3000 Degrees (29 page)

He opened the throttle, let the staccato pop of the engine bounce around inside his helmet. Then something caught his eye in the western sky. A black column, twisting against the blue like knotted strands of yarn. He watched it for miles, all the way into North Brookfield, the smoke beginning to mushroom, flatten out and spread. Small orange slashes appeared just above the horizon, tendrils of fire snapping upward.

It was closer now, perhaps five miles away. From behind, over the growl of his bike, he heard the wail of sirens. He glanced in the mirror: two tanker trucks, loaded with water, lights flashing, barreled up the road. He steered to the side, gave them a wide berth, but maintained his speed. He couldn't see what was burning, but it had to be huge; a black cloud loomed above like a thunderhead. Mike kept riding toward it, by habit or perhaps even instinct, the proverbial moth to the literal flames.

He crossed the line into Hardwick. An old mill had caught fire, a spectacular blaze, at least four alarms on its way to five. A shot of adrenaline hit his bloodstream. He twisted the throttle harder.

Then he stopped. He backed off the accelerator, pulled to the side of the road, cut the engine. The fire was only a half mile away. He could smell it, almost taste the smoke. He looked behind him, blue sky over green buds, an asphalt ribbon laced between them. He looked forward. Black and orange. He kicked the engine over, revved it, shook his head and laughed at himself. “What are you doing?” he said out loud. “It's a beautiful day. And you've seen enough of this shit.”

He let out the clutch and steered into a looping turn toward home.