Attention all personnel.
Deadpan voice crackles through the intercom:
There has been an explosion.
Number of wounded unknown.
All personnel report to ER, STAT!”
We double-time, hearts racing
down the long corridor.
Per protocol, I stop at the lab freezer,
grab four bags of O-negative blood
place them in the Styrofoam ice chest
and proceed to ER receiving
just as the ambulance arrives.
Reporting to the pathologist,
the only doctor on duty after four p.m.,
the MP in charge gasped, “Two dead for sure,
There’s a few walking wounded in the next vehicle.
Fire crew is on scene searching for more survivors.
You wouldn’t believe it, the fucking engine block
from a vehicle in the north lot landed in the east lot.
Helluva blast, no casualties there, thank god”.
Two fit, clean-shaven corporals,
haul a dark-stained olive drab blanket,
a makeshift stretcher, into the ER.
Body parts delivery.
The carnage looks like chuck roasts
in the display case at Charlie’s,
the butcher shop on South Bergen.
Captain Johnston, the chief nurse,
takes inventory:
One torso, one head, one forearm, hand intact,
One foot, great toe missing, four miscellaneous fingers.
Doc Richard’s, the pathologist,
calmly lays his hand on my shoulder
and whispers “None of the hands
wore wedding bands, so they can’t be your dad.”
He seems sincere.
I want to believe him.
He removes an embroidered handkerchief
from his pocket, carefully cleans his glasses
and with a quaver in his voice orders,
“Take those blood bags back to the freezer,
I don’t think they’re necessary.”
© 2026 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 359/365.
Desert Dweller 