Remeon's Quest Page 2

  Jack felt a tear escape and fall down his cheek as he accepted the last written words of his friends. “I’ll hang on to them for now,” he said, his voice hoarse, and shoved them into his pocket. “Why weren’t you two with the group? And you said George was with you. Where is he?”

  “Yes. That’s right. We were working in the tunnel beside the main anteroom when the explosion happened.” Marty shrugged, then tears fell down his face, leaving a grimy trail among the soot and ash. “I guess you’d call George and me the lucky ones.”

  “Where is George?” Jack repeated, looking into the faces of the men beside him.

  “He’s right here behind me. He’s injured. Not too bad I don’t think. But he wanted to lie down.”

  Jack thought back on Sam’s words. With George’s parents dead years ago in a fire, Sam had said Marty looked after George like he was his own son. Ever since he turned eighteen and began working at the mine, Marty had been there for him. He had trained George—looked out for him; they never strayed too far from one another.

  Jack pushed through the men crouched behind Marty. The injuries he witnessed spanned the gamut from superficial to life threatening. Moaning and crying replaced words as there were none appropriate for the horrors they were experiencing.

  Jack tapped Marty on the shoulder. “Come with me.” Jack helped Marty to stand, and they navigated the few feet between the men until they came to George. Jack squatted by his head. “Marty, you need to see.”

  Marty gasped. “No—it can’t be. He talked to me on the way up—said he was fine.”

  Jack took one more glimpse at the lifeless eyes still gazing at the sky, then slowly closed them. Marty bent over the body and took it in his arms and swayed back and forth, humming under his breath to a tune Jack didn’t recognize.

  “Can I have your attention?”

  Marty and Jack glanced up toward Gene addressing the growing crowd of miners and now their families as word had quickly spread.

  “If any wounded are in need of care or assistance getting to the hospital, raise your hand, and someone will come and help you. Alternatively a makeshift morgue is off to the far right in the field. If you are looking for a loved one, please come see me as I have a list of the confirmed dead, missing, those who are still trapped below and those known to be alive.” He paused as he appeared to struggle with his next words. “We are praying for all. God rest their souls.”

  Afterward Gene made his way through the crowd with an unfamiliar man at his side, clipboard at the ready, writing as Gene gave him instructions.

  The sun hung low in the sky. How long have we been here, waiting? Jack moved to intercept Gene.

  “Any news on the six men trapped?”

  Gene cleared his throat. “No, sorry, son. Not yet. We are switching out the rescue teams and sending another group down. The explosions have weakened the surrounding structure. We’re hoping to make it to the men before another collapse. If that happens, well, we may have to pull out altogether.”

  “What? And then? What about the men?”

  “Now, son, I know this is difficult to hear. But those men are likely dead already. To send more men to their deaths to search for those that the firedamp has already killed, well, that’s not reasonable.”

  “Send me down. I’m off the books. I got nobody looking for me. Let me go.”

  Gene met his gaze and spoke softly. “No, son. I can’t do that. Take Marty and go to that wagon over there. See it? You both should get checked out at the hospital.” Gene pointed to Marty. “He needs you now. See if you can get him to go with you.”

  “I’ll take him. Then I’m coming back for word on Sam.”

  “Suit yourself. But we may never recover his body, son. I know it’s hard, but you need to face the truth.”

  “The truth? Don’t you think you need to find out the truth? This—it shouldn’t have happened,” Jack said, pointing to the destruction surrounding them. “All this blood and death, it’s on your hands. And stop talking like Sam’s already dead. You don’t know shit!”

  The clipboard man opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again like a fish out of water.

  “Let him be,” Gene said. “Let him be.”

  Jack leaned down to grab Marty’s attention. “Marty, let’s get you to the hospital. Someone should look you over.”

  Marty nodded his head silently as he sat with George, one of his limp hands covered by both of Marty’s.

  “Can you take him? Over there?” he asked, pointing to the area where the dead lay. “I don’t want some stranger to throw George out like he’s trash.”

  Jack patted Marty’s back as fresh sobs convulsed his body.

  “You go on to the hospital. I’ll take care of George and meet you later.”

  Marty’s shoulders slumped in resignation as he turned toward the direction of those gathering for the trip to the hospital. “Thank you, son. Sam would be proud of you.”

  Jack pulled George’s limp body over his shoulder and plodded slowly along in the direction of the makeshift morgue. As he got closer, the stench of death and gas fumes mixed with coal dust overcame him. He slowed and yanked the bandanna back over his mouth and nose. He knew he had to continue. He had to know without a doubt that Sam wasn’t among the confirmed dead.

  It was difficult to see, even with the fires that now illuminated the perimeter defining the morgue. Shadows danced among the flames, giving the bodies the cruel illusion of movement in death that they used to have so freely in life. As visions of ghosts formed like echoes of the soul through the fire and ash, Jack shuddered. Then overcome with the stench and his grief, he fell to his knees and vomited.

  He rose to a shaky stand, then, covered in his dead friend’s blood, sweat and his own tears, he set to the grim task of ensuring that the one man he loved in the world was not among the dead.

  IT WAS LATE into the night when Jack found his way back toward the gathering at the mouth of the mine. Some slept while others waited anxiously for word of the trapped miners. Jack searched those remaining for Gene, hoping for an update.

  “Jesus, kid, you look like shit. Go take the wagon to the hospital,” Gene said, pointing off in the distance. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  “Any word on the trapped miners?”

  Gene shook his head. “They’re dead, Jack. No way they survived this long. The gas would have killed them by now, even if they didn’t have an injury from the collapse.”

  Jack yanked Gene by his jacket and threw him against the nearest tree.

  “There’s no body,” Jack hissed. “I just spent the last hour sifting through blood and guts, and he’s not there. So, until you find him, I’d really appreciate it if you’d not call my best friend dead.”

  “Let me go, Jack,” Gene said as he grabbed the hand that held him immobile against the tree. “This isn’t helping anyone. I’m not the enemy.”

  “No? Well, right now you’re close enough,” Jack said, loosening his grip.

  Gene pulled free. “Go and check up on your friends at the hospital. As I said before, there’s nothing more for you here.”

  Jack took a half step back and stood erect, hovering over Gene at his full six-foot-plus height. Jack had been hunched over, bent or stooping for the past several hours. Every muscle in his body hurt. He was just too scared to notice.

  Their gazes met.

  “I think you’re right. I’m done here,” Jack said. And silently he turned and walked toward the waiting wagon.

  The farther Jack walked from the scene behind him, the better he felt. He breathed deeply, and, for the first time in hours, his lungs filled with fresh air instead of soot, ashes and the remnants of death. He came to a standstill several feet from the wagon, closed his eyes and let the February wind wash over him. He breathed in, held it, exhaled, then repeated.

  That’s it, Start-Up. You can do it.

  “What?” Jack’s eyes startled opened.

  “I said, are you getting on?” r />
  Jack glanced at the driver.

  “Last trip in tonight most likely. You don’t look so good. Need help?”

  “Nah. I’m fine. Just give me a minute to climb in.”

  The passengers swayed back and forth, and Jack along with them. Between the motion of the wagon and Jack’s exhaustion, he fell asleep within minutes. Even through the bumpy ride, Jack slept, his dreams haunting him, continuing the horror from the day into his nightmares as his psyche struggled for peace and closure.

  Suddenly the motion stopped, and Jack’s eyes shot open. He recognized the horde of people filling the hospital. Fear was evident on their faces; he heard the desperation come through in the tone of their voices. There was still a chance. There had to be. Maybe, just maybe, Marty was wrong—he had somehow missed Sam in the confusion, and Sam got out. If so, he might be unconscious at the hospital. Jack had to find out for himself.

  Jack surveyed the waiting room. He yanked at his filthy shirt, pulling it loose and giving him more room to move and breathe, then maneuvered through the pockets of people, eventually making it to the nurse passing the unmanned check-in desk.

  “Hello, could you…”

  The nurse continued walking along with not so much as a “Get lost.”

  “Excuse me…” Same thing. Jack threw up his arms in frustration.

  The next hospital worker who passed him, Jack grabbed by the arm. “Stop. You need to listen to me. I need help.”

  The man pulled away and turned breathlessly toward Jack, scanning him from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, but I need information on my friend. He might be here.”

  The hospital worker shook his head while continuing his forward motion. “If you’re not family, I can’t give you many details. And we’re in the middle of a crisis. You’ll need to wait with the others,” he said, pointing to the packed waiting area.

  “Wait,” Jack said as he watched the retreating back continue down the hall. “His name is Sam. And he’s the most important person in the world to me,” Jack finished, his voice now only a whisper.

  A tremor began in his legs, and, as he watched, the shaking continued as if his body parts were not his own. He eyed the bench a few steps away and clumsily walked several steps before plopping hard next to a sleeping old man with a child in his lap. Jack wriggled from his jacket and threw it over his knees, hiding the strange wobbling that he couldn’t control. His coat started to slide, and he caught it, snatching it before it hit the ground.

  Crumpled bits of paper fell from the inside pocket, swaying softly through the air until they landed just out of his grasp. The notes—he had completely forgotten. How could he? Jack retrieved the stray paper pieces, scrunching them between his fingers before settling back into his tiny allotted space. He flipped through them, looking for the distinctive script that he knew to be Sam’s. At the third note he froze. It was written to him. It was confirmed. Sam was trapped and probably dead. Jack forced his gaze to focus on the words written before him, but his eyes brimmed with tears, clouding his vision.

  Jack, if I don’t get out, go. We had plans—keep them. Send Mom wages. Take what need. Go. Love.

  Jack read through the cryptic message again and again, imagining the different possible meanings of the one-syllable words. One part was clear. Sam wanted Jack to leave. How could he? Sam was here. Jack read the note once more, then shoved it in his pocket. The remaining notes were still clutched in his other hand. A familiar voice rang out from across the room. Jack singled out the supervisor, then willing his frame forward, he stood once again face-to-face with Gene.

  “You don’t look so good,” Gene said, giving him a cursory glance, still fully concentrating on the clipboard in front of him.

  His voice quivered. “Well, that fits. Take these. Find the family members and get these notes to them.”

  “Sure, Jack,” he said, flattening out the pieces of paper and clipping them to the board in front of him. “Go get some rest.”

  Jack nodded. Then something within him snapped; he turned back toward the bench, paused and swung his head around to square off in front of Gene again, only inches from his face.

  “Rest? Do you think I can sleep? These pictures pop into my head every time I close my eyes, of my friends struggling to breathe, crushed and suffocating. All because of you.”

  “Now, Jack, have a seat. You’re exhausted and hungry. We can fix that.”

  “Fix it?” Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Jack heard a loud beating sound, then looked through the gathering crowd, attempting to find its source. People mouthed animatedly at him, but Jack heard no voice, just a thumpy kerthump, thump, thump that raced forward, sounding like rapidly beating drums. Seconds later Jack unleashed the first blow. Through the steady din he heard the crunch of bone shattering.

  Even as his fist burned in pain, he punched with his alternate fist, landing a hit square on Gene’s left eye. It felt good. Energized, Jack unloaded three more punches in succession as a spray of blood hit his cheek. Stunned, he stopped.

  Three men pulled him back, jarring him once again to conscious thought. Jack glanced at Gene moaning on the ground, his face covered in blood and then back to the men who restrained him. His own hands reached up to his chest where his heart raced, threatening to burst.

  “I have to go,” Jack mumbled.

  A familiar voice rang out. “Go where, son?”

  “Anywhere else.” Jack struggled free and staggered momentarily, swaying as he attempted focused movements, heading for the main entrance and freedom from the cloud of pain that hovered in the waiting area. Blood trickled down the side of his face, or was it tears? He wiped at the wetness, clearing his eyes and his way forward.

  “Wait.”

  The tone of the voice made him look backward. Jack’s breath came in deep heaving gulps. He licked his cracked lips and panted to catch his breath.

  Marty reached him first. “I’m here, son.”

  Jack grabbed Marty’s shoulders and leaned heavily on him for support.

  Finally catching up to him, a hospital staff member administered a sedative. Jack slid to the floor. His eyelids fluttered as Marty held his hand. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll all be all right. Time will heal you and me. It’ll heal all of us.”

  Jack chuckled and attempted to speak through the mental fog of his brain. “We… we… were leaving, to make our fortune. Sam and me. Now… never… be.”

  “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.”

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, but a deep guttural wail poured from him instead.

  Strong arms wrapped around him, and finally he fell silent in a restless, tormented sleep.

  THE DOORKNOB JACK held grew warm as he stood in front of the apartment door that he and Sam had shared. It had been two days since the disaster; Jack had been out of it for those two days, sedated at the hospital. He didn’t remember much after reading the words that Sam wrote. It seemed like a nightmare then. Now coming face-to-face with the reality of life without him, it felt very much like when he lost his father. Pain. Abandonment. Although the situations weren’t exactly the same—his father had made a choice.

  But Sam’s love was real. Though he appeared carefree to those around him, Sam had nurtured Jack in many tangible ways. Involved as he was in Jack’s everyday life, Sam knew him and cared for him when he came to town in a most unlovable state. He had clothed him, fed him, gave him a place to stay and a job. And, most important, he gave him hope for the future—their plans—so many plans. Now with that hope shattered, Jack languished. Tears fell down his cheek; he remained stuck in place, his hand still perched on the doorknob. He would try what he did when he lost his father: push aside the hurt. It could be dealt with later.

  Well, this isn’t gonna get any easier. Jack twisted the knob and crossed the threshold.

  Instantly, alternating feelings of comfort and loss assaulted his senses. Clothes were strewn on the bed and floor. Dir
ty dishes littered the sink. Books and magazines, waiting to be read, were stacked beside the bed. Jack plopped down, and the bed squeaked under his weight. Any minute Sam will walk through the door…any minute.

  Jack lost track of time, drifting in and out of sleep.

  It’s time. Wake up, Start-Up. Get moving.

  “What?” Jack jolted awake and scanned the room. He had heard Sam.

  Must have been a dream. He released his breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding, then slumped against the bed, loosening a piece of paper that fell from his pocket. He unfolded the paper which held Sam’s words and read them again. Jack, if I don’t get out, go. We had plans—keep them. Send Mom wages. Take what need. Go. Love.

  We had plans—keep them. Take what need. Sam wanted Jack to leave the mine. Go. Love. At first he thought the last word was meant to be Love, Sam. After rereading the note multiple times, Jack believed the last two words to be commands, calls to action. He didn’t want me to crawl in a corner and wither away.

  Maneuvering to the end of the bed, Jack set his gaze on the footlocker. He swung his legs over the foot of the bed, then sat down in front of the massive trunk. The hinges came loose with two clicks, and, within seconds, Jack had delved into the minutia of Sam’s life. They had spent hours right here. Sam had recounted his experiences as a soldier, unwittingly encouraging Jack’s budding desire to enlist.

  Now Jack wasn’t sure what the future held for him, but he was going to decide while surrounded by Sam’s influences. Jack grinned despite himself at the first items he came to. Pin-up pictures. He had seen all these before. He unfolded one. She is pretty unusual…but for another day. Jack folded the picture and pushed a small stack of them to one side and dug deeper. Newspaper clippings littered the small space, mostly old accounts of the war. He had read them, and a few he wanted to keep. Placing a small selection on the floor next to him, he continued his search.

  Being here among his things, Jack felt encouraged. He knew now, unlike when he started, he was choosing the items that he would remember Sam by in the future. Jack reached next for the aluminum tags that Sam had worn in the war. The set of two had been stamped with name, rank, serial number, unit and religion. Its bumpy metal exterior felt cool to the touch. Jack clutched them tightly in his fist.