March 21, 2009
Interstate 95 ran from Florida to Maine, through fifteen states, and was the second most dangerous highway in America. It had many hazardous sections, but none more deadly than a series of curves cutting directly through Sachem City. Nicknamed the “Blood Alley,” these sudden S-curves had been specifically designed to circumvent two Sachem City institutions—St. John’s Catholic Church, a massive ornate brick structure that could seat a thousand people, and the Viri Autem Civitatis Club, which was Latin for “Men of the City.” Founded in 1851, the Viri Club was a closed society home to Sachem City’s elite, the mill owners and industrialists who all built mansions in the adjacent Crescent Side neighborhood. In keeping with the club’s name, there were no women allowed, either as guests, members, or employees. Within these walls for a hundred and twenty years, businessmen and politicians carried on and made deals that affected local citizens for generations. “The Valley of Death” was one of them. By 1952, in order to complete the 43.3 miles of highway that went through tiny Rhode Island, the design team originally drew up plans for I-95 to cut directly through the Viri Club and, a half mile further north, St. John’s Church. But when club members and the archdiocese got wind of this proposal, influence and favors rained down on the politicians until the highway was magically bent around the Viri Club. It swung sixty degrees, swung back sixty degrees the other way, straightened out briefly, and then another S-curve flung motorists around St. John’s Church. So far, this redesign became a decision paid in blood for the last sixty years. The Viri Club was still there, but its windows had been boarded up after the last member died in 1972. St. John’s, auctioned off to help pay for the Catholic Church’s pedophilia scandal, was bought by a developer that went bankrupt five months later, so the abandoned building was now a haven for drug addicts, the homeless, and those that preyed upon them. But inside the S-curves the massacre continued. Whole families had been killed out there. Tractor-trailers, misjudging velocity and physics, jackknifed or flipped over completely, flattening anything in the next lane. Cars slammed into the Jersey barriers and then shot across four lanes, taking out other cars before crashing again. Some vehicles got launched over the divider into oncoming traffic, and that’s when the real horrific injuries and decapitations appeared. In case it wasn’t dangerous enough, four bridges kept the city connected above the highway, but their three-story concrete abutments created human soup and fireballs when vehicles smashed into them at 70 mph. When accidents like these became catastrophes, the entire highway could be closed for hours. Stuck in this ensuing parking lot, people had asthma attacks, panic attacks, or even went into labor and had to be rescued from their cars. With the highway impassable, this had to be done from the other side of the Jersey barrier with traffic whipping by at 60 mph. In the rain, snow, or ice, the fire department might respond to this stretch of road so many times it looked like a union meeting had spontaneously convened on the highway. Three engine companies covered the 6.1 miles of I-95 through Sachem City. Since people often gave 911 faulty information, protocol called for two engines—one to sweep the northbound lanes, the other southbound. Callers to 911 had good intentions but were sometimes startled eyewitnesses with a bad sense of place or direction. Engine 2, in the center of the city, responded on every run. They were either joined by Engine 5 coming north from the Providence line, or Engine 4 cruising south from the Massachusetts border. On a normal stretch of road, rubberneckers were just annoying, but out here in the S-curves they often caused accidents of their own. People snapped pictures or live-streamed as they passed by with their phones hanging out the window. Some of the older guys told the newbies the highway was even more dangerous than house fires. The drunks, mesmerized by the flashing lights, were drawn in like inebriated moths smashing into fire trucks, tow trucks, and State Police cruisers. Because of this, Sachem City had lost two engines and one rescue in the last five years. The All Call tones went off at 8:45 a.m. Brian Fonseco was only riding on Engine 4 because, as the junior guy on shift, he got held in a line spot the Battalion Chief couldn’t fill. His brand new gear was incredibly clean compared to the veteran’s soot-smeared and battered pieces. Eager to learn, he had been out on the apparatus floor going through every inch of the truck since the 7 a.m. shift change. Mikey Doneen, the other private on Engine 4, was answering his questions. If a newbie showed up at a station and just threw his gear on the truck, grabbed a coffee, or read the newspaper, he was instantly labeled a bag of shit. Likewise, if an older guy approached a newbie and asked if he had any questions about the truck, the newbie that answered no was in for a long shift. Twenty-year guys might turn a blind eye, but the real old school, the guys broken in thirty years ago, considered this a complete lack of respect. Depending on the gravity of the offense, for some newbies it was a reputation killer only reversed by years of hard work. Mikey Doneen, the twenty-nine-year-old rising star with eight years on the job, was watching the six-foot four-inch Fonzie practice donning his gear and SCBA in a timely manner. He said, “Jesus Christ, kid, you’re as big as brick shithouse. Remember to keep your shoulder straps—” The All Call interrupted the lesson. “Attention Engine 2, Engine 4, Rescue 2, Still Alarm. 95 South, in the vicinity of Exit 29 …” Doneen hopped behind the wheel as Lieutenant Walls jumped aboard. Behind them, Rescue 2 already had its lights spinning. Lt. Walls grabbed the mic. “Engine 4, Rescue 2 responding.” “Roger that, Station 4 companies responding at 0846.” By protocol, Engine 4 entered the highway in Massachusetts and swept south from Attleboro. They swung onto 95-South ninety seconds after leaving the station and hit a wall of traffic, either from the morning commute or accident or both. “Fuck me.” Lt. Walls pointed to the right shoulder. “Take this, Mikey. I’ll see if Fire Alarm has a better location. We might have to get over to that other shoulder if it’s in the high speed lane.” “Roger.” Doneen punched it down the breakdown lane while Lt. Walls wailed the siren. Behind them, Rescue 2 rode in their wake. “Engine 4 to Fire Alarm. Do you have a lane for this accident?” “Negative. But just received a call from State Police requesting you to expedite.” “Fuck yeah.” Doneen was pumped. “Grab extra gloves, Fonzie, when the cops say expedite you know it’s gonna be a bloody mess.” Riding back-step, Fonzie jammed rubber gloves into his turnout gear. He looked over their shoulders, straining to see beyond the four lanes of deadstop traffic. “Engine 2 to Engine 4.” “Go ahead.” “Yeah, lou, you got a sedan on its roof. Middle two lanes. Might be another two cars involved. They’re against the Jersey barrier beyond the first car.” “Roger that.” Lt. Walls motioned. “Mikey, get us over in front of the rollover.” He toggled the mic. “Engine 4 to Engine 2, after you swing around, take the two cars against the barrier. The cops are all around the rollover flagging us down.” “Roger.” “Fire Alarm, companies on scene.” “Engine 4, Rescue 2 on scene at 0850.” To provide protection, Doneen parked diagonally to block off both center lanes. Lt. Walls yelled, “Fonzie! Trauma and airway bags!” "You got it, lou.” Fonzie put on his helmet, grabbed the two bags from the side compartment, and tried not to be overwhelmed. They had been taught in moments of extreme stress to revert to the basics—airway, breathing, and circulation. The ABC’s kept people alive. He saw Doneen and Lt. Walls rushing for the car until they abruptly stopped. When Fonzie turned the corner, he almost puked. A woman had been ejected. As the car rolled it came to rest on her head. Otherwise, she seemed perfectly fine. She was nicely dressed as if on her way to an office job somewhere. The car had landed on the top part of her skull and squeezed all kinds of things out of her mouth, nose and ears. Doneen winced. “Are those her brains?” Lt. Walls said, “I don’t know, man, but she’s still moving.” Her arms and legs were shot straight out like a twitching starfish. Lt. Walls grabbed her wrist and waited. “She’s got a pulse. We gotta work it.” He turned to the cops. “Can you push the car so we can pull her out?” The rescue guys appeared with the stretcher and more gear. Engine 2 screamed by heading for the two cars ahead. “On three!” The cops rolled the car and the firemen yanked her out. From the eye sockets up, she was crushed. Lt. Walls said what they were all thinking. “Just four more inches and nothing would’ve been …” He blocked it from his mind. He saw her wedding ring before he could turn away. “Forget the collar. Board and go!” The rescue guys had her boarded and strapped down a minute later. They all loaded her onto the stretcher and hauled ass for the rescue. “Fonzie!” Lt. Walls yelled. “Stretch the jump-line in case it ignites!” “You got it, lou.” Fonzie headed back to the truck and pulled the line. Then he grabbed a Halligan tool and sledgehammer to pry open the hood if necessary. When he knelt down and looked inside the car, he instantly regretted it. There she was, the parts of her life. Because of the rollover, everything was on the ceiling. Her travel mug was still loaded with coffee for her ride to work. There were pictures of her kids attached to the dashboard. Her briefcase and laptop were next to her purse. Fonzie realized that six minutes ago she was just another commuter before this moment arrived to steal her life and rip apart her family. Firemen were not allowed to declare anyone dead, so if the patient had a pulse they got worked up despite likely non-survivable injuries. He found it impossible not to be humbled. The back doors of the rescue flew open. Lt. Walls yelled, “Fonzie, back-step man drives the rescue to RIH!” "Roger that.” Fonzie waddled over in full gear. He tossed his helmet onto the passenger seat and quickly scanned the dashboard. He had this. No sweat. “Fire Alarm, Rescue 2 is transporting with two men from Engine 4 to Rhode Island Hospital.” “Roger that, Rescue 2, headed to RIH at 0858.” The rescue lieutenant in the back of the squad toggled his mic. “Rescue 2 to Fire Alarm. Advise RIH that we have a thirty-eight-year-old female with a severe crush injury to her head. She is unconscious, BP is 90/50, pulse 140, we have an airway but it’s anatomically compromised. Two 14 gauge IVs established. We’re eight minutes out.” “Message received, Rescue 2.” Fonzie put the pedal on the floor and, because of the closed highway, ate up the empty road.
1 Comment
P D
9/12/2017 07:31:46 am
Riveting.
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AuthorTom Trabulsi was born in the Midwest, attended high school in Rhode Island, and graduated from Boston University with a degree in American History. He was a bike courier in Boston and New York City, worked construction in the mountain west and east coast, and is currently a firefighter in a northeast city. Archives
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