Page 31 of Smoke Season

“Hey, folks. I’m here with Deputy Wilkins of Carbon Police and Jason Carrs of Eagle Valley Fire”—each man stepped forward in turn with a raised hand—“and we have an official update, if you’re ready?” This last part was delivered to the news crew. The cameraman nodded gravely.

“As most of you know, the Flatiron Fire officially ignited at 5:16 p.m. last night, the, uh, tenth of July. It’s burned 8,234 acres at last estimate, moving more rapidly than we’d anticipated from the south slope of Flatiron to the west, down to Forest Service Road 3370, where, unfortunately, it jumped our firebreak.”

Though the chief had clearly tried to slip this last bit of information in without fanfare, an audible gasp sounded through the quieted crowd as this news caught and flared. Some people nodded, their evacuation orders suddenly making more sense, some clutched one another, their food orders momentary forgotten, and still others placed calls and sent texts.

Chris was back, having planted himself by the front door, and for a guy who liked to claim he’d seen it all, Sam noticed he listened as raptly as the rest. Sam frowned, his presence here still needling him. For the most part, the bad blood between him and Chris was a byproduct of their fathers’. Sam had less beef with him, so why the cold stare from across the room? He had to force his attention back on Hernandez when he began to speak again.

“Now listen,” the chief continued, one palm up to regain the attention of the crowd. “Your concerns are valid, and I’m glad to see so many of you folks here, taking the evac orders seriously. This fire is moving in unprecedented ways.”

“In what ways, exactly?” Madison asked, thrusting her News 10 mic closer.

“Well, for one thing, the wind has been unpredictable, and it picked up in the night. This fire burned hotter and bigger all night long, which, in twenty years serving this town, I’ve never seen. For another thing, the humidity is still higher than usual, which could mean—”

“More lightning?” someone called from the crowd.

“Or rain!” a glass-half-full type contributed.

Hernandez called for order, then consulted his notes again. “In addition to the mandatory evacuation protocol this morning for the Flatiron and Buck Peak area,” he announced, back on track, “we also issued Level 1—be prepared—via radio, TV, and Outlaw Alert for Highline Road and Carbon city limits residents, respectively.”

Some folks grumbled at the mention of the optional emergency-text-alert system put in place last fire season; to say it hadn’t been well received among the “don’t tread on me” crowd would be an understatement. But Sam noticed that plenty more people than not reached for their phones again to open or install the app.

Hernandez continued, listing agencies working with Carbon Rural as well as staging headquarters at several strategic locations on and near the mountain, where crews were, as they spoke, holding the fire from encroaching on Carbon. Sam instantly thought of Claude and Annie again. Then Hernandez opened the floor for questions. The whole statement had only taken about three minutes.

“What are you all gonna do to keep the roads clear?” someone shouted out.

A very valid question, now that everyone knew the fire had jumped a line. The police representative fielded it. “We have traffic controllers at the intersection, and we’re asking residents to evacuate only when advised for their section of town, so that—”

“When we wanna leave, we will!” someone else interjected, to a chorus of agreement. Sam caught Astor’s frown at the sudden angerprojected across the room and was glad anew that at least Annie had been spared this scene.

“All right, all right! You all are free to do so, of course!” the rep backpedaled. “But for best traffic control, just use discretion. For starters, stay here awhile.” He nodded in Sam’s direction, many eyes following the gesture of solidarity, and despite his thoughts on Annie, Sam’s chest swelled a bit. He doubted anyone would blame him; he was a Bishop, and as such, he still had plenty to prove to this town.

“What was the response time for Carbon Rural?” someone else called out from the crowd. “Last night, at the onset?”

Another resident echoed, “’Cause I heard they waited at least twelve hours, and now look!”

Hernandez reached for the portable mic. The police rep seemed happy to hand it over. Hernandez hardly needed the amplification, however, determined, it seemed to Sam, to set the record straight on this count emphatically. “Carbon Rural was on scene within twenty minutes, well within wildland response protocol. We followed standard Red Book interagency procedure,” he told the guy who’d shouted out the question, “which, yes, Randy, calls for an overnight monitor status before taking action.”

“Some good that does!” someone else shouted, to echoed agreement from Randy, Dan, and several others across the room. Hernandez held up a hand again. Sam felt for him, the bearer of all this news. He bet the chief wished Carbon Rural had the budget for a media liaison right about now. “You all can be assured that all agencies are actively combating the Flatiron Fire,” he called out. “You can reportthat,” he told the news crew, knowing full well they planned to broadcast it all. “First priority, folks? Keeping this blaze as far from the wildland-urban interface as possible, and certainly from the Carbon city line.”

“Are you bringing in a hotshot crew?” someone else called.

This question was lobbed by Leslie Pearson, city-council secretary and Carbon High booster president standing toward the back, her hands framed around her mouth like a cone in order to be heard.

“That’ll be up to the wildland teams, but I’m sure we’ll be calling in additional resources on an as-needed basis,” Hernandez hedged. “Hand crews, first.” Less flashy than hotshots, Sam knew these private contractors—usually consisting of college kids peppered with a smattering of out-of-work lumberjacks and railroad guys—extracted exorbitant hourly rates.Mercenaries,Mel always called them, though not in civilians’ hearing.

“And where exactly are we putting up all these teams?” someone called out.

Hand-crew teams were twenty strong, and depending on budget restraints, the USFS might see fit to send more than one of the 110 at their disposal. Sam thought Carbon could use forty firefighters for sure. Maybe sixty.

The police deputy fielded this one. “Carbon High School will serve as a primary shelter for any evacuated citizens,” he told the room, “just as soon as we can get it set up. Any out-of-district fire crews we call in will utilize the football field and county fairgrounds.”

Folks nodded. This, at least, was standard protocol during Carbon’s summer wildfire season. Crews came and went from the greater Outlaw region every summer; Carbon High had served as a shelter in the past, and Sam remembered the hand crews who’d come through town every day in big caravans of trucks and engines from their nearby tent cities. Like the folks at his bar tonight, they, too, made for good customers ... or rather, Sam’sothercustomers made for good customers, the locals always trying to one-up one another as they bought the out-of-state fire crews’ coffees and pancake breakfasts day after day. It was even more lucrative when the hotshots showed up in town; then, the Jameson and Crown Royal flew off the shelves, too.

Deputy Simpson hadn’t been wrong: if Sam was looking for a silver lining in addition to serving his community, he could find it in a much-needed uptick of business in the following weeks it would take for crews to fully contain and put out this unprecedented fire. Assuming, of course, that it didn’t consume the River Eddy first.

CHAPTER 16

Little more than twenty-four hours since standing with Emmett on the shore of the Outlaw to bear witness to the ignition of the Flatiron Fire, True glimpsed Temple Bar emerging from the gloom of late twilight and smoke. The ramp was usually a hub of activity as shuttle vans came and went, boat trailers maneuvering for position and clients and crew hauling piles of gear and coolers, but right now, Temple’s single boat ramp and small parking lot sat empty. No contact from Fallows’s operation loitered in the usual place by the concrete maintenance building. No surprise, given the lack of traffic at the ramp that served as their cover, but True felt a lurch of disappointment all the same. Now that she’d already cut her time short with the Wus, she’d hoped to just get this over with. She could at least get back to Carbon, help Sam with the kids. Worry her pretty head about Mel again for a change.

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