Free Vicious by Kevin O'Brien Page B

beams, and broken concrete all toppled down in unison. Some of the people—along with chunks of debris—bounced off the balcony below the O’Maras’ condo. Others careened straight down to the ground.
    Susan had no idea of this. She remembered slamming against something hard. Then she must have blacked out from the pain and shock. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.
    She was still disoriented as she regained consciousness. Her vision was blurred, but she realized she was lying in a pile of debris. She tried to sit up. But a heavy wood beam pressed against her arm and pinned her to the ground.
    All of the casualties had landed in an unfinished garden area on the side of the hill—amid piles of dirt and newly planted trees and bushes. The O’Maras had turned off the outside lights to better view the fireworks, and it was dark at the bottom of the building. A cloud of dust and dirt loomed over the scene. It got in Susan’s eyes, and she tasted grit every time she took a breath. She could hear the agonizing screams and moans all around her. A child cried out for his mother. But it wasn’t Michael.
    Susan tried to sit up again, but her whole body ached—and as much as she tried, she couldn’t free her left arm. Her hand was ensnared on something. She was pretty certain the arm was broken. Helplessly, she called out for Walt and Michael.
    As the dust cleared, she saw the others, mangled in a mess of broken concrete, wooden planks, and dirt. Some of them were moving; others were perfectly still. She couldn’t see Walt or Michael among them. Part of her kept hoping they were okay. She continued to call out for them. But hers was just one of many voices crying out for help.
    Finally, she spotted the silhouette of someone climbing over some rubble toward her. She never got a good look at the kind man’s face, but he lifted a few splintered, heavy wood beams—and at last, Susan could move her arm. Blood oozed from a six-inch gash along her forearm. The pain was excruciating. Still, she kept thanking the man. “Have you—have you seen Walt or Michael Blanchette?” she asked anxiously as he helped her to her feet. “Are they okay?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t at the party. I’m a neighbor….”
    Susan staggered through the wreckage, desperately searching for her husband and son. She could hardly walk. Every time she found someone, she tried to help them—as much as she could with her left arm out of commission. Everything she’d learned from her days as a nurse back in Harborview’s ER was coming back to her. She tried to identify people’s injuries or, at least, figure out whether or not they could be moved. She asked someone to get some sheets to make bandages and ice for the fractures and breaks. She remembered there had been two coolers full of ice at the party. So many people from the party and from neighboring buildings had rallied together to help. Susan kept looking for Michael—and Walt, hoping against hope he was among those good Samaritans.
    The ambulances, cop cars, and two fire trucks finally showed up. But they had to park half a block away from the site. A stone path was the only access to the back of the condominium. Still, the nearby strobe lights from all the emergency vehicles bathed the area in an eerie red glow. The paramedics and firemen were just starting down the slope toward the casualties when Susan heard someone call her name.
    She saw a man waving at her from farther down the hill. He stood over a heap of split boards and rubbish. Susan couldn’t see any bodies, but she knew they were there. She hobbled through the twisted ruins on the hillside. Tears streamed down her dirt-smudged face. As she got closer, she recognized Jim O’Mara, standing over Michael’s battered, broken body. Jim was shaking his head. There were tears in his eyes.
    Susan plopped down on the ground, and she pulled Michael into her lap with her one good arm. She didn’t want