by Edward Bloor
“Is Mrs. Smalls one of them?”
“Oh yes. She’s organizing it.”
“I’m not surprised. She really knows what’s going on. She’s been calling it ‘the meth plague’ for a long time.”
Mrs. Weaver nodded. “We all need to do that. We all need to call it what it is.”
We continued to talk, and eat sundaes, and plan our counterattack against the meth plague for over an hour. When we finally trooped out into the parking lot, I saw that the snow had stopped falling. The sky was now clear and dark, with twinkling stars. The temperature had dropped, though; it had dropped a lot—so much that a runoff from the roof had crystallized, leaving foot-long icicles hanging over our heads, like swords.
Arthur jumped up and snapped one off. He handed it to Ben. “Here. Take this in case you get hungry later.”
Ben took it and stuck it between his back teeth. “Great. I’ll eat this before it melts.”
We all laughed; Mr. and Mrs. Weaver looked puzzled again. Then Jenny gave me a beautiful smile, and they took off.
It was a perfect moment, I thought. On a perfect night.
But if I had known where to look, to the north and west, I might have thought differently. I might have seen a faint red glow in the dark sky.
Yin and yang.
Heaven and hell.
Paradise Lost.
All the things Mr. Proctor had talked about.
If I was thinking that this plague year would end on a happy note, or on a positive note, or even on a not-horrible note, I was mistaken.
Arthur saw the glow in the sky before I did, but he misinterpreted it. “Looks like a fire up in Primrose. Maybe a forest fire.”
“A forest fire? In the snow?”
“No, you’re right. Maybe a grease fire. Or maybe somebody was cooking with propane and the damn thing blew up.”
But as we drove on, Arthur got less sure of that, and less talkative. Something bad was happening, but it wasn’t in Primrose.
It was in Caldera.
He finally said, “Sorry, cuz. I gotta know where that fire is. You okay with getting home late?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Neither of us spoke again as we rose higher into the mountains. The first sign of the tragedy was, oddly enough, something comical. The heat of the fire was melting the snow and ice above us, creating a river of running water. As we slowed to turn onto Arthur’s road, I saw an orange duck—a small plastic one—floating by.
As we accelerated up the road, I saw orange plastic rings floating in the runoff, too, followed by black Transformer parts.
By then, we could see the red flashing lights of a Haven County ambulance up ahead. We could see the blaze by then, too, through the sparse winter trees.
It wasn’t Aunt Robin’s trailer, but it was right behind it.
It was Warren’s.
Arthur slammed to a halt in the middle of the road. He turned off the ignition and bolted out of the car. I got out and followed him as best I could, scrambling up the short hillside, slipping in the river of icy water that was running down.
Jimmy Giles, wearing nothing but jeans and a T-shirt, was standing halfway between his trailer and Warren’s. He looked devastated, broken, shaken to the core.
The ambulance was parked on a spot well away from the blaze. Aunt Robin, Cody, and a paramedic were sitting in the front cab. The paramedic was speaking into a black microphone. A second paramedic, a stocky guy in an orange coat, was standing between Jimmy and the burning trailer.
Arthur ran up to Jimmy. He had to shout to be heard. “Where’s Warren?”
Jimmy opened his mouth slowly, reluctantly. Then he spoke through gulping sobs. “He was the doomed one. Not me.”
“What?”
Jimmy’s voice rose. “Warren’s dead, Arthur! He got killed in there. By an explosion.”
Arthur shook his head from left to right. “What are you talking about?”
“He’s got chemicals in there. You know that. Bad stuff …” Jimmy’s voice trailed away.
The paramedic took a step toward Arthur and yelled, “The man inside the trailer is dead from an explosion. It blew a hole in his chest.”
Arthur pressed both hands against his ears. Then he yelled back above the roar of the blaze, “Where is he now?”
“In the kitchen area.”
“Why isn’t he out here? Why aren’t you working on him out here? Why aren’t you trying to save him?”
The paramedic took another step and explained. “I looked inside. I saw the man very clearly. He is dead. He is surrounded by volatile chemicals, though. We can’t remove him until the firefighters get here, put out the fire, and tell us it’s safe to remove him.”
The paramedic half turned at the sight of flashing lights. His right arm shot up and pointed. “Okay! Here they are! They’re turning up the road.”
Arthur looked confused. He finally asked, “You’re not leaving him in there?”
“No. I just explained to you—”
“No, I’m explaining to you! We gotta get him out of there!”
The paramedic opened his mouth, but he stopped speaking at the blast of a horn from the fire truck. A voice called out from the passenger-side window, “Move this car! We can’t get the engine in!”
My head was whirling around—from the blaze, and the smoke, and the noise, and the rush of the icy water. Here was something I could do. I yelled, “I’ll get it!” and took off back down the hill.
Almost immediately, my feet flew out from under me and I slid to the bottom, my back caked with ice and mud. I hurried to the driver’s side, jerked the door open, and jumped in. I cranked the car key, dropped the transmission into gear, and lurched forward about twenty yards up the road. Then I turned the car off and ran back, as best I could, to the blazing trailer.
I couldn’t see Arthur anywhere.
The paramedic was gesturing angrily to his partner, and to the firefighters. Suddenly I heard an explosion inside the trailer, like the propane tanks at the Food Giant. The fire surged even higher into the night, bursting through a hole in the trailer’s roof.
I looked at Jimmy. He was staring, stunned, at the trailer’s front door. Then I knew where Arthur was.
I took off running toward that door. The paramedic made a move to block me, but he was too slow, and I slipped around him.
The heat got stronger, like a wall of energy pushing against me. I reached the trailer just as Arthur’s back appeared inside. His hood was up over his head. The top peak of it was on fire, like a small candle. His sleeves were on fire, too, at the elbow. He backed out rapidly, so fast that I had to scramble out of his way.
He was dragging a body after him.
Warren’s body.
Warren’s face was gray with death. He was wearing the remnants of that Haven High Football jacket. His chest had a large bloody indentation in it, the size and shape of a bowling ball.
Arthur kept moving, kept dragging, seemingly unaware that his own clothes were on fire. I sprang forward and drove my shoulder into Arthur’s, hitting him a solid blow, like a football block. He released his grip on Warren and fell backward. I could hear the flames on his head and arms hiss out on the watery ground.
Arthur’s face contorted in pain. His mouth opened, and he screamed. Then he flipped himself over spastically, rising up on his elbows. He started coughing rapidly, deeply, uncontrollably.
Somewhere behind me, the firefighters unleashed two streams of water onto the roof of the trailer. One of them barked at us, “Get back! Both of you! There are chemical vats in there!”
The paramedic grabbed hold of Warren’s body, just as Arthur had done. His partner joined him, and they soon had Warren away from the trailer. They fastened him to a stretcher and hoisted him into the back of the ambulance.
Jimmy and I helped Arthur rise to his feet. We led him, step by step, to a spot in front of the ambulance. Arthur dropped to one knee and stared at the ground, panting and coughing miserably.
Jimmy spoke in that haunted voice. “It was Warren. He was the one. He was doomed.”
The first paramedic returned to take a look at Arthur. He said, “You are injured, son. We need to treat these burns. We might need to take you to the ER to check out your lungs.”
Arthur hacked up some foul liquid and spit it on the ground. He managed to say, “Treat the burns. But I ain’t going to no ER. I’m staying here.”
The paramedic applied salve to Arthur’s ears, arms, and hands; then he wrapped both hands with gauze and tape. He lectured him, “I told you he was dead already. Didn’t you believe me?”
Arthur answered softly, almost to himself, “He didn’t burn.”
The paramedic asked, “What?”
But Arthur didn’t answer him. He spoke to Jimmy and me, his voice rising in intensity. “He didn’t burn, goddammit! He may be dead, but I didn’t let him burn.”
I nodded rapidly; then Jimmy did, too.
“He didn’t burn.”
The paramedic stared at Arthur for a moment, confused. Then he went back to wrapping the bandages.
From somewhere behind me, I heard Cody start to cry. Aunt Robin crossed in front of us, bearing him up in her left arm. She paused for just a moment to stretch out her right arm and touch the top of Arthur’s head, keeping her hand away from the burns. Then she stepped carefully through the mess and continued on into her trailer.
Jimmy trudged in after them. His feet were bare. His bony shoulders showed through his T-shirt. He had to be freezing.
I stayed outside with Arthur. He remained kneeling in the slop, his head bowed. The runoff water continued to flow around him. He was holding up a bandaged hand at a ninety-degree angle, like he wanted to ask a question. His lips were moving.
I leaned forward until I could understand. He was repeating three words in a low and barely audible voice, over and over, through choking sobs. The words were “I hate drugs.”
A minute later, a big vat exploded inside Warren’s trailer. It took out the entire kitchen area. The flames continued to lick higher, filling the dark sky with a hellish light.
It was all life and death, and water and ice, and fire and cold. When I finally took a look at my watch, I saw that it was ten minutes past midnight.
It was December 31.
The last day of the year.
Spring
Thursday, March 21, 2002
The day after the fire, New Year’s Day, I sat down and started writing a new journal, this one. Because the old one, like everything else in Warren’s trailer, had gone up in the conflagration.
At first, I was in a panic, thinking that I couldn’t do it; that I had forgotten too much. But that was not true. I remembered everything very clearly. I wrote nonstop all day, and the next day, and for many days after, trying to get down what had happened to me, to us, to Blackwater over the last year.
In the three months since the fire, things have gotten a lot worse. But nobody has run away. We have stayed here, and we have fought.
January and February were especially bad times for the town. There was a big demand for food at the church. There was a big demand for warm clothing there, too. And there was a big demand for slabs at the morgue.
But, looking back from today, it seems like that was the worst period. It seems like things have bottomed out; like things might be slowly getting better.
Today is the first day of spring. That means that we, the people of Blackwater, have survived the long, dark winter. We have done everything we could do. Every day, every night, we have provided the zombies with food, or clothes, or shelter, or medical care, or a decent burial.
The circle of helpers has widened: The county has opened up trailers on the north spur of Caldera for homeless families. More churches have opened their basements. Kroger has joined the Food Giant in contributing its expired foods to the needy. Everybody has pulled together, like they did back in Mrs. Cantwell’s grandmother’s day, back in the Great Depression.
Because that’s what we do in Blackwater.
I also want to update some things.
Bobby Smalls recovered from his gunshot wound without any complications. When he returned to work, Dad did make him the produce manager. It was Reg’s old job. It was also Dad’s old job.
Reg Malloy was charged with armed robbery and assault. He is being held in the Haven County Correctional Institution. Coach Malloy doesn’t talk about it. Jenny says that Coach is not returning to Haven Junior/Senior High next year.
Lilly and John have set a marriage date. It is Thursday, October 31, 2002. Halloween. They plan to send out orange-and-black invitations.
Arthur will graduate with his class, thanks to two A’s in ninth-grade English—one from Mr. Proctor and one from Mrs. Kerpinski. He has a plan. He will report for Marine Corps basic training in September. (He also has a tattoo, on his right bicep—a poker hand with four deuces and a joker, and Deuces Wild underneath.)
Mom still runs the food table at our zombie-support group at the church. She never misses a night. Dad still donates the food, and he still declines to prosecute shoplifters at the Food Giant.
Aunt Robin now works at Haven Junior/Senior High in the cafeteria. (Mrs. Cantwell called and offered her the job.) Jimmy is still signed up with WorkForce, doing whatever comes up.
Last but not least, Jenny is my girlfriend now. (I love to write that.)
So, finally, is the plague over?
I think it is.
Why?
In the end, it may simply have come down to this: Everybody who was going to try meth has tried it. And they have either survived the experience or they have not. (Most have not.)
The rest of the people in Blackwater have responded to the NEO and the I Hate Drugs campaigns and have kept far away from meth. And they always will stay away from meth, and crack, and weed, and whatever comes along next.
Because the people in Blackwater truly hate drugs.
Because the people in Blackwater have been through a plague year.
Epilogue
Sunday, July 28, 2002
I had thought that the first day of spring was a good place to end this journal, but now something else has happened here, and I want to write about it.
It’s another national news story. It began on Wednesday night, and it continued until today. Here’s a brief summary:
Nine miners at Quecreek broke through a wall, only to discover that it was holding back an underground river. They should have drowned right then, but they were somehow able to scramble to higher ground. Still, they were trapped, and were almost certainly going to die down there. That was Wednesday. The Quecreek Mine is in Somerset County, just a few miles from where United flight 93 crashed in September.
It’s incredible. Two national stories within a year, within a few miles of each other, and within a short distance from Blackwater, where nothing ever used to happen.
The Quecreek Mine disaster began five days ago. I have been watching it on and off all that time on the news.
I took a break yesterday, though, to help Jimmy, Aunt Robin, Arthur, and Cody move. Jimmy has now been drug-free for seven months, but Arthur says he has been struggling. Memories of Warren are a definite trigger for him, so it’s good for him to move away from that place.
Jimmy rented a truck and transported the entire trailer to a lot on the north spur, about five miles away. The underground fire has been extinguished there, and families are allowed to move back in.
A crew that included Mom, Lilly, and Jenny came up to move the small stuff. It all went smoothly. By midafternoon we had the trailer in its new location and water and electricity running into it.
By dinnertime the job was finished, and Aunt Robin went to pick up four boxes of Domino’s pizzas. We chowed down on those and drank various Coca-Cola products.
While we were eating, Lilly filled us in on a job she was hoping to get. She explained, to everybody’s surprise but mine, “A new federal program is starting up in Hav
en County to help teenage drug users. They’re looking for counselors, and all you need is a high school degree. So I applied.”
Mom looked puzzled, but in a good way.
Lilly continued: “I’ve had two interviews. I think they really like me.”
Mom said, “Of course they like you!”
Other people said the same. And I realized that, after all these years, I now like her, too.
Jenny, Lilly, and Mom went back home soon after that, but I stayed. Arthur and I got the TV running in the living room. The Quecreek Mine disaster was the big story, 24/7, on the local station. We were determined to stick with it, along with thousands of other people. If those miners were going to die, they would not do it alone.
Aunt Robin put Cody to bed at nine o’clock. She and Jimmy watched the news with us until eleven, when she said good night.
Jimmy stayed with us for another hour, staring straight ahead but not speaking. When he finally wandered off to bed at midnight, things looked pretty grim for the miners. They had been trapped underground, freezing and wet, with no food or water, for five days.
But then suddenly, miraculously even, the news started to change. Special equipment had arrived. Contact had been made. And within one hour, the tragic story had turned 180 degrees.
The TV screen showed a narrow yellow cylinder being lowered into a shaft. It was thin enough to fit into a drilled hole but wide enough to hold a human body.
Arthur and I sat forward on the couch. Arthur started praying, I think, in a language that only he could understand. Then, over the next two hours, his prayers were answered.
The yellow cylinder returned to the surface and was opened by the rescue crew. A coal miner, covered completely in black soot, soaked to the skin, was pulled out of it. And he was alive.
The cylinder went down again, back into the bowels of the earth. It came up again fifteen minutes later. Another shivering black body was extracted from it. Another miner was still alive.
Here are the names of the miners and their rescue times: Randy L. Fogle—1:00 a.m.; Blaine Mayhugh—1:15 a.m.; Tom Foy—1:30 a.m.; John Unger—1:40 a.m.; John Phillippi—1:55 a.m.; Ron Hileman—2:10 a.m.; Dennis Hall—2:23 a.m.; Robert Pugh—2:30 a.m.; Mark Popernack—2:45 a.m.