The Waiting Sky

by Lara Zielin

  “And now, this season, Victor might not be cowering, but he definitely acts like he’s still scared of storms or something. Scared to take risks, to get close. Only because he’s Victor, he can’t say that. So he just walks around acting like a tool.”

  “Oh,” I say again.

  “It’s nuts,” Hallie says, picking at the dirt around her fingernail. “But the worst part is, people like Alex Atkins are being such jerks. Like with that bet? Alex added the last part about the teams staying intact because he thinks Victor is going to quit. Stop chasing and walk away.”

  “Will he?” I ask.

  “Stephen doesn’t think so. He says it’s just a phase. Which is good for us because Victor might be an asshole, but he’s still a good scientist. And he’s a whiz with Polly.”

  “Yo!” Ethan calls out. He motions with his hand. “Gear’s in. Let’s go.”

  “In general, we don’t talk about it a lot,” Hallie says as we trot to the van. “Hang out with any other chase team and you’ll probably hear Victor’s story within ten minutes. But I think we all just keep hoping he’ll change. That he’ll go back to being the way he was.”

  Hope is the blindfold stupid people use so they don’t have to see the truth, my mom would say. I can’t help but think that in this case, she might be a little right. Victor doesn’t seem like he’s snapping out of this any time soon.

  “I hope so,” I say to Hallie, because even if the odds are against it, Victor not being so much of a dick would be nice for the whole team.

  I pull the door shut behind me, and Hallie starts the engine. We’re all silent as the van covers the short distance to Patchy Falls.

  9

  We pass a sign that says PATCHY FALLS: WE’RE UP TO GREAT THINGS! then inch along Main Street. Leaves plaster the wet sidewalks in damp clumps, and I spot a couple blown-out windows, but everything seems mostly okay. A few people are walking around studying the street, then the sky, then the street again. Hallie slows and lowers her window. “You guys need some help?” she asks a bearded man and what looks like his son. “Anybody hurt?”

  The man shakes his head, pulls his son closer. They seem like they’ve just rolled out of bed—hair tousled, expressions confused. I figure it’s the shock of the storm. “Most folks this block are fine,” the man replies. “I hear some trees went down over near Jersey Street. That’s where we’re headed.”

  “Straight ahead?” Hallie asks, pointing. The man nods. Hallie raises the window, and we keep going.

  “Wires,” Victor says, and Hallie brakes. I crane my neck and see twisted black lines snaking across the street. “We either walk it or back up and try to find another way in.”

  “I vote walk,” Ethan says. He opens the van door, and we hear police sirens. Other than that, it’s eerily still.

  “Walk it is,” Stephen says. “Careful of lines and debris, people. Don’t get too close to anything that looks remotely unstable.”

  We pick our way through the streets and keep mostly quiet. I’m grateful for my camera, so I have something to do besides just look at this stuff. I mean, I am looking—but the camera makes me feel safer. Like at least there’s something between me and the destruction.

  Sometimes I think it’s easier for me to see things, period, if I have the camera in my hand. It’s borderline magical to me, the way a camera can take something that’s ugly—a pile of bills on the counter, say—and just by adjusting the tilt, the zoom, turn it into something beautiful. Once, while she slept, I took a picture of my mom’s lips, dry and cracking from dehydration, her breath sour as it escaped from behind them. The two bleached tombstones of her front teeth were barely visible. In the morning light, the black-and-white photo I snapped came out looking like—I don’t know, the desert or something. Rugged and chapped and wild. It should have been gross, but I stared at it for hours. It was gorgeous.

  We pass a church with half the roof gone and stained glass sprinkled on the grass like confetti. “Okay,” Stephen says, “it’s going to start to get dark in a few minutes. Let’s put together a plan.”

  “We have to keep canvassing,” Ethan says. “We have to make sure no one’s hurt.” The rest of the team agrees, and moments later we’ve split up, each of us armed with walkie-talkies and flashlights, searching for anyone who needs help.

  I walk south, away from Jersey Street. I don’t have to go far before the homes thin out. The hulking shadows around me are mostly pole barns and garages. I cross a set of railroad tracks, picking my way past twisted metal, a couple cars, and the splinters of wrecked street signs.

  “Hello!” I yell. “Does anyone need help?”

  The only sound is an empty plastic cup tumbling across the road.

  Lightning flashes in the sky, and the wind picks up again. I zip my jacket and decide I’ll go just a little farther, when I’m stopped in my tracks by a voice.

  “Hello?” I yell, wondering if I’ve imagined it. I shine my flashlight beam into the darkness, splitting apart the night. But I don’t see anything.

  I stand perfectly still, straining to hear. There it is again—a high wail that sounds like it’s all vowels. Aaaoouuueeaii. Someone’s calling out. I race back across the railroad tracks, sprinting toward the sound. I round a corner closer to Jersey Street, then stop. There’s a van on its side.

  “Hello?” I slow my steps. The next thing I know, someone’s climbing out of the van’s shattered passenger window.

  My flashlight beam lands on the face of a woman, maybe around thirty, with clumps of dirt matted into her brown hair. “Help,” she croaks. She’s trying to pull herself out of the small space.

  “Don’t move!” I cry, rushing forward. I click on the walkie-talkie. “This is Jane. I’m south of Jersey Street, and I need help! Does anyone copy?”

  The only answer is static.

  And in the distance, the rumbling thunder warns of another storm rolling in.

  10

  This is bad. My heart pounds and my hands shake, but I force myself to breathe, to stay calm, to treat it like it’s my mom and I need to get her to bed or to work. “Stay still,” I say to the woman, crouching down. The van’s on its side, and this lady is about halfway through the passenger window, on her knees. The way the car is positioned, it’s almost like she’s popping out of a hatch. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

  “My right ankle,” she says, her eyes wild and unfocused. She’s probably in shock, but she’s at least lucid. “I think it twisted when the van rolled.”

  “Okay,” I say. “We need to get you out of there, which I’m betting we can if you turn sideways and I pull. If you keep your weight on your left side, I think your ankle should be okay.”

  She nods and shimmies sideways, so her body fits better in the window. I put my hands under her arms. “Count of three, you wiggle and I pull, okay?” She nods.

  “One, two—three!”

  Her body comes free in a matter of seconds. She puts her weight on me to climb clear of the door and, as she does, I notice her right arm has a deep gash on it. I wish I had a first-aid kit or at least a bandage, but they’re all back with the Torbros.

  “Can you lean on me and make it over to that downed tree?” I ask, motioning to a massive trunk a few feet away. She nods, and we stumble-limp to where she can sit.

  I ask her if she can tell me her name.

  “Danielle.” A pause. “Danny. Danny Bowstrom.”

  I think back to my first-aid training in health class freshman year. “Do you know what month it is?”

  “July.”

  I breathe a little easier. If she can answer questions right, it means that she probably doesn’t have a head injury on top of everything else. Still, when I roll up the leg of her pants, her ankle’s swollen to the point where I know she needs a doctor.

  Once again, I try the walkie-talkie to radio Ethan and the rest of the team.

  “This is Jane. Is anyone there?” Nothing happens. I pull out my cell phone and try dialing Ethan, but I can�
�t get a signal. All the towers around us are down.

  Lightning flashes, and I wonder if a supercell is going to land on top of us at any second. Worry churns my stomach, but I force myself to smile at Danny. “No problem,” I say. “We’ll find someone.” There’s help four blocks up toward Jersey Street—the question is whether I should try to walk there with Danny or wait for help to come to us. I’m not sure how much time there is before the sky might explode.

  I try the walkie again. “Hello,” I say. “Come in, please.” I stop when my voice cracks on please. I don’t want Danny to know I’m starting to panic.

  I cup my hands and yell with every ounce of lung power I have. “Help! Someone, please!”

  I inhale and am ready to bellow again when all the air whooshes out of me.

  With lightning crackling in the sky behind him, Max is jogging toward me.

  I’m so relieved, I almost hug him. I stop myself, though, before my arms can wrap themselves around his neck. I notice he has a first-aid kit.

  “Jane.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, lets it slide down my arm. Max’s eyes rake my body. I’m almost shocked, until I realize he thinks I’m the one who’s hurt. “Tell me what’s wrong.” His green eyes find mine, and my heart flutters at the concern there.

  “No, not me. Her.” I jerk my chin toward where Danny is sitting. She’s slumped, head in her hands.

  Before he can turn to help her, I grab his hand. “Do you have a walkie? I can’t reach anyone.” I’m trying not to notice the heat of his skin against mine.

  “I don’t,” he says. “But we’ll get help. Don’t worry.”

  I nod, and Max kneels next to Danny. I see the strength in his arms, in his shoulders. Thunder rumbles, and I blink. What is my problem? I’m losing it over a boy I’ve barely said ten words to, when this is no time to get butterflies. We’ve got to move before the next storm is on us.

  I try both my phone and the walkie over and over while Max cleans the wound on Danny’s arm and puts a bandage on it. I still can’t get through to anyone, but at least Danny seems to be hanging in there.

  A cold drizzle starts, and I look to Danny’s van, wondering for an insane second if we could stand it up and drive away. That’s before my flashlight beam catches the crunched grill and at least one missing tire. Even if we could get it righted, there’s no way we could drive it. I’m about ready to click my flashlight off when I spot the words “Danny’s Lookout Van” painted crudely on the side.

  “Are you a spotter?” I ask, wondering if she’s one of those people who volunteers to watch the skies. No matter how good radar is, it’s no substitute for actual field observations, and professional weather teams, like the Torbros, can’t be everywhere at once.

  “I got certified as a spotter by the county this spring,” Danny says, “and I went out to follow this storm today. Make sure I could radio in a funnel cloud to the county if I saw one, and we could get those sirens going to warn people. I thought I knew what it was doing. Then it started raining, and I got turned around. Next thing I know, I’m right under the twister. I don’t remember much, just all this sound and shaking, then I was upside down.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Max says. It could be a jab, but it’s not. He’s just being truthful. I’d heard about spotters who’d tried to chase down tornadoes without the right equipment or experience, who wound up getting really hurt in the process. Chasing is dangerous, period. Even the Torbros mess up—and we have Victor’s scar, not to mention attitude, to show for it.

  Max takes Danny’s hand. “My team is back a few blocks, and they have a medic. If you can put your weight on Jane and me, we’ll get you over there, and a doctor will check you out.”

  I glance up at the sky, hoping Danny can walk fast enough to find help before the next storm starts to really pick up—but not so fast that she reinjures herself. After we get Danny to her feet, Max looks at me and winks. “Told you we’d see each other on a chase,” he says.

  I smile and we start the slow trek back to the Twister Blisters. But we’ve only gone a few steps when we hear swearing.

  “Dammit.” I know the voice immediately. It’s Victor. His flashlight beam finds us as a peal of thunder shakes the sky. “Jane, what are you doing? We’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.”

  For once, I’m relieved to see him. “Thank God you’re here,” I say. “We’re trying to get this woman help. Can you radio the other Torbros?”

  Victor barely glances at Danny. “We need to get moving. Leave the kid with her and let’s go.”

  I stare at him. “What?”

  “I said, let’s move.”

  My feet don’t budge. “Absolutely not.”

  Victor might be petrified that we’re going to get caught in another storm, but no way am I going to leave Max and Danny alone.

  “This guy for real?” Max asks me.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You got a problem?” Victor asks Max.

  “You got a walkie?” Max replies. “Last I checked, we had an injured person here who needs treatment. We’d love it if there was a medic waiting by the time we get to Jersey Street. Better yet, one who could help us get her there. Think you could at least make that call for help before you run away?”

  “C’mon, Jane,” Victor says, turning to go.

  “Dammit, make the call before you run—” I stop when I spot a blinking red light a few feet off.

  In the moments that follow, the only sound is crickets and wind. And a whirring from a small machine. Victor freezes, and Max curses quietly.

  From out of the shadows steps a cameraman. A spotlight flips on, and my eyes squint against the white light while my heart plummets all the way to my feet.

  It’s the Weather Network. And they’ve been filming every word we’ve said.

  11

  Danny speaks first. “Turn that crap off,” she says. “My head hurts, and I need a doctor—not an interview.” When the cameraman flips off his spotlight and pauses filming, I want to hug Danny until her ribs crack.

  “Hey, Volksie,” Max says to the curly-haired cameraman. It’s not one of the guys from that morning, but it would make sense that the Weather Network would have a team of cameramen, and that Max would recognize them.

  “Hey,” Volksie replies. With the spotlight off and the flashlights on, I see he’s not much older than Max and me. He’s dressed in skinny jeans and a T-shirt that says BAREFOOT DISCO!

  “We, uh, could use some help,” Max says. “If you have a radio, could you tell the Blisters we’re on our way and we need a medic?”

  Volksie nods. “Yeah. No problem.” After he sends the message through, Max glances at the sky. The drizzle has tapered off, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. We could still get hammered with high winds and hail any second.

  “Danny, you think you can try and keep walking? Jane and I will support you.” Danny nods and we start our slow shuffle. Volskie flips the spotlight and camera back on.

  “Seriously, can you turn that shit off?” Victor asks, shielding his eyes against the glaring light. “I didn’t authorize you to record me.”

  You would say that, I think, because you’re acting like a dickwad.

  Volksie isn’t fazed. “You can take it up with a producer.”

  That’s when I realize Victor is wearing the TORBROS: WE CHASE CHICKS AND STORMS shirt. If the Weather Network plays this footage of us, everybody’s going to know that the guy who wanted to leave the injured woman behind, in the dark, is a Tornado Brother.

  Fabulous.

  Thunder crashes, and we all jump. “Screw this,” Victor says, breaking into a run. Within seconds, he’s disappeared into the dark. Max puts a hand on Danny’s elbow. “It’s not far, I promise. Let’s just keep going.” Danny nods, and we soldier on. With the camera rolling, we pick our way through the debris and back to our teams.

  * * *

  By the time we get to Jersey Street, it’s a circus. Cop cars are parked her
e and there, their lights flashing blue and red against the nearby homes. They’ve set up floodlights and searchlights so rescuers can see what they’re doing.

  Handfuls of people are standing around, watching. Others are checking for broken gas mains, or making sure anyone who needs help gets it. News vans have already showed up to report on the situation.

  An EMT rushes forward and helps us get Danny onto a stretcher. Max follows them to a waiting ambulance, while I squint through the crowd to try and get my bearings. I spot the Twisters easily, because they’re the ones with more Weather Network cameras on them. Fortunately, the Torbros are nearby too.

  Relief floods Ethan’s face when he spots me. “Jane!” He clears an overturned tree to get to me. I close my eyes and fight off the sudden urge to bawl, thinking how nice it is to have this reaction from him. I wait for his hug, but I open my eyes a moment later when I don’t feel anything.

  Ethan is staring at me, arms stiff at his sides. “We couldn’t reach you,” he says. “We sent Victor out for you, but then he didn’t come back either. We didn’t know what had happened.” His eyes are more scared than mad.

  “My walkie broke. And someone was hurt.”

  “But I didn’t know that. Jesus, I was so worried.” His hands are actually shaking.