Page 6 of The Perfect Hosts
The fire truck has come to an abrupt stop. Two firefighters are urging those guests who jumped in to try to put out the fire to move away from the blaze. With machinelike efficiency, they unroll the hoses.
Madeline is mesmerized by the flames that roll across the roof of the barn, the dense cloud of smoke, the roar of lumber being eaten by the flames. She moves closer, unnoticed by the firefighters, her face growing pink from the heat. Madelinevaguely becomes aware of more sirens and shouts of “Over here” and “Please help!” More help has arrived. The spray of water hisses and snarls as it strikes flames and wood. The barn turns into a living thing then, twisting and groaning until it collapses in on itself, turning to a big heap of charred lumber with sooty farm equipment peeking out here and there.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” comes a voice. “Stay put. We’re going to take care of you.” Madeline pulls her eyes from the barn. A woman wearing a collared shirt in robin’s-egg blue with the wordsWoodson County EMTstitched above her heart is standing next to her, forehead furrowed with concern.
“There was a girl,” Madeline says, “over there. She was on fire. Did someone help her yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the EMT says. “But you’re the one I’m worried about. You’re bleeding.”
Madeline looks down. Her white dress is smudged with soot and something pink. Madeline smiles with relief as realization flows through her. “Oh, that’s not blood. It’s pink powder. I guess that means I’m having a girl.”
“Congratulations,” the EMT says waving a hand frantically in the air. Suddenly, three more blue shirts are around her, and arms are guiding her to a stretcher that seems to have materialized out of nowhere.
Madeline strains to see around them to watch the firefighters who are now moving cautiously forward with their pickaxes, tentatively poking at the barn carcass.
“Ma’am, you’re bleeding,” the woman says, this time speaking with more urgency. “We need to get you and your baby to the nearest hospital,” the EMT says more insistently.
“I have a midwife,” Madeline says, finally registering an uncomfortable wetness below her waist, a rising panic flooding her chest. She tentatively touches the soaked fabric of her dress, and her fingers return covered with blood. “Can you find her? She’s here somewhere, but I don’t know where she is.”
Her baby. Is she in labor? It’s too soon, Madeline thinks. She still has six weeks to go. She allows the EMTs to ease her down on to the stretcher, arranging her on her left side. Using his stethoscope, one of the EMTs presses the cold disk to her abdomen, while another runs her hand up and down Madeline’s arms and legs in search of—what?—broken bones?
“You’ve got some old bruises here,” an EMT says. “Have you had a fall lately?”
Madeline shakes her head. “I have horses,” she explains. “They get restless when they see me.”
“You’ve got a nasty cut on your back. Are you in any pain?” she asks.
Was she? Madeline scans her body, searching for any discomfort. She only feels numb. “No,” Madeline says. “Please, where’s my husband?”
“We have to go,” the EMT with the stethoscope says. Madeline examines his face for clues. It’s unreadable.
“Go where?” Madeline asks with alarm. “Where are we going?”
“To Jackson. They have the nearest trauma center,” he says. “But don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll take good care of you and your baby.”
Jackson? Trauma center? This can’t be happening.
“Hey!” one of the firefighters shouts, raising one hand in the air. “I got something here. We gotta back up.”
Madeline flinches, as if expecting another explosion, but nothing happens. The EMTs begin to roll the gurney over the bumpy ground. A spasm of pain roils through her abdomen and lower back. She lets out a guttural cry of surprise. The EMTs pick up their pace and move more quickly toward the waiting ambulance.
In contrast, there is no more urgency in the firefighters’ movements. They simply lift their axes to their shoulders and step from the wreckage, moving to just beyond the burntedges of the grass surrounding what’s left of the barn. Their heads are lowered as if in prayer.
Where is Wes? Johanna? Understanding begins to buzz through Madeline. Have they found someone? A body? She has to find out what the firefighters are looking at. “Stop!” Madeline screams, and the EMTs come to an abrupt halt. Before they can start moving again, Madeline slides from the gurney, her bare feet striking hard ground. She limps over to the wall of first responders and elbows her way past them.
“Hey,” a firefighter says, snagging her by the elbow, but she shakes him off and takes another step forward. Lying on the ground in front of her are the charred, blistered remains of something that at one time must have been human. Madeline’s eyes travel the length of the blackened body to a swath of singed dark hair. Bile, thick and bitter, gathers in her throat, but she sidesteps a pile of debris to get a better look. She has to see who it is.
“Ma’am,” another rescue worker says, “we have to get you medical attention.”
She ignores him and continues forward. “Johanna?” she says in a small voice, but she knows that it is. Johanna’s eyes are wide open and unseeing, her face remarkably untouched by the fire. How can that be? “Is she dead?” Madeline asks, unable to pull her eyes away from Johanna’s face. No one answers her, but she already knows the answer. A scream begins to bubble up her throat, but another current of pain shoots through her back, and she doubles over in pain. She is guided back onto the stretcher and whisked toward the ambulance, then lifted smoothly into the back.
“Hold up,” someone calls out. “Have room for one more?” Another EMT pokes his head inside. “We’ve got one with burns and shock. I already gave her Demerol.”
“Load ’em up,” the first responder says as she shifts Madeline’s gurney to make more room.
A caustic odor fills the space. A mix of kerosene and burnt flesh. Madeline fights back the urge to gag as another stretcher slides in beside her. It’s Mellie, the waitress. She is writhing in pain, the carefully placed straps on the gurney the only thing keeping her in place.
Up close, the burns on Mellie’s leg are a horrific mess of melted polyester and angry red blisters. “It hurts!” Mellie cries. “Please, make it stop!”