Firestorm - Ellie Masters Page 0,11

line in the rock scree as I bounced to a stop.

I do a quick check for injuries. I’m scraped, bleeding, and sliced from the fall. My arms are a little burned, but I’m alive. Nothing’s broken, but my ankle is tweaked. I pray it’s not a sprain.

And I’m trapped.

As long as the winds don’t change, I should be safe, but it won’t take much to change that. A pillar of smoke rises into the air and wind rushes over my skin. The hot column of air is sucking in fresh oxygen to fuel the burn.

I’m not safe.

I test my ankle, but it’s sprained. To get out of here, I have to hobble or hop on one foot, and I see nothing I can use as a cane. All the bushes are scrawny things, gnarled, twisted, brittle, and dry.

So, how does one survive a firestorm?

They don’t do it by sitting still. I’m in serious trouble. If I can’t get out of this little ravine, the fire will overtake me, suffocate me, and kill me.

But what can I do?

I take the wet fabric covering my head and rub at the burning sting in my eyes. I need to see. To think.

I need to survive.

Flames lick less than twenty feet above my head. The fire followed my mad dash. There’s not much here to burn, but the tiny scrub won’t put up much of a fight.

Knowing nothing about wildfires, I have no idea what to do. I don’t have time to look it up in my wildlife survival guide. It’s up that ridge, probably burning by now.

My stuff.

Why did that guy put up all my stuff?

The wind kicks up, drawn inward to feed the fire. Its low roar fills the air. At least it brings fresh oxygen. I have this to be grateful for as I scramble along the bottom of the ravine. I need someplace to hunker down, let the fire around me burn itself out.

I need shelter.

Then I notice a group of rocks, boulders about chest high, which tumbled down into this ravine eons ago. They squat together and I scramble to them because there’s a small opening. Several times, I attempt to bear weight on my injured foot, but my ankle gives out beneath me.

Above the crackling noise, trees ignite with a popping sound. The column of smoke extends to the sky, a blight against a sunset of fiery orange and red.

The fire roars and flames shoot thirty feet into the air.

My tiny ravine feels very inadequate. But what else can I do? I can’t climb out.

I need options if things get too bad.

Too bad?

Who the hell am I kidding? I’m up shit creek and the damn water is on fire.

Think, Evie. Think! How do you survive?

I think back to a campfire I shared with a pair of hikers, Seth and George. I met them over a month ago in Colorado. They taught me how to build a fire and gave me tips and tricks, like the best way to build a fire for cooking and the best fire for warmth. They said something about wildfires.

All I can remember is them saying to keep your wits about you. Well, I’m pretty much at my wits end. What else? What did they say?

Be aware of your surroundings.

This applies in every situation.

Attempt to evacuate.

I tried that and did well until I launched myself over the edge of the ridge. Now, I’m paying for that mistake with an injury which makes getting out impossible.

Seth mentioned the wind. But what did he say? Something about traveling with the wind, or against it? It doesn’t make sense to travel with the wind. Wind feeds fires. So, I need to head into the wind?

Canyons and gullies are exactly where I’m not supposed to be. George said they could act like a chimney, funneling deadly heat upward.

Well, shit. Now I’m trapped inside a fire-funneling chimney.

Keep your wits about you, Evie. Don’t let panic set in.

That damn, rational side of my brain tries to make sense. I need to listen to it.

Look for natural firebreaks. Seth’s words poke through my panic.

Well, I’ve done that. The grouping of boulders isn’t a firebreak, but it will shield me from the flames, reducing the radiant heat to a life-surviving level.

Despite my ravine being a potential fire-funneling chimney, the lack of vegetation and rocky ground are a win.

You can’t outrun a fire.

Everybody knows fire travels faster than humans can run. It travels faster than deer can run, and now my heart hurts