Trial by Fire
The wind carried the scent of death—burned oak, roasted animals, and the sharp tang of scorched earth. Mason Cruz spat into the dirt, his saliva dark with ash, and tightened his grip on the Pulaski. The heavy tool, a hybrid of ax and hoe used to fight wildfires, had felt like an extension of his hands at the start of the shift. Now it was a burden, its handle slick with sweat, its weight dragging at his arms with every swing.
The trench he was carving felt like a child’s scribble against the wildfire roaring just beyond the ridge. The ground beneath his boots was bone dry, crumbling with every step, and his knees shook with every movement. Around him, his crew worked with frantic purpose, their shouts barely audible over the cacophony of the blaze—trees exploding like gunfire, embers raining down like tiny, burning meteors. The fire wasn’t just advancing; it was alive, a ravenous beast tearing through the hills with insatiable hunger.
“Cruz! Focus!” Captain Vega’s voice cracked over the roar of flames. It was the only thing cutting through the chaos—the deafening crack of burning wood, the hiss of embers falling from the sky, the low growl of the fire itself. Mason turned his head, blinking against the smoke stinging his eyes.
Vega stood a few feet away, his helmet pushed back, sweat streaking through the ash on his face. He pointed toward the half-dug line Mason had abandoned mid-swing. “We don’t have time for you to zone out! Move!”
Mason nodded, but his arms hung limp. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t pull enough air into his lungs. The fire wasn’t just a thing anymore—it was alive, and it was angry. He could feel its heat pressing against his skin, hear its guttural roars as it devoured the forest ahead of them. It was faster than they were, hungrier than they could ever hope to be, and no amount of digging or water was going to stop it.
Another tree ignited ahead of them with a sound like gunfire. Mason flinched, the shockwave of heat slamming into him like a wall. He staggered back, boots slipping in the dirt, and the Pulaski slipped from his grasp. He stared at the tool for a long moment, his hands trembling.
“Cruz!” Vega’s voice was sharper now, a blade slicing through the smoke. “Pick it up! Get back on the line!”
But Mason was already moving—backing away, his legs trembling, his breaths shallow and ragged. He couldn’t stop the fire. He couldn’t even stop himself from shaking. The heat clawed at his skin, the roar of the flames filling his ears, and all he could think was, I can’t do this.
And then he turned and ran.
Branches lashed at his face as Mason tore through the forest. He didn’t care where he was going—only that it was away. The fire roared behind him, a freight train of destruction chasing him down the hill, its heat licking at his back. His boots struck roots and rocks, sending him stumbling, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Every breath seared his lungs, the smoke curling into his throat and choking him. His helmet slipped from his head, landing somewhere in the dirt behind him, but he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Looking back would mean seeing it—the fire, the crew he’d abandoned, the thing he was too much of a coward to face.
He fell hard into a dry creek bed, the earth crumbling beneath his boots. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he lay there for a moment, gasping like a dying animal. Pain radiated from his shoulder, sharp and insistent, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the shame pressing down on him.
I ran.
The thought hit him like a blow. He hadn’t shouted a warning, hadn’t tried to help anyone. He’d just… left. Left the rookies who’d looked to him for guidance. Left Annie, with her braided hair and steady determination. Left Vega, who’d vouched for him when no one else would.
The shame twisted in his gut like a knife. He clawed at the dirt, his fingers digging into the dry earth like he could hold himself there, but it didn’t help. He couldn’t escape the truth of what he’d done.
Above him, a branch cracked, the sound sharp and final. He looked up to see embers drifting like malevolent fireflies, carried by a sudden gust of wind. The fire wasn’t behind him anymore. It was ahead, moving faster than it should have been possible.
For a moment, he thought about staying there—letting the fire take him. It would be easier than going back, easier than facing their judgment. But the thought was fleeting, swept away by a quieter, insistent voice: What if it’s not about forgiveness? What if it’s about what you do now?
By the time Mason reached the crew, the sun was rising, weak and pale behind the thick haze of smoke. The fireline was a mess of dirt and ash, the trench barely holding as the flames surged closer. Vega stood in the middle of it all, shouting orders into his radio, his voice raw and cracking.
Mason froze at the edge of the line, his boots rooted in the scorched earth. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t deserve to be here. But then he saw Annie.
She was dragging a hose across the dirt, her face streaked with soot, her braid half-undone. Her shoulders hunched under the weight of it, and her steps were unsteady. The ground beneath her feet shifted, and she slipped, falling hard to her knees.
Mason didn’t think. He just moved.
“Annie!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. She looked up, startled, her eyes wide with exhaustion.
He reached her in a few long strides, grabbing the hose and hauling it up with every ounce of strength he had left. It was heavier than he expected, the rubber slick with ash and water, but he didn’t let go. Annie scrambled to her feet, and together they dragged the hose into position, aiming the nozzle at the flames licking the edge of the line.
The heat was unbearable, pressing against Mason’s back like a living thing. His gloves felt like they were melting, and his arms screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop.
Vega appeared beside him, his face streaked with soot, his eyes narrowing as they met Mason’s. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Vega gave a sharp nod and turned back to the fire.
By the time the fire retreated, the ground was a patchwork of blackened ash and smoldering embers. Mason sat on a rock at the edge of the line, his arms hanging limp at his sides. His gloves were shredded, his hands raw and blistered. Every breath still burned, but the air was quieter now.
Vega approached, his boots crunching against the dirt. He crouched in front of Mason, his expression unreadable.
“You ran,” he said finally.
Mason nodded, his throat tight. “I did.”
“But you came back.”
The words were simple, but they hit harder than Mason expected. He looked up, meeting Vega’s eyes, and saw something there he hadn’t expected: respect.
Vega clapped him on the shoulder, the weight of it grounding him. “Get some grub and water and take a break,” he said. “We’ve got more work ahead and I need you fresh.
Mason nodded.
Vega turned to go.
“Cap’—“ Mason started.
Vega turned. “Yeah, kid?”
Mason swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”
Vega stepped toward him and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I did the same thing when I was a rookie,” he said. “You’re gonna be fine, young man. Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid out here.”
Vega turned and barked at a crew to his left,and pointed at a ridge in the distance “Let’s get an engine crew ready for the birds to drop a couple of water balloons on that ridge! If we do that, we can contain this sonofabitch by morning!”
“Sure thing, Cap’n” a foreman shouted back.
Mason watched Vega walk away, the fire still smoldering in the distance. It wasn’t over. The fire would come back, stronger and hungrier. But for the first time, Mason felt ready.
The fire didn’t define him. What he did next did.
He stood, his body protesting every movement, and picked up his Pulaski.
He wasn’t running anymore.
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