Yes, but what about the Deaf Kids from New Guinea?

 It was the first time I had ever been to Madison, Wisconsin. It was one of a number of similar stops throughout the upper Midwest. I had heard some reputation of the university there, but otherwise had no expectations before arrival. A road named for fish hatcheries was not a good omen.

As I crawled over broken glass on my hands and knees I became aware of a couple things. There was blood running down my face and I could not tell if it was my own. A cursory examination of my scalp revealed a couple of minor lacerations. Probably also from glass. I also became acutely aware of a tremendous double earache, accompanied by a persistent, high pitched ringing. Blast concussion. The damned thing must have gone off really close.

I was still able to hear sounds around me, though it was muffled like being underwater. Over the piercing ringing there were the chaotic sounds of alarms, distant sirens and screams. There seemed to be screaming from any direction. Screams of anguish, pain and terror. There was smoke in the air and a myriad of flaming debris lay all about the scene. Billowing plumes of black smoke rose from the sickening fume of burning plastics. The smoldering remnant of a wiring harness was in my path, only steps ahead. Through my blood and sweat soaked vision I could read the code on the red wire: 01A0000719.

The ringing was maddening, my ears and head feeling like a great bell that had been rung by some vicious strike from a ball bat. Beneath the merciless din, the muted chaos all about, there was another sound that arose from beneath. It was the rapid coursing of my own pulse, pounding like a syndrum slowly dialing up it's tempo. Breath! I had to remind myself. Sucked in a deep breath filled with acrid, black particulate, petroleum fumes and something metallic. Copper. It tasted green.

I began to push myself up from the ground, brushing away glass and other debris before placing any further weight on my hands. I discovered that I was right upon the edge of where asphalt met the concrete curb. I placed my hands forward with my fingertips extended into the concrete. I was momentarily paralyzed by what I saw. A ghastly soup of automotive fluids, blood and water spilled down the curb toward some distant forming pool. After a moment I had absorbed what I was seeing and gasped, pushing myself up to my knees. I felt an onset of nausea and a veil of red began to cloud my sight.

Breath! You have to remember to breath! For some reason Noonday Underground's Barcelona began playing in my head. The red fog faded and for the first moment since I had found myself on the ground I could look all around. Across the road there was a large building, a warehouse or garage of some sort. It looked to have been about twenty-thousand square feet, one of those steel buildings. The first two thirds of the building was just gone, as if vaporized. A ball of fire blazed in a space one might guess had been the front entrance. The gaping maw of the rest of the building displayed a jagged mouth of loose wires and pipes; the security fencing that had lined the front of the property was ripped away, the edges hanging like the loose threads of a ripped sleeve.  

Strewn all across the road and up and down the block for as far as one could see there was a field of wreckage. There were bits and pieces of many things unrecognizable from their source. Scraps of metal and plastic; fragments of wood and fabric; an eyeglass case and someone's garage door opener. And body parts. There were a few arms identifiable. In other places there were only blood and pulp where something human had once been. It was a theater of the surreal.

Still resting upon my knees I turned to see the arrival of the the first fire and EMT at the scene. The sirens whirred until mute and were replaced with the staccato of radio chatter. There were still more sirens in the distance. I rose to my feet finally, still feeling a little wobbly. 

Directly across the road, maybe ten feet from the opposite curb there sat an overturned minivan or SUV. I think it was a Buick. Seated a few feet away from this, in the middle of the street, there was a young woman, probably in her early twenties. She had a wild, auburn mop of hair that floated all about her head. This was all the more pronounced by the blanching of her face. She had gone white as a sheet and her mouth was moving... only no sounds seemed to come out. Her arms were raised in front of her to chest height. Both of her hands had been severed and blood streamed from the shattered stumps. Barcelona played on in my head. I don't remember thinking about doing it, only moving toward her and kneeling down to her side.

"Hey! Gotta hold those arms up sweetheart. I'm gonna help you. What's your name kid?"

Her mouth continued moving, but even if I could have heard I don't think any sound came out. She was wearing a lightweight, fleece hoodie. Without objection I peeled this away from her and ripped it into a couple of lengths for tourniquets. It was crude, but within a couple of minutes I had each arm tied off as tight as possible. She was clearly in shock and still required assistance holding her arms up.

"That's gonna keep you from bleeding to death kid. There are squads coming. I'll stay here with you until they come to help, okay?"

For the first time I received something like an acknowledgement. It was very weak, but she managed a nod. I continued to try to keep her conscious, offering words of encouragement.

"You're gonna be okay kid. See? There's more squads arriving now. Stay with me here."   

They were just getting a hose on the blaze across the road. I could still hear more distant sirens approaching as I looked upon her mask of disbelief. Her eyes were hazel. And blank. I grew increasingly concerned that she would pass out. I remembered the advice that when you have a heavy bleeder it can be vital to keep them conscious.

"Hey! I'll try this again... what's your name sweetheart?" For the first time I realized that I was shouting at her, otherwise I could not even hear myself. It occurred to me that her hearing had been likewise effected. Still holding her arms up above her head I crouched down to meet her at eye level, repeating the question. "Can you hear me? What's your name sweetheart?"

Her eyes remained a million miles away, but her lips moved again. "R..ra..Rachel! I'm Rachel!...". I had awakened her from her cocoon of shock, her breathing quickened and I could see a panic come over her.

"Okay Rachel... I slowed up the bleeding, but you gotta work with me here, okay? You gotta keep those arms up, okay?" Her mouth hung open, but she only nodded. This was good. Just hold on until the paramedics get to you. Barcelona played on in my head. "Just hang on Rachel. They're gonna take care of you."

She nodded again and after a moment she spoke. "Yes..., but what about the deaf kids from New Guinea?"

I heard the words, yet they made no sense. She was delirious. In the interest of keeping her awake I indulged her. "The deaf kids? What New Guinea? What do you mean Rachel?"

It was getting louder. There was a helicopter hovering above now, searching a spot to land for evac I assumed.  Rachel's face gained some expression, a pained look as she struggled to muster her voice.

"N-not... deaf kids...theee Deaf Kids... don't you know?"

I didn't know, and I may never know. Barcelona finally ended it's play in my mind, to be replaced by nothing. This ordeal was nearly over and I no longer needed that safe zone. I could only shake my head no. Rachel continued.

"They were right there!... white van...", she lowered one of her arms to gesture toward where the building had been. This was making even less sense to me. This girl had just lost both of her hands and might still bleed to death. And she was worried about deaf kids from New Guinea and a white van. It had to be delirium.

A trauma squad pulled up from the other end of the block, stopping a mere ten feet from the overturned Buick. In a flash two EMTs were hustling out of the vehicle, kit in hand. They rushed to her side, wordlessly brushing me aside as they began to measure her vitals and tend to her shattered forearms. I could only stand there. There was nothing else I could do to help this poor girl. And I could not tear myself away. I had to stay and watch, to be certain that they had bound her wounds and were taking her away to the hospital. I don't understand why, I just had to do it.

One of the techs had given her a healthy shot of morphine, or whatever they use these days. I could see her body relax as it took effect. Her pallid face flushed with some color, some animation returned to her eyes. For just a moment there was that flicker. Her eyes met with mine as we prepared to say goodbye to one another for all time. Then she called out to me.

"Deaf Kids from New Guinea! They were in that white van and then..."

... and then, nothing. They clamped an oxygen mask over her face, loaded her up on a stretcher and then whisked her away into the back of that ambulance.

There is a rule in disaster scenarios. First come the squads, next comes the fire department, and third is always the cops. News cameras are then sure to follow. About the time that ambulance pulled away with Rachel the first police vehicles began to arrive on scene. This was the time for me to leave. I don't talk to cops and sure as hell don't talk to anyone from TV news.

I don't know what ever happened to Rachel. I hope she's okay. I'm sorry she lost her hands. I heard some rumors that she had been employed as a sign language specialist. I heard some other rumors that she was part of a church that was preparing for a mission trip. To the island nation of Papua-New Guinea. Of course that is only rumor. Nothing that I can substantiate.

I can only contribute two other minor details to my account of this "incident".  Among the many and varied pieces of debris at the scene there was one piece never accounted for in any way. A Peavey cymbal stand. All by itself, sitting perfectly upright not more than fifty feet from the blast. And finally there was this. A recording from that afternoon at the Dane County Sheriff's dispatcher's desk, a phone call from a citizen's report. Two "suspicious individuals" of uncertain age or gender were spotted traveling eastbound on I-94 at a high rate of speed in a red 2004 model GMC Safari van. No license plate recorded. Distinguishing characteristics: individuals were seen wearing full body Care Bear pajamas.

I don't know if any of it means anything. I may have suffered a mild concussion and hallucinated the whole exchange. Perhaps Rachel does not even exist. But those Deaf Kids from New Guinea? I'm not so sure...