Remember the Ruin Series Box Set, 1-3: Remember the Ruin

By A. R. Shaw

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⛑"As that old campfire song says.
"'There'll Be A Hot Time In The Old Town Tonight'"⛑⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Entire 3 Book Series in One Box Set, Includes:

Rebel Blaze, Book 1

Wayward State, Book 2

Grand Gesture, Book 3

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ From USA Today Bestselling Author AR Shaw! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Is it wrong to kill a killer?
Dane Talbot uses a world of civil unrest to her advantage and avenges all those who've done her wrong.

In the near dystopian future, a quiet ⛑firefighter, Dane Talbot, achieves the coveted position of smokejumper, only to soon realize the nation is filled with domestic terrorism and worsening by the day.

She sees an opportunity at last to right the wrongs of her past and seeks revenge.

But the lawless world of vigilante justice works both ways.

Will Dane achieve her goal or will she regret she ever tried.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️"Character development was refined to perfection and pace of story exceptional. Could not put the book (kindle) down! Nice twist in the story..."

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️"A.R. Shaw's Rebel Blaze: Remember the Ruin is another winning achievement for this author. "✅

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️"This book is laid out for the perfect character "collision" and she makes it magnificent!"✨

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️"Wow! I could smell the smoke in this one. Actual physical pain from the detailed descriptions in this story were almost overwhelming. AR SHAW has done it again. I could not put it down!"❤️


Start the journey.
Get your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apocalyptic Ventures, LLC
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201083540

A. R. Shaw

USA Today bestselling author, A. R. Shaw, served in the United States Air Force Reserves as a Communications Radio Operator. She began publishing her works in the fall of 2013 with her debut novel, The China Pandemic. With over 15 titles to her name, she continues the journey from her home in the Pacific Northwest alongside her loyal tabby cats, Henry and Hazel and a house full of books.

Book preview

Remember the Ruin Box Set

Remember the Ruin Box Set

A. R. Shaw

Apocalyptic Ventures

Copyright © 2021 by A. R. Shaw

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Rebel Blaze

Foreword

1. Dane

2. Ed

3. Dane

4. Ed

5. Dane

6. Ed

7. Dane

8. Kitty

9. Dane

10. Kitty

11. Dane

12. Kitty

13. Dane

14. Kitty

15. Dane

16. Kitty

17. Dane

18. Kitty

19. Dane

20. Kitty

21. Dane

22. Kim

23. Dane

24. Kim

25. Dane

26. Kim

27. Dane

28. Kim

29. Dane

30. Kim

31. Dane

32. Kim

33. Dane

34. Kim

35. Dane

36. Kim

37. Dane

38. Kim

39. Matthew

40. Kim

41. Dane

42. Paul

43. Kim

44. Dane

45. Paul

46. Matthew

47. Kim

48. Matthew

49. Paul

50. Dane

51. Kim

52. Matthew

53. Paul

54. Dane

55. Kim

56. Matthew

57. Paul

58. Dane

59. Paul

60. Matthew

61. Paul

62. Dane

63. Matthew

64. Paul

65. Kim

66. Dane

67. Paul

68. Matthew

69. Paul

70. Matthew

Wayward State

Foreword

1. Matthew

2. Dane

3. Matthew

4. Dane

5. Matthew

6. Dane

7. Matthew

8. Dane

9. Matthew

10. Dane

11. Matthew

12. Dane

13. Matthew

14. Dane

15. Matthew

16. Dane

17. Matthew

18. Dane

19. Matthew

20. Dane

21. Matthew

22. Dane

23. Matthew

24. Dane

25. Matthew

26. Dane

27. Matthew

28. Dane

29. Matthew

Acknowledgments

Grand Gesture

Forward - Angus

1. Dane

2. Angus

3. Matthew

4. Dane

5. Angus

6. Matthew

7. Dane

8. Angus

9. Matthew

10. Dane

11. Angus

12. Matthew

13. Dane

14. Angus

15. Matthew

16. Dane

17. Matthew

18. Dane

19. Matthew

20. Dane

21. Matthew

22. Dane

23. Matthew

24. Dane

25. Matthew

26. Dane

27. Matthew

28. Dane

29. Dane

30. Matthew

31. Dane

32. Matthew

33. Dane

34. Matthew

35. Dane

36. Matthew

37. Dane

38. Matthew

39. Dane

40. Matthew

41. Dane

42. Matthew

43. Dane

44. Matthew

45. Dane

46. Matthew

47. Dane

48. Matthew

49. Dane

50. Matthew

51. Dane

52. Matthew

53. Dane

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by A. R. Shaw

Rebel Blaze

Remember the Ruin, Book 1

To Doug: A true friend.

The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.

---

-Ayn Rand

Foreword

Ed

---

The grand-sized television sat on the mahogany console table supported by the most absurdly small pint-sized black plastic feet imaginable. The viewer paid no mind to the disparity. His name was Ed and he was exhausted after fitting parts on the line, standing on the unsympathetic flat surface of a concrete floor, all day long. His back ached with the compression of every step. His sweaty feet had filled his steel-toed boots to capacity and all he wanted to do when he returned to his little house was spend a few numb hours relaxing in the La-Z-Boy in front of the flat screen. Having a beer and a Hungry Man around 6:30 was Ed’s daily ritual. It worked for him. He liked his life simple that way. It was uncomplicated, un-messy and like most Midwesterners, he watched the evening news while the inflammation subsided in both ends of his existence.

Look, said Congressman Gowdy with a strong South Carolina accent, landing his index finger hard against the interviewer’s desk. The studio lights beamed down against his forehead, reflecting an increasing sheen of sweat, despite the concealer applied to his face. "We’ve had enough of this. First you claim all water landing on the planet is somehow government property and you go around arresting old men on hundred-acre farms for collecting a few barrels of rainwater to feed their damn cattle. Then you start limiting water itself to communities claiming a crisis du jour, and now you’re passing legislation making it illegal to install solar panels on your own roof that you’ve paid for. It makes no sense…the government can’t also claim to own all energy from the sun. Basically, you’re making it illegal to exist in nature if you’re a human being, yet you protect a newt’s right to live in its natural environment. And don’t get me started on food shortages.

"Don’t you see? Think about that. It’s illegal to exist…forget about fines for being born…it’s illegal to exist if you don’t buy into government control. Hell, you’ve even fined and jailed the Amish, a national treasure for God’s sake, for not complying with your made-up rules. Now you’re after oil. Keep pushing the American people. Go ahead. Keep it up. Last man standing gets to make the new rules. There was a revolution for that. A lot of people died. That’s what we’re headed for. Keep laughing…watch and see."

Your hyperbole will get you nowhere, Congressman Gowdy. You know as well as I do, there’s a national energy crisis at hand. Exaggerating will not help, but hurt the people of this country. Our polls state that Americans are on board with the newly proposed energy bill saving our very limited and precious resources for future generations. It’s time to stop stealing from our children. You’re just upset that you’ll no longer enjoy your paybacks from your capitalist friends.

I’m not even going to respond to that snipe. And last time I checked, you, were on the board of Hutchins Polls. That’s the one you talking about, right?

Are you suggesting…

Gowdy leaned directly into the personal space of CSN political commentator Cameron Hughes. "I am suggesting…you market and manufacture any result you wish."

BREAKING NEWS! the television screen flashed in bright red hues.

Ed suddenly aborted the fork he was using and dropped the handle against the edge of the paper tray, where moments before he’d rocked the plastic tines in vain over the short end of a red enchilada, and grabbed the TV remote instead, turning up the volume to hear the breaking news unfold.

1

Dane

Idon’t mind my own death, but it’s not given freely.

---

Matthew Brogen? announced the dark-mustached man holding the tablet. His blank stare held the crowd before him. There were men and women amongst the tired crowd. Some old…some not so old. The commonality they held was a worn terror, too worn to acknowledge any longer. Every now and then a face glanced at the TV monitor bracketed high up against the corner wall along a brown ceiling beam. The casting glow played shadows across human features in its wake. Always a quick glance and then the eyes dashed away again. Like wreckage, you couldn’t help but gawk, but this ruin never went away. No sense in lingering…they all knew what happened out there and they were beyond even cursory astonishment. Maimed and desensitized, they were numbed through by now. What held them all hostage had already dragged on for nearly a decade. Someone’s chin lifted—whomever held the name Matthew Brogen, Dane assumed.

Then, Dane Talbot? tablet guy read next on his list, followed by the same blank stare.

She lifted her chin as well.

The list reader’s eyes lingered on her a split second longer than he needed to account for her presence. She wasn’t certain if he recognized her or not. Some still did from past news reports. Fewer by the passing days, although no one should recognize her here. People in Montana didn’t really pay much attention to tragedies that happened in other states years ago.

Cal Wester?

Here, the guy standing right next to her said sharply.

Why he had to go and use his full voice instead of the simple nod, Dane didn’t know, but she found him annoying right off. First impressions she coveted. Always go with your first impression…to suspend judgment led to disappointment down the line. These lessons she’d learned and though harsh and dry as wind igniting a flame…they kept her safe. People had a way of twisting their personal facts in time, adjusting perceptions of themselves…malleable and deceptive as clay.

The only attribute she would assign to Cal at the moment was an annoying, eager to please…brownnoser. That was all for now but in time she’d give him more labels…a lot more.

Listen up, the mustached man said. My name is Tucker Johnson. You will call me Tuck. I used to be the captain before ranks became politically incorrect so now, I’m just Tuck. Leaning the tablet to the side of his leg, he passed up and down the front of the crowd of nearly twenty recruits. You’re here today because you deserve to be. You’re the best firefighters. You’re here today because you were chosen for even greater things. You’re here today because you’re not dead already or, he pointed to the muted television, "there, killing your fellow man for whatever reason. Whatever you do, don’t screw it up because it doesn’t matter how you got here…it matters that you serve. You will do your job, not for personal gain, personal reasons, personal trauma, or the lack of personal wealth. Ha! You’re here to do a selfless, thankless, dangerous job. You…are…a…servant. You’ve surpassed the normal firefighter status. You’re now a Smokejumper in training and you will serve as one until you either burn the hell up or your time commitment is fulfilled." He stopped pacing then, in the center of the small crowd.

The light was dim in the ranger station. Dane shifted her weight from one leg to the other and adjusted the wide strap of her leather bag over her shoulder. She’d traveled a long way to get to Missoula, Montana. The speech from Tuck was the same as many she’d heard before. There wasn’t much to differentiate between this one and the last one, though she did her best to appear interested. Eyes open and attentive was the way to keep them from singling you out most of the time. They were looking for the ones who avoided eye contact. Those were the ones Tuck would look for in the crowd. Someone to single out. That usually happened next, right after the speech. And just as she predicted, Tuck jutted his chin out and checked the tablet for a reminder of his name. You there, Cal Wester, where are you from?

As if he’d been asked a question for prizemoney, Cal yelled out, Spokane, sir.

Oh hell, wrong answer, Cal, Dane thought, looking down, trying not to betray the roll of her eyes.

What’s my name, Cal? Tuck yelled suddenly, startling a few in the front row to a minor jolt.

Looking as if he might pee himself, Cal said, Tucker uh, Johnston?

Seriously? Dane thought as the events unfolded. We’re going to be here all night now. Thanks Cal. You’re a moron and a brownnoser so far.

Tuck swung his head to the left with a forced look of astonished dismay, saying, "No! That is not my name."

You there, with the brown hair, Tuck pointed through the crowd.

Dane looked up, silently kicking herself for not seeing that one coming. And of course, he was pointing directly at her, causing the few in front of her to part as if she had some communicable disease.

Dane Talbot…what’s my name?

Tuck…sir.

Tuck seemed a bit surprised she’d had the right answer handy.

In her experience, they usually liked to play cat and mouse with at least three or four recruits before they revealed the right answer. She didn’t give him that chance. She’d seen this before…this experience, and tucked it away for the future—no sense in wasting time. She was tired after all.

Usually the person in charge would hound his point home to emphasize the understanding that he was the one in charge. No one else, just him. It was a worthy exercise in the end. In the worst of moments, and there would be many worst moments, Tuck or any leader needed the direct attention of those he led. There should never be any doubt as to who was in charge. Many firefighters died with doubts. Burnt to crisps. But they were beyond this, weren’t they? Dane thought perhaps now those she worked with would have been through this…introduction…a time or two at this point.

Quirking his left cheek up, he nodded. That’s right, he said, his eyes beaming straight at her.

Perplexed…if she had to name his expression, that was it.

He might know who I am, she thought. Can’t worry about that…not right now.

Tuck is my name. All right, get to sleep. The bunk room is right behind me. He motioned with his finger over his shoulder without glancing. It’s coed…not like the old days. We don’t have room for complaints so keep your hands to yourself, whatever you are.

They picked up their packs and shuffled their way toward the darkened room, past the glow of the news, emblazoned now with a banner that read ‘Food Shortages.’ On their way, Tuck shouted out the building’s rule. They were an army, unlike the never-ending one on the television. Fighting against a natural enemy, one that took land and lives without the inclination toward any particular god, political association, or social link. Their only crime was existing in the way of the flame.

Once inside the bunkroom, like in her previous experience, her curious observations told her males and females shifted to one part of the room or the other. Often the males to the right and females to the left…or however they identified, assembling somewhere in between. It didn’t matter. Sleeping in one large room, it was always that way. Then in a few weeks of cohabitating it would come down to race most likely, or so she’d seen in the past. Dane, however, didn’t care. Her criterion for a bunk or any room was an exit strategy. Always identify two or more ways out of every room you’re in. She walked quickly to the right back corner and placed her bag on the green wool army blanket next to the rear exit door. Cal looked up at her as he took the bed next to hers. He even scanned her up and down, not making eye contact, as if she was in the wrong place. She paid him no mind. So what that the males had already silently claimed that side of the room? Not her problem, she thought and began to take off her jacket.

In a deep voice, someone said, Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the other side of the room with the other women?

When she looked up, she saw that the question came from the guy named Matthew and that the moron brownnoser named Cal sat on the bed next to hers watching the exchange with an amused look on his face.

Only the dim light from the moon spilled through the high windows. Dane looked up at Matthew, a good foot taller than her own height, and she reached down, crossed her arms at her waist and, without a word, pulled the hemmed edge of her black, long-sleeve t-shirt up and over her head.

Uh, Matthew stuttered and then turned on his heel, she assumed to claim another empty bunk, unpack, harass someone else, or busy himself doing whatever as long as it didn’t involve her.

Standing in her bra and denim jeans in the moonlight, she untied and kicked off her boots, placing them purposely right under her bed, within arm’s reach, as the others scrambled around settling in. After removing her jeans, she laid them at the end of the bed and slipped under the thin covers. She rolled to the left, facing the exit door, after moving her long hair out from under her bare shoulders and went to sleep, knowing Cal’s eyes watched her the entire time.

2

Ed

Laying the remote upside down again along the brown vinyl so that the rubber buttons prevented its eventual slide into dark crevices where Ed might never find its location again amongst the tiny broken tortilla triangles and carnival-colored gummy bears coated in skin, dust and hair, he read the breaking news headlines.

---

BREAKING NEWS: SHALE IS DEAD – WIN FOR FUTURE

---

Oh hell, Ed said as he retrieved his fork and plunged it into the already bite-sized piece of red enchilada ready for the taking. Adjusting in his chair, he mouthed the bite, too hot for his tongue, and watched as a massive crowd bearing signs on sticks in front of the capital building in DC erupted into a brawl when Capitol police began tossing teargas canisters at their feet. Reaching for his beer, he sipped a guarded mouthful to bring relief to his burning tongue, never taking his eyes off the events unfolding as the cold beer foamed in his mouth. One metal container clanked and rolled into the crowd as he watched, its white smoke pouring out in cloudy mushrooms. Protesters scattered and held cloths to their mouths choking and suddenly the skinny sticks bearing useless messages became weapons as one man thrust the pointy end at a battle-tac clad officer.

Bad move, hombre, Ed said and sat the beer back down on the cork coaster beside him. Just as the officer pulled a stun gun, three more officers appeared suddenly beating the man into submission with black batons. Soon the only thing visible on the screen besides the black battle-tac officers whaling on the protester was the white poster board sign freed of its hearty staples, tattered and crunched at the sides, still bearing the black Sharpie marks reading ‘KEEP CALM; FRACK ON.’

3

Dane

D ane Talbot, get your ass up there, Tuck yelled from somewhere below her.

Dane rolled her eyes as her sweaty hands burned on the thick dry rope she held taut while walking her lug-soled boots up the side of the twelve-foot wooden wall, one foot over the other, while her heavy backpack acted as a counterweight pulling her back toward earth. She was in the first ten percent of the group running the obstacle course. There was no reason for Tuck to single her out, but she knew that was part of the play. They always picked a few candidates each day to torment and after several weeks of training now, she knew she had to be one of the last chosen to kick around. It was like clockwork. She had wondered when it would be her turn; now she knew today was the day.

Now, Talbot! Up and over, faster. The flames won’t wait for you! Tuck bellowed after her.

Kiss my ass! she thought in a sing-song voice and ignored him as she summited the wall, swung her legs over to the other side, landed, and hit the ground running. She was strong. She could run faster than the other two women in the group and most of the men. At five-foot-seven, Dane’s build wasn’t exactly athletic. No, she had more of an old-fashioned hourglass figure, an anomaly passed down from generations…it wasn’t even that she wanted it more than the others. To her this wasn’t a race to beat the other firefighters. Competition wasn’t in her DNA. She didn’t need to prove herself to anyone. It wasn’t who won…it was determination beyond all others, beyond all achievements. She pushed herself past the run, past the muscle fiber damage, past the exhaustion. Nothing would hold her back. She took pleasure in pushing herself, her motives never a competition with anyone else or any record. She didn’t care a damn thing about coming in first or last. It was in the run, that by the day’s end, her nightmares subsided just the smallest fraction more. It was a race against her past that consoled her soul.

By the time she crossed the end line, the men ahead of her, Matthew, Owen and Cal, were bent over at the waist in obvious pain, their packs sliding toward their heads. Cal actually heaved bile and tried not to. He’d not learned yet it was better to submit to the vomit. Let it all out.

Owen patted him on the shoulder in what she thought was a condescending gesture. Cal must have thought so too because he flung his hand away. Sweat poured off their skin and darkened their clothing. Matthew handed her a water bottle from the several waiting on a nearby table. She ignored him and grabbed her own. He smiled and shook his head, still in the effort to calm his own breath.

Cal, vomit-free now, watched her before he was distracted by another female crossing the finish line. He tended to linger on the opposite sex with shameless disregard, she’d noticed.

As Dane finished slogging down the last of the liquid in her bottle, she kept a decent distance from every one of them as long as that distance didn’t cause her to attract more attention. As everyone settled in, the dry breeze actually cooled her as it blew past the sweat covering her skin.

All right, Matthew Brogen came in first, Cal Weston, second, and Dane Talbot, third, Tuck announced. The rest of you have some work to do. We’ve been at this for weeks now. Even though all of you have technically passed requirements, that’s not good enough, Tuck yelled. Dane, good job.

All eyes were on her instantly. She nodded her chin and though she didn’t smile at the compliment, she also didn’t frown. That would also cause Tuck, and everyone else, to observe a bad attitude. She’d learned, along the winding path of life, the subtitles appreciated by common human interactions. Her goal was invisibility, not to be seen. Not to attract attention.

Listen up, Tuck said as they were all in recovery mode around him. It looks like we’ve had a change in our schedule. Instead of dropping in on the Bitterroot Fire, we’ve decided to graduate all of you early.

All the firefighters stopped, looked nervously from one to the other and then at Tuck again.

In a serious tone, Tuck said, This fire season is looking more ominous than we’d first thought and we’re shorthanded. Many of you should have noticed on your run today how dry conditions are. We had little rainfall in May and June. Even though our winter snowpack was sufficient we’re now in mid-July and it’s so dry, the fire hydrants are chasing the dogs around town.

Dane looked up at him. Everyone looked up at Tuck, his face a blank stare, and Cal snickered.

It’s not funny, dammit! Tuck yelled. The dry winds of the Palouse are increasing every day. Tuck pointed at Cal. Why is that a bad sign, Weston?

Cal’s Adam’s apple bounced once and he said, In this area the dry winds of the Palouse fuel the burn, sir. It caused the Big Burn of 1910; that’s what all other burns are measured by since then.

That’s right. You are all familiar with the events of the historic Big Burn by now. He shook his head. "We are not more advanced than the firefighters of that era. I don’t care what anyone tells you. In many ways, we are less advanced. It will happen again.

That…and we have a damn war going on, though no one wants to call it that. Some of the fires lately were arson or set accidentally. The one in the Bitterroot Forest, as you know, was set by a helicopter crash after it was hit by a ground-to-air missile. Apparently, Senators are targets these days. Cathy McCarthy was on board with her family and blown to pieces because she announced her bid for re-election. Looks like the investigation has come to the conclusion her death was a hit by rightwing fundamentalists.

But that’s not what they’re saying on the news, Cal said.

Cal, who’s talking here? Tuck seemed weary of correcting the man by now. The news is nothing but propaganda. And we’ve all taken a pledge to ignore the ignorance of the man in the box and focus on the fires they set, no matter their political affiliation. The point is, there will be no graduation. Few of you are ready, even though you’re all assigned to teams already. Check your wrist device for that notice and report tomorrow morning.

Tuck turned to Dane before he left and said, You have a message in my office. Some family member’s looking for you. She’s your aunt, I think she said. Number’s on my desk. Then he headed down the hill from which they came. Unease swelled up inside Dane’s chest. Messages didn’t come for Dane and she didn’t have any aunts. She had no family at all, actually. And she had no use for messages.

Dane watched as Tuck’s head hung down as he went back to the building. He seemed defeated. It was as if they hadn’t passed a physical and he was sending them off to war anyway—not because he wanted to, but because he had no choice in the matter. He felt guilty. She could see it weighed on his shoulders until he was a bent man walking.

Stunned, the group in front of her looked from one to the next. Some still sucked down the remains of their water while others attempted in vain to read the screens on their watches in the glaring sun. A few, like Cal, clenched and twisted the recycled plastic in their hands, emitting an annoying sound.

Dane lifted her brown eyes and thought, Someone should punch him, as she adjusted the pack slack on her back and drank the few dregs left at the bottom of her bottle. Then she stood up, and trailed Tuck’s shrinking image, shadowed with thoughts she embraced. Tomorrow brought a new day. A new day to relinquish her demons in the run and in the water.

4

Ed

If it wasn’t his feet aching, it was Ed’s left shoulder giving him fits. Standing on the factory-line floor of the molded plastics company with his safety goggles strapped to his head and an elastic arm brace Velcroed around his forearm, which didn’t help relieve the repetitive pain of reaching out with his left arm, he pulled the molder toward him, releasing the resin injection and then pulling out a perfectly new white plastic lawn chair. Releasing the weight of the molder machine with ease, over and over again, all day, every day took a toll on his joints. The only thing that changed was the color of the lawn chair. Today, it was white; tomorrow it might be dark evergreen. Ed preferred the white since the color didn’t transfer to his gloves throughout the day. The green ones made his gloves look like some landscape guy. He also preferred his title to be production personnel. It just seemed like a step up from landscape laborer.

Yet, despite the everyday pain caused by his job, he was worried that any day now, some new machine would come in and take his place, and it would. Only a matter of time, he thought, pressing his lips into a thin line. He was sure of it. Not that he had anything against mechanization; he just hoped they brought in the technology after he retired and not before.

From the glare of his safety goggles, in patriotic hues of blues and reds, the reflection of an emergency broadcast came from the breakroom television, a few yards past the yellow safety-line in front of him. When he looked up, several Easter-egg-hued hard hats were crowded around the television above them.

From his position, the headline read: EXPLOSIVES STOLEN. WHITE SUPREMACISTS SUSPECT…

Bad idea, skinheads, he mumbled and returned to work.

Then moans from the breakroom erupted and he turned his attention again to see what the commotion was about this time.

Where’s the remote? someone yelled from underneath a baby blue hardhat. I can’t hear a damn thing.

The remote was passed like a baton through the crowd to the requester and he pointed up at the television, increasing the volume with each click.

On the screen, a woman sweating in a dark blue wool suit with long blond hair shading the left side of her face said, …killed in an ambush. Families are yet to be notified. The White Supremacists of Clark County are claiming responsibility.

Cutting to the news desk, an anchor asked, You mean they’re claiming that they’re responsible for killing thirty-two police officers while in a funeral procession, like a terrorist organization?

The reporter moved a lock of hair away from the delicate structure of her face before the wind had a chance to malign her features again and said, It appears so.

Thank you, Andrea, the news anchor said. It’s a sad day, indeed.

That was fast. Must have been an inside job, Ed said to himself, turned back to his task at hand before the supervisor detected the distraction and noted the time left in his shift. Elated that there were only a few more hours before he was scheduled to head home, he mentally went through his freezer, picturing the labels on the sides of the blue boxes and their contents, debating between the one that read ‘Boneless Pork Ribs’ or the ‘Homestyle Meatloaf.’

5

Dane

The early morning haze was interrupted violently by an ominous orangey-yellow. That’s what Dane looked upon as she stood her turn in the Twin Otter, hooked on a line far above the earth. Matthew, in front of her, took his hand signal from the drop coordinator and then her turn was next, but Dane had already released her carabiner from the line, barely acknowledging the order, then hurtled herself into thin air. As she surrendered to the smoky dawn freefall, arms and legs splayed out like a flying squirrel, only the wind lifted her in weightlessness. Through all her training, she couldn’t help but smile behind the gridded mask with each jump. She was not afraid, welcoming what lay aground. The sight of them, they drifted down like a string of angel’s wings into the flames below.

Of course, in front of Tuck, she told herself to grim up, because Tuck would not like the fact that she enjoyed the prospect of hurtling to her own death as she rapidly narrowed that distance to earth. She did her best to withhold any public signs of elation as it was. Nor did Tuck know she released the parachute a millisecond or two after the required time. Her index finger twitched at the cold metal lever, and she always caught the ground too hard.

Later, on the surface within the burning forest, fighting the flames, she heard, "Dane. On your left!"

She heard the warning shout in the distance over the roaring fire, but just barely. Had she taken the time to look at what Tuck alerted her to, before leaping right, the burning limb would have at least landed on her shoulder, singeing her and knocking her to the ground.

You’re moving too damn fast, Dane. The terrain’s too steep. Slooow down, he yelled over as he caught up to her.

She’d found out weeks ago several of them from training ended up on Tuck’s new team: Matthew, Cal, Rebecca, Owen and herself. She’d looked forward to moving on to where no one really knew her name but that wasn’t going to happen, not yet. Not sure what to think or what the deciding factors were for her to remain under the supervision of Tuck, she didn’t really care. She was as far as she could get from where she once was. The series of events that landed her in Missoula, Montana, within the burning Bitterroot Forest, never quite left her when she was conscious by day or in the dark of night. Always under the surface, the miserable pain would take hold of her and plunge her beneath depths of misery if she didn’t constantly keep it in check. And in order to keep it in check, she pushed herself harder and harder. At night, the opposite was true. Only…she tried to mask the worst of the pain with the packets.

Let’s move! Tuck yelled as Cal and Dane finished cutting a line for the backfire they were about to light in hopes of extinguishing its date with the coming blaze.

Sweat dripped down into her eyes as they stood at a distance watching Matthew and a few of the others move through the night in front of the nearing fire, their blackened silhouettes in a sort of choreographed theatrical display. Dripping liquid fire onto the brittle ground, Dane found beauty in the destruction.

Her hair up and held in place behind a bandana, she leaned forward to ease the weight of the heavy pack on her back and poured water from her bottle along her exposed neck. At times the heat was unbearable, the tiny hairs along her neckline long ago singed away.

Are you seeing anyone, Dane? Cal asked her.

His voice was like an army of earthworms. She stared first at his boots and stood up, rising slowly…glaring. "Don’t ever ask me that again. Step off, Cal, now!"

Cal first smiled and then sneered at her, the firelight casting ominous shadows across his smirked face as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He moved away reluctantly, as she wished, sidestepping in the crunching brush a few yards, and casually swung his Pulaski tool to his side in wide swaths.

She didn’t like Cal…not from the start. Her initial assessment had been right. But there was something more. He was off, somehow. All through training, he’d gone after one female or the other, was often rebuffed, and then when that didn’t work, he got pushy and insistent, even grabbing young Rebecca in the bunkroom one night while the rest of them were relaxed in front of the television watching the latest hit episode of the protesters of the day.

Rebecca screamed, Get your hands off me.

One of the guys jumped up. Without seeing, they all knew who the hands belonged to. He darted into the darkened bunkroom and Cal yelled, I didn’t touch her. She’s batshit crazy.

Get the hell out of here, Cal.

I’m goin’, he said and though Dane never cared to watch the commotion, she did hear the front door slam as Cal left the building.

That should have been the end of things, but it wasn’t. After they’d returned from a local brushfire, Dane heard Cal pleading his case again to Rebecca on the front porch.

"I’ve already filled out the report, Cal. There’s a case number and everything. Give me a reason to press send. Go ahead. You do not talk to me, touch me…nothing. You keep your distance."

Cal must have reached for her as he said, You don’t mean tha…

But that’s where it ended. The next sound was a hand slap across his face. I do mean it, Cal. Listen to my words…never…again!

The altercation ended there for now, but there was something about the sound of that slap that instantly brought Dane back to a place she didn’t like, didn’t want to ever visit again.

By the light of the television, she stood from the comfortable chair she’d occupied.

Matthew caught her look as she passed. I’m sure Rebecca can handle this herself, he said.

Dane nodded. I’m just getting a drink. She passed the back of his chair. Matthew often watched her in a way that didn’t bother her. He had an annoying habit of looking out for her. She knew he had a crush, but she’d never acknowledge that. That was a part of life that wasn’t in the cards for Dane. Not now, not after what’d happened. All of that was gone for her now.

In the kitchen, the light over the stove arched out along the stone flooring. They kept it obsessively neat, all of them. It was always a joint effort. Probably had something to do with their structural firefighter days. The cleanliness just carried over. They all smelled like smoke continuously. That aroma was embedded in the woodwork of the table and chairs, of the fabric curtains, of the tapestry of comfy couches they lounged on. It was in the molecules of their hair and would never go away so that burning aroma was always a part of their being.

Dane opened the upper cupboard and slid out a deceptively fancy-looking acrylic glass. Upper management didn’t seem to trust them with actual glass. The plates and bowls were a Creamsicle sunny-orange melamine, too. The color always contrasted oddly with her food, made it less appetizing somehow. She’d wondered more than once if perhaps they’d been white or cream and the last crew had a penchant for spaghetti and meatballs, staining the dishware for eternity. She’d never know. Filling the glass at the sink, she looked behind her at the open doorway. Seeing no one, she reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a thin paper tube. Tearing the tip away with her teeth, she poured the powdered contents into the water and stirred the liquid into a tiny typhoon until the powder dissolved to invisibility.

Quickly, she discarded the paper vial in the trash without regard to the flavor selection this time, making sure to plunge it into the depths, never to be seen again. Matthew walked in as she held the glass to her lips, thinking to herself, Ah, margaritas. Though no one could smell the contents, her eyes widened anyway.

They’re fine. She really told him off. We’re keeping an eye on him. Rebecca might be looking for you though. You should talk to her.

Taking the glass away from her mouth, Dane said, "Why do you assume that? Do you somehow think girls need to girl talk after they’ve been assaulted? She’s not my job. She can handle herself. Why don’t you talk to her?"

Ok…ay, Matthew said nodding his head. I just thought…I mean, you seemed concerned when you got up in there. He pointed toward the door.

Don’t mistake my thirst for caring, Matthew. Rebecca’s on her own. We all are, Dane said and took a large gulp of her water, ignoring him as she looked at her reflection in the dark window over the sink.

He walked away after that, retreating back into the safe space of the living room. She noticed that much through the reflection in the kitchen window as she drank down the alcoholic liquid. The reconstituted alcohol having already seeped into her bloodstream, it began its blissful numbing affects, or so she hoped, before the triggers of the day had the torment of the past flooding in.

6

Ed

Ed’s black watch hung down on his wrist loosely, like a noose. He was attached to it or it to him nearly all the time and when it was not warming the same spot on his skin, it was nearby…never more than a few inches’ distance.

On the bus ride home along Highway 77, Ed stood, holding onto a chrome bar, having offered up his seat earlier to an elderly man, humped over as if he were a retired Atlas himself. The wrist watch buzzed against Ed’s skin. But that’s not what he’d noticed at first. Everyone on the bus had their heads down suddenly, also scanning their attachments. His notification came a millisecond later, it seemed.

There were murmurs then, but he wasn’t paying attention; he was squinting to read the alert notification on the tiny screen atop his wrist.

BRITISH COLUMBIA BOMBS ALBERTA’S OIL RESERVES

That’s all he read when a nearby passenger, wearing a thin red t-shirt stretched tightly over his bulging biceps, stood and yelled, What in the actual fuck!

It was a rhetorical question, Ed assumed when he quickly looked up at the man, as did all the other passengers. Ed looked from side to side, presuming no one else was going to answer what the actual fuck was, either. The angry man was quite a bit bigger than his own size, so if he lost it, there was nothing Ed could do to defend himself—or anyone else, for that matter.

Shaking his head back and forth, the very large passenger said, I don’t know what the hell’s happening to this world. We’re all at each other’s throats. Now we’re bombing each other?

Ed threw his attention back to his watch but under his breath Ed whispered, too quietly for the angry passenger to hear, Sit down, bro.

The large upset man did sit down, just as all their wrist devices buzzed again. This time the headline was: COORDINATED ATTACKS ON NORTH AMERICAN OIL RESERVES; ENVIRONMENTALISTS CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY

Ed widened his eyes and moved his position to the other side of the chrome bar, even though it was a wholly inadequate barrier as the angry man shot up like a rocket and launched into a cussing tirade like Ed had never heard before.

He was trying to decide if he should get off at the next stop and