The Death in the Willows by Richard; Forrest

that!” The trooper driver fought the wheel and glared into the rearview mirror.
    A plume of black smoke had mushroomed skyward. A second explosion shattered it into long streamers.
    â€œGet back there fast!” Rocco yelled at the driver.
    â€œYes, sir!” Without further instruction, the driver swerved onto the grass, bumped across the median divider, and swiveled into the far lane. He accelerated toward the burning wreckage.
    Bea put her hands to her face. “Good Lord, it’s the bus!”

4
    The bus straddled the highway with flames lapping from its shattered windows and its interior a smoking mass. The state car made a sweeping skid back across the dividing median and screeched to a stop thirty yards from the inferno. Miraculously other cars had been far enough behind the explosion to remain untouched by fire, but they were now splayed and stalled in odd positions across the road.
    Rocco and Lyon slammed from the car and sprinted toward the wreckage. A final scream issued from the bus and then abruptly died.
    Rocco had snatched a small fire extinguisher from under the dashboard and held an arm protectively across his face as he fought to work his way toward the door. Intense heat drove him back, and the large chief stood helplessly with the extinguisher dangling uselessly from his hand.
    The cause of the explosion seemed to be a 38-ton propylene truck that had pulled from the nearby service area directly into the side of the bus. The single tank had ruptured, and within seconds of the collision the explosion had occurred.
    Their driver was speaking frantically into the car’s two-way radio, while Bea had discovered a first aid kit in the car trunk.
    â€œIs there anything we can do?” she asked.
    Rocco’s response went unheard as another explosion rocked the wreckage and nearly knocked them over. He turned toward the gathering crowd and waved his arms. “Get back! Back!”
    A lone siren could be heard in the distance as Bea walked away from the bus toward the side of the road.
    A strangled groan came from a shallow gully a dozen feet from the edge of the pavement.
    She stumbled across the grass and found him where he’d been thrown, face down in the gully. His feet were bare and white in contrast to his blackened back and arms. She stooped and turned him over. He groaned again.
    She recoiled back from the contorted face and sightless eyes. What remained of his clothing hung in scorched tatters, and yet, unaccountably, an arm sling was untouched. She ripped the cover from the first aid kit and searched through the meager contents for something useful. What she needed was morphine, but that would have to wait until the ambulances arrived.
    The charred caricature of a man groaned again as an arm reached toward her. “Mother, is that you?”
    â€œYes.” She felt his fingers brush against hers and close over her hand.
    â€œIt’s me. Bobby. Bobby, Mother.”
    â€œOnly a little while now, Bobby.” Her free hand still searched frantically through the first aid kit.
    He mumbled something and she bent closer to his mouth to catch the rasping words. A strong wind swept from the north and the words were lost as his hand fell limply from hers.
    Bea Wentworth stood slowly. She looked at the thin vial of burn cream clutched in her hand and then down at the body shriveled in the gully. A tear peaked at the corner of her eye and started a slow course down her face, and then her shoulders heaved and she cried in silent sobs.
    Vehicles converged on the now smoldering bus: three ambulances, fire equipment, and state police cruisers swiveled in concentric patterns around the wreckage. Ambulance doors slammed open and stretchers were wheeled across the pavement. Firemen ran toward the bus. They ended their dash by joining the others as silent spectators. A fireman in an asbestos suit and face mask entered the bus. They saw his dim figure through the smoke as he moved