THREE YEARS AGO
The
accident scene is brutal.
Rescue
workers move quickly as they tend to the injured and search for the dead. Uniforms blur as paramedics speed from one
victim to the next until it is impossible to identify one company from another.
Departments from all over central West
Virginia respond to the alarm, but once EMT and firefighters disembark,
partisanship is forgotten in the race to salvage what’s left.
There
isn't much.
Smoke
hangs over the crash site, mixing with the morning fog and making visibility
difficult. Rubber boots slap the wet
pavement as firefighters shift their focus from one hot spot to another. Pumper trucks wash away most of the gasoline,
but not all the broken fuel tanks are empty, and sparks sputter from the wreckage
blocking both sides of I-64. Hoses
tangle as each group changes aim to anticipate the next flare-up.
Body
bags litter the pavement. A state
trooper with specks of vomit on his gray uniform yells into his radio, telling
his dispatcher the number again. The
dispatcher radios back for another confirmation; there aren't that many body
bags in the entire county. The trooper
replies in language that would earn him a reprimand from his Lieutenant, if his
Lieutenant weren’t too busy puking in the medial strip.
More
EMT and paramedics arrive on foot, lugging equipment from ambulances parked a
mile away. The first teams on scene
used the westbound lanes to reach the carnage on the eastbound side, but the
first bus explosion scatters smoldering shrapnel across both sides of the road,
making access impossible for anything on wheels larger than a gurney.
The
continuing explosions complicate an already difficult rescue. The fog prevents the evacuation helicopters
from landing safely, but several pilots decide to risk it after hearing the
initial radio reports. The first pilot
to try has the bad luck to make his attempt as Bus Four erupts and the
resulting fireball reaches up and engulfs both vehicles. More debris rains down, but the majority
pays it no heed.
The
dead are beyond caring, and the living are too busy trying to stay that way.
A
senior EMT, who served as an Army medic in Vietnam, lies twitching on the
pavement. There isn’t a mark on him
that anyone can see, but at day's end, he'll make the victim list. Before today, he held little patience for
his fellow vets and their claims of post-traumatic stress disorder. He saw his share of shit in country, but he
left it there when he came home, along with his M-16, his illegitimate daughter
and the body of a Lieutenant he helped frag one night on patrol. Nothing about his two tours ever bothers him
once he sets foot on American soil and he never equates anything he sees
stateside with anything he saw during those twenty-four months.
Until
today.
Many
motorists abandon their cars and follow the emergency personnel, like ducklings
lining up behind their mothers. As the
conga line snakes through wrecks, debris and bodies, overtaxed rescue crews
cull healthy hands from the parade.
They’re grateful for the help; they don’t care where it comes from. By the time the mother duck reaches her
destination, she’s unaware she ever had anyone behind her.
A
duckling named Aaron Metzger wears a white lab coat, which makes him a
commodity to the professionals, who don’t know he’s only a pharmacy
assistant. He didn’t plan on helping;
he only wanted to know how far the line of cars went and how late he’d be
getting behind the counter at Wal-Mart.
He joins the progression as it passes his car, and before he jogs twenty
paces, a paramedic with a foul mouth and even fouler temper pulls him out of
line.
Immediately,
he’s holding a mangled arm fucking
still while the paramedic gets a fucking
splint on the fucking
thing. The pharmacy assistant puts his
hands where the paramedic tells him to and turns his head away from the
arterial spray jetting from the limb.
Now the paramedic needs a fucking tourniquet, and Metzger loses his
“fucking” belt to the cause.
The
profanity is contagious.
A
uniformed woman shoves him aside and takes over the delicate task of holding
the bleeding arm fucking still. He
reaches around her to retrieve his belt but pulls his hand back quickly when
the paramedics’ look conveys their opinion that he should consider his size 32,
faux-leather, reversible belt a casualty of the disaster and back off. He takes the unspoken advice literally and
moves away. It’s not easy. He has to avoid fiery rubble while keeping
his pants from falling off his ass.
It’s
difficult to ignore the carnage while trying not to step in it, but the breeze
threatening to invade his backside distracts him. He picks his way back up the highway as the sound of helicopter
rotors throb against his eardrums. He
stops to look up. Nothing is visible
through the heavy mixture of fog and smoke.
He tightens his grip on his waistband and quickens his pace.
Red
and blue strobe lights permeate the haze and Metzger homes in on them. Helicopter pilots might not think twice
about setting down on his head, but he figures they’ll avoid landing on top of
an ambulance. He’ll be safe there.
The
rear doors of the ambulance stand open.
Two paramedics flank a young man seated on the rear deck. The man seems out of place. He appears uninjured and, aside from a few
dime-sized blood spatters on his jacket and similar smudges on his cheeks,
untouched by the insanity surrounding him.
Metzger approaches the trio slowly so not to startle them.
The
paramedics argue about their patient.
Points and counterpoints fly past the young man’s nose without any
response from the subject of the disagreement.
As Metzger gets closer, he notices the young man’s glazed stare. His pupils appear fixed and dilated, and if
not for the subtle rise and fall of the man’s chest, the pharmacy assistant
would have thought him dead.
Until
he starts screaming.
Metzger
can’t believe such a high-pitched sound can come from a man. The paramedics rear back in shock. The teenager perched on the rear deck of
their ambulance is definitely in need of some serious help, but neither of them
seem prepared, or able, to give it. The
young man emits another high C, and Metzger stumbles back, covering his ears.
His
movement draws the attention of the paramedics, who also misinterpret his lab
coat. They each grab one of his sleeves
and reel him in. They shout
instructions over the din of their patient’s howling and before Metzger can
correct their mistake, they escape.
At
least this patient isn't bleeding.
Metzger
tries to calm him down. He exhausts a
limited repertoire of exhortations, platitudes and curses, but because the
young man isn’t even stopping to breathe, there’s no way he can hear anything
coming from outside his own head.
Metzger considers sneaking off.
He looks around. There are
plenty of people in the vicinity, but no one is paying any attention to him or
the patient.
It’s
the perfect opportunity.
As
suddenly as the screaming began, it stops, and he turns back to face the
patient. Curiosity overcomes his
thoughts of flight. He takes a step
toward the patient, whose lips are moving.
“Help
us,” the patient says, his voice pitched too high for the body it comes
from. “Please, help us.”
Pronoun
problems, Metzger thinks. He peeks over
the patient’s shoulder, just in case there’s another casualty already loaded in
the wagon. There isn’t. Metzger moves closer, willing to help
someone who isn’t trying to shatter his eardrums.
The
next thing from the patient’s mouth threatens to shatter his sanity.
He
recognizes the accent before he fully realizes what he’s hearing. Childhood memories wash over him. Black clothing and covered mirrors. Menorahs in December and yarmulkes every
weekend. He hasn’t practiced his faith
in years, but the memories are strong.
The
patient is speaking Yiddish.
Metzger
looks around again, but now he searches for someone else to bear witness to
this phenomenon, preferably somebody who heard the earlier screaming. There’s still plenty of activity around
them, but nobody’s interested in the patient’s verbal acrobatics.
Of
which there are plenty.
The
stream of Yiddish segues into something oriental. The pitch climbs an octave and the patient is speaking English
again, but in a female voice noticeably different from the one from before. Another breath . . .and English becomes
French; female becomes male. Genteel
pleas become coarse commands, peppered with four-letter words that would make a
drill sergeant blush.
And
through it all, the patient stares blankly at nothing.
It’s
insanity, Metzger decides. It’s smoke
inhalation, oxygen deprivation or just plain stress induced hallucination;
anything but what it appears to be.
People just don’t do this sort of thing. Except for comedians, people just don’t change voices and
languages like this.
“Is
it him?” the patient asks, interrupting the pharmacy assistant’s reverie. This is a new voice, one with a musical
quality, demanding his undivided attention.
“Is
what who?” Metzger replies, looking around.
He wants to answer. He needs to
answer correctly. At this moment,
nothing is as important to him as answering, but he doesn’t understand the
question.
“All
this,” the voice responds.
Finally,
the patient’s eyes appear to have someone looking through them. His head turns. He studies the scene and then focuses his gaze on Metzger. The voice is compelling, but the eyes . . .
The
eyes make him forget about Wal-Mart.
Nevertheless,
the question remains unanswered.
Metzger looks around. Every
second away from that gaze is agony, but he endures it because it’s required of
him. He studies every burning vehicle,
every body bag and every casualty, and then forms his reply. He knows it’s inadequate, but he hopes it’s
enough.
“I
think somebody wrecked,” he says, loathing his insufficient understanding. The owner of those eyes deserves a better answer.
To
his relief, the patient nods. “How the
hell could I forget? It always amazes
me how freaky my memory gets during one of these shifts. Besides, the war was over years ago. You wouldn’t think a one-armed mage could
cause this much trouble, but I’ve seen it happen.”
Metzger nods along with him, clueless to his meaning, but satisfied that his answer sufficed. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he waits, hoping the patient will ask him for something else, something he can do better.
“Do
me a favor,” the patient asks. Metzger
is ready to open a vein.
“Nothing
that drastic please,” he continues. “I
think there’s been enough bloodshed for one day. Just check my pockets and see if I’m carrying a wallet. I’d do it myself, but it’s going to be a
while before I’m up to it.”
He
reaches out and pats the patient down.
Normally he wouldn’t think of touching another man with such
familiarity, but he’s happy to help.
Too
happy, a part of him realizes, but he forces the thought away and continues
searching.
“I’ve
always hated moving,” the patient says, oblivious to Metzger’s intrusion. “Even back when I was a kid. First you pack, then you unpack, and no
matter how careful you are, you always wind up losing something.” He laughs.
“But I don’t think we lost anybody this time.”
“Were
you in a car by yourself?” Metzger asks.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt.”
“Pal,
I haven’t been by myself for so long I forget what it’s like, and as far as
getting hurt goes, I think I can find at least seven people who would disagree
with you.”
“So
you were with someone. I wondered where
all that blood came from. Were they
hurt very badly? Are they all right? Are they still here?”
“You
ask an awful lot of questions pal. You
find anything yet?”
“Not
yet, but I still have to check in back.
Could you lean forward a little?”
“If
I could lean forward, would I be letting you root around in my pants?”
The
gentle reproach stings. “Good
point. Sorry.”
“De
nada. Anyway, to answer your questions
in order: one of them was; no, but they’ll get better; and yes, I sincerely
hope so.”
The
patient’s answers don’t make the situation any clearer, but Metzger’s elated to
receive any response at all. More good
news -his search is successful. He
finds a tattered leather wallet in the patient’s hip pocket and pulls it out,
holding it up like a trophy.
The
patient smiles. “That’s great,” he
says. “Now see if there’s a driver’s
license or something in there.”
He
almost comments the patient seems too young to drive, but holds back. He might take such a statement as an insult,
and Metzger doesn’t want to be offensive.
Instead, he opens the wallet.
There’s
little inside, not nearly enough to account for the visible wear the calfskin
accumulated. He finds a school ID card
with a photograph that almost matches the patient’s face. The eyes are different; there’s no way a
picture can capture the hypnotic quality he sees. Whoever processed the photo didn’t even get the color right. The irises in the picture are blue, while the
irises facing him are a deep brown. The
laminated card and a five-dollar bill are the only contents of the wallet.
The
pharmacy assistant slides the ID card from its plastic sheath and holds it up,
hoping it’s enough. The brown eyes
pivot and a smile tugs at the corners of the patient’s mouth.
“Good-looking
kid,” the patient says. “Quite a bit
younger than our last host, but . . .any port in a storm. Nice to meet you, Alex Harrison.”
Metzger
starts to correct him, but remembers the name from the ID card. Alex Harrison. Was the patient introducing himself? Metzger prepares to offer his own name, but the patient’s eyes
travel away, and suddenly, introductions lose their importance.
Harrison
focuses on something else. At first,
the loss of the teenager’s attention panics Metzger, but even as he moves to
regain the notice he craves, he begins to realize it doesn’t matter
anymore. In fact, he can’t even
remember why he felt so compelled to please this patient, when was ready to
abandon him moments earlier. Unlike the
fog covering the accident site, the fog clouding his mind dissipates, leaving
him feeling more like himself, albeit confused.
A
fresh wave of medics arrives and one begins tending to Harrison. The EMT moves efficiently, apparently unhindered
by any sudden devotion or desire to please.
Harrison ignores the woman’s ministrations. Whatever diverted his attention away from Metzger continues to
hold his interest.
Metzger
tosses the wallet into the ambulance.
Someone will find it later and pass it on. He leans over for a final look at Alex Harrison, and sees the
young man’s eyes are closed and his lips are moving. What he hears brings another childhood memory.
Alex
Harrison is saying the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead.
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