Natural Disaster

by Erin McLellan

  Guthrie laughed. “You sounded so Californian just then.”

  Luke had to swallow back a grin. Guthrie’s laugh was infectious. “Shut up.”

  “What’s the most dangerous tornado you’ve ever been in, Luke?” Brad asked, and they both jumped like they’d forgotten the young director was there.

  This interview was not going at all how Luke had expected.

  “An EF2 tornado near Sarasota, Florida. It was the middle of the night. It’s not the biggest one I’ve chased but the scariest. We couldn’t see the twister until a flash of lightning lit up the whole sky. We were close. Closer than I realized. That’s the only time I’ve chased in the pitch-dark.”

  Guthrie’s gaze on him was like a solid weight. They made eye contact, and something fluttery and uncomfortable took flight in Luke’s stomach.

  “That’s the worst,” Guthrie said. “Hate nighttime tornadoes.”

  Luke nodded. Maybe they’d be able to find some common ground, and this wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Okay, almost done, guys. What about you, Guthrie?” Brad said. “What’s your most dangerous?”

  Guthrie was still gazing at Luke when he answered. “May 3rd.”

  Luke had been around the block enough in the storm-chasing world to know the shorthand large-scale tornadoes received locally after the event was over. Sometimes they might be named after the location—the Joplin tornado, the El Reno tornado—but often they were described using the date. The May 3rd tornado in 1999 had the highest wind speeds ever reported in a tornado and had devastated central Oklahoma. It was famous.

  It had also happened when Guthrie was a child, probably no older than ten.

  “Did it hit your house?” Luke asked.

  Guthrie glanced at the camera, breaking the weird spell between them. “No. I was in a vehicle,” he said dismissively. “Everyone in this area has their own story about the May 3rd tornado. It was the first big one of my lifetime and had a lasting effect on me. That tornado and its aftermath highlight Oklahoma’s resilience and the ways our communities rally around one another when the worst happens. There have been many other examples since. That’s one of the many reasons I enjoy reporting in Oklahoma.”

  A heavy silence followed Guthrie’s words. No doubt, they were nice words, but they were also rehearsed as shit.

  “Awesome. I think that’s a wrap,” Brad said, smiling. “I love saying that. Want to approve the final product before it’s published?” Luke and Guthrie both waved off that suggestion. “Great. I’ll let you know when it’s going live. And don’t worry—I’ll make you both look cool.”

  “Thanks, Brad. We appreciate it,” Guthrie said. He stood and stretched, his whole body curving beautifully, but Luke’s mind was racing too much for him to truly enjoy it.

  He jumped off the tailgate and stepped in front of Guthrie before he could escape. “Were you in a storm-chasing vehicle during the May 3rd tornado?”

  The corner of Guthrie’s mouth hitched. “What’s your favorite energy drink?”

  Luke was so surprised by the subject change that he had to take a step back to get his bearings. “Huh? Why can’t you answer me when I ask a question?”

  “I’ll pick up whichever one looks the most high-octane. Thursday is going to be a long day together, and we can be friendly and professional. But I’m not in this to be best buds with you. Talking about Slim Bridges is off-limits. Hope you like public radio. That’s all I listen to in a car, and we’ll need some entertainment.”

  Luke was amped and mad, blood rushing in his ears, but he didn’t know why.

  No, that wasn’t true. He knew why—because it was dangerous and negligent to have a kid in a car while storm chasing, and Luke’s overactive sense of right and wrong was rearing its ugly, protective head.

  “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath as Guthrie started to walk away. “I lied yesterday. I don’t like energy drinks.” Guthrie stopped in his tracks. Spending hours together in a car was going to be torture, but Luke might as well get a good beverage out of the deal. “If you’re going to buy me a drink, make it an iced coffee or nothing at all.”

  Guthrie watched Luke sip from the straw of his iced coffee and simultaneously check the rearview mirror. They’d gotten notice this morning that inclement weather was expected, so Guthrie had grabbed them both giant coffees—he was pretending the caffeine would help with his nerves—and a bag of snacks before they’d left around one in the afternoon. He hated being on the road for hours on end without anything healthy to eat.

  Slim had been bad about remembering food while chasing, even when Guthrie was a child. Guthrie needed food to function. Plus he enjoyed taking care of small shit like that for him and Luke, but no way in hell would he admit it out loud. If pushed, he’d claim to be a control freak.

  Which was also true.

  “Want a granola bar?” he asked, breaking the hours-long silence.

  “Nah,” Luke said, signaling in advance for their exit.

  The day had been awkward. Luke had tried to grill Guthrie about his chase experience as soon as they’d gotten into the truck, and Guthrie had shut him down hard. It’d been peace and quiet ever since, which was exactly what Guthrie had hoped for. Instead, it had him on edge, and he was already a ball of anxiety.

  Their goal was to drive two hours west of the Oklahoma City metro area so they would be in position to move when the storm built. Guthrie was grudgingly impressed with Luke’s careful driving. Guthrie would have to wait and see if Luke’s skill kept up when they were being pelted by rain and hail and navigating the ugly obstacle course of chaser convergence.

  “Let’s pull into that truck stop, fill the tank back up, and plan our next move,” Guthrie said. There didn’t seem to be anything for miles except road and pasture and this one shitty gas station.

  “Sure.” Luke maneuvered deftly into the parking lot. The business didn’t have a name, but the word “GAS” was painted on the cinder block wall. After Luke parked, he said gruffly, “Gonna piss. You can pump.” He tossed Guthrie a credit card.

  Before Guthrie could respond, Luke was striding across the deserted parking lot. Guthrie suspected the bathroom here was not ideal, but it was smart to go while they could. If the storm picked up, bathroom breaks would be out of the question.

  After filling the truck up with gas, Guthrie refreshed his radar and weather maps, leaving the door open to let the humid air in. The HAM radio squawked, and he checked the private Facebook chat all the KTTY chasers used to communicate. They called it Chaser Chat. There were two storms building, and they’d been tasked to follow the northern one, but he could feel in his gut it wasn’t going to be a monster. It might produce severe weather, but the tornado danger lay in the storm to the south.

  Slim used to call him the tornado whisperer when he was a kid. Hell, Slim probably still called him that when he regaled his legion of hangers-on about the glory days. Guthrie wouldn’t know. He didn’t watch Slim’s show, and they weren’t on speaking terms. Not since Guthrie had “given up on his gift.”

  “Rain.”

  Guthrie jumped at Luke’s deep voice. A fat raindrop hit Guthrie’s forehead.

  Luke stepped out from below the gas pump awning and tilted his face toward the sky. He seemed settled. Or content. Maybe even happy.

  Guthrie had a problem with constantly checking out Luke’s body—he couldn’t stop doing it—but at that moment, he was too captivated by Luke’s face. Luke had a small scar on his chin were his beard didn’t grow, and his full lips parted as sprinkles splashed against his cheeks. His hair was in a low ponytail, but in this humidity, it was beginning to escape its binding, framing his face wildly. Such small details that Guthrie hadn’t allowed himself to appreciate the few times they’d run into each other at the station in the last month. Instead, he’d focused on Luke as an entity—a hot surfer-esque dude with long hair and a designer beard and a rocking body—because then he’d be easier to dismiss wholesale.

  Nothing abo
ut Luke’s pleasure in feeling rain on his face was easy to dismiss.

  In the distance, the sky was darkening, a curtain of rain cutting the horizon in half. They should get moving. Do their jobs. But Guthrie wanted another second of this, of watching Luke’s childlike joy.

  Guthrie missed the days when something as simple as rain didn’t poke at every vulnerable piece of his heart.

  “You need to use the restroom before we get moving?” Luke asked.

  “Yeah. How bad is it?”

  “Horrible.”

  Fucking great.

  Guthrie pulled himself away from his ogling to collect the bathroom key, which was attached to a large block of wood, from the kind old lady at the register. The gas station bathroom only had outside access. He jogged out the entrance and to the side of the building. With trepidation, he unlocked the door and swung it open to find the nicest, most spotless gas station bathroom he’d ever seen. There was even a changing table in there.

  He glanced back at the car. Luke waved, a smile on his face. Guthrie rolled his eyes.

  A prank. A small one, but still, Luke had pranked him. Guthrie refused to let that fill him with warmth.

  He didn’t mention it when he got back to the truck. Instead, he barked, “Let’s get a move on.” Luke started the truck and maneuvered them back onto the road without a word.

  Ten minutes later, that curtain of rain punched them in the face.

  “We need to get out of this,” Guthrie said, raising his voice to be heard over the onslaught. “Try to get out in front or beside this storm rather than driving through.”

  “Direct me.”

  They were driving into the storm from the west, and it was moving east-northeast. Guthrie studied his maps. “We could cut north, but there will be more potential for dirt roads. If we head south, we’ll have to book it, but established roads.”

  Luke glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “Choose. I trust you.”

  Damn, but did that feel good. Guthrie didn’t trust Luke as far as he could throw him, but knowing that Luke would listen to him loosened the sick knot in his stomach he always had while storm chasing.

  “South.” Until Guthrie had a better idea of how Luke handled different road conditions, he wasn’t going to put them on a mud-slick road on purpose.

  Luke nodded, his eyes bright. But that brightness wasn’t the amped gleam of someone high on adrenaline, someone excited about danger. It was focus. Between Luke’s trust and focus, Guthrie was able to breathe a little easier.

  At least until a chunk of hail the size of a golf ball cracked off the hood of the truck.

  “Fu-u-udgsicle,” Luke yelled, drawing out the almost-curse. Hail pelted them, none of it as big as the piece that first hit them, but not unsubstantial.

  Guthrie laughed. “Fudgsicle?”

  That word shouldn’t have sounded so hot with a twang, but it did.

  “I’m trying not to cuss. Need to break the habit.”

  Luke’s pulse was slamming, the hail strike a jolt to his system, but he tried to calm his breathing.

  “Pull over here. Don’t want to drive farther into it,” Guthrie said. They were on a deserted country road. “Gonna check in and see if they want hail footage from our dashcam.”

  Guthrie pressed some buttons on his phone, then spoke into his headset for a second before dropping his tone into what Luke thought of as his newscaster voice.

  “Thank you, Seth,” Guthrie said to the viewers at home. “We are two miles northwest of Calumet and monitoring a severe weather situation on the ground. Heavy rains and large hail in the area. We are experiencing ping-pong and half-dollar-size hail at the moment with some as large as golf balls.”

  There was a pause, presumably as Seth Nguyen spoke.

  “Yes, this storm appears to be moving slowly east at the moment and dumping a ton of rain in the process,” Guthrie said. “We can’t see any circulation from our perspective. Visibility is low due to heavy rain, but we will continue to track the storm in order to keep you forewarned.”

  There was another pause before Guthrie pressed a button on his phone and turned to Luke.

  “They’ve issued a flash flood watch with this storm but are mostly covering the one south toward Purcell,” Guthrie said. “It has a wall cloud and circulation.”

  Another large piece of hail dinged off the driver’s side mirror. Luke watched it roll into the deserted road. “I’m going to grab that,” he said.

  “What? No!”

  Luke ignored Guthrie and jumped out of the truck. He collected five pieces of hail, including the one in the road, and was back in the car within thirty seconds, his hands full of lumps of ice.

  Guthrie slammed a hand against the dash. “Don’t you ever do that again. If you get knocked out by a chunk of hail because you’re being an idiot, I swear I’ll leave you on the side of the road.”

  Luke narrowed his eyes and dug a quarter out of his pocket, lining it up next to the biggest piece. “Take a picture for the station before they melt.”

  “Fuck you.” Guthrie’s voice was low and dangerous, simmering with anger. “I trusted you.”

  Luke stilled. I trusted you. What did that mean?

  Guthrie’s cheeks blazed red in the dim light of the truck, and he made a big production out of getting his cell phone camera app open.

  Luke’s whole body was hot, even with ice in his hands and his shirt damp and sticking to him from the rain.

  “Got them?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Good.” Luke tossed all of the hail out the window except for a piece the size of a half dollar. Its edges were perfectly smooth. He pressed it to the side of his neck, trying to cool himself down.

  It started to melt against his skin. A droplet of water slipped from beneath his hand, down his throat, and into his jugular notch. He moved the piece of hail over his Adam’s apple to the other side of his neck.

  Luke glanced at Guthrie, who was watching him with confusion and something indefinable in his eyes. Something like shock, but not. Luke ripped his gaze away. He was breathing hard, and he didn’t know why.

  The piece of hail had shrunk in half. It glistened.

  He popped it in his mouth and let it finish melting on his tongue. It tasted slightly salty from his sweat, but was mostly just cold and fresh like an ice cube.

  Guthrie inhaled, and it was startlingly loud.

  Before Luke could make sense of the weirdness between them, Guthrie’s phone pinged several times in a row.

  Then Luke’s followed suit. “That can’t be good.” It wasn’t the blare of a weather warning.

  Guthrie checked his phone and groaned.

  “What is it?” Luke asked. “The storm? We need to get going.”

  “Yes, we do need to move, but the notifications aren’t about the storm.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our interview went live this morning.”

  Luke turned the caution lights off and changed gears. Brad had sent him the file, but he hadn’t had time to watch. “So? Do I sound stupid?”

  “Probably,” Guthrie said distractedly. He didn’t see the very dirty look Luke sent his direction because he was so focused on the phone screen. “Oh, shit on a stick.” Guthrie tossed his phone into the console between them.

  “What’s the problem?” Luke asked again.

  “The Internet likes our flirting.”

  Chapter Four

  “Turn right here, then again at the light,” Guthrie said. He’d directed them out of the worst of the hail and rain. Maybe if he focused on giving directions, this interview shit would disappear. So far, it had less than ten thousand hits but was being shared too fast to fathom. All it would take was one person with a blue checkmark by their name on Twitter to retweet it, and they’d be everywhere.

  “What do you mean flirting? We weren’t flirting. Did Brad edit it to seem like we were?” Luke asked.

  Guthrie ignored him, using the Radarscope app to check the Dop
pler radar for their storm. What he wouldn’t give for a tornado to drop down in front of them. And how selfish was that? He’d rather deal with a destructive force of nature than talk to Luke about how their banter was playing to a viewing audience.

  “Guthrie!”

  “What? Jesus Christ.” Guthrie scrubbed his hands through his hair, messing it up, which sucked, because it had looked perfect this morning. Not that it needed to look perfect. He wasn’t even going to be on camera, and he didn’t care about Luke’s opinion of his hair.

  “Why do people think we were flirting?”

  Because of the way they’d stared at each other and flirted, most likely, plus Brad’s snappy editing. Guthrie couldn’t bring himself to watch the video with Luke right beside him, but commenters had been adding stills and gifs of them below the video on Facebook, and their body language had been odd.

  Too intense, too engaged.

  “We were bantering. Viewers are into it. There are lots of jokes about shipping us together. It’s only picking up steam because we’re both fairly young and….”

  “And what?”

  Guthrie shrugged. “I’m blandly attractive and lots of commenters are into your hair.”

  “That’s ridiculous. They’re shipping us because we’re both queer. I don’t like that. It feels dirty.”

  Guthrie fumbled his phone. “You’re queer?” He’d suspected—okay, he’d hoped—but he hadn’t known for sure.

  “Yes,” Luke said slowly. “I’m bi. That a problem?”

  “No. I’m gay, but I don’t exactly announce it to viewers.”

  “You keep it a secret?” Luke asked.

  “Everyone at work and in my real life knows. But I don’t start a story by saying, ‘Guthrie Gale, vers otter here, reporting from the capitol about the longest teachers’ walkout in Oklahoma history.’ Turn left at that Sonic. We’ll be back in the heavy rain soon.”

  Luke laughed. “If you did start stories like that, I’d watch all your stuff.”

  Guthrie couldn’t stop a pleased smile from tugging at his lips. Which was terrible.