Historical Moment: The Carcass Wash Incident

 By Jem Morgenstern

Ron Clark was pinned under an overturned cattle truck - right under the gas tank, which was mangled and leaking fluid over his body. His jaw was broken, his leg was twisted, and he felt a sharp pain in his back that turned out to be a dislocated vertebrae. He could only smell the gasoline that drenched his clothes and wet his skin. He could hear the other children, his friends, crying out - some sounding in agony, some begging to be killed because the pain they were in was unbearable, some praying. Ron himself prayed for the first time in awhile, as he’d recount 30 years later in an interview with Dennis Romboy for the Deseret News from June 10th, 1993, which coincided with the dedication of the memorial erected in remembrance of the accident in Carcass Wash. 

“I kept asking ‘why why why?’” Ron said.

Tom Heal and Brian Roundy were both tasked with making their way up Hole-in-the-Rock Road towards Escalante to find help after each narrowly avoided entrapment. Tom had tried jumping from the back of the cattle truck as it began to veer backwards, but his foot caught and he was pulled into the wreck. He found himself buried beneath loads of camping gear with several broken ribs, but he was able to wriggle himself out from beneath the truck, after which he quickly passed out. When he woke, Kilmer Roundy, Brian’s dad, handed him a canteen and sent him with Brian up the road. They expected to walk the whole 47-mile stretch of dirt road, but the boys came across a rancher just two miles up, who drove them into town and brought them to the police station. 

It took about four hours to get help from Escalante and the surrounding towns down to the crash site. The rescuers were able to pull bodies from the wreckage by jacking up one side of the truck, holding it up with flat stones, and then jacking up the other side of the truck to do the same. It was a long, delicate process. Eventually, it came to a point where two boys were left beneath the truck, Ron Clark and Lee Colver. The two were pinned by opposite ends of the truck. Lee had been riding on top of the cabin with two other boys, one of which jumped from the truck as it rolled back and was subsequently crushed to death under its wheels, the other rolled across the dirt and avoided the same fate. Lee was pinned into place by a rock and a steel toolbox that was pressed down by the weight of the overturned truck and crushed his right foot. The rescuers weren’t sure if they would be able to save both Ron and Lee. If they jacked up the side of the truck trapping Ron, it seemed likely the truck would roll again and crush Lee. If they jacked up the side that pinned Lee, the precariously stacked stones holding Ron’s side of the truck would likely collapse and the full weight of the vehicle would fall right onto him. The rescuers explained the situation to the boys, both told the rescuers to save the other. Both braced themselves for death.

But both were saved.

“Something physically or emotionally reminds me of it daily,” said Ron in his Deseret News interview, “I recall the day as if it were last Monday.”

Night's Approach in Willow Gulch

By Jem Morgenstern

            Under Broken Bow Arch, there’s a creek that falls into a muddy pond. A muddy pond with crawdaddies paddling their way across the floor, pushing their ancient bodies under rocks to hide from my eyes peering down at them. I could crush them like the 13 Boy Scouts who were crushed by a rolling truck 20 miles and 55 years back at Carcass Wash, but I am much kinder than the God they prayed to. I drop a couple spinach leaves into their water – just enough for me to feel like I might be feeding them but not enough for me to feel like I’m polluting. I don’t know if they eat spinach, but I like feeling like I might be making their lives easier for one moment.
            Aside from the crawfish and the ghosts of western tragedies, there are only two others in the gulch with me. Right now, they’re back at our camp that’s nestled in the dunes of an alcove directly across from the arch. Their feet rest in the cold red sand while they share a portion of the one bottle of liquor we managed to fit in our packs. The echoes of their conversation breaks the perfect silence, but I don’t mind the noise because I like listening to them talk.
            I hike back up the dunes to join them and share their dry spit and booze from that same bottle of liquor. The night slowly drips into the sky as the burning dusk falls below the desert walls of the gulch. The black birds swimming in the darkening sky look like they’re knit from their own shadows.  We talk about those birds and the stars that speck their shadow figures, because the moonlit sky is all we can see in the blackness that reigns over desert floors at night.

Family Above All

By Jem Morgenstern

In our Father’s Arms

Blood on the linoleum. Muffled crying. I could picture the scene in the other room clearly – I had seen it before, I had been in her position before. Children, like us, are dangerously likely to make small mistakes. He didn’t like small mistakes, he didn’t like children.

            Blood on the linoleum. Muffled crying. She could picture the scene in the other room clearly – she had seen it before, she had been in my position before. He had one hand over my boiling mouth and the other pressed down on my neck.

He said, “stop, you little bitch, be quiet.”

So we would be quiet.

In our Mother’s Arms

            She put an arm around me and told me it was okay, so I believed it was okay. Blood would stop leaking from my nose. Bruises would come and go. The room was bright with the sun’s light. I believed this was a good place.

            She put an arm around her and told her it was okay, but she knew it wasn’t. Blood would stop leaking from her nose. Bruises would come and go. The sun’s light poured through the windows from outside. She knew a better place was out there.

            She said, “he won’t do it again.”

            But he would do it again.

Tunnel Shears

By Jem Morgenstern

The walls were once slick with condensating excrements and the scent of feces was an inescapable force that lingered in the air at all times. Now, the sewer corridors are as dry as the desert above them. Putrid scents come and go as the winds blow through galleries of semi-petrified masses of ancient feculence - or the scents are carried from fresher excrement after the wind passes through corners of the sewers reserved for stews of waste and rotting dead of the present day.

These corridors, once solely the home to pests and shifting excretion of the old age, now house the people who could not bear the striking heat of the dual suns and the jagged sand winds. All who abandon the arduous journeys above for the security of the sewer passageways face the questionable hospitality of the indigenous craftspeople known as The Sewers.

The Sewers are the last remaining people of the Northwestern Landmass who have the skills needed to manufacture clothing. Because it is the only skill that offers them an advantage in the trading networks, they cruelly guard the secrets of their techniques. Without their secrets, the only product they could offer to the markets would be the petrified manure of the ancients. With only that to offer, they would find themselves starved and dying because so few ask for the petrified manure.

The Sewers reserve all garments they make to be sold in the world above them. Because of this, they all live their lives disrobed. The docile underground wind wraps its fingers around their bare bodies, refugees from the desert avert their gaze until they finally become accustomed to uncovered skin, nudity is only interrupted when they dress themselves in newly made clothing to ensure it will fit similar bodies in the dusty world above.

The Sewers’ utilize their nudism to distinguish themselves from the refugees whose bodies are veiled by clothing. Although those who are clothed are not treated poorly, they are excluded from greater sewer events. They are not invited to the occasional dinners afforded to The Sewers by their monopoly on skills of clothing production, but they are treated to the leftovers from these feasts.

The Sewers are kind enough to allow outsiders to participate in their industry, too. For a long period of time before they are truly considered part of the sewer community, the outsiders work as liaisons to the desert markets. They bring the clothing up and the traded goods down in exchange for gradual acceptance - plus, they are compensated for their labor with popular currencies and necessary comforts.

Eventually, some outsiders become Sewers and are offered the privilege of learning the skills hoarded by underground dwellers since the beginning of this age. There have been attempts by desert travelers to infiltrate the indigenous sewer communities by stripping their rags from their bodies and entering the tunnels while pretending to already be Sewers. The Sewers, having exceptional eyes for details, are able to distinguish a dust dweller’s skin from their own. With exposure to the desert, patches of skin are rugged with scars that do not occur in the sewers. If The Sewers discover intent to steal their secrets, the former potential thief is quickly tied and brought to an empty corridor that is strictly used for immolation. Afterwards, the body is transported to a waste corner where it is left to decay.

This brutality towards thieves is the only violence found in the sewers. There is no other place that provides the same asylum from barbarism. Above, even the air is savage. Below, the world is gentle enough for nakedness to be commonplace and for inhabitants to be so untroubled by their surroundings that they are able to socialize without irritation piercing through their interactions. Couriers, wealthy travelers, and even the Dust Raiders rest in the company of Sewers - to escape the suns, to rest without worry of Horrible Centipedes emerging from the sands, and to disrobe and refresh in gentle air.

Erase

By Jem Morgenstern

The wood burned. Fire tainted every color its wrathing arms could reach. Bright embers and dark ashes slowly fell onto the white floors, painting it black and spotted red. Blue wallpaper disintegrated: curling downwards, crumbling, fading to brown. Blinding yellow flames rose into the sky and bled into the blue horizon dyed orange by the rising sun. The blinding light would wave and the smoke would peer over the hills, but no eyes would look in its direction. None were near enough to witness the building’s excruciating mutation. Nobody would hear the aching wooden skeleton crack and fall apart. Nobody would smell the distinct, uniquely putrid scent of the burning evidence: the sulfurous stench of keratin, nauseating odor of heated bacteria, or fumes from unused chemicals.

No roads led here. Nobody ever wandered here. Discovery of what happened here was unlikely. If anyone did happen to find this ruin, every question they could have would forever be unanswered. The specifics of the crimes committed would never be uncovered. The identities of those involved would always be a mystery. Their stories would never be told, shared, reported. Nobody would hear about the cold nights they spent in that building - body shivering, teeth chattering, hands shaking - waiting. Waiting for the breathing to stop. Watching a body laboriously force itself to continue living until it lost the strength to keep itself running. Sometimes, it would take minutes. Sometimes, so much time would pass by that they felt their own bodies might give up before the one collapsed on the floor would finally croak out its final breath. They wanted it to last, so they could savor the intensity of seeing life inch itself out of a body with every shaking moan, every quiver of the body, every exhalation. So they wouldn’t have to clean up after themselves. So they wouldn’t have to begin the tedious process of finding another again so soon. They always wondered if anyone would notice these people were missing. They always did their best to choose lonely people. Quiet people who nobody noticed. Ones that were almost expected to disappear someday anyway.

It was when they noticed somebody had begun looking for one of their people that they fretfully decided to burn the building down. Tears rolled from their eyes, as they set their place of ritualistic pleasure ablaze. They watched the walls that housed so many memories of joy crumble to the ground. They burned their souvenirs along with it. Erased any proof of their dark avocation. Though they didn’t intend for the loss of their house of memories to put an end to their past-time. So they set out to find a place to begin again. One as hidden, as disposable, as perfect as this one. Where, even now, they continue to derive joy from watching their victims struggle to stay alive. Where, even now, there is no trail that leads to them - to their discovery, guilt, or conviction.

Injection Eight

By Leiani Brown

It was one of those snowy mid-February mornings that Alice had loved. Just after a blizzard. The surrounding whiteness gave the earth a newness that seemed to slow time. It was 5 a.m., the softness of the snow soothing the harsh sounds of morning to a kind of muffled silence. Sean was used to being the first one awake in the world, but there was something about snow that made everything softer, sleepier.

       He walked out to the road, rubbing his hands together to generate heat. He could feel the numbness already beginning to take hold of his skin. His were the first footprints to touch the fresh snow. He stopped in the middle of the road, the orange glow of the faulty streetlight illuminating his lone figure.

       Within hours, Sean knew, the pure, untouched road would become a grey slush, tainted by car exhaust and tire tracks.

       Alice had hated the slush. Sean would always hear her griping about the grey mess that seeped into her shoes and made a splash with every step. That's why he'd often find her outside in the cold at 4, sometimes 3 a.m., just staring at the untouched snow.

       “It's so beautiful,” she'd say when he came to herd her inside. “Why can't it stay like that forever? Why can't people just stay inside? Just leave it alone?”

Alice was a bit of a purist in that way, she hated to see things tampered with.

       He had laughed at her then, shook his head at her ridiculous standards and unrealistic hopes. But he wasn't laughing now.

       Sean and Alice had been married for 27 happy years. High school sweethearts. Their marriage hadn't been perfect, but it had worked. That's why Alice leaving two years ago took him by such surprise. Sure, he hadn't always been around, but it was a part of the job, and he knew Alice understood that. Being a truck driver meant traveling a lot. It was a lonely profession, but they had found a way to fit marriage into the lifestyle. Or so Sean had thought.

       He shoved his hands into his pocket and sighed.

       The drive to the clinic was long and uneventful. He stayed in the car for a dozen minutes before finally going inside.

       “And how may I help you, sir?” The woman at the front desk wore a cyborg-looking Bluetooth attached to her ear and had big bulging eyes that stared up at him as she spoke in an annoyingly sweet voice. Sean wasn't sure if she was talking to him or the electronics wired to her face.

       “Sir?” she repeated after an uncomfortable amount of silence. “Sir, can I help you?”

       “Y-yeah,” his voice cracked. “Yeah I'm here to see Dr. Stanport.”

       “Alright, if you'll just wait one sec,” she smiled a toothy, over-friendly smile, and turned to a computer behind the one in front of her.

       She wears way too much makeup, Sean thought to himself as he took a seat that was set out for waiting clients. And how many computers do these people need?  He was thinking like Alice again. He did that sometimes.

Sean calculated his age to be somewhere around 84, and his bones often agreed, despite . He had striking green-blue eyes that held the vividness of his 20 year-old self, and the slightly sagging skin of an 80 year-old, with the brown, somewhat greying beard of his thirties.

“Sean Kimball.”

His name came over the intercom, like he was back in grade school being called into the principal's office. Dr. Stanport's office certainly matched the description of one, as far as he could remember or imagine one might look like.  

       “Sean! What a delight to see you!” Dr. Craig Stanport, head physician of the clinic, stood in front of his desk in the middle of his office, welcoming Sean in.

       “I had a scheduled appointment. You were expecting me.” Sean replied brusquely. He’d always suspected Dr. Stanport of faking pleasantness. In fact, he’d always got the feeling everyone was faking something, like the whole place was just one giant plastic bubble filled with plastic plants and phony mannequins posing as people.

       “Yes, but nonetheless, it's a delight! An absolute treat!” For a mannequin, Dr. Stanport sure was animated—so many hand motions and shifting facial expressions. “How are you doing this fine summer day?”

       Sean froze. “Summer?”

       Dr. Stanport nodded, a fake smile still vibrant on his baby-faced features.

“What do you mean? I had to drive through a nasty snowstorm to get here, the roads are awful.” Sean began talking fast, his confusion and dread picking up speed. He jerked his head in the direction of the window to see sunshine creeping in through the blinds.

       “No…” Sean groaned.

       “Ah, I see we still haven't given up on those hallucinations.” Dr. Stanport’s voice was annoyingly matter-of-fact.

       “There's snow on my windshield you can look for yourself!”

       “Please, Sean. Take a seat.”

“But it was snowing! I felt cold! I'm wearing a coat for Pete's sake!”

       “Yes, and you're sweating immensely. Please, take a seat.”

       Sean suddenly became aware of an uncomfortable amount of heat generating from the insides of his thick winter coat. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead and cursed. “No. No no no no no... I don't understand. I honestly... I thought…”

       “Sean, please, take a seat.” Dr. Stanport spoke slowly, as if coaxing a child.

       Sean reluctantly took a seat, never taking his eyes off Dr. Stanport's baby face. He didn't look older than 19 or 20, and Sean hated that. Dr. Stanport took his spot across the desk from Sean, pulling out a few files, a smile seemingly ever-fixed onto his face.

       “Are you telling me I can't even tell what season it is anymore?” Sean’s confused voice mixed with frustration and hostility.

       “Can't? Sean, we've been over this. You alone can eliminate the can'ts.” Dr. Stanport and his stupid philosophical quips.

“But it was freezing! I woke up and the snow was there! If I had gone out in shorts and a t-shirt I would've frozen to death!”

       At this Dr. Stanport’s eyes widened, a kind of fear sneaking into his curtain of tolerance. “Sean—”

       “What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to think?”

“Sean, please. Just leave it.” His voice was dangerously low, and his smile teetered ever so slightly.

       “I'm sorry. Honestly, Dr. Stanport, I wasn't trying to be difficult, it just caught me by surprise is all. I'm sorry. I really have been trying my hardest to let everything go like you said, sometimes I just get confused. And I was doing good too, I had everything together—”

       “It's alright, Sean. Please, take a seat.” Somehow in his agitation he had stood up again, and he quickly shuffled back into his seat.

       “Tell me about this morning,” Dr. Stanport finally stopped flipping through files and placed his hands atop the stack, fingers interlocked.

       “I woke up early,” Sean said slowly, thinking hard. “It was a long drive to the clinic, and I didn't want to be late. But I... I took a moment to look at the fresh snow. Alice, my wife, loved fresh snow…”

       “Sean.” Dr. Stanport sighed. “I can't help you if you don't help me.”

“I can't remember. Please, just show me the tapes. Please.”

“Sean, you can't rely on that forever. You're never going to improve if you don't at least try to remember on your own.”

       “Tapes? Haha how old is this guy?” A third voice made Sean jump out of his seat. A young man in scrubs was standing behind Dr. Stanport's swivel chair, but Sean hadn't seen him. Had he been there this whole time?

       “Shut up Chris,” Dr. Stanport's voice was uncharacteristically brusque. “He can still hear you, you know.”

       “Why does it matter? He won't remember any of this,” the man named Chris said bluntly, either oblivious to Sean’s presence, or he just didn’t care.  

“Ha, true.” Dr. Stanport’s voice was different now. Callous. Raw. Unpleasant, even.

       Sean's hands were shaking. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are?”

       “Sean please, sit down.” Dr. Stanport repeated, reverting back to his fake pleasant voice.

       “I'm not stupid! I will not be treated like this! You're just going to let him treat me like some kind of-of—” Sean began to yell, flustered and angry.

       “Of what?” Dr. Stanport snarled. That look on his face. The one of smugness mixed with indifference. Sean hated that look. “Struggling to find the words?”

       He was sweating immensely, his boiling rage only adding to the heat.

       “Please, Sean. Sit.”

       Sean obeyed. He was beginning to feel lightheaded.

       “How about taking that coat off now?”  

       The coolness of the air-conditioned room seemed oddly harsh, like being dunked in ice-cold water.

       “There we go. Much better, huh?”

Sean could barely hear Dr. Stanport's voice through the ringing in his ears.

       “Now. Tell me about your morning.”

       Sean could see a woman's face. She was laughing. She was staring back at him with big brown eyes. She was staring at her palms, holding them up to the light to see every line and detail with perfect clarity. She was slipping—

       “My wife, is she okay?”

Dr. Stanport sighed.

       “Guess I should go get the 'tapes' now,” Chris said with heavy exasperation, forming quotation marks in the air.

       “Shut up, Chris,” Dr. Stanport said again, this time more harshly.

       “C'mon, let me just stick him and call it good,” Chris argued.

       “No, wait. Not yet. Sean, don't you remember?” Dr. Stanport persisted in his most soothing voice, slowly, deliberately. “Remember last week? What did we talk about last week?”

“I don't think we met last week, did we?” Sean was full-on confused now, his mind flicking through images he couldn’t identify. Memories, he thought they must be, days spent in this very office. Across from Dr. Stanport, talking. But he couldn’t remember what about. The woman again. She was there. Only she wasn’t. She was wrapped in white linen being poked and probed--she hated needles.    

       “We meet every week, Sean. Do you remember why? Look at me, Sean. Do you remember why?” Sean could hear Dr. Stanport’s voice, but he couldn’t shut out the woman’s face. Who was she? No, she didn’t belong here. He pushed her away, thumbing through memories, looking for Dr. Stanport, their conversations. Sean’s arm felt numb and sore, remembering a pang just below the top of his shoulder as his memories of Dr. Stanport resurfaced.   

“The car accident…” Sean said quietly, slowly.

       “What car accident? Tell me what happened.” Dr. Stanport continued to coax it out of him.

“No, we've done this before. You know what happened.” Sean said, annoyed as everything started coming back to him.

       “Yes, but I need to know you know what happened.”

       “Of course I know what happened, I'm not an idiot!”

       “Okay, okay. No one's calling you an idiot, Sean. I'm just trying to help you.” Dr. Stanport smiled.

       Sean could feel a tingling under his skin, he felt dizzy, irritable. He could see yellowing skin, hair falling in clumps in his hand, her discolored hands clutched in his. At the same time he could hear her laughter, he could feel himself laughing, he'd forgotten he could do that—

       “I don't understand.”

       “What don't you understand, Sean?”

       “Why would she leave me right after I got in a car accident? Because she wasn't there, I was working, she was at home—”

“Sean, you've never been married. This woman doesn't exist, these are hallucinations, and you're better than this,” Dr. Stanport's blurted finally. But his words seemed rehearsed. How many times had he told him this?

       “Oh give it up, Craig.” Chris said, already advancing towards Sean.

Dr. Stanport sighed and placed a small rectangular box on the desk in front of him. He placed his thumb on the center and a blue light scanned it back and forth. The light glowed green, and he withdrew his hand.

       Had Chris not already silently injected the needle into Sean's arm, Sean would have clearly seen a holographic image sprout from the center of the box moments later. He would have watched as it showed a semi-truck and a smaller, unrecognizable car collide in a silent tumult of metal and blood, then rewind to show a slide-by-slide sketch of a life not his, but plastered with his name and face all over it. He would have seen Dr. Stanport grab a recorder and move to the window. He would've heard Dr. Stanport's tired voice as he spoke into the small, electronic speaker: “The 22nd of July 2025. Subject 28843. Subject's eighth round of injections. Still not fully severed from dependency. Effects barely last a week. Subject reported the same circumstances as last week; his brain appears to be permanently replaying the same winter morning. Significance of the morning still unknown. Subject does, however, believe in the car accident scenario streamed during initial injection. Subject still remembers lost one’s name, but remains unaware of death or cause thereof. His brain seems to have explained it away in terms of ‘leaving,’ implying perception of conflict, but he shows no sign of recognition of death. However, today he displayed fluency in the terminology of death, his first recognition of its existence, but it appears only to be on an idiomatic, figure of speech level of understanding. Recommended close monitoring for further signs of cracked perception buildup. End session eight.”

Had Chris not already injected him, Sean would have heard Chris ask Dr. Stanport why he even bothered to talk to patients, that clearly the drugs were working. He would've seen Dr. Stanport shrug his shoulders, and heard him mumble, “The reason we began the clinic was to stop people from remembering their hurt, but clearly this man is still hurting.” Sean would've then heard Chris’ matter-of-fact reply, “Every cure has its minor drawbacks.” He would've seen Chris leave, but Dr. Stanport remain. He would've felt the doctor’s eyes as he stared at Sean’s lonely face. He would've watched him pull out the files and take one last look at the picture of his patient’s dead wife before throwing it into the pile of a dozen files stuffed with pictures of other dead wives, husbands, fathers, brothers, children, pets.

But the instant the needle hit Sean's skin he felt its substance enter his body and rinse out his thoughts, draining out words such as “death” and “cancer” and “Alice,” and wringing out his limbs and mind until both were suffocatingly numb. His eyes and his subconscious were the only parts of him that stayed awake, and the instant the holographic images popped up in front of him, his eyes locked onto them and fed the lies to his subconscious: a quiet life alone as a trucker, shattered windshield shards, waking up alone, unhurt.