Nick White

“As you can see, the heat signature here—” Dr. Hudson’s voice was tight as she zoomed in on a pulsing orange blob “—is far above baseline. Satellite imaging indicates an ignition point at precisely 1307 hours yesterday. Thirteen minutes later, a secondary hotspot materialized half a mile away.”

The map switched to a dynamic 3D simulation: swirling lines representing wind speed, dryness indexes, and predicted burn paths converged into ominous red zones that flared with each new data input.

Evan whistled under his breath. “That’s… faster than any brushfire I’ve seen on these ridges.”

Claire nodded curtly. “Exactly. The region’s dryness is critical, but look here—” She overlaid meteorological data, fueling the simulation with shifting wind patterns and atmospheric pressure readings. The model spiraled outward, painting the screen in layered reds and yellows. “If this anomaly continues, we’re looking at an exponential spread that outpaces even our quickest response teams.”

Walker set the phone aside, though her hand trembled with the urge to fling it across the room. “Fear mongering? Harold, we’ve had three fires in a week. This spring was the driest on record. People have a right to know what they’re dealing with.”

Gray leaned forward, placing his outstretched hands on the desk. He wasn’t a large man, but in that moment, the air around him seemed to shrink. “They also have a right to maintain a sense of normalcy. Or did you forget that Silver Ridge is trying to attract new developers, tourists, and money? Nobody invests in a town supposedly burning to the ground.”

She met his gaze, trying to mask the quiver in her voice. “You think ignoring the threat will make it go away?” Her frustration seeped through, each word snagging in her throat.

Grey’s response was immediate, sharp and precise. “Perception is reality. If you can’t keep your people from spouting doom and gloom, I’ll take measures myself.”

An urgent cry pierced the thick haze. “Medic!”

Alex’s senses snapped into focus. A veteran hotshot, Paulie Mason, staggered from behind a half-burnt aspen grove, clutching his arm, blood already soaking through his sleeve.

She bolted forward, the world narrowing to the injured man.

“Branch snapped on me,” Paulie gasped. “Didn’t see it coming.”

Alex dropped to one knee, already yanking gloves from her belt pouch. “Let me look.” She peeled back the scorched sleeve to reveal a deep gash. Blood mingled with soot and ash to create a nauseating paste. Though blood never bothered her- she was a medic, of course- she never got used to the metallic tang, especially pungent when heated. She made a mental note to bring a menthol decongestant paste to dab under her nose.

Initially, the wound appeared manageable—but suddenly, the gauze she pressed against it turned red quicker than expected. Her throat tightened. For a split second, she was back in the triage tent in
N’Djamena.

Dust. Screams. Another life in her hands.

Not here. Not now.

Alex forced the memory down, her breath coming fast and shallow. Focus on the wound. Control the bleeding.

Keep Paulie talking.

Her hands trembled as she flushed the injury with saline, the cool liquid sizzling as it hit the scorched earth. The blood didn’t stop, but it slowed. Good. That’s good.

“No arterial hit,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “But it’s bleeding fast.”

A deafening roar filled the air, followed by a rain of rubble. Smoke and flames surged upward, enveloping the spot where Billy and Luke had grappled. Evan coughed, pain lancing his ribs, then scrambled to push aside a hunk of shattered stone which had sent him further down the slope.

“Luke!” he rasped, voice shredded by the concussion. He struggled upright, adrenaline fighting shock as his vision swam. Flames licked fiercely at the ledge where the explosion hit, the ground scorched black and strewn with twisted metal shards like grotesque confetti. No sign of Billy. No sign of Luke. Only a swirling inferno claimed the point of ignition.

For an instant, through the roiling smoke, Evan thought he spotted movement—but another billow of black smoke swallowed it. The ledge trembled again, sending rubble skittering down the slope. Sunlight caught on jagged fragments of shattered rock, a strange glint of brightness against fresh flames.

Evan felt tears well and burn the corners of his eyes. Luke… He stepped closer, but the heat from the flames forced him back. The stench of chemicals and fuel overwhelmed his senses. If Luke had been caught in that blast, there was no miracle left to save him. Billy had taken them both out.

Evan slumped to one knee, body trembling with grief and shock. Luke Lawson had made the ultimate sacrifice, wrestling Billy in a final struggle that ended in flames. He pressed a hand against the hot stone, swallowing an ache that threatened to crush him. Evan coughed, tasting blood as he tried once more to see past the worst of the heat shimmer. “Luke?” he rasped, voice hoarse from smoke and raw emotion. No answer. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he inched closer to the fiery pit, but a rolling gust of fresh flames erupted from a pocket of remaining accelerant flared, forcing Evan back.

He shielded his face with one arm, the heat so intense his eyebrows felt singed. His heart pounded with a single desperate urge: Find Luke. Pull him out. He took one more half step, groaning as the pain from his earlier fall slammed his ribs. Still, he pushed forward—he had to know.