by Mary Hogan
Even as the words leave his lips, I know he does not believe them. His shoulders slump as he exhales. He shifts his gaze away. He cannot look at me. I recoil in guilt. The slender portage railroad crossing, with its elegant central arch, is no match for millions of tons of water let loose from our massive lake. At best, it will only slow the destruction.
Your lake will one day be a murderer.
Eugene Eggar’s words pierce my soul. In one moment, I age into adulthood. No longer am I a frivolous girl. Never will I be again.
“The stone bridge.” He looks up. “It’s our only chance of crossing the rivers. Know of it?”
“No,” I say, desperate.
“It’s at the farthest end of town. Where the rivers meet.”
With no further explanation, he takes off. Mady leaps into action with Georgie on her heels. Behind us, the unearthly moaning deepens to the resonance of thunder. Thunder that does not stop. I hear it in my whole being. A horrid rumbling of earth and water and human anguish so ungodly it rises up from hell itself. Its discord is so profoundly desperate I know at that instant it will forever be the noise of my nightmares. My body is swallowed in its profane bellow. I am unable to hear anything else. The sound shakes the very ground beneath Georgie’s feet. Human screams impale the gray light. A baby wails. Mothers shriek. My heart clutches. A ghastly chill runs the length of my spine. How many souls are already dead?
Dear God, what have we done?
TIME, ODDLY, STANDS still. It’s as though the earth is spinning around me, but I am fixed in place. My body rises and falls with Georgie’s powerful locomotion, yet my mind dulls. I am hypnotized by the moss-green hue that flickers past my side vision in a blur. The stirrups press into the bottom of my soles, yet I feel only a phantom pressure. My thigh aches where I tumbled onto the rock, yet it is someone else’s pain. A pain remembered or heard about, not one fully felt. Even my long hair, freed from its daily bondage, seems to flow from another’s head. So recently it was weighted with water; now it is lighter than air. Has it all blown away?
Behind us, the devil’s wail grows louder. There is no escaping it.
Suddenly—or perhaps it happens slowly?—the foliage thins and a long stone bridge comes into view. With its seven grand arches, it spans the full length of a raging river. A river at the far edge of Johnstown, where the Little Conemaugh and the Stonycreek rivers meet. The commanding rail bridge connects the forest to the end of town. It forms Johnstown’s western edge. Eugene Eggar rides straight for it. I follow, without the will to do otherwise.
It’s a mystery to me how we manage to climb onto the top of the railroad bridge. Mady seems to know a pathway up, and Georgie follows. In the sheeting rain, an oncoming train would devour us all. But I don’t care. Exhaustion has dulled my emotions. It’s all I can do to hold on to my horse.
Abruptly, in the center of the bridge, Mady stops. Georgie slows and stops beside her. My head suddenly feels too weighted for my neck. It lolls forward. My bloody hands still grip the reins.
“Elizabeth.”
Eugene’s voice is strange. Its peculiar tone is devoid of life. Low. Thick. Vaguely, I sense his entreaty. Look up. But I am unable to manage such a feat. That’s when the horrid clamor following us down the mountain enters my veins.
It is a cacophony of terror: the pounding hooves of bleeding horses, the shriek of terrified hyenas, the howl of a coyote mother who’s lost her young, the thunder of a buffalo stampede, the guttural roar of a thousand lions in pursuit of as many fleeing, doomed elephants. It’s inhuman and so deafening I am certain I will never again hear another sound, feel no other feeling save its thunderous vibration. The roar has grown ever louder with each curve down the steep mountain road, every bend in the river. Buried deep within the hideous noise is screaming. So much screaming! Surely hell itself has cracked open and released its torment.
I look up. I cannot believe my eyes.
I haven’t time to beg God to save my soul. I am already dead.
A massive ball of brown water, uprooted tree trunks, sheared rooftops, bloated horses, stiff dogs and cats, shattered church windows, broken pews, sodden Bibles, Memorial Day flags, busted brick walls, twisted train cars, splintered rail lines, bowed streetlamps, upturned carriages, naked dolls, bent tin soldiers, dented red wagons, books, black stoves, beds, tables, armchairs, mantels, photographs, love letters, wedding dresses, baby booties, and masses of drowned humanity careens straight for us. Neither Eugene Eggar nor I can move. In silent horror, we watch the monster rage into the valley. It’s as if a mountain has unearthed itself and rampaged downhill—gaining speed as it tumbles uncontrollably. Snarling everything in its path. It swallows churches, the school, meeting halls, taverns, the dry-goods store, the opera house, the company hospital by the mill. Instantly, the roiling ball of destruction is as high as a church’s eave, far wider than the Conemaugh River. A black spew of oil and tar spits up from the bottom of it. The ragged sides engorge everything in its path. It seems a solid mass. More debris than water. As if every object—living or dead—has been sucked into the gullet of the beast. Before our eyes is a masticating, gnarling, snarling, crunching, drooling, cackling, bloodthirsty demon. Furious and bursting with bile. Soon to devour the lot of us.
Even as every muscle in my body is locked, I cannot stop shaking. Mr. Eggar screams something at me. I see his mouth move. His hands flail. Yet all I hear is the desperate wailing of hundreds—thousands?—of souls trapped in the jaws of the devil. The fortunate are drowned instantly. My heart crushes under the weight of such a thought. From atop the stone bridge, I see thrashing arms and writhing bare bodies and the frantic clutching of empty hands that moments ago held a child, a baby, a husband, a wife. The poor wretches who are sucked—alive—into the turbulence and thrust downhill in the rolling ball of water and wreckage are gasping for air. Grasping at anything to pull them out of the beast’s belly. It is an unbearable image. The screams are inhuman. Guttural explosions that erupt from a place beyond any torture humankind can comprehend. I can bear to hear no more. Yet I am powerless to do anything but listen, look, and feel the dark shroud of despair entomb my being. Rain falls upon my head. Beneath me, Georgie rears backward. But I am unable to dismount or even hang on to my horse. If she throws me, so be it. I am already gone. Soon to be consumed by the monster I have allowed out of its cage.
“Elizabeth!”
Mr. Eggar screams again. Faintly, I hear my name and look at him.
“We must go. The bridge is not safe.”
Unable to speak, I shake my head. I will not leave my post. I am here with the helpless souls of Johnstown. We will perish together. Turning away from him, I release Georgie’s reins and tilt my face up to the black sky. My arms fall limply to my sides. My jaw slackens. Rain spatters my tongue. Soon my mouth will fill with water. I will be swallowed by the demon. I care not. I am drowned. I am dead. I am ready to meet my maker.
God forgive me my si—
In a sickening crunch of wood and flesh, the ghastly ball of annihilation strikes the stone bridge. Georgie stumbles. I flop over, but do not fall off. Another wave smashes against the face of the bridge, then another. The stone arches convulse with each assault. Georgie dances, but she does not bolt. She, too, has surrendered. Together, we stare at the rising mound of human debris and await the inevitable tumble into the raging river. The crumbling of stone. Falling, falling, falling into the bitter-cold rapids behind us. My heart, it seems, has already stopped. I hear nothing. Even the thunderous roar is silenced. The wailing of mothers is but the shush of quiet before sleep. Overhead, the clouds gather in ripples of black and gray. They swirl above me in the most beautiful manner. I’m quite sure it is the loveliest pattern I’ve ever seen. Such artistry! A single ray of sunlight pierces the thunderclouds and lands on my forehead. I am touched. Called. I answer with a body as pliant as pudding. I feel peaceful. My eyes roll into my head. Warmth radiates into my chest. I am ready.
Another impact jars me al
ert. My eyes refocus. Around me is an eerie orange glow. The sky above is red. Am I in hell?
“Elizabeth.”
Someone calls my name. It is so faint I can easily ignore it. Which I do. My jaw hurts. Why do my teeth clatter so? Their insistent tapping is an annoyance. I try to reach my hands up to clasp my face but they do not obey me. It is no matter. Soon my wings will sprout. Won’t they?
“Elizabeth!”
The sound strengthens. It is accompanied by sobbing. Is that screaming, too? I don’t recognize such a terrible noise. It’s not one I have heard before. It is a low wail, as if surfacing from the depths of the ocean. A primal bellow expressing unimaginable torment. The very sound of it makes me weep. Tears join the rain on my face.
Mr. Eggar startles me. He is off his horse, at my side. He reaches up to encircle my waist. Georgie stills herself. Suddenly I remember the blood on her flank. I try to say, “We must get her a doctor,” but my teeth won’t stop rattling. They will not let words pass my lips.
With the gentleness of a mother lifting her baby from his nap, Eugene Eggar slides me off my horse and into his arms. The abrupt warmth of his body reminds me how cold the babies in the water must be. Is theirs the wailing I hear? I imagine my little brother weeping in that ball of torture. Clutching his favorite book, his elfin cap swept off his feathery hair, his small leather boots ripped off his soft feet as he tumbles downhill. My heart fractures in pieces. I must save him. Mother will be frantic. As I try to wriggle free, Eugene holds ever tighter.
“You’re safe now,” he whispers in my ear. In his strong arms, I believe him. I release myself into his body. I hear galloping. Have Georgie and Mady run off? I bury my face in the hollow of Eugene’s wet neck and feel so tired it’s as if I haven’t slept in months. My teeth quiet their clattering; my jaw rests. Curled into Eugene Eggar’s arms, I relax into the motion of his body. Swaying. Jostling. He is carrying me across the bridge.
The bridge? Is it still standing?
On a sharp inhalation, my eyes fly open. My ears hear again. I jerk my face away from Mr. Eggar’s warm skin and squirm out of his arms. He struggles to hold on to me, but he cannot. I will not be contained. My shoes land on top of the stone bridge with a dull thunk. The firmness of my foothold surprises me. I am alive. The bridge has not crumbled!
Rubble is spattered over the span of the long stone structure. The bridge shudders beneath my feet. Wood fragments are everywhere. Broken branches and torn bits of fabric are snagged on tumbleweeds of barbed wire. Barbed wire? In the far reaches of my memory I recall mention of the Gautier plant near the steel works in Johnstown that makes the flesh-tearing wires of steel and spikes. A chill runs down the length of my spine. Was the plant swept away in the tidal wave along with its killing contents?
When I look out on the sea of debris, I see that this is true. Oh, the horror! Twisted snarls of barbed wire snake throughout the massive wreckage. A loud sob lurches from my throat. Yet I push forward. The downpour has eased. A strong odor infuses the thick, moist air. Is it oil?
On wobbling legs, I scramble back to the center of the bridge. Eugene races after me. I stumble. Mr. Eggar lurches to grab me. In his grip, I regain my equilibrium.
“Come now, Elizabeth.” His voice is deliberately calm. I feel the powerful pounding of his heart. With his large hand on the back of my head, he tries to return my face into the warm crevice beneath his chin. I will not let him. “No.”
I break free. I must face the terror of what we have wrought.
And I do.
In the middle of the stone bridge, on the upstream side—toward our club and its former lake—I stand and stare. I cannot believe my eyes. The field of wreckage is nearly as high as the bridge, as wide as the river, and as vast as Lake Conemaugh once was. The gruesome sight renders me speechless. Each heartbeat stabs my chest like a bloody dagger. It is beyond comprehension. If we are not already in hell, we might as well be. Hell could be no worse than this. The entire town lies in tatters at my feet.
“Grrrlgh!” Inhuman sounds jab at the air. At first, I don’t recognize the godforsaken noise. Demons? The devil himself? Slowly, like the unveiling of a velvet drape, my brain begins to fathom the scene before me.
Human beings are trapped—alive—in the immense pile of rubble.
After surviving the raging wall of water, the battering of trees and homes that were violently ripped from the earth, the grisly sights of mangled, bloated humanity drowned all around them, the damned wail from the depths of the wreckage. Water is now visible only in a mild splash or two. The last remnants of our lake have passed through the arches of the formidable stone bridge and continued on their path, calmer now. Their rage spent. In their wake is a field of utter ruin. Triangles of jagged glass, fractured beams, drowned animals, mutilated limbs of every description. The huge pile pulses. Heaving up and down like an exhausted beast.
The worst is yet to come.
Quiet descends for the briefest moment. The monster’s horrendous roar has ceased. Then, in place of the tidal wave’s deafening growl, a sound more horrifying than any other pierces the air. It is accompanied by an odor I will forever smell, when my eyes are closed, my world is quiet.
Trapped souls are being burned alive.
How is this even possible? I think, in terror. Burned in water? Yet here it is before me. Pockets of angry red flames erupt and swirl through the wreckage. Far out into the sea of debris, I spot the possible culprit. A derailed tank car is twisted and cracked. Its oil has leaked and coated much of the rubble in black ooze. Fueled by an endless supply of lumber from the destroyed town—drying in the receding flood—it ignites somehow and tortures the life out of every wretched soul trapped within. Entombed beneath coils of mangled barbed wire from the destroyed Gautier plant, and tons of debris, they are beyond any hope of rescue. Their panic pierces the ghostly silence.
“God save us!”
I leap into action. As does Mr. Eggar. Ignoring our own ripped flesh, we grab at anything we can reach. Pieces of broken wood, bricks, shards of glass, toys, torn clothing. Yet a single glance into Eugene’s eyes reveals that he knows what I know: it is futile.
Shrieks rise up from the black depths of wreckage that is almost as high as the bridge itself.
“We are here!” I shout, swallowing my tears. “Hold on.”
Even as I say this, I pray for God to take them quickly. Theirs is a fate worse than death.
With each seized piece of debris, another falls into its place. The mammoth mound shifts and sways as if to purposely contain the beings within it. Many of the cries are so deep within the belly of the beast they are barely audible. Faint pleas of the wretched.
I do not give up. I dig. I pray. I bleed with everyone around me.
“Please help me.” The anguished cries are endless. “Dear God, please.”
Suddenly, in the misty haze, I notice a bloody and shredded hand reaching up through a loop of barbed wire. It is a woman’s hand. I see her wedding band even as the knuckles above it are so stripped of skin they shine like pearls. My stomach lurches. But I will not look away. Peering down into the dark netting of the tangled wreckage, I see a flash of white. Terrorized eyes beseech me. “Help, me. Please.”
“I’m here.” Then I call out, “Eugene!”
Mr. Eggar runs to my side. Together, we dig with all the energy we can muster. Eugene pulls his shirt over his head and wraps it around his hand so that he might pull back the gnarled loops of barbed wire. He bleeds anyway. Soon the shirt is soaked in red. I am cut, too. But I feel no pain. My diamond bracelet—Grandmother’s bracelet—is dulled by muck and gore.
“My name is Elizabeth,” I call into the darkness, swallowing my own fear in an attempt to calm the woman. “And this is my friend Eugene.”
The woman blinks. The whites of her eyes flash on and off. She says nothing.
“What’s your name?” I ask, breathlessly tearing through the pile even as she sinks farther away from us.
�
�Jennie.” Her voice quivers in the cold.
“Breathe, Jennie,” I say. “Look at my face and breathe.”
I force a smile into the blackness. Faintly, I make out Jennie’s features. Her nose is flattened and bloody, broken by any number of objects. Her hair is matted with mud. As I reach for anything I can to free her, I gently touch her hand. She curls her bleeding fingers over mine. “I have three children,” she says, desperate. “My little one is only two.”
I bite at my lip. My heart stabs my chest. I do not dare tell her that her babies are almost certainly dead.
“My clothes,” she adds, desperately. “The water ripped them from me. I am not decent. I cannot—”
“No need to worry. I have clean, warm clothes waiting for you,” I lie. “Your modesty will be protected.”
She sighs. “God bless you.” The hopeful look in her eyes brings instant tears to my own. Quickly, I turn my head away and cough to halt my weeping.
With renewed effort, I lean as far over the bridge as I can to reach anything I can dislodge. Eugene struggles to untangle the length of barbed wire over Jennie’s head. Blood from his previously cut palms soaks through the shirt wrapped around them. Without realizing it, I cry out. But my anguish is inaudible amid the desperate wailing all around us. The horrendous smell of burning flesh has replaced the scent of ignited oil.
“Hurry, please.” Jennie, too, smells certain death.
Frantic, I seize as much debris as I can fit into my own bleeding hands. I throw it onto the bridge top behind me. My shirtwaist is shredded. The long tendrils of my loose hair snag on bent nails and twists of barbed wire. It is yanked out by the root. The pain feels good. Justified.
The deeper I dig into the pile, the deeper it seems to become. So many people are trapped. So much screaming. Even as we near Jennie, she sinks farther from us. Much of the wreckage is still floating below. There is too much of it. The fire spreads too quickly.
It may be an hour or a minute or an entire day. I know not how long Eugene Eggar and I desperately try to dig through debris as impenetrable as a wall of steel. Every surviving man, woman, and child from Johnstown race to the bridge to join us in the excavation. We all dig. We pray. We bleed along with the trapped. In vain, we claw at the wreckage. We promise salvation that never comes.
