Page 74 of Protecting the Flame

Chapter 5

Tools.Hunter had specified which tools she needed to bring back. A Phillips No. 2, a monkey wrench. She kept going over the list in her head as she made her way back, which seemed to be taking her longer and longer. Hungry. Getting weak and… She pushed all that away with an impatient mental shove. She had to focus here. Monkey wrench. Wire cutters to be on the safe side.

But you’ll probably get by with the Phillips, if it comes down to it, Hunter had said. All you have to do is unscrew all the cowl fasteners that are still intact.

“Right,” she panted as she tried to make her feet move faster. “Piece of cake.”

What else? Oooh, something to catch liquids. A bucket. She needed to bring the bucket they’d been using for a chamber pot. Maybe also spare clothes? Clothes could be dunked, fashioned into torches, and oil theoretically ought to burn for a long time.

It was amazing they hadn’t thought of this before. Why not use the ton of avgas, too? Hunter said it burned well in a container at a rate of about three minutes an ounce but wasn’t something you’d put in a bucket or next to a fire. I don’t know if sparks would make it go ka-BOOM, Hunter had said, but I’m not real anxious to find out either.

Actually, she knew the answer to this one because she’d asked the same question about the scene in Thelma and Louise where the two women shoot the fuel tanker of a creepy guy who’s been leering at them for most of the movie. Of course, the tanker went up in a huge fireball. Except the MythBusters guys said that couldn’t happen. A gunshot wouldn’t cause an explosion, but a spark could.

If there was one thing all these firs and pines had it was plenty of resin, which meant plenty of sparks.

So, the gas was out for her big Van Helsing fire-ring, unless she could figure a way of burning only small amounts. Maybe line small depressions in the snow with Visqueen? That could keep water from mixing with the gas. She could almost visualize it, too, like the oil cups of a menorah. An image of Bubbe Sarah, head covered with a lacy veil, lighting her old-fashioned nine-branched oil candelabra floated to the front of her brain.

I bet I can do that. She could use clothes for wicks and then they’d have something that would be exactly like a menorah, too, but on an industrial scale because while the Chieftain’s engine cowling was damaged, the engine was intact—and so was the oil pan.

“How much oil are we talking?” she’d asked when Hunter suggested it. “And what kind?” Synthetic oil wouldn’t burn for long. It was designed not to in order to cut down on engine fires.

“M-mineral oil,” Hunter had said. “About eight qu-quarts. Engine’s n-new, s-so you d-don’t use synthetic. G-g-gunks up the works.”

She wondered how long mineral oil would burn. Maybe a pretty long time if they were talking pure. Her bubbe had used a special grade of olive oil for her menorah because the rules were that the oil or a candle must burn for a minimum of thirty minutes every night. The flames in Sarah’s menorah didn’t go out until near midnight most evenings, same as the candles her own mother had used. She remembered being little and wandering down to the kitchen well after her parents had gone to bed to find the menorah, which her mother had put in the sink to guard against fire, still burning.

Wheezing from the exertion, she paused at the verge and studied the Chieftain’s remains. Only that morning, she’d thought how the thing really felt like a wreck, a husk of something long abandoned. Even the trickle of smoke from the fire she was tasked to keep burning seemed more like something from the aftermath of some calamity. In some ways, she’d actually dreaded coming here to stoke this fire because she was never sure if Hunter would be alive when she got back. This morning, she’d actually considered letting the damn thing go out. Then, she’d stay with Hunter until…well, until whatever happened did.

But now we have a plan. We have a way of lighting up the night.

First things first: stoke this fire. That wouldn’t take long. Then grab the tools, the bucket. And cloth and the gas with some plastic liner. Ooh, wait. The Visqueen might not be the best idea. Carrying the gas in that spare bladder would work, but burning it in plastic could be pretty toxic…She chuckled at that. Toxic gases were the least of her worries. Still, it would be nice not to kill herself any sooner than absolutely necessary. She might still decide the gas was too much trouble, but she was totally down with whatever burned and kept burning.

The woods were still, even more so than normal. Her steps were loud in the quiet, the snow made crunchy from several days of softening by the sun only to freeze back up as soon as the light was gone. The tracks and chunked snow left by the others were clearly visible. She could pick out Mattie’s smaller prints alongside her mother’s. When she’d seen them off, Will had been in the lead, a smooth slight trough showing where he’d been towing the inflatable raft, while Scott brought up the rear. Mattie had waved frantically until the very last, when they’d come to a bend and were swallowed up by trees. Even Scott had tossed a look back…though there was something in the set of his shoulders that made her a little uneasy. She wasn’t sure why, but she bet he sensed she and Will were leaving him out of something and that this didn’t sit well.

Well, yeah. Using the hand axe, she hacked off small twigs for kindling. A cop with a drug problem? Leaving Scott out of this particular loop seemed wise.

Sliding branches atop orange embers, she smiled as the fir caught with sputters and pops, the resin providing a ready, easily flammable medium. Once the fire was crackling, she ducked into their now-abandoned fuselage. The place seemed enormous now that there was no one inside. Her sleeping bag was still spread on the deck as was her backpack. Shrugging off a lighter, smaller pack she used to carry items back and forth, she went to the cargo locker and opened the lid. The locker was empty of everything except the toolbox, several lighters, a package of batteries, a roll of extreme weather duct tape, and a packet of firesticks. Opening the toolbox, she selected the Phillips, the wire cutter, and a socket wrench. Transferring her flare from a parka pocket to her hip, she slipped the tools into her jacket.

As she stood, her gaze fell on that empty avgas bladder still in the cargo hold. Maybe she should try the avgas trick. If oil burned, certainly oil and avgas were better, right?

Grabbing the bladder, she worked her way out, made another quick check of the fire then went around to the other side where she’d dragged the still-full bladders. Unpacking the extra, she unfurled a short hose attached to one of the containers already filled with gas, released the clamp, and listened as fluid gurgled and sloshed. Don’t fill it too much. She kept hefting the rapidly filling bladder. Liquids always weigh a ton—

“What are you doing?”

“Oh!” Startled, she jumped back, dislodging the hose, which flew from the bladder’s mouth, releasing a spray of avgas.

“Jesus!” Scott shouted as gas sprayed the front of his parka and jeans. He hopped back, his boots making splashing sounds in the gas still gushing out of the hose. “What the fuck?”

“Scott.”Bending, she fumbled with the clamp and stopped the flood of fuel. “What are you doing—”

She stopped when she saw the two men standing behind Scott. One was young with the crooked nose of a brawler. The other, older man had a jowly, hangdog look that reminded her of Tommy Lee Jones. Both wore big, kitted-out black balaclavas they’d rolled up to their foreheads, snowsuits, heavyweight Pac boots, expedition ski mitts, and black turtlenecks. From the snaps on the collars of their snowsuits, she also saw she’d been right about what she’d heard earlier in the day. The snaps were for riders to snap to snowmobile helmets.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Agent Talbot.” The Tommy Lee Jones lookalike extended a gloved hand. “DEA.”

“Oh, my God.” She automatically took the offered hand, but what she really wanted was to fall down. She was suddenly even weaker, but now with relief. “How did you get here? Did Will…are they, is everybody…”

“They’re good. Met up with these guys and a whole rescue party on the trail. Will sent me back to help out with the DEA. You know.” Scott shrugged. “Seeing as how it’s my job and all.”

He got my dad killed, and he got kicked out of the cops.That’s what Mattie had said. And he’s lucky he’s not in jail because he should be.

“Yes,” Talbot seconded, still gripping her hand. “Detective Paisley here says you have something we very much want to see.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, wow, you don’t know how good it is to see you guys. I don’t know if we could’ve made it through another day.”

Another day? Hah.

Chances were she had no more than five minutes left.

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