Hollow Fire

INCIDENT REPORT

Agency: U.S. Forest Service – Region 1

Incident Name: Pine Hollow Forest Fire

Incident Number: MT-2025-0917

Date/Time of Initial Report: September 17, 2025 – 18:42 hrs

Location: Grid 7-B, Pine Hollow, Lewis and Clark National Forest

Cause: Under Investigation

Units Dispatched: Engine 42, Brush 16

Status: Personnel unaccounted for.

Smoke rose through the tree line, contrasting against the orange hue behind it. The two-tone howl cut through the evening air, rising and falling in that practiced rhythm that meant only one thing — fire.

Dispatch: “Engine 42, Brush 16, respond to reported smoke, Pine Hollow, grid 7-B. Time out, 18:42.”

Gravel spat from under the tires as the engine roared down the dirt road. The rotating beacons atop the engine swept the dark, painting the pines in brief, blood-red washes of light.

Engine 42: “Dispatch, Engine 42 en route. Visible column from two miles out. It’s black.”

The trees swayed in an unconventional, awkward rhythm, a wind seemingly fighting itself against its own movement.

Brush 16: “Brush 16 copies. ETA five minutes. Approaching from the south.”

Ash began to drift before the fire even appeared, curling up skyward like tiny tornadoes. Inside the cab, the firefighters exchanged worried glances.

Engine 42: “Dispatch, Engine 42. Requesting forestry. Fire behavior looks abnormal.”

As the road narrowed, the rig's sides were scraped by tree limbs as it ascended. Red light flashed across the bark and brush, giving brief glimpses of a forest that had yet to be ravaged by flames.

Smoke thickened quickly, curling low and heavy, settling like fog. The air smelled off—beneath the sharp sting of smoke was something heavier, like wet leaves left in the sun too long—or worse, the faint stink of decay.

Engine 42: “Dispatch, Engine 42 on scene. Heavy smoke, zero flame visible. Holding at the tree line.”

The siren faded away. Silence took over, broken only by the diesel’s rough idle. Ash drifted in lazy spirals across the hood.

Firefighters emerged, their boots crunching on a layer of dry needles. The smoke hung heavy, like a damp blanket.

“Jesus Christ, that stinks,” Ramirez muttered, yanking his bandana up.

“Yeah, that ain’t wood smoke,” Cole shot back. “Smells like someone torched a goddamn junkyard.”

“Or a graveyard,” the driver added, coughing. “Rotten as hell.”

“Quit the poetry, Shakespeare,” the captain snapped, though his voice was tight. “Eyes open.”

The smoke shifted, revealing a glimpse into the darkness. For a moment, they saw it—an orange glow that wasn’t spreading like a typical fire. It flickered, then pulled back, as if the flames were retreating deeper into the trees.

“Okay, what the fuck was that?” Cole said flatly.

“Looked like it shrank,” Ramirez answered.

“Fires don’t shrink,” the captain growled. “So shut up and stay sharp.”

Brush 16 (radio crackle): “Engine 42, Brush 16. We’re coming up on your six. Copy your size-up.”

“Tell ‘em conditions are fucked,” Cole muttered, tightening his gloves.

Engine 42: “Dispatch, update—conditions… abnormal. Stand by.”

They hauled their gear from the compartments, helmets snapping into place with practiced ease. The red strobes cast steel shadows across their faces, making them seem more than human — smoke-eaters, tough guys, the kind of men who marched through hell every day.

“Alright,” the captain barked, cinching his chin strap. “We’re not here to admire the scenery. Pack up, mask on.”

Ramirez swung his Pulaski from the rack. “Copy that. Let’s go beat the shit out of this thing.”

Cole chuckled, a dry rasp. “This ain’t your dick, Ramirez.”

“Shut up and dig when I tell you,” The captain snapped, hiding a grin.

They stood face-to-face with their opponent, headlamps shining bright beams through the smoke. The afterglow pulsed again, deeper inside. It didn’t spread or leap like flame should — it just lingered, waiting.

“Damn thing’s just staring at us,” Ramirez muttered.

“Good,” the captain growled. “Makes it easier to kill.”

Brush 16: “Engine 42, Brush 16. We’re on scene.”

“About time,” Cole muttered.

Brush 16’s lights beamed through the smoke as the smaller rig rolled up behind them, red strobes lighting up the forest like a crime scene. Two more firefighters dropped down, helmets slung under their arms.

“Hell of a stink,” one called out, coughing into his sleeve.

“No shit,” Ramirez shot back. “Smells like something crawled down here and died.”

They stepped quietly into the dense tree line, their boots sinking softly into soil that felt unusually spongy and warm from the relentless heat. The smoke curled thicker and darker, swirling against the wind as if the forest itself exhaled in a ragged, uneven breath, cloaking the woods in an eerie haze.

Cole planted his Pulaski in the dirt. “Ground’s hot as a furnace, but nothing’s burning.” He pried up a chunk of soil, and steam hissed out—dark, wet, reeking of rot.

Deeper in, hellfire flared once more. It didn't spread or flicker, but throbbed like a heartbeat. Orange bled into red, then it was gone.

“Cap…” Ramirez’s voice cracked. “Fire doesn’t move like that.”

“Eyes front,” the captain growled, adjusting his helmet strap. “I don’t care if it’s the devil’s asshole—we put it out.”

A sudden gust sucked the smoke inward, pulling pine needles across the ground toward the glow. Helmets rattled, bandanas flapped against jaws.

“Jesus Christ,” one of the Brush crew muttered. “It’s breathing.”

They pressed forward, lamps and strobes stabbing through the thick, suffocating haze. Each step brought a sizzling heat beneath their feet, yet no flames licked the brush, no fire crowned the trees—just that eerie, unearthly glow that seemed to beat with a malevolent life of its own.

With a swing of his Pulaski, Cole drove it into the soil. The steel resonated like it had struck stone, but the ground cracked softly. Steam erupted, curling around his boots. “Damn,” he whispered, yanking it free. “It’s cooking from underneath.”

Ramirez kicked at a root, then jumped back. “This thing’s warm. Trees don’t catch from the inside out, Cap.”

“Quit whining and keep moving,” the captain snapped, voice hard but uneasy.

They felt the fiery pulse growing stronger, brighter than before, and now they could hear it—a low, muffled rumble, not like a flame, but more like...a clearing of the throat. The smoke receded just enough for them to spot a pocket of fire, not burning fuel, but suspended in the air.

“Fuck me,” Cole muttered. “It’s floating.”

“Get a line on it,” the captain barked.

They pulled the hose off Brush 16. Nozzles crackled open, streams hissed through the dark. Water hit the orange halo—and then disappeared. No steam. No hiss. Just vanished.

“What the hell…” Ramirez’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “It drank it.”

Then the flare jerked. Not spread, not blown by wind — it moved, recoiling, then surging toward them.

“Back up! Back the fuck up!” the captain shouted, waving them away. The fire wasn’t spreading across the ground; it was following.

The hose line bucked in their hands, pressure steady, water pounding against the glow. But it didn’t bite, didn’t sizzle. The fire didn’t care.

Then, with a sound like tearing cloth, the blaze split apart, not into flames, but into shapes—tongues of orange and red peeling upward, writhing like they were alive.

“Cap…” Ramirez’s voice cracked. “What do we do?”

The captain didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched tightly under the helmet strap, and his eyes were fixed on the object.

That eerie glow came back, this time drawing the smoke inward with such force that it tore loose branches off the ground. Ash spun upward in whirls, and helmets shook. The fire wasn’t spreading – it was fueling itself.

Cole dropped the line, stumbling back. “We can’t fight this, Cap! It’s coming for us!”

“Shut the fuck up and hold steady!” the captain roared, though his voice broke halfway.

The shapes twisted and coalesced, and for a moment, it almost resembled a figure—limbs of flame, a hollow where a face should be. It leaned forward, and the heat hit them like a wall.

Their radios crackled with static, spitting half-words that weren’t dispatch, weren’t anything human.

“Back! Pull back!” the captain shouted, his voice trembling with urgency. Yet, as they fell back, the horrifying glow persisted, dragging smoke and embers like sinister tendrils.

They were trained for crown fires, for flashovers, for walls of flame racing faster than a man could run. But this wasn’t fire. This was something that wore fire like a mask.

Ramirez’s helmet lamp flickered out, and the sudden darkness made him think he heard it breathing. Then the intense glow surged, aimed straight at them.

"Move! Back to the rigs!” the captain shouted, pushing Ramirez towards the tree line.

They took off running, boots pounding the dirt, leaving the hose hissing behind them. The phantom fire surged forward, dragging smoke like a living force.

Cole glanced back once, nearly tripping, and screamed, “It’s fucking chasing us!"

"Eyes front!” the captain roared, his voice laced with panic.

The lights of Brush 16 blinked through the smoke ahead, a beacon of safety – the rigs, steel and water, just a hundred yards away.

The roar grew louder, deeper, like something massive drawing breath. Heat slammed into their backs. The air tasted metallic, bitter, wrong.

“Faster!” Ramirez gasped, his helmet rattling as he sprinted. “It’s right on us!”

Radios screeched with static, then a voice broke through—not dispatch, not human. Just a low, guttural growl that chilled every man to the bone.

They burst through the smoke curtain, the rigs finally in sight, red strobes slashing frantic circles across the trees.

And then the heat wave surged again, closer than it had any right to be—leaping forward as if it had chosen them.

The captain spun, Pulaski raised, eyes blazing. “Go! Get in the trucks!”

The forest erupted in a blood-red glow, the light consuming sound—and everything went black.