11 AM – Friday, June 10th @ Town of Burney [3195’] 

Fire Woman – The Cult (1994):

Fire, smoke she is a rising.

Fire, oh smoke on the horizon.

Fire, smoke she is a rising.

Fire, oh smoke stack lightning baby.

How did I get into this situation?  I pride myself on avoiding such disasters, which require long hours, risk of bodily harm, real-time critical decision making, and reams of paperwork.

I guess it’s just luck of the draw.  Despite my best efforts to evade, the dispatch command center seems to have perpetual knowledge of my location.  One of the many drawbacks of driving a registered government vehicle.  As the closest California Highway Patrol officer to the initial 9-1-1 call reporting the incident, my participation in this fiasco is inevitable.

I was informed of the ongoing fire about 10 miles back, at 11:13 AM, as denoted by my dashboard clock.  I always make sure to document times, as chronology is a key element of successful crime solving.  Considering the clear blue skies which continue to personify this beautiful summer morning, I’m immediately skeptical.

Apparently, I should have chosen a different day to drive 150 miles north on the I-5 highway. While I’ve pawned this activity off as a work trip, citing a fictitious interviewee for an actual cold case, in reality, my motives are decidedly selfish.  Checking out a promising fishing boat for sale that I found on the internet.  

No reason to waste an entire weekend, and put unnecessary miles on my personal automobile, when this endeavor can be done on the clock.  The location of this item, in the mountainous middle of Northern California, over an hour from any major body of water, seems suspicious.  Maybe that’s why the listed cost is so enticing.  It’s worth a look, and represents a productive activity to end the week.

It’s not like I do much actual policework besides the obligatory administrative tasks on summer Fridays anyways.

I have limited knowledge of the town I’m headed to, but did do a little due diligence last night, using the substantial governmental data afforded by my law enforcement post.  I like to leverage any resources at my disposal as part of the bargaining process. 

According to income statistics, this is not an affluent area.  With a median household income under $60,000, an impressively meager sum, considering the high cost of living and tax rates in California; over a quarter of residents here are below the poverty line.  Which means the floating vessel may be priced to move, on account of an unforeseen health issue, or imminent home repair. 

I always like to put together these theoretical scenarios; this is one of my best traits as a police officer.  Finding a mark’s weakness, and exploiting it, is valuable in many aspects of life, ranging from interrogation to negotiation.  Now, with this unanticipated work emergency, apparently my bartering skills will be put on hold. 

I’ve been on the same winding state route for 55 minutes, since exiting the main highway artery at Redding.  While this one-lane road is certainly scenic from a nature perspective, it’s almost completely devoid of manmade amenities.

At last, some semblance of civilization is materializing on the horizon. 

With one eye on the huge navigation display build into this SUV’s dashboard, and the other on the pavement in front of me, I slow my rate of travel to match the posted speed limit of 30 mph. When entering a foreign locale, it’s always best to obey the laws, even in my privileged position of power. 

This recommended pace marker is secured to the same post which identifies the name of the bustling metropolis I’m about to broach.  A clear violation of CALTRANS protocols, but I doubt the highway enforcement officials get out here much, or would care if they did.  Also included in this signage smorgasbord is a placard denoting the upcoming amenities: a pair of gas stations, numerous food options, a mix of well-known franchises and local eateries, plus an icon I assume references a campground.

As I pass this informational imagery slowly, my eyes are drawn to a colorful painted mural, greeting residents and visitors alike.

“Welcome to Burney: Population = 2,970”

This seems like a quaint little community.  Which has been reached just in time.  After over 3 hours on the road, consuming 36 ounces of tea from my thermos, I need to find the lady’s room.

5 minutes later, substantially aided by my police uniform, I gain access to a surprisingly clean employee bathroom at the convenience store, after getting the general lay of the land from a chatty, pimple-faced, teenage clerk.  Apparently, they don’t get many visitors in these parts.    

With a replenished tannic brew stock in tow, cold this time as opposed to hot, and generously comped by the accommodating young cashier, I return to my vehicle.

As soon as I close the door, I realize how dense the outside air is.  Simply walking across the parking lot for 30 seconds, a fine layer of light grey ash has been deposited across the shoulders of my olive-green, button-up, shirt, with appropriate official embroidered patches on each sleeve.  It’s like my neck-length, wavy-blonde, hair, which is currently tucked under the ubiquitous patroller’s wide-brimmed hat, has a severe case of dandruff.

The other telltale sign is the smell.  Even with my herbal tea-altered palate, which I always take with multiple sugars, it’s clear the car’s interior space is clean and fresh when compared to the acrid external ether.  Since arriving, I’ve still yet to spot any actual flames, but considering the atmospheric effects, this situation doesn’t seem like the result of a rogue illegal campfire.  

Starting up the massive engine of my rig, I enjoy the gentle rumble of the roomy and plush seat on my long and large frame, pensively considering my options from this comfortable cockpit. 

My heritage, a unique combination of European and American genealogy, has endowed me with favorable size in many respects.  While my weight has fluctuated throughout life, and continues to, my adolescent years were personified by perpetually growing vertically, finally topping out at 6’2” in height.  Thus, I’m happy to accept the largest transport selection the department is willing to provide.

According to the GPS location, pulled from cellphone data, the emergency call emanated at a lone remote farmstead, which looks to be about 5 miles out of town.  It’s impressive the smoke and ash have traveled this far, this fast, as it’s only been 17 minutes since the dispatch request.

Speaking of dispatch, as I silently contemplate my next move, a voice comes over the car’s speakers, preempted by a harsh burst of static, nearly causing me to slap my hands over my ears.  Aggravated, I adjust the volume down substantially, then focus on the choppy words.  Apparently, based on the repeated reference to my unique alpha-numeric call sign, I’m being summoned.  Again.

The cadence and emotion of this request is much more flushed than I’m used to from state hub correspondents, who are trained to remain calm.

“Go ahead,” I say, touching the microphone button on the steering wheel to promote voice transmission.

“What’s your location?” the response comes, almost before I’ve released the lever.  Again, there’s an incredible sense of urgency transmitted through the airwaves.  Interpreting mood and inflection is another key element of my role as a policewoman.

“Just got into Burney proper.  There’s a bit of smoke and ash here in town.  No sign of the burn source though.” I reply, keeping my statements short and informative, per protocols.

“We have multiple other fire reports from around the region.”

Not surprising, considering the quantity of blaze-related elements I’ve observed since arriving here.  Probably just a few paranoid locals.  How widespread could this issue really be?    

“A few more calls?  Same location?” I query, trying to get additional information before setting out on this wild goose chase.

“Nope.  17 complaints.  Make that 18.  The first few were near the initial report along Hat Creek, well east of town.  The most recent flurry has come from residents on the outskirts of Burney.”  The cracking of the voice on the other end of the line is even more telling than the actual details being communicated.  This individual likely fielded many of these incoming warnings directly, and thus understands the validity of these insights.

How is it possible that the fire has spread this quickly?  That’s over one new account every minute, in a relatively sparsely populated area, based on my memory of demographic maps from last night’s research.  Always be prepared is my motto.

This burn is starting to sound less and less like an isolated farming accident, or a high schoolers’ prank gone wrong.  Definitely not what I’m looking for on a Friday afternoon.

“Noted.  I’ll check it out, then link back in.  Send me the coordinates.” 

“Already did.  Hurry up.  Stay safe.”  This closes an interaction that will soon be seared into my memory.  Never could I have envisioned what would play out, over the subsequent hours and days, in this unforgettable month at the start of summer.  

I know these official phone correspondents are trained to stay be positive and generally inert during communication with civilians.  However, interactions with peers in the police industry sometimes get more emotional.  There’s an odd, not-quite-fanatical, tone, which I note as my counterpart signs off, but quickly dispense as paranoia. 

A bad decision, with the benefit of hindsight.  I should always trust my gut instinct. 

Thanks to the well-funded California law enforcement agency, subsidized by the generosity of this state’s many taxpayers, mandatory as opposed to discretionary, we have all sorts of helpful technology built into our cruisers.  Real-time analysis, on a sizable digital display, with touchscreen manipulation, is just one of the many perks.

What was a single red dot on a tan background of the map now looks like the back of a kid with chicken pox.  Bright blips litter the scene, a few in obvious clusters, with others isolated and distant.  Too much information.  Time to work methodically.

With a pair of lengthy fingers, I zoom the plot in as close as possible, while still allowing all the call sites to be visible.  This results in a format 10 miles to a side, topology being generally forests, with just two roads of significance, intersecting in the top right corner, at a place denoted as Four Corners, which is about the blandest conceivable description, and probably as dull in real life.

Toggling on the elevation lines, I quickly realize the reason of the lack of infrastructure.  A pair of mountain peaks, encompassing the entire lower half of the viewed terrain.  Dominating the center of this rendering is the aptly named Burney Mountain, with the namesake town sitting just north of this pronounced geological feature. 

Lifting my gaze upward from the screen to the window, I confirm the rise in elevation on my right, to the south.  I also note that the greenery in this direction appears unscathed, though the sky behind this distinct dome is an ominous dark grey.  Still, this looks more like a passing storm cloud than a blazing inferno, and likely wouldn’t elicit even a second glance from locals, let alone an emergency call to the authorities.

Returning to the map, I examine the bottom half of the electronic plot, where the tallest topology bands come to a concentric terminus, nearly off the image, at a point labelled simply as Freaner Peak.  

Having established the general lay of the land, the next step is to determine the timeline.  Like any crime, from petty theft to multiple homicide, the same elements are critical.  Scene.  Sequence.  Situation.  Suspects.

Pressing a few buttons on the menu, I’m able to make all the callers’ locations disappear.  A blank canvas.  Let’s add them back, in the proper order.  I move the slider up to when the initial fire report was made.  A lone dot, just outside a place identified as Hat Creek, adjacent to a north-south waterway of the same name, as well as one of the only 2 main roads on the map, which runs parallel.

The time is locked at 11:10 AM.  This is just 3 minutes before I was contacted, inconveniently tugged from my relaxing country drive, and derailing my cheap boat acquisition.  That’s how long it must have taken the dispatcher to determine the closest on-the-clock officer, thus sealing my fate.

I toggle ahead by 5 minutes, the minimum allowable duration increment.  Another pair of points appear, nearly on top of the original node.  This seems very consistent with the isolated fire theory postulated as I continued my jaunt towards Burney.  Then what happened?

Another 5-minute increase.  Another 5 dots.  4 of these are clustered with their Hat Creek friends far to the east, distributed along the primary route, which is denoted as CA-89.  Understandable.  In this rural area, most houses are undoubtably bunched around such transportation corridors.  A plume of dark smoke, in an area where summer wildfire risk is high, and residents unusually paranoid; most individuals who spot a potential blaze would likely report in.

However, there’s one outlier, on the bottom left quadrant of the map, in a remote wilderness region that looks inaccessible by road, at least based on my current zoom level.  Pressing this dot, the details for this inquiry, as recorded by the dispatcher, are revealed.  Not much info.  This notification was apparently a text message, as opposed to an incoming call, from an unlisted number.   The communique is equally terse and cryptic.

“Fire on Freaner Peak.”

Kids these days.  Too afraid to use a phone for the purpose it was originally intended.  Or have their voice heard, recorded, or documented.  This individual could at least use appropriate exclamation point punctuation in such a time of urgency.

This rouge message is not very informative.  Or is it. 

If my hypothesis of an overheated tractor, burning outbuilding, or unruly campfire in the low-lying countryside is correct, there’s no way such a blaze would be visible by observers to the west, with a 7,000-foot mountain in their way.  Interesting.

Sensing I’m onto something, but not knowing exactly what, I step forward another time increment, the last of the live data set.  The entire complexion of the map, and the situation, changes.  Little Johnny has the pox.  Time to prepare an oatmeal bath.

A few more observations have appeared around Hat Creek.  However, my attention is immediately drawn to a new section of the plot.  An octet of reports have materialized, all at what I perceive to be the next town to the north, about 3 miles away, along the same CA-299 road I came in on.

This rapid increase in incidents, combined with the change in location, certainly explains the transformation in the demeanor of the dispatcher over the short span between our pair of chats.

I could review the transcript of these recent reports, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize there’s a trend.  Time for some boots-on-the-ground research, the true test of a police officer’s mettle.  Some insights can only be gleaned through proactive on-site inspection.  This situation certainly seems to qualify.        

While Hat Creek looks to be only 5 miles away as the crow flies, the limited arteries result in my GPS navigation providing an indirect, 13-mile, 16-minute, trip out to where the initial calls came in.  On favorable, well-known, streets, with the aid of the emergency warning capabilities with which my vehicle is endowed, I could likely cut this time down by several minutes.  However, I’ve never been in this rural region of California.

Also, the only viable driving route from Burney to Hat Creek takes me right through the area where the newest fire complaints have come in.  May as well save time, and focus on this closer, more recent, cluster.

Thanks to the powers of technology, state headquarters continues to populate additional inquiries on this same map as they materialize.  The target zone is exceedingly obvious, though instead of a circular bullseye, the distribution now resembles an ellipse, with the long axis parallel to the highway.  Just 3 miles away, I may as well start on the near side of town, then adjust my plan accordingly.

Peeling out of the gravel gas station parking lot, I pick the desired dot, closest to my current position, and track towards it with tenacity. 

Burney turns out to be a two-stoplight town.  I mentally note significant structures, in case it’s dark when I head back in this direction.  Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.  A tenant repeatedly pounded into proper protocols by my captain, who’s survived nearly four decades in this volatile and dynamic profession.  

The quaint main drag is lined by multi-story erections, with local shops on the ground floor, and rental housing units likely above.  At the 1^st key intersection, I roll through on yellow at a cautious pace, as the road makes a 45° jog eastward.  At the 2^nd light, inconveniently red, I honor the brief signal stoppage, taking in 3 other buildings of note, each of which occupy one quadrant of the junction.

All of these establishments are critical elements of a functioning society, not just in the modern era, but for villages throughout history.  A grocery store, providing sustenance for the populus.  A church, the hub of assembly and socialization.  A school, to educate the next generation.  This will be an important confluence to remember if shit really hits the fan.    

Hopefully, I’m just being hyperbolic.  I forge on, my engaged strobes and siren allowing me to weave through sparce traffic at over 50 mph.  So much for being a discrete visitor to this small hamlet.  Buzzing past the suburbs, a relative term, encompassing only a handful of blocks of single-story homes, I’m quickly thrust back into the country.

If I thought Burney was small, the next development, intriguingly hailed as “Johnson Park”, is tiny.  The reason for this moniker becomes clear immediately, as both sides of the road are flanked, not by traditional residential structures, but instead by trailers.  All manner of shape, size, and quality are represented.

Based on my multitude of professional interactions with citizens of similar habitational leaning, I know I’ve got my work cut out.

Humans as a species are incredibly stubborn.  I can relate from experience, both personally as a rebellious child under a strict household upbringing, and now professionally in daily engagements with all types of delusional crazies.  My role as a police officer mandates I maintain a calm demeanor as an unbiased observer, a keeper of the peace.  Still, over the years, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to put up with the illogicality and incompetence which pervades modern society.

In this case, I have a clearly rational, and righteous, reason for disturbing individuals in their private homes.  Not that this noble cause of trying to save lives carries any weight in this hillbilly hellhole. 

By the 4^th door I get out to knock on, which results in the 4^th flimsy screen slamming in my face, it’s obvious a new tact will be needed.  The official CA Highway Patrol outfit I’m wearing, complete with 6-pointed star pinned above my left breast pocket, and shield-shaped nameplate in a symmetrical location on the right, both made from gold-plated, paint-filled, brass, confirming my status and title, are not helping.  The residents of this remote assemblage clearly have little respect for law enforcement.

I’m not sure why these characters took the effort to call and report a fire, if they don’t plan to act on the information.  It seems these yahoos are able to easily separate civic duty from personal wellbeing.

Apparently, folks who have struggled their entire lives to purchase a place they can call their own, regardless of how dilapidated these shanties might be, are fully entrenched.  I’m also learning, from my conversations, however brief they have been, that living in fire country during the summer, inundated with perpetual warnings, evacuations, and false alarms, makes inhabitants numb and indifferent to these frequent interruptions.

As I meander through the mobile home park, based on the quantity of junk occupying each individual’s tiny plot, it seems like a controlled burn could do this area some good from a cleansing standpoint.  Lord knows, if some of these yard items do alight, considering the flammable content and close proximity of the amassed junk, the blaze would be essentially impossible to mitigate. 

But who am I to judge what possessions are of value?  The reason I’m here is to find a bargain on a fishing boat.  As they say, one woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.

Kicking at the dry dirt of the makeshift road looping through this poor neighborhood with my large leather boot, I make the executive decision I’ve gleaned all I can from this batch of locals.  It’s hot out here.  Time to retreat to the sanctuary of my official ride.

Slowly climbing back into my SUV, I’m tempted to rev up the powerful engine, head out to the main artery, and cruise towards home, leaving these vagrants to their own devices.  I’m not interested in any watercraft which such societally inept lunatics are offering up.  However, before I can rumble off, the radio crackles with another burst of invasive static.

In hindsight, I was so close to getting out of town.  However, by responding to the summoning dispatcher, a chain of events is unknowingly set in motion that will influence not only my own path, but also the lives of countless individuals in this rustic region. 

Even after all these years on the job, I take the bait.  So much for my naïve trust in religion, and fate.

“Yoder here,” I open, preferring to use my last name as opposed to my call sign.  Maybe developing rapport with the correspondent will mitigate their typical tendency to throw me to the wolves.  Based on the rapid response, in both cadence and content, I’m not that lucky today.

“What’s your location?!  Where have you been?!”  The pleading and urgency are both abundantly clear emanating from the person on the other end of the line.

Actually doing some real police work, I’m tempted to reply coyly.  Then, I realize I turned off my portable radio when leaving the car. 

When executing interviews, be they reconnaissance or interrogation, I prefer to eliminate all technological distractions, and focus on the people I’m interacting with.  Much can be gleaned from non-verbal cues like facial expression, hand movements, and general demeanor.  All these subtle elements require absolute perceptive concentration, which can only be achieved through complete freedom from electronic disturbances. 

I wonder how long central command has been trying to contact me?

“In Johnson Park, where the most recent batch of inquiries appears to have originated.  The locals are a little . . . stubborn.” 

I choose my words carefully, knowing this conversation, like all such over official police channels, is being recorded.  I have some more choice and vulgar descriptions for the lowly residents I just chatted with, but am able to show surprising restraint.  Maybe I am finally maturing, as I quickly approach the half century mark of life.  Or maybe, I’ve just conceded defeat.

“We continue to receive urgent calls, and just got the thermal radar scan back from drone reconnaissance.” 

It takes all my mental fortitude not to burst out in laughter.  The only thing urgent about the people I just talked to was shooing me off their stoop, so they could get back to their tube TVs and microwave meals.  And the police’s aerial surveillance program, still in its infancy, was initiated by a state senator, whose son conveniently started a drone company, funded by family money, i.e. taxpayer dollars.  I couldn’t come up with a better example of nepotism if I tried.

Closing my eyes and smirking, it doesn’t take much imagination to envision a young male, located in a discrete warehouse, wearing just a set of VR goggles and boxer briefs, buzzing his expensive flying toy over dilapidated trailers, hoping to sneak a peek at some afternoon nookie between a pair of ugly individuals who don’t have the physical traits, or economic means, to justify procreation. 

Guilty as charged.  I’ve always been judgmental and cynical.  I blame the authoritative atmosphere my stern parents raise me in.  Pulling myself from this disturbing, but amusing, mental simulation, I pipe in quickly to the agitated dispatcher.

“What’s the verdict?” I respond wryly, expecting a mundane and meaningless response.  I couldn’t be any more wrong.

“The east section of Burney is on fire!” 

Well, that’s got my attention, regardless of how exaggerated the actual statement might be.  Time to assess the real situation.

“Noted.  What’s the plan for support and containment?”

“You’re the only CHP within 30 miles.  The local contingent, a pair of part-time police cruisers, and one fire truck manned by volunteers, are mobilizing.”

Well, that’s not very reassuring.

“I’ll see what I can do.  Get me some help from the pros.  This is fire country, so they can’t be that far away.  Out!”  The stern punctuation of the last word conveys two things.  I’m not happy to be up here alone on this stressful mission.  And the next communication better be related to incoming aid.

Jamming the phone icon on the steering wheel to end transmission, I contemplate my options, again.  This situation is changing so rapidly I can’t seem to get a handle on the overall picture.  Why is the insight flowing into headquarters so disjointed from my own observations on the ground? 

Tracking back through the trailer park maze, this one on north side of the highway, I finally find the central artery.  Even if the desired direction wasn’t obvious based on the black smoke billowing into the sky on my right, I’m turning this way regardless.  Another important rule of law enforcement is to always track your surroundings, and know your exits.

Despite my observational prowess, once I get back on CA-299, this time headed south and west, I’m quite surprised by how much the landscape has changed.  The previously blue-grey sky is now midnight black.  More concerning, there’s an amber glow, not from the sun above, but from the ground below.

I’m no atmospheric expert, but that doesn’t seem normal. 

I think back to earlier this morning, when I assumed this disturbance was just some good old boys who started a drunken bonfire in their field last night that got unruly.  However, even if they’re burning tires, not an unreasonable occurrence in this part of the state, I’m skeptical the impressive quantity and color of smoke currently observable out my large windshield could be generated.

I’m now on foreign roads, in a remote area, with no back-up.  Just the way I like it, except that I’m working, as opposed to pursuing my preferred outdoor recreational pursuits. 

Thundering down the single-lane highway as quickly as my driving skills, and this top-heavy vehicle, will allow, another encumbrance reveals itself.  Visibility.  It seems to be getting murkier by the minute.

Confused, I check the digital clock on the dashboard, which confirms the current 1:15 PM time.  How can that be?  The ambient light seems closer to dusk.  And darkening rapidly.  The tree canopy lining the road isn’t that dense.

The air is suddenly so thick I’m forced to drive by feel.  Which is not a wise move at these speeds.  However, I don’t have a choice.  The densest fog, or heaviest blizzard, is no match for this blackness.  The powerful halogen headlamps, which usually penetrate deep into the unknown, are now seemingly engulfed just a few feet in front of me.  Hopefully there’s no one on the path ahead.

Not to mention, the sky is on fire.  And I’m not being melodramatic.  Glowing embers are floating in the air above me, smashing on the windshield like fireflies.  This relatable experience is not nearly as relaxing as traversing an open field in a rusty truck on a balmy summertime evening.

As I race back into town, my mind is racing.  What’s going on here?

A single, seemingly innocuous, decision to pursue a sale on a small ship, has catapulted me into an environment of fire and brimstone.  Literally.  Not that I’m sure exactly what brimstone is.  But the increasingly dark smoke billowing from the trees to my left, and encroaching on the roadway corridor intermittently, must be somewhat representative.  

Even before I get back into central Burney, it’s obvious there are some serious issues with traffic flow.  What were previously empty residential side streets, are now jammed with automobiles.  The main drag is equally clogged, with confused cars trying to head in both directions simultaneously.  Despite the egregious honking, jostling, and swearing, no one is going anywhere. 

My light bar, exceptionally bright strobes of red and blue in the black sky, works somewhat, but I’m just another of many vehicles trying to move at all.  It would help if I had a cohesive plan.  The multitude of residents, revving their engines in stagnant pick-ups, rear beds overloaded with all manner of debatably-important possessions, clearly don’t.

Suddenly, the spire of the local church, a shimmering white visage that reflects the colorful, flashing hues of my cruiser, materializes on the left side of my windshield.  This must be an omen.  I need to be the rational actor, in this town of terror.

With a series of aggressive maneuvers, at least one inevitably leaving a broad scrape down the side of my ride, I’m able to leverage the paved shoulder, veer off down a narrow alleyway, and barrel into the parking area reserved for the House of God. 

There’s only a pair of stationary cars to avoid, as it seems that every functioning motorized machine in the town of Burney has taken to the streets at once.  No worries, I can walk from here.

First, I need to send out the bat signal.  While I have no details on the extent or nature of the burn, it’s abundantly clear this is not an everyday occurrence.  Grabbing the radio clipped to my accommodating belt, I call in the appropriate law enforcement code. 

Most of these are 3-digit numbers, with those led by “9” generally denoting fire-related incidents.  This current situation likely encompasses several of the occurrences on the list, but I decide to stick with the most general warning.

“In progress 904 . . .”

I hesitate briefly, unsure on what letter to add to this verbal report.  Typically, this basic fire acknowledgment is supplemented with a letter that abbreviates and identifies exactly what is burning.  “A” for automobile, “B” for building, “G” for grass, and so on, using the phonetic alphabet identification format popularized by the military, then simplified to just first names only by the police force.

While it’s clear something around me is ablaze, at this time I have no idea what.  Better not to make assumptions.  I decide not to finish with “Tom”, suggesting that the entire town is on fire.  Even though it certainly appears to be.

Hopefully, the fact that I switched the mode of communique to my mike transmitter will inform headquarters I’ve left my vehicle, and have gone mobile.  I don’t have time to putz around waiting for a reply, so the sedentary squad back in Sacramento will need to use their intuitive powers.

Opening the back hatch, I extract a heavy backpack I always keep at the ready, but always dread using.  I go through the contents of this rucksack monthly, per official protocols, so know every item inside intimately.  While this situation is no car crash fatality, or home invasion homicide, at least not yet, these tools of the trade will undoubtably be needed. 

Shouldering the weighty bag, I lock the car, and set off on foot, in what I hope is the desired direction.  Considering the smokey atmosphere, and my menial knowledge of the village, this exercise is decidedly relying on feel and intuition.

When I discover the chaos surrounding the city center, specifically traffic light #2, in my self-generated lexicon, I can’t be happier with my early reconnaissance, brief as it was.  The situation I find resembles some apocalyptic movie, fortunately sans zombies.  

The tri-color signal meant to manage flow through the intersection has gone blank, along with all the lamps lining the main street.  Too bad, since their illuminating rays would be useful in these times of eerie darkness.  My entire scheme could use the same enlightenment.  A powerline somewhere in the local vicinity has obviously been severed.

What a disaster. 

I started my career as a traffic cop in downtown Los Angeles, so have seen it all.  Homeless druggies.  Overwhelmed infrastructure.  Rich assholes.  Marine layer fog.  All these challenges personified my early days on the beat.  Throughout my extensive breadth of experiences, I’ve never been plunged into a scenario exhibiting such chaotic tumult.

Time to use the resources and power afforded to me, as a state employee, and keeper of peaceful order.  Theoretically.

Opening an outer flap of my pack, I instinctively locate and don a neon orange vest, trimmed with reflective silver paint, all materials that are hopefully fire retardant.  Digging deeper into this satchel, I extract a half dozen flares, bound with electrical tape into a tidy but dense bundle.

For once, my sizable paws are a functional benefit, as opposed to an aesthetic curse.  Societal judgment of women is harsh, even in physical professions, and especially in the oft-maligned law enforcement industry.  This is no time to be dainty.

Grabbing the heavy-duty flashlight, a core and critical item for any police officer worth their salt, considering the versatility of functions this seemingly innocuous implement offers, I’m ready to make moves.  It’s amazing how adrenaline can motivate acts that seem brash and terrifying in hindsight.  I’m getting too old for this foolishness. 

Managing traffic is a useless endeavor if none of the automobiles are moving.  We need to light a fire under these escapees, emotionally as opposed to actually.  There’s no way, despite my relatively monstrous stature, I can simultaneously communicate with everyone jammed up at this intersection.

Fortunately, the natural environment provides a very clear signal.  Sensing a gust of wind on my exposed cheek, which feels more like opening a roasting oven, as opposed to a lakeside breeze, I turn southward to identify the cause of this incursion.  A terrible decision.  

Seeing the brightness of yellow, orange, and red approaching, while feeling the broiling blast on my retinas, my eyes close instinctively.  Microseconds later, I force them back open.  My livelihood, and that of hundreds of individuals around me, depends on my ability to function, and make informed decisions.

Vehicular flow doesn’t matter, if the entire city is about to be engulfed in flames.  Time to get these people out of their cars, and to safety.  Granted, I don’t know what that goal means in this volatile environment.

I scan the hazy landscape, trying to simultaneously get my bearings, and discover the lay of the land.  My mind reverts to the trio of collocated structures logged in my mental database just a few hours earlier. 

Education.  Religion.  Nutrition.  Core elements for functioning of human civilization over several millennia.

Various types of building materials offer different protection from fire.  Wood, with which most residential homes are framed, is understandably poor, fueling, as opposed to quelling, the flames.   Metal maintains its protective barrier from light and debris, but heat transfers directly through, sometimes amplifying the radiation, like a closed BBQ grill lid.  Glass is impervious to smoke, and heat, to a point.  But when it yields, consequences can be deadly.  The best option for a fire barrier is brick and mortar construction; these ceramics, forged in heat, provide resistance and insulation to it.

If people have fled their homes this rapidly, one, if not all, of these alternate facilities should resonate with their daily life. 

I parked at the church, but the walk back would be challenging, and the tall, narrow, timber-frame structure is about the last spot one would want to post up in a burn scenario.  Regardless of my religious leanings, no higher being will be able to save us if the ancient rafters and roof are lit.

The school, a low-slung amalgamation of sheet-metal-walled classrooms, basically glorified shipping containers with windows cut in the sides, could work, temporarily.  However, increasing heat, and the wealth of flammable items housed within, could turn this potential refuge from safe to scary quickly.

Finally, I spot the grocery store, a blocky, robust building, sitting just a few hundred feet from the main drag.  Cinder block walls, multiple access points, and the wealth of provisions housed inside, make this an obvious choice for protection, in the short, and potentially long, term.

Scanning the empty paved lot, I realize this is another unforeseen benefit.  A flat stretch of concrete, devoid of any cars, likely the first time ever during operational hours for this retail establishment, should serve as an excellent buffer to the oncoming inferno. 

With no defined plan in my scattered mind, and no official support in sight, I resort to police tenants hammered in me during my training days.  Stay calm.  Instill confidence.  Be authoritative. Easier said than done under these circumstances.

Reaching the nearest stagnant vehicle, a rusty teal station wagon with faux-wood paneling embellishments peeling off the side, I pound on the passenger’s side window with the butt of my flashlight, then wait patiently as this glass barrier is lowered, amazingly by a manual crank.  I didn’t even realize such archaic technology still existed in road-worthy automobiles.

Briefly distracted by the lack of teeth in the aggravated face which greets me, I’m able to maintain my icy gaze as I peruse the rest of the ride’s occupants.  Both the driver and passenger are wearing essentially the same outfit.  Tissue-paper-thin white tank-tops, with black mesh shorts.  This is where the similarities between these two characters ends.

To say the co-pilot, a male, is obese, would be an understatement.  In contrast, the operator, presumably his wife, is rail thin, to the point of being emaciated.  Clearly one participant in this union is consuming more than their fair share at the dinner table.

Bending down, by flexing my long legs and hunching my sturdy back, I’m able to peer into the back seat, visibility aided by the brightness of my battery-powered torch.  Here, the human assortment continues.  3 kids, ranging in age from 5 to 15, and lean to husky in build, per my honed perceptive powers.

This could be a completely random collection of individuals.  Except for one unifying factor.  All the car’s occupants have bright orange hair and incredibly pale skin.  There must be a genetic link.    

Stepping back, and rising to my full intimidating height, I arch my spine, puffing my chest out, and make sure the official uniform embellishments on my sleeves are easily visible, as the reflective vest covers the obvious identification markings on my front.

Assuming this position, I know my head is no longer visible to anyone except the front seat passenger, assuming he makes the effort to extend his bulbous head and chubby jowls out the open window.  Conveniently, I don’t need to gauge the response of this ugly family, in their dingy rig, as I execute my monologue. 

Having come up with a plausible story over the past 30 seconds as I ran towards the road, I launch into a string of loud commands.

“The road is closed.  The approaching fire is imminent.  You’ll be safe in the grocery.”

While this trio of statements aren’t outright lies, none are explicitly true.  Especially with my limited knowledge of this volatile situation.

“Grab whatever belongings you can carry.  Now!”

My final guttural syllable seems to do the trick.  Begrudgingly, the nearside door opens, and the vehicle’s least agile inhabitant essentially rolls out.  Fortunately, his wife, hopefully terrified by my predictive sermon, is much more receptive to mobilizing.  By the time their dad has reached the back hatch of the stuffed wagon, all 3 kids are already there, ready to be burdened with bags.

Success. 

I don’t have time to micromanage every group, so simply must trust this brood will follow my orders to the letter.  I’m a little worried, as Irish immigrants are notable hoarders, and dissenters, plus this car is clearly overloaded.

Time to rinse and repeat this ploy.

As I move down the line of automobiles, covering a broad range of models, occupants, and stress levels, I continue to refine my process.  I’ve decided to focus on quantity over quality.  Considering the impending doom, all I can do is simply inform each participant of the situation and options, then let them make their own decision.  If any fools stay in the car, it’s at their own peril.  I don’t have time to negotiate.

By the 10^th vehicle, I start to realize the unexpected brilliance of my hastily-conceived plan.  My rapid pace down the stagnant row, highly visible to motorists facing in both directions, suggests urgency.  Once a few people start grabbing their backpacks and running towards the supermarket, the model is organically reinforced. 

Safety in numbers.  A basic human survival instinct.  Once I see a family in front of me exiting their ride prior to my spiel, I know critical mass has been reached.

Glancing across the road, I briefly stop in awe.  The wall of flames is now clearly visible, not more than a block away.  I have no idea how this fire became so dynamic, angling to engulf the entire town which appeared quite safe when I sat in the gas station parking lot just hours earlier.

I have neither time nor means to execute detailed forensic analysis currently.  Regardless of the method by which the tempest has spread, it’s clearly looming.  Better get to safety.

Turning, I sprint across the parking lot, my elongated legs allowing me to pass several groups of fleeing locals.  Based on the absurd objects they’re overburdened by, numerous corroded cook pans, life-sized stuffed animals, a compound bow with arrows, it’s pretty clear they didn’t take my essential possessions mandate to heart.

I could help these poor saps, but figure my efforts will be better spent organizing the crowd already in the store.  As it turns out, not much herding is necessary.  A highly visible blazing inferno is apparently a powerful motivator.   

Reaching the main entry to the establishment, I put my flares to good use, lighting the volatile end in a practiced motion using one large hand.  With the allotted half dozen pyrotechnic rods, I create a tapered lane stemming from the front access point outward into the parking lot. 

This landing strip should help guide any stragglers to safety.  I don’t plan on hanging out here waiting to see if my beacons are effective.

Passing through the sliding glass doors, which personify grocery store entryways everywhere, I notice these rigid panels are permanently open, on account of the lost electrical power.  Note to self, we’ll need to force these barriers closed before the actual flames materialize.

People are scattered throughout the interior, as they would be on a standard day of shopping.  However, that’s where the normalcy ends.  Rather than individuals pushing carts loaded with tasty new products, humans are huddled in stationary groups, with their heavily-used items piled around them on the ground.  The entire scene looks like a dystopian rummage sale.  Which honestly isn’t that far from the truth. 

As I scan the interior, using my photographic memory skills, the small clusters generally personify the occupants of each vehicle I warned.  In some cases, larger pockets have formed, likely matching the friendly cliques and familial relations of this small, rural community.

Powering through an empty checkout line in the reverse direction, the prevalence of snacks on both sides reminds me I missed lunch.  Classic product placement to generate an impulse buy.  However, with no employees or functioning cash registers, I decide transactions are currently on the honor system.

Armed with a bar of milk chocolate wrapped in foil, and a hefty bag of organic trail mix, I’ve got both the sweet and salty elements covered. 

Tearing off the top of the plastic pouch, I deposit a generous dosage of fruit and nuts into my gaping mouth.  Eating and working simultaneously, I move quickly around the building’s large space, intently focused on getting everyone away from the exterior walls.  Fortunately, most groups have gathered in the open areas: the produce section, the bakery, the meat department, allowing high mobility.

It turns out the most relevant outlier is a family of 5, who barely made it through the exterior doors before collapsing next to the broad glass windows that present the store’s wares to the general public.  My original Irish instigators. 

This troop may require some additional motivation.  Approaching the middle age, heaviest built, child, I extract the unopened sugary treat from the breast pocket of my bright vest.  Time to barter. 

“Do you like chocolate?” I inquire innocently, already knowing the answer.  What kid doesn’t?

The subsequent exchange is rapid and productive, resulting in me trading one candy bar, broken into 3 equal chunks, for the trio of children hefting all their family’s bags from the entryway to the pasta isle, in the direct center of the store.  The parents follow obligatorily, the mother happy with the functionality of her brood, the father decidedly slower, offering up the same toothless, disgruntled presentation he did when I saved his lineage on the road earlier.  There’s no respect for the righteous these days.

Having shooed all my flock to the interior of the expansive space, I return to the front of house.  Time to close the door, and see what progresses.  Moving to the broad opening, electronic sliding functionality still incapacitated, I peer out, but am met with a wall of dark grey smoke, and an unfathomably warm exterior temperature. 

All my flares are still alight, but the third offering at the end of each line is barely perceptible, despite being implanted just 20 feet away.  Not much of a safety beacon. 

I should yell out, but my throat is so dry, and the visibility so low, that anyone who hears would just be getting their hopes up.  Those who didn’t heed my prior warning are on their own now. 

Time to seal in our sanctuary.  Or our coffin.

After an absurd amount of hammering, leaning, and swearing, I finally get the heavy barriers to close.  My bulky physique pays off yet again.  Sweating profusely, a combination of heat and exertion, I retreat from the warm window to the relative safety of the checkout lanes.  This seems like as reasonable a spot to post up as any. 

I unshoulder my heavy backpack, and plop down, then leverage this makeshift seat.  Maybe I’ll even borrow another chocolate treat, as I gave my original item away.  A venerable bounty of snacks are within arm’s reach of my current perch.

As smoke engulfs the plate glass of the grocery’s storefront, I drop to my knees, and pray.  I have performed my role as a public servant to the best of my ability.  Now, I must put my life, and that of the few hundred citizens huddled around me, in the hands of a higher being.  I’ve made similar requests to the heavens every day of my life, but never with this much on the line.

The last image I remember before the intermittent remaining overhead florescent lights in the store, powered by generator backup, go out, are the colorful hand-painted signs on the exterior windows, touting current sales at this fine establishment. 

“80% lean ground beef = $3.99 per pound.”

“Assorted bell peppers = $1 each.”

“10 count flour tortillas = $2.50 per package.” 

At least we’ll have plenty of food to eat, if we survive.  I could use a good grilled burrito right now.  Just go easy on the chipotle hot salsa.  There’s no shortage of warmth and smokiness in my world already.

I wouldn’t say Burney is growing on me, but based recent experiences, the town’s name seems quite apt.