At first, she thought she was simply smelling the clothing of someone who might’ve been smoking a cigarette before they entered the shelter. Or maybe they’d taken a few puffs while in the latrine because they were addicted to nicotine, and withdrawal forced them to light up.
However, her rational mind ruled out those two possibilities. Others would’ve noticed another refugee sneaking a cigarette. She even wandered toward the latrine, hoping to catch a whiff. There was nothing.
Until she returned to the supply closet, as the coach called it. It was stronger than a cigarette. It had a burnt chemical odor mixed with the smell of their fireplace after a long weekend of split oak logs and pine kindling being turned into ash.
Lacey had no idea what time it was. Those with wind-up watches had stopped announcing the time on the hour out of respect for those asleep. She assumed it was nighttime, as so many were sleeping, their biological clocks dictating when it was time for rest.
She found a folding chair stashed between the boxes of MREs. She opened it up and set it under the vent. After a look around, she climbed onto the seat and stretched as high as she could on her tiptoes without falling over. That was when she confirmed her suspicions.
There was a strong odor of smoke coming through the vent. She wasn’t sure if it applied to all the ventilation in the system, such that it was, in the shelter. She only hoped it was coming from outside and not due to the gymnasium being on fire.
Owen finally stirred awake and sat up against the wall. After rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings, Lacey explained what she’d learned. He stood and made his way to the chair that she’d left under the vent. He took in a deep breath and smelled the odor. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Owen took another deep breath and furrowed his brow.
He lovingly placed his hand behind Lacey’s head and placed his cheek on hers. He whispered, “It reminds me of the East Bay fires in the summer of 2020. The smell is exactly the same.”
That summer, dozens of fires had burned out of control in Santa Clara County and Alameda County near their home in Hayward. Twenty-two vegetation fires and seven structure fires kept emergency teams busy as they fought to protect the neighborhoods along the ridge overlooking the Bay Area. It was nip and tuck for the McDowells for a while until the East Bay firefighters, together with volunteers from all over the state, got the blazes under control. Owen would never forget the smell of the danger that had approached them that July.
“It’s not the building, right?” she asked.
“I don’t think so, but it might not be that far away.”
Tucker woke up and stood next to his parents. “What’s going on?”
Owen held a single finger to his lips to encourage him to keep his voice down. “Don’t react. Okay?”
Tucker nodded his head, indicating he understood.
Owen whispered to his son, “There may be a fire nearby.”
Tucker grimaced and scratched his shaggy hair. “That sucks.” Two words that spoke volumes.
“What should we do?” asked Lacey.
Owen looked around and then responded, “Let’s make our way to the front door. Be discreet about it. When the rest of these people smell the smoke, they’re gonna lose it.”
Lacey didn’t hesitate. She was the first to begin winding through the bodies of people sleeping on the floor or sitting cross-legged with their chin rested in the palm of their hand.
Tucker was next, and Owen followed close behind. Lacey had arrived at the front, and Tucker was almost there. Owen shuffled past a man, who suddenly grabbed him by the ankle.
“Where ya goin’, buddy?”
Owen looked nervously around him. He was only twenty feet or so from the front of the shelter.
“Um, my wife was creeped out about that guy dying,” Owen replied unconvincingly. “I promised we could get as far away as possible.”
“That was a while ago. Why all of a sudden-like?” The man pressed Owen for answers.
Owen wanted to respond that it was none of the nosy man’s business, but he knew that would be counterproductive and result in an argument. He opted to throw Lacey under the bus.
“Listen, I think she’s overreacting, but what can I say? Happy wife, happy life. Right?”
Owen’s tone of voice sold the lie.
“Don’t I know it. My old lady insisted upon coming down here. I wanted to head up the highway toward Tahoe. She might’ve been right, but I’ll never admit it. She’d throw it in my face for years.” The man released Owen’s ankle.
Owen smirked in the dim light. The guy was a douchebag.
“Yeah, I guess. Um, take it easy.”
Seconds later, he was standing next to the entry door with his family.
Forty minutes later, the first occupant voiced concerns about smelling smoke. After several baseless smoking accusations against a teenager who’d just used the latrine, the coach and police officer huddled in the supply storage room.
The basketball coach, who was nearly six feet three, stood on the chair. He reached over his head to grasp a steel girder, and with the help of the officer, he pulled himself up. He was able to place his face directly under the vent, where he confirmed his suspicions from earlier. He sniffed the air hesitantly at first. He grimaced and then took a deeper breath. There was no mistaking the source of the smoky odor.
His plan was to slowly make his way to the front of the shelter. However, he’d barely stepped off the chair when the strong odor of smoke began to permeate the room through the other vents. Soon, everyone could smell the charred remains of the firestorm raging across the Sacramento River toward Rio Linda and into Citrus Heights.
The massive blaze dwarfed anything the State of California had ever witnessed, and it was barely
