FICTION BY B.F. VEGA

B.F. Vega is a horror writer, political poet, and overworked theater artist living in the North Bay Area of California. A member of the HWA, her short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines including: Dark Nature, Dark Cheer: Cryptids Emerging, Haunts & Hellions and Good Southern Witches, and Club Chicxclub among others. Most recently her horror western OWLS appeared in Zehlreg Augustus Grindstone’s Spectacular Western Oddity Emporium.

She is still shocked when people refer to her as an author—every time. 

FIRE SKY
by B.F. Vega

I woke up to smoke.

Fire Season was a Southern California thing. The Mojave-warmed Santa Ana winds swooped down from the San Gabriel Mountains and turned the City of Angels into fire and brimstone.

But here in western Northern California where I lived? Our winds came off of the cold and powerful Pacific Ocean. No fire ever had a chance. Or so we thought.

Everything seemed to diverge a few years ago due to climate change or some fickle god. Now the winds flow down the Mayacamas to Santa Rosa, hot with the breath of California’s relentless desertification.

The misuse of water and the banning of the native practice of controlled burns have combined with the winds to outdo anything the Santa Ana’s could bring. Now every June when our hills are dry and our temperature is well over what our non-air-conditioned houses were built for, the signs go up: Fire Season is here! Be prepared.

This year, we thought that luck was with us. An unexpected June downpour had saturated the dry ground and ushered in a mild summer made us all relax. We had dodged four out of five months that were normally bathed in sweltering heat, choking smoke, and random blackouts. Come October’s first frost everyone breathed a sigh of relief. We had made it out of Fire Season unscathed.

And then came October eighth, and I woke up to smoke.

By the time I smelled it, the fire was already at five hundred acres, burning in the inaccessible mountains that housed the wealthy of our town. The Mayacama winds were rising; threatening to bring it down into the valley proper where over 300,000 people lived.

My Facebook feed was filled with people who had awoken in the middle of the night to neighbors pounding on their doors and flames licking their back porches. The Shelter in Place orders came quickly. We were told to stay home to keep the streets clear for emergency personnel.

My first reaction was panic. I could never get the cat in the carrier even when things were calm, but then I remembered that I was alone. The cat had died a month before. I was alone and the world was on fire.

The color in my bedroom was wrong. My light-beige walls were a dusky tangerine and my window was now the color of rotting pumpkin. Even though no warning sirens to split the air outside, I still couldn’t settle back down. My mind was fixated on the unnatural color.

And then I went to look out the window.

My stomach dropped like a small fishing boat falling from a storm wave. The sky outside was an angry red-orange. I didn’t see actual flames, but the anxious certainty that they were coming ran through my veins, twisting my muscles into knots.

I was alone and the world was on fire.

I wondered what I should do. Most people would feel the “fight or flight,” but I was just confused. Things had never seemed this, well, real before. In the back of my mind, a thought was trying to worm its way through. I could practically see Kyle in front of me, giving me one of his endless lectures on preparedness. What was it he was always saying?

“Information,” I said as my brain found the clip of him it was trying to play. “Know what’s going on.”

Before Kyle had moved out, I kept the radio in the bathroom so that when I showered, I couldn’t hear the hundreds of creaks and groans you inevitably ignore when you share a home. I never got around to moving the radio back to my bedroom.

I turned and walked the short distance to the bathroom, noticing that the orange light seemed to move with me. “It’s an illusion,” I told myself, but I moved a little faster to get into the enclosed bathroom.

I closed the door behind me as I flipped on the hot fluorescent lights, relieved to see everything flood into a boring, sterile white. It was a small bathroom and it only took a couple of steps to grab the radio and turn back to the door. The orange light now coming from under the door seemed to roll into the white room like fog.

I hurried to get out of the bathroom but as I did I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw someone I didn’t know looking back. I saw a wild-eyed young woman with tousled hair and a frightened expression. It took a moment for me to realize it was me.

My deep brown eyes were so dark that they looked black. My skin—a golden honey which always looked slightly charred thanks to my non-white parent—was now closer too ochre mixed with ginger, and the fine white threads of hair growing through the black now looked like the smoldering flames of charcoal.

Seeing the fear and panic I felt only made me more afraid. I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated on my breathing until I felt the panic ebb. Only when my breathing was under control did I open my eyes.

In my mind, I could hear Kyle again. “You’re as jumpy as a baby deer.”

“Jumpy babies live to adulthood.” I would shoot back.

“It’s not good to live like that…” An argument inevitably followed. I blinked to clear my mind and my reflection became more familiar again.

“You’ll be just fine,” I told myself as I escaped into my bedroom. I got dressed and put tennis shoes by the front door in case I needed to leave quickly.

My nerves were on edge and I knew that I needed routine. I checked my phone to make sure I hadn’t missed any evacuation orders, and was glad to see that it was empty of emergencies and had fully charged.

Setting the phone within easy reach, I turned on the radio allowing the incessant coverage of the fire to play as I got dressed and thought about things like go-kits and evacuation routes. An announcement interrupted my planning.

“Fire Chief Kyle Robertson has asked that all civilians shelter in place to keep the roads open for emergency traffic. Please do not leave your house unless specifically told to do so by emergency personnel. We will now go to Chief Robertson live at…” I switched off the radio. The last thing I needed was to listen to Kyle being the city’s hero while I sat alone in this orange world.

I went back to the bedroom window. Now that the sun had risen fully, it was easier to see into the orange neighborhood. At first I thought it was snowing before I realized that it was ash and soot raining from the amber-smoke clouds.

No one was outside. No cars drove by. No dogs randomly barked at anything.

There was only the silent ash. The street was covered in a paper-thin layer of soot which seemed to rain from the strange sky. The uncanny scene calmed my mind. I don’t know how long I stood there before I realized how dark the window was getting. The ash and soot were blocking out the sun. Soon I was aware of my own reflection.

I looked myself fully in the face, and then my reflection winked at me.

I jumped, then caught myself. “You probably winked and didn’t realize it,” I said out loud, hoping that the reflection heard me.

I gave the reflection my full attention. Everything looked normal now, considering the circumstances.

“It’s the chemicals in the smoke and the weird light that’s making you feel this way,” I said out loud as I turned away from the window.

I turned, determined to do something productive. I started gathering my emergency bags by the front door. It was late afternoon by the time I had everything together. By then the smoke smell was so strong that it burned my throat and made my head pound. The pain made me irritable, but there was no one to be mad at.

 My phone had still not alerted me to an evacuation and the flames still looked far away, but the primal part of my brain panicked again. I ran to the hall closet to grab the cat carrier. As soon as I opened the door I remembered again: there was no cat.

Purposefully closing the closet door, I stepped back to the radio and turned it back on.

“Citizens in zones A4 through A9 must evacuate now. This is a matter of life and death. Go, do not stay. A1 through A3 are on evacuation warning status. Be prepared to leave but do not do so until told. All other zones…”

I turned the radio off again. I was in A3, stuck until Kyle let me leave. Wait, Kyle couldn’t tell me what to do anymore. He left me.

The ebbing anger flared again, but I had nothing to aim it at. Then the lights went out. I screamed until my throat was sore. When I finally quieted down, I realized that nobody had come. No neighbors banged on the walls, or knocked on the door to make sure I was okay. No police sirens were getting any closer than they had been.

“Where is everyone?” I asked the orange room.

My phone rang. It was Kyle. I let it go to voicemail. I knew I couldn’t stay here. Grabbing my car keys I opened the front door. Ash and smoke billowed into the apartment. It coated the inside of my nose and my throat. I slammed the door closed and ran to the bathroom to wash the grit out of my eyes.

The phone rang again. It was out in the living room. I ran back in, hoping it was either an order to evacuate or a downgrade of the orders. By the time I got there, it had gone to voicemail. It was Kyle again. I didn’t listen to the message. Instead I threw the phone back down and ran back to the bathroom where I could hear water splashing on the floor.

Turning the tap off, I grabbed a towel to throw under the sink. The watery mess was annoying but it gave me an idea. I grabbed a scarf from my room and returned to the bathroom to submerge the scarf in the basin filled with water. I wrung it out as best I could, watching as the droplets spilled into the basin. I was still looking into the basin when the water settled, and my face was looking back up at me.

The omnipresent orange light made my freckles look like age spots. What had been light laugh-lines around my eyes were now deep wrinkles and dark bags. With a trembling hand, I touched a spot on my cheek. The reflection copied a fraction of a second slower than my shaking hand.

I was losing my mind.

I grabbed my wallet, phone and keys, then wrapped the wet scarf around my face and threw open the front door. The heat hit me, pushing me back into my living room.

The dark orange clouds and thick ash had made me forget that the heat index was so high. I tried to gulp in air, but the scarf caught in my mouth instead. There was a moment when I was choking, then I tripped on my own feet and fell out of the door, hitting the railing of my porch. The jolt allowed me to spit out the scarf. I needed to tear the thing off my face, but didn’t dare. Instead I turned and ran to the street where my car was parked.

The car was relatively ash free. I pulled the scarf off and threw it in the back seat. Kyle was calling again, but my phone reception was down to the last bar so I let it go to voice mail figuring I would call him back once I was gone from this place. My hands were shaking so much it was hard to get the key in the ignition. The engine turned over, sputtered and died.

“What the hell?” I tried again, and again. It was on the fifth or six try that I asked myself if the ash had somehow gotten into the engine or something. But when I turned the key again, I looked down and realized that my gas gauge—which I swear had been at three quarters—was now past empty.

My phone rang again.

“Kyle?” I said, finally picking up.

“Are you safe? Did you get out?”

“What? They said not to leave…”

“Oh my god, you’re in A4, that evacuation—just get out now.”

“I can’t, my car—wait, what? I’m not in A4; I’m in A3.”

“No you’re not! You’re in A4! You should have evacuated hours ago!”

The emergency evacuation alert finally sounded on my phone, drowning out anything Kyle was saying. Then the phone went dead.

I couldn’t leave now because my car wouldn’t start. I slumped back in the driver’s seat, utterly defeated.

I felt the first tears forming in my eyes. I had been doing so well lately in my life, learning to cope with my losses, but the realization that I was truly alone now was too much. I closed my eyes and just sat there as the tears flowed unchecked down my face and into the scarf.

I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. The orange light once again made my freckles look like age spots. I also didn’t remember the new deep lines under my eyes. I must not have slept well. “No!” I screamed at the dead phone. “I need help. I need Kyle, I need my cat, I need…”

In the front windshield, a face began to form in the ash. I didn’t wait to see if it would morph into the mock version of me that had been looking out of my bathroom mirror. I grabbed my keys, leaving my wallet and the phone behind as I bolted out of the car and into the safety of my apartment. I slammed and locked the door behind me before sliding to the floor.

I started laughing. “What are you locking out, idiot?” I laughed. “Your reflection? The fire?” I laughed harder. I laughed so hard that I started to shake and then to rock back and forth until the back of my head hit the door. 

“You can’t lock your reflection out,” I said out loud.

I sat there for what seemed like a few hours, but knew they were only moments. I tried to compose myself, but when I finally pried myself up from the floor, every joint felt like it had solidified. The orange of the sky was dimming now to almost vermillion. I walked to the window and looked down at my dead car, its driver’s side door flung open.

On the ground outside, all my footsteps had been filled with ash. There was no trace that I had been on the street at all, except the open car door. Since the sky was darkening, I could finally see the flames. Now, every ridge danced yellow in the dark orange sky.

The useless flare of panic speared itself through my body. I had always listened. I never said anything. Even when I wasn’t alone, I realized that I had always been alone. I never participated in my own life. I just let others take the lead and I followed soundlessly.

Taking one more deep breath of the increasingly smoky air, I lifted my head to nothing. Everything was like it always was, hopeless and useless.

“What did I expect?” I asked myself.

I moved to the closet and pulled the water bottle out of the back. It was empty, of course. I remember that we had used it on that last terrible trip. I shoved down the memory of my cat running into the burning woods. Shoved down Kyle’s screams as he tried to evacuate the campsite. Shoved down the shrieks and wails of people realizing not everyone had gotten clear of the explosion. The handle of the plastic jug imploded as my fist hardened around it.

Then I remembered, no. The cat died of old age. Kyle left to better his career. There had never been a fire…Whose memories had just flashed through my mind? I dropped the bottle in terror.

The radio was saying, “…the winds are predicted to be at their strongest tonight at sunset. All resources are being used to build and hold the firebreak at Farmers Lane. Chief Kyle Robertson has warned that if the fire jumps the line, the Department has little hope of saving Annadel Park.”

I don’t know when the fire had gotten into Annadel Park, the large sprawling wilderness east of town that usually shielded us from the worst of the winds, let alone into its smaller urban neighbor Spring Lake that bordered Farmers Lane. I lived two miles from Farmers Lane.

I screamed at the radio and hit it. It flew off the table. It shattered into deafening silence.

“No, no, no!” I scrambled over to the radio and tried to piece it together. I willed it to come back to life and link me to the world outside these orange walls.

 “Tape! I need tape. Tape, tape it together, then it will work. Tape…” I quickly scrambled and went to the kitchen junk drawer, but there was no tape inside. I checked the hall closet that had the wrapping supplies in it, but no tape there either.

“Tapetapetapetapetape…” I was repeating ritualistically to myself. Then I remembered that I had medical tape in the first aid kit that was in the bathroom medicine cabinet.

I hurried into the bathroom. I grabbed the mirror to open the cabinet. Then I remembered why I had been avoiding the medicine cabinet.

I was staring at her. The woman in the mirror that looked almost like me, but I knew by watching her that she wasn’t me. Her skin was almost amber. Her eyes were black. The wrinkles had deepened and her jowls sagged. Her mouth was curved up in an open-mouth smile, her teeth slightly crooked and fully displayed.

I couldn’t look away. I was fascinated. She started laughing. I knew for sure it wasn’t me because I wasn’t laughing; I was screaming. The pain of it made my voice hoarse and my lungs were clogged with the increasingly heavy ash-laden air, scratching my esophagus and gouging out miniature canyons under my eyelids.

No matter how loud I screamed, the woman in the mirror laughed just as loud. Her eyes got darker; her pupils got so big that they looked like they would take over the whites of her eyes.  Her sagging jowls shook with the laughter in an odd, rhythmic mockery. The amber of her skin turned a color like spiced cider that has seeped too long.

Finally I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t watch this creature laugh at me. I hit the mirror with both fists. I hit it so hard that my right hand punched through the backing into the medicine cabinet. My hand stuck fast and I had to pull hard to get it out, raking it against the broken glass.

I fell hard on the floor of the bathroom.

Blood poured out all over the bathmat. I reached for a towel, thinking to put pressure on the wounds but it continued to soak up the blood that seemed to flow from everywhere. My wrist was squirting blood and all the skin was missing from mid-forearm to the end of my fingertips. 

There is so much blood. It seeped into the lilac blue bathmat. I looked down at my arms that were surrounded by pieces of the broken mirror. In each glass shard, parts of the laughing woman were reflected.

Hi-low sirens sounded outside. A voice over an intercom yelled, “Evacuate! Go now. The fire has jumped Farmers Lane.”

For a second the woman in the glass shards disappeared. I looked at my wounds closely. Perhaps I should go to the sirens for help.

They could help me stop the bleeding. I just don’t know that I want to anymore…I want to be left alone. That is what I am good at; being alone.

I dropped the towel and hoped that the fire will jump the firebreak soon.