The Ridge: The Whisper of the Leaves - Chap. 36

Marshall was about to go to another area of the building to see if he could find anyone when he heard a voice to his right.

“Hey,” the voice was male and weak. “Over here.”

Marshall climbed up the rubble to where he had heard the voice and started lifting away material. Bricks, broken blocks, two-by-fours, pieces of beams, parts of desks, paper, everything imaginable a teacher with a classroom full of students could have was in a pile before him.

“Where are ya,” Marshall called out. “Say somethin’ else.”

“Here, I’m here.”

Marshall started working faster and, in a moment, came to a waving hand.

“Is that you?” He asked, taking hold of it.

Yea,” the voice sounded a little stronger, now. “Hurry, I’m bleedin’ bad.”

Within fifteen seconds, Marshall had uncovered enough to see the blood streaked, face of a young, teenage blonde boy. He was grimacing and Marshall could see why. A 10 foot by 12-inch steel “I” beam, probably from the roof, had his right leg pinned. But not only was it pinned, the beam had come to rest on his knee and now the knee was bent backward in a way God never intended.

Marshall guessed the beam weighed at least 300 pounds, so he looked around to see if anyone was close enough to help him. He quickly saw that everyone else had their own problems, however.

“Kid,” Marshall looked down at the boy. “Just grit ya teeth and hold on, I’ll get it off ya, somehow.”

The boy gazed at Marshall vacantly and nodded. Marshall looked at both ends of the beam and decided that the end to his left had less to unload off it. He stumbled over to that end and began throwing pieces of building off.

After a couple of minutes of pitching and shifting debris, Marshall reached under the beam and tried to lift it and did manage to get it an inch or so in the air, but that was all.

“If I lift it enough, can ya pull yourself out?” Marshall yelled over at the boy.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I’ll try.”

“Okay, hang on now. When ya hear me yell start pullin’ ya self out. Ready.”

“Yea.”

Marshall reached down and under the beam again. He closed his eyes and with a grunt, began to lift. He raised the beam only a couple of inches again and he could raise it no farther. He was about to set it back down when it seemed to start lifting on its own.

He opened his eyes and saw the preacher from a few minutes ago and two other men. They were lifting the beam.

“Go pull him out,” the preacher grunted at Marshall.

Marshall scampered back to where the boy was, the beam now at least six inches above his mangled leg. He grabbed him under the armpits and pulled. The boy screamed when he moved him, but Marshall pulled until the legs were clear of the beam.

“He’s out,” Marshall yelled, and the men let the beam crash back onto the pile.

The two men with the preacher rushed over to the boy and began ministering to him. Marshall looked at the preacher who nodded and went to see who else he could help. Marshall continued to look around the area where he thought he would find Miss Neal, but with no success.

He did, however, find a few more teens. Unfortunately, none were alive. So, he began to dig deeper. The farther down he got, the more grizzly the discoveries became. In fact, it got to the point that he found no complete bodies, just parts. And with every part he found, he became sicker until finally his body began to heave. He threw up and threw up until it seemed like he had vomited up everything he had eaten in the last week.

It was now 4 p.m. and it seemed as if everyone within fifty miles had heard about the tragedy and had made their way to the site. Workers from the oil fields were beginning to arrive with their bull dozers and drag lines and every other type of equipment they thought might be useful.

The newspaper reporters from the small towns close by started getting there almost immediately. It took the newsmen from places like Dallas and Houston a little longer. The first one from Dallas, the closest large city, arrived about 6 p.m. Marshall was just coming off the rubble pile when a young man not much older than he was came up to him.

“Excuse me,” the man said. “My name’s Walter Cronkite and I’m with UPI, United Press International. I wonder if you I could ask you a couple of questions?”

The man seemed a little nervous and Marshall noticed the pad in his hand was quivering slightly.

“Yea, I guess,” Marshall said. “I don’t know a whole lot though.”

“Are you a student here?” Cronkite put his pencil to his pad waiting for an answer.

“No, I’as just passin’ through.”

“Did you see the explosion?”

“Yea.”

“Can you describe it for me?”

For the next ten minutes Marshall told the reporter what he had seen, heard, and felt over the last two to three hours. Cronkite continued to ask questions until Marshall simply got tired of answering.

“Ya know,” Marshall said. “There’s lots’a people around here who can tell ya what happened better’n me. And I need to get back ta work anyway.”

“Okay,” Cronkite said. “I understand. Would you mind giving me your name so I can use it in the story.”

Marshall thought about the request for a moment then shook his head.

“I’d just as soon ya didn’t,” Marshall said with a smile. “If ‘at’s okay.”

It was Cronkite’s turn to hesitate.

“That’s fine,” Cronkite nodded. “I appreciate the information, friend. Goodbye.”

Marshall nodded then continued to work until just after 9 p.m. when a lady called to him from outside the rubble area.

“Young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come and get something to eat,” She said and pointed to the preacher who was watching some distance away. “Pastor Johnson there said you’ve been working since this happened. So come on down here now and rest for a few a minutes.”

Marshall looked at the preacher who motioned for him to follow the lady’s instructions. He did so without arguing.

“What’s ya name, son?” The lady asked as she handed him a ham sandwich and a glass of lemonade. He was sitting on a nail keg someone had put down as a chair.

“Marshall Bentwood, Ma’am.”

“Bentwood,” The lady said slowly. “I don’t think I know that name around here. What’s your folks name?”

Marshall decided to end the lady’s curiosity.

“I’m not from around here, Ma’am,” Marshall said. “I was just passin’ through. Had gotten a ride with a marine who was on his way to Dallas. Stopped here just so he could see his girlfriend. He’s dead now. Looks like she is, too.”

The lady hesitated a moment then asked, “Where ya from, then?”

“Arkansas?”

“Arkansas? What part?”

“Little town over close to Memphis.”

“Wynne?”

Marshall looked at the woman suspiciously but said nothing. His silence was telling, though.

“Hey, Johnny!”

A man a couple of hundred feet away on part of the rubble pile looked up when the woman yelled.

“Yea,” the man called back.

“Git over here, I got somebody I want ya to meet.”

Marshall wasn’t sure whether to run or not. The lady didn’t look like a cop and neither did the man who was coming toward them, but he knew looks could be deceiving. He really had no place to run, though, plus he was so tired he did not think he could run ten feet. So, he just stayed where he was and waited.

The man called Johnny came up and looked at Marshall then the lady.

“What’cha need, Molly?” he asked.

“This young fella here says he’s from Wynne, Arkansas and that his name is Bentwood.”

“Marshall Bentwood?” the man turned to Marshall and asked.

Marshall didn’t say anything or nod or move. He wasn’t sure what to make of this situation. After a moment, he spoke.

“What if that is my name?”

“If it is, then I’ve got to call the sheriff in your county. What is it, Cross? There’s an all-points bulletin out on you. Special circumstances.”

Marshall decided he couldn’t wait around to see what the man meant by “special circumstances.” He dropped the glass of lemonade and started running. He had gotten just past Parker’s wrecked car when he saw the head lights of a vehicle sweep over him, then he saw another and before he could run another hundred yards he was surrounded by four vehicles. So, he simply stopped running and stood amid the headlights, panting and ready to collapse.

Johnny got out of a police car and walked toward him. He didn’t have a gun drawn, but Marshall noticed that three other men, had rifles and shotguns trained on him.

“No use running, Son,” Johnny said. “Just come on and get in the car with me so we can go to the station and make a call.”