The Ember Below

Maya's rental car crossed into Ashbrook on Main Street, tires crunching over asphalt split by decades of subterranean heat. She raised her camera. Through the viewfinder, sulfurous smoke rose through sidewalk fissures, creating ghostly veils that shifted with the wind.

The toxic air tasted metallic. Burnt fabric. Her sister's factory, three years gone.

Maya positioned herself behind the lens. The camera made distance. Safe distance. She filmed the abandoned storefronts, their windows broken or boarded, paint peeling like dead skin. Heat waves rose from the cracked pavement, warping the air until distant buildings shimmered like underwater mirages.

A figure materialized from the smoke.

Thomas Graves stood with feet apart, ready stance, like he'd never stopped being a firefighter. Seventy-eight years old, skin leather-tough from toxic exposure, burn scars visible on both hands. He watched Maya film for three long seconds before speaking.

"Turn around."

Maya lowered the camera. "I'm Maya Chen. I called ahead—"

"I know who you are." His left hand touched his watch, unconscious gesture. "And I'm telling you to leave."

"Let's get coverage first," Maya said. "Wide shot of your house, close-up on—"

"No."

The word fell like a door slamming. Thomas touched the burn scars on his left hand, then turned back toward the smoke. Three steps and he'd disappeared into the ghostly veils.

Maya fidgeted with her camera settings, adjusting focus that didn't need adjusting. Her finger found the lens, traced its edge. The barrier between her and all this suffering.

Another figure emerged from the smoke, older woman, seventy-five maybe, moving through the toxic air like it was morning mist. She adjusted invisible reading glasses, habit from another life. Her hands organized the empty air, cataloging nothing.

"Eleanor Marsh," the woman said. "Former librarian."

"Maya Chen. Documentary filmmaker."

Eleanor's eyes held something maternal, something knowing. She touched the space where books should be, comfort gesture for phantom pages. "Some books should remain closed, specifically. Some stories aren't meant for telling."

"That's exactly the problem," Maya said. "The government abandoned you. Five people left to die slowly. That story needs—"

"To clarify," Eleanor interrupted, gentle but firm, "you don't understand what you're filming. Consider this carefully."

Before Maya could respond, a third figure appeared. Dr. Vincent Shore, sixty-eight, leather journal clutched in one hand, pen tapping rhythm against the cover. His smile was slight, appreciative, like he'd found an interesting specimen.

"Dr. Shore. USGS, retired." He extended his free hand. "Though I never really left, theoretically speaking."

Maya shook his hand, noted how his grip lingered half a second too long. She raised her camera. "Hold that thought. Let me get this framed."

"By all means." Vincent's smile widened. "Consider the implications. Unprecedented geological phenomena. Thermal anomalies that defy conventional classification. The government knows, of course. They've always known."

Maya filmed as he spoke, capturing the slight smile while he discussed suffering, the pen tapping its rhythm, the way his eyes brightened describing "unprecedented phenomena" like it was Christmas morning.

"Government excavation could save everyone," Vincent continued. "Extract the residents, study the fire, understand what's actually happening beneath the surface. Your documentary could force intervention. Make them act."

Thomas reappeared from the smoke, positioning himself between Vincent and Maya. His burned hand touched Eleanor's shoulder, brief contact, shared burden. They stood together, two people who'd guarded something for decades, watching the geologist manipulate the filmmaker.

"Vincent wants things exposed," Eleanor said, adjusting those invisible glasses. "But exposure isn't always salvation."

"Says the people dying of toxic exposure," Maya countered. She lowered her camera, looked at them directly. "You have maybe five years left. Maybe less. The government isn't coming to save you. But public pressure, media attention—"

"Hot spots," Thomas said, firefighter terminology cutting through her pitch. "Some fires you don't fight. You contain them. Let them burn."

Maya's finger found her camera lens again, traced its edge. The toxic air triggered more memories—her sister's voice on the phone, asking when Maya would visit, asking why she was always traveling, always filming other people's tragedies. Three days later, the factory fire. Maya five states away, camera trained on someone else's crisis.

"The ventilation shafts," Vincent said, tapping his pen faster. "You'll want footage at dusk. The thermal emissions are particularly dramatic. I can show you the optimal vantage points."

Eleanor and Thomas exchanged glances, sixty years of shared secrets passing between them in half a second. Thomas's hand went to his watch. Eleanor adjusted those phantom glasses.

"Be careful what you film," Eleanor said. "Some images can't be unseen."

Vincent's smile broadened, pen tapping celebration rhythm against his journal. "I'll meet you at the shafts. Six o'clock. Bring your best equipment. You'll want this footage for your exposé."

He disappeared into the smoke, leather journal already opening, pen scratching notes about the filmmaker who'd finally arrived to reveal everything.

Maya raised her camera, framed Thomas and Eleanor standing together on Main Street, smoke curling around them like protective veils. Through the viewfinder, she saw Thomas touch his burned hand one more time, Eleanor reach for books that no longer existed.

She pressed record.