Hotshot

By J. T. Townley 

1.

Clint was the first to go. And, if we’re honest, rightfully so. But he did not go gentle into the night or whatever, since gentle had nothing to do with it. He fought back well as he could.

Everyone did. We had weapons at our disposal—chainsaw, Pulaski, monkey paw—but not enough time to make use of them. So we kicked and threw wild roundhouses, clawed and bit, though we weren’t on offense much. We were mainly trying to fend off lightning-quick attacks. The stakes were serious. Our lives were in jeopardy, my way or the die-way. We didn’t stand a chance. A few of us clambered up onto boulders or ducked beneath downed timbers. That’s the only thing that saved us, the sole reason we made it out of there in one piece. Cowardice was our saving grace, though we can’t shake the memory of it all. Or the guilt.

2.

We busted our humps for a while in the smoky light, though we knew it was too little, too late. Captain had already called in the big guns. Crews from across the country, according to radio chatter, Idaho and Washington, California and New Mexico. One all the way from Australia.

Dozens of engines, tenders, and dozers. Six helicopters dropping pinkish-red clouds of retardant. Four scooper planes dredging water up from Paintbrush Lake. Those air crews couldn’t fly when the wind was up. The in-charge told us another red flag day was coming tomorrow and we better brace ourselves.

Sucking wind from the combo of altitude and work pace, we took a breather on a forty-five degree slope through old growth. By now, we weren’t sure what the point was. We could only make so much difference, ditch-digging with hand tools. This whole thing was more than we bargained for.

Come on, somebody said.

We followed him downhill to a small grove of Doug firs on flatter ground. We leaned and knelt, squatted and perched. We took swigs from our canteens. Ragged and soot-smeared and dirty. Probably smelled even worse, though our noses were full of barbequed forest. One of us folded a stick of grubby gum into his mouth. Somebody else poked a Marlboro between his lips without lighting it. We caught our breath in the shade, too tired for panic.

We’re screwed, we said.

We all shook our heads, bewildered at how we got to this point. We were so dog-tired, we didn’t recognize how uncomplicated the plot, how obvious the cause and effect.

It’s bad luck, we said. Terrible, we said.

The worst, we said.

Now rustling in the underbrush thirty yards up a rocky escarpment. Could’ve been anything, dislodged boulder, angry bear. While a couple of us reached for knives in sheaths on our belts, no one got up.

Then we saw it. Clydesdale-big, though far leaner and more agile. Striated chest muscles shimmered in the dirty light. He had a huge rack, though the angle made it difficult to get an accurate count of his points.

Wish I had my rifle, we said. The gigantic elk’s ears twitched. Think he heard you, we said.

The animal’s hooves clattered against granite as he bounded down the hill toward us. We were too tired, or maybe too stunned, to move.

The creature stood not five feet from us, breath pluming in the chilly morning air. His nose glistened. His musk hung thick, mingling with the acrid stench of burning timber.

How’s elk venison sound for supper? said one of us. Our laughter was nervous.

The elk’s eyes narrowed to slits. I’m standing right here, he said. What the—?

Holy fuck!

You gotta be shittin me.

The animal shook his head once. You’ve got mouths as foul as your sour rot stench. We traded glances, wondering if it was all a smoke-induced hallucination.

Your minds aren’t playing tricks on you, he said, as if reading ours.

One of us stood. The rest followed suit, hefting chainsaws, axes, and rakes. We don’t have time for this, we said. In case you haven’t noticed, a wildfire’s raging around us.

The elk blew and stamped. Thanks for such an insightful observation, he said. Now we’re arguing with a sarcastic elk?

Hotshot. Come again? You heard me. Hotshot?

Uh-huh, he said.

You’re not taking our name, we said. You can’t steal our thunder, we said. We’re the hotshots, we said.

The elk shook his head again. Think you’re hot shit, too. Don’t you?

We’ve got work to do, we said.

Hotshot cut us off in a single bound. You’re not going anywhere, he said.

3.

We knew what we were doing, okay? We were a Type-1 Hotshot crew. We orchestrated the whole thing without saying a word. Bossman already had us up there on our own, so nobody was looking over our shoulder. Half of us picked up our monkey paws and started digging line. What a luxury! Containment usually comes after the flames, but that day was different. While some of us were digging, the sawyers cranked up their chainsaws and got busy, limbing deadfall and cutting slash. The swampers followed, gathering and piling the cuttings. They turned their Pulaskis on anything that needed hand-trimming. We understood how fire behaved in the wild. The last thing we wanted was to torch the whole forest, so we made preparations. We laid the groundwork. The whole point was to keep ourselves employed as deep into the season as possible. And you know what? It was already working.

When everything was set and ready, we stopped and took a blow. Some of us crouched in the dust, while others squatted on rotting logs. A few leaned against the trunks of Doug firs.

Unseen birds twittered in the branches. A woodpecker’s rapid thump resonated through the dense growth. A light breeze made evergreen needles shimmy. We studied each other’s faces, breathing in the baked smell of sun-warmed needles. We wondered if we were really about to do this thing.

Then Clint, who’d cooked up this plan, slipped a smoke between his lips and lit it with an engraved gold Zippo.

Y’all ready to make some money?

We studied the rust-red dust. We made fleeting eye contact, then looked away. We’re all in this thing together, okay?

We flexed our jaws or scratched our pits. We took uncertain swigs of water from canteens. Maybe it’s not such a good idea?

We could just finish mop-up? Yeah, then what?

Clint took a drag. Exhaling blue smoke, he said, Then it’s back to the grindstone. Lubing axels at Tractor Barn.

Slopping stalls at K-Bar.

Pulling doubles at Biscuit Barrel.

So on, so forth. That what y’all want?

We pondered what was waiting, a hand-to-mouth existence in a dumpy courtyard apartment or dank basement or drafty ranch A-frame. Maybe a hot shower once in a while would’ve been nice, but our life as hotshots had its merits. Fresh air, when it wasn’t thick with billowing smoke. Open spaces, when they weren’t hot with flames. An honest day’s work, though we were exhausted twenty-four-seven from lugging gear up steep, overgrown terrain. The food was nothing to write home about, and the coffee, when we got it, was lousy, too. But at least we had a sense of purpose. Not to mention a bunch of like-minded buddies.

Clint stubbed his smoke out on the sole of his boot, then pocketed the butt. His gold Zippo glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Well? he said.

We toed the dirt and traded guarded glances. Then, slowly, we all nodded.

Clint grinned and flipped open his lighter. He scratched the spark wheel and watched the flame dance for a long moment. Then he said, Here goes nothing.

4.

The elk towered over us, panting and huffing. We knew it must be the angle, but from here he seemed even bigger than before. Hot wind lashed the trees, rattling branches. Embers pulsed orange as they drifted through the air, creating spot fires around us and pushing the boundary further west. Gusts blew up to fifty miles per hour. The blaze had breached our original containment lines hours ago, devouring acre upon acre of national forest.

Don’t think you’re getting away with this, said Hotshot. Mind your business, we said.

We’re the experts, we said. You’re just the wildlife, we said.

The elk blew and stamped and shook his head. You realize I live here, right? That’s my home you torched.

You got it bass-ackwards, said Clint. We’re the good guys. Or can’t you tell?

He danced a little circle of frustration—an agile move for anybody on a steep incline, much less a giant quadruped.

The smoke spooked the herd, said Hotshot, and the wind fanned the flames toward us. It all happened so fast. Some of us panicked, and we all scattered. The smoke was thick. There wasn’t much light but that hellish orange glow.

Great story, Clint said. Now will you move along so we can do our job?

The giant elk ignored him. Everybody ran. Some fell and got trampled. But I was determined to find whoever was responsible. Then I caught a rancid stench on the hot wind. That’s how I found you.

Smoke must’ve got to you, said Clint. We’re firefighters, friend. Emphasis on the fight—

In one motion, Hotshot lunged and butted our buddy straight down the mountain. Clint grunted with the impact but didn’t make a sound as he flew through the air. He hit a boulder and bounced before landing like a rag doll in the dust at the foot of a huge western hemlock.

We watched in horrified silence. When we moved a couple paces downhill, Hotshot said: That’s far enough.

We froze in our tracks.

The elk covered the distance without trying. Who else has something to say? 

5.

Once it was lit and burning, we were sitting pretty. We hung back and kept an eye on the flames for a while. We had to let it spread some before we could call it in. We were deep in the backcountry, so it would take hours for the rest of the team to catch up. We’d managed the fuel available to feed the flames. It was a warm one, but the rainy season was on its way. We let her smolder in pockets of downed timber and dense conifer stands. All going to plan, she’d burn herself out inside of a week. Then we’d do it all over again before the rains came, second verse, same as the first.

When the time was right, we called it in.

The flames swirled in a grove of fir and hemlock. But the smoke plumed straight up, more or less, so there was nothing to worry about.

Our squad leader’s voice crackled through the radio. We already knew what he was going to tell us, where to dig line, how much slash to cut. Like we were all wet behind the ears. We made mocking faces and vulgar gestures.

But then he said: High pressure system moving in. High temps and low humidity. Red flag for the next three days.

We stared at each other in silence. Our faces were stone. Without a word, we hopped to our feet and got to work. Nobody wanted to say what we already knew: we were in big trouble.

6.

It was way too late for excuses, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We needed to plant the seeds now to shield ourselves from suspicion. We each took a turn on the radio. We mentioned downed power lines. We described abandoned backcountry campfires. We imagined sudden and explosive lightning strikes. It was possible we were speculating. We might’ve even been making it all up as we went along. Once the wildfire was contained, the investigators would swoop in and debunk all our stories.

We watched, helpless, as the fire swelled and spread and gobbled up more old growth. If we weren’t mistaken, if our brains hadn’t become smoke-addled, we’d been hired to protect the very trees we’d set alight. To make matters worse, the wildfire was moving so fast, a bunch of cabins had already been torched. Crews were having a helluva time staying ahead of the flames. The highway had been shut down in both directions, and the fire was threatening the big lodge up the mountain. That place had been there for a hundred years. We heard reports of ongoing mitigation efforts, but if that place went up in flames, there’d be hell to pay.

What have we done? we said. We’re going to jail, we said.

For the rest of our lives, we said.

Clint scoffed. Long as we keep mum, who’s gonna know?

We glanced at each other, then at the ground. The hellscape blossomed around us, flames uphill, flames downhill, smoke billowing through blackened branches. We should’ve been wearing our respirators.

And nobody’s talking, said Clint. But look what’s happened, we said. It’s outta control, we said.

What if somebody gets hurt? we said.

Clint gave us a hard stare, one by one, even as the flames roared. Nobody. Got that?

We nodded. No matter how much we might’ve dreaded our dead-end jobs and nagging domestic scenes, none of us wanted to spend the rest of our lives in jail. We swore our loyalty to the cause. Then we maneuvered along the contour line to safety.

7.

Clint lay at the foot of a hemlock, unmoving. If he was still breathing, he was in critical condition and in dire need of wilderness first aid. We kept gazing down at the heap of his body, then back at the giant animal towering over us. Smoke drifted on the hot wind. Upslope, tongues of flame licked at tree trunks. Nobody said a word.

After a long moment, Hotshot said, He’s a goner. Forget him. We’ve got to get him outta here.

Too late for that.

But he’ll burn if we leave him.

The elk snorted. Ashes to ashes, he said.

We set our jaws. Our eyes watered, though we told ourselves it was just the smoke. He’s our buddy, we said.

You want a real sob story? My friends and family are now homeless. Those of us lucky enough to have escaped, that is.

The time for words was over. One of us unsheathed a knife, blade glinting in the hellish orange light. We wondered if it was a good idea, but not for long. Hotshot spun a one-eighty and kicked our buddy square in the chest with both his hind legs. He flew twenty feet across the hillside and crashed full force into a Doug fir. We heard a crack—and it wasn’t from the tree.

Who’s next? said the elk.

Now, at last, we understood what was happening. We weren’t so quick on the uptake.

Maybe he had size, strength, and quickness, not to mention bloodlust, but we weren’t about to keel over and die. Not without a fight. We still had him outnumbered. We had weapons, too, if we could find a way to use them before he crushed our chests and broke our backs.

But Hotshot could read our minds, or perhaps smell our thoughts, because he smirked and snickered.

So that’s how you want it? he said. We traded anxious glances.

You know what I’m capable of now, right?

We pushed our shoulders back and thrust our chests out. We popped our necks. We tested our grips on Pulaskis and monkey paws.

It doesn’t have to end this way, okay? Who died and made you god? we said.

Hotshot gave us a pitying look. I’m offering you a way out so you don’t wind up like your friends.

Neither man had moved. Just apologize, okay?

You want us to say we’re sorry?

He nodded. Then confess what you’ve done and take what’s coming.

Now wait just a minute, we said.

Don’t do the crime, he said, if you can’t do the time. We gritted our teeth, white-knuckling tool handles.

Hotshot pawed at evergreen needles underfoot. They only got what they deserved. As will you, I might add.

Enough of this bullshit, we said. We’ll be eating venison steak for supper.

One of us rounded on the huge animal, though he spun, refusing to let us get behind him.

We flanked him to either side, keeping a safe distance. Or so we thought. Maybe we were accustomed to steep, rocky slopes and uncertain footing, but that didn’t mean we were adapted to the terrain. Though we tried to attack, we were sluggish and awkward. We trudged and slipped, slid and tripped. Despite his bulk, Hotshot scampered away before we could grab his antlers or snatch his tail.

We heaved stones at him, but only the smallest got anywhere near him. Most of those, he ducked.

Hotshot didn’t say, You asked for it. He didn’t say, I warned you. He didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he glared at us, then let out a monster bugle. The hairs on the back of our necks prickled. Butterflies flitted in our bellies. Our legs went wobbly.

Then he kicked and head-butted and trampled. He gave himself some runway, then charged.

We defended ourselves as best we could, but that elk was bigger than us, quicker, more agile, smarter. And he had a score to settle. Not that we didn’t understand: in his place, we might even feel the same way. Still, we hadn’t intended to set the whole mountain on fire. We were only trying to avoid the inevitable.

We threw wild punches and even made contact a few times. We scratched and clawed and swung sticks like clubs. We shimmied up trees and tried to pounce on his back, though the one time we landed, he bucked us off in two strides. By now, our hand tools had gone missing, scattered around the forest where we’d dropped them when we dove to safety. We fought hard but quickly ran out of ideas.

So we climbed, bloody-knuckled, up onto boulders. We shimmied up the trunks of trees, mouths full of splinters. We dove beneath old, rotting logs, praying they would hold the huge animal’s weight. Nothing deterred Hotshot. He could leap higher than most of us imagined, knocking us off our perches. He kicked tree trunks until, bone-rattled, we went plummeting to the ground. The falls knocked some of us unconscious or left us with sprains or breaks that prevented us from fleeing. Hotshot trampled those of us on the ground. Our screams echoed through the burning forest.

If it hadn’t been for the encroaching flames, Hotshot might’ve waited us out. He was prepared to stomp us all into oblivion, but he wasn’t on a suicide mission. The fire roared and popped. Smoke billowed. Embers floated on the hot wind. All we could make out was the thud of hoofs on forest floor. We held out as long as we could. We weren’t even sure how many of us were left.

Is he gone? we said. Think so, we said. Thank god, we said.

Hotshot had fled and wouldn’t be back—at least, we hoped not. With twisted ankles and busted knees, bodies aching and swelling, we weren’t mobile enough to evade him again. We could barely walk. But the walls of flame were closing in, so it was now or never.

Our radio was long gone. We had no food or medical supplies. We staggered down the mountain and found our way to a creek, where we drank and cleaned our wounds best we could. Then we trudged away from the burning forest. We didn’t talk about anything but what was in front of us. At a bridge over the creek, emergency vehicles ran thick, and we flagged down a ride back to camp.

Soon as he saw us, Captain said, What happened? Where’s the rest of your crew? Paramedics wrapped us in heat blankets, gave us bottled water, and tended to our wounds. All we could think to say was: Clint was the first to go.

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J. T. Townley has published in The Kenyon Review, The New York Review of Books, The Threepenny Review, and elsewhere. His nonfiction book, Firsts Abroad, is forthcoming from Rutgers University Press. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia, a PhD in Sociology from University College London, and an MPhil in English from Oxford University, and he directs the Master of Arts in Interdisciplinary Studies program at Oregon State University. To learn more, visit jttownley.com.