Free Blood Red by Jason Bovberg Page B

report on something.
    “No, I haven’t.” Rachel starts to move toward
Alan and Sarah, and Jenny walks with her.
    “I got here an hour ago,” Jenny says. “I live
the next street over. My mom works here. That man in the middle?
The one with the red hair? I know him. His name is Scott, and he
works here, too. Just a pediatric assistant, not an administrator
or anything, but he’s kind of taken control of things here by
default, I think.”
    Scott, the red-haired man, is perhaps 30
years old, and he looks stress-ravaged already. Three people are
vying for his attention, in addition to the two young men, and he’s
occasionally casting glances through to the inner hallway that
Rachel can’t see.
    “What’s happening back there?” she asks.
    “Just ... bodies,” Jenny reports quietly.
    Rachel and Jenny approach Alan, and the older
woman facing him glances over her shoulder at Rachel while she
continues to examine Sarah. Rachel sees that the woman has tears in
her eyes, and she’s recovering from a wet sob. The woman wipes her
eyes on her sleeve.
    Alan says, “Rachel, this is Irene. She says
we should take Sarah through here to room 109.”
    “It’s all we can do for now,” Irene explains
through tears. “Until things start to make sense.”
    “What’s in room 109?” Rachel asks.
    Irene looks at her sadly. “People like her.”
And then she moves toward the front doors when she notices someone
new coming in.
    “Let’s go,” Rachel says.
    “I’ll wait here,” says Jenny, “but don’t go
anywhere without me, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    Rachel pushes through the double doors into a
wide, humid hallway, and what strikes her first is the number of
people—almost all of them supine. She holds the door open for Alan,
who carries Sarah in. They both stand still for a moment, taking it
all in.
    The hallway is lined with gurneys, and atop
each one is a body draped with a white sheet. Next to perhaps half
of the gurneys stands a loved one. The hallway is exceedingly
crowded and close, and there’s a ghastliness to the scene. It’s a
snapshot of collective, bewildered mourning. She recognizes the man
who came in ahead of her, from his minivan. Most of the people look
over at Rachel and Alan as they enter, and there’s something in
their eyes Rachel can place immediately.
    Hope. It’s a glimmer, but it’s still
there.
    In the face of impossible tragedy, they’re
looking for someone to appear through these doors and tell them
they have the answer. That the horror of this morning has an easy
solution, and that the young woman who walked through these doors
of death is about to communicate it.
    Rachel feels a low burn of shame, however
misplaced, that she can’t provide that answer, that she offers only
more death, in the form of this little girl.
    She trudges forward with Alan into the gloom.
There’s a teenage boy to her left, eyes blasted with grief, who
lets his gaze linger on her face longer than the others do, and
Rachel casts her eyes down, trying to avoid contact, but she finds
that nearly impossible. He’s standing there beside three sheeted
bodies, one of them small, smaller than Sarah. And Rachel tries not
to imagine the brutal trajectory of his morning, tries like hell not to see him frantic in his awful, lonely discoveries.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispers, without being able
to help it.
    A young woman is hurrying up and down the
hall, reminding the survivors about the dangers of proximity to
their loved ones. “Remember, don’t touch them with your hands,
don’t kiss them. You can stand with them, but don’t get close.
Especially to their faces!” The woman whisks past Rachel, smelling
of perspiration and vague perfume. Without a word, she glances at
Sarah, then points down the hall to the right. Rachel nods.
    Ahead of them is the sound of human misery,
very different from this near-silent hallway. They make their way
along the line of gurneys, and the sounds grow louder and louder,
until they