Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“I have lost everything on earth now but my life, and I will return to my old Virginia home and lay me down for my last great sleep.”
~Mrs. Fenn, after losing her husband and seven children in the flood
Monty jerked awake when the shivers racking his body grew too intense to allow him to doze.
He was fighting shock and exhaustion. The rain was nothing but a sprinkle now, but their wet state, coupled with the cool evening, could easily send them into hypothermia.
He prayed the heat of his body, if he had any left, would keep the girl in his lap from freezing.
The devastation was worse farther downtown.
Their vantage point on the roof allowed them a view of the wall of water building at the stone bridge, likely from debris clogging the arches.
The water appeared to switch courses, creating a whirlpool.
If anyone managed to survive the ride down, it would take a miracle to survive the churning destruction.
The buildings on the northwest end of town that had survived the first wave rose into the air with the water’s force then smashed into a thousand pieces, one by one.
Monty’s home and church were on the southeast side of town, higher up the slope.
The elevation was likely the only thing that saved them.
Mr. Miller’s red barn had been swept from its stone foundation at the southern tip of Woodvale and now sat on top of the Beyers’ new home on what used to be Magnolia Street.
Houses and buildings, splintered like toothpicks, lay at every conceivable angle, many impaled with uprooted trees.
Telegraph poles bent at odd angles, the wires nothing but a jumble. Balls of barbed wire, steel manufacturing equipment, merchandise from stores with the tags attached, and personal possessions of every kind bobbed in the torrent.
Johnstown was decimated.
He wondered how the other towns that lay below the dam fared.
The mountains were dark and moving, filled with survivors watching and wailing for their lost loved ones. His head pounded from it all. It was too much for mind and heart to bear.
Mr. Sherman from Woodvale, one of the men who’d pulled Monty from the attic, slept against the saturated shingles.
He’d floated down the wave on a tabletop then jumped from his makeshift raft onto the roof of a house near Miller Street.
Sometime later, his perch became unsteady, forcing him to leap to other rooftops and over debris until he found a stable structure.
Mr. Sherman didn’t know what had hit his head to create the wound, but the filthy water was a concern for infection.
The other man was new to Johnstown. Mr. Ramey, as he’d introduced himself, had moved from Ohio last October with his wife and children to work in the flour mill.
He hadn’t spoken a word since he’d told Monty that information.
Simply stared ahead, unblinking, shock making him more a ghostly corpse than alive.
Like Ramey, Monty was numb inside, unsure how to process the horrors he’d seen and heard. How he wished he could perform miracles so he could utter “Peace, be still,” and the raging water would cease. God was above them, witnessing the tragedy unfold. Monty wasn’t sure how to process that either.
He turned and remembered the wave had thrown his home against the church. The steeple bearing a small cross caused the back of his eyes to burn. He had to hold himself together. Had to keep breathing, keep going. The Lord would need Monty in this place when this was over.
He scooted closer to Ramey, causing the girl to clutch his shirt and whimper.
“If we’re going to survive the night, we need to get as warm as we can with what we have available.
I say we walk to the roof of the church, force the steeple over, and lower into the attic.
We’ll have to move quickly to use the last of daylight.
It’ll be a tight fit, but it’ll be dry and warmer than out here. ”
The man didn’t react or in any way let Monty know he heard. Monty nudged him. “The church?”
Ramey’s hollow eyes fastened on Monty. “I tried to save them. I tried to hang on to them, but the force was too strong.” He swallowed. “My wife was the first to let go. Then, one by one, my children slipped away from me. There was nothing I could do.”
The man’s voice broke, and tears poured down his cheeks. Monty had never seen a life so broken. Nothing he could say or do would ease Ramey’s pain, so he prayed for the man. Or tried to through the fog in his brain. They were more thoughts than prayers.
Monty left him to cry and passed the girl to Mr. Sherman. She screamed and reached for Monty then latched onto Mr. Sherman and disappeared back inside her cocoon.
Leaping over the transition in roof grades, Monty steadied his balance then dropped to his knees and crawled up the steep slope to the steeple.
Pain seared his hands that resembled butchered meat more than appendages.
His busted, swollen knuckles looked twice their normal size.
Even so, he was getting into that church attic.
Monty pushed, heaved, kicked, and slammed into the steeple, only managing to make a large dent in the metal the width of his side.
He’d loosened the screws, but it wasn’t enough.
The noise roused Ramey, who blinked and pressed a palm to his head before standing to help.
When he reached Monty’s side, Monty explained what he was doing, and Ramey added his strength.
Darkness swallowed the desolate valley. Moans lifted from the injured. Pleading and wailing echoed through the air.
Then a loud blast startled Monty, and his foot slipped on the steep pitch. Ramey caught his arm. Sherman joined them with the little girl, and they all watched in horror as the debris piled at the viaduct across town burst into flames as tall as the wave had been.
Oh, God.
The screams grew louder. Monty’s blood froze. The water continued its swirl, its reflection clear in the firelight. A fate worse than drowning.
The horrid stench of burning flesh carried on the breeze as angry flames of red and orange built toward the heavens.
Monty turned his head and gagged.
Ramey patted his shoulder. “Let’s finish this.”
Understanding, Monty forced himself to continue demolishing the steeple.
A few minutes later, they’d leaned it on its side, exposing the square hole in the roof.
Light flickered off Ramey as he lowered inside.
Monty reached for the little girl, who went to him without complaint, and Sherman went in next, the tears tracking his cheeks glittering in the flames.
Monty went last, passing the child to Sherman before climbing down.
Why wasn’t the flood itself torture enough?
He couldn’t let such devilish thoughts overtake him. He had to be strong.
Monty ducked into the attic space that was barely large enough for an eight-year-old to stand.
It had a solid floor and was at least ten degrees warmer than it was outside.
Sitting with his back against the wall where the roof peaked, he reached for the child and curled her against his chest. She pressed her hands over her ears and whimpered.
Monty wished he could escape the screaming so easily.
Instead of pining for what would never come, Monty clamped his eyes shut and silently begged God for answers.