Black Blizzard

by Kristin F. Johnson

The driver fought against the wind to push the door closed. He pounded a fist against it until it finally snapped shut. Tyler could feel his heart begin to race.

  “Someone hand me that duct tape,” the driver shouted. “Quick! Hand me the tape!”

  Ethan ran up with the tape, tearing off a long strip. The driver pressed it against the panel.

  “More!”

  Ethan pulled off another strip, and the driver plastered that one on too. They worked with a system, Ethan tearing the tape and the driver hastily attaching it to the panel as rapidly as they could.

  “That should hold it,” the driver finally exhaled, exhausted.

  “How much water do we have? Who has water left?” Mr. Dwyer asked, keeping his eyes on Kevin where he had curled up onto his seat.

  Three students, including Julia, rushed to the front of the bus with water bottles.

  Their coach grabbed Julia’s bottle first. “Kevin, we need to flush out your eyes. Here—cup your hands and I’ll pour some water.”

  Kevin squinted as he cupped his hands and Mr. Dwyer poured some water. Then Kevin splashed the water into his eyes to clear them. Mr. Dwyer refilled Kevin’s cupped hands several times.

  “That’s better,” Kevin said after a while. “It’s getting better.”

  The door was closed, but the damage was already done. Dust had floated inside, coating the air so it felt gritty and thicker than before.

  Tyler’s heart was still pounding and he was starting to have trouble catching his breath. He coughed, and then wheezed, grabbing at his chest. He knew this feeling. He last had it during gym when they played indoor hockey. Tyler had been running toward the goal and suddenly felt like his throat constricted. He’d had to use his inhaler that day. It took three puffs of the medicine to get his breathing under control. Struggling for breath was the worst feeling ever. He felt so helpless.

  This was the same feeling. The coughing. The wheezing. The constricted throat. An asthma attack was coming on.

  10

  “Can’t . . . breathe.” Tyler held his chest. He tried to inhale, but the air stopped, as though a valve on his throat had been shut and nothing was allowed through. The students were supposed to keep their faces covered, especially after what just happened to Kevin, but Tyler yanked his dress shirt away from his head and pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead.

  He worked his way up the aisle toward the seat where his backpack sat. He was wheezing badly now, grabbing the hard foam seat cushions to stay steady on his feet.

  “Tyler, are you okay?” Julia asked with wide eyes.

  Tyler shook his head but kept moving. In the dim light, everything was confusing. His eyes adjusted a little, but all the seats looked the same.

  The light inside the bus was now reddish as the dust and dirt moved through the area. The whole bus had a post-apocalyptic look to it.

  “What’s wrong with him?” a freshman girl asked. Her face looked distorted in the ruddy light. Tyler felt like he was in a freaky funhouse where the mirrors warped everything.

  “I think it’s his asthma,” Ethan said.

  Finally, Tyler reached his seat. He grabbed his backpack and hauled it up on the seat. He struggled to unzip the stupid thing and dug through the contents—phone, granola bar, speech notes—looking for the one thing that he needed.

  Then he remembered it was in a side pocket, but there were like a dozen side pockets. He squeezed the canvas outside of the pack until he hit something solid. There! He dragged the zipper around the curves of the pocket and felt inside. Got it!

  Tyler shook the inhaler and flipped off the top to remove the cap. Then he stuck it in his mouth, exhaled what little air was left in him, and pressed down. Whoosh. He inhaled deeply and held his breath to the count of ten.

  He exhaled and almost instantly felt relief. His throat opened. He could breathe. He coughed. He shook the inhaler again and took another puff. Whoosh. He inhaled deeply and counted to ten again.

  Even better.

  “Hey! Something’s wrong with Daniela!” someone shouted from the front of the bus, near where the door had blown open. “Someone help her!”

  Daniela’s breath was quickening. “I feel dizzy!” she wheezed. “I feel dizzy!”

  “I think she’s hyperventilating!” Sha’relle shouted. “Is she having an asthma attack too?”

  “No—wait!” said Ethan. “It looks more like she’s having a panic attack.”

  Mr. Dwyer was still helping Kevin, so Ethan came to Daniela’s side and grasped her shoulders. “You’re okay. Just breathe. You’re okay,” he said. “Does anyone have a paper bag?”

  Ethan breathed slowly with her while the others searched their belongings. The bus was dark, so everything happened in the shadows.

  Julia ran over with an empty lunch bag in her hand. “Here!”

  Ethan handed the bag to Daniela. “Here. Breathe into this—deep breaths.”

  The dust storm kept pelting the bus with debris. Ping. Ping. Ping.

  Daniela held the bag to her face and the bag expanded and contracted.

  “Good, good,” Ethan coached her until she calmed down. “Better now?”

  Daniela nodded. “Yeah,” she said, her voice muffled by the paper bag, which inflated and deflated with her breathing. “I’m okay.”

  Mr. Dwyer stood up from Kevin’s seat. “You’re doing great, guys. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  The ruddy sky still colored the light a reddish brown. Tyler squinted to check his watch. He’d lowered his sunglasses to protect his eyes again, but they were virtually impossible to see through with the sky this dark.

  It was 5:22 p.m. The sky kept shifting colors. Red, brown, black, red again. The team would have been home by now if it weren’t for the dust storm. Tyler and his dad would have been firing up the grill and cooking some burgers, getting ready to watch the game.

  “Keep your faces covered,” Ethan warned everyone. “The air in here is compromised.”

  11

  The eerie, fog-like dust hung in the air around the bus. Colors shifted every few minutes as pillows of dust washed over them.

  Julia slipped next to Tyler in his seat. She squeezed his hand and his heart did a one-eighty flip. She even interlaced their fingers. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t dreaming this. She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. The whole thing felt surreal.

  Tyler squeezed back to make sure he was really awake. Then he worried his hand might get sweaty. That would be gross. After a while, Tyler gently let go of her hand.

  Someone began to cry.

  “Are we going to die?” Daniela whispered.

  “Don’t be stupid. We’ll be fine,” Sha’relle shushed her.

  “No one’s going to die,” Ethan said, but his voice sounded shaky as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying.

  “I need to get out of here!” It was Daniela again. She bolted out of her seat and raced toward the back emergency exit. “I’m getting out!”

  “No,” Ethan said, following her. “Calm down. Take deep breaths. You’re okay, Daniela.” He took her hand and led her back to her seat, but stood in the aisle in between her and the emergency exit. Mr. Dwyer was now standing near the front entrance, so they didn’t have to worry about her trying that door.

  The wind outside howled more loudly than ever, continuing to rock the bus like waves against a ship. The storm continued to swirl along its path toward Phoenix and tossed debris against the side of the bus. The other students were still rustling with nervous energy. Someone was still crying. Ethan was so good at helping keep people calm, but what if too many people started panicking at once? Tyler felt he had to do something to help keep the tension in check. Then he had an idea.

  Tyler stood in the center of the aisle. Standing was supposed to help project the voice. He adjusted the shirt covering his face. He needed to keep using it as a protection against the dust, even though the covering muffled his voice. In order for his voice to be heard all the way to the back
of the bus, he’d need to speak up. Tyler cleared his throat. Having the first sentence memorized and ready to deliver was key to a successful speech.

  “There is a story of a rabbit’s foot that allowed anyone who possessed it to make three wishes.”

  The crying ceased and ended with a sniffle.

  The bus looked like a theater of silhouettes. The shadows appeared to look up at him. There was a trickle of noise as people quieted down and shifted in their seats.

  Sha’relle whispered, “It’s his story. His event.”

  “Shhhh,” Ethan hissed.

  Tyler straightened up. He was off to a good start, much better than during the competition. In competitions, the students always had microphones, but speaking with microphones made him nervous—especially when they made that awful feedback sound like Tyler’s microphone had earlier that day. The darkness helped keep Tyler’s fear of failure at bay, but right now his goal wasn’t to win an event. If he did a good job, maybe he could help people forget about the storm for a while.

  The details of the story poured out easily: how the rabbit’s foot wound up in an old woman’s hands, how she wished to have her dead husband back, how she wished to be young again.

  The bus was swaying in the wind and Tyler steadied himself by grasping the seatbacks. By the time he reached the end of the story, he was gesturing with his hands and hardly considering the storm outside.

  “And that is how Abigail’s Rabbit’s Foot taught her to be careful what she wished for.”

  The bus was silent for a few moments. Then someone clapped. The applause was coming from where Tyler thought Ethan was sitting, but pretty soon everyone else joined in. Tyler took a bow, even though people couldn’t really see him. He remembered what his dad said again: You appreciate things more if you have to earn them. And Tyler felt he had earned this applause. He had delivered a great speech to a captive audience, and suddenly the tournament results didn’t seem to matter as much. He enjoyed the feeling of triumph until the wind howled.

  The howling really did sound like a coyote, and it brought everyone back to the situation at hand. The bus creaked and rattled again.

  Thunk!

  Something big and heavy hit a side window and shattered the glass. Was it a bird? A rock? Tyler couldn’t tell. Voices shouted in the darkness.

  “Oh my god!” Daniela yelped. “Our window!”

  “Stay calm,” Sha’relle reminded her. “I need a sweater or something.” Footsteps stampeded to the front of the bus, then back again.

  Kevin handed his sweatshirt to José, who carried it over to the girls. “Thanks,” Sha’relle said quickly. She turned to Daniela. “Help me hold this in place. Someone get the tape!”

  “Here,” Mr. Dwyer said, handing Sha’relle the roll of duct tape as she pressed the sweatshirt against the window.

  Tyler rushed to the girls’ window and fought to hold one side of the sweatshirt down. A sleeve of the sweatshirt flapped up and smacked Tyler in the face. He pushed it down again with his free hand. Something sharp bit his hand. He jerked his hand away.

  José held the sweatshirt in place at the other end of the window. Sha’relle taped the fabric in place just like they’d done with the other window.

  More dust had blown in through the broken window. Now the air in the bus was even worse. Once the covering was in place, Tyler stepped away. He felt something wet on his hand—but it wasn’t raining.

  He sniffed his hand where he had felt the sting. Blood—he smelled blood.

  “I think I cut myself!” Tyler said. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

  “Don’t panic. We need to find some fabric to press down on it,” Mr. Dwyer instructed, looking through the seats.

  Julia hastily untied a decorative scarf she kept looped through the strap on her messenger bag. She rushed over and wound the scarf around his hand several times. “Press down where it’s bleeding,” Mr. Dwyer said again.

  Julia gripped Tyler’s hand and pressed the wound with him.

  “You’re going to be fine. You’ll be okay.” She kept repeating herself. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Tyler took slow, deep breaths, trying to stay calm so his asthma wouldn’t act up again.

  Breathebreathebreathe . . . breathe . . . breathe. . . . . . breathe . . . . . . . . . breathe.

  He prayed he wouldn’t have another asthma attack. What if the inhaler didn’t work next time?

  12

  White light began to filter through the dust cloud, which was starting to break apart. A thinner cloud remained, reminding Tyler of a thick fog. The cloud was passing on.

  After the dust broke up and seemed to continue moving toward Phoenix, the bus driver peeled the duct tape off the front door so everyone could get out.

  “Kevin, how are your eyes?” Mr. Dwyer coughed.

  “They’re better—thanks.” That was the most serious Tyler had ever seen Kevin.

  They stepped outside and Mr. Dwyer coughed some more. Tyler stepped toward him. “Mr. Dwyer . . . ?”

  The coach held up a hand. “I’m okay,” he said. “I just need a minute.” He bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

  The terrain was different after the storm. Sand dunes had formed where the wind lifted dust and rock off the ground. The grouping of cacti that had been bent over before stood up straighter, but they were partially buried in a foot of sand that had blown against them.

  The wheels of the bus were covered in sand too. They would need to be dug out whenever the bus was rescued. The sides of the bus had taken the worst beating. They were dimpled with tiny dents, as if they’d developed freckles like Tyler’s. A layer of sand and dirt covered the outside of the bus as if the team had gone joy riding in the muddy backwoods. But being stuck in that dust storm had been no joy ride.

  As the bus driver stepped down off of the bus, he was winded and sweating again. The air was still dry—and still full of dust and dirt particles. But the storm had actually lowered the temperature . . . so why was the bus driver still sweating so much? Tyler was glad he didn’t sweat quite that much or he’d have to keep an extra can of deodorant in his locker to get through the school day.

  The driver looked like he was having a hard time breathing now. He coughed and wheezed, falling to his knees as his face turned pale.

  “What’s wrong with him?” José asked.

  Mr. Dwyer rushed over to the driver. “I think it’s a heart attack.”

  “Oh my god!” Julia’s hands flew to cover her mouth.

  “Does anyone know CPR?” Mr. Dwyer asked. “I’m having trouble catching my breath.”

  The driver slumped all the way to the ground. He lay on his side, not moving.

  Tyler stared a moment, then shook his head as if waking up from a dream again. He and Ethan had attended a CPR class together last fall, after the firefighter had given his pull aside, stay alive talk.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I do. I know CPR, but I can’t do it with my hand like this.”

  “And because of your asthma attack,” Ethan said. “I can do it.” But he stood frozen in place, as if he’d completely forgotten what to do.

  “I can help,” Tyler suggested, remembering that the class’s instructor had encouraged people to work in teams. Ethan looked up at him gratefully. Tyler dropped to his knees across from Ethan so the driver lay in between them.

  “First,” Tyler reminded, “you have to check his breathing.”

  Ethan leaned down and turned his head so his ear was near the driver’s nose and mouth. Then Ethan waited a few seconds to see if he felt the guy breathing.

  “Do you feel any air?” Tyler asked.

  “No—he’s not breathing,” Ethan said. “I’m starting CPR.”

  “I’ll help count,” Tyler offered.

  They’d learned from their CPR class that they were supposed to do chest compressions until the person began breathing again.

  Tyler watched as Ethan felt for the breastbone in the middle of the driver�
�s chest. Ethan’s hands shook. He interlaced his fingers with the left hand on top of the right hand and the right hand palm down. Then he placed his hands so they covered two inches of the chest bone, the way they’d practice at the class.

  Ethan pressed in, doing the first compression. He pushed down hard with the heel of his right hand. Then he followed up with a second and a third compression—more than one per second. Tyler started singing a song quietly under his breath, which the instructor had said would help keep a tempo for the compressions. Ethan picked up on his cue and started humming along. The process looked a lot different on a real person than on the resuscitation doll. And the driver was a big guy.

  “You’re doing great!” Tyler said, and then kept count. “Five, six, seven, eight . . . ” Meanwhile, Mr. Dwyer said, “Sha’relle, see if the radio is working yet.”

  The driver had tried to radio for help right after the bus had broken down, but the radio hadn’t worked with the approaching storm. Maybe it would work now that the air had cleared.

  Sha’relle ran up the bus steps and grabbed the radio hand-piece. She pressed the button on the side. “Hello?”

  Static crackled in response.

  “Try another frequency,” Mr. Dwyer yelled.

  Sha’relle flipped the knob. Another channel opened up. “Is anyone there? We need help!”

  Tyler focused on counting for Ethan, who was still humming under his breath, while Sha’relle finally made contact with someone over the radio.

  “They’re coming! They’re sending an ambulance and another bus,” Sha’relle shouted, hanging up the radio and hopping down the steps. The other students cheered.

  Suddenly the driver moved. Ethan jumped back as the man coughed and gagged.

  “Turn him on his side,” Mr. Dwyer said, crouching near them.

  Tyler cradled the driver’s head while Ethan rolled him over. The driver threw up. His face was grayish and sweaty, but he was breathing. The man was alive.

  Julia looked at Ethan and Tyler. “You did it. That was amazing!”

  Ethan exhaled and glanced at Tyler. “Couldn’t have done it alone.”