Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (32 page)

As I watch the news and caffeine up, I think about all the brushfire training we’ve had. The vastness of a wildfire, and the possibility that flames will move faster than we can keep up with, fills us with adrenalin and a healthy dose of fear.

When the call comes, we pile into the trucks with our wildland gear, and quickly pull out of our station’s bay. I know to many civilians this loud blur of speeding trucks and flashing lights is high drama, like something from a movie. But as we rush off to battle the fire-spitting beast and save lives, the reality is that most of us will end up on a smoky hill with our Pulaski ax’s, trenching firebreaks in strategic spots to hold the line of fire as it rages toward us.

The truth is when the winds have cursed us and flames are almost a hundred feet high and moving at breakneck speed, our usual methods of firefighting are useless. I’ve heard stories of firefighters facing a five-mile wall of flames with little more to do than run to save their lives.

We end up on the 101 Freeway with the Studio City station right behind us, creating a powerful chain of howling trucks, so that even the worst of those asshat commuters have to move over to make room for us to pass.

Many long minutes later we exit at Malibu Canyon road, and as we head toward the canyon we hear the roar of water-dropping, and fire-retardant copters overhead.

Bobo is checking the TMAC app on his iPhone for conditions. “How can a beach community have such damn low humidity? The winds are picking up even more, and it’s way hotter than usual. This is fucked up.”

Charlie shakes his head with a somber expression. “It’s why Malibu is the wildfire capital of North America. I guess money can’t buy everything.”

Scott nods. “This one could be bad. My dad was on the line for the Agoura-Malibu Firestorm of 1978. I grew up hearing those stories, crazy shit . . . birds exploded in the sky, homes imploded, while horses caught on fire and had to be shot. Dad said it was hell on Earth.”

The truck falls quiet. Joe checks his watch and then glances over at me. It’s going to be a long call—maybe my longest ever.

The Studio City force ends up being directed to the camp at the edge of the canyon, while we get orders to continue onto PCH. When we reach the base camp, Chief and Joe check in with Site Command overseeing all the adjoining forces.

While we quickly suit up with our coats, wildland packs and helmets, Jim starts going on about the latest in satellite imagery and infrared technology. By the time he’s babbling about slope aspects and elevation I sorely want to tell him to cut it, but I don’t since each of us have different ways of dealing with nerves.

Regardless, I tune him out since I don’t want to hear about that crap. I leave that stuff to the experts. I just want to be told what I need to do, so I can get it done.

My blood starts pumping when word comes that we’re assigned to the break line just north of Malibu High School, a campus on a hill facing the Pacific Ocean. We move to position, making note of the designated escape route.

It’s tedious work, slinging the ax to break up the soil and rake away the brush, but I do my best to keep up with all the guys. With the group effort our containment line quickly expands until it runs all the way down to the highway.

We get a radio call that the winds have changed direction, and we’re reassigned. Before we load up, I turn and look back up the hill. The sky is electric orange with washes of red edged with black smoke. Sparks are shooting up hundreds of feet, lighting up the sky like an afternoon fireworks show. Anxiety bubbles up my chest, growing so big that I can barely breathe, but I will myself to calm the hell down. I won’t be any good to anyone if I don’t get a grip.

Word is there’s concern of the firestorm jumping the Pacific Coast Highway, and if it does, those densely layered multi-million dollar homes make easy tinder for the roaring beast.

A group of us are assigned ocean side, to check every house for stragglers along Broad Beach just past Zuma. Apparently there are still people convinced they can somehow save their house if they stay behind. As Charlie said earlier, money can’t buy everything and that also includes brains for these nutbags with their fire extinguishers and big ideas.

We recheck our radios with instructions to call in every ten minutes and be back at base camp within the half-hour. I’m assigned to the road three streets in, and I pass through the security gate off the highway that’s been rigged open.

I start at the house closest to the beach, banging on the front door and walking the perimeter while looking in every window. All clear. I repeat the process, house to house, zig-zagging across the shared road and back. I’m only two houses away from PCH when I get a radio call.

“McNeill, evacuate immediately . . . firestorm has jumped PCH and is moving our way fast.”

From the tone of the command, I don’t have to be told twice. I can feel the heat approaching and I sprint up the street and back to the truck. One by one the guys load in, until only Charlie and Joe are missing. As I down a bottle of water and wait for our next directive, my foot is tapping until my whole leg shakes. Where the hell is Joe?

Charlie loads in looking flustered. He shakes his head. “He went back down, something about a bunch of animals, and now he’s not responding.”

“Joe?” I ask, as panic edges up my spine.

“He was having trouble with his radio right before we broke,” Jim states with his brows knit together and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Where was he? You were the road after me, right?”

Charlie nods. “And Joe was the one following. It was that crazy castle with the turrets and shit. I heard their horses were loose on the beach, but the dogs and cats were trapped inside.”

I glance at Charlie and see a shadow casting down over his features, like he feels guilty for not turning around and going back after Joe despite being ordered to evacuate. He starts to stand up, but I beat him to it and nod toward the spot outside where the Chief is. “You’ve got a wife and kid, Charlie. This is mine.”

My heart is thundering as I approach Chief. “Any word from Joe?”

He shakes his head looking pissed off. “Damn radio. I’m not even getting a signal.”

“Can I—” I start to ask before Chief cuts me off.

“The Battalion Commander gave orders to pull out completely. He’s ordered that for good reason. I don’t like it either but don’t worry, McNeill, Murphy’s the smartest one in this squad. He’s got his shelter and he knows the ocean is an option. This isn’t his first rodeo.”

“Right,” I say, trying my best to sound like I agree. “But what if he got hurt or something?”

“That street is a no-zone that’s already burning and you think I’m going to put your life at risk to test the commander’s order? How do you think Joe would feel about me allowing you to do that knowing the risk? I know you mean well, McNeill, but go get back in the truck. I’ve put out directives with air and ground control to locate him. Meanwhile, you guys need to be moved to safety.”

I sulk back slowly to the truck, and when I’m just feet away I turn to see Chief has moved out of sight. An adrenaline rush blasts through me with a rhythm not unlike a surging firestorm. Before I can believe I have the balls to defy Chief and risk everything, I skitter across the highway and head south, sprinting as close to the towering shrubs and stately driveways as I can. What kind of a fool am I to run toward the fire instead of away from it?

The answer is simple—I’m a fool in love.

I’m breathless before I turn and storm down the road toward the castle-shaped mansion, a miniature Hogwarts rising out of the sand, instead of English moors. As I dash across the yard and circle the house screaming Joe’s name, I note a French door busted open but there are no signs of animals or Joe. I head to the back, bile rising in my throat to realize the area’s already burning hot.

“Joe!” I scream into the thick smoke. “Joe!”

The yard closer to the highway looks like a war zone, the edging shrubs already on fire and a towering palm tree has crashed into a massive pergola, obliterating the table and chairs it towered over.

The roar of the fire is getting louder by the second and just before I scream his name again, I freeze.
Was that a moan I just heard?

As my gaze frantically scans the scene for signs, I look at the potting shed on fire and then back at the downed patio and gasp. There’s a body trapped under all the wood and debris, and it’s not moving.

Joe!

I run over and drop to my knees, then place my hand on his head. He blinks, as if he wants me to know he’s alive, and so I lean in closer and start chanting, “I’m here, I’m here,” so he knows I’m truly with him and not just a hallucination.

Ironically as soon as he becomes more lucid he starts arguing with me, commanding me to run for my life, and save my own skin.
Really?
Does he have any idea how much that’s pissing me off? He has a lot of nerve telling me to leave him so he can die alone.
Not on my watch
. If he’s going up in flames, I’m going up with him.

I pull out my radio and report in quickly before Chief can yell at me, then get to work pulling debris and planks of wood off him, trying to set my man free.

You know how sometimes days and weeks go by where you keep disappointing yourself, not getting enough done, eating crappy food and not taking care of yourself, being a bitch to strangers or even your friends? I have plenty of those days, but if there was ever a day where I needed to rise up high, and be my best self . . . or even be a level of epic-self I could only imagine, today needs to be that day.

And thank fuck it is.

So while delirious Joe is still trying to tell me what to do, and I’m ignoring him, my mind is calculating every possible way to get through this so I can save his life.

I look up toward the highway and see this beast of a firestorm rising higher than I’ve ever seen flames burn. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t completely terrified. And at that very moment it hits me that our time is up. We’re about to become a couple of flaming s’mores with our gooey insides charred to a crisp. What can we do when Joe is too broken to stand up, let alone flee the firestorm with me? I stand frozen for several long seconds with my mouth hanging open, almost tasting our impending demise.

And that’s when the beast inside of me rises up just as high as those goddamn flames. “Fuck you!” I yell into the smoky air as I frantically set forth to save us. In that moment the obvious smacks me in the face: we’re feet from a swimming pool full of water. It’s our only hope.

I start dragging Joe across the cement like a sack of potatoes, yelling at him like a crazy track coach to help me by moving faster. But instead of a finish line, Joe claws and drags himself toward the line between life and death, and I’m determined to get him to the right side.

We take a graceless flop off the pool’s ledge, but when we hit the water it’s a sort of baptism, hope for life in whatever shape God wants it to take.

I can’t tell you much about the span of time that follows. It could be minutes or hours. All I know and care about is that Joe stays conscious and keeps breathing.

There are low points where it’s so hot that I start to lose faith, but then my epic-ness kicks back in and I deal with it. Finally things start to cool, and we realize that it’s quieter outside our bubble, so I make the decision to lift away from the pool’s surface the protective little tent I made of my wet coat, and assess the situation.

There’s a side of me nervous to see if we’d outsmarted the beast. It’s the same side that is frayed around every edge and wants to cry like a baby, but I know me crying would freak out Joe. As it is I can tell how weak he is, the stress and pain of his injuries wearing down whatever spirit he has left.

After I let my gaze scan the yard beyond the pool, I lean in close so he can feel how excited I am.

“Joe, we’re not dead!”

He winces again, like he’s a little sad about that. Damn this man needs some morphine. “Apparently not,” he whispers.

“It’s not just that we’re not dead inside, we’re not dead outside either. We’re completely alive.”

“It sure seems that way,” he agrees with a small smile.

“We’re so fierce! We did it!” I cry out.

He grimaces in pain but then looks me in the eye. “Thanks to
you
we’re
not
dead.”

Smiling, I bounce excitedly in the water, making waves that are alive too.

“When we get out of this hell-hole, what do you say that we keep this
alive
thing going?” I ask, my head spinning with ideas.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“That’s right!” I cry out.

He’s placating me, and would probably like me to shut up and be quiet for a while. But despite that I love him more than ever.

I grin at him and throw my arms straight up in the air. “So kiss my ass you stupid, fucking firestorm . . .
we’re alive!”

Epilogue:
Alive

"This is Hell, dude . . . I'm expecting to see Satan come out at anytime now.” ~ A Malibu Canyon resident fleeing his home torched by the historic 1993 Malibu wildfires