The Bee Emissary Chapter 10

I arrived at Bay Port Mall, with the surrounding streets filled with abandoned vehicles.

Chapter 10:

I arrived at Bay Port Mall, with the surrounding streets filled with abandoned vehicles. Stuck, I left my car and walked the ten blocks to the emergency shelter with my phone’s flashlight held in one hand, while my other hand pressed a cloth to my nose and mouth. My stinging and watery eyes saw others, but we only exchanged worried glances.

Black and gray ash covered the streets and sidewalks, with some becoming airborne with each of my steps. Going past houses, I saw faint candlelight or battery-powered lanterns through heavily draped windows. A quiet embraced the usually busy streets, hinting at the possible grief at the end of the journey.

The Resch Center teamed with people and rescue workers. Most sat where they could, stunned, weeping. Aid workers like bees in a hive moved from person to person, giving what comfort they could. My heart pounded in time with the murmur of concentrated heartache. My brain refused to accept what my eyes saw. Untethered, I staggered through the crowd, trying to shake my disorientation, until I spotted an exhausted firefighter sitting on a stool, her head bowed, possibly trying to marshal what little energy she had left.

I worked up my courage. “Sorry.” She looked up. “I’m trying to locate my grandpa. Is there a person who can help me?” Her exhaustion seemed to mirror my own.

The firefighter let out a sigh, but gave me a look of understanding. “If you don’t mind waiting in line, a large tent with a well-marked entrance is in the parking lot. Go to the bathroom before you get in line and bring that water and chips. You’re going to be there awhile.”

Returning outside, my exhaustion and stress made everything feel surreal. I found the line, which crawled forward. My watch said it was 8 AM. I held the cloth to my mouth and nose; fortunately, I had washed it clean before leaving the Resch. The air remained smoky, partially obscuring the morning sun. The line was quiet, with people either tired or in shock. Individuals left the tent stone-faced or sobbing. Children clung to their parents’ hands, unable to comprehend the unfolding tragedy. By noon, I had nearly reached the entrance. My water was gone. I shared some of my chips with those around me, continuing to hold a bag filled only with crumbs because I didn’t want to litter.

Once inside, I headed for the sign naming the town where Grandpa lived. The tent was huge, feeling like an indoor football field. Halogen lights illuminated the interior so brightly that it felt like a sporting event—the hum of conversations blended with the hum of the power generators. I heard the occasional whispered prayer to find loved ones.

I stood alone by the sign for Jacksonport. A woman appearing to be in her 60s sat at the table, while I stood quietly until she acknowledged me. Looking up from her computer screen, she set down her can of soda. Her glasses, attached to a neck strap, dangled in front of her. The denim-blue rims of her glasses contrasted nicely with her short, cropped, white hair. She tried to be pleasant despite her apparent stress and fatigue.

“Hi, young man. How can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Robbie Apoidea. I’m trying to get information about my grandpa, Bob Apoidea. He lived on Cherry Lane between Jacksonport and Baileys Harbor.”

“Did he have a Jacksonport mailing address?”

I nodded.

The woman looked down, then up again. “I know that name. He did some work for me at my place years ago. A real, good carpenter, as I recall.”

She took a quick sip of her soda and seemed to gauge my reaction.

I smiled while wondering how many conversations she had like this today.

She cleared her throat. “Let me see.” Fumbling for a minute to put on her glasses, the lady peered at the screen of her laptop and looked up at me again. Her eyes and a sigh conveyed the message before she spoke.

“Son, I don’t know how to tell you this. No one north of Valmy has registered at any shelter since the fire began. I mean, that can change. But we don’t know what happened to all those people yet. Sorry, but that includes your grandpa.”

My knees felt weak. I looked for a chair, but saw none. My right hand, holding the empty bag of chips, clenched involuntarily, producing a crackling sound.

Hearing and seeing my anxiety, the woman continued, “That can change. We don’t know what happened to all those people yet … uhm … I’m so sorry, that includes your grandpa.” She looked sympathetic. “If you don’t mind, I can take your cell phone number and send any updates by text.”

A lone woman inquiring at a nearby table screamed, “No, no, no,” and sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t mean to, but I stared as she made her way to the exit.

As I stood motionless, the space shrank; the heat from the halogen lamps was unbearable. Suddenly, the din became ear-splitting, like the sound of angry bees. Sweating, heart racing, I squeaked, “Thank you.”

My return to the main hall of the Resch Center took forever on unsteady legs. Had I lost my grandpa, my best friend? I sat in a stairwell, leaning against a wall. My body went limp, and despite the people passing by, sleep arrived.

Six hours later, I woke up, my body aching. I found my way to the bathroom, then the food line, where I got a ham sandwich and a water bottle, and then back to the crowded main floor of the center. It was nighttime. I needed to know the latest news.

Updates scrolled on the Resch’s Jumbotron. No one north of Valmy had made it out so far. I grabbed my phone to check the internet. The news outlets had few facts, making way for speculation. Eyewitness accounts reported that the fire started across the northern Door Peninsula, south of Carlsville and halfway between Valmy and Jacksonport.

The intensity and speed of the fire blocked any escape by State Highways 42 and 57. Only those who had access to a watercraft had a chance of escaping. An aerial survey shows all woodland and wooden structures north of Carlsville and Valmy burned. A graphic on the Jumbotron displayed a map of northern Door County, showing where the conflagration likely started and how it quickly spread up the peninsula.

Profound numbness enveloped me. I could only think of texting my mom wherever she was.

Mom, there was a major fire in Northern Door County with total devastation. Grandpa is missing. It is unlikely he survived.

I didn’t expect a response.

It occurred to me I should volunteer at the shelter, but I was told they had too many volunteers and were well over capacity. There was nothing more to be done here. Dispirited, I left.

I returned to my car, still holding a cloth to my nose and mouth. Ash covered the sidewalks but did not appear to be falling like the night before. The vehicles around my car had vanished. No longer blocked in, I could head home. Clearing the windshields, I started the car and headed to the closest on-ramp off Oneida to head south on I-41.

The traffic was light. Although it was daylight, I needed headlights since the sky was full of haze, as if produced by Pittsburgh smokestacks. I pushed the recycled air button on the car’s dashboard to avoid more smoke particles reaching my lungs and bloodstream. I drove silently, forcing my eyes to stay open, and finally arrived in Madison. My only goal was to eat and then sleep.

I awoke five hours later to feel the full depths of the grief that had lain dormant on my return drive. I sat on the edge of my bed, so alone. It was 4 PM. I checked my phone for updates on the fire and its casualties. Officials confirmed thousands were dead or missing. The fire cut off escapes for most. A few hundred left by launching themselves into Lake Michigan on boats, rafts, or anything that floated. The Coast Guard rescued those found stranded in the water, but there was no way of knowing how many drowned.

Most on the Green Bay side of the peninsula could not escape far or fast enough. Smoke inhalation or the intense fire burning off the air’s oxygen killed some people before they could launch their vessels.

The fire destroyed most structures. It scorched the cream-brick Eagle Bluff Lighthouse in Peninsula State Park. Shells of stone or metal structures stood throughout the northern Door, but there were no signs of life — human or animal. The fire had reached Chambers Island off Fish Creek. Death’s Door separated Washington Island from the tip of Door County, but the island remained unscathed. I realized the grim irony that the fire spared people on the other side of Death’s Door.

The current tragedy occurred 158 years, almost to the day after the Peshtigo fire on October 5, 1871. Until now, it was the deadliest wildfire disaster in the United States, with 1200 to 2400 presumed dead and at least 3,000 homeless. They estimated property loss at 7 million, or 176 million, in today’s dollars.

Newscasters estimated losses experienced in the current tragedy, in terms of life and property, will be 100 times greater than the Peshtigo fire.

I rose from my bed, moving slowly, unsteadily. I ate, but tasted nothing, then staggered back to bed.