Dragon Fire!

By Pete Hurrey

An unworldly forest fire ravaging the state of Florida during a time of extreme drought, destroys most of the state, while one man attempts to save his loved ones and discovers his own love in the process of surviving both manmade and natural disasters bent on destroying mankind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365483790

Book preview

Dragon Fire!

Dragon Fire!

By Pete Hurrey

ISBN 978-1-365-48379-0

Publisher: Lulu.com

Grateful Acknowlegdments

When I regained control of this copyright from my original publisher, I decided to let the story ferment and then attempt to find an audience in the realm of electronic books. After months of reading, editing, chopping, reconnecting and crafting this current vision of the story, I decided to pull out all the stops and make this a true stand-alone work, apart from the original, one hundred fifty pages shorter, more succinct, direct and faster paced. I think I suceeded … you will bear witness and I’m sure, some of you will let me know.

In this current itteration, I have a few people to thank and acknowledge for their invaluable help in getting this work to e-book.

First I must thank my friend and fellow writer, Andrea Woodbridge. In an unrelated project on which we attempted to collaborate, the writing spark was once again reignited within and this new Dragon Fire! was given life. Thanks Andrea!

Second, I must thank my editor, Sherry Santana, a dear friend, cohort and confidant who agreed to take on the task of corraling my wandering pen. Great job, Sherry. Thanks!

Third, I have to thank my artist Kaley A Blackwell of KaB Art Studio. This amazing artist was able to decipher my diatribe into a workable art solution. So thanks for being an amazing talent. I only hope my writing lives up to your efforts.

I hope you all enjoy this bit of fairytail. Thanks!

©2016 Pete Hurrey. All Rights Reserved.

Chapter 1—Dragon’s Breath

-- DAWN: 5:47 A.M. --

Dawn on Memorial Day arrived in serene quiet as the bloody red orb of the sun leapt out of the Atlantic unfettered by a single cloud. The glowing sphere soared higher, further imbuing the coastal beaches with multi-hued splendor: orange-red to orange to yellow and in the end a blinding, searing, white. Cooler surfaces heated, the air began to rise; slowly at first, picking up strength and energy in the increasing heat of Florida’s early sun.

A breeze began to stir. Gentle ocean breezes soon stiffened, giving way to harsh, hot winds. The warm Atlantic, calm in the pre-dawn, began to stir following the wind. Soft, rolling two-foot swells grew to four, to six and to eight with foaming white caps pronouncing the arrival of roiling choppy surf to the famous Daytona Beach.

Its ever-present surfer contingent was ecstatic, today’s seas were already big and choppy. There would be plenty of noteworthy rides today. The surfers, wiping drug- and alcohol-clouded sleep from their eyes, charged into the waves almost as one, leaving a stoked, newly wind-driven campfire unattended on the beach.

By the time the sun escaped above the boiling Atlantic, the wind was howling at forty knots.

The beach fire grew, flames starving for more food. Snarled. An eye opened. A nostril flared.

The Bermuda high, immovable for months, began feeding an approaching strong low-pressure system moving toward Georgia off the Gulf of Mexico. Southwesterly winds turned northeasterly and continued to grow.

Dragon fire stretched its wings, relishing its strengthened breath. Famished. Feed me!

The campfire burning wildly on the beach surged again. A single ember caught the skirts of a northeasterly gust and flew toward the lush forest. A dragon seed; flying with increasing strength and speed soon germinated into a dragon of flame, gathering energy in burgeoning winds. The dragon unfurled its fiery wings and came to rest upon a sap-fattened pine at the edge of the forest. Dragon fire was born. The forest’s dry canopy erupted into a wild, unruly conflagration. A dragon firestorm.

Across the inter-coastal waterway, the early wind was just picking up. Soon, twenty-knot gusts began slapping dense inland brush and foliage, lush and full from heavy winter rains and now dry as seasoned tinder from two months of steady and unrelenting drought. As the sun crawled upward, sustained winds approached twenty knots with northeasterly gusts over thirty.

Dragon fire roars.

Loose burning fronds and wind-blown hot ash floated further into the canopy; the fire grew.

Turpentine-filled pines roared to life. With each gust of wind, more and more surrounding pines exploded into flame. The nearby and intermingled water and live oaks grew hotter and exploded to fiery life.

Dragon fire grows. Sinews awaken. Deliirious. Frolics. Burns.

-- 6:23 A.M. --

Red Ketchum brushed back his thick shock of white hair as he observed his contingent of forest rangers with considerable concern. They had been fighting a stubborn brush fire near Daytona Beach all night. His crew was beat to the point of exhaustion. Red, himself was okay, but a replacement would be good. He didn’t relish another shift. He needed a hot shower and cold sheets.

Scratching his dark-tan, sun-lined chiseled face, Red looked at his watch. He thought Bear would have sent in the replacement team by now, but Bear followed the rules. If her schedule called for replacements at seven, by damn, seven it would be, not one minute earlier. Bear was tough that way.

He didn’t know a better firefighter or a more determined ranger than Bear. Red had heard how hard she’d had it moving up the ranks. Being a woman in the world of men was difficult enough. The fact that she was gorgeous didn’t help her efforts, either.

Be that as it may, she’d just as soon rip out your throat as look at you if you didn’t follow orders. Red would wait, but he was worried about the exhausted rangers in front of him.

Man, I thought we’d never get that fucker down, he blurted in an attempt to perk up his charges. I don’t remember the last time we had to work that hard. If we don’t get some rain soon, I think we’re in for a very long summer.

Only Alicia Summers responded to his words. The lithe blonde grunted.

Another woman among men.

She pushed herself up from Hank Devito’s chest where she’d been dozing and glared at him as only a woman can. The rest ignored him, but Red decided to press on. Until their replacements arrived, they had a job to do. Mop-up operations needed to commence. As dry as things were, if they slacked off now, there would be hell to pay. Red didn’t relish Bear’s wrath should they let the fire escape again as it had twice in the past twenty-four hours.

Take twenty guys, get some grub or whatever, but then we have to start mop-up. Devito. You and Summers are first up. Goshen set up the rotation.

Mop it up your ass Ketchum! We’ve been at it all night, snarled Summers. It can wait for our fucking replacements!

Dragon fire snarls and flaps mighty wings.

The line stubbornly held through the night by Red’s crew exploded into flame. The game was on, again. This time though, the fire had done more than escape.

Ernie Goshen, stiff, worn, and sore, groaned, stretched, stood and stretched again. Give it a rest! Grab some food and let’s get to it, he barked, glaring at Summers. Devito, opened an eye and grimmaced.

Red smiled. They would do what they had too. They were pros. He turned and walked into the early morning semi-dimness and swung into his awaiting helicopter.

He was the senior pilot in Florida’s forestry department. He would be glad to be back in the air and on the line where he belonged.

I don’t know how she talked me into this strike team leader shit. Fuck! I can’t say no to her. Fucking Bear – bitch!

His rotors began to spin, the whine of the turbines slowly growing to thunderous roar. Time to get to work. He grabbed the stick and collective and launched skyward.

Dragon fire roars.

Red caught a glimpse of a red-orange glow out of the corner of his eye as his helicopter leapt into the air. The radio crackled to life, distracting him.

FH 12, come in Red.

It was Bear.

FH 12, go chief, said Red into the microphone. He immediately noticed the heavy winds absent throughout the night.

Red, how did you make out last night? squawked Bear over his headset.

We got it down, but—Christ, Bear—what a bitch. If we don’t get some rain soon … shit! I don’t know. It’s going to be a long damn summer.

Yeah, no shit. Give me a status.

We finally got it down around 3:00 a.m. You might want to speed up the replacements, these guys are bushed.

I’ve sent Jones and Misser with their team. They should be arriving any time. Bear’s normal assertive voice wavered and she paused.

Red, is it holding?

I’ve got Devito and Summers starting mop-up and Goshen working the rotation. We’ve got a handle on it for now, but the wind has picked up considerably. Better keep an eye on it.

Dragon fire stretches its wings.

More of the canopy exploded into unruly flame, directly over the hauler coming to relieve Red’s team. The tractor-trailer carried a 30-31 plow unit, the primary firefighting tool for Florida’s forest rangers.

-- 7:03 A.M. --

We’re running late, smiled Misser lighting another smoke, his third in twenty minutes.

So what. We’ll be maybe two minutes late at the most, replied Jones, waving away Misser’s disgusting blue haze. Do you have to smoke so fuckin’ much, it stinks.

Devito’s gonna let us have it, replied Misser, ignoring Jones smoking comment.

I hate that jerk, blurted Jones in return. He’s an arrogant shit!

Misser blew smoke at Jones and began laughing. You’re just pissed because he’s got Summers. Misser continued to laugh.

Dragon fire laughs and roars.

Jones slowed down and turned to Misser very angry. He began to speak when a stream of fiery plasma engulfed them. Jones and Misser screamed. They were instantly on fire and burning alive in the cab of the truck. Misser attempted to open his door, but before they knew what happened the fuel tanks exploded. The tractor-trailer and its fully fueled cargo ripped up the surrounding forest as the entire apparatus disintegrated, raining flames into the nearby vegetation, adding to the inferno.

Devito and Summers had finally left the area and begun mop-up, with Alicia grumbling the whole way, they did not see the events unfolding behind them. Jones and Misser’s explosion happened just as they were approaching the site. The exhausted firefighters who had battled the blaze into supposed submission only hours before were trapped; too late to move, too late to live.

Dragon fire exhales fiercely. Pleased. Starved.

Fuel cells in the hapless forestry crew’s four flatbed, bulldozer/plow haulers explode.

Dragon fire laughs. Today is going to be a good day!

-- 8:11 A.M. --

Simon Grist was pissed. His last fare to the airport had stiffed him. It wasn’t the first time he had been cheated out of tips by his customers. He was beginning to hate his chauffeur’s job.

Simon picked up a new pack of generic menthol cigarettes and began pounding it against his palm, not really knowing why he did it, just that that was what was supposed to be done with a new pack of smokes. He opened the cellophane, ripped off the top, pulled one out, and lit it as he entered the limo. The harsh smoke caused him to cough dryly. He moved over to the fast lane. He slid down the window and threw the cigarette out. After a momentary pause, he launched the whole pack out the window behind it.

Dragon fire breathes deep and spews forth fiery exhale. Company arriving.

Simon’s cigarette landed in the median next to some very dry brush, showering sparks. The brush immediately began to smolder and then erupted into flame. The flames licked up the side of the tree and suddenly the canopy was engulfed.

Chapter 2—Dead!

-- 8:11 A.M. --

In all his years, he never remembered being this depressed. Jack sat up on the edge of the yellowed, lumpy, disheveled bed. His fourth cigarette of the day burned between his calloused, hardened, and gnarled fingers. Tendrils of wispy blue smoke wafted around his misshapen, slouched, but massive 64-year-old body; a body not obese, but one bent and broken by self-abuse and by mileage beyond its years. His body told stories; tales of conquest and defeat, of battles hard fought, of accidents, of injuries and enormous heartbreak. It hinted at a once proud, strong sinewy frame carrying rock hard musculature; not yet soft, used up; not yet done and gone, but going – going sooner than later.

It would need to have one fight left, one more battle, one that would begin today.

The Sharps can, on the rickety nightstand, stared at him, crumpled and covered with ashes. The blinking clock annoyed him.

Fuckin’ clock!

The alarm had aggravatingly aroused him from a night of fitful, tense, and angry sleep an hour ago. He thought it had been the clock, but didn’t remember switching it on the night before. Something nagged at his brain stem, some vague memory of a dream involving his wife, grandson Ross, and a terrible fire-breathing dragon trying to destroy them all. It was a distant echo in his mind, but then he heard the clock and awoke.

Or - was it the phone?

He hadn’t the energy to move since, other than to swing his painful legs over the edge of the bed. For some unknown reason, his mind was spinning with thoughts of happier times; of days when he could bounce out of bed with a smile and a spring to his step. Refusing the ever-present imagery of pain-filled days like today was going to be. Shut the fuck up! Pop some Ibuprofen, drink a beer and eat, asshole. If he had any guts he would end it, but he couldn’t. Something kept him going.

What the hell happened?

He knew only too well. He remembered the beginning-of-the-end when the days turned black, horrific, desultory, and bleak. The end of happy days . . . of happiness of any kind.

He was hanging the ornaments on their Christmas tree in the week, the week when his wife would insist that all the decorations were cleaned, polished, and displayed. Christmas carols were playing on the stereo; candles set out and arranged perfectly with everything red, green, and white.

The piano bench on which he was standing suddenly gave way. His ever-present Miller Lite spilled. Jack’s cigarette, always hanging from his beer-bloated and mustached face, dropped to the floor before he knew what was happening. His foot bent back, his knee was thrown to the left, his body launched to the right, and the bench exploded. Jack landed in a heap.

Man, she could scream! And Junior, just sitting there - duh, You all right?

The paramedics showed up and made him put out his smoke, another one. Who knew where the old one landed. They took away his beer; the new one, even though he’d tried to finish the foaming disgusting old one. His leg was numb – until they moved him.

Jack’s next lucid moment came in the emergency room.

You ruptured your left patellar tendon, the doctor said in the same tone as, you will feel some discomfort.

He had done the same thing four years before while playing football with his kids. That had been at Christmas, too. It was the right knee that time. The room spun wildly and Jack’s anger rose crimson, his blood boiling.

The slide began, but no one; not him, not his wife, his friends, or his kids were alert to the signal. It began as only a low warning, a moaning in the subconscious like an alarm getting louder. No one seemed to notice the end of his life as it crashed silently within him.

Here I am today.

Damn! Ow, goddamn it!

His fourth cigarette was burning into the soft flesh between his index and middle fingers. Jack slammed down the smoke and stomped on the burning stub with his bare foot, the good one, not the wired up wasted one. Another black sooty spot on the corroded, decrepit carpet joined the five or six already there. The dark scoops in the Blue Mountain, double thick million-dollar-a-square-foot, extravagant, fifty-percent-over-budget-carpet his wife lobbied for, and got, twenty years ago.

Jack stood, again staring at the blinking alarm clock. His stare turned to angry glare. He ripped the clock from its perch and threw it against the stained and faded pink walls of the room. The Rose color that appeared the same time as the carpet; the same time as the ceramic sinks, louver doors, the new stove, refrigerator, dishwasher, trash compactor, the hardwood floors and the pool table arrived. Everything had shown up twenty years ago. Back when things were good, before his life was over. In those days, he spent money on nothing and everything and never gave it a second thought. Back then he was alive. Not now. Not for a long time. It had all started that week.

Shaking loose the thoughts and struggling to stand, Jack let the coolness of the roaring overhead ceiling fan caress his naked body. The cranked up air conditioning made his nipples hard. Goose bumps appeared all over his sagging, grey, pink, and white skin. He shivered a little.

It was late in May now. Summer was early, already hot outside. Jack could see the heat waves shimmering off the tadpole pond that used to be his swimming pool. Its heat rising like smell off a skunk; putrid, rancid heat only a Florida sun could produce. The Orlando sun baked and beat you down. It took forever to cross the sky; leering, searing and burning the eyes out of your head; grinding down plants, animals, and your will.

Only fuckin’ tourists could enjoy this!

It reminded him of eighteen years ago. That Orlando summer had started in April, as well. Brush fires carried the news. Acrid smoke hazed the sky. The smell of smoke and burning forest permeated everything, scrub pine, palmetto, live, and water oaks and muck.

The phone rang, startling him.

Damn! It’s Memorial Day isn’t it?

He hobbled over to the offensive, abrasive noise.

Hello.

Hey, dad! I called earlier. Guess you were asleep. You gonna barbecue today? What do you have planned? Jane and I want to bring over the kids and hang out a little, okay? asked his oldest son, Tommy.

Sure, come on over, Jack said dryly. You’ll have to bring some stuff. I haven’t been to the store in a while.

Jack immediately thought of the clock smashed against his bedroom wall.

I guess it was the phone.

We’ll come on over in a few and see what you need.

Great.

Damn! … I created these traditions  … I guess I can make it through one more.

Dad, have you heard from Nick and Crystal? They’re supposed to be coming back into town this weekend.

No. Nick doesn’t come around any more, he paused; hasn’t in a long time.

Not since he thinks I killed his mother.

Tommy, have you heard from Doc, lately? Jack asked hopefully. What’s he up to these days? Still with Dupont?

Doc was his nickname for his youngest son, Ed, a truly amazing kid with brains. BBS, Masters, Ph.D., God only knew what else. They hadn’t been together since Ed had fired him as CEO of his Biomedical Company ten years earlier.

One of the proudest moments in Jack’s life was the day his son had graduated from UNC Chapel Hill with his Doctorate in Analytical Chemistry. He and Doc had been planning his son’s company for the four prior years. Ed would supply the brains and Jack the business acumen to run the company, keep it financed and profitable. In his day, Jack had been a very successful businessman with his own company.

He had taken his little graphics firm and turned it into a national powerhouse for publishing services. That was before she died too, and his business had gone straight to hell. That had been eight years before Ed’s graduation. By the time Jack had taken the reins of Ed’s company, it had been too late. Death had overcome him and Jack failed, again.

It’s tough to be a CEO when you’re dead. God I miss that kid.

He’s in Jersey. I just chatted with him this morning, said Tommy. Dad, you know he’ll never forgive you.

I know.

Why not? He lived through it. I lived through it. Why do you think he still holds a grudge after ten years? Jack paused for a moment.

Tommy was dead silent on the other end.

Tommy, can you get him a message from me? there was obvious desperation in his question. Tell him I would like to talk... that I’m sorry, that I miss him. Will you do that for me?

Stop it Dad. We’ll talk more when we come over. Tommy said curtly and abruptly hung up the phone.

This is really going to be a fun day.

Back in the good old days, days like today were fun. Now they were dreadful, apprehensive affairs. Instead of dancing to Jimmy Buffet with Nick, Manny, Tommy and Ed – and Marsha, today would be a dance macabre of silent emotions filled with forced pleasantries and polite, but inept and meaningless conversation.

How are the kids? Really? That’s great. Would you like some more salad? Watch out boys, the pool monster will get ya if go too close! Oh Poppy. There isn’t any pool monster! Blah, blah. When are you going to fix this pool? You know I know someone that will give you a good price . . . Conversations were hard now.

He stooped over to the nightstand and grabbed up his smokes, lit up, inhaled deeply and blew harshly. That first drag, every time, still the only part of each cigarette Jack truly enjoyed.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The image was grizzled, gaunt, and grey. Only wisps of hair remained. He looked around the room. There were clothes thrown helter-skelter around the matted down floor, on the foot of the bed, on the bentwood rocker his wife had loved so. Clothes were only a part of the mess. The ashtray on his nightstand was full and over flowing. The Sharps cans from last night were crushed and overflowing with ashes, too. Now there was a mangled alarm clock added to the mix.

Looks like a door closer day.

Jack found his ripped jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on the pale-blue and white tattered pants as he sat. His bad knee wouldn’t allow him to stand up and get dressed. He cursed as his gnarled, crusty toenails caught in the white strings of the torn denim material. Even back in the good days, his feet had been a disaster.

He struggled back to his feet, wincing, pulling up the jeans as he rose. His ghost pain was real this morning; dull, sharp and electric; not there, but always there, chronic pain.

He struggled through the door of the bedroom and into the expansive disaster of his living room. A week’s worth of Sentinels lie strewn about the room; some on the rattan and glass coffee table, the used up couch, next to the TV and on side tables. Crumbled and crushed beer cans lay scattered in close proximity to a small trashcan across from the lounge chair directly in front of the television set. At least four different ashtrays were full to overflowing. There were dirty, empty plates, bowls, and glasses everywhere.

Half turned, some panels missing and incomplete vertical blinds filtered a strong morning sun. He flipped on the TV and turned to Daybreak Florida on Channel 9.

… smoke has caused the closure of I-95 for an eighteen mile stretch between the Beeline to the South and LPGA Boulevard to the North. All traffic is being detoured around Daytona Beach. Let’s go to Melanie Swift for a live update.

"Mark, the small ten acre brush fire has turned tragic and deadly. This morning the fire quickly spread, overwhelming a District-Twelve fire team reporting for duty. We have reports that other firefighters were trapped and killed as well, but information is sketchy for now. The Deputy Chief of Field Operations, Vernon Cornwell, has called in what he termed the Gold Incident Command Team to get the fire under control.

From our position, here in the Eye-in-the-Sky Channel 9 News Helicopter you can see exclusive live coverage of the fire line expanding! Just moments ago, the flames jumped both lanes of I-95 and are heading south and west. Firefighters thought they had containment until the wind shifted and strengthened at sunrise. Let’s go to Cheryl in Channel 9’s Exclusive Super Double Doppler Radar Center for a weather update. Cheryl, is there any rain in sight? What can we expect from these winds?"

Thank you, Melanie. The National Weather Service has issued a strong wind advisory for our area. The weak cold front that was heading our way yesterday has been turned to the North by that strong Bermuda High stationary over the Gulf Stream.

We can expect about twenty-four hours of thirty- to forty-mile-per-hour sustained winds with gusts even higher. Channel 9’s Exclusive Super Double Doppler Radar, the only one with two overlapping Doppler radars for total area coverage, shows no rain in sight. We’re predicting temperatures in the high 90’s again today. These high northeasterly winds, combined with the abnormally high temperatures will continue to help feed the fire. The Keetch-Byram Drought Index for Central Florida is well into the 700’s. As you know 800 is the same as the Sahara ...

Jack had heard enough. This fire was a killer and no firefighters were going to stop it. Only Mother Nature and about fifty trillion gallons of rain were going to slow it down.

He threw the remote on the couch and headed toward the kitchen. As he turned the corner, ignoring the mess, Jack heard a small squeak from an enormous grey tabby cat perched on the bay window over looking club tadpole and his backyard.

Hey, Bulldog, he spoke softly. Ready for your food, are you? The cat had been with him for as long as he could remember.

What are you, twenty-five?

The ancient cat struggled to its feet and squeaked again, dragging its belly on the ceramic tiles of the bay window, grey hair scruffy and profusely shedding.

He bent over the sink cabinet and grabbed a can of Friskies out from underneath. You look under fed.

Another squeak and a half-ass purr emanated from the old cat.

You better get ready, Bulldog. The grandkids are coming over. You know they love to mess around with you.

Bulldog just looked on with disinterest.

You going to feed me, or what?

Jack stripped off the can’s cover and scraped the contents into the putrid looking bowl. Droppings of many cans of food seemed indelibly etched onto its surface. Bulldog didn’t seem to care and launched at the food as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Jack patted the cat gently on the head and turned to the refrigerator. The door creaked as he opened it. He reached in, pulled out a Sharps, popped it, and drank deeply.

Chapter 3—Fear!

-- 8:32 A.M. --

Gold Incident Command Team Leader and Brevard Forest Area Supervisor, Bernice Holmes was beat. She was pissed. She was anxious. She was crying silently and alone in her command post near the Daytona fire. Bear, as she chose to be called, had just received news of her replacement team and the strike team from last night. They had all been killed by the fire’s amazing resurgence. Her trucks and four badly needed plows were destroyed as well. She shook off the despair, wiping her face with a damp rag.

Today was going to be brutal. More firefighters could die today. They were her responsibility and she would do everything in her power to keep them safe, but the fire came first. Six million District-Twelve residents were her responsibility, too.

Outside helicopters roared, lifting their buckets and empty water tanks, refueling and heading back into the battle. They would be busy today. The fire was growing into a real monster. The high swirling winds were whipping the hot ash and burning cinder in all directions. No one could specifically pinpoint the fire’s path. It’s longitude and latitude was changing at an alarming rate. Designation by section and township was ridiculous. The fire was spreading faster than they could keep track.

Follow the wind? Where?

Her firefighters were helpless. She lost her experienced fire team in less than two minutes this morning. There were more deaths, she knew. Devito and Summers and their 30-31 rigs working mop-up on the firebreak had never reported in. She feared the worst.

Trucks began arriving with reinforcements. Bear hated crises. She could handle the fire. Over the years, she had proven herself time and time again. It was this first meeting; having to establish her credentials every time some new macho idiot showed up. Bear shook her head. She had to snap out of this sad stupor now. The approaching trucks were coming to a stop.

Diminutive Bernice Holmes walked out of the structure to meet the new arrivals; her mood grim and determined. She pulled herself up as high as she could stretch herself. Bear’s one hundred four-pound frame would only get so big and would never look macho. She knew as soon as she saw the trucks come into view.

This is going to be no fun at all.

The State Officer-in-Charge had deployed the National Guard.

The VHF radio strapped across her chest crackled to life, snapping Bear’s thoughts back into focus.

Orlando Six, be advised that two divisions of National Guard have been deployed to your location, over. squawked the radio.

The trucks are arriving now. Bear hesitated. "One. We’re going to need more air support. The fire has jumped three different fire lines already and has cleared I-95 back to the southwest of our original line. You’d better start evacuating everyone south and west of this location. Get the State OIC to get another strike team ahead of this thing now. It’s heading for Orlando, fast. Who’s up? Blue? Tell Green and Red to stand by as well. We’re probably going to need them all! I’d get on the horn to NIFC, now.

Start the fire breaks at the Beeline, the Greeneway and I-4. We will try to cut this thing off before it reaches downtown. Get two crews to Boggy Creek Road to plow from Narcoose to East Lake Toho. Use East Lake Fish Camp as headquarters for Blue and try to cut this thing off. In my estimation, the fire is spreading at one-to-two acres per hour. Over.

Say again, Six.

That’s a growth rate of a hundred feet per minute, One.

Six, the DM says that you are to move your command post to the airport immediately. Over.

God, it’s going to be a very long day.

Roger, One. Send FH 12 to get me. I’ll deploy the National Guard to the power plant and the pipelines. We have to clear them as fast as we can. If the fire reaches them, we’re done. Get the state police to clear the road. Bear paused again. She calmed herself before she spoke again.

Be advised, I’ve lost a whole team this morning. I haven’t been able to reach the mop-up crew either; worst-case, she paused holding back another round of tears, that’s two more - over.

The radio was silent. Then, What is this thing, Bear? What the hell are we up against? crackled the unit. Bear walked briskly back into the command structure. This conversation would be best in a private setting, even though everyone on channel four would be listening.

This is a fire breathing son-of-a-bitch! replied Bear, radio protocol gone. And, it’s flying. I’ve never seen anything like it! The canopy is fully involved along with everything on the ground and I’m down a full team, four plows and a tanker! Bear had been a rookie on the line in the fires of 1998 and a lieutenant in 2000. Nothing in those years could compare to this.

What do you recommend we do?

Bend over and kiss your ass goodbye! Bear paused, waiting for a response. Then added, Get Orlando and Kissimmee on the horn and let them know they’re in for a very long holiday. The airport should shut down. All their fuel reserves need to be foamed and sealed. Any planes on the ground had better be moved to either Tampa International or Miami. Get the governor to declare an emergency and get some federal relief — FEMA, soon. We’re out of assets! Tell the state police to clear all the roads between here and Ocala! - And, get a fuckin’ priest, voodoo witch and the whole town of Cassadega to get us some rain because nothing’s going to stop this bitch except God, magic and ten inches of rain! Bear threw the VHF radio onto her chest strap.

Enough! I have to move fifty firemen, twenty heavy units, and a green National Guard unit ahead of the fire, now.

She slammed through the old school house door, grabbed a bullhorn, and began barking orders. Engines roared to life and people scrambled everywhere. The fight was moving and moving fast.

Forest Area Supervisor Holmes, exhausted, turned and addressed the National Guard Colonel just getting out of his Humvee.

"Colonel, Bear Holmes. This is Orlando Six. Radio frequency channel four, that’s 159.270, transmit and receive. I am Strike Team Leader for Gold Incident Command Team. You will take your orders from me during the incident.

We’ve got moving orders and a rapidly changing situation. Divide your units. Bear unfolded a laminated map onto a picnic table and laid it out for the colonel to see.

"The first unit is to converge on the power plant here and cut firebreaks around the whole complex. Get the reserve tanker units to begin soaking the ground in the firebreak. Start here at this intersection and work your way out simultaneously. Use pumps and hard lines if you have to. Saturate as much as you can. The fire burned through our breaks from last night, not again!

Your second unit needs to cut breaks along the entire lengths of the all three feeder pipelines leading to the power plant from the east coast. Start at the ocean and don’t stop until you get to the break around the plant. We’ll be plowing new breaks at 528, 417, I-4 to try to stop its advance before it gets to you. Your men will have to create a fire break of at least three hundred yards to have any chance of containment.

The colonel nodded, dumbfounded at the small imposing, yet absolutely beautiful woman standing before him, barking orders like a pro. She was extremely thin. Even under all the fire fighting gear and Nomex, he could tell she was rail thin.

Her face was covered with soot and ash and blotchy from, he assumed, getting little or no sleep. Her hair was tied up under her hardhat, but coming unraveled.

This is some kind of joke, right?

Let me talk to the man in charge, here. the colonel gruffly ordered. He was the CEO of a multi-national Fortune 500 company and, beautiful or not, this woman was not going to order him around!

I haven’t got time for this shit, Colonel. Bear said sternly.

She reached up, grabbed the colonel’s crisply starched fatigue jacket lapel, and pulled his ear close to her lips.

"I’m the fucking man in charge here Colonel. she hissed. You obey orders or I’ll have you reassigned. Got it?"

Bear reached into her jacket, pulling out her credentials. She opened the leather carrier with the ID and her badge and stuck it in the colonel’s face.

You got it, yet?

The man stared cross-eyed at her credentials pressed against his nose. Then, as Bear was reaching for her radio, Yes, ma’am.

Bear slammed the radio back into its holder and began to walk away. Over her shoulder she said, Do I need to repeat any of my orders, Colonel?

He’ll be dead by noon. What a pig.

The colonel shook his head negatively. He turned and began giving orders into his portable radio unit. More trucks and bulldozers roared to life, machines, filled with men and fear, on the move.

-- 8:54 A.M. --

Jack vaguely remembered other times. Most of his memories, however, were actually three separate fogs, ghosts of remembrances, mists of imagery in his decaying mind. He could bring back bits and pieces of his childhood and growing up. …

Early fog.

… a solo bike ride down Agnes Street in Barrie, Ontario … ice Fishing on Lake Simpson … netting blue crabs at Breezy Point Beach on the Chesapeake. Jack smiled as he brought back images of good old Cappy Travers and his stinky bay-built crab boat.

It was these good memories that were most elusive, nibbling at his consciousness, a little at a time.

The bad memories clamped down on his mind and never let go. Images dark and desperate; like rabid pit bulls, snarling, tearing flesh kind of memories. Every particle of his being remembered the bad unwanted memories; misty ghosts, which would suddenly crystallize into savages eating his flesh; dragons breathing orange-white fire into his brain.

Middle fog.

Suddenly, memories of the day he killed Hampton came crashing through his mind. Jack remembered every detail like it was yesterday.

The flight path of the bullet was so clear, he could reach out and touch it, divert it, send it into oblivion; Jack watched it, again, and again, the small caliber slug leave the chamber of the single-shot target pistol. The lone bullet crept across the crowded room avoiding all else in its path. It slowly missed Gina, going right by her head.

Jack swore it smiled going by.

I’m not for you. Have another drink.

Jack watched as it kept going. He could have grabbed it and thrown it to the floor and stomped on it.

He watched it smile again as it brushed Jim’s hair.

It bared its teeth. It was close, smelling life’s blood. It slowed to a crawl. Eyes appeared, bleeding death, grey-black teeth craving human flesh gnashed.

Here I come, boy. Yes. That’s right. I’m coming for you!

The devil himself was in that bullet. Jack watched the diminutive angel of death slam into Hampton’s chest, laughing, devouring flesh, ripping into the aorta, drinking life’s blood, and sucking the body dry. Then came the noise. Bang! Hampton was dead, his best friend and roommate, dead.

That was the first time Jack’s soul had died. Because of Hampton’s death, he had been encouraged to leave the Naval Academy. After the Coroner’s inquest had cleared him of the crime; after the Naval JAG investigation had cleared him; after the civil suit by Hampton’s family had been dismissed; after everything was said and done, the Academy was not about to clear him. Presidential appointment or not, he was through as a Midshipman.

There would be many more deaths after that, but the death to end all deaths started that week twenty years ago, the death he lived today. Jack sometimes considered Hampton the lucky one; he died only once.

Jack had never believed in God after Hampton. He did believed in a powerful universal force, which he called Mother Nature or Mom. However, he did talk to God. He ranted, raved, and cursed God. He would never do so to Mom. He had the ultimate respect for the forces of nature. Man’s God?

Why the hell not? Is it still my turn? You pickin’ on me? You bored? Can’t get your rocks off with anyone else? Fuck you! What am I some kind of bet? What are my odds, you son-of-a-bitch? Put me down for twenty! You can kill me, but I won’t go! That’s what’s got your goat, isn’t it. You keep killing me and I keep on truckin’.

The Grateful Dead.

Hey! I’m talking to you, asshole!

Jack never got an answer, but that didn’t stop his rant. His brain was now swirling with dark memories: the dump truck that nearly decapitated him on I-95 …

I loved that Harley; wasn’t worth a shit after that.

… the gas tank exploding in his ’69 Volkswagen Beetle while going sixty miles an hour on Route 4 toward Washington, D.C.

Thought you had me that time didn’t you? What’re a few burns between friends, huh? Is that the best you got? Fuck you and the apocalypse you road in on!

Jack forced the memories away and stood up from the couch. He threw the empty, crumpled Sharps can at the wastebasket on the other side of the room. A smile came to his face. Marsha used to get so mad when she missed. Beer can-basketball was one of their favorite pastimes. Jack almost always won, and the Swampster Muffin would get pissed.

His memories of her were the worst. …

Third Fog

… memories of his Swampy, Marsha. They ate the pit bull in his mind and spit out its bones. The dragon’s fire was drowned by her memories. The sorcerer’s demonic magic show was given the hook! This was his most effective death yet, a never-ending, eternal, deader-than-dead death.

You might just have won this one, blood-sucking bastard! You’re a sick fuck!

Jack willed his mind clear and hobbled into the kitchen for another can of breakfast. Bulldog meowed. Shut up, cat! He slapped the huge grey beast sharply across the buttocks. Bulldog twitched his tail angrily. Loose hair floated around the ancient cat like a swirling dust storm dancing in the bright sunbeams flooding through the bay window.

What? You need water? he said staring at the cat. Or you want your brush? For twenty years, Jack had been brushing the cat every morning. Every morning the routine was the same. Jack was nothing, if not a slave to his routines.

Jack looked around the rest of the house. Tommy, Jane, and the kids would be there soon.

I guess I’d better pick up the place.

He stared at his old clone Apple desktop gathering dust in his office.

What a joke.

His gaze wandered to the dusty, once glossy, wobbly dining room table with its yellowed chair cushions and the matching china cabinet with all her plates, dishes, and knick-knacks. He looked at the small display case over … her desk. He noticed the silver crystal figurines she had collected over the years, no longer sparkly and shiny, but dull and lifeless.

His gaze drifted over to the black- and rust-colored file cabinet. He spotted the Cribbage Board. The antique one on which Marsha had taught him to play.

Taught me to lose, is more like it.

His mind swirled. The third fog overwhelmed him …

Ready for some crib?

Marsha would smile a gleaming, shiny, devilish smile that always meant trouble. She was a Finn and a Pollack. Stubborn as could be and hard as nails when she played. Jack could only shrug and agree.

He limped over and picked up the hardwood board with its one hundred, twenty-one holes. It looked sad. He shook it. The pegs were still there. The board hadn’t been touched after she had gone. Three or four times he wanted to throw the thing away, but he couldn’t. It was a link to her. Holding it now brought more memories flooding back.

"Cut for deal, meat!"

Ace of Spades! Marsha grimaced.

Jack dealt six cards to each and growled. It’s my crib, so quit your stalling. Marsha always agonized over the discard to Jack’s crib. First one card, then a pause and a, I don’t know what to throw away.

What’re you waiting for? Christmas? Marsha would protest and throw the final card, letting her hand linger on the cards in the crib. Don’t rush me. I can change my mind until I let go!

Clutching the game board, he walked over to the dusty dining room table and sat on a chair. He began to cry. Twenty years later, he still expected to see her come out of the bedroom.

Her scrunchy, early morning face, her sleepy smile, and her pillow-tossed chestnut hair are all haunting me. In my dreams, when I’m awake, nothing matters, she’s always here.

He still looked for her on the porch. In the kitchen, at her computer, or mesmerized by the hundredth rerun of Law and Order.

She was addicted to that show.

Jack was addicted to her, still. It hurt.

Chapter 4—Little Things

-- 9:09 A.M. --

Why do we have to go over there? asked Jane angrily. Why can’t we spend the day here? By ourselves?

Tommy was daydreaming about his conversation with his father. Because it’s tradition! he blurted angrily after Jane brought his mind back into focus.

Jane slammed down a plate of eggs in front of Tommy and glared at him. Four-year-old Ross and eight-year-old Bobby stared at their parents. Diminutive, precocious, toe-headed Ross had a curiously concerned look about him. Something was bothering the boy, more than the argument between his mother and father; he’d heard that one before. The four-year-old shifted nervously in his booster seat and cleared his throat.

Daddy, Poppy is sad. He needs us. I want to go.

Bobby slapped his younger brother hard on the arm.

Ow!

You just like the way Poppy gives you candy. Quit being stupid. You don’t know what Poppy’s feeling.

I do too. Daddy, Bobby hit me!

Bobby! Leave your brother alone, barked Tommy, not taking his eyes from Jane’s steely glare.

Today’s is not going to be any fun at all.

Tommy was the last of Jack’s kids to keep up the good time traditions: Christmas Eve open house, Thanksgiving football and feast and any other excuse for a get-together and party. Ed wouldn’t talk to him anymore and Nick and Manny had both moved to California after Marsha’s death.

Lately, keeping up the tradition had become a real problem for Tommy. Jane was always after him to go somewhere else, do something else. Do anything, but visit his decrepit old geezer of a father and his depressing house. She complained about the house, the pool, the smell and, that fat, lazy cat, Bulldog. It was all he could do to get her to agree to visit this past Easter, even though she knew how much the kids looked forward to the goodies and eggs that his dad always made sure