Firestorm: living in the desert
Published by Cynthia E. Bagley at Smashwords
Copyright © 2012 by Cynthia E. Bagley
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Dedication
To my husband Otto. You are my star, my hero
Firestorm
If you had ever met Jude, you would know immediately from his tanned leather boots to his tanned wrinkled face that he was a "desert rat" and had spent most of his adult life under the harsh sun. His jeans molded over his hips and down to his boots. His plaid shirt was tucked into his pants, which was secured by a leather belt. His ball cap brim shaded his blue eyes that seemed to look into the distance.
Jude was standing in the parking lot by his spotted white and gray Dodge truck and was sucking on a cancer stick. As the ashes fell to the pavement, he ground the red glowing ones with his foot. You couldn't be too careful when the winter had been this dry. One spark and the entire State would go up in flames.
Once he finished his cigarette, he ground it out in his ashtray and put the stub into his pocket. He walked through the sliding glass doors of the Wal-Mart superstore.
THE SKY HAD THAT HAZY DUSTY glow when Jude walked out of the store and climbed into his truck. The air was cold so he started up the truck and let it run as he turned on the radio. The newscasters were talking about the weather.
There was a storm coming in with wind gusts up to sixty to sixty-five miles per hour.
It was time to go home before all hell broke loose. He had seen what those valley winds could do to traffic. One trailer-tractor had been pushed down by the wind, where it slid until it rested in the median of the freeway. Some fool truck driver always thought they could make it through when the winds were blowing at almost hurricane gale speed. The only way it could get worse is if a fire started. Not that he was paranoid, but with the greasewood, sagebrush, and cheatgrass being so dry, and the wind coming, it would only need a spark to start the blaze.
With that thought in mind, Jude turned on his amateur radio rig. Through his radio, he could hear his friend Mike calling for help. Mike could see a blaze starting up the gulley a few miles from his house. His wife had the car, picking up the kids after school, and he had no transportation to get out of the area.
"You need me to call 9-1-1?" Jude answered in a slow voice. Mike's answer was "no." He had already called 9-1-1 and the police dispatcher had told him to leave.
"I just need a ride," said Mike. The radio crackled around Mike's voice.
"On my way," Jude ended his transmission with his call sign. He drove out of the parking lot and turned towards 395 leading to Reno. Mike lived in a new subdivision on the south end of Reno. If all went there, he would be at Mike's in ten minutes or less.
It was about ten minutes before Jude pulled up to Mike's house. He lived in a ranch-style house; the grass around the house was yellowed and dry with little dirt patches. Mike was holding a satchel and a dog carrier. There wasn't time to get much more from the house. Jude could see patches of fire jumping from bush to bush. They needed to get out of there.
Jude unlocked his door; Mike crawled into the front seat; and settled the satchel and dog carrier on the back half-seat. Jude reached over and petted the little white mop-haired dog through the front grill. The dog licked his hand. "Go, go," said Mike. Jude put the truck in gear and they started the drive out.
IF THERE IS A HELL, IT would be the next few minutes when the wind whipped up to 85 mile an hour bursts, enclosing the spotted dodge truck in dust, fire, and ash. Jude couldn't see more than a few inches in front of the truck. He slowed down as his heart rate sped up. Jude turned off the truck radio. Mike grabbed the amateur radio mike and turned up the amateur radio.
The two of them had worked emergencies before. Both of them had belonged to a group that supplied radio support to local authorities during floods and other emergencies. This time the radio would help them find a way out of this disaster area. The air was close and choking, even in the enclosed cabin of the truck.
"We just turned left off Esmeralda," Mike said calmly into the microphone. Jude could see that Mike was trembling and his fingers were white as they clamped onto the microphone, but it didn't show in his voice. We are on the main road through new Washoe City, going north. Please direct us to a safer location."
"Abort, abort," yelled a voice. The man didn't identify. "You are driving into the fire. Turn around."
Jude knew that voice and it had never steered him wrong. He stopped, hoped that there weren't any autos following him, and began to back up. On the small road, the only place to turn around was a parking lot near the small lake. When Mike gasped, Jude jerked his head forward. The fire was bunching up in front of them in a massive effort. He could feel the heat as it gathered at the edge of the road, and with one push of the wind it jumped the road.
Jude knew they had to get out of there or he and Mike would be casualties on the news. Without thought or emotion, he backed up as fast as he could. He kept his eyes on the side of the road, knowing that if they ended up stuck on the soft shoulder that it would be the end of them.
It was luck when they found the parking lot, turned around and were headed away from the fire. Even then they could see the sparks flying, the heat, the ash, and hear the whining dog in the back seat. Jude clutched the wheel as his knuckles went white. Mike started coughing and Jude was almost in the same place.