Three Lives of Jury - Chapter 34
Jealousy, murder and a town called Jury. A 40-year saga of life and the afterlife
New release every Thursday at 5:05 PST, Substack permitting.
See the forest, see the trees.
Three Lives of Jury - table of contents
Note: Chapters 34, 35 and 36 have been scheduled for release while I am away. I’m not sure if I’ll be able, or inclined, to update the table of contents until I get back. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Check out related bonus material at The Underworld Vents.
The Underworld Vents - table of contents.
It exploded, an orange-blue fireball tumbled up into the night sky and lit up the wild. | Unsplash photo.
Chapter 34
Sleeping Lucy sang over mountains, strode the cracked river beds, shooed away shifting legends stirred up in the ancient fog.
Her consciousness roamed free, floating over a young elk fallen, a bear grubbing, spruce trees calling under the breeze. She made notes from the margins.
She stared down from the high current above the slope, above the lodge as the structure fell into the coal seams of hell. It was ablaze, being eaten from the inside out by flames.
Lucy warmed her face, gasping in horror at the swarms of people scurrying about, huddled in blankets and soot, wailing and calling for loved ones still missing inside the burning building. Volunteers from the church used pick axes, shovels and garden hoses at the edges of the blaze, but were pushed back by the heat. There was nothing to be done. All was gone.
Those people, those poor people, she thought and knew it was Frank’s fire.
Inside the lodge, Frank inhaled thick, ropey smoke, but still he breathed. He chewed the thick air; his skin sizzled.
He creaked in agony, surprised at the slowness of death.
The furniture smouldered, filled the room with smoke. Every parcel of his body burned, his organs squealed, his lungs wept.
He relived every regret of his bitter life. Every second wasted at grousing, every fight, every accusing finger he pointed, every scheme, every con, every stone he threw, every hurt and betrayal.
Fear grew like mould and spread through his core, into every recess and fibre.
Fear grew like mould and spread through his core, into every recess and fibre.
Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of his life ending today. He heaved himself to his feet as flames engulfed the room. The water had stopped, the sprinklers failed. He was caked in ash. His disintegrating skin sloughed as he shook and ventured a step.
He could live again.
Frank walked.
He jostled unsteadily toward the door, expecting pain to overtake him, but he sagged out from his room and shambled for the exit.
Lucy watched Frank’s charred form emerge from the mouth of the fire and throw itself onto the grass. People rushed to help.
A abrupt and harsh pounding at the door transported Lucy back to her cabin. Her eyes flickered open and not pausing to think, she jumped up.
Sue and several volunteers were at her door. Behind, tired and frightened residents of the mobile home park strained their necks to get a better look at Lucy.
To Lucy’s right, an eerie red stain lit up the horizon. Whit appeared beside her and saw the flames, too. “Shit.”
It exploded, an orange-blue fireball tumbled up into the night sky and lit up the wild.
Moaning spilled down from the hilltop, the sound of sighing timbers, the deep wump of collapsing structures. They heard screams and calls from the mobile home site, and from the campers further out.
Lucy and Whit stood shocked into stillness.
“Shit, shit. I meant to set my alarm.” Whit checked the time on his phone. It was 2:12 a.m. It’s fucking Frank, isn’t it?” he said.
Lucy nodded. “Afraid so.”
They hurried down the trail, the crowd in their wake, and reached Whit’s truck. They travelled the direct route up the face of the hill, through Lake Fall road, passing people filling trailers and trucks with precious things to cart away out of harm’s reach.
They crested the ridge, but further progress was blocked by vehicles and volunteers steering people away from the blaze and the chaos.
Beyond, Lucy and Whit witnessed a lurid picture of dark shapes against a fiery orange backdrop, some tending to the injured in makeshift tents in the parking lot, others worked over fallen bodies on the lawn. Still more worked to dig a ditch in front of the blaze as a fire guard. There was a single fire engine, old and weak, that drizzled a squirt toward the inferno.
The truck, the glory of the Frontier Fire Department, had made it, bringing along its full brigade of chief and four volunteers from 30 minutes away, which told Whit the fire had been raging long and sore. The truck and crew fell pitifully short, but it was all the outside help the people here would get until morning. Gold Rush, the next closest place, was 350 kilometres away, along winding mountain roads.
Lucy and Whit abandoned their truck and hiked in a wide arc to get around the blockade until they reached the lodge parking lot teeming with panicked people howling, crying, some trying to find children or spouses; friends trying to locate friends.
People were arranged on cold tarps and in the back seats of cars, while others applied bandages and comforted them.
One man on the periphery directed people carrying supplies. The lodge is empty, he said to Gwyneth Rowe, who was holding a clipboard and chewing on the end of a pen.
Lucy had never seen her so dishevelled.
“Lucy, Lucy, you’re OK. I was worried and I wanted to send someone to check on you, but in all this confusion I didn’t know what was best.” Gwyneth held her arms out. Lucy hugged her.
“I’m fine Gwyneth, I’m fine. What happened?” The fire was 100 metres or more away but they could feel the blasting heat.
“A fire investigator will have to come out and draw their own conclusions, but I can see the restaurant, or where the restaurant was, has burnt down to nothing. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fire started there.”
Lucy nodded. “People? Did everybody get out?”
Gwyneth shook her head. “One dead, one badly injured. A lot of minor burns and twisted ankles in the rush to get out. If that’s all, I’d call it lucky. Everybody on the lodge guest list has been accounted for, but you and I know that guests invite unregistered people into their rooms all the time, so who knows?”
Lucy noticed Whit moving away as she talked and he now came back into view, carrying a roll of bandages and wrapped a woman’s foot. She’d forgotten about Whit’s training. Guess it stuck.
She turned back to Gwyneth. “I had a friend staying in there.”
“I’m sorry honey. Walk around and see if you can see him. Everything is pretty chaotic, but if he was in there, he’ll be out here.” Gwyneth paused. “Unless he’s the dead one. So sorry if that’s the case. Or the injured man. They loaded him into a van and took him to Gold Rush.”
“They?” Lucy asked.
“A paramedic was here, or a firefighter with paramedic training. I don’t know, something. Him and the driver thought it best to make straight for Gold Rush because there’s nothing in Frontier that can look after burns like that poor soul had on him.”
“Jesus,” Lucy said. “Where do I find the names?”
She found the list. The casualty rushed to Gold Rush was indeed Frank but there was no further report on his condition and nobody who had seen him wanted to say, until one old woman winced and said, “They put a name to him? Lord knows how they identified him.”
For the rest of the night, Lucy and Whit helped where they could: carting water, helping victims locate loved ones, conducting first-aid, and scrounging up supplies like blankets and bandages from condo residents.
The condo owners, members of the View of Eden Church, opened their homes and the injured souls that had been forced to lie on hard pavement and cold dirt were moved indoors.
Light dawned before help arrived. An ancient but serviceable ambulance made it first with two first responders. Throughout the early morning, volunteers who lived nearby trickled in steadily, some from Frontier but many emerged from the back roads and lakes, the high plains ranches and the traplines, surmising, when they saw the fire burning away the darkness of the night sky, they might help. It’s what you did. You pitched in when people needed you.
Finally, at full light, teams from Gold Rush roared in, sirens loud and unnecessary at so late a stage.
More help was still coming, assistance was en route from Nor Loch and Vancouver. A dirt road near Frontier was commandeered and turned into a small airstrip allowing small planes to deliver the most needy cases to hospitals.
Out of 63 guests and a night staff of five, the tentative count the morning after was one dead, three seriously injured and 12 minor injuries.