been replaced by a nerve, their ends exposed and sensitive, each reporting the slightest touch with an excruciating electrical signal. I tried to raise my arm and felt a wave of nausea. I took in a large labored breath and opened my eyes again.
The room was a chaotic blur. “What happened?” My voice came out as a hoarse slur, and the room seemed to sway.
“You were hit by debris from an explosion; a police officer brought you in.”
“Am I in the hospital?”
“Saint Chrysanthus Church. You’re probably going to have a headache for a while, but you’ll be okay.”
I turned my head, following his voice. A rubber-gloved hand came into view, holding a bloodied cotton swab. As he moved his hand away, a young man’s face steadied in front of me. I tried to speak and stopped to clear my throat. As I attempted to lift myself up on my elbow, the room began to spin, and I had to hold my breath to keep from throwing up. I let the breath out slowly and resisted any further urge to move. “I’m cold,” I said.
“I’ll get you a blanket. Don’t try to get up; just wait for me to come back, okay?”
I offered what I could of a smile, but my attempt to say thank you was suppressed by another wave of nausea.
The church hall had been re-purposed as a temporary disaster relief shelter, like those I’d seen on the news after earthquakes or floods. Groups of people were huddled together on the floor, while others, some in uniform, rushed back and forth. By the time the man returned, so had most of my senses. I was still groggy but could now make out his uniform. The paramedic draped the blanket over my shoulders and offered a kind smile.
“Thank you,” I said and pulled the ends of the blanket to overlap. “I dreamed that there were ghosts in the smoke.”
The paramedic shook his head. “That wasn’t a dream. I don’t know what they are, but others have seen them too.”
I stared at him, while desperately trying to process what he was saying.
“The firefighters were trying to save them, rushing in to buildings and risking their own lives, but when they got close enough to pull them out, they were grabbing only smoke,” he said.
I thought about the boy and the confused look on his face as his hand passed through mine. “Are they people that died in the fire?”
“I don't know who or what they are, but I’ve been hearing stories for the past couple of days about these ghosts appearing everywhere, not just in the fire,” he said.
“What started the fire?” I asked.
“Most of the stories I’ve heard so far are about exploding appliances—televisions, microwaves, and breaker boxes sparking and bursting into flame right before the power went out. The fire department has been trying to keep the fires away from the gas stations, but they don’t have enough resources to control or contain it, and all the neighboring towns are dealing with the same thing, we’re on our own for now. The police have been trying to keep everyone calm, but they’re just as confused and scared as everyone else.”
I thought about the officer holding the revolver and wondered what good bullets would be against a ghost. “Where is the police officer who brought me here?”
“I don’t know; the police have been in and out, they’re searching for survivors. They’ve been at it for days, and they’re still finding people. They’ve been returning with a new group every hour or so.”
I brought my hand up to the source of pain at the side of my head. I felt the short stubble of shaved hair above my right ear and the knots and sticking-out thread from the edges of a sewn-shut fold of skin.
He mirrored my wincing expression before offering an apologetic smile. “Seventeen stitches.”
“Stitches?”
“You’re only the third person I’ve stitched up; it’s not usually part of my job, so the scar may be a little crooked, sorry. Your hair will cover it though, when it grows back—”
“Powell,” a male voice shouted
The room was a chaotic blur. “What happened?” My voice came out as a hoarse slur, and the room seemed to sway.
“You were hit by debris from an explosion; a police officer brought you in.”
“Am I in the hospital?”
“Saint Chrysanthus Church. You’re probably going to have a headache for a while, but you’ll be okay.”
I turned my head, following his voice. A rubber-gloved hand came into view, holding a bloodied cotton swab. As he moved his hand away, a young man’s face steadied in front of me. I tried to speak and stopped to clear my throat. As I attempted to lift myself up on my elbow, the room began to spin, and I had to hold my breath to keep from throwing up. I let the breath out slowly and resisted any further urge to move. “I’m cold,” I said.
“I’ll get you a blanket. Don’t try to get up; just wait for me to come back, okay?”
I offered what I could of a smile, but my attempt to say thank you was suppressed by another wave of nausea.
The church hall had been re-purposed as a temporary disaster relief shelter, like those I’d seen on the news after earthquakes or floods. Groups of people were huddled together on the floor, while others, some in uniform, rushed back and forth. By the time the man returned, so had most of my senses. I was still groggy but could now make out his uniform. The paramedic draped the blanket over my shoulders and offered a kind smile.
“Thank you,” I said and pulled the ends of the blanket to overlap. “I dreamed that there were ghosts in the smoke.”
The paramedic shook his head. “That wasn’t a dream. I don’t know what they are, but others have seen them too.”
I stared at him, while desperately trying to process what he was saying.
“The firefighters were trying to save them, rushing in to buildings and risking their own lives, but when they got close enough to pull them out, they were grabbing only smoke,” he said.
I thought about the boy and the confused look on his face as his hand passed through mine. “Are they people that died in the fire?”
“I don't know who or what they are, but I’ve been hearing stories for the past couple of days about these ghosts appearing everywhere, not just in the fire,” he said.
“What started the fire?” I asked.
“Most of the stories I’ve heard so far are about exploding appliances—televisions, microwaves, and breaker boxes sparking and bursting into flame right before the power went out. The fire department has been trying to keep the fires away from the gas stations, but they don’t have enough resources to control or contain it, and all the neighboring towns are dealing with the same thing, we’re on our own for now. The police have been trying to keep everyone calm, but they’re just as confused and scared as everyone else.”
I thought about the officer holding the revolver and wondered what good bullets would be against a ghost. “Where is the police officer who brought me here?”
“I don’t know; the police have been in and out, they’re searching for survivors. They’ve been at it for days, and they’re still finding people. They’ve been returning with a new group every hour or so.”
I brought my hand up to the source of pain at the side of my head. I felt the short stubble of shaved hair above my right ear and the knots and sticking-out thread from the edges of a sewn-shut fold of skin.
He mirrored my wincing expression before offering an apologetic smile. “Seventeen stitches.”
“Stitches?”
“You’re only the third person I’ve stitched up; it’s not usually part of my job, so the scar may be a little crooked, sorry. Your hair will cover it though, when it grows back—”
“Powell,” a male voice shouted
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