As We Know It

by Carrie Butler

She points. “Over there with her friends. This is her school, so at least she feels comfortable here. I didn’t tell her about her dad—not until we know something for sure—so all she knows is he was downtown and hasn’t found a way here yet.”

  “And Vincent? I mean, Mal?”

  “Him showing up was a total shock. I don’t know if he’s told you, but we haven’t seen him for six or seven years. Paige cried and refused to let go of him when he went to leave. Poor thing.”

  Leave? Where did he go? If she saw him—and Red, Red saw him!—he has to be alive. Get your shit together, Elena, and go find him! “W-Where did he go?”

  Missie leans in. “He went after Dominic. He said he’d be back in a few hours, but that was this morning. What should I do? I can’t lose both of them.”

  Her words echo and rattle around in my mind, reigniting worries I’d barely put behind me. Not only had I missed Vincent, I’d wasted time I could’ve spent catching up to him. Now he’s off God knows where, trying to find his brother, and we have no way of knowing what’s befallen either of them.

  “Mom?” A gangly girl with blonde waves and freckles leans around the nearest tree. “Can I—? Oh, sorry.”

  “Paige!” Missie acknowledges in surprise, leveling her voice. “This is Uncle Mal’s girlfriend Elena.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Oh!” Her eyes light up, and she plops down beside me. “When did you get here? Is Uncle Mal back? Oh my gosh, are you guys going to get married? Would I be a flower girl or a bridesmaid? I mean, you don’t have to pick me, but—”

  “Paige,” her mother mutters. “Breathe.”

  “I know.” She fiddles with the zipper on her jacket before looking me over. “So, what happened to your arm?”

  “I dislocated it going down the side of the bridge,” I tell her, unsure of how much detail to go into. Do kids know what alcohol smells like at that age? Can she smell it on me? Wait. Can Missie smell it on me?

  “How? Did your car fall off? Did you hit the water? I think I’d rather chance that than the ground, because the impact would be brutal. What kind of car do you have?”

  My head throbs as I try to process her barrage of questions. She seems like a sweet kid, but I really, really don’t want to think about the bridge right now.

  “Sweetheart,” Missie cuts in, lifting her brows. “Elena and I were in the middle of a grown-up conversation. Was there something you needed?”

  Paige squirms. “Oh, uh, Emily and Caleb were going to go get some stuff from his house. Can I go, too?”

  “How bad is his house?”

  “It’s just leaning over like ours is.”

  Missie’s mouth tugs at the corners. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Come onnnnn…”

  “Can’t you wait until they bring whatever it is back?”

  “Mom, seriously. It’s just a two-minute walk.”

  “Then you won’t have to wait long for them to come back.”

  “This is stupid A-F! Dad would let me go.”

  “Well, your dad isn’t here yet,” Missie shoots back, patting her shaking hands over her hair. “So until he is, you get to deal with my stupid rules, and I told you I don’t want to hear you A-Fing anything.”

  Paige groans and stalks off.

  Apparently, my novelty has worn off in light of other pressing issues, like teenage hormones. I can’t imagine having to worry about a kid in all of this mess. Missie must be at her wit’s end.

  “So, which bridge is it?” I ask, not that I know many of them by name.

  “He usually takes Ross Island home.”

  “And how far is that?”

  “Maybe eight or nine minutes in the car. When it’s nice out, sometimes he’ll bike and it takes longer.”

  Well, that’s a given. “What about on foot? How long would it have taken Vin—Mal to get there?”

  “Uhh…” She rolls her bottom lip with white, perfectly straight teeth. “Maybe an hour or so?”

  I nod and take a deep breath, knowing my next question will lock me into something I can’t back down from. “Do you think you could give me directions?”

  ❇ ❇ ❇

  Who would let my drunken ass wander the streets of Portland, anyway?

  I will say, Missie was right. I’ve been walking for at least an hour. Thankfully, it’s a straight shot with few deviations. She wrote the street names on my arm with a marker, and I’ve been going with that.

  For the most part, it’s just been hopscotching the power lines still down in residential areas. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Plus, the people I’ve encountered have been friendly—like, really friendly. If they weren’t all vegan, I’d be afraid the cannibal thing has taken off.

  Kidding.

  Mostly.

  The turn onto 26 brought me back into the land of closed businesses and abandoned cars. Now I’m close enough to hear the river, to smell whatever it was that burned near here, and to witness something I’ve seen far too many times over the past week. A makeshift memorial is getting set back up after the rain.

  Flowers, photos, and stuffed animals lay strewn under the trees by a drop-off I’m assuming used to be the Ross Island Bridge. Missie knew it had collapsed. She had confided that much before I left. She also knew Dominic hadn’t showed up at any of the other BEECNs, thanks to a radio chain that left her even more discouraged than before. What she didn’t know was the big question. Did her husband, the father of her child, manage to beat the odds?

  He wasn’t in the middle of the bridge when it twisted to pieces, plunging commuters and families to their watery graves. We knew that much. According to what he’d told her on the phone, he was stuck at this end of the bridge—either over the water, the highway, or the railroad tracks. So, if I were Vincent, where would I start?

  I rub my temples and survey the landscape. The highway is closest. He’d have stopped to make sure his brother’s car wasn’t lost there first. I scurry down the grassy hillside, using my good arm to balance, and take in the jumbled structure.

  Man. I can’t tell if this eerie calm has more to do with the grief or the booze, but either way, I’m desensitized enough to keep moving. Missie said Dominic was driving a blue Subaru Outback, which may as well be a needle in an Oregonian haystack, but at least I know what I’m looking fo—

  KAWOOMPH!

  A shockwave blasts across the highway, resonating in my chest as a plume of black smoke surges up from the tracks. Not even ten seconds later, an older man fights through the far bushes and cups his hands to his mouth. “Somebody help!”

  I’m on my way before I can consider the repercussions of such a knee-jerk decision. Unless they quiz me on FMLA compliance, I’m going to end up more of a hindrance than anything else. But it’s not as if I can turn around now that we’re already down the next hill and…

  Bile races up my throat at the scene before me.

  Bicycle parts and—God help us—human parts lay flattened under massive slabs of concrete. Above them, vehicles from the bridge have been strewn like a child’s Matchbox play set dumped out onto the floor. Upside down. Hanging off the side. Crushed beneath the ones who couldn’t stop behind them. Off to the side, a gas truck has rolled onto the bank of the river and burst into flames.

  It’s so hot I can feel it on my face from the hillside.

  Why would a truck even be down here if it weren’t part of the collapse? It’s as if someone deliberately drove down to the river and lost control, but that makes no sense. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to take a closer look at the carnage.

  The woman by Sellwood warned us not to look in the water north of Tilikum Crossing, but things are pretty bad here. From what I gather, the Ross Island Bridge was a relic, but it was long—like, thousands of feet long. The beams and girders and whatever else bridges are made of have pushed up against each other in the middle of the water, trapping dozens of cars still buoyant and propped enough to remain visible.

  I shudder to t
hink what’s lining the riverbed.

  Even if rescue crews wanted to attempt anything from boats, they’d get stu—

  “He’s out!” the man from before yells, as he drags a limp body to the tracks. He’s not wearing a vest, so I doubt he’s a trained volunteer. Is he another passerby?

  “We need something to get water out of the river!” a second man calls.

  “Uh…” I scan the area in a daze, looking for anything that could fit the purpose.

  “Got it!” a woman shouts back, pulling a car part from the stack of smashed concrete and metal.

  “We’ll need more than that,” he cautions, as a few more join the fray. “Everybody be careful!”

  I want to help, but I have no clue where to even begin. Besides, I’m half-naked and practically duct-taped together. What good am I going to do someone?

  “We need a medic over here!” the first man shouts, kneeling beside the truck driver.

  No one spares a glance in his direction, other than to offer apologetic grimaces. Seriously? No nurses or retired paramedics or… hell, anyone who’s ever been a lifeguard or babysitter? I venture a step closer, and the man flags me down. “Can you help me, please?”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure, I just…”

  “Name’s Abel,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Elena.”

  “This guy,” he starts before I even get over there, “said he needed to borrow my rig. I was like, ‘Nah, man. I’m sleepin’ here.’ He said please. I said sorry. So, he stepped up and put a gun through the window! Said he needed to draw attention down by the river. I didn’t stick around to find out why. I cried ‘Lord, help me!’ and dove to the ground. By the time I got down here, he was lyin’ across the trail in a cloud of smoke.”

  I’m about to ask what would possess someone to do such a thing when I notice a pair of familiar boots beyond him, one of which is at an all-wrong angle. My heart quickens with my footsteps, and then I’m there. At his side. Staring at Vincent.

  I can’t breathe.

  “What should we do?” Abel asks, but his voice sounds far away.

  Darkness webs my vision, and all I can see is Vincent lying motionless across the broken chain link and gravel. Slick crimson lines trail from his brow, and the leg… the leg is bad. I bite my lip and whisper, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing yet,” Abel answers as if I’m talking to him. A better man than most would be. “They always say ABCs, right? Airway, breathing, and… uh, circulation. So, we should probably tilt his head and lift his chin more.”

  I clear my throat. “Right.”

  He leans over Vincent, listening for breaths, and it’s all I can do to keep from curling into a ball of hysteria. Whose attention was he trying to get, rolling a truck like that? Surely not mine, because he thought I was still at Hamilton Park. So, who does that leave? Missie? Paige?

  A news helicopter buzzes overhead, angling for better footage of the flames, and it clicks.

  Vincent specifically waited until he got the truck down here to force the crash. He wasn’t signaling someone—he was signaling anyone! Did he find Dominic?

  Abel crosses his hands and starts wailing on Vincent’s bruised and battered chest. “Come on, buddy…”

  “Whoa, whoa!” Shit’s sake. I know he means well, but he’s going to break something. I move to Vincent’s other side and kneel down. “Haven’t you ever seen The Office? You do chest compressions to the beat of that Bee Gee’s song. You know, ah, ha, ha, ha…”

  Abel gives me a stare that says he spends more hours on the road than watching TV. I may have to rip this sling off and do it myself.

  “‘Stayin’ Alive?’” I try again, exasperated. “You’ve got to know that song.”

  “I do, I do,” he assures me. “I just didn’t get the reference.”

  Oh, we’re a crack team, all right.

  He resumes his position and starts singing under his breath, thrusting harder than before. Vincent rocks with each sharp movement, and it strikes me how human he seems now, so exposed and vulnerable. I want to hold him and tell him it’ll be all right, but I can’t. While Abel is giving CPR, I need to be concentrating on these other injuries.

  “Does anyone have bandages or cloth I can use?” I yell over to the bank. There are plenty of people here now, tirelessly working to either put out the trailer or roll the cab into the river. I guess they’re not too concerned with the thing blowing again.

  “I have a scarf!” a woman offers, hustling over as she unwinds it from her neck. “Will this work?”

  Purple plaid has never looked so good. “That’s perfect. Thank you.”

  She hurries off, and a quick rip with my teeth gives us a sort-of bandage to work with. But before I can set to work, he starts coughing.

  Abel freezes mid-compression. “You okay, buddy?”

  I hold my breath.

  Vincent blinks and gives a sluggish eye roll, trying to find his sight. When his unfocused gaze settles on me, his brow crumples. “Le… na?”

  “I’m here.” I wipe the blood from his eyes. “Just relax.”

  “Your… arm…”

  “Wait,” Abel cuts in, “you know him?”

  “He’s my…” I accidentally make eye contact, which sets my cheeks ablaze. “Lover?”

  Vincent coughs and chokes, struggling to laugh. I’d slap him if I weren’t afraid he’d break after that stunt with the truck.

  “Were you in on the plan to steal my truck?” Abel turns to me, suspicion hooding his eyes. “‘Cause I don’t want to be a part of whatever this is. Startin’ fires in the middle of a disaster… I swear, people ain’t got no sense.”

  Vincent reaches for my hand. “Dom’s… down there. I… couldn’t fit…”

  “It’s like he told you,” I assure Abel. “He needed to draw attention. His brother’s buried under the bridge debris.”

  “Oh.”

  “Vincent.” I carefully massage his leg down to the ankle, where I feel for a pulse. “You got your distress signal out. People are coming to help. So, what I need to know now is if you can feel this.”

  He gives a wincing nod, as I unlace his boot and toss it aside.

  “Good. Now can you wiggle your toes for me?”

  Abel shoots me a sideways glance as he finishes what I started with the scarf, and I quickly explain by way of another reference he won’t understand, “Grey’s Anatomy?”

  “That the doctor show where everyone sleeps with each other? My wife loves that.”

  “And with good reason.” I guess we’re not on Abel’s FBI watch list anymore. “What do you think we can use to splint this leg?”

  “Maybe sticks?”

  “Elena,” Vincent grits out in a strained voice, as he finally grabs my hand. “Get Dom… please…”

  “Okay.” I squeeze his fingers. “I’ll get him. Just rest.”

  What did I just promise? And why did I say lover? Was friend outside of my vocabulary?

  I carefully extract myself and edge up the hill a ways to find a foothold in the mangled pileup. For whatever reason, he thinks I’m capable of helping his brother and has entrusted this precious assignment to me. That means no screw-ups. This is the do or die moment we’ve been headed toward for the past week.

  “Get back!” someone screams. “The bank’s on fire!”

  Shit. This thing’s getting out of control. If the gasoline reaches this stack, the whole thing will blow. “Someone’s alive over here!”

  The motley crew of Samaritans backs away, exhausted from fighting a losing battle. Some take off up the hill, but many trot over to help with the rescue.

  “Where?” someone yells up at me.

  Uh… I haven’t spotted Dominic’s car yet, so I point at the general area. “That blue Outback.”

  “I see it!” a woman shouts, gesturing toward a skyward bumper in the middle. “Can we move this slab without the stack shifting?”

  Another walks the perimeter. “What if someone dropped down
from the top and knocked out the windshield?”

  Apparently, I’m not the only one getting desensitized to traumatic imagery.

  “Who’s going to crawl down in an unstable mound of debris?” a man shoots back at her. “It’s not worth it.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s not like we have the luxury of time, Ethan!”

  “Maybe if some nut job didn’t try to drive a semi down here…” he grumbles back.

  “Hey!” My voice takes on a hard edge as I stare him down. “He had a medical emergency. Check the attitude.”

  A lie, but I don’t have time for shit.

  I eye the bridge remains with static dread. Whatever our plan, it needs to happen now. We didn’t come this far to lose him. I take a deep breath, sneak a glance at Vincent, and crouch down. “I’ll go.”

  “It’s not going to help that guy if you get yourself killed,” the man shouts, cupping his hands. “This is stupid. You’ve got one arm.”

  He’s right. The slightest shift could crush Dominic and me in one fell swoop—and without me here to advocate for his rescue, they may leave Vincent behind to burn—but I can’t live with myself knowing I didn’t try. With my bad arm tucked tight against me, I wriggle my way into the abyss.

  CHAPTER 24

  Turns out, after that initial squeeze, it’s a nightmarish chute to the bottom.

  The impact jars every one of my joints, and I struggle to keep my footing on the uneven slabs supporting the stack. It’s dark down here, darker than I thought it would—

  Wait! I can fix that. A quick grope brings Vincent’s flashlight into grasp, and I click it on to illuminate a scene that will haunt my nightmares until I die… which shouldn’t be long.

  “C-Can anyone hear me?” I try to keep my voice low, just in case there’s some kind of avalanche physics law that applies here. “Dominic? Anyone?”

  It was bad on the outside; it’s worse in here. Rebar protrudes from one side like the spine of a monster, with a limp figure hanging impaled midway up. There’s glass everywhere. Crumpled concrete, too. And overhead, all I see is smoke.

  I put the flashlight in my mouth and use my good arm as leverage to climb onto the tire of a red sports car. There’s a gold SUV smashed into its side, and if I can climb it, I’ll be level with the opening where we saw the Outback’s bumper. I just really wish the windshield weren’t facing me. A woman is slumped in the driver’s seat like she’s asleep at the wheel. And beside her… beside her, a kid about Paige’s age has her head on the dash.