The Inferno

The alarm that awoke me this morning was unusually obnoxious. Without checking the time, I threw back the covers and stumbled across the room, still half asleep, and began to fumble through draws of clothes for some suitable attire. Desperately attempting to awaken my comatose roommate, I chided and then scolded her to hurry. The siren of the alarm screaming in my ear was reason enough to scurry out of the building. Entering the masses we wobbled down the three flights of stairs that we exercise every day. Upon entering the lobby of Thatcher Hall, I caught sight of a clock. 3:50 AM.

My frustrations building, the mass exodus proceeded. It was not atypical to have a fire drill this early in the morning, yet I thought it foul play to initiate one during finals week. Shivering in the cold, we huddled together under lamp posts. Suddenly our murmurs were interrupted. From a hill over yonder came running a number of hysterical pajama-bound Thatcher residents. All eyes darted in their direction and followed them to the nearest dean. Can’t escape. Help. Please help.

I felt as though someone had taken hold of my heart and was squeezing it with their mighty fist. I grabbed Mag by the hand and prayed. In the midst of screaming and confusion, we prayed. Amen.

Wiping tears from blurry vision we scoured the building. I see nothing. Silence. Where is the trouble? Hands raise toward the night sky, pointing upward. Smoke. Billows of smoke rise from the roof of Thatcher Hall, although we have yet to see flames. Minutes and seconds feel like eternity. Confusion multiplies as questions mingle with the smoke that is ever increasing and covering night’s dark complexion. “I have to see”, and in another second she was gone. Choked by fear I ran after Mag, pleading all the way for her to stay by my side.

Ducking under some low lying Dogwood limbs, I chased after her. Rounding the corner I felt as though I ran into an invisible wall. Flames, with their evil tongues licking toward the heavens, laughed out the windows of Third West. Yet over the crackling and snapping of the fire came the clear and distinctive cries of 2 terrified residents. Sirens. Help is coming, we reassured them. I prayed my tears would multiply and shower over this inferno. Panic, I can’t breathe, air. Help, please help. Don’t leave me. Chaos had set in. Stepping forward and gurgling through my tears I raised my voice. Tears streaming down my face, the only sounds I could here were the echoes of my voice accompanied by the crackling of the adjacent flames. The smoke was getting thicker. The flames were getting larger. It was hard to breathe. Please God, help me know what to say. Be my voice. I cried out in the darkness. “God is with you. His angels are with you. He is stronger than Satan. He is stronger than this fire.” “Pray.” she beseeched me. Overwhelmed by the heat and the smoke, I ran. Police instructed us to leave the area. Even if I was not there, they were not alone.

Exhausted and tear-stained we settled ourselves in the cafeteria. Is everyone accounted for? Check, check, check. Teachers arrive. Religion professors mingle with the mass of survivors. Then Gordon Bietz steps forward, his chin quivering. Huddled into the corner I watched and listened in horror. His trembling hand took the microphone. One casualty. It seemed as though that same force that choked my heart had a hold of his throat. He could not speak. My body shook and I felt the tears come again, more bitter than before. Tears for a mother, a father, a sister, a brother.

I cried till I felt my well was dry, and even still I have cried more. The newest information released allowed Thatcher East residents to enter the building for some clothes. I ran to the parking lot and entered the doors opposite Iles PE Center. I ran up the stairs. Splinters decorated the halls. Doors had been axed open. Gapping holes seemed to laugh back at me as I ran to 329. Clicking the lock open, everything was untouched. My bed was still unmade, sheets thrown back, Ragababy still resting, unaware. Grabbing clothes and my cell phone I checked the messages. 9 voicemails. First message, Eugenia, my preceptor at Memorial. “Are you ok?” The next message was an echo of the first. “Are you ok, are you ok, are you ok?” until that is all I heard.

Standing in front of McKee Library, my eyes beheld that which night had hidden from my sight. Third West collapsed onto second floor. No roof. No windows. Empty eye sockets, and blank stares. Pray for the family of Jessica Weimer. Thank God that you are alive, and be right with Him. For now, investigation, heresy, questions, and no answers.