As Dorothea closed the distance separating her and bill, she heard the European two-tone sound of an emergency vehicle. Out of the fog appeared an old, 1950’s looking Ambulance, Daimler-made, aqua green. The ambulance pulled up to Bill and his accompanying triumverate. A man burst out of the driver’s seat, and another out of the back of the ambulance. They assisted the medics to get Bill into the Ambulance. While they performed their task, Dorothea reached them. She rushed to Bill’s side.
“O thank god you’re here!” she cries to the medics. “Bill! Honey! It’s okay. These people are going to take care of you. I’m here, Honey, I’m here.” She turned to the medics and the man in grey. “Thank you, thank you.”
The man in gray surveyed the scene, says nothing. He nodded quickly, and ran off into the fog back towards the 747.
The tarmac-originated medics started talking to the EMT who burst from the back of the Ambulance. He was in a blue shirt, black pants, a badge sewed onto the right breast of his shirt. The dichotomy between the modern, 1977 EMT uniform and the aging ambulance felt tragic, Dorothea absurdly realized. They spoke Spanish, so Dorothea couldn’t understand the words, but it seemed evident that the medics were trying to impart Bill’s conditions to the EMT from the ambulance.
The EMT attempted to speak to Bill. He does so in Spanish. “Señor. Señor. Puedes escucharme? Puedes escucharme?”
Bill moaned. “Dottie. Dottie.”
“I’m hear honey!” Dorothea cooed by his side. She turned to the EMTs. “He doesn’t speak Spanish. English. English!”
Their attentions remained on Bill. The EMT from the back of the Ambulance deftly crouched and re-entered the ambulance, grabbed the head-end of the gurney and assisted one of the original medics in moving Bill into the Ambulance.
Dorothea moved towards the ambulance to enter into it aside Bill. But the EMT inside the ambulance pulled the doors shut in her face.
“Hey! Hey!” She screams. “Let me in!”
The driver, too, re-entered the ambulance and shut the door. The two-tone siren switched on, as did the engine.
“Let me in! Let me in!” Dorothea turned to the two remaining, original Medics. “I need to go with him!” They turned away from her without answering, and sped towards the wreckage, now some 70 yards in the distance.
She shouted to them. “At least let me know where they’re taking him!” They didn’t answer. She turned to run towards the driver door. The ambulance shifted into gear and speeds off.
“Where are you taking him!” A pained scream. Desperate. Anguished.
Dorothea was left alone, the ambulance disappearing into the thick fog.
“Bill!”
***
Dorothea stood alone in the thick fog. The world around her was a pallet of shades of grey. The black tarmac, the grey fog. In the distance, on the horizon, a bright light glowed - like the embers of a sunset - except the sky above it was an even darker shade of grey - nearly black.
She stared at the artificial sunset, shimmering as if behind mottled glass. From out of the blaze came the disturbingly clear silhouette of a figure, drawing closer. It advanced to within 10 yards of Dorothea before she realized she has seen this person - this man - before. It is the one Ralph called Jubo. The Spanish one.
“Vamonos, ven.” He said. He motioned to her, both palms drawing towards himself in a gesture to come with him. “I take you. Vamonos.” He pauses. “Come.”
“Vicky!” Dorothea insisted. “My Baby!”
Something clicked in Jubo. “Si. Vicky. Baby. Vamonos. Come.”
Dorothea felt an ember of hope. She had no other options. She followed Jubo.
They moved across the opaque grey landscape for ten minutes or so, the blaze fading in the distance, but still brightening, then darkening, the fog on the horizon. The flames from the jet and the billowing smoke battled continuously.
Presently, they arrived at a patch of grass against a fence away from the runway. They were not in a building. They were not near any buildings. They seemed to be by the perimeter fence of the runway, in a grassy field. A single runway light extended from the grass, it’s scaffolding framework raising some five feet out of the ground with a series of four lights on it, spread out across its twenty foot width. Fog still envelopsed them all.
Dorothea was not the first survivor to arrive, perhaps 20 other survivors milled about. In addition, a few people were also there who didn’t seem to be from the wreck. Their clothes were undamaged, their skin a darker color. They appeared to be local volunteers. Jubo began speaking to one of them. The survivors were easy to spot compared to the local volunteers - by and large they are more elderly, better dressed. It occurs to Dot that they all looked relatively unhurt. Their clothes were remarkably clean. It makes sense, she said. I suppose the injured ones are in the ambulances. These people probably mostly escaped by the emergency exists right away.
Dorothea spoke up to a group of them “Does anyone speak English?”
A man answered He looked to be in his early 70’s, well dressed in a black suit, white shirt. He still had a full head of hair, but grey throughout. “I do,” He said. “Oliver Ward.” He held out his hand for a hand shake.
Dorothea didn’t take it. “Dorothea Miller.”
“Good to meet you, Mrs..? Miller. Hell of a day. Hell of a thing.”
“What is happening?” Dorothea asked. “Where are we? Have you seen any babies? My Vicky…”
“Babies?” Ward looked crestfallen. “No. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen any children at all. I didn’t even notice any on the plane.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, yes. That’s right. One baby. I remember now. But… Well. I thought the baby was with a… forgive me… a younger woman?”
It was now for the first time that Dorothea remembered Violet. She felt a wave of immense guilt. “Yes. Yes,” she re-focused with a surge of remorse. “Violet. Our nanny. Red haired younger woman. Have you…”
“I remember her. I haven’t seen her here yet either.” He hastened to add “But don’t worry just yet. That English gentleman - “
“Rafe,” Dottie offered.
“Yes that’s right. Ralph and these… locals here are still out there looking. You just wait.”
Dorothea nodded, endeavoring to put on a braver face than she felt. “So what the hell happened here?”
“There’s been an accident.” Oliver laughed. “Well. I guess that much is obvious. I’m not sure what exactly happened. I heard someone say ‘second plane,’ but I don’t remember. All I remember is that I was sitting upstairs - I was in first - and then I was laying on the ground maybe 30 yards from the wreckage. I must have been blown out.”
“The same thing happened to me.” Dorothea said. She was realizing, however, that this made little sense. “You were upstairs you say?”
“Yes. That’s right. Er, I was in first class. Just behind the cockpit.”
“I was in row 30. Strange that we both made it out in the same manner.”
Ward furrowed his brow. “Yeah. That is weird. No idea. I suspect we’ll be hearing from the authorities more soon. I think this is some sort of triage point for the survivors.”
“But my husband. he was wounded. he was taken away in an ambulance.”
“Injured?” Ward asked. Dorothea nodded. “I would imagine that they have to take the critically wounded away first, not enough resources. Whole point of triage and all that.” Throughout this conversation, there was a constant slow stream of people arriving to the group, attended by others who turn around and head back into the fog.
An elderly woman appeared out of the mist - a crisp heather grey suit dress, pale violet shirt, a string of pearls, grey hair, perhaps 3 or 4 inches shorter than Dottie. She is accompanied by Jubo, who nodded to her, motions for her to stay, and disappeared again into the mist.
“Oh darling! I’m so glad you’re okay” Oliver is overjoyed. They embrace. “My Lily, my love.” The woman was Ward’s wife.
“Oh Oliver! I was so scared! Thank god you’re all right. Thank god! Jesus lord of mercy!”
“If you will excuse me Mrs. Turner.”
Dorothea nodded. She didn’t correct him on the use of Mrs.
The Wards ambled off, chattering and leaving Dot to her own affairs. She wandered among the crowd, looking for Vicky and - to her continuing shame - Violet. Several couples were together - and a few people were clearly alone, wandering the crowd, looking for their loved ones as Dorothea was.
As she wandered past another elderly couple - as colorfully clothed as the Wards were drably so - she heard the woman say to her husband: “We’re dead. I know it. I watched myself burn, Arthur. I watched myself burn.”
“Now now, Angela. We’re here. We’re together. We’re safe.”
“Safe and dead,” the woman protests. “And you know what? I don’t see no pearly gates. I don’t see no Jesus H Christ.”
“Angela. Please.”
“You just watch.”
Shock, Dorothea mused. That poor woman.
Jubo again appeared from the fog. He stood in front of Dot where a moment ago, there was nothing. “Hallo. Hallo. Baby.” Jubo pointed to the direction of the crash.
Walking in their direction was Violet, accompanied by what looks to be a Spanish shepard. He was wearing a white button down shirt, dark brown suspenders, kahki pants and a tan straw hat. Nestled in Violet’s arms is Vicki. She looked alert, rolling her head to the side, struggling to see where they were walking.
A wave of fabulous relief came flooding into Dot. “Vicky Baby!” She rushed towards Violet, who saw Dot and smiled.
“Ms Dorothea, Ms Dorothea. I have Vicky. Oh, thank god! I’m so happy to find you. We thought we lost you for sure.” Violet handed Vicki to Dottie. “Where is Mr. Turner?”
New mix for you, all old music. Stuff that’s been going through my head the last few days. I guess Plains nd Johnette Napolitano are both kinda new, but really that is a fluke.
Have a lovely Tuesday.
I'm getting a Lost vibe.