Page 4 of The Hotshot's Prize
I just have to hope I’m not the only one crazy enough to be out here right before a storm.
Chapter Two
Zack
Ten miles. That’s the goal.
Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. My normal routine. No excuses.
I breathe in deep through my nose and let it burn through my lungs as I run. The scent of hot stone and juniper needles coats the back of my throat. My boots pound the dusty trail in steady rhythm, and the sun’s already brutal, even though it’s still morning.
Weighted pack strapped tight to my back. Tools clipped in place. Full gear, just like I’d wear on a real callout. If my legs feel like jelly by mile six, good. That’s the point.
If it’s not hard, it’s not helping.
I hop a twisted root and push myself up a slight incline. My calves burn, sweat dripping from the back of my neck and soaking into my collar. It’s punishing, but it’s nothing compared to fire season. This is maintenance. Prep. Insurance against the next blaze that tries to eat someone alive.
I’ve seen what happens when you’re not ready. And I’ll never let that be me.
I reach a fork in the trail and veer right without thinking. Been running these routes long enough that my body knows them by muscle memory.
A raven caws overhead, its wings slicing through the pale blue sky. I glance up, for a moment thinking I see smoke. But it’s just clouds. A storm rolling in. I can hear thunder in the distance, but I’m pretty sure I can outrun it.
And if I get stuck out here? Well, I have all my gear with me.
The thing is, I like the solitude. I need it. But lately…there’s this quiet gnawing inside of me that I can’t shake. Like something’s missing. Like I’ve built my whole life around one thing, and maybe that one thing isn’t everything.
I shake the thought loose. It’s indulgent. Useless. What I do matters. Saving lives matters. Brotherhood, honor, purpose…that’s the fire.
But there’s still this itch, right beneath the surface. There’s this growing emptiness inside of me, a feeling that something isn’t quite right.
You’re just tired.
Fire season’s creeping up, the base is tense, the rookies are green as hell. I don’t have time for existential bullshit.
I crest a rise in the trail and pause, adjusting my pack. My shirt clings to me with sweat, and I gulp down half the water in my canteen in one pull. I turn, ready to keep moving—
“Help!”
The word cuts through the canyon like a whip crack.
I freeze.
It’s faint, but it’s real. A voice. Desperate and raw.
I spin toward the sound, scanning the ridge and the cliffside to my left. The trail runs close to a jagged drop here, maybe a hundred feet down into a steep canyon split. My boots hit the ground hard as I sprint toward the edge.
And that’s when I see her.
She’s perched on a narrow ledge, just below the lip of the canyon wall. Maybe ten feet down, wedged between a crooked boulder and the sheer rock face, trembling like crazy. She’s hugging her knees to her chest, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are wide and terrified.
But she’s alive. Thank God.
She’s alive and that’s all that matters.
“Hey!” I shout, kneeling fast at the edge. “I see you! Are you hurt?”
She blinks rapidly, then shakes her head. “I—I don’t think so. Just scraped up. But I…I can’t move.”
