Going Home

GOING HOME

 

 

It was the fourth game of the basketball season for the University of New Mexico.

The 16,000-seat arena was filled to near capacity when the first explosion detonated on the east side of the structure.

After a muffled “thrump,” a noticeable tremor passed through the great building—a desert leviathan of cement, steel and glass—mortally struck by a monstrous hammer, the vibration somehow more terrifying than the sound itself. A second and third explosion, louder and closer to the northeast and southeast corners of the building, brought the darting basketball players on the court thirty-seven feet below to a standstill. They stood milling about, staring upward in confusion toward the alien sounds high above them.

Jenny was standing on the concourse near the top of the cement stairway of Section S, her descent down to her seat delayed as she looked in bewilderment at the far side of the arena, her cardboard container of hotdogs and cokes forgotten in her hands. Thoughts of David, her date that afternoon, were pushed from her mind.

She knew of the sixty-million-dollar, year-long renovations on the arena and the addition of the luxury suites and club seating overhead. Could what she heard and felt be the result of a construction accident? Another explosion and the cement shuddered beneath her feet as if in response to another mammoth sledgehammer strike. Jenny’s heart seemed to pause in her chest, and her stomach roiled. This was no accident. The word “terrorist” exploded in her mind.

The cardboard carryall fell to the floor unheeded from trembling hands. Her eyes widened in horror as she gaped at a world crumbling around her—the great leviathan had commenced its death throes.

The entire roofline opposite her was sagging, groaning like a dying beast. Seemingly in slow motion, the second level, holding the luxury suites and club seating, succumbed to gravity and joined the concourse below with a thundering roar, tons of concrete crushing concession stands, an athletic store, people on the walkway, and the upper ten rows of arena seating and their occupants.

Billowing clouds of cement dust roiled out high over the basketball court below. It was almost incomprehensible, but the steel-paneled Behlen roof—the vast, protective covering of the immense complex, complete with lighting, acoustical tiling, multi-use ductwork, and massive, hidden heating and cooling units—began its long fall to the court and concession stands a hundred feet beneath, promising to turn the below-ground arena into a gigantic graveyard.

A huge, deafening explosion erupted from somewhere behind Jenny, throwing her into the railing in front of her. Despite the muffled ringing in her ears, she could hear the screams welling up from over 15,000 basketball fans as the walls and roofing on the other three sides of the arena continued their implosions down onto either trapped or fleeing occupants of the dying giant.

A massive support column to Jenny’s left cracked with a muted popping sound. A gigantic slab of concrete crumpled onto the concourse to her right, several people disappearing beneath its enormous bulk. It would only be a matter of seconds before the arena’s west side finished collapsing, the well-placed explosives bringing down the walls, roofing, and upper story—spelling out in falling debris the fate of those below.

Panicked, shrieking people jammed the concourse, pushing and shoving, trying to escape the horror they didn’t understand even now. Jenny was on her knees, buckled by the latest blast. She pulled herself back up by the railing and looked down, trying to locate David in the chaos of fleeing, terrified people. Several had fallen; those following climbed and trampled over them. Then she saw him. David, trying to clamber up over the bench seats along with hundreds of others. He looked up from fourteen rows below, saw her and waved her back away, signaling her to flee.

Jenny shouldered her way into the yelling, screaming mob on the concourse, maintained her balance and fought her way toward one of the exits. Her mind registered daylight shining into the once enclosed arena from the slowly opening roof; vast sections of the former ceiling had filled the court and seating areas, entombing the two basketball teams and many of their fans.

Support beams failed; steel girders groaned and twisted as the blasts started a domino effect weakening one area and overloading another. The upper level on the west side collapsed, hastening the fall of the remaining steel roofing high above.

Jenny was knocked to the floor by the terrified crowd as they all fought for survival. She crawled to a wall near a ‘Domino’s Pizza’ concession stand and pulled herself up. One final explosion erased any hope that the arena’s west side would somehow survive.

The blast threw Jenny to the floor again. All her numbed ears could discern was a dull roar, her vision blurred by tears and thick cement dust, the rotten egg smell of gas and burning insulation assaulting her nose.

She regained her footing just as the raw electrical wires ignited the ruptured gas line. The blast tossed her into the debris behind her. Jenny felt a stabbing pain in her back. Then nothing.

 

It had been over a minute since the last explosion; the dust and smoke were thick, despite a now open roof and several breached walls. Occasional rumbles and crashes from shifting and settling debris, the crackling of fires, and the moans and cries from the injured and dying—many buried in the rubble—combined to form a continuous background chorus of pain. Amid this shrouded carnage, silhouettes and voices in the eerie gloom made their way through the jigsaw of broken obstacles toward hoped-for exits.

On the concourse level, near a destroyed pizza stand and kitchen, one of these shadows separated itself from those around it. Grim-faced and dust-covered, a dark-haired young man neared a steel girder that had fallen at an angle, now propped up by the remnants of an interior wall.

He entered the stillness under this partial shelter before stopping and staring at the motionless body of a young woman. She was sitting against a broken slab of concrete beneath the beam, her jean-clad legs splayed out in front of her; her cherry-colored sweatshirt now two-toned—the lower half a darker red—soaked with blood. But the tear tracks on her pale, dusty cheeks belied her death. That and a slight twitch from her sneaker’d left foot.

A feeble breeze attempted to dissipate the acrid fog wafting through the immediate area. Michael knelt next to the woman. She was a pretty girl with dark hair and a pale, “peaches and cream” complexion. Eyes closed, chin resting on her chest, she could well have been sleeping.

The blood and the iron rod protruding from her body below her right breast contradicted that impression. The woman wasn’t just sitting against the broken concrete—she was impaled upon it. Thrown against the damaged wall, she was skewered by a section of quarter-inch-thick diameter iron reinforcing rod. Somehow, she was still alive.

Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked up and stared at the man with chestnut-brown eyes, confused and clouded with pain. “Help me,” she whispered. “Move it… please.”

Surprised, Michael’s heart leaped into his throat. He glanced at the six inches of iron rebar jutting from her body. “I’m… ah… I’m not a doctor, but I know that if I pulled you off that… you’d bleed to death before I could even get you out the door, let alone to a hospital. The internal injuries—”

“No… no,” she interrupted. “Under me.” She winced and bent her left leg, her hand dropping to the floor beside her left hip. “Sitting on it… hurts.”

Michael’s handsome face went blank, dark-brown eyes questioning. Then his face flushed and grew hot as he realized the problem and what she wanted. A jagged chunk of cement was wedged beneath her, and she wanted it moved.

He stammered, “But I… it’s… it’s…”

“Please… it hurts.” She tried shifting her lower body slightly, moving the weight from her left hip to the right. The metal shaft transecting her chest failed to move, and she screamed as the immobile iron bar inflicted even more damage inside her battered body.

Her agonized shriek spurred Michael into action. Gingerly working his hands beneath her tight jeans, he freed the uneven piece and tossed it to the side. He plopped down next to her, his back to the wall and breathing heavily, not only from tension and exertion but from embarrassment, surprising and unexpected.

“Thank you, that was hurting almost as much as this….” She looked down at the glistening-red iron rebar. The trajectory of the alien, metal spear passing through her was slightly downward from rear to front; blood was seeping along the metal shaft and dripping from the end, the droplets almost like tears slowly being shed by her body.

Real tears were tracking down her cheeks, mixing with streaks of black mascara, marring her pale complexion. The young woman grimaced as a liquid cough racked her, followed by a long, drawn-out groan as her body shifted again on the impaling spit within her. A pink, frothy bubble that had formed at one corner of her mouth burst, the blood-tainted spittle running down her chin.

Michael felt helpless. “I’ll be right back; I want to get something,” he said. He started to push himself up, but she grabbed his arm, her nails digging in painfully.

Her expression was pleading, her eyes begging. “Please don’t leave me.”

He held her hand and smiled. “I’m not leaving you; I’m just going over there.” He indicated the demolished concession area nearby. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” She let go of his hand. He thought he detected a flicker of a smile in response to his feeble try at humor.

Michael picked his way through the razed and rubble-strewn area, bypassing the partially buried bodies of two concession workers and detouring around a small, smoldering fire.

A little farther and he found what he wanted; the sink and wash area now crumpled like aluminum foil by a huge I-beam. Water had spread over the floor from broken lines, mixing with the blood and dust. Michael located two towels, soaked them and headed back.

He retraced his steps as sunlight fought its way through the open roof in a feeble attempt at penetrating the miasma of smoke and dust, now casting a surreal glow on the death and destruction around him. He choked back a rising surge of despair.

Michael knelt next to his grievously wounded charge. “I told you I’d be back. Glad you decided to stick around.”

Her expression defined gratefulness. She smiled weakly. “Very funny.”

He put one towel around the back of her neck, rested her head against the wall, and cleaned her face with the other. Her soft brown eyes focused on him in abject appreciation as he continued his ministrations. He wiped the blood from her lips and the corners of her mouth. “You know since we’re now on a fairly intimate basis…” he could sense himself blushing again... “all things considered, I should at least know your name.”

“Jennifer… Jennifer Peterson, but all my friends call me Jenny,” she said. She looked at him expectantly.

“Michael, but all my friends call me… well… er… Michael.” He smiled, a bit self-conscious. Several awkward seconds passed as he continued to clean her.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I, Michael?” she asked.

He tried not to look at the darker crimson of the sodden sweatshirt below her breasts or the steady weeping of blood from the shaft’s end. “As soon as the emergency crews get here, they’ll cut that bar off at the wall and get you to a hospital where they can remove it.” He looked away. “Listen, I can hear the sirens now; the fire department and ambulances will be here in minutes.” He was avoiding her question. And judging from her expression, she knew it.

“Michael, do you have a cell phone?”

“Sorry, no. I lost it somewhere trying to get up here.”

“Mine’s in my purse; I left it with David.” She looked at Michael, a hopeful look in her eyes. “I don’t suppose you know a David Ortiz?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“David’s my date. We were in row 14, Section S. I was getting something to eat, but he was still down there when this side of the arena blew up. I hope to God he’s okay. I wish I could call my parents.” She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back her tears, her lower lip quivering. “I just want to go home.”

Michael sat back down next to her. “Where are you from, Jenny? You have a… um… Midwestern accent?”

Now she managed a small grin. “Good guess. I’m from Nebraska—your stereotypical farm girl, born and bred. My parents still live there.”

“How did you end up in New Mexico?”

“My high school friend, Amber, got a scholarship to UNM. I visited the campus with her, loved the place, and decided to enroll.” Her expression dimmed. “Amber doesn’t like basketball; I wish I’d gone to the movies with her today.”

She raised her hand to brush the hair out of her eyes, and her sleeve pulled back to reveal a silver bracelet, several charms jingling faintly and glowing in the eerie light.

“That’s a pretty bracelet,” he said.

“My parents gave it to me for my tenth birthday. My Dad said it was a special birthday since I was hitting double digits in age.” She held it close for Michael. “See, it’s the Ten Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer, one charm for each.”

She attempted to shift herself closer to Michael, then gasped and squeezed her eyes shut as the fire in her chest blazed white-hot. She groaned through clenched teeth, the tendons in her neck standing out.

When she breathed, there was a moist rattle from her lungs as they slowly filled with blood. She whispered, “I’m scared, Michael. Promise me you won’t leave, don’t leave me alone, please…”

“I promise.” He drew an imaginary X on his chest. “Cross my heart. I’m not going anywhere.” He sidled as close as possible, his body pressing against hers. He turned almost entirely on his side towards her and slipped his arm around her shoulders, cradling her head against his shoulder with his other hand. “Where in Nebraska?”

“Thedford,” she whispered. “Population 242. We had a farm nearby, and life was just like in the old movies: chores before school, chores after school, milking cows, feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, a pet goat, 4-H Club, the Thomas County Fair—that was the highlight of the year. The highlight of our week was going to church on Sunday and getting together with family and friends after. We made the drive into North Platte every month to pick up stuff we couldn’t raise on the farm or get in Thedford. Once or twice a year, we’d trek into Lincoln to check out all the new-fangled things in the big city. You can see why I wanted to leave; there was a whole other world out here.” She paused to catch her breath, which was becoming increasingly difficult.

Her head was heavy on his shoulder, her growing pallor alarming. “Compared with what’s going on in today’s world, that lifestyle doesn’t sound half bad,” he said.

Jenny managed a soft, two-syllable laugh. Then solemnly, “Coming to Albuquerque is my one claim to fame. I’m only nineteen. I’ve never gone anywhere; I never even left Nebraska until I came here. I intended to visit the Grand Canyon and maybe the Pacific Ocean next year.” She paused before continuing, “And I’m still a virgin, Michael,” she confessed.

He could feel her crying silently. He didn’t know what to say.

Her voice was almost inaudible. “I’m never going to fall in love, never going to make love, never have children or a home, never...” She paused for a few seconds, her breathing thick and labored. “Pretty pathetic, huh? Now—”

Michael interrupted, “What if you could do all those things—and more.”

Jenny tilted her head back with a wide-eyed, questioning look.

“Maybe all the good things that ever were, or are, or ever will be—and good things still to be imagined—will be yours to experience forever,” he said.

Still puzzled but managing a smile, “What are you talking about?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “Just my definition of Heaven, I guess. The place we came from, the home many will return to one day...”

Jenny coughed raggedly, deeply, her head and body jerking forward, moving in agony on the metal spear impaling her. Her coughing turned into a scream. Bright red blood spewed from her mouth, spattering down onto her shirt and Michael’s arm as he grabbed her, trying to keep her from moving. He held her in his arms in a vice-like grip until her choking subsided, and her head lolled back, her eyes closed. Whether dead or unconscious, he didn’t know.

He pulled the damp towel from the nape of her neck and cleaned the blood from her face. She moaned, and her eyelids fluttered open. Eyes big as silver dollars focused on him, eyes filled with pain and fear.

He helped move her head back to his shoulder, where she buried her face in his neck. “The movies were right,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his skin.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m cold… so cold… I can hardly feel my legs or anything…. oh, my God… oh, no… oh, no….” She raised her hand feebly to her face, covering, trying to hide from him.

“What is it?” he said.

“I’ve wet myself… oh, my God, I’ve wet myself….”

He could feel her tears on his neck. “Shhhhhh, Jenny, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re going home. Trust me; it’ll be all right, I promise. Heaven is waiting for you, I just know it.” He held her close.

Even with her mouth near his ear, her voice was faint. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters...”

She was reciting the 23rd Psalm. As she whispered the words, her warm breath caressed his skin, and her eyelashes made an occasional flicker, tickling his neck, reminding him of that old song “Butterfly Kisses.”

Her words became hesitant and faltering, beginning to fade. “… I will… fear no evil… for thou… thou… art with me…”

Her voice became inaudible, then silent, melding into the surrounding vacuum. The faint, rhythmic caress of her breaths ceased, and Michael sighed with the last delicate touch of a “butterfly kiss” as her lashes fluttered goodbye upon his cheek.

Michael finished the Psalm for Jenny. “... surely goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life, and you shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

He gently laid her head back against the wall, her sightless eyes staring through him, no longer aware of the world. On his knees, he straddled her, took her by the shoulders and pulled her forward, freeing her from the iron shaft that had held her prisoner. He laid her on her back and folded her hands on her abdomen. Michael smiled, tears in his eyes. He closed hers, brushed the hair from her face, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “You’re going home, Jenny.”

The sound of footsteps nearby. It was Gabriel, sandy-haired and freckle-faced, staring at his kneeling friend. He spoke, his voice breaking the silence. “I’m finished, as are all the others helping us today. It’s time for us to go” He peered into the haze at all the surrounding destruction. “Maybe the world really is going to Hell, Michael.”

Michael frowned in disapproval.

Gabriel looked away. “Sorry, it just seems that fewer and fewer are going home every year. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth our time anymore.”

Michael looked down at Jenny, then back at his ageless companion and smiled.

“Gabriel, you know how He is; it would be worth it even if there were only one.”

 

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Impressum

Texte: John C. Laird
Bildmaterialien: John C. Laird/Alexandra Laird
Lektorat: Alexandra Laird
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.02.2012

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