Mark Dunn - We Five

Other men of the town were running wildly and riotously about, smashing windows and tumbling things with hysterical fury. There were women tearing at their hair and their clothes, for it was now believed by many of those abroad that the multi-hued skies had opened special portals through which the righteous had already been uplifted into the loving embrace of the Almighty, and those who were left behind could only presume rejection, denunciation, and damnation from on high. And so they would act upon their unbridled rage over this unfortunate turn of fortune through ravagings and mindless violence and all other acts of brutish depravity, doomed as they now were.

There were still others who saw nothing apocalyptic or eschatological in the goings-on, but were nonetheless motivated to commit theft and sundry acts of mischief as means to survival in a lunatic world now suddenly made captive to mankind’s most base instincts.

Reginald Prowse stood at the window next to Jane and Ruth, who had been hurried into the house. Mirabella Prowse brought a salve for his hands. They had been burnt only moments earlier by sparks that had flown from the telegraph instrument and by the small fire the sparks had ignited upon his desk and which he had fumblingly smothered out with a blanket. “It’s a geomagnetic storm from the sun, is all it is,” he said. “That’s what has caused this. Nothing else. But I cannot explain why a scientific phenomenon, easily explained, should have thrown this town into such a state of madness. Here is a phenomenon that absolutely beggars comprehension.”

“They think it’s the end of the wo—” Jane wasn’t given leave by circumstance to finish her sentence before a brick came crashing through the window and struck her in the shoulder.

She fell backward as another brick and then another shook themselves from the wall. Ruth had only a moment to pull her sister away from the wall before the whole thing came crashing down before them. Outside the little opium room, out in the dining room of the teahouse, the gas-jetted chandelier finally snapped loose from the ceiling, leaving a large and jagged hole in the wooden floor beneath it — or what was left of the floor, for Ruth felt certain it was about to give away entirely beneath their feet.

In Molly and Maggie’s room, the two had finally succeeded in wrenching open the obstinate door that had been imprisoning them. Meanwhile, Carrie, having placed herself in her room’s doorway (as one is told to do during earthquakes) continued to call out for Lyle, who was still trapped beneath his heavy wooden burden, though he was conscious and making good progress in wriggling himself out from under it.

Lyle answered Carrie.

His voice could be heard above the sound of the crackling, licking flames which now lighted his passage down the tabernacle’s burning basement corridor. Carrie’s hand, which had earlier slipped away from his, must now be found and drawn back to him. “Where are you, Carrie?” he hacked and sputtered. “Goddamnit! Where the hell are you?”

She heard him and tried to answer, but the smoke was too thick for her to open her mouth.

Jane did speak. She called back to the others that she’d gotten to the stairs that led up and out of the basement conflagration. “Push through!” she called. “Push through the smoke to the stairs. It isn’t far!” Ruth reached out for whoever may need her assistance. Molly saw the hand of her sister and grabbed for it, but suddenly, as if all the blood had fled from her head, she fell into a faint upon the floor.

Maggie could feel Molly now slumped next to her, lying in the raging water, its level having risen well above her ankles and fast moving up her calves. It was becoming harder and harder to stand, and yet with all her might, she pulled Molly to her feet, slapping at her to fully revive her. “Molly! Molly!”

“I’m here. I’m here, Maggie,” said Molly.

Ruth and Jane were walking. They were walking, sloshing through the water, headed in the direction of the flow. Others had been moving in the opposite direction toward the stairs, but these two — indeed, Molly and Maggie as well, thought it best to move with the water, believing that once it rose high enough, it might carry them down to the next station.

Carrie was alone. Lyle could not find her. Lyle called her name in the darkness. She heard him — or she thought she heard him. “Sing to me, Carrie!” he called out. “Sing to me so I can find you!”

And Carrie began to sing. She sang out the song that came first into her head, the hymn that was her mother’s favorite and was sung several days earlier at her funeral, “Dear Lord and Father of Mankind”:

Breathe through the heats of our desire

Thy coolness and Thy balm;

Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;

Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,

O still, small voice of calm.

She sang out in her strongest, loudest (and least calming) voice, and there were some in the Balham Station who thought the girl mad. But it didn’t matter, for Lyle was following the sound of the belting, boisterous voice. And he was getting closer and closer.

And now he was there, finding her hand…

Putting her hand in his.

Together they crawled through the storm of flying straw and splintered pieces of spinning airborne wood and other bits and slices and chunks of piercing, clawing, stabbing debris, their eyes shut tight, their heads bowed, in the direction of the tractor that wobbled but did not move — the tractor where Ruth and Jane were waiting for them, and toward which Maggie was dragging an unconscious Molly, who had been struck by a flying bucket, and they were all coming together in that one place where they felt they had the best chance of mutual survival.

Each of the six, now converging upon it — converging upon the emporium, where they had run through the madness and the chaos of this human-driven calamity of marauding mayhem, away from the Spalding House, which had been set afire, and the Prowse house, where men had entered set upon ripping it apart — running, tripping, falling, rising, running again from this phenomenon of aberrant behaviour that turned men into wild beasts who burned and smashed and pillaged and fought one another with fists over loaves of bread from the baker’s raided shelves, actions that could not be understood as one can never understand those things which periodically imperil human survival upon a fragile planet — wars and inexplicable institutional cruelties and all the natural assaults upon human body and spirit: the quaking, shuddering ground; the raging, consuming fire; the cataracts of water that flood and drown; and betrayal by the very air we must breathe to live, which will at times gather itself into the greatest concentrated force of nature known upon the planet.

The tornado moved on, taking most of the barn with it, leaving behind a tractor and the six frightened young Mississippians who lay beneath it, either clutching at its belly like Romulus and Remus with their surrogate she-wolf mother, or body-clinging to its over-sized rear tires.

Bouncing, stumbling, bobbing by turns like bathtub playtoys, We Six were swept down the Underground tunnel to the next tube station where there was light and safety and life.

The fire had been confined, at least at its outset, to the tabernacle’s basement, and reaching the top of the stairs that led to the ground floor the six emerged from the worst of the spitting flames and the choking smoke, and staggered outside the building just as the fire trucks were pulling up and there still remained hope the structure, so dear to Sister Lydia’s heart, might be saved.