Consumed

“Budem zdorovy,” muttered Les to himself, while launching his query into legal cyberspace. His mind was on Byron, downing a Vodka, spouting off some Russian salute.
The late day sun was slipping away though he barely noticed. A frown appeared as he considered the document flickering on his tablet: Wells vs. Wells — Wife’s Trial Brief.
Beverly, Marcia’s best friend and his one-time college tease, was smack in the middle of a high-stakes, take-no-prisoners divorce. And it had fallen on him to break the grip of an ironclad prenuptial.
If only she’d listened.
“Bev, I’m telling you this as a friend,” he’d urged her a decade earlier. “Not as your lawyer. Don’t sign it. He’s still going to marry you, prenup or not.”
“Leslie,” she’d insisted, “I know what I'm doing. His parents are behind it. Trust me, as soon as it’s signed it'll be forgotten.”
He wondered, was it really the prenup or her marriage he’d hoped to stop?
He glanced at his arsenal of tax returns and depositions piled high on Marcia’s most recent acquisition, a hand-crafted beech wood deck table. It had been designed by pygmies and at six feet four he was forced to play contortionist every time he squeezed onto the bench.
At least he loved his work, though at times he wondered why. In the course of an average week Les McKee might experience enough greed and duplicity to fuel a third world coup. Broken and battered clients drifted in and out of his Park Place office in a sad parade that never seemed to end.
At a recent Super Bowl party, with his city in a frenzy, Les had pleaded with Byron to at least consider counseling. He could still see the disgust in the pit of his black, steely eyes, staring back at Les with utter incredulity. “Budem zdorovy,” was all he said as he tipped back his head, finished off his drink and walked away.
Cheating lovers were commonplace for Les. However, in the case of Beverly and Byron’s marriage it was not another woman, but the intoxicating power of an online world gone mad. Aware of the irony he focused on his tablet, chalk-full Digitron software, as his query returned, citing a dozen out-of-cases on the issue of debunking a prenuptial.
A strange, distant hissing made him stop. He looked out onto the field beyond his deck but couldn’t find the source. The hissing burst out again, this time more abruptly, then rumbled low like steam. He turned his head up sharply, shielding his eyes from the sun's glare. The mammoth object passing overhead was so close it startled him at first—a hot air balloon, descending gracefully toward the bright green field below. Its giant torch fired on and off as it gently nudged its way toward earth.
“Marcia, check this out.” When she didn’t answer he reached for his jacket, fumbled for his cell phone and toggled it to video. By the time he’d framed his subject the huge yellow sphere had drifted past him and dropped almost even with his deck, less than a quarter mile out. Its gondola dipped below the tree line as he started to record. He could faintly hear their voices.
While directing his camera-phone with two hands, his eye caught another splash of yellow moving slowly to his left. A sports car crept toward him down the narrow service road that wound past his house. He could see it was a newer anniversary Corvette so he stopped recording and zoomed in on it for a still shot. It seemed to glow even brighter than the quarry it was tracking.
Turning back to the horizon he framed the balloonists, toggled to wide-angle, and snapped two more stills as they passed directly in front of Mount Rainier. The pilot was orchestrating a skillful descent toward their apparent landing site in the next field over. The tops of a poplar grove appeared in his frame. He toggled back to video and began to record again.
Their target was more than 500 acres of lawns-to-be, fertilized and harvested year-round. The landscapers would soon descend, roll up their crop, and cart it off to the far-flung outposts of King County's suburban sprawl.
The hot air balloons had become a fixture of the Eastside skyline, home to Seattle’s high-tech corridor and luxury hybrids. But he’d never seen one come this close. He kept filming as one of the passengers drew a phone to his ear. He zoomed in all the way just as one of them lost his balance and grabbed for the wicker railing. They’d clipped the top of a poplar tree.
Without warning a horrific flash, followed by an explosion, engulfed them in a cloud of fire. Time stood still as the fireball filled his frame and an abrupt concussion of heated air rushed past. He kept his camera steady as the raging ball of black and orange billowed skyward, then disappeared. Scorched debris fanned out like fireworks. He gaped in disbelief as the reverberation of the sickening blast echoed down the valley. The orphaned balloon, its gondola shorn free, floated and bobbed with its cables dangling helplessly.
He stopped recording. Clouds of smoke rose from a tall patch of dying weeds near the base of the trees. He could see their bodies lying motionless in the inferno of burning fuel and dry grass. God help them, he thought. The top of the tree they’d clipped was wrapped in flames. Nausea gripped him, then panic. The chase car had disappeared through the bordering grove of poplars. He looked at his phone and dialed 911.
“What was that?” exclaimed Marcia, running onto the deck. Confusion and fright spread across her delicate features.
“A hot-air balloon. They hit the treetops and exploded,” he said pointing toward the crash site, his phone clamped to his ear. He looked over at her and thought he could see his own horror mirrored in her pale face. “Don’t let Bree out here,” he called to her.
The dispatcher finally answered, “This is 911 Police, Fire and Medical. What are you reporting?”
“She’s in the van,” said Marcia. “Didn’t you hear me? We need to leave.”
“I’ve got 911.” He tapped his lips to let her know he couldn’t talk.
“Sir?” The dispatcher seemed impatient. “What are you reporting?”
“I’m outside my house, about a mile east of Kirkland. A hot-air balloon was about to land on the turf farm by the slough when they hit a tree and exploded. Six men on board.”
He watched as Marcia stepped to the rail for a closer look and heard her gasp as even more color drained from her dusky complexion. Her face looked ghostly against her chestnut hair.
“Are there survivors, sir? Can you get to them?”
“Not really. The hill running down from here is steep thicket and there’s a grass fire where they crashed. They need firefighters and medics. You can’t miss the smoke.”
“Sir, what is your address?”
“One thirty-five seventy-two Willows Road.”
Breanna emerged from the kitchen.
“Hold it, sweetie,” he ordered.
“Pardon me?” the dispatcher asked.
“Sorry. My daughter—”
“Please hold, sir.” She didn’t wait for him to answer.
“Bree, come here,” he said. Carefree as ever, she slid into his arms as he walked her back inside, waiting for the dispatcher to return. She took notice of the smoke and turned a worried face to her parents.
“Bree, honey?” said Marcia, as she closed the sliding door to bar her daughter from the deck. “Get back in the van. We can’t be late for your recital.”
“Sir?” The dispatcher returned.