by James H Bird
“Damn it! Push!” The door wouldn’t dislodge. The injured passenger screamed every time he slammed against the door. The fire was growing. I could see laps of flames dart over the trunk lid. The odiferous and vile smoke made me cough. The man with the busted leg slapped the dash, his eyes were wild and unblinking. His groans and yelps bourn from an inner source of pain and fear like an angry dog or a hungry wolf.
“Dude! Your gonna have to come out the window!” I reached in and started to grab him but he leaned away.
“Come on man! You got to get out. Now!” The flames, angry fiery fingers danced like tongues from hell dogs. Suddenly, an arm appeared through the fuzzy gray veil and sparks clutching a set of keys.
“I think there is a crow-bar in the trunk,” the man said the through blurts of coughing.
I snagged the keys and ran back to the trunk. Fire and smoke shot out from the wheel wells. I jammed the key into lock. It didn’t fit. “Damnit!!” I fumbled to the next car key and jammed that one in. I could feel the heat around my ankles and on my knees. I was coughing so hard now I could hardly breath and put my arm over my nose and mouth. I turned the key. Nothing. I turned again and pounded the lid with the side of my fist and it popped open belching a billowy flume of dark gray rancid effluvium like a pulp mill. Waving my hand to looked into truck. Various tools were scattered about, jolted from their original position from the wreck. I leaned through the flames and grabbed a large crowbar at the back of the truck and immediately let go. It was hot. I grabbed a rag and retrieved the crowbar then ran back to the injured man.
“You push as I pry. Hurry.” I felt a hot sensation on my belly. My shirt was burning. I patted my shirt with one hand and jammed the crowbar between the door and frame with my other. Not sure if my shirt fire was extinguished, I put both hands on the crowbar and pulled with everything I could muster.
“Push Damnit! Help me. You’re going to burn alive!”
“I’m trying!”
Like a damn burst, the door flung open launching me backwards. I sat down hard on the road, the crowbar clattering on the ground. On my hands and knees, crawling over broken glass I reached the man with the broken leg and pulled down and out of the car. I got him to stand and I put my arm around him. We hobbled off as quick as we could like two people in a three-legged race. Arms flailing grunts and yelps. We were not more than ten yards away when the Firebird blew sending us both down to the ground. I reached over and grab the man’s shirt and started dragged him back when I felt two hands under my armpits, lifting.
“Come on, well get you out of here,” a fireman said to me. Two others, a policewoman and an EMT were lifting the injured passenger on a stretcher and they hustled us to a safe distance. After a few minutes they loaded him into an ambulance.
“You guys just barely got out of there.”
“Yes sir. It got hot.”
“Where you the driver?”
“Oh no sir, I was on the bus. I got off and pried the door open to get him out. There is another that drove. I think that’s him over there,” I said and pointed to the MEDIVAC.
A commotion interrupted our conversation.
Means of Defense
POW, POW, POW … POW, POW. I crouched down heart thumping, what now, I thought. Had an engine or tire had blown? I looked down the road. The prisoners had overpowered the guards, taking their guns, and fought their way out. State police began to fire back as they ducked behind their vehicles aiming and shooting. One trooper was shot on the spot as the prisoners scurried out of the bus. It was the one who had been banging on the bus door.
Most of the convicts stopped, others fled. More gunfire. I was angry, “Enough of this!” I shouted hard from the back of my throat like at a football game. “First I had to wrestle with damn burning Pontiac, now this!” If I had driven today I would have had my gun with me. Armed desperate prisoners running amok in the mass confusion require desperate means of defense.
The emergency people were becoming overwhelmed. People were running away, panicked faces of fear and police flowing towards the gun fights. The gusts had not cleared out the smoke. I could barely see what was happening. Eight or nine the prisoners were lying face down, hands behind their heads with officers from several departments standing over them, guns drawn. Other officers on foot, in pursuit of the ones that fled. An odd way to separate the atrocious from the mere pernicious.
I saw a prisoner turn and fire, holding the gun sideways like they do in television shows. “Stupid. That ain’t no way to fire a gun,” I said to myself. An EMT rushed into the prisoner bus covered by a cop pointing a shotgun toward the shooting prisoners. He fired a few rounds. A fireman hurried toward us waving his hands to get back and find cover. More shots and screams, people running past us shouting, “They’re shooting! Get down! “Run!” I looked back the cab carrying Bonnie and was relieved to see it gone. The cars in the opposite lanes were stopped by police.
More shots further away now. “A running gun battle,” I said to no one is particular. The cop backed up closer to us, his hand on his holster. Over his radio, “Officer down” he stared down the road toward the prisoners shooting. His fingered the trigger on his gun.
I walked to him, “What’s going on?” I said from a distance of three feet.
“Get back now!” he barked without looking at me.
We heard the police bullhorn, bellowing commands to, “surrender and throw down you weapons. Come out with your hands up.” This was answered with more gunfire.
Quasimodo was sitting on the ground. I helped him up. We joined a little group of five or six and moved back behind the bus. There was rapid gunfire not like a machine gun more like a staccato of firecrackers. The prisoners, the ones that did not want to give up, the worst of the worst, were making their last stand. Three or four others diapered into the distance. Fighting for a principle that only they understood. To be heroes in the eyes of others who understood. Fighting the forces who were, in their minds, evil. They grew distrustful of those outside their circle. They had a code an honor system. To attack the weak and unsuspecting. To steal for gain and cause destruction. Laws mean nothing to them only the laws of the street. They own no affinity to the country nor love for its citizens. They have let go of their conscience and civilized morals. They treat women roughly and with disrespect. They made their living by poisoning people with drugs to capture their minds. To bring others into the fold. Today many of them will fight to the death their only chance of freedom. After about ten minutes, the gun fire stopped. One prisoner was writhing on the ground screaming.
The group talked for a while speculating on causes and mortality rates and insurance, those kinds of things. The police had cordoned off the dead prisoners and we talked about them too. We were all sharing a thread of commonality though we did not know each other’s names nor anything else. We were standing in the middle of the turnpike having lived through a terrible accident. That bond will last as long as we stand in the middle of what is usually a busy highway. We are connected by carnage.
After a fashion, desperation turned into methodical, as the worst had been rushed away. By 7:30, all victims were gone except the unwounded and the dead. The tow trucks and roll backs pulling away mangled remains of twisted automobiles and trucks, those that were road worthy began to limp home. An irritated small trickle of traffic began moving through along the far shoulder. The police mingling about directing traffic and taking pictures and jotting things in notebooks. Newspaper reporters yapping in front of cameras and interviewing people. I wanted to talk but I didn’t fit the demographic they were looking for. They were in a race to present the juiciest story that would win them praise from the networks or journals.
Our little group, having been interviewed by the police, began to endeavor to continue our travels. A RTD van took me the rest of the way to my truck at the park-n-ride in Denver. None of my bus mates were on board by this time. Back at the park-n-ride, the lone truck in the lot was mine. Everyone else parked here t
his morning had ended the day as a matter of routine. They watched the news relieved they had missed the wreck. Before driving off for home, I took a long pee in the dark parking lot, onlookers be damned.
Later that night I went to the hospital mainly to check on Bonnie but she had already been released.
I asked the night nurse about the individuals they brought in from a bad wreck on the Boulder Turnpike. As she flipped through her chart I read her name tag.
“Fill out the visitor’s log,” she said pointing at a ringed book on the counter without looking up.
“OK.” I used an old cover name and info from my DOJ past. Comes in handy sometimes.
“Yes. Here he is. There are two of them Michael Darnay and Anthony Timmer. …hmm. Mr. Darnay is ICU. Mr. Timmer is in recovery. He should be getting released soon. You can see him if he allows it.”
“I want to only want to ask him a few questions, nurse Tackett, ma’am.” The nurse gave an incredulous look and put her hand to her ample chest. I reached in my coat and flash a government contractor ID card from a job a few years back. Never mind it was expired.
“I work for DOJ. You know with all that’s has been going on recently. We just need to make sure.” I slipped the ID back into my jacket pocket before Nurse Tackett had a chance to examine the ID.
“Terrorists?!”
“We have to check everything out, Nurse Tackett, ma’am.”
“Hmm, on my… OK,” the nurse picked the phone and talked just out of my ability to hear her words. This was followed by a long silence. Tackett returned.
“Mr. Timmer will speak with you. He had a fracture of the left tibia. His family is with him now.” She gave the ward and room number, the attending physician and nurse’s names. “Mr. Darnay is in an induced coma due to head trauma. He was in bad shape when they brought him in. Stammering like a crazy person. Head injuries due that to you,” the nurse checked her sign in log. “His parents or here. You might be able to speak with them.”
I jotted down this information in my field notebook. “OK. Thank you.”
I went to the waiting room outside of his ward.
There was no Answer
Sam Manual was driving down route 128 when he saw the emergency vehicles roaring down the turnpike. Normally he would give this a brief rubberneck and continue on home. Considering the times, he decided to make sure and picked up his cell phone and punched in the code to dispatch.
“Yes Mr. Manual” it was Estelle, his second shift dispatcher, recognizing Sam's number on caller ID.
“What's all the commotion on the turnpike?”
“Multi-car accident, according to the scanner”.
“We got anybody out there?”
“Number two, two, fourteen, sir. Fred Teller.”
An electric gush of heat raced through Sam's stomach. Fred had been with Anytime Boulder Cab since the beginning. He was a vet that Sam had served with for the best five years of their young lives. They were at the 1983 suicide bombing of the Marines barracks in Beirut. They survived at least physically, 243 others were less fortunate. That explosion started a chain of events that reverberated around the world. Fred had pulled Sam out of the rubble despite being shot in the leg. Sam knew something about Fred that the Marine Corps and FBI did not. After their discharge a while later, Sam lost touch with Fred until one day twelve year later he got a call from a case worker at a Pittsburgh VA Hospital. Sure, he could give his old Marine buddy a job and set him up a place to live quietly. Sam had just bought a limousine business that ran from the airport and special events and needed someone he could trust to start a local cab service. Boulder Colorado was a great place to keep away from the screams of the five o'clock news and maybe the screams from one horrible night. He put Fred in his first cab. His counselor at the hospital had warned to keep an eye on his moods and make sure he stays on his medication.
“Is he all…?”
“Yes sir, I think. I talked to him when I heard. He was on airport duty. He sounded a little excited for him. He said he was stuck in the back up.” Estelle cut in.
“OK. Give him a call back and tell him... Never mind I'll call him.” Sam disconnected and began dialing Fred's number. Fred had been hit by what happened in New York and Arlington. Every time something like this happens, Fred goes into a blue place in his mind. He can still function but it as if he were a robot running low on batteries. He spent more time shut up in his room instead of the garage with the other drivers. Sam usually gives Fred time off when he gets like that.
Recently, Fred seemed to be coming out of his funk, Sam let him back into a cab.
There was no answer.
“I’ll drop in and see him tonight.”
Manicured Man
I woke stiffly the next morning. My housemate had already left and I had planned to work at home. I rose and showered, my fingers finding the sore soft spot behind my left ear. While toweling I notice in the mirror a few bruises on my shoulder and legs, little purple reminders of a different day.
I dressed solemnly remembering little clutches of the prior unpleasantness. I decided rather impulsively to walk to a café near the house. I hiked four blocks down the path along Harvard gulch to the hospital and bought a paper then continued the block down to the café. The gulch was dust bowl dry and the tress had lost most of their leaves. I sat down at a table outside. It was a warm day, no wind; the café faced east warming the terrace. Across the street a gas station and a liquor store, which sat next to a fine Italian restaurant. I ordered a large coffee and settled in. Shortly, a fortyish man in dark business suit, blue shirt, and brightly stripped red and yellow tie sat down at a table nearby. He had gold cuff links and tie bar. He placed a cellular phone down on the table and hung his coat on the seat back. He was meticulously manicured and too damn neat to be trusted. Obviously a salesman. A noble enterprise for those so inclined. Engagement with the salesman was imminent I was regrettably sure.
I sighed and unfolded the paper. Page 1, top of the fold: “Deadly Chain Reaction, Turnpike Tragedy” screamed the headline. I exhaled a short breath not sure if I was ready to read someone else’s account in a whorish attempt to sell newspapers. The picture, black, white and fuzzy, was from an unfamiliar angle. I read or skimmed the front-page paragraphs. What, where and when were adequately covered and I gathered no new knowledge. I was after who, why and how. It is always with trepidation that one reads in the newspaper’s accounts of events that one has intimate knowledge. Every other sentence finds oneself punctuating the journalist’s statements with “No, No, NO! That’s not right. No that’s not right at all, aww damn… get it right for god’s sake!” Like reading an obituary of a friend. Stark facts about schools, jobs, family and where the memorial service will be held. Some have lifeless portraits from a year book or ID card. They present little of the human behind the picture.
“Damn fine day ain’t it?” the too neat and manicured man said with a giggling smile. Non-morning types tend to deeply resent cheeriness particularly if one had been tossed around in a back of a bus the day before and was reading about in the morning post.
“Umm mmm,” not looking up I said, noting that six had perished including a police officer, seventeen were injured, two seriously, and twenty-four vehicles were involved. As I read the names of the dead, I felt an odd sense of connectivity to them. It was as if I should call their families and attend their funerals. Say things like, “They died bravely” or “It was not an unsuccessful life.” I read about the prisoners and the gun fight. Then I read in horror one was still at large. My heart sank to the floor. In all the confusion the one they believe shot the cop dead was on the run and extremely dangerous. I looked at his picture.
“Say, you wouldn’t work at Porter Hospital would you?” the manicured man broke through my hazy grief.
“Nope”, I flipped to page 28A.
“‘There is a state wide manhunt for the escaped prisoner but so far we have not turned up any leads. We believe him to be in the area
. He is armed and extremely dangerous. I will provide more details when I get them.
It is still under investigation. There does not appear to be drugs or alcohol related incident although the driver did register an insignificant level, well below the impaired limit. I don't have the number right here but it was not enough to bring any type of charge,’ said Sara Mackenzie spokesperson for the Boulder County Sheriff’s Offices.’
Manicured man’s cell phone rang, “Hello…” he said.
I continued scanning the article.
“It appears that the driver of the vehicle lost control while attempting to pass.” said Sarah Mackenzie the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office spokesperson, “But it is still all under investigation. We do know that he was driving at an excessive rate and probably a little out of control to begin with. Witnesses said that the car driven by a Michael Darnay of Boulder appeared to have something go wrong. He veered hard to the left and slammed into the cement barrier between the north and southbound lanes. His car, a late model Pontiac Firebird then cut back across the rush hour traffic causing the chain reaction accident.
“Normally you would see something like this during a snow and ice storm. But those situations usually do not involved fatalities because everyone's slowed down anyway, because of the conditions. This was much different because the weather was nice. I think this traffic was moving at the speed limit when the driver lost control. Everyone was going that much faster. Nobody had time to get out of the way. This was a terrible accident,” Mackenzie said.
Manicured man began speaking into his phone, “Yeah, well tell Marsha I can’t make the two. I got a long meeting at Porter this morning and I can’t make the Springs by two. Be a dear and re-schedule me. …No, no… I’ll call …yeah… OK… yeah that’s fine. You’re a real champ sweetie, I’ll buy ya’ lunch…”