by Lisa Stowe
That stupid bus driver. He knew he should have insisted on driving.
Ethan paused. Something that felt large edged into his memory. Trees falling. Earth shifting. Val hadn’t been at fault. An earthquake. The terror at not being able to do anything, at not being in control as the whole mountain seemed to slide away.
He forcibly shut down the panic.
“Mr. Reynolds?”
“Yeah?” Ethan tried to identify the male voice as he shifted the beam of the headlamp around.
“Amy’s dead.”
The light found Spike, face pale.
“Make sure. See if you can find a pulse.” Ethan forced calmness into his voice.
“There’s a huge piece of metal sticking out of her chest,” Spike said, swinging his flashlight around. “Don’t think there’s going to be a pulse.” His voice broke on the last word, emotion taking over his attempt at sounding in control.
Someone broke into wild sobs. Someone else screamed. There was a frantic upheaval of suddenly panicked students and the bus rocked.
“Freeze!” Ethan shouted.
The struggle to get out of the bus slowed but the light from Ethan’s headlamp illuminated faces white with shock, wet with tears, streaked with blood.
“Listen carefully. I need all of you to calm down so we can get out of here. Find your gear. Find your headlamps or flashlights. Let’s get some light going so we can see where we’re at.”
Rowan spoke up from somewhere near the back of the bus. “But Amy-”
“There’s nothing we can do for Amy,” Ethan said, struggling to shut down emotion. “Right now we focus on the injured. Check the person next to you. See if you sense an opening or way out. I know you’re all scared, but focus on the immediate. Focus, evaluate, act.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Spike said. “You’ve drummed that into our heads.”
Ethan met Spike’s eyes in the yellow light and nodded his head slightly. He’d heard the tremor in the guy’s voice. Spike might be an asshole most of the time, but right now he was taking the right note, attempting to sound normal, to control his fear. Ethan had to honor that even if it surprised him.
The bus was on its side and cocked at an angle. As kids started moving around, Ethan felt it shift slightly again. He turned his light upward at the emergency exit. It was going to be damn hard to get up there and open it, let alone get people out. But then he heard the sound of boots on broken glass.
“Front windshield is gone,” Zack said. “I think we can get out that way.”
Ethan shifted in that direction, even as he saw Zack’s headlamp exposing the jagged edges of the window.
“Val’s gone, too,” Zack continued, and even in the low light, fear filled his hazel eyes. “Maybe we should stay in here until daylight.”
“We can’t evaluate the injured here,” Ethan said. “And we need more secure shelter. We don’t know how the bus is situated and we don’t know if there will be aftershocks.”
He worked his way forward as more beams of light came on, illuminating the remains of the bus. Kids started talking, some crying, someone gagging.
“I still don’t have cell service,” Payton said, with distinct rising panic in her voice. “I can’t even call 911!”
Ethan spoke over his shoulder. “Payton, don’t worry about the phone. Find Jennifer. She didn’t answer role call.”
Payton’s eyes were wide as she looked back at him. There was blood at her temple, and her dark hair was matted with it on one side. “I don’t have a flashlight.”
“Why are we not surprised?” Spike said.
Ethan pulled himself up and over the twisted remains of a seat. “Use the light from your cell.”
At the edge of the window, Ethan put a hand on Spike’s arm. The young man had been about to climb through. Ethan understood the overwhelming desire to get out, but he shook his head as Spike’s pale blue eyes locked on him.
“Evaluate, Spike. Evaluate.” Ethan aimed the headlamp outside. “Won’t do you any good to step off a cliff right now.”
Their lights exposed the immediate surroundings. A forest turned into a slash pile. Trees down, crisscrossing each other like a giant’s game of pickup sticks. Boulders caught in huge root balls, tossed as if pebbles. The earth torn, ravaged. Mist thickening into rain. But they weren’t on a cliff. The road had slid away and taken the bus with it. They were about a hundred feet down from where the road had been. And luckily for them, the landslide had piled up against leaning trees, slowing the downhill movement of the bus.
“Aftershocks?” Zack asked from behind them.
“Most definitely,” Ethan answered. He wasn’t paying close attention though. His light reflected off something.
“I still say we’d be safer staying here in the bus until help arrives,” Zack continued. “Aftershocks will bring down more trees and there’s no place out there to get away from them.”
“I wouldn’t count on help,” Ethan said. “We don’t know how bad the quake was. Or how long it’s going to take people to remember a school bus that went out on a field trip. And the bus isn’t stable. Like I said, we can’t assess injuries or even find space to get kids comfortable for the night in here.”
“Our parents will remember,” Zack said, almost defiantly. “They’ll know where we went. They’ll be looking for us.”
“I’m sure they will.” Ethan hoped he sounded reassuring but his attention was caught by something in the trees a few yards away. A reflection from his light. Like eyes. Not moving though. He reached for his pack. “But if this quake wasn’t localized here, and was this bad down below, it’s going to take a while for help to get here, if they even can.”
“What are you talking about?” Zack asked.
“Think of the bridges between here and Monroe, just to start with.” Ethan opened a zipper. “Whitewater river you can’t just wade across. Then there’s Highway 2. Two-lane route that’s going to be clogged with panicked drivers and wrecked cars. It might take days for anyone to get out here. You want to sit in this bus until then?”
Zack was silent a moment, his face white and eyes wide with shock. “But…our parents…”
Ethan put a hand on his shoulder. “One step at a time, Zack. Focus on what’s in front of us, what we need right now.” He moved to the shattered window.
“What are you doing?” Zack’s voice was shaky.
“I see something,” Ethan said, working his way out of the window opening. “Might be Val.”
“Should I go with you?”
Zack sounded like he hoped the answer was no, but Ethan realized he needed a job that made him feel in control before he slipped further into shock.
“No. I need you and Spike to help everyone out of the bus and calm them down. Find a place to gather. Alongside the bus if it seems stable enough. Set up a camp for the night. See who has space blankets and first aid equipment.”
“Got it,” Zack said, and now relief crept into his voice.
There was something about giving a traumatized person a task to concentrate on, to feel responsible for, that was vital in emergencies. Ethan had learned that a long time ago. He just never thought he’d need to worry about it again, and especially not with his students.
He stumbled on the rough ground and grimaced as his bruised body complained. He leaned his pack against the side of the bus and slipped his hand into the small pocket on the side. The cold feel of metal was reassuring and his hand slipped along the too-familiar shape of the gun butt. Pulling the Walther out, he held it tight against his thigh, barrel down, finger automatically slipping to the edge of the trigger guard even as his thumb flipped the safety.
There was something about those eyes. The light from his headlamp made them almost glint red.
Could be blood, Ethan thought as he inched over the rough ground. If Val had been ejected out that front window she’d be pretty smashed up. Matter of fact, the way those eyes didn’t move, she was probably dead.
He did
n’t want the kids seeing that.
But when he got to the spot where he’d seen the reflection there was nothing there. He moved the light around. If Val had been ejected she wouldn’t have been thrown too far. Maybe she was in shock. Had wandered off.
“Val!” he called out, and then held his breath, listening for the faintest of sounds. Heard nothing but the rain.
The kids were his priority right now. He had to get them set up and warm before they started going even deeper into shock. He had to assess injuries and figure out a way to get them all down the mountain in the morning.
He walked a short perimeter though, stumbling over the rough ground as he shown the light in a wide circle. No sign of the bus driver. Not even blood. No sign of whatever it was that had seemed like eyes glowing in the dark.
Back at the bus, Spike and Zack had managed to get most of the kids out. Rowan tied the corner of a tarp around the bus axle by the light of her headlamp as Payton held a corner of the tarp. When Ethan got closer, Spike came through the gap where the windshield had been.
“Found Jennifer,” he said. “She was out cold but seems okay. We can’t move her though. She’s wedged under one of the seats.”
“Alright,” Ethan said, putting a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “You and Zack get started on freeing her. I’m going to do a quick triage on injuries then come help. You’re doing great.”
He opened the main pocket in his pack and pulled out heavy work gloves, slipping the gun back inside at the same time.
“Man, is there anything you don’t have?”
Ethan thought for a second that Spike had seen the gun, but the seventeen year old nudged the gloves. “I think we’ll find out in the next few days,” he said. And then instantly regretted his honesty. “We’ll be okay though.”
Spike stopped. “Look man, we’re not a bunch of idiots. Don’t lie to us. That’ll be worse.”
“You’re right,” Ethan said. “Sorry.”
“It’s cool,” Spike said.
But before Ethan could warm to the kid, or start thinking maybe he’d misjudged him in school, Spike continued.
“Don’t treat us like kids and we’ll try not to treat you like an asshole teacher.”
Ethan shouldered past him, resisting the urge to explain, explicitly, just what kind of asshole he could be. He also swallowed down the impulse to shove the kid up against something and get in his face. He recognized reaction settling in, and knew the signs. Some people collapsed in the face of fear. He responded the opposite, as if punching something straightened out the bigger picture. The past two years he’d channeled that into pushing himself physically, to abate tension, ease rage. His parents would have been disappointed in his methods.
At the uphill side of the bus, he reached for the cord Rowan was trying to grab and tugged it down to her.
“I thought the slide might be too steep to set up tents,” she said. “Or should we try to get up to the top?”
“For right now, let’s use the bus and the tarps. The ground looks pretty stable and most of the trees around us are down. If an aftershock hits, we’re in an open space. If the bus slides it will take the tarps but not us. Plus I don’t want to try to get injured kids up that slope in the dark.” Ethan tested the rope. “Tie it so the tarp makes something like a lean-to,” he told her. “Something we can get behind. Use rocks for weights. Then get some kids to help you collect branches. Stack them over the tarp, along the sides, and layer them on the ground underneath. Cedar will work best.”
“I can help Rowan.” Nathaniel Salvatore, an angular, bony seventeen year-old who was proudly and openly gay, came forward. “What are the branches for?”
“Insulation and padding,” Rowan said.
“People in shock need warmth. So work as fast as you can.” Ethan raised his voice so everyone could hear him. “I want all of you to get a granola bar or protein bar out of your packs and eat it. Something with sugar. Trail mix if you have it. Drink some water. Share with those who didn’t listen in class. Don’t eat more than one though. We’re going to have to hike out in the morning and once we hit the highway we don’t know what shape we’re going to find things in. So as of now we’re on rations. Got it?”
The kids looked back at him, pale and scared, in the wavering light of flashlight and headlamp beams filtered by the light rain.
“Take responsibility for each other. Once the shelter is ready get inside and wrap up warm. Use your space blankets, any cold weather gear you packed. Take inventory of injuries and then report to me. Use the buddy system. A couple of you come help me. And shut off any headlamps you don’t need. Conserve batteries.”
“Can we start a fire?” Lucy Hsu was a tiny Asian girl of fifteen, the youngest in the class. She’d been bumped ahead in grades and was overwhelmingly shy.
“Good idea,” Ethan answered. “Just not under the tarp.”
“What are you going to do about Amy?” Michael asked. “Leave her in there to rot? You’re responsible for her death, forcing us all out here.”
Ethan pushed up against the kid who glanced side to side as if looking for an escape route. But there was obviously nowhere to run except dark woods.
“You go ahead with the asshole theme.” Ethan let the icy control he’d once been known for frost over his words. “And we’ll see where it gets you. We need to be safe and warm and treat those who are alive. We don’t have time for your shit.”
There was fear in the young man’s eyes, but he tried to swagger, running a hand over the dark stubble on his head. And then he scowled and pushed away from Ethan. “Back off and don’t touch me.”
Ethan let him leave but knew he was going to have to deal with Michael soon. The kid’s insecurity and belligerence was a bad combination, especially now, and he couldn’t let that endanger everyone. “Someone come help me with Jennifer.”
Nathaniel and Paul Larsen, an acne-scarred seventeen year old, joined him and they went back into the bus where Zack and Spike worked on the mangled seat pinning Jennifer. Ethan let the headlamp play over the blond-haired girl. He saw tracks of tears in the dirt on her face, saw the fear in her eyes. A small amount of blood was on the seat behind her but it was drying, not fresh.
“Whacked your head pretty good, huh?” he said, squatting down and ignoring the pain in his leg.
“Am I going to burn?” she asked, tears starting a fresh journey down her cheeks.
“Burn?” Ethan asked, confused. “Where’d that come from?”
“You know, when they have the wrecked vehicles,” she said. “There’s always someone who gets trapped and the others can’t get them free before the leaking gas explodes.”
Ethan laughed. He didn’t mean to, but the sound escaped anyway. Thankfully it seemed to lessen her anxiety. “You’re not going to burn. Take a deep breath. Do you smell any gas?”
Jennifer breathed in. “No.”
“Besides, idiot,” Spike said. “The bus is diesel. It’s not as flammable as gasoline. Takes longer to ignite.”
Ethan started to castigate Spike for calling the girl an idiot, but then realized what was going on when he saw Jennifer manage a trembling smile. Spike was talking like he always did to the others in class. Slightly condescending, slightly aggressive. Now Ethan saw that the normal tone was doing more than any of his reassurances.
“Okay, let’s get you out of here,” he said. And then couldn’t help it. “Before the bus explodes.”
They all laughed, more than the lame joke warranted. But their tension eased and the tears dried up in Jennifer’s green eyes.
With the muscles of teenage boys to help, Ethan was able to peel back the wreckage. It took a good twenty sweaty minutes to free Jennifer. Once she was loose though, a quick assessment showed that her worst injury was the small cut and bump on the side of her head. Ethan told Zack to take her on as his buddy. He explained what symptoms to look for in case her head injury was worse than it appeared to be.
And was thankful when Zack simp
ly met his eyes, agreed, and didn’t ask what they’d do if the injury was bad.
Since the reality was there was nothing they could do.
14
Anya sank onto a large downed tree, breathing heavily. The rain-saturated moss leached dampness into her jeans, but it made little difference to her soaked clothes. Bird sat next to her, close enough she felt the fine trembling in his body. She placed a hand lightly on his head, grateful for his warmth.
She had to get to her cabin soon. Get dry. Get a fire going. Take stock of what she had left. If there was a cabin left. But she had to stop to catch her breath and ease the burning in her side from running. She was wasting energy and it wasn’t like she could escape the ruined world around her. She propped the Henry rifle against the log, within reach, then dropped the backpack and groaned in relief. She rolled her head and rotated her shoulders, trying to ease the ache of sore muscles, of her bruised body.
The woods were silent, in a way that spoke of trauma. No birds sang. No wind whispered through ferns, salal, tree branches. Just her breathing, the sound of life. She swiped chilly sweat off her forehead and then wiped her shaking hand down the front of her plaid shirt. Not that it did any good. The shirt was too damp.
There were so many trees down. So many old friends who would never again provide her with shelter, back rests, shade in the summer. Fir, cedar, alder, yew. There was too much light in the woods. Before today the forest would have been shadowed, dark shades of greens only occasionally lit by stray light that fell through branches. This temperate rainforest was heavy with thick underbrush, moss that grew like carpets and hung like curtains, and trees that held hands, leaned together, supported each other in an intricately entwined knot-work of bark, needles, leaves, and lichen.
But now the woods had been weakened as if some giant’s hand had shaken them. When one tree had gone, it had taken its friends, like a person who trips, grabs someone to regain balance, and ends up taking them down, too. So many trees had lost the battle that there were huge holes to the sky. Anya felt exposed, raw, and vulnerable under the unfamiliar openness.
