Fire Finder

I wake up like I am being born—brimming with life, spent of my tears, and desperately fearing the unknown. Puppet doesn’t wake me up from the nightmares anymore. I’m not sure if it's because she’s getting deaf and can’t hear me crying from the foot of the bed or if the dreams have become such a staple in our routine that the old dog sleeps through them. It’s not her fault, and the sun wakes me up real early anyway. It’s hard to sleep late in a one-room cabin surrounded by windows. I used to groan and cover my eyes during the first couple of weeks on the mountain, but my body doesn’t protest anymore. Puppet stirs in her bed when I sit up from the too-small twin which means she can definitely still hear me thrashing and yelping and grunting at night. It’s another couple of hours before I have to radio in, but I scan the horizon anyway: partly-cloudy, no disturbances. My bare feet are always a little cold on the hard floor in the morning before the sun fully rises, even in the summer. I shuffle to the stove and screw with the fancy espresso maker my mom gifted me the Christmas before. I hadn’t used it until now, and I was still figuring out the logistics of the thing. Two months in and my coffee still tastes burnt more often than not.

“C’mon Pupp,” I swing open the door to the catwalk as the little dog races me to the stairs. I let Puppet do her business as I make the short trek to do mine in the outhouse. I had stopped bothering to put shoes on to go outside weeks ago, but I still felt a little weird not wearing them to go to the toilet—a little like if you had decided to go barefoot on a hike to the campground restrooms. The blue-eyed mutt waits for me by the shed for the next step in our routine. I pull out the bucket and thank God that I was assigned to a lookout with semi-running water. I sponge off leisurely and occasionally splash some water for Puppet to lap up off the rocky ground. We make our way back upstairs after I’m what passes for clean at a lookout and my teeth are pretty much brushed. The coffee is ready and the smell shocks me into the memory of a less lonely lifestyle. Emma would still be sleeping at this hour. She would always sleep in while I would grab my ring from the bedside table before kissing her forehead to brave the chilly dawn. Sometimes, she would squint and groan and grab my hand as I turned away, and every time I would almost crawl back in bed to be close to her warmth.

I rub my left hand absentmindedly and gaze out over the mountains again. The fire lookout is isolated, and I’m not expecting guests until lunchtime so I wait to get dressed. Oh baby, won’t you be lonely, my mom had asked when I was leaving for the post. I didn’t say anything, but even in the silence she knew, like mothers do, that I had been lonely long before I was assigned to a season of solitude in the Cascades. I had always been a solitary bastard—a quiet, lanky thing cloaked in melancholy beyond my years, the kid that you could tell never did well on group projects. There had been a time when I was a part of something—a team—and had shed my moroseness in favor of easy laughter and camaraderie, a time when I had met a girl and asked her to marry me. That time was fleeting, though, and I should have known it—bastard that I am. I had clutched those years like a butterfly in my shaking hands and prayed to God I wouldn’t squeeze too tight, but I did. I squeezed too tight. I always did.

Puppet shrieks one of her unpleasant small-dog barks as she waits to be fed. I don’t radio in until 8 A.M. and spend the hour in-between reading and checking the sky every once in a while. When I finally clock in, nothing changes. I sit at the rotting desk and keep reading, but I look out the windows a little more often. Most days, that’s it. There’s watching and reading and maybe sketching and writing then eating and sleeping and dreaming and waking then watching again. Sometimes, there was a day like today when Elliot came to visit me for lunch. My stomach has just started grumbling when I see his bright speck of a body crest the peak. I don’t go down to meet him. Instead, I watch the crowd of unruly ghosts that follow him up the mountain.

They always follow him in a small pack. There were only 10 or 20 of them, but you wouldn’t be able to tell exactly how many because of how they blurred and faded into one another, a constantly shifting humanoid mass. They used to follow me—as soon as I stepped out of the house they were there. They would cram themselves in the backseat before I reversed down the driveway, spilling into the trunk. There were always a few that didn’t fit, but I saw them in my rear view mirror as they marched steadily behind my car at sometimes inhuman speeds. They would crowd around my desk when I sat down at work, and a couple of the ringleaders would peer over my shoulder before turning to whisper to the others. Their relayed message would echo indecipherably around me as I tried to focus throughout the day; it was only at night when I could actually hear what they said.

Elliot was coming up the stairs now, but the apparitions stayed on the ground. They hadn’t yet braved the many steps. He came less and less now, but I was always glad to see him.

“Tobias,” he smiles and his goofy-looking mustache seems to quiver with excitement. I never understood why he was so happy to see me. He was the only one of our cohort who still talked to me, let alone visited.

“Hey Cap,” I say, “How’s the real world?” I always asked that when he came to see me. How’s the real world, like I was living somewhere different and less real. In a way, I guess I was.

“Well, you know,” he carelessly waves a calloused hand, “someone’s at war and taxes are high and some celebrity got cheated on and all that, but that’s not the real stuff,” he digs around in his pack, “Look, here’s somethin’ real, Toby. Ain’t that as real as it gets?” He shoves a photo of two little girls under my nose and I flinch. Something about looking at them makes me sad, but I can’t quite figure out what. He doesn’t wait for me to respond or figure out what’s bothering me before explaining. I don’t think he notices how uncomfortable I am. Puppet licks my calf.

“The girls just started the swim team, and Sarah has them doing ballet and violin too. I never did anything like that when I was a kid,” he barrels on, “I mean I barely made it to football practice three days a week.” I nod along, and he continues— talking about his wife and kids and the bird that their cat killed and the annoying way the neighbor mows the lawn. I stand up to make lunch, but the stream of words doesn’t slow as I get a couple of cans from the shelf. I grab a pot to dump everything in—chilli with beans, canned ravioli, and extra tomatoes—and put it on my single burner. All of his stories sound the same as the last time he came to visit, but I don’t mind. I think Captain Elliot has always had a sixth sense for knowing what I needed, and I needed this, this long-winded reminder of a human life outside of mine—outside of the lives I lost. I think he also knew I still had nothing to say. He talks with his mouth full, and I pass Puppet a piece of ravioli while chewing thoroughly in silence and scanning the windows.

“Anyway,” he swallows, “Seen any fires lately?” We pause, and he seems to remember where he is and who he’s talking to and that he might have said something wrong. I feel restless. I want to say something, to tell some story and keep the conversation going and make the retired Capitan laugh while we reminisce about the old days. But we don’t talk about the old days and all I can spit out is “No.”

…

He looks sad when it’s time for him to hike back down the mountain hours later. He always stays longer than he needs to, but today he stays even longer. The anniversary is coming up. His bright eyes dim a little, and we look out over the wilderness together. He takes in the view right before sunset while I check for signs of danger.

“You’d tell me if you need something, right Toby?”

I’m not looking at him, but I shake my head yes and peer down at the spirits that are waiting patiently for him at the foot of the stairs. I’m itching to ask if he can see them too, but I don’t want to see the concerned crease in his brow when he asks who the hell I’m talking about. I stare at them hard, as if staring at them might make them solid, real. I look back at Elliot and can see in his face that he’s somewhere else. I wonder if it’s the same place I go when I fall asleep—the place we never mention—so I decide to ask about the ghosts.

”Do you see them Elliot?” I say hesitantly.

“What?” He says, and I get braver because he doesn’t look concerned, just confused.

“Do you see them? The ghosts?” I turn to see his reaction, but he’s waiting for me to go on. “You know, Cap, The ones from a couple years ago. Our last wildfire.” He doesn’t back away or call me crazy, but he does sigh deeply and look down—down in the direction of the hazy crowd. I start breathing quicker as I wait for his answer. He can see them, I tell myself. You’re not alone and you’re not crazy. You can go home now.

“Not as much these days,” he shifts so that he’s no longer looking in their direction. My heart sinks, but there is still hope.

“But you did see them,” I push on eagerly, insensitively.

“We all saw ‘em,” he seems to chew on his words as he says them—the volume of his voice lost in the vast shadows of the ancient mountain range— so I lean in. “Hell, they were everywhere. I was starin’ so often I think even Sarah started to see ‘em. But it’s been long enough now, they’re mostly invisible.”

“They follow you, though,” I insist, “Now I only see them when you’re here. Only when you’re here or when I’m sleeping.” There is an unnatural silence. The molecules of the air quit vibrating while the Cascades hold their breath. I can feel the blood pumping hard through my veins when I realize he might not say anything back.

”Maybe I should stop coming around then,” he offers cheerlessly after a few breaths. I can feel the color leave my skin and I know I must look like a phantom too. “Tobias,” he continues sternly… lovingly, “You know you can’t live like this. Fire season’s over in a couple weeks and you’ll have to get another job. You can’t hide from your ghosts down there.”

I know that.

“I know that,” I say it out loud just to make sure he knows that I know. Or maybe it’s just a reassurance to myself. Either way, the silence between our words grows excruciatingly longer.

“I gotta get home for dinner,” he says sheepishly after an awkward silence, and the Earth lets out a deep exhale like the last few minutes never happened. I feel like I’m about to cry.

“Yeah, alright,” I choke out and turn all the way around to do another check while he tightens his pack. He starts towards the stairs. “See you soon Cap!” I call out desperately as he joins the horde at the base of the lookout. He doesn’t say anything back, but he does look up at me and wave. I watch him for a long time until he disappears, neglecting my periodic scans of the horizon. Puppet waits with me then starts to whine. I smell it at about the same time she does: ozone. I turn my head quickly to find one of the previously harmless clouds has morphed into a thunderhead. The storm is far off and the hike to the lookout isn’t too long, but I harbor a private fear for Captain Elliot as I reach for the radio.

Storms don’t necessarily mean anything bad. Lightning strikes can cause fires, but they rarely turn into those great, raging creatures that I used to battle with the Captain. Storms always move faster than you expect, and the thunder is ringing much closer by the time the sun fully slips below the horizon. It’s pitch dark before I head inside, but the rain hasn’t hit yet. I watch the lightning closely while I give Puppet her dinner and forego my own. It’s as beautiful and terrifying as ever, great flashes silhouetting the ancient hills and illuminating the contours of storm clouds, tendrils of pure energy reach down from the heavens to scrape the earth. I can’t help but look back at the trailhead—Captain Elliot had certainly made it to his car by now and might have even driven fast enough to be home for dinner. And yet, my gut is twisting something awful. I’m still staring when a flash lights up the path. The ghosts have come back up the mountain.

I start to shake as they approach, a misty mob moving lazily toward me. I’m not asleep, but, for the first time, I can hear them yelling as they get closer—booming claps of thunder punctuating their screams.

“Help! Please, God!” I screw my eyes shut tight and try to cover my ears, but it doesn't muffle anything. Behind my eyelids a fire burns between me and the team. “Save us! Por favor, Dios mio!” There is a wall of heat between me and a family of four. I feel something touch my leg and jump ten feet in the air, but it is just Puppet reminding me I’ve got a job to do. I slam the door shut to dull the shouting and check on the storm that thankfully seems as though it will pass me to the south. My hands are trembling so bad I can’t read the map when I give an update over the radio. The door starts to rattle, and I can’t bear to see what’s outside the window. The radio is still crackling, the thunder claps are more frequent, and the dog starts barking, but my heartbeat is the loudest sound by far when I slowly turn to face the doorway. The horde of the dead has finally learned to climb the stairs.

….

We stare at each other for the rest of time. The universe begins and ends and then begins again and we are still just staring. They have stopped screaming. None of us speak as we wait for someone to make the first move. Some of them are extremely clear, translucent figures in sharp clarity with seeing eyes and twitching noses—individual strands of their hair move and I can trace the points of their Cupid’s bow. The children, especially, stare at me with bright, defined eyes. Others are harder to put together, they shift and crumble before reforming but never fully. I catch glimpses of burning clothes and melted skin in the moments where they are still. There is a murmuring amongst them and I steel myself for whatever comes next. The crowd of ghosts parts, and one of the more solid ones wades through. He emerges from the phantoms in full gear, a black-and-white snapshot of that long forgotten day, moving like he could still breathe—the only firefighter on the list of the dead. Thunder echoes more distantly now, and the quiet between rumbles feels heavier. My hands clench and unclench as I wait for him to say something because I still have nothing to say, and the shame and the tears are welling up again. It feels like my skin is no longer enough to contain me, like it's about to start ripping at the joints while something in me tries to escape. The firefighter’s mustache twitches a little as he takes off his helmet.

“Tobias…” he says gently, lovingly, sternly, and it almost feels like that’s it, like there’s nothing else to say and they can all leave forever and I can finish my shift and go to sleep and not dream. “Toby, I think it’s time we had a longer talk.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s time, but it also doesn’t feel like I would ever know when the ‘time’ was. Unless it was right now. I inhale deeply and pat Puppet to calm myself down before I speak. My voice feels unused when I clear my throat. I don’t know what else to say except for what I’ve always said before.

“Hey Cap, how’s the real world?”