WHAT WE LOST IN THE FIRE | Fiction by Lori Sambol Brody

Five days into the Sunset Fire evacuation, Pete and I sit on the deck of our crooked little house on the hillside drinking Tecate and eating packaged meals from World Central Kitchen. In the background, the generator chugs a steady refrain because the electricity was turned off even before the evacuation order. Ash clings to our cars, the redwood railings, and the fallen oak leaves turned brittle and sharp. When I brush the ash off our loungers and the little table in between, my hands turn gray. It’s ash from the homes burned over the ridgeline to the south in the Palisades, and homes burned over the ridgeline to the north in Malibu, and my childhood home I sold after my mother died, and the high school I attended fifteen years ago, and the Thai restaurant on PCH with the best yellow vegetable curry, and the sycamores burned from the west up Canyon Boulevard until the firefighters stopped the fire at the edge of the Canyon town center. I wipe the greasy ash onto my jeans as a distraction. If I think about what had burnt I’d need to start listing three things I can see and three things I can touch, and I don’t even know if those things would survive.

Pete trains his binoculars down the hill to the curves of Canyon Boulevard and up the hillsides across from our house where the firefighters are holding the fire back, a few miles away. He’s posted videos of the status of the fire on social media. On a normal day, which this is not, the Boulevard hums with commuters; now the only vehicles are firetrucks and the motorcycles of the Heat Hawks, the haphazard citizen firefighting brigade, and the cars of the Canyon residents who didn’t evacuate. Like us.

Pete and I refused to leave. I refused because of the animals. I’m half of Canyon Animal Rescue and neighbors need help caring for their pets if they can’t get home through the roadblocks. Pete stays because he grew up in the Canyon and has weathered numerous evacuation orders. In the ’98 fire, his parents watered down their roof and saved their home.

Down on the Boulevard, fire trucks rumble. Pete, from behind his binoculars, says, “Firemen don’t do shit.”

Pete’s the other half of Canyon Animal Rescue, but he doesn’t do shit.

This morning I fed two cats and changed their litter, rescued a runaway dog, and handed a cage of parakeets over the National Guard roadblock.

Pete’s posted a video.

“You see the huge dirt fire road on the ridgeline up there? The firemen just cleared it as a firebreak. If the wind picks up and the firebreak doesn’t hold, we’re screwed.”

The dark scar is raw and shocking against the green of the hillside. Behind the hill towers a column of brown smoke, but there’s no flames. The smoke plumes over the Valley and the Los Angeles basin, like a hovering alien craft filling the sky.

“Let me look.” I try to grab the binoculars from him but he twists away. “Asshole,” I say, not affectionately. I check Watchduty, NextDoor, the Canyon Facebook groups, the LAFD and police scanner socials, and the cam on Bravo 69’s helipad in the hills, but there’s no updates from the last time I checked (five minutes ago).

“We should leave.”

Pete rolls his eyes. “You don’t have a survival bone in your body.”

“What do you mean?” I’m the one with an animal science degree, I’m the one who worked as an EMT and a vet tech. He’s a studio musician. Bass guitar.

“Well, you couldn’t hack being an EMT.”

“Low blow dude.” It was not one event, like in TV where the EMT has an existential crisis because a patient dies, but a sequence of little things that happened leading to one panic attack and another and another.

A pick-up truck turns the corner up the hill, stops in front of us. The window slides down and Vivian leans out, gray hair loose under a Dodger’s hat. “Drinking early.” No judgment in her voice. Vivian was one of the leads on a long-running cop show in the ‘90s; now she hangs with her horses at her estate on the Mesa, what we call the top of our hill. “That asshole camel has gotten free.”

“Fuck,” Pete says. One of Vivian’s neighbors owns the asshole camel. The neighbor’s a venture capitalist, with a vacation home and vanity farm (some goats, the camel) in the Canyon. Two years ago, his caretaker hired me to castrate the camel. At the time, I was excited to use my large animal training. Now, I think he was just being cheap. During the castration, the camel regurgitated green vomit and spit on me. I smelled like hay for days.

I knock back my beer to the warm dregs. “You couldn’t get it back into its corral?”

Vivian says, “I’m not getting near it. I know you’re not scared.”

Pete laughs.

“We’ll deal with it,” I say.

“Last seen, he’s roamed into Jed’s yard.” Jed lives at the end of the Mesa; he’s another actor, famous for his chiseled body and role as a superhero. “He’s away for filming.”

“All well with you and yours?” I say. By “yours,” I mean the horses.

Vivian shrugs. “Best laid plans. Our trailer hitch broke so our evacuation plan didn’t work out. We’re all hunkering down at the Ranch.” When Vivian refers to “we all” she also means her horses.

“We’ll be ok unless the Santa Anas pick up again,” Pete says. The first day of the fire, the winds gusted at 80 miles per hour. With that wind speed, firefighters really can’t do shit.

“It’s been at least a hundred years since the Canyon burned. Sure, some houses burned in ’98 and ’79, but it’s been a while for most of us.” Vivian pulls into our driveway to reverse into the narrow street and drives uphill.

Pete doesn’t move. “And why are we dealing with the camel?”

“The poor thing is probably terrified. We’ll get it into its trailer and bring it down to the evacuation center.”

I run into the house, through doorways twisted and floor sloping from a slide thirty years ago, feed the baby birds that need to be fed hourly and check on the dog, locked in the bathroom so he doesn’t bother the other animals, and the rescue rabbits (dumped on the Boulevard) waiting to be transferred to the rabbit rescue facility when the evacuation orders lift. Grab a bruised apple from our counter. I pause in our living room. We used to sit at the table, Pete doing the crossword puzzle, me feeding rescued baby birds, red tails or mourning doves, but we don’t do that anymore. We always cycled through bad times and good times, but lately the bad times have lengthened, and the good times have shortened. Just like fire season has lengthened so we’re wary of fires all year.

Our Subaru snakes up roads without guardrails to the Mesa. Everything’s eerily quiet like this is the apocalypse, an apocalypse where we have to deal with a fucking camel.

Pete turns onto a dirt road marked “Private Go Away” and passes Vivian’s property. The sleek backs of her horses dark against the pale wood fence of the corral. The Canyon Resident’s Guide to Wildfires identifies Vivian’s as our evacuation shelter-in-place, the last option before lying in a ditch or the creek.
Pete drives slowly. To our right, the estates with views of the Boulevard, on the left the estates that back onto the chaparral-covered hills that continue into Malibu.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I say, and Pete responds, “Duh.”

The venture capitalist planted a line of palms, all spindly trunks topped with crowns of leaves, the species that scream California although they aren’t native. A ten-foot stucco wall topped by barbed wire encloses his compound, the carved wood gate ajar. The gate to the camel’s stall is also open. No trailer. The caretaker must have evacuated the goats and left the camel to fend for itself.

“Such dicks,” I say. “I mean, who has a camel?”

“Michael Jackson had a camel.”

“Case closed.”

We continue to Jed’s. The end of the road is a wide dirt cul-de-sac, driveways leading to a handful of estates. Jed’s driveway curves to a xeric garden and a Spanish style house with arched windows and balconies.

Pete parks at the gate. I grab the apple and a coil of rope. My footsteps crunch on the pulverized gravel of the driveway. And there’s the camel, head deep in a white sage bush in the center of the garden.

The camel is larger than I remember. When I castrated it two years ago, it was still young. Now, it’s almost seven feet of bulk. One gentle hump and a body improbably balancing on legs too thin to support it. Its head raises to stare at me, the graceful arch of its neck, lips pouting, small ears pricked up. Fur the color of sand, with a darker ruff on the top of the hump. It’s gorgeous and terrifying.

“Hi, camel,” I say, in the voice I use for animals, for those I need to calm down, for those I need to love me. I decide to give him a name. “Chad, you sweetie.”
Chad flares nostrils, grunts “Hrrrrr.” Maybe it’s not all that bad. Camels have a bad rep, they are usually not the assholes everyone expects them to be.

The wind blows stronger up here, the smell of smoke mixing with sage and coyote brush. Acrid and sweet at the same time. Like houses being smudged instead of burned.

“Got you fucker.” Pete’s followed me. I don’t know what Pete’s got, I’m the one who found Chad.

Long lashes rim the camel’s deep brown eyes. It flares its nostrils again. It’s probably feeling uneasy too, with the smoke and wind. I fashion the rope into a noose.

“I’m out on the Mesa, facing northeast.” Pete holds his phone up, filming a goddamn video, even though he can’t post it in real time because cell service is down. “See that firebreak on the mountainside?” Pete’s voice shakes a bit and I turn to see what he’s filming. Flames top the hill and encroach on the firebreak. The smoke has darkened. Firefighters move like ants on the hillside. “To get to us, the fire will need to race downhill, jump Canyon Boulevard, and rush uphill again. Santa Anas increasing in our direction.” He pauses dramatically. “Canyon Animal Rescue has been asked to evacuate a camel.”

Heaviness in the pit of my stomach. We should jump in the car and leave the Canyon. But Pete’s not moving so I continue to speak quietly to Chad. I take one step and then another towards it until I rub its rough fur.

Up close, it’s a veritable sand dune. Patches of its coat are bald. I note this for future me – we’ll get this camel to a sanctuary. Chad mouths the apple from my hand. I ease the rope over its head; it shies, then soothes under my hand.
I’ve been in this little pocket of just me and Chad with Pete’s broadcast white noise. Pete’s voice now comes loud and clear. He’s turned from filming the camel. “It looks like there’s a plane laying Phos-Chek on the firebreak, with a helicopter flying behind it to dump water.”

A helicopter flies low over the ridge, buzzing us like a dragonfly. The camel tenses under my hand and kicks out, one leg kicking gravel. Pete flinches and his phone wings out of his hand into coyote brush. The helicopter swoops away across the canyon. The smoke is dark gray and tongues of flame line the hills.

The wind blows in my face.

Pete’s on the ground. Fuck. He’s out cold, breathing hard, a gash on his temple where the camel’s hoof must have struck him. Blood against his blonde hair and in the stubble of his beard. I shine my phone’s flashlight into his eyes. Looks good. He’s breathing, pulse normal. Neck straight. He doesn’t respond to his name.

He’s going to get all of us killed. Which includes Chad. Breath catches in my throat. I count three things I see: quartz in the pulverized gravel, the sage bush, a small buddha statue almost buried in the dirt. Three things I touch: Chad’s fur, the stones sharp beneath my knees, Pete’s clammy skin. I breathe deeply and open my eyes.

No bars on my cell, not even the little SOS in the right-hand corner.
Vivian’s ranch is our shelter-in-place. Vivian will have an emergency radio or a generator and Wi-Fi. I have to get Pete to Vivian’s. And Chad too, there’s no way I’m leaving that asshole.

The smell of smoke grows stronger. I glance up at the firebreak, but there’s no firebreak, just the hillside all red and orange and yellow and black. Ash rains down on us. Just get Pete into the car. I tie the other end of Chad’s rope to an ornamental iron bench.

I can only drag Pete a few inches. I pretend his body is just any old body. In the car, I have a first aid kit and old blankets and towels for injured animals. Tape up his head wound. Then, I lay the blanket down next to Pete, roll him toward me, clutching the torn Jack White concert tee I once threatened to throw away, hold him steady with one arm and tug the blanket under his body and straighten it out. Roll Pete slightly away from me and tug on the blanket again so he’s wholly on the worn wool. Roll towels so his neck doesn’t move. Sweat drips down my back.

I grip the sides of the blanket and pull. I drag him down the dirt driveway, toward the Subaru. This cannot be good for a head injury. Pete’s unconscious for the entire journey, which, in true cliched fashion, seems like it takes hours but only takes minutes. And then we’re alongside the car and I open the back door.
I can’t lift him up. He’s just too heavy, the door is too high, and I’m too tired. I sag against the car. Another helicopter flies above us. Sirens and a megaphone from down on the Boulevard telling us to evacuate. Firefighters will be knocking on doors to make sure everyone’s gone. Perhaps the fire has jumped the Boulevard and is racing uphill. A fact I’ve learned in the past few days: fires move quicker uphill.

Chad snorts. Along the dirt road, the thrum of motorcycles and two motorcyclists in leather jackets emblazoned with “Heat Hawk” patches drive up in a cloud of dust. Thomas, who plays in a band with Pete for the Canyon Memorial Day parade, and River, one of the local plumbers. A deus ex machina but I’ll take it; the pressure loosens in my chest.

Thomas says, “You need to get out of here,” but then he sees Pete, and silence descends dark and heavy.

“Just help me get Pete in the car and I’ll get him to Vivian’s.”

Thomas and River lift Pete into the back seat. River tells me that they’re making sure the propane tanks are turned off because the fire is closing in.

“You’ll be ok?” says Thomas.

“Dude, I was an EMT.” Chad huffs loudly. Everyone’s a critic.

Billows of smoke drift. The Heat Hawks take off down a driveway. When I untie Chad from the iron bench it snorts again, and I’m saying all of those sweet nothings I say to animals, all of those sweet nothings I want to say to Pete. If we get through this, I whisper, my tone even and calm. My palms rough on its hide.

“Come on darling, come with me.” I’ll tie Chad’s rope to my steering wheel and hope Chad keeps pace. This is not optimal, but it will get us to Vivian’s.
The interior of the car fills with smoke; I pull on a N95 left over from the pandemic. The Heat Hawks pass me going back down the road and I wave a hand out the window to show we’re ok. Chad’s a good boy, serenely walking beside me, flinching when a helicopter flies low, but staying close. Pete moans from the back seat. I glance back: his eyes are still closed, his bandage bright red. He’s going to hate that I left his phone behind.

Something small and bright flies across the windshield. An ember. Another one. Three things: the dirt road, the fence, a tricycle. Three more things: the sticky steering wheel, the coarse rope, the gas pedal under my foot.

I speed up slightly at the venture capitalist’s house and hope Chad can keep up. I pass the palm trees and in my rear-view I see first one palm catch fire and then another, embers blowing from frond to frond.

Chad bellows. “You and me both.” Vivian’s corral appears through the smoke. I’m laughing now. Our last ditch. The wind gusts. I lay on my horn. Vivian’s at the passenger side window, a bandana over her face, white hair whipping. I gesture to the back seat. She helps me drag Pete into the corral. I go back for Chad and let it loose with the horses. “You’re one stubborn woman,” Vivian says. “Ditto,” I say. The horses huddle in the middle of the corral, rubbing against each other, against Chad. Perhaps they think Chad’s just a giant horse.

Pete groans, tries to sit up. “Pete, darling,” and yes, this is the first time in a long time I’ve called him darling. “Stay still.” My palms on his chest to press him down. “Do you remember what happened?”

In the haze, two fire engines rush past. The sirens aren’t even on. I try to wave them down, but they don’t see me. Above us, a plane flies low and heavy and Phos-Chek floats into the smoke, turning it red.

Pete’s eyelids flicker. He’s unconscious again. I hunch over him, my ear to his mouth, and feel a soft whisper of breath. I check his pupils again, and again, and again.

The smoke in my throat, in my hair, all around us. On the hillside a red line eats the chaparral. As the flames devour everything in their path, they sound like yards of aluminum foil crunching between large hands, dry oak leaves under stomping feet, boughs broken over someone’s knee. The wind is a shout of embers. What will survive: the superhero actor’s house, the venture capitalist’s house? Our house? Vivian calls for help on the radio, the wind blowing her voice away from me.

Some native plants need fire to propagate. A month after the last fire, five years ago, Pete and I hiked the burn scar in Malibu. Purple lupin spikes grew like shag carpet and ceanothus bloomed a blue haze among sycamores. Manzanita still burnt black and bare. A year later, leaves trembled in the breeze. Now, a gleaming ember burns yet another hole in Pete’s tee and I thumb it out. I think of our little crooked house, the lounge chairs on the deck, the dog, the rabbits, Pete sitting across from me at the kitchen table as I drop formula into a chick’s mouth. I try to hold the image in my mind, but it keeps sliding away from me, fading into smoke.

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