Chasing Fire

forest burned in a merry cavalcade with a deep, guttural roar as mad as the man who pursued her.
    At the snap of another gunshot, she fled deeper into the belly of the beast.
    She heard him coming, even over the bellow of the fire. The thud of his footsteps sounded closer than she wanted to believe. She scanned smoke and flame.
    Fight or flight.
    She was done with flight, finished letting him drive her like cattle to the slaughter. With the burn towering around her, she planted her feet, yanked out her Pulaski. Gripping it in both hands, she set for fight.
    He might kill her. Hell, he probably would. But she’d damn well do some damage first.
    For herself, for Yangtree. Even, she thought, for poor, pathetic Dolly.
    “You’ll bleed,” she told herself. “You’ll bleed before I’m done.”
    She saw the yellow shirt through the haze of smoke, then the silhouette coming fast.
    Deliberately she panted air in and out, pumping adrenaline. She had an instant, maybe two, to decide whether to hurl her weapon, hope for a solid strike, or to charge swinging.
    Charge. Better to keep the ax in her hands than risk a miss.
    She sucked in more filthy air, cocked the Pulaski over her shoulder, gritting her teeth as she judged the timing.
    Coming fast, she thought again—then her arms trembled.
    Coming really fast. Oh, God.
    “Gull.” She choked out his name as he tore through the smoke.
    She ran toward him, felt his hands close tight around her shoulders. Nothing, she realized, no caress, no embrace, had ever felt so glorious.
    “Matt.”
    “I got that.”
    “He’s got a gun.”
    “Yeah, I got that, too. Are you hurt?” He scanned her face when she shook her head, as if verifying for himself. “Can you run?”
    “What do you take me for?”
    “Then we run because Matt’s not our only problem.”
    She started to agree, then stiffened. “Wait. Do you hear that?”
    “You’re the one with ears like a . . . Yeah. Now I do.”
    “He’s coming. That way,” she added, pointing. “It sounds like he’s crying.”
    “I feel real bad for him. Best shot’s south, I think.”
    “If we can reach the black. But if we can, so can he.”
    “I sure as hell hope so. That’s where we’ll take him down. Run now; talk later.”
    “Don’t hold up for me,” she began.
    “Oh, bullshit.” He grabbed her hand, yanked her into a run.
    She bore down. She’d be damned if he held back because she couldn’t keep pace. It didn’t matter if her lungs burned, if her legs ached, if the sweat ran into her eyes like acid.
    She ran through a world gone mad with violence, stunning in its kaleidoscope lights of red and orange and molten blue. She flung herself through fetid smoke, leaping or dodging burning branches, hurdling burning spots that snapped over the ground like bear traps.
    If they could get into the black, they’d fight. They’d find a way.
    She risked a glance at Gull. Sweat poured down his soot-smeared face. Somewhere along the run he’d lost his helmet, and his hair was gray with ash.
    But his eyes, she thought as she pushed, pushed, pushed herself on. Clear, focused, determined. Eyes that didn’t lie, she thought. Eyes she could trust.
    Did trust.
    They’d make it.
    Something exploded behind them.
    Breath snagging, she looked back to see an orange column of smoke climb toward the sky. Even as she watched, it brightened.
    “Gull.”
    He only nodded. He’d seen it as well.
    No time to talk, to plan, even to think. The ground shook; the wind whipped. With its roaring breath, the fire blew brands, coals, burning pinecones that burst like grenades.
    Blue-orange flames clawed up on their left, hissing like snakes. A snag burst in its coils, showered them with embers. The smoke thickened like cotton with the firefly swirl of sparks flooding through it.
    A fountain of yellow flame spewed up in front of them, forcing them to angle away from the ferocious heat. Gull grunted when a burning branch hit his back, but didn’t break stride as they flung themselves up an incline.
    Rocks avalanched under their boots, and still the hellhound fire pursued. Came the roar, that long, throaty war cry, as the blowup thundered toward them.
    A fire devil swirled out of the smoke to dance.
    Nowhere to run.
    “Shake and bake.” Gull yanked the bandanna around Rowan’s throat over her mouth, did the same with his own.
    It screamed, Rowan thought as she tore the protective case off her fire shelter, shook it out. Or Matt screamed, but