by Ric Dawson
Jack appeared in the smoky gloom to stand next to Pono.
“Inversion layer has trapped the smoke,” Pono said.
“Yep.” Jack watched the fire line along the mountains.
“We’re losing them. Kanapapiki,” Pono cursed.
“We could use some of that crazy hudu magic of yours. Think you could shift the upper winds to go north instead of blowing all the smoke back on us?” Jack said half-joking.
Pono laughed harshly. “If only it were that easy, Jack.” Pono turned to look him in the eye.
“I know you don’t believe or understand. It’s ancient Hawaiian, and it was only due to an extraordinary chance meeting that I learned of it,” Pono said.
“I remember, you told us of the woman. Everyone thinks you’re a bit unhinged. I don’t,” Jack said.
Pono turned his attention back to the burning night sky overhead.
He remembered when he had shown the team his magic trick. They were gathered around the small conference table at work and he had made coffee rotate in a small cup without touching it. After the initial gasps, they all clapped and congratulated him on his magician skills.
They examined the cup and flat-out told him it was a great trick. Everyone except Jack, who stared at the cup, lost in thought, then looked into Pono’s eyes with an expression of part wonder, part fear.
Pono didn’t make a big deal of it and soon everyone chalked it up to great entertainment, all but Jack.
Perhaps Jack was right. Maybe he should try the mental ritual the woman, Iekika Mili’lani, had taught him those many years ago. She said he had an ancient blood-talent. A birthright derived from old gods. He still practiced the rituals. He had not forgotten those extraordinary days and nights out on the ocean when she had named him great Nanauli and Po’i’Uhane Kahuna, one who could command the elements. Pono smiled as he remembered her dark crème skin, the swell of the waves, and the sea winds.
Nodding to himself, Pono took a deep breath. Calming his thoughts, he began the mantric chant in his mind. The sounds of the raging night muted as the mental resonances grew. He focused on the winds high above. Angry, vengeful winds tore through the sky and vented their wrath on the mountains like the elemental gods they were. He felt time slow and rose to fly with them, sweeping broad paths of turbulent gusts rushed with power.
“North,” he whispered to the elemental furies of the sky. The wind furies whipped around him in a crescendo of wails and howls.
“North,” he urged, fueled by overwhelming compassion for all those that suffered around him. A colossal wave of power swept into his mind.
“North,” he roared with the fierce shrieking howls of hard-driven, ocean gales.
The winds obeyed and monstrous gusts pushed the mass of air over the mountains, northward.
Pono soared with them, smashing the hillsides with powerful fists, exhilarating in the rush of swirling speed.
When his spirit finally came back to his body, Jack was still standing there watching the night sky with him.
A light breeze was coming from the south, pushing the heavy smoke northward. The snow fell in a slant. Visibility improved and the choking smoke cleared.
Jack glanced at Pono.
“No way. I’ll be damned. You are one crazy son of a …” The words trailed off as Jack gaped at the clearing night air. Then, taking a quick look at the revealed injured, barely breathing in the streets, he hurried back to the trucks to get oxygen tanks.
Pono would have followed him but a wave of fatigue swept over him, dropping him to his knees. The dizziness passed and he stood back up as Jack and Sal hurried over to those on the ground.
Lifting his eyes to the night sky, Pono prayed in a soft whisper,
“E hele ka `elemakule, ka luahine,
a me na kamali`i a moe i ke ala
`a`ohe mea nana e ho`opilikia.”
(Let the old men, the old women, and the children go
and sleep on the wayside; let them not be molested.)*
With a whispered prayer to Pele and her rivals, the goddesses of snow, Pono went back to his task of saving those he could among the thousands who suffered.
# # #
Diffuse yellow chased the fire-dark and Pono peered up at the muddy sky.
“Morning’s here. You ready for round two, Kemosabe?” Jack asked as he walked up.
“Always. Need to find a place for the bodies. We can’t let them lie in the street with day coming on,” Pono said.
“A semi-trailer is coming down from Woodland with more body bags. Should be here in thirty minutes,” Jack replied.
“Okay Jack, after we unload the truck let’s load it back up with bodies. We will need to get as many as we can in each truckload, and it’s going to take several days to move them all.” Pono kept his voice strong, authoritative. He was in command. He knew Jack was feeling the same horror.
Bodies littered the road in both directions as far as the eye could see.
“Sounds good, Chief.” Jack forced a nod. They both knew there would be time for mourning, a lot of time.
Pono looked down the road. The smoke had cleared through the night as the fires died out, leaving the charred husks of buildings and crumpled spears of blackened trees. Thousands had died on the street, right in front of him, from burns, radiation, smoke, or cold. The sheer numbers were staggering.
A semi-truck lumbered by as volunteers unloaded body bags and gathered the dead.
# # #
Pono
The sun breached the clouds, sending rays of light to chase the shadows.
“Holy crap,” Jack exclaimed as Pono jerked his head up. A huge crowd filled the street, not hundreds, but thousands, a tsunami of humanity.
“Jack, get on the radio and tell them to bring up some help; we have a sea of survivors coming up the road that will need immediate care,” Pono shouted.
“Roger!” Jack ran to the comms truck.
As the mass of people came closer, Pono saw a tall blonde out in front. Unlike the other survivors, she beamed health and vitality.
Pono stopped. These people looked unharmed, other than the dust and dirt, torn clothes and matted hair.
“How was that possible?” he whispered.
He began his litany into the microphone, “Please remove your clothes and get into the car wash.”
Volunteers and first responders walked through the huge crowd. They separated those for triage from those who were mobile and only had minor injuries.
Jack stood at his side. “Where are all the triage cases?” he asked.
“There doesn’t appear to be many. These people may be our first long-term survivors,” Pono gestured as he continued to wave the people by.
With an odd awareness, Pono felt better. Even the long lines of fatigue in Jack’s face were easing. The very air seemed alive.
“Jack, do you feel better ? Light, refreshed?” Pono asked.
“Yeah, I do. Maybe getting our second, one-hundredth wind!” Jack’s craggy smile peered from behind the head gear of his CBRN suit. “Let’s get to work.” Jack moved into the throng of people, shouting orders.
The firefighter helping with the triage walked up to Pono.
“This is really strange, sir. These people’s injuries are in various stages of healing. Burn-damaged tissues should be raw and infected. Yet they appear as if they have been in treatment for weeks. It’s impossible. Not a single person, so far, in this group needs to be triaged,” she said.
“I don’t understand it either. But I’m not going to question it. I’m grateful for whatever merciful power is helping. They are still carrying radioactive debris so let’s get them cleaned up.”
The firefighter looked at Pono oddly for a moment before nodding her head.
Pono watched for the tall blonde woman to emerge from the sea of people around the crowded clothing tables. Still dripping, people surrounded the tables and jostled for clothes in the frosted air. He saw the woman with an arm around a young teen. Th
ey pushed through shifting paths in the milling crowd and headed out to the main street. He picked a course that would intercept her.
“Hi. I’m Sergeant Pono Kamaka. I know you’re both exhausted.” He looked from the older woman to the younger woman.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I hoped you had a moment for a few questions?”
The woman stopped and looked into his eyes. “Yes, of course, Officer.”
“My medical team noticed that very few of the people with you suffered from severe trauma. It has us baffled. Was there anything unusual that occurred when coming out from the city?” Pono looked into her eyes. They were deep pools. Intoxicating. He was speechless. He pulled the hood back from his face and let the cold air refresh him.
She looked confused and embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, it must be incredibly traumatic. Could we talk again when you’re rested?” Pono said.
“Yes, yes, thank you, my daughter and I are both exhausted. We’d be happy to share a ride with anyone. My name is Cindy,” she replied.
“There are cars running up to Woodland Park. It will be much easier to find a bed there. If you will give me a moment, I will find you a ride.”
“Thank you, that would be great!” The woman looked relieved.
“I’m Megan,” the young teen said. “You look Hawaiian! Can you surf? Do you have tattoos?”
The woman had an exasperated look on her face.
“Well. Yes, and yes.” For the first time in twelve hours, Pono smiled. “One sec, okay?” He held up a finger and spoke into his radio on the team’s channel.
“Rucker, see if you can find a vehicle to take this woman and her daughter into Woodland Park.”
“Roger. I’ll get someone over to you,” Rucker responded in a hurried voice.
Moments later, a late-model station wagon edged over to them. A volunteer crouched behind the wheel.
As the car pulled alongside Pono, a weathered face leaned out a rolled-down window. “I’ve got room for two more,” the volunteer driver said.
“I see you have several injured already,” Pono said, looking into the back of the station wagon. The back seats were flat down and packed with three people stretched out. Lines from blood bags ran into their heavily wrapped arms. Their bandaged heads butted up against the front seat.
“I have plenty of room in the front seat for passengers. This old car is sturdy. She can carry a lot.” The tired driver grinned.
Pono motioned to Cindy and Megan. “Thanks. This way please, ladies.”
“Let me know where you drop them, please.”
The older stubble bearded volunteer just nodded.
Cindy and Megan got in the front passenger seat with tired smiles. Waving to Pono, the old man turned the car around and headed up the nearby northbound ramp to Woodland Park.
Pono stared after the vehicle, deep in thought. There was something primal about the woman, like the rains that nourished elemental earth spirits. She reminded him of someone a long time ago, elegant, blonde, and mysterious. She sparkled in the surf of the Hawaiian Isles. Iekika.
The car faded from view as Pono turned back to the slow-moving throng of humanity that swarmed the road.
Sergeant Jack Smith materialized out of nowhere. “Hey. Boss. I’ve been running some numbers.”
Pono turned his gaze from the still growing mass of people. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“We have about two hundred vehicles running to Woodland to move the injured plus ten semis for bodies. But this latest group is going to swamp us. I’m guessing we have about fifty thousand here, maybe more. And honestly, why they are even able to walk out of that hell is a mystery to me.”
Pono nodded. “I can’t understand it either. It doesn’t make sense. Half of them at least, should be overcome by burn shock and pain. Dying on the road.”
“Well that’s not the issue right now. Getting them to Woodland Park is. It takes an hour to get them up to Woodland and a car to get back. We are getting an average five to a car. So we are looking at ten thousand hours to move them all.” Jack took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “That’s fifty hours of non-stop convoys just to move this bunch. That’s over two days, Boss, just for this lot here. That doesn’t count the thousands we have bedded down in Manitou. Many of who are worse off than this lot. And to top that off, it’s snowing and we have nowhere to put these people while they wait for transport.”
“You’re just full of good news, Jack. Pass that on to local fire and police. The Incident Command Post is up. Give them a heads up as well.”
“Roger, Boss.” Jack turned briskly and headed back to the comms truck.
# # #
Cindy
A wrought-iron sign spanned the road overhead. “Historic Manitou Springs,” it read.
Small hills rose on either side and fire-gutted businesses stood sentinel in the snow. Smoke and fog drifted on the morning breeze.
The surrounding hills were silent under a frosted blanket of ash-gray.
Emergency lights filled the avenue. Giant tents squatted on the road like enormous bullfrogs.
Lines of people, all naked, walked through a nearby car wash. People in yellow plastic suits sprayed everyone with the car wash sprayers. Other yellow suits directed people to undress. Giant piles of clothes lined the avenue.
The seriously injured went through a different line to small tents set up in front of the car wash. A conveyor belt moved them into a medical tent with yellow suits working around makeshift medical tables. Waste water was routed off to the left behind the car wash.
Volunteers moved people in and out of the only remaining motel.
As Cindy walked towards the first responders, a yellow suit waved towards the car wash. A loudspeaker blared to life.
“Mom?” Megan said, shivering and blushing.
“Do as they say, sugar,” Cindy replied.
After removing her soiled clothes, Cindy led her daughter and Nancy toward the car wash.
Nancy had been walking better, but she still looked a mess. Caked vomit and diarrhea covered her lower body. The blisters on her arms had hardened and angry red skin had subsided to a faint pink. A yellow suit saw Nancy and walked over. A needle swung wildly on his handheld device. His eyes wide, he hurried her over to a conveyor belt near a busy medical tent. Volunteers armed with brushes laid Nancy face down while a yellow suit sprayed a frothy solution over her. Heated blowers dried her scrubbed skin as the conveyor moved her into the medical tent and out of sight.
The warm water and high pressure stream stung. Someone pushed Cindy from behind and she stumbled.
“Stay calm, please. Do not push,” a yellow suit said. Three people were going through each of the four stalls at a time. A yellow suit operated the sprayer and directed everyone to get shampoo gel from a bucket and wash their hair.
Several jet-sized fans rotated hot air over the packed people.
Cindy didn’t dawdle. The cold ground numbed her feet even with the hot blowers.
Volunteers stood at tables by the motel. They helped everyone clean out ears and nose with Q-tips, then directed them to other tables laden with donated clothing. Cindy grabbed a puce wool skirt, an olive green blouse, and a cerulean turtleneck sweater, grateful she found anything in her size. Megan looked at her and cracked a grin as she grabbed a white fisherman’s sweater to go with a chartreuse pantsuit. Neither woman bothered to look at the piles of off-sized undergarments.
“We should be thankful for anything at all, young lady,” Cindy said.
“Oh, I am, Mom. It’s just, I’ve never seen you wear anything that wasn’t designer. That’s, um, an interesting combination,” Megan replied. Cindy gave her a sour look and rummaged through a pile of shoes, then stopped in her tracks. Ahead, row upon row of body bags filled both sides of the road as far as the eye could see.
The crowd that had followed her were shoulder to shoulder back toward the ruin of Colorado Springs. Shuffling through the ash-covered snow, they see
med in good spirits.
One of the first responders approached her. Broad chested, his muscled arms stretched the grime-covered Hazmat suit like saran-wrap around packed meat. Her pulsed quickened as his eyes captivated her. They were soft brown and filled with empathy. She looked closer and found herself drawn in. Power. Cindy sensed it at a subliminal level. Deep, slow-moving like the mountains. He was speaking. Blushing, she managed a polite reply while trying to regain some composure.
Her lips trembled.
“Oh stop,” she thought.
He removed the hood of his yellow suit, and those penetrating yet gentle eyes trapped hers. She gasped and looked down, hoping he hadn’t seen her staring. She said something in response.
What had she said? She was confused.
The wave of tingling in her chest and fingers matched the butterflies in her stomach.
“Thank you,” she heard herself saying as they walked over to a nearby station wagon. A tired volunteer unlocked the front passenger door. Megan looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She ignored the gesture with pressed lips.
As she slid into the front seat, patients in the back seat moaned. Plastic tubes and blood packs hung on the inside roof of the car. Their injuries were wrapped and covered. She sent them a silent prayer. Unconsciously, her aura expanded, cocooning them. The driver turned the old station wagon around. With a shudder, the car dodged several burnt-out cars as it barreled up the ramp.
Cindy closed her eyes and laid her head back. She had seen enough of the dead on roadsides. She focused on the sound of the wind whistling past her open window. The smells of blood and burnt rubber faded. Her spirits rose on a perception of hope that transcended desolation. The car swung left and right. She open her eyes. Smoke and desolation surrounded her. Once out of the canyon, vehicle traffic all but vanished, replaced by straggling refugees stretched in endless lines on both sides of the road.
There were thousands. What else could they do? Supplies in Manitou Springs would run out. Beds would fill. It was walk or be stranded with no food, water, or power.