Strangers: A Novel(62)

It’s only when I reach the man that I discover his lower leg.

It’s on the floor about seven feet away from him, the foot sticking out of a brown shoe.

I’ve never seen a severed limb before, but I can’t get squeamish now, no matter what. The man doesn’t even seem to be aware I’m there. His hands are clutching the tattered stump of his leg, the rubble underneath the hideous wound is glistening darkly. His life is leaking out of him; he’s going to bleed to death.

His leg needs to be tied off; I’ve seen them doing that in the movies about a million times. I pull my belt out of the loops on my pants and kneel down beside the man, who’s only whimpering now. He seems to realize I want to help him. I raise the hand holding the belt, and don’t know where to apply it. This is no damn movie.

I manage to get some words out. “I’ll help you. You have to let go of your leg so I can tie it off.” There’s no sign he’s understood me. His hands are still clenched around his thigh. Now what am I supposed to do? How should I …

A hand comes down on my shoulder and squeezes. “Are you a doctor?”

“No,” I answer, even before I see who’s standing behind me. I turn around and, to my relief, see the orange and silver jacket of a paramedic.

“Then please step aside, I’ll take over here.” The man is still young, I can see the horror in his face and hear it in his voice. He’s making an effort to look experienced. “Are you injured yourself?”

Am I? “No, nothing serious, I—”

“Then please leave the building. My colleagues will be arriving outside soon, they’ll take care of you. Please go, now.”

“What happened here?” I ask, not really expecting him to know.

“No idea. An explosion, that’s all I know. Go, please.”

I try to get up, but don’t manage right away. The young paramedic clutches my arm tightly, right where the wound is. I utter a cry, and he withdraws his hand.

“So you are injured?”

“No … Yes, but not from this.”

As I’m getting back up, the paramedic is already down on his knees beside the man. He takes a quick look at the bloody stump, then starts getting things out of his bag.

I look over at the train tracks. The dust has settled a bit; visibility is improving. A shattered food stand, several unmoving bodies on the floor next to it, some of them in grotesquely contorted postures.

Farther back still is where the train platforms start. Or what’s left of them, anyway. I can only see them in parts, but what I can see is horrific. A dented express train engine car, blackened with soot, is lying at an angle over one of the platforms, flames lashing out of the conductor’s cab.

An enormous steel girder has fallen onto the engine, crushing it like a tin can. The casing has been torn open in a few places, and insulating materials and cables hang out like organs and veins. Pieces of luggage and objects I can’t place are scattered all around the scene. Human bodies as well. Some of them, a few, are moving, while most of them are lying there motionless. Like corpses. I want to turn away and leave the building like the paramedic told me to do, but I can’t bring myself to move. Only when somebody appears at my side, hastily shouting at me that I should get outside, quickly, do I tear my eyes away from the horrible scene. The man who addressed me, wearing a transport police uniform, has run past me in the meantime.

As I look around one final time, I see the young paramedic hastily throwing his things into his emergency case. The man on the floor next to him isn’t moving anymore. His eyes are closed.

I don’t have to ask. I know he’s dead.

As I realize that, the scene of destruction around me starts to sway. The figure of the paramedic is also losing its sharp contours; all sounds become muffled. Then, only darkness.

* * *

“Hello, can you hear me?”

Yes, I want to say, but I have a feeling I’m only thinking it. I open my eyes. The image that presents itself is a blur. It becomes clearer after I blink a few times, but also more confusing. The face right in front of mine seems too big. The perspective is strange. The eyes looking at me worriedly belong to the paramedic; his head is hovering over me.

As I try to straighten my upper body, my surroundings immediately start swaying again. I quickly close my eyes, wait a moment, then open them again. Better.

“You fainted,” the man explains, a little unnecessarily. “Everything OK now?”

He helps me get to my feet. I look for the injured man. The dead man. He’s lying ten feet away. The paramedic follows my gaze. “There was nothing I could do,” he explains and draws himself up. “He’d lost too much blood. I … I have to keep moving here.”

“Yes,” is all I say. He shoulders his bag and heads in the direction of the train platforms.

More and more paramedics, firefighters, and police come running into the station hall. The world is no longer in slow motion like it was right after the explosion, having given way to the organized, busy activity of the emergency crews and rescue teams.

Around me, many other people are also heading toward the exit. Grimy, blood-smeared, horrified faces. A teenager runs past, crying; a firefighter with feverish red spots on his face hurries to my side and tells me to go faster.

I have to wait for a brief moment at the entrance, as several uniformed helpers are carrying a large case inside. Then, I’ve made it. I suck in a deep breath of air, and although my lungs burn, I’m sure I’ve never tasted anything more precious. Someone puts a blanket over my shoulders and pulls me along, talking to me all the while. I don’t understand what he’s saying; my mind isn’t able to process his words. Then I’m gently pushed down, to sit on a small wall. A hand extends out toward me. Holding out a plastic cup.