The Paradise Guest House (10 page)

“I’m going back in. Watch them until the ambulances show up.”

He turned and ran into the building. He heard a deafening crash; one portion of the wall had crumbled to the ground. More screams rose up. The fire raged, so close he could feel it and hear it, as if it were already licking his skin.

He found the American woman and helped her pull a man from under the mass of wood planks. They lifted him, but the man immediately fell to the ground.

“I’ve got him!” Gabe hoisted him over his shoulder. “Move away from the fire!” he yelled to the woman. “There are more people trapped on that side.” He pointed toward the far corner. “This whole wall will fall!”

“I can’t leave him!” she cried.

“We’ll lose you, too!” Gabe shouted. “Get over on that side. Now!”

He turned and made his way out to the street. The man slowed him down—he was heavy, and Gabe couldn’t lodge
him securely on his back. He stumbled over a dead body and almost fell. When he regained his balance, he heard another part of the wall crash to the ground. A new roar of screams rose up from the bedlam.

Gabe got to the street and heard the distant siren of an ambulance.

“They’re coming!” he called to the Balinese man. “Get them over here. These people need a hospital fast!”

He laid the big man next to the others and ran back into the burning building.

For a moment he couldn’t find her. He scanned the side of the building that was on fire and wiped smoke from his eyes. She couldn’t have stayed there. He looked toward the far side and tried to decide which way to move, which bodies to save. And then he heard her voice above the others.

“Help! Get me out!”

He ran toward the flames.

She was lying on top of a boy, her arm pinned by a ceiling beam that had fallen on her. Her forearm twisted away from her elbow at an awkward angle.

“I’ve got it!” Gabe yelled.

She focused on him, her face washed with terror. Blood soaked her shirt and dripped down her arm. The fire was close, the flames hot and heavy.

Gabe found the end of the rafter and tried to lift it; it was too heavy.

“I need help!” he screamed.

He glanced around. There was no one else nearby—no one except the dead and dying.

He heard a loud crash and felt the onslaught of dust from another fallen wall. And then a flame scorched his arm.

“Now!” He bent his knees and got under the rafter, and with all his strength he pulled it up. It moved only inches, and still the fire roared, close to his side. He pushed into the wood from the inside and got it to pull away from her arm; then he let it tumble back to the ground.

The woman started to get up but fell. Blood streamed down her face.

“I’ve got you!” He lifted her up and held her in his arms. She screamed with pain, cradling her arm.

“Leave me,” she cried. “Get others!”

“No! I’m getting you out of here.”

She struggled against him, but she was small and in pain. He made his way over the bodies and out to the street.

When he put her down, she swayed, as if ready to faint. He grabbed her and held on.

“Ambulances are coming. I’ve made a line of the injured. Go with them. They’ll be the first to get out of here.”

“No,” she said, grimacing, her voice weak. “I can help.”

“Please,” he begged.

Finally, she nodded. He let her go and she turned from him, heading toward the line of injured bodies. He raced back into the building.

Half of the club was now engulfed in flames. The screams were louder, the smells more putrid. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and ran to the other side of the club, avoiding the fire. He could hear more ambulances. Please. I need help, he thought.

A curtain caught fire, and a swoosh of flame shot up—more screams, a rush of searing heat, a wailing “No!”

He heard a woman’s voice nearby, but there was too much rubble and not enough light.

“Where are you?” he shouted.

“She’s over there!” The American woman was at his side again, a scarf wrapped around her arm as a sling, a bloody rag tied around her head.

They moved in the direction of the voice. “Help! I can’t breathe!”

Gabe started to scrabble through the pile of debris, and the woman used one arm to lift broken boards. He glanced at her; her face was bleeding, and she kept swiping at it to keep the blood from running into her eye.

“You need help!” he told her.

“I’m okay,” she muttered, as if to herself.

They moved the rubble, but the woman beneath it was already dead. The American woman gasped—a terrible sound without words.

Gabe put his hand on her back. “You have to stop,” he said gently.

But the woman heard another scream and turned away from him. She headed toward the fire.

A man ran from the flames in the rear of the club, his arms on fire. The American woman pulled him to the ground and rolled him, and when the flames were out, Gabe lifted the man over his shoulder and made his way out of the club. The woman knows what she’s doing, he thought. The heat from the man’s arms burned Gabe’s back, and he held his breath for a moment, thinking: Don’t stop. Don’t scream. Don’t quit.

Outside, an ambulance had finally pulled up, and the Balinese man was yelling instructions about the injured people on the sidewalk. Gabe wearily set the burned man next to the others.

He turned to reenter the club, and a wave of exhaustion hit him. How many more bodies, how many more screams?

Back in the club, there were flames everywhere. Panic seized him. Where was she?

A new flame shot up near him and illuminated a corner of the room. Someone was standing there—he could see her face in the light of the fire—and then, a moment later, she toppled over.

He ran to her side. She was barely conscious. He lifted her, maneuvering so that her arm wasn’t pressed into his body. Blood seeped through the bandage on her head.

She looked at him, her eyelids fluttering.

“I can’t …” she said, and then her eyes closed.

“No more,” he said to her, and ran from the club with her in his arms.

When he reached the road, he slowed. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

He put her down and wrapped an arm behind her back, securing his hand on her waist. They started to walk slowly, and she leaned into him for support.

He searched for a new ambulance. He didn’t want to add her to the long line of waiting bodies, all of them urgently needing help. The litany of screams seemed to have moved outside with them—more people screamed for help, screamed in pain, screamed as if the nightmare had just begun.

A strong voice shouted, “Get the burning bodies to the pool! Everyone who can—please help! Follow me!”

An Aussie. A tall flagpole of a man, maybe thirty, his shirt off, his body covered in soot. He was carrying a wailing child in his arms.

The man ran and two people followed him, each one helping an injured person to hobble along. One girl’s dress was still on fire, sparks of flame, like glitter, shooting off her.

Move, Gabe thought. Get help. He didn’t need the pool; the woman wasn’t burned. She needed medical assistance, fast.

“I’ll get you to my car,” he said to her. “We’ll get to the hospital. Stay with me.”

For a moment he couldn’t remember where he had parked his car. And then, when he did, he couldn’t imagine how he’d find the street. Nothing looked familiar. This was a war zone—where the hell was anything recognizable?

They headed up the street toward Santo’s, stepping over bodies. He muttered to the injured, “I’ll get help. I’ll be back. Hang in there.”

Off in the distance, he heard the sound of more sirens. Soon, he thought. They’ll get help. I need to take care of this woman.

They turned down a side street and he was back in the world he recognized. A Kuta street at night. There were no lights, no neon signs, no traffic, but there were also no screaming kids, no burning bodies, no crumpled buildings. He heard people shouting, “What happened? Where’s the fire?” Indonesian and Balinese voices called out to one another. He didn’t answer anyone.

They stumbled down the street and around another corner, where he found his car. It was covered in ashes, as if a volcano had erupted nearby. He unlocked it and pulled open the passenger door.

“I need to take care of this wound,” he told her. She looked up at him, her eyes tight with pain.

He helped her into the car and then tilted her head toward him, removing the cloth over her forehead. The gash, at the
side of her eye, bloomed red with blood. His stomach turned when he saw the raw, tender underbelly of her flesh. He found a T-shirt in the backseat and ripped it in thirds. With one part, he carefully wiped the blood away from her face; then he folded a fresh piece of cloth against the wound. She winced and bit into her lower lip.

“You’re going to be all right,” he said, his voice calm and measured.

He wrapped the last third of the T-shirt around her head, tying it in place over the wound. Her pale skin felt cool and clammy.

“What happened?” she asked.

“A bomb,” Gabe told her. “At the club. Two clubs. We have to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m going to sleep now,” she said, like a child, and then she closed her eyes.

He arranged her sling on her chest and tucked her legs in so he could shut the door, then ran around to the other side of the car and got into the driver’s seat.

He turned on the ignition. Breathe, he told himself. Focus. Where the hell is the hospital?

He was there once, when a dog had bitten him. Sanglah. Somewhere near Denpasar, at least twenty minutes away. There had to be something closer.

He pulled out into the street and did a U-turn—he knew that ahead all the roads would be blocked.

When he came to the first intersection—all the streetlights and traffic lights were out—he saw that both a left turn and right turn would lead him into another wall of stopped traffic. So he kept driving, in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go.

A few minutes later, he saw a group of young Balinese men gathered in front of a bar. He pulled up beside them and leaned out the window.

“Does anyone speak English?” he called out. His Indonesian was terrible, despite nearly three years in Bali.

“Little English,” one man said, stepping forward.

“I need a clinic, a hospital,” Gabe said.

“Sanglah,” the man told him.

“Too far.”

The man looked in the passenger seat. His face blanched.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Is there a local clinic here?” Gabe asked. “I can’t get through to the main streets.”

The man turned and shouted to his friends. They all seemed to answer at once, many fingers pointing in the same direction.

“Not too far. Turn on Jalan Raya Kuta. Then Jalan Ngurah Rai. SOS Medika Klinik. Open all night.”

Gabe had already pulled away from the curb when he said, “Thanks, man.” He repeated the street names to himself like a mantra. Raya Kuta. Ngurah Rai.

As he drove, the sidewalks filled with people, doors opening, families spilling to the sidewalk to find out what happened. They were dressed in pajamas and bathrobes, the children huddling in doorways.

Next to him, he heard the woman’s low moan, as if her pain was coming from far away.

“We’re on the way to the hospital,” he said.

When she didn’t answer, he said the street names aloud. “Raya Kuta. Ngurah Rai.” He turned the car onto Ngurah Rai and drove halfway down the block. A line of cars blocked the street. The doors to the clinic were thrown open, and injured
bodies lined the sidewalk in front. They seemed almost piled on top of one another, crying out in pain. Blood pooled into the street.

How did they beat him here? He turned the car around and headed back in the opposite direction.

Down another road, he stopped in front of a couple of Western men crossing the street.

“Do you know a clinic nearby?” he shouted, his voice strained with worry.

“SOS Medika,” one man said in an Australian accent.

“Too crowded. I need help right away.”

“You in the bombing?” the man asked. Both men edged closer to the car.

“I’ve got a victim in here,” Gabe said. “She needs help.”

“What happened?” the second man asked.

“Tell me where to find another clinic!” Gabe yelled.

“Sanglah.”

“Too far. And the streets are blocked.”

“Try Artha Medika Klinik.” And he spouted directions, the names of new streets filling Gabe’s brain. Once again, he sped off.

Bodies lined the street of the next clinic, and keening sounds filled the air. People were shouting for doctors, for nurses, for anyone to help them. Gabe kept driving.

When he saw a sign for Sanur, he turned in that direction.

It was twenty minutes away—too far—but he knew a young doctor who lived there. He could go to his house and get help. He was wasting too much time driving in circles.

“Who are you?”

She had turned toward him, her eyes unfocused. The cloth wrapped around her wound was saturated with blood.

“My name’s Gabe.”

“You were at the club?”

“I was at a restaurant nearby.”

“Thank you,” she said, and her eyes closed again.

With a jolt, Gabe remembered a phone call from his wife, four years ago: “I’m taking Ethan to the hospital. I called Dr. Wilson. He said if the fever won’t break, bring him in.”

Gabe’s breathing had started to slow at that moment, as if he needed to stop motion.

“Gabe? Are you there?” Heather barked into the phone.

“I’m leaving now,” he said quietly, calmly. He was standing in front of city hall, waiting for an interview with the mayor. “What hospital?”

“Mount Auburn,” Heather said, her voice choked. “He was shaking and now he’s just limp. He’s so sick. God, Gabe. I’m so scared.”

Gabe turned away from city hall, his phone at his ear, even though Heather had already hung up. An odd thought flickered through his mind: The next step you take could change your life. Don’t go. Turn back.

But he ran anyway: to his car, to his son, to the unholy rest of his life.

Now Gabe glanced at the woman in the passenger seat. He pulled out his cellphone, scrolling through his contacts, glancing up to make sure he stayed on the road.