knew that. The fire seemed too familiar, and in that realization, he flashed back to Afghanistan. He’d been a ground pounder there, helping keep the peace in a country that was so divided, the US government couldn’t tell if it was winning the War on Terror there or not.

  He stumbled through the burning woods, breathing harshly through the bandanna that covered his mouth and nose, but he was seeing the buildings he’d scouted in Afghanistan’s cities, with Tangos hiding around every corner. Timmons marched at his side.

  Big Mort was so tangled up in the fantasy that he didn’t see the three park rangers in smoke gear until they were almost on top of them. He rounded a copse of trees that reminded him of a shoe repair shop in Kandahar. The cobbler had had a beautiful daughter. That almost sounded like a country-and-western song. Then Big Mort caught her out by herself. When they found her later, she’d been the “victim” of an IED. She’d been a victim before that, too.

  “You guys okay?” The park rangers wore oxygen masks that looked like the old gas masks from World War I. The hose connections resembled elephant’s trunks that curled over their shoulders. They carried Pulaski axes and chainsaws.

  Big Mort wanted one of those masks and a Pulaski and a chainsaw. He’d lost his gear when the wildfire wrapped around and scattered the Lombard crew.

  “Could use a little help here.” Big Mort stumbled and sank down to one knee like he was on his last legs. He curled a big hand around a softball-sized stone lying on the ground.

  “Sure, buddy. I got you.” One of the park rangers ran over to Big Mort and wrapped an arm around his chest, working to keep him on his feet.

  Big Mort looked at Timmons, and in that look, they both knew what the other was thinking. Timmons’ mouth curved down and turned hard, his idea of a smile, and he gave a slight nod.

  “Yeah. Me, too. Feeling lightheaded.”

  Another ranger ran towards Stanley.

  Holding on to his would-be rescuer, Big Mort twisted viciously and slammed the rock into the back of the guy’s skull, feeling the bone give way. He was dead, already slumping to the ground, when Big Mort caught his protective jacket and held him up. In the hazy smoke surrounding them, the third ranger hadn’t clearly seen what had happened.

  “Something wrong?” The man started forward.

  Behind him, Timmons wrapped the second guy in an arm bar and tilted his head forward, relaxing the neck tendons the way Big Mort had taught him because the movies always got that wrong, then slit the man’s throat with the box knife he carried. Blood spurted, spraying through the smoke.

  The sight struck Big Mort as funny, and he couldn’t help laughing out loud.

  A gurgled yelp for help caught the third ranger’s attention. He spun around and saw the blood gushing down his friend’s chest. Big Mort supposed the guy didn’t see much violence in his career as a park ranger, because he froze up like an FNG on his first day in-country.

  “My God! What happened?”

  The guy was clueless to the fact that Timmons had just killed his friend. His John Q. Public mentality didn’t register the possibility that someone would slit his buddy’s throat.

  By that time, Big Mort had the dead park ranger’s chainsaw in his hands. He pulled the cord and it fired right up. The last ranger—the lone ranger, Big Mort thought with a giggle—turned back around just in time to catch the chainsaw’s teeth with his hands as he tried to block it from his head.

  The chainsaw ripped through the guy’s hands, throwing amputated fingers in all directions. Then the teeth dug into the guy’s forehead, jerking his face like an old cartoon gag reel. In the next instant, the guy’s head exploded like a rotten egg and blood blew out like a geyser.

  Dead, the man dropped to the ground. Big Mort towered over him, then killed the chainsaw.

  “You tore up the mask,” Timmons said as he knelt down to strip the mask from the man he’d killed.

  “Good thing we only need two.” Big Mort stripped the mask from the first man, then took the Pulaski fire ax, oxygen tank, and harness. When he had them se
cured on his body, he picked up the chainsaw and gazed at his partner.

  Timmons looked back at him, the mask covered in blood. He used his finger to wipe away blood from the mask’s lenses.

  “Your mask is a mess,” Big Mort said.

  “Yeah, well, yours ain’t no prize, either.”

  Big Mort wiped his finger against his left lens, trying to remove the blood. All he succeeded in doing was smearing it around so that it left a crimson film. As he looked around, he decided he liked the look, so he wiped the dead man’s blood over the other lens as well. He stared out at the encroaching flames.

  “Wow. Really brings out the reds.”

  “It does,” Timmons agreed. He stripped the gear from the dead man, then took a deep breath. “Air’s better.”

  Big Mort nodded. The air he breathed from the mask was cooler, smelled fresher, but it made his brain dance like he’d been steadily drinking. “O2 is a little strong.”

  “I like it.” Timmons’ mask raised a little as he grinned. “Kinda like the nitrous back at the dentist’s office.”

  “Yeah.” Big Mort drew in a deep breath. The world around him became a kaleidoscope of weird imagery. Afghanistan, the fire, and shadows mixed and re-formed constantly. He smacked his lips, realizing that he was hungry when smell of bacon reached his nose. “I’m starving.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I could go for a big cheeseburger.”

  “Yeah.” Timmons hoisted the chainsaw over his shoulder. With the mask covering his face, he kept reminding Big Mort of a ferret. It looked like Timmons had a long nose and whiskers, pointed ears, and beady eyes. “Know what I could go for?”

  “What?”

  Ferret-faced Timmons threw that big nose in the air and sniffed. “Angie Lombard. She’s out here somewhere. I can smell her.”

  Throwing his own nose into the air, Big Mort suddenly realized he could smell Angie, too. Her scent—vanilla and woman—was mixed in with the smoke and gasoline smell and oil stink from the chainsaw. “I can smell her, too.” He turned around and around, trying to figure out which way it was coming from.

  “I know how you boys feel,” a boisterous voice said. “You get a hankering for something—I mean, a full-on yearning for something—why, nothing else will do, will it?”

  Turning towards the voice, Big Mort discovered that an elf was leaning out of a nearby hollow tree. It was strange that he hadn’t noticed that the tree was hollow before, but he hadn’t. Now it had this elf leaning out of a little window, looking up at him with a big, nasty grin.

  The elf wasn’t a Keebler elf. With the orange hair, red rubber nose, pinched lips, and thin, wicked face, he might have been an evil cousin to the Keebler elves by way of a low-rent carnival. He wore a plaid chef’s apron and hat and held a spatula in one hand.

  “I know a thing or two about sweet teeth, boys,” the elf said. “I pander to them every day. And I know what your sweet tooth wants.” His orange eyebrows danced over the white-painted face. “I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

  A U2 riff came out of the tree, Bono singing, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”

  “Angie Lombard.” The elf smiled knowingly and leaned farther out of the hollow tree. “She’s what you want, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Stanley answered, and his long tongue was suddenly lolling out of the weasel face.

  “Let me point the way.” The elf pointed into the forest. “Well, don’t stand around, boys.” The elf tapped his spatula on the window frame. “Get moving. Bon appétit, mes amis!” He reached up and slammed the window closed, and when he did, it disappeared into the bark.

  Wheeling around, excitement buzzing through him, Big Mort loped in the direction the elf had pointed. Timmons bayed at his heels.

  10

  Ernie Lombard gazed at the useless compass in his hand. The needle spun like a top, never stopping, never hesitating. It was like he was standing on top of magnetic north, which he wasn’t. Around him, the wildfire swelled closer, cutting off all escape.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” Panting and smoke streaked, Cletus Brewman glanced at Ernie. Flames flickered in his pale blue eyes and revealed the fear dancing there. He held his chainsaw over his shoulder, one arm resting on the blade.

  They’d gotten separated from the others when the fire curled back around and overran their position. Ernie hadn’t been surprised to find out that Cletus had ended up with him. The other man had been following him from one work site to the next for forty years. Before that, they’d gone to school together, played baseball on the varsity team, with Ernie throwing strikes and Cletus catching them. They’d grown old together.

  “Damned compass has quit on me.” Ernie knocked the device against his other hand, hoping to jar it back into working order. “Only thing I had that I thought was more reliable than you.”

  Cletus grinned. The expression was more wrinkled than it had been, but it was the same grin he’d been showing Ernie since they’d been getting batters out.

  “Ain’t nothin’ more reliable than me, boss. I coulda told you that.”

  “I suppose you could have.”

  Cletus had been there with Ernie when he’d started Lombard Lumber, had helped him grow the business from a two-man operation into a medium-sized logging outfit in the 1980s, then helped him quietly accept that those days were over and they were back to a small operation.

  Frustrated, Ernie dropped the compass into his shirt pocket and stared around at the forest. With all the smoke and the flames blazing everywhere, he didn’t know which way they’d come and which way they needed to go.

  “Which way we goin’, boss?” Cletus pulled out his faded handkerchief and mopped at his brow. All he succeeded in doing was pushing around the soot and grime.

  “Downhill.” Gazing in that direction, Ernie stared into a massive wall of flame. They weren’t going downhill in that direction. The fire seemed to stretch on endlessly, but he knew that wasn’t possible.

  Cletus shook his head. “We ain’t goin’ that way.”

  “Downhill as soon as we can, then.” Ernie headed up, away from the fire, trying to spot an angle he could take that would allow them to head down the hill again. There had to be a way.

  The sharp, almost sweet smell of gasoline tickled Ernie’s nose and sent a trickle of fear eeling through him. He sniffed again, turned his head and sniffed once more, and realized that the gasoline odor was coming from behind him. Turning, he realized the aroma was coming from Cletus.

  “Something wrong, boss?” Cletus shifted nervously.

  “I smell gas. Turn around.”

  Cletus turned to reveal the dark stain that ran down the back of his jacket to his pants. As Ernie watched, a few more drops of gas from the chainsaw’s cracked fuel reservoir leaked out and soaked into Cletus’ jacket.

  Ernie grabbed the chainsaw. “Lemme have that. Your gas tank’s ruptured. Leakin’ all over everywhere. You’re gettin’ soaked.”

  “Musta busted it one of them times I fell while we was runnin’.”

  “Don’t see how you didn’t smell that.”

  Cletus cursed. “It’s this stupid smoke. Always clogs up my sinuses. Can’t smell anything.”

  “Gotta get you outta that jacket. Maybe outta them pants, too.” Ernie tossed the chainsaw over to the side. His heart started pounding, feeling like it was sliding out of rhythm the way it had three years ago when he’d ended up in the ER. He hadn’t told his sons or his daughter about that, but the doc had warned him that he needed to start taking things easier. That hadn’t been in the cards, though.

  Cletus started pulling at his jacket zipper, paused, then tried again with the same lack of success. “Zipper’s stuck, boss! Can’t get it loose!”

  “Lemme see that.” Ernie tugged on the zipper but it held fast.

  All around them, the locomotive noise of the wildfire intensified. The flames crackled through the brush and came closer.

  Giving up on t
he zipper, Ernie reached to his side and drew his knife and opened it with a practiced flick. The sharp blade caught the firelight for a moment. “Hold still.”

  “Holdin’, boss.” Nervously, Cletus held his ground.

  Ernie grabbed the man’s jacket and shoved the knife blade through, preparing to cut it off Cletus. The man would have less protection from the embers and heat, but it would be better than—

  Cra-ack!

  Hearing the threatening sound overhead, Ernie glanced up just in time to see a large, flaming branch split off a nearby tree. The twenty-foot limb crashed through the smaller branches, scattering leaves, twigs, and embers in its wake.

  Ernie tried to grab a fistful of Cletus’ jacket at the same time Cletus yelled, “Look out, boss!” and shoved Ernie with both hands. Taken by surprise, Ernie stumbled backward. His foot hooked a rock or a fallen tree or something, and he toppled over. His head banged into the hard ground and he stared at the flaming canopy above him.

  Heart pounding, head swimming, Ernie was barely aware of the long branch slamming down across his feet. Then he heard Cletus yelling. Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Ernie gasped for his breath and felt sharp pains tearing through his chest.

  A few feet away, Cletus lay trapped by the burning branch. As Ernie watched, the fire spread to Cletus’ jacket and caught, tripling in size and burning hotter and brighter.

  “No!” Ernie yelled hoarsely as Cletus yelled in agony. Ernie tried to push himself up and grab the water jug at his side at the same time. Black spots suddenly filled his vision, then swelled till he could see nothing at all.

  “Harvey! Harvey!”

  Ignoring Gary Baker’s panicked yells, Harvey sidled off and put more distance between himself and the other man. Harvey had a plan. He’d figured it out in the last few minutes and he knew it was a way out for everybody.

  He was going to die. In fact, he had to die.

  “Harvey! Where are you?”

  Gone. Good as gone. Gone and good riddance. Figuring he was far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed, Harvey turned and ran. Just keep going straight, Gary. Don’t look for me. Get yourself out of here and somewhere safe.