Wildfire

Peter Wilks

Description

Lemuel Squirrel is a seemingly harmless, old eccentric, living a hermit's lonely existence in his Oregon Forest home. But his life is a mere trick, a disguise to deceive those closest to him and hide his real identity - for Lemuel is, in fact, a maverick secret agent, aged thirty-three and a half. Unbeknown to globe-trotting Lemuel, his cover has been blown by mysterious enemy spies. Posing as holidaymakers, these shady characters are watching his safe house from afar, waiting for the opportunity to prove that the treasure map they have been searching for is in his possession... When lightning strikes spark wildfires in the Oregon Forest, Lemuel finds himself in a desperate struggle to stay alive - and to get his nephew and his wisecracking friends to safety. In the face of impending doom, Lemuel leads them aboard his inflatable airship and before long it's rising out of his workshop's skylight, emerging into the orange-tinted night sky. However, Lemuel's young companions quickly discover that their problems are only just beginning as they are caught in his battle against merciless enemy spies - who are willing to do whatever it takes to get hold of Lemuel's latest assignment... Wildfire is a fun and exciting story that will be suitable for children aged between 6 and 11 years old. This action-packed story will take young readers who enjoy adventure fiction on a thrilling journey.

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 février 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781784629113
• Langue: English

Extrait

About the author
Peter Wilks has studied law and acting, but now concentrates on writing screen plays and adventure novels.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Grimoire
Midnight Sun
Flash Point
Vampire Hunt
AND FOR CHILDREN
The Foragers
Escape from Below

Copyright © 2015 Peter Wilks
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1784629 113
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To my Auntie Violet and Uncle Tom
Contents
About the author
Part I: Paradise Lost
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part 2: Friends and enemies
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Part I
Paradise Lost
Chapter 1
The deep stillness of the American night was suddenly penetrated by the rumble of ear-splitting thunder. A flash of lightning came next and it briefly chased away the brooding darkness to reveal the Oregon landscape densely forested with trees and undergrowth. A quiet gravel road, broad enough for vehicles to drive on it two-abreast, led to a small camping ground filled with weathered picnic tables and trash cans. Shadows lengthened like tiger stripes across the odd glade and hollowed dell before the flash faded just as quickly. But not all of the brightness went with it, because rectangles of bedroom lights were switched on from the village’s nests, bird boxes and squirrel’s dreys as the black specks of their rudely awakened occupants looked out their windows at nature’s fireworks.
The smell of rain was in the air. Thunder roared closer and lightning flared sharply again, zigzagging across the cloud-studding sky. A cold wind sprang up, disturbing the dry, late summer foliage and making pleasant noises as it blew between the musical wind chimes decorating the many tree branches – moving the small pieces of metal, pottery and seashell dangling down on strings. Tacked on a few of the trunks were old human, fire-prevention posters: either showing a burning cigarette and a forest fire or a pointing bear wearing a hat and holding a shovel with worded advice underneath. The colours of the artwork were faded from long exposure to sunlight and curled over at the corners.
Thunder crashed menacingly overhead now and the strength of the wailing gale increased, buffeting bats and owls that had to abandon their feeding behaviours to frantically search for shelter from the approaching storm. Just then a lightning bolt crackled down to earth and hit an ancient cottonwood, splitting the tree’s knotted and twisted trunk in half. At the same time the ignition temperature for woody material was instantaneously achieved along the scorch mark, bursting the upper branches and the leafy crown into whooshing flame.
A glowing scout troop of fireflies fluttering their delicate wings between the tree’s leaves pulled up to hover, as they were abruptly startled by the fire surging along and angling down the several layers of branches and greenery to close in around them.
“Oh, crumbs, we’re going to be deep fried for sure!” Melvyin the firefly said in anguish, as he had a momentary lapse of forgetfulness. Holding onto his white pith helmet, he glanced around him for a direction in which they could proceed, as he and his troop of scouts lost their bearings. “This is almost as awful as the time I went foraging with my chum Noah 1 . I just knew I should never have volunteered to become a scoutmaster being as how I’m allergic to work and all that,” he shook his head, “but a free trip away from the moaning mother-in-law and the authority to boss folk about was too much for even me to resist.”
Another firefly with a smaller, dark-chocolate body wearing similar sandals, khaki shorts and a shirt bedecked with badges for certain outdoor activities like climbing and camping, rolled his eyes as he had heard it all before and quickly pointed a finger above them at a gap within the parched, browning foliage, festooned with dusty cobwebs. “We could get through there, Dad…er..” pausing as he recalled his official title. “I mean Brown Owl, sir.”
Melvyin’s nostrils caught the harsh scent of burning wood as his bleak gaze turned towards the indicated direction and the nervous scouts looked expectantly at him. Their immediate concerns gathered in his mind as he took a split-second to appraise the route and nod in agreement. “Well, done, Tarquin!” Melvyin steeled himself as he remembered his responsibilities to the rest of the troop before addressing them, his voice instilling a sense of urgency with each word. “Scouts, come with me and do exactly what I do.”
The moisture in his mouth dried as Melvyin waved at them. He fluttered upward in the lead and his hand covered his nose and mouth with his neckerchief so he wouldn’t breathe in the wisps of smoke rising from the burning wood. The dozen scouts were feeling a mixture of anxiety and dread in equal measure as they followed Melvyin instructions in every detail.
Terror-fuelled adrenaline coursed through the insects’ bodies as they soared after Melvyin into dancing shadows and flickering firelight. Between the branches were a number of luminescent foxfire lamps shining on little doorways, each through an arch and before them there were strung washing lines pegged with clothes that burned up. Elsewhere, large wooden barrels for collecting rainwater stood under drainpipes attached to the sides of the multi-storey homes, but the spreading flames heated up these water butts, boiling the contents and producing stream at high pressure and at a higher temperature.
“Hurry up slowcoaches,” Melvyin glanced back to check on the scouts’ progress and galvanised them to fly faster. “Last one out has the honour of massaging my feet’s corns and bunions for a solid week. It will be sheer bliss for me.”
“Something to look forward to, not,” Tarquin said, pulling a disgusted face as he sped up, knowing it was out of character for Melvyin not to keep to his word.
A wall of flame erupted from the left and the scoutmaster barrel rolled out of its path. The young fireflies mirrored the sideways revolution and went on, to swept around a number of branches on fire and swerved to dodge falling, red-hot leaves, the edges curling up as they blackened. Beneath the fireflies, the building pressure became too much for several of the water butts and one after another, they exploded nosily, excavating cavities in the tree’s trunk. The cobwebs loomed before Melvyin only for the orange tendrils of encroaching flames to finally reach it and rush across the snapping strands.
Sweating like lawn sprinklers, Melvyin and all the scouts plunged through the bellowing smoke and the cobwebs clung to their faces and their uniforms as they dramatically broke free of the inferno, emerging high above the greedy flames. Melvyin yanked down his neckerchief to take a gulping breath of fresh air and looked left and right to count the number of heads belonging to his scouts.
“Is everyone alright?” Melvyin asked the troop, sighing deeply in relief as he received a collection of nods and he accounted for everyone that had safely made it out.
Tarquin puffed and wiped the web strands away from his long face. “Yeah, but that was too close for comfort.”
“I won’t count our blessing until we can get indoors somewhere far away and drink a nice calming cuppa. Come on campers, follow me.”
* * *
Elsewhere at the same time, half a dozen lightning bolts crackled down to ignite more trees and the after-image of one of the strikes briefly burned onto the eyes of the fire marshal. He blinked to clear his vision and blew his whistle loudly again as the bark of the burning trees smouldered and the overpowering heat of the spreading blaze drove frightened families of holiday makers with only the clothes on their backs, from their time-share apartments to escape the danger as they had practiced in fire drills along foxfire lit walkways and roped bridges connecting the burning tree to the neighbouring trunks. Perched on a handrail, a small wingless flea watched the panicky flow of animal traffic moving beneath him.
“Can’t walk down there, I’ll liable to be stamped on for sure,” he mused to himself, as a short weasel in a bellhop uniform zigged and zagged, undertaking and overtaking the animals like a speeding motorist. “But I can hitch a ride on a dog.”
“Ho! Outta the way, mush,” the weasel said in a tizzy, his long body quivering as canvas awnings above them and silhouetted wooden buildings burned. “The hotel manager put me in charge of you lot, so I’m coming through to guide you to safety whether you like it or not.” He shoved his way through the flow of nervous animals that parted instinctively and got in each others’ way.
Off to their far right, another line of tourists urgently streamed in single file onto one of the rope suspension bridges that didn’t look particularly inviting to their eyes, but they coughed and pressed on regardless. Anchored by metal rings embedded in each of the tree trunks, thick hemp lines made up handrails and vertical support sides tied to additiona