"Benford-TheFireThisTime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Benford Gregory)

do -fight the fire, water down the yard, rescue some precious memories...

On Wendt Street, near the high school, a police car came cruising down, herding
the few homeowners left. I ducked behind a stone wall. "Get out of my driveway!"
a man wearing a headphone radio shouted at me. He waved a pistol wildly -- a
part of me noted, .$2 revolver, finger on the trigger guard, probably knows how
to handle it -- and I realized he perhaps mistook me for a looter. I ran behind
the police car and down a street, following the narrow windings toward our hill.
Night had fallen.

I sprinted on -- excited, oblivious to choking smoke, sirens and hoarse cries.
At the high school -untouched, of course -- I met fire teams and more police.
Chaos. Flames leapt from our hill, a steady popping roar. Homes exploded in
orange as their roofs burst open. Yellows and reds traced out the dark discords
of walls collapsing, brush crackling, cinders churning up in cyclonic winds,
orange motes in a fountain of air -then falling, bright tumbling fireworks. Ash
swept through the streets like gray snow. Above it all a cowl of black smoke
poured out to sea.

I crossed the street and climbed up onto a high ledge and still could not see
far enough up Mystic Canyon to make out our house. But all around it homes
burned furiously. Our street, Skyline Drive, was a flaming artery both above and
below our house.

A fire warden shouted at me to get out. I hesitated, he shouted again, and I
realized it was all over. At last I gave up our house and turned away. I had
been rushing forward for several hours, intent on reaching home. That was
impossible. I could do nothing in this inferno. I had not gotten in anybody's
way, but I hadn't done any good, either. Working my way this close to the fires
was risky, if only from the smoke I inhaled. Slowly I realized that I had been
running on automatic, and all this was quite foolish.

I retreated through deserted streets. I hitchhiked partway back out and a few
miles south found a 7-Eleven open. An incongruous sight, bright beacon beside
the exodus. I was parched, sagging. I went in and straight to the back to get a
big container of cold tea.

The store owner was in a heated argument with two men who wanted to get
gasoline. Police had come by and ordered the pumps closed. Excited, the owner
started rattling off Korean and one of the men grabbed him by the shin collar
and pulled him halfway across the counter. More shouting. The owner got free and
backed away and the rest of us in the store yelled at the two men. They swore at
the owner but made no more moves.

Plenty of talk then, accusations and retorts and barks of angry egos. I judged
it was not going to get any worse so I left money on the counter and walked out
with the tea. A block further south six motorcycle police from Newport Beach sat
on their machines and watched people still leaving along the Coast Highway,
their uniforms pressed and neat. They weren't interested in the 7-Eleven.