A Valley On Fire

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. We think they didn’t want to come down, or didn’t have a reason to before now. They kept to the lava tubes and volcanic middles of the earth, and we kept to our tidy little cities filled with parking garages and late-night pharmacies and car-lined avenues running up and down the valley like fat, glittering veins.

The dragons didn’t come to the surface when we cut our way through the leafy meadows to build condominiums on either side of the river. They didn’t come when the rich folks snuck farther and farther up the sides of the mountains, planting rows of cookie-cutter mansions and neighborhood clubs behind wrought iron fences that snaked across the foothills like jutting spearheads. They didn’t even come when the big water companies drilled into the earth, looking for hidden caves filled with pockets of cool, untouched water.

The dragons came only when the earth was hot enough to burn. They came to spread out against the sky, dazzling the earth with fire and molten rock.

The first time I saw a dragon it was summertime. It was so hot, the air felt crackling and electric. I was crossing the Dollar Mart parking lot with Mom, each of us arm-loaded with cases of bottled water. It’s been years since the tap water was safe enough to drink, so we heft the water home from the Dollar Mart two times a month—enough to drink and wash our dishes and rinse our toothbrushes. I know some families who boil everything that comes out of the tap—they spend hours a week just boiling and boiling, even in summer. We could boil ours, too, to save money, but Mom says we’re not that poor yet.

The day we saw the dragon was the hottest day of the hottest summer yet, but it was one of the coldest summers I can remember. We left the windows down in our car, just like you’re supposed to. I’ve heard that people didn’t always leave their windows down in the summers—it was cold enough that your dashboard didn’t melt, and your seat covers didn’t spark or scorch beneath the windshield glass. I think there are still cities in Wisconsin or Canada or other places up north where you can still leave your windows up all year long, but not here. In our car there’s still a warped patch on the driver’s side from the very last summer that Mom left the windows up. The spot looks like a fried egg—saggy and runny-looking, even though now it’s hardened back into plastic.

If you’re rich enough, the cars you can buy aren’t even made with plastic parts anymore. It’s all lightweight fire-proof metals and heat-resistant glass. I sometimes see cars like that up in the gated foothills, and I never see their windows down, even in summer.

Outside the Dollar Mart we carried our cases of bottled water, stepping carefully through the wide open parking lot. It was only folks like us—folks who ran out of water or food or diapers who were out at the stores that day. Everything was wilted and melting and hazy. Even the cracks in the asphalt oozed tar like open wounds.

We were almost to the car when something huge passed across the sun. There were no clouds in summertime—hadn’t been for years—so we all knew what it was even before we looked up.

The dragon was the biggest creature I’d ever seen. It was as long as a football field and its wings—webby and orange-veined beneath the sun—could easily flatten a house. It circled once before landing on the melting asphalt at the other end of the parking lot. The ground shook as the weight of it touched down on the earth. People screamed and ran in different directions, but Mom was rooted to the spot.

“Should we run?” I said, hardly breathing.

“Don’t you move, Olive,” said Mom. Her knuckles were bright white, clutching the case of water like it was life itself.

We’d only seen real dragons online—shaky cell phone footage of creatures so large they never fit in the frame. It was only ever a glimpse of a leg, the flash of tail, the sound of crunching metal and screams. It was so little to go on, lots of people thought it was a carefully-planned hoax. An internet joke meant to prey on naive grandparents and hungry clickbait followers.

But this dragon—with its squat, angled legs and short, fat neck—was as real as the sweat that ran down my cheeks and forehead. It gave off so much heat, it was like someone had opened a giant oven in front of us—the air shimmered in every direction as the temperature rose.

I was surprised, at first, at the way it looked. It was nothing like the animated dragons that people used to put in movies and TV shows. Those dragons look so ridiculous now—like goofy horned snakes with arms and legs and wings. Real dragons are more lizard-like, at least the ones we’ve seen in the valley. This one was like a giant speckled salamander, and its wings were ragged and scaly and black.

We watched as it shook out those great wings, hitting us with a blast of hot air. Then it folded them up, and it was unreal how easily they melted in with the rest of the dragon’s vast, scaly body.

Sweat had begun to pool between my shoulder blades, and the case of bottled water tugged on my arms like a lead weight.

“It’s not even looking at us,” I whispered. “We can make it to the car!”

“Don’t… you… move,” Mom hissed. Her voice was as hot as the shimmering asphalt, but I could see her arms and legs shaking.

So we stood—frozen to the spot, with arms aching—as the dragon shifted and pawed at the asphalt. It seemed to be digging a sort of shallow pit in the melted tar and rock. It paid no attention to parked cars in its wake—it flattened an entire minivan with a single step, squashing it underfoot like a used gum wrapper.

When it finished cutting its nest out of the rock, it cocked its head up to the sky, showing off a blubbery yellow underbelly. A great rumbling sound rose from inside its throat, and its chin began to expand like a bullfrog’s. It waited a moment, its jowls growing wider and wider, and then it let out a great belch of hot blue flame straight up into the sky. The sound was deafening, like the blast of a jet engine. When it was done, the air was filled with car alarms and fresh screams. I felt something hot trickle down my leg.

I’d wet myself.

“Mom, let’s go!” I pleaded. Mom caught sight of the dark spot spreading across the front of my jeans. A look of terrified realization spread across her face.

“OK," she agreed. She glanced at the dragon, who was still busy coughing up fire into the sky.

"Run to the car—now!” She hoisted the case of water bottles and took off in a straight line towards the car. I tried to readjust my own, but my arms were numb from holding so still. I tried running, but the bottles bumped and jostled against my thighs.

“Leave them!” Mom shouted. So I dropped the case on the asphalt. The plastic cracked open and bottles rolled all over beneath my feet. Unthinking, I bent down and grabbed as many as I could, tucking them beneath my arms.

“I said leave them!”

I took off. Ahead of us, the dragon rolled onto its back, its head aimed once more at the sky. We heard the now-familiar rumble in its chest and watched its neck expand. It belched out another burst of flames as we reached the car, Mom leaning the case of water against the trunk, fumbling with her keys in her other hand. At last, she got the key in the lock and we were free.

As we drove away, we watched great jets of blue flame streak across the sky in the rear-view mirror. Mom’s knuckles were still white, gripping the steering wheel hard all the way home.

That was the last time Mom took any of us with her to the grocery store. I would hear the sound of dragons breathing fire in my dreams. I would wake up in a drench of sweat, my breath coming in great gasps. Sometimes I heard it in real life, too—the sound of scorched earth echoing across the valley like a sonic boom.

Eventually I heard it almost every day, and dreamed of it every night. Sometimes I woke up several times in the night, dripping with sweat as I tiptoed past my brother's bedroom to fetch a spare sheet from the closet so I didn't have to go back to bed drenched from head to toe.

There’s four of us living in the house these days—me, Mom, Grandma Hellie, and my little brother, Nick. Dad lives in Wisconsin with a woman called Leanne that I’ve never met. I think they have some kids, but we never hear from him so I don’t know for sure. Sometimes I see Leanne’s pictures of her and Dad online, but it makes me feel all hot in my chest so I try to scroll past without looking too close. I wonder if they have dragons up in Wisconsin.

One night, I was at the table on the computer while Nick did his homework and Mom did the dishes. Grandma Hellie caught me scrolling past one of Leanne’s latest photos. She and Dad were bundled up on a ski lift, smiling into the camera against a backdrop of impossibly white snow.

I couldn't imagine being cold enough to need a coat. It seemed like such a distant luxury. I paused for a moment on the photo, trying to imagine the earth flocked with something so cold.

“That showy bastard,” said Grandma Hellie, sucking on her teeth as she leaned over me.

“What’s he done now?” said Mom.

“Nothin' worthwhile,” said Grandma Hellie, and she took out a balled up kleenex from her pocked and spit into it. Then she leaned in close and whispered so my mom couldn't hear, “It’s his loss, darlin. His loss.”

I scrolled on, ignoring the heat that gathered beneath my ribs and spread up my neck and cheeks. Soon I came across a video that had been shared and re-shared by tons of people. I clicked on it. Immediately I saw a man being dragged out of a house by some police officers. There were three surrounding him—two holding his legs, and one kicking him in the stomach as he was dragged out.

“IT’S MY HOUSE,” he was screaming. “IT’S MY HOUSE!” The officers only tugged him harder, ignoring the blood that left a thin trail on the concrete steps behind him.

“I AM RECORDING THIS!” the woman behind the camera was shouting. “EVERYONE WILL SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”

But the officers didn’t seem to care. Seconds later, two more officers came out, this time dragging a teenage girl. One had her by the hair, the other had her by the leg. She was shrieking and writhing, trying to free herself, clawing at her scalp where the officer held fast.

“I AM STILL RECORDING!” shouted the woman behind the camera. “YOU’RE MAKING US LEAVE AGAINST OUR WILL! AGAINST OUR CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS!” she shouted. The next moment, the camera flipped, and a heavy woman with beads of sweat running down her face appeared, taking up the entire frame.

“I AM IN SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA,” she said, gasping for breath, “AND THESE OFFICERS ARE FORCING US TO EVACUATE OUR HOMES AGAINST OUR WILL! THEY’RE JUST LETTING THE DRAGONS TAKE OVER EVERYTHING! THEY DON’T CARE WHERE WE GO!” The woman’s eyes darted off screen. Soon she began to run, her voice shaking.

“PEOPLE!” She yelled. “YOU GOTTA DO SOMETHING! MORE PEOPLE GOTTA SEE THIS! SHARE IT, LIKE IT, TAG EVERYBODY! PEOPLE GOT TO KNOW! THEY’RE MAKING US LEAVE, AND THEY DON’T HAVE NO PLAN!”

The video cut to black.

“Horrible,” said Mom, shaking her head. She tipped a freshly boiled pot of water into the sink.

Nick had stopped his homework and was chewing at his pen cap, his eyes wide and watery.

“That won’t happen here, right?” he said.

“No, honey,” said Mom. “We don’t have to worry about that kind of thing up here.”

Grandma Hellie sucked on her teeth and shook her head.

In that moment, I felt something shift—not just in the room, but beneath my feet, under the floorboards, deep in the belly of the earth. It was as though something huge and invisible had just rolled its great, beastly body in some unseen cavern of the earth.

Somewhere in the sky, we heard a dragon breathe fire. Down below, the valley echoed and was still.