Smoke Season

CHAPTER 15

Sam had never seen Carbon so dense with smoke. As they came down Highline, they seemed to sink slowly into the abyss of it, their headlight beams barely illuminating five feet ahead of them.

“This is creepy,” Astor said. “It’s like ... what do you call it? Like that machine Claude got to make the fog in his garage on Halloween.”

Sam just grunted in answer, focused on straining to see through the dirty windshield and the gray pea soup outside. It did look ghostly out there. As agonizing as it had been to leave Annie at the house, Sam thanked God for Claude now, keeping her at higher elevation. They passed the grocery store, then Carbon Cuts Beauty Parlor, to merge onto the main drag in town that hugged the river on the right.

For a while they had the road to themselves, folks in Carbon hunkered down while awaiting further evac orders, Sam figured. He eased toward the River Eddy, noting a slight increase in traffic the closer he got. Several cars followed behind him on the highway, and just before the bridge, a Toyota Camry pulled out right in front of them, probably never even seeing Sam’s vehicle through the smoke. Sam tapped the horn—just a warning—as Astor braced a hand against the dash.

“Sheesh, where’s the fire?” she muttered, sliding a sly smile Sam’s way.

His heart gave a little lurch even as he smiled back. When had his little girl become grown up enough to act like a smart-ass?

“Might be a tourist,” he told her. Folks born and bred in Carbon didn’t scare quite so easily after over a decade of regular forest fires. A duo of kayaks sat strapped on top of the Camry, listing alarmingly to one side as the driver hit the brakes again. Ah: a deer had dashed across the road in front of it, two fawns trotting in her wake.

On the other side of the bridge, Sam put his blinker on before the entrance to the River Eddy, only to be cut off again, this time by a Subaru pulling a pop-up camper. Three very excitable dogs sat in the front seat. Miniature Pomeranians, maybe? Astor smiled again, watching them leap onto the anxious-looking owner’s lap as she attempted to drive.

“Maybe they know something we don’t,” she noted. “Animals sense things, you know.”

For the second time in less than a minute, her astuteness struck Sam. “When’d you get so smart, hmm?”

Astor shrugged, then added with a low whistle, “So here’s where everybody is.”

The small parking lot of the River Eddy was packed with locals. Sam blinked in surprise, his theory that Carbon residents would take this fire in stride, same as the rest, instantly debunked. Some people stood by their cars, and others had gathered on the front patio, waiting, apparently, for the doors to open. The bandannas and ski masks covering most faces made them look like bandits conspiring together. A few chatted among themselves, probably comparing notes on fire preparedness, bitching about neighbors who didn’t do their fair part to clear fields, and speculating on the fire’s trajectory, but most looked concerned at best, alarmed at worst.

“It’s like the whole town has shown up,” Astor said as Sam found a spot between a Deschutes Brewery delivery truck—probably stuck here in the middle of his route—and Margo Hennings’s Sprinter van, Outlaw Rock Climbing Expeditions wrapped across the sliding doors.

Sam nodded to Margo as he and Astor climbed out of the SUV. Was it really just last week he’d picked her brain about her van, pouring her a cup of coffee right here at the Eddy? Sam had been considering buying one himself, hoping to start a food-truck side hustle since the Airbnb idea had flopped—anything to generate another income stream for Annie. The bank had shot financing down fast.

“Ah, Bishop!” someone called out. “Glad to see your mug, man.”

Sam squinted through the smoke. He made out the rig of Dan Jacobs, owner of Jacobs Hardware, the ACE location on Main Street.

“Hey there, Dan,” he called back. “You all good? I heard what happened out by your place.”

The Jacobs family had a few acres west of Carbon, right below Flatiron, and by the looks on the faces of Dan’s wife and kids peering out at him through the windshield, they might have had to leave their property in a hurry after the fire had jumped the line.

“It was touch and go,” Dan said, “Level 1 to Level 3, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, and Sam flinched, thinking about Annie and Claude. Things could change so fast. Had it been a mistake to leave them? “I won’t lie,” Dan added, “we’re glad to be ridin’ this one out in town. You opening up? The kids could use a square meal.”

Before Sam could answer, he spotted the distinct brown and yellow of a sheriff’s department Chevy in the lot, lights flashing. “Hold that thought, Dan,” he said as the sheriff’s deputy, a fellow dad Sam recognized from Astor’s class, waved him over.

“That’s Kaylee Simpson’s dad,” Astor said, and Sam greeted him through the mist of smoke.

“Deputy Simpson, what’s the word?”

Astor added, “Is Kaylee here?”

“Not just now, sweetie,” Simpson told her with a smile, then looked back up at Sam. “But all these folks?” He thumbed in the direction of the parking lot behind them. “They’ve been caught flat-footed with a Level 3 order. The official announcement is coming soon, but your wife—uh, Battalion Chief Bishop probably told you about the fire jump?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, they’ve got nowhere to go until we set up an official shelter.”

Nowhere to go. And they’d all come to the Eddy, like that was the most natural thing in the world. Sam took another look around at the sea of people who had assembled at his bar and grill. Dan Jacobs, hoping for a hot meal. Margo, charging her phone in the front seat of her van. Countless others, soot-smudged and miserable, hoping to get out of the smoke.

Sam’s mind flashed suddenly on the rows of team photos still displayed in the bar. He’d sponsored his share of them after his predecessor’s day, but he’d never quite achieved that elusive status of upstanding citizen . Pillar of the community. At least he didn’t think he had. And yet ... all these people, here at his bar, gathering at their local watering hole for shelter, camaraderie, information. It filled Sam with pride.

Deputy Simpson was still talking, something about temporary housing and a news team on its way. “And I imagine you could use the income, especially once reinforcements from out of town arrive.”

“Wait, what?”

“Hotshots, smoke jumpers, contract workers, those types. They’ll be arriving in droves, and if you can stay open, so long as it’s safe, of course—”

“But I’m only here to grab something and go,” Sam explained. “My daughter—” Simpson looked at Astor, so Sam clarified, “My younger one,” and his face rearranged into an expression of concern. Everyone knew about Annie, and no doubt Simpson didn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth twice. “She needs me up on Highline Road, so I’m just here for a minute.”

Besides, he was no profiteer, even if one good day at the Eddy for a change could pay for Annie’s next round of prescriptions. It might even pay off one of the smaller medical bills. He looked around again at the gathered assemblage. His neighbors. His customers.

“Maybe I could just open up, stay for a bit, until Kim can arrive,” he decided. He’d call Claude the moment he got in the door and let him know.

Once he’d unlocked and disarmed the Eddy, people swarmed in behind him, the dining room packed in a matter of minutes. It was a better turnout than Monday Night Football or the annual Carbon High School alumni night combined.

He greeted a handful of additional familiar faces as he and Astor made their way toward the bar: a few were neighbors from below Highline who had felt twitchy about their Level 2 status, but most were residents from the base of Flatiron, like Simpson had said, already at Level 3, like the Jacobses. They wore expressions of stark disbelief over a heavy layer of fatigue and no small amount of soot and dirt, unsure if they’d have a home to go back to once they’d finished their burgers. Caroline Frenchman, the tough-as-nails owner of Carbon’s only equine-therapy ranch, kept wiping tears with the cuff of her shirt. Matty Dillon, Carbon High’s current quarterback, looked as haggard and lost as his dad, Dr. Dillon, holding a cat crate in each hand, which they must have liberated from their family vet clinic by Flatiron.

He called Claude, who assured him nothing had changed up on Highline, for better or for worse. “Just don’t dally too long with that power pack, sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Sam told him, then messaged Kim, who arrived not five minutes after getting Sam’s text, wearing a stern expression. “I thought you’d promised to leave?”

“It’s good to see you, too,” he returned dryly before filling her in on Annie’s whereabouts. And he was relieved to see her still in town as well; as validating as this full bar was, these customers weren’t going to feed themselves. One look at her face, however, had him asking, “You okay? Everyone all right?”

“Yeah,” Kim insisted, letting her purse and a backpack—probably her go bag—slide to the floor. “It’s not like we’re newbies to this, but ... I don’t know. Something feels off about this fire.”

They both paused to observe Deputy Simpson milling about in his tan uniform, pausing at tables to check in with residents, assuring everyone of their safety here in town. For the time being, Kim’s expression countered.

He slid behind the bar to get a pot of coffee on, Astor clambering up onto the counter to reach the industrial pods of Folgers. Kim clicked on the grill of the Viking stove to get it warmed up. As he was pouring water into the coffee carafe, Sam spotted the imposing figure of Fire Chief Gabe Hernandez, a.k.a. head honcho, entering the Eddy.

He started to wave him over, only to have someone else catch his eye. Chris Fallows, who, unlike his father, was permitted, if not exactly welcome, at the Eddy, though he hadn’t darkened the door of this place in years. Sam hadn’t spoken to Chris directly since high school, when he’d gone one way—JROTC—and Chris had gone another—juvenile detention. Last Sam had heard, Chris had been trying to make a go of it with a girlfriend a few towns over, but from the look of it, he was back on the payroll out at the grow. The farmer’s tan and work boots gave him away.

Which just meant the two of them had even less to talk about now than ever. He turned his back to guide Astor through the process of adding the coffee to the machine and turning on the heat. Kim, bless her, was already making the rounds with a serving tray, handing out mugs and creamer packets to those who might want a cup of joe, and by the time Sam joined her with sugars, Chris had disappeared into the crowd. Which suited Sam just fine: the last thing he needed was to deal with a Fallows right now.

“Are they planning a press briefing?” Kim asked. She nodded toward Chief Hernandez, who had now been joined by the NewsWatch 10 crew, busy setting up beside him near the bar.

Simpson, overhearing, told them, “Sorry, I wanted to run it by you folks, but ... he’s supposed to go live in a few minutes.”

Sam wove through the crowd to get back to the bar. “Hernandez!” he called, waving an arm to get the chief’s attention. When he didn’t glance up, he added a louder, “Hey, Gabe!”

The fire chief turned, as did that same young reporter who’d reported on the fire earlier—Madison something or other, who gestured excitedly to her one-man camera crew as Hernandez waved Sam over.

“What’s the status of Mel and her crew?” Sam asked Hernandez. “Were they anywhere near the action when the fire broke through the line?” He knew he wasn’t supposed to be privy to this information, but Hernandez, like Simpson, knew that small-town familiarity tended to blur such lines.

Madison sidled closer, happy enough to take advantage. “Mr. Bishop? Can we have a word? Just a few minutes of your time.”

Sam shook his head at Madison, focusing on Hernandez. “Any update on the Highline area?” If the head-of-command showed any concern at all for that area, he would make a beeline back with Astor and the Goal Zero right this minute, press conference or no.

“It’ll only take a sec,” Madison persisted.

Hernandez waved at her in annoyance, telling Sam, “Level 1 is holding steady up there,” he said, while Sam exhaled a sigh of relief. He’d give Claude another update and let him know he’d be just a bit longer. “And if it stays that way,” Hernandez continued, “the higher ground up there could provide a good vantage point for fighting the fire, should it continue to creep west.”

“Creep west?” Madison interjected.

Hernandez’s lips pressed closed in a tight line. Clearly, he’d already said more than he should, as a favor to his crew member’s ex.

“We heard they’re currently holding the line at the bottom of Forest Service Road 7312,” Madison pressed.

Near True’s property, Sam thought with a start. As well as the Fallowses’. He knew what that acreage meant to both of them—a sanctuary for the former, a business asset, and a lucrative one at that, for the latter. He darted a glance to where he’d last clocked Chris but still couldn’t spot him in the crowd.

Kim materialized, sweat beading on her brow. “We’re out of buns, and I don’t know what to do about the salads ... no one prepped them.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He should be helping her, not trying to pry information out of the fire department. “Listen, let’s just limit the menu, all right? Appetizers, soups, and chili, that’s it. Plus drinks!” he called after her. Now that the Eddy was open and he was here, he might as well make it worth Claude’s time. And Kim’s.

She smiled gratefully and disappeared back behind the bar as Hernandez began to address the crowd, distracting everyone from the poor service provided today by the River Eddy.

“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 anger projected 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 report that ,” 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’s other customers 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.