by Mark Stewart
ANNELI’S STEPFATHER cautiously crept out from under a food preparation bench. He’d successfully argued they should take refuge in the kitchen, not the dining room.
Thirty of the group strongly disagreed.
The hotel staff quickly ushered several hotel guests and Darryl into the kitchen. If nothing else the fighting will be over.
At the height of the storm, the morning chef ran for the knives, throwing them into the dishwashers for safety.
In his haste, he’d missed seeing the steak knife. When the window shattered, the wind picked it up, and tossed it across the room. The sharp point embedded into one of the patron’s forearms. The elderly man crumbled to the floor clutching his arm. A brave young lady reached out pulling the knife from his flesh, jamming it into a cupboard door. Seconds later the hotel’s roof was torn away. In one devastating attack, the wind picked up the building and dropped it. Every window in the place blew out. A small fire erupted from a severed gas pipe under the kitchen bench. The chef ran to the gas metre, turning it off. He dived for a fire extinguisher to douse the flames.
At the conclusion of the first half of the cyclone, the small group ventured outside to view the damage. Three sides of the hotel appeared to have a large crack from top to bottom. The fourth wall facing north looked ready to collapse.
Meredith’s voice sounded no louder than a mere gargle. “The dining room has only one remaining wall.”
Darryl hid her eyes from the massacre. He turned, herding his daughter back inside the kitchen.
The eye of the storm gave the survivors only a few minutes to check on how secure their new hiding place might hold up before the wind restarted.
It gave no warning when it returned to finish off what it began. It seemed hell bent on showing off its power by destroying whatever remained standing by devouring everything in its path.
One minute Darryl stood staring, out of the glass free window in the kitchen, the next second, he was being sucked out of the window, feet first.
“Help, can any of you grab hold of me. Dirk, anyone, I need help,” Darryl yelled.
He looked up at the cellar door. The gap between his hand and the handle couldn’t be any more than a few inches. He loosened his grip to get ready to reach for the handle. Instantly he started to be sucked backwards, his feet slipping through the open window.
“Hey, anyone in the cellar, I’m almost at the limit of my strength. I’ll be sucked outside if nobody comes to my rescue.” Closing his eyes from the wind, Darryl gritted his teeth.
Concentrating his entire strength, Darryl managed to pull one foot through the window. Again, he stretched out his hand towards the handle of the cellar door. Two strong hands grabbed Darryl by the wrists, pulling him to safety. He heard the door slam shut then locked from the inside.
“Thanks for saving me,” puffed Darryl between breaths. “I thought I was a goner.”
The chef slapped him on the shoulder. “Not problem. In my youth, I had been wrestle champ of college.”
The man’s broken English helped Darryl to relax. He shook the man’s hand to cement the fact he felt grateful for being saved.
For the next twenty minutes, the group sat in the dark listening to the wind.
Finally, the wind fell silent.
The chef unlocked the door and allowed the group to follow him out into the warming sunshine.
“The cyclone has gone,” he announced.
The sun slowly seeped out from behind the clouds. Darryl noted the wind quickly abating into no stronger than a stiff breeze. He looked over his shoulder at the once beautiful hotel. He knew the smoldering wreck couldn’t be saved.
“So much for elegance,” he mumbled.
About seventy feet above the ground a shadow slowly circled the area for several minutes. It resembled a prehistoric predator stalking its prey.
For a long time, Darryl stared at the shape. “What a large bird!” he joked.
The concierge stepped up behind him, straightening his tie.
“If you take a closer look, the large bird is a hang-glider. You can plainly see there are two people hanging from underneath. One is a young woman, the other, is a young man.”
Darryl focused his gaze on the descending craft. “My daughter is up there. What on blue blazers is she up to?”
The hang-glider slowly rose in an updraft before disappearing out of sight.
Darryl pointed in the direction of the beach. “The oversized kite is heading for the water; sons, let’s go retrieve your sister.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN