This was first published in May 2018.
RADCLIFF, Ky. — One momenthe's at the pump, fueling the Hardin County school bus he drives for a living.
The next,he's trapped in a burning church buseruptingin flames. Clothes on fire, kids screaming for help as melting paint from the ceiling dripsonbare skin and lungsfillwith black, toxic smoke from blazing seat cushions.
Such flashbackscome without warning for Quinton Higgins Jr., one of 40 survivors of the May 14, 1988,crash in Carrollton, Kentucky, that left 27 dead and many more injured, some grievously,when a drunken driver hit their bus as they headed home after a day at anamusem*nt park.
"Even though I'm an adult, I'm trapped at 15," saidHiggins, 45, of Radcliff, who suffered burns and lung damage from the crash."It took many years trying to heal fromthis. I'm still trying to heal."
Now, on the 30th anniversary of whatremainsthe nation's deadliest drunken driving crash, Higgins and other survivors say they finally are reclaimingtheir lives from the catastrophethatdefined them for so many years.
"It's our year, to stand up and be survivors, to let us grieve and let us talk about where we are," saidCiaranMadden, 44, of Radcliff, whoseface, neck and right arm remain scarred from third-degree burns suffered at age 14."There's a lot of people that say get over it. This is something that you don't get over.This is the year I'm finding out, yeah, you really don't get over it."
Related:How the horror of the Carrollton bus crash made highways safer
Three decades later, survivorscontinue to work through conflictingfeelings and agonizing memories of the nighttime crash aftera pickuptraveling the wrong way on Interstate 71 in Carroll Countyhit the bus owned by Radcliff First Assembly of God.The collisionpunctured the bus fueltank,turning 60 gallons of gasoline into a giant fireball that swept through the bus.
"It got so hot in there," saidJoe Percefull, 44, an administrator with Oldham County public schools. "You literally felt like you were burning from the inside because you were just breathing in all that hot air."
Temperatures inside the bus quicklyreached 1,500 degrees,investigators said.
With the front exit blocked by the crash, panicked youthsfledthrough smoke and flames toward the only otherexit at the rear. Charred remains of those who didn't escape were found piled in the aisle and draped over seats.
"The pain that I have from that event never goes away," said Percefull, who suffered from burns and smoke inhalation. "I still remember every single thing that happened to me."
Inrecent years, many survivors havereconnectedthrough social media, including a private Facebook page.
Somesay they are increasingly willing to speak out in hopes people never forget the devastating impact of the crash on themselves, their friends, their families, the community.
"May 14 should never beforgotten," Madden said. "It should be remembered every single year."
The teens who survived noware in their 40s, with careers, spouses and children of their own. Yet they remain haunted by memories ofthe crash that horrifieda nation and led to major reforms in school bus safety as well as tougher drunken driving laws in many states, including Kentucky.
They wonder why they survived and their friends died.
"I lost mybest friend in the accident, Joshua Conyers," Percefull said. "He was sitting right beside me whenthe accidenthappened. How did I manage to get out when he didn’t?"
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They also remain troubled by the yearslong silence of Larry Mahoney, the Owen County man who served 10 years in prison after he was convicted of manslaughter for killing 27 people by crashinginto the church bus whiledrunk.
Mahoneyhas never spoken publiclysince his conviction in 1989 and did not respond to a request for comment for this story. He was released from prison in 1999.
"It appears that he just doesn’t care, but I don’t believe that’s how he feels," saidDarrin Jaquess, 46, a Radcliff real estate agent who nearly died oflung damage from the crash. "I feel like he probably feels it's best just to stay out of the limelight. I would love to just sit down and talk with him."
Madden said shevisited Mahoneyin prison for several years after he responded to a letter she wrote in hopes of better understanding the man who caused so much suffering.
"It wasn't in me to hate him as much as I wanted tohatehim," she said.
Maddensaid Mahoney, in their conversations, was remorseful and emotional but said he remembered nothing about the crash.
After he left prison, Mahoney stopped responding to her calls andletters, Madden said.
Survivorsoften wonderwhattheir lives would have been like had the crash never occurred. Still, some say that despite its horrors, over time they have begun to appreciate itsbenefits.
"Am I a betterperson today having survived or endured this?" askedHarold Dennis, 44, who survived near-fatal smoke inhalation and burns that left him badly scarred."Yes, I think so. I would have to say yes."
Still, "nobody would choose that,"said Dennis, a physician's assistant in Lexington."I would bring the 27 fatalities back tomorrow if I could."
Survivors have sought solace in various ways.
Madden speaks to students about bullying,driven by her own experience after she returned to middle school disfigured by burns and was mocked as "Freddy Krueger" and "Crispy Critter."
Dennis helped produce a2013documentary called "Impact After the Crash" in which he and other survivorsrecounttheir experiences.Some of theirchildren appear in the documentary, playing their parents in a re-enactment of the daythat began with excited kids piling onto a bus for theouting at the Kings Islandamusem*nt park in Ohio.
Related:Drunk driver silent about Carrollton bus crash despite survivors' pleas
Jason Booher, 43, a basketball coach and school principal in Pikeville, speaks routinely to school groups and others about drinking, drugs and his experience surviving the crash.
But Higgins has devised the most unique tribute: an old Ford school bus nearly identical to the one destroyed in the crash thathe has turnedinto a mobilememorial.
On the outside is painted "27 reasons not to drink and drive:May 14, 1988." Inside are photos of those who died,taped to the seats they were in at the time of the crash.
Higginsdrives the bus to speaking engagements where he talks about the dangers of drinking and driving, mostlytomiddle and high school students. The rest of the time it stays parked in Radcliff near a highway where passers-by can see it.
Another good read:Child's death led family in a crusade for 15-passenger van safety
"All the survivors say there's crazy and then there's Quinton," he jokedabout the vehicle he bought asa used church bus. "Everyone thinks it's crazy, but they all support me."
Here are stories of some of the survivors:
'I hate Mother's Day'
The anniversary of the crash falls around Mother's Day, a bitter reminder for those whoseloved ones were among the 24 children and three adults who died one weekafter Mother's Day in 1988.
KarolynNunnallee, whose daughterPatty, 10, was the youngest to die, saidMother's Dayispainful for her andother families affected by the crash.
"I hate Mother’s Day," said Nunnallee, 67.
A military wife whose husband, anAir Force officer, was assigned to the nearby Fort Knox Army post, Nunnallee said their lives were serenebefore the crash.
"My life was basically as smooth as silk," she said.
Afterward, devastated by the loss, Nunnallee found herself searching for some way to make a difference.
Two weeks after her daughter's death, Nunnalleevisited the president of the Hardin County chapter of Mothers Against Drunk Driving,who gave her a box full of MADD applications.
"I left that office thinking I, KarolynNunnallee, amgoing to stop drunk driving in this country," she said, a belief she laterrealizedwas "naive."
"But it kind of gave meback a little sense of control," she said.
Nunnallee, who now lives in Florida, went on to become an impassioned spokeswoman for MADD, telling her story to countless audiences across the country and becoming MADD'snational president in 1998 and 1999.
Over the years, Nunnallee said she'sbeen gratified to see drunken driving laws toughened in Kentucky and other states.
But Nunnallee said the fight's not over and she remains involved in the battle against drunken driving and, more recently,impaired driving through cell phone use ortexting.
"It’s still killing people," she said. "It'sgot tostop and we can prevent it. It’s 100 percent preventable."
'It was my skin'
Onasunny afternoon in early May,Ciaran Madden sits on agranite bench in a Hardin County cemetery contemplating two glossy black monuments.
Onebears the names of those who died inthe crash. The other is amonument with her own name on it, then Ciaran Foran, her maiden name, listed as one of 40 survivors.
"There was a big old fireball," said Madden, recalling what happened immediately after the pickup hit the bus, jolting her and many of the sleeping passengers awake.
Rising to try to escape, Madden said, she was knocked down.The next thing she knew, she was outside on the ground wondering why people were "hitting on me." They were trying to put out the flames.Raising her arm, Madden saw that it was dripping.
"It looked like blood," she said. "It was my skin."
Placedin an ambulance, Madden caught sight of her face in a reflective metal cabinet, grotesquely burned and unrecognizable. When she exhaled, she breathedout darksmoke.
"I could see black, and I knew I was in trouble," Madden said.
With third-degree burns over 67 percent of her body, Madden would spend the next six weeks in the burn unit at University of Louisville Hospital along with several other survivors.
Her father bought her headphones to try to drown out the sounds of fellow patients undergoing excruciatingly painful treatment for burns known as "debridement" to remove dead or damaged tissue.
Even with headphones, "you could still hear the screams," she said.
Madden endured years of skin grafts and surgeries and said she's had conflicted feelings about the ordeal. For a time, she thought she'd reached some level of peace.
But more recently, "I'm back to being mad," she said.
"I'm mad because there are people who won't even go out their doors," she said. "They home-school their kids because they're afraid of the school bus. There are survivors that are still trapped in that day and there's nothing we can do about it. But Larry Mahoney's out living his life, walking down the street as a free man."
Madden's grateful forchanges that came about after the crash, including improvements to bus safety. School buses now use the less combustible diesel fuel instead of gasoline and have more escape features, including pop-out windows, roof hatches and side exits.
But she's frustrated that drunken driving crashes still occur regularly, despite tougherlaws.
"I'mvery happy that we have safer buses," she said. "But if there wasn't a drunken driver on the road, that bus would not have exploded at all."
'I'm not driving a bus!'
Eight years ago, Quinton Higgins Jr. was looking for work after he was laid off from a civilian job at Fort Knox.
A friend told him the Hardin County School Public school system was hiring bus drivers.Higgins said his reaction was emphatic, even though he thought he had put memories of the crash behind him.
"I said, 'I'm not driving a bus!' " Higgins recalled.
But he got the job and liked it. Thenevents took a stranger turn when anotherfriend told him about a usedchurch buslisted on Craigslist. Though a later model, it was identical to the1977 Ford bus destroyed in the crash — except for one feature.
It has a protective steel cage around the gas tank at the right front side of the bus, a safety feature Ford began installing in 1977 just eight days after the Radcliff church bus was built.
His friend told him, "Quinton, you need this bus," he said.
So he bought it,not sure what todo with it.
Over time,he began turning itinto a memorial.
Along with photos of those who died placed on the seats,a photo of the charred hulk of the burned church bus is taped to the steering wheel. Around the interior are other photos and newspaper stories aboutthe crash.
The seat where Higgins was sittingbears photos of him in bandages at the hospital where he spent six weeks recovering from smoke inhalation and burns. He was seatedright behind thefriend who invited him on the trip, Anthony Marks, who died.
Higgins learned of Anthony's death from the television news at the hospital even thoughfamilies tried to shield survivorsfrom newsimmediately after the crash.
"All the names started scrolling across the screen, and I lost it," he recalled.
Higgins doesn't use the busfor passengers butdrives it to engagements where he speaksto school groups and others about drunken driving and how one wrong choice can destroy so many lives.
"I tell them our story, I tell them why I'm passionate about this stuff,"Higgins said.
He invites students toget on the bus and look around, which he said is sobering for kids, leaving some in tears, especially when they see photos of those who died.
"It makes such an impact when you see these kids' faces," Higgins said. "These were real people."
'One of the lucky ones'
A coach, teacher and nowan assistant principal and athletic director at Pikeville Independent Schools, Jason Booher said the crash has shaped his career, giving him a platform to speak publicly, primarily to youngaudiences.
"I've never tasted alcohol or experimented with a drug in my life, and I've had as much fun in life as anybody," said Booher, 43. "I tell themyou don’t have to do that stuff because you can have fun without it. I'm a living witness."
Booher was 13 at the time of the crash and managed to escapewith minorinjuries by climbing over the seats rather than trying to fight his way through the crowdedaisle. Once he got out, he joined otherstrying to pull peoplefrom the pile of bodies at the back doorof the bus.
"I was one of the lucky ones," he said. "I got out pretty quick."
But his best friend, Chad Witt, who'd invited him on the trip, didn't survive.
"The next four years ofhigh school, I couldn’t see anything positive coming out of it,"Booher said of the experience. "Losing mybest friend and 26 others, it was hard to deal with it."
But as he grew older,Booher saw it as an opportunityto speak to young people about personal choices and overcoming adversity.
"The bus crash has molded me into what I am today," he said."It’s been really a blessing to share my story withkids."
'Knives sticking me'
Harold Dennis, one of the most severely injured survivors, recalls being pulled from the bus andplaced on the ground. He'd suffered third-degree burns on his back and shoulders.
"One of thethings I do vividly remember is the blades of grass in the median felt like knives sticking me in the back," Dennis said.
He also suffered severe, disfiguring burns on his face and neck, spending three months in the hospital. Dennisunderwent multiple skin grafts and surgeries.
"Ideveloped a new respect for burn victims," he said. "The treatment is grueling. I was 14."
At first, Dennis didn't know how severely burned his face was and his family prevented him from looking in a mirror. But when his mother briefly lefthis hospital room, he got hold of a mirror and began screaming at the sight.
"I didn't recognize myself," he said, describing his ordeal inthedocumentary.
A high school athlete, Dennis was able to return to sports, eventually playing soccer at the University of Louisville and and then football at the University of Kentuckyas a transfer student.
Along with his sports accomplishments, Dennis became a symbol of overcoming terrible injuries. He became a popular motivational speaker and was profiled by CBS, ESPN, People Magazine and Sports Illustrated.
Denniscontinued speaking engagements after college, but in recent years hebecame interested in doing a documentary about the crash.
While his story had been told on national television and in sports stories, that wasn't enough.
"I wanted to tell everybody's story, " Dennis said,to "memorialize our friends and victims, tell everyone’s stories, as many stories as we can."
Dennis found a producer and writer. He lined up the money. They used some survivors' children to play their parents and usedthe church bus Higginsboughtfor the re-enactment.
The result was an 80-minute documentary, "Impact After the Crash,"that relates the crash through interviews with survivors and investigators and news footage from events, including Mahoney'strial.
The film is available on Amazon. Some survivors show the documentary when they speak at public events.
"It's a phenomenal, phenomenal film," Dennis said.
Dennis' one regret is that he was not able to persuade Mahoney to participate in the documentary.
"Who better to tell astory like this than Larry Mahoney?" he asked.
Dennis said he delivered a letter to Mahoney through a relative, requesting his help with the documentary.Afterward, the relative described Mahoney's reaction.
"He said, 'I gave your letter to Larry and Larry opened it and read it and he folded it up and he gave it right back to me,'" Dennis said."Short story, Larry refused to speak, refused to be interviewed."
On the 30th anniversary of the crash, Dennis said he wantspeople to think about everyone it affected.
"I just hope that people will continue to remember,not necessarily in the way of a huge memorialservice," Dennis said. "But when that time frame rolls around on May 14, I just hope people remember it silently or quietly and say a few words for us and the people no longer with us."
Finding Larry Mahoney
Still frustrated thatMahoney had cut off contact with her, Ciaran Madden said she made one more attempt to reach him last year at his home in Owen County.
The occasion was a talk Higgins was giving at a nearby school,taking his bus. Madden drove up separately with a friend, Tammy Darnell,also a crash survivor. Afterward, they figured out where Mahoney lived and decided to stop at his house.
"I knocked on the front door and he came around the corner," Madden said."He's like, 'What are you doing here?' "
Darnell, who waited in the car, got out after Mahoney appeared.
"I got out and met him," Darnell said. "He was terribly sorry for what he did, he could not apologize more."
Read this:Drunk driver silent about Carrollton bus crash despite survivors' pleas
Maddentold Mahoneyshe wanted to know why he'd cut off contact after his prison release.
"He had tears in his eyes and said, 'I think you know,' '' Madden said.
He didn't elaborate, and the two women left. Madden sensedMahoney meant that contact with survivors was too painful.
"I got it,"Madden said. "But it still pisses me off sometimes."
Deborah Yetter: 502-582-4228; dyetter@courierjournal.com; Twitter:@d_yetter. Support strong local journalism by subscribing today:www.courier-journal.com/deborahy.
