Natural Disaster (Book 3): Storm

by Lou Cadle

  “We’re storm chasers,” the guy said, and he tapped the screen at the heart of the red patch. “That’s a rain-wrapped tornado back there. A big one.”

  Greg glanced back. The thing was still a half-mile away, he could see, now that the paralysis of fear and awe was easing. “Where’s it heading?”

  The driver said, pointing east, “Straight toward that little town there. It’s aimed right toward the crossroads in the middle of it, where the two highways meet. If you’re from there, sound the alarm, man.”

  Then the van pulled away, spraying Greg with gravel as it accelerated onto the road. He ran back to the prowl car. “Get back to town! Go, go!” He yanked the mic from the radio and yelled in the information as he shut the door. He didn’t want to yell—he wanted to sound calm and professional, so when people replayed the recording of this later he wouldn’t be screaming like an idiot, but his adrenaline was running so high, he couldn’t control his voice.

  He did manage to give their GPS location, say the tornado was a half-mile southwest of that, and he conveyed the storm chaser’s confirmation. Massey hung a right onto the road they’d come out on, and sped up, passing through hail again. Greg said to the dispatcher, “Hit the storm siren, and keep it on.”

  “Where to?” Massey said, as they approached the crossroads. “Back to the station?”

  “Take me to the elementary school,” said Greg. “There’s a basement there, too—you and I can get down there if we need to.” It was north of the town center by a half-mile.

  “Tell Dispatch that’s where we’re headed, if you think it’s the right move.” Massey gunned it. “How long do you think we have?”

  Greg twisted around. He couldn’t see that ominous black patch. “A few minutes? Until it hits the edge of town, I think.” He turned to the radio again and told them it was headed for downtown, where the station was. “You have no more than three minutes to get down to shelter.” Dispatch was located underground already—they had been moved there as an anti-terrorist security measure after 9/11—but Grace and Rosemary had to get down there, too. He signed off but kept the mic in his hand, in case he thought of something more.

  “We could outrun it,” Massey said. “If we kept it at fifty or sixty miles an hour, we’d stay ahead of it.”

  They probably could. Or they could turn north at the next road and drive on out of the line of storms altogether. Greg remembered the radar image on the TV weather station earlier—what? Only an hour ago? East of northeast, the whole thing was in a line, moving that direction. They could, theoretically, go due north or south and escape it. But it was headed for their town and their families and the people they were supposed to protect and serve. All they could really do was run ahead of it and try to get themselves and everyone possible to safety in the seconds remaining.

  Especially all those little kids at the elementary school. Especially Holly.

  *

  Malika heard the storm siren—it was just northeast of here, at the town center, and it barely made it through the school’s walls. She hadn’t been outside all day, hadn’t seen a window to the outdoors in more than an hour, so she doubted it could be a serious warning. When did they test it? Maybe it was just the monthly test.

  She washed her face, felt better for it, dabbed her soap dry, and put it away in her pack. Then she used the toilet and came back out to wash her hands, for her momma had raised her right.

  When she turned the water on, pipes screamed somewhere down the hall. But the scream got louder and louder, until she knew it couldn’t be pipes. The floor under her feet began to shake.

  A crash made her turn her head toward it, and before she could wonder what the sound was, the outer wall, the wall with the three toilet stalls, came skidding toward her.

  It’s a dream, she had time to think, and then something fell on her head, and all thinking stopped.

  Captain T

  We are running like devils, ahead of a tornado, but it’s a hard one to see. Rain-wrapped, which means no one in its path will see it coming. We told the authorities, and now we’re turning south, a little more than a mile ahead of the storm, to try to get under it. South of it, I mean, behind it. We might get a shot of it that way, and we’ll stay safe. We’ll follow the thing into this little town which is—what, Felix?—Fidelity, Ohio.

  Whoo-ee? Skid a little on the turn, eh? Felix is filming out the window, but I don’t imagine you can see a thing more than I can. We’ll upload this while we still have access, and I hope to be back with you in a couple minutes with some terrific footage.

  Chapter 5

  Greg kept an eye on the outside rearview mirror while they pressed onward, but the black cloud wasn’t visible now.

  “Lights and siren,” Massey said, as they whipped past the strip mall at the edge of town.

  He slowed down as they hit town, jogged left to avoid the central lights, and wove over to Central Elementary. School was just about to let out—it was 3:13—and as they turned north up Central Street, there was the usual queue of parents in cars picking up their children. The semicircular drive was full, and the line stretched out onto the street.

  “Shit,” said Massey. “Look at them all. Can’t get past.”

  “Drive up on the lawn. You get out, run along those cars, get the parents inside the building. I’ll go inside and have the staff get all the kids downstairs.”

  “Right.”

  “And I mean run, man. Get yourself safe, too.”

  They left the car’s siren and lights on as they both leapt from the car. Let people know it was really an emergency.

  He figured he had two or three minutes to get it done. Greg took the front steps in a single leap, shouting to the few parents who walked their kids home, standing under umbrellas, waiting on the stoop. “Get inside.”

  He slammed through the front doors and grabbed the arm of a sleepy-looking female security guard. “Where’s the office?” He couldn’t remember.

  The woman pointed straight back with her free arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Tornado coming. Get everybody down the basement. Start with the closest classrooms to the stairs.” Greg ran down the hall she had pointed out and saw the sign for the office. He pushed through the door and said, “Tornado. Sound the alarm. Everybody downstairs.”

  The receptionist, an older lady, gawped at him. “You have ninety seconds to clear these classrooms,” he said. “Where’s the principal?”

  “In there,” she said, indicating an inner office door with her head, and fumbled on an intercom switch.

  Greg pushed into the inner office and recognized the principal from a parent’s night tour. “Greg Duncan,” he said. “There’s a tornado coming. On the ground, sighted, no doubt about it. You need to get these kids down to the basement shelter. Now.”

  The receptionist was speaking with a shaky voice into the intercom.

  Greg wanted to run to his daughter’s classroom, but he had a job to do first. “You take that side of the building, where your security guard is, and I’ll take this. Keep everyone calm, but move ‘em out of their rooms and down those stairs quick.”

  He went back out and motioned the receptionist up. She was repeating her announcement. “Shut that off, and come with me.”

  She leaned down, and he realized she was fumbling for a purse or something.

  “Leave it!” he said. “Let’s go!” He held his hand out, and she got up, moving faster than he could have hoped. Lifting a hinged section of countertop, she came with him. “Okay,” he said. “There’s this wing, that wing, right? One floor, and nobody is anywhere else?”

  “There’s a music room in the basement on this side, plus the physical plant, storage, supplies. On the other end downstairs, the cafeteria.”

  “Is anyone in there?”

  “I don’t….” She shook her head and finally seemed to snap into a higher mental gear. “Not in the cafeteria. But there is a class downstairs in the music room.”

  “They’
re fine. Okay, we’re going all the way down to the stairwell first. You take this side of the hall, and I’ll take the other. Room by room. Get everybody moving. Don’t let them pile up. Try not to let anyone fall down the stairs, right?”

  “Got it,” she said, and trotted along to the last door, which was opening. A few of the doors were, now. Some teachers already had their children lined up and were getting them moving after the intercom announcement.

  “Great,” said Greg to one, as he passed her. “Not a drill. Get them quickly down to the basement.” He went on, flinging open the last door on his side of the hall. It was an art room, empty. He went to the next door and hauled it open. Kids were lining up at a cloakroom niche to get jackets and lunch boxes. “Everybody come up here,” he called. “No time for jackets—it’ll all be there when you come back upstairs.” He hoped that was true. “Double time, now. Quick, quick, who can make it to the door first.”

  “No running!” the teacher said.

  He went to her and lowered his voice. “You have maybe sixty seconds to get them down. Move them fast.” He strode out of that room and went to the next. Those kids were already in the hall, marching down toward the exit sign. Good job, teacher number 3.

  The fourth room’s children were just exiting as he came to it. He glanced behind himself, saw there was no back-up in the hall. “You’re doing great,” he said to the first kid. One more room. He opened the door and nearly all the children were lined up at the door except for one, at the back of the class, who the teacher was kneeling by. “Hey kids,” he said. “The rest of you can go. Just follow the next class.”

  One little girl said, “Not without Ms. Henks.”

  “No, it’ll be fine, just this once,” he said. “There are plenty of teachers out there. You’ll see. Just go out and turn and join the line to the stairs.” He had a terrible image of them moving the wrong way. “You know which way the stairs are?” Most of the kids pointed the right direction, and he pointed that way himself. “Exactly. Go downstairs and move forward in the basement hallway as far as you can.” He went back to the teacher. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jerome is a special needs child,” she said. “He can’t be rushed.”

  Well, screw that. Greg reached over and hauled up the kid who immediately began to kick and punch him.

  “You shouldn’t do that!” she said. “You have to let him take his own time.”

  “Then we’ll leave him to die,” he said. “There’s a tornado coming, and it’ll be here any second. Jerome,” he said, lowering his voice to bass tones. “Quit being bad. Shape up, or you—” he tried to think of something the kid would understand. Death likely wasn’t it. “Or you won’t get any dessert for a week,” he said.

  The kid began to cry.

  Greg said,. “Stand up and walk like a big boy. Can you do that?”

  “I am big boy,” the child said, his lower lip stuck out.

  “Prove it,” Greg said, carrying him to the door and setting him down gently. “Walk nicely with Ms.—” he looked at the woman.

  “Henks,” she said, reaching for Jerome’s hand.

  “And get into the basement,” Greg said. Outside the windows, the hail was falling. If nothing had changed about the storm’s structure, that meant the tornado wasn’t far behind.

  The school bell rang for the end of the day. They were out of time.

  “Get!” he said to the teacher, who looked upset with Greg. Good God, lady, coddle him later. Now, save him.

  He went into the hallway, where two dozen children were still lined up in the hall, waiting their turns to go downstairs. The school receptionist was standing there, looking worried.

  Greg strode to her. “Good job.”

  “Are we out of time?”

  He nodded, pushed forward and looked down the stairway. Everyone was in one line, sticking to the right of the staircase. “Two lines now,” he said, tugging a child over to the left side of the hall. “Go side by side.” He motioned the receptionist forward. “You start the second line.” The teacher with the problem child was making her way along the hall. “Follow this nice lady here,” he said to one girl, taking her hand and leading her over to follow the receptionist down. The kids were so trained to use the right side of stairs, they were reluctant to move to the left. “Hold on to the railing.”

  The last teacher and her problem child had stopped. For a moment, he dithered, then he ran back, snatched the child up and ran him back to the stairs, running down until they hit the back of the line, now halfway down the stairs.

  Ahead of him, someone started to scream. He put down the child and pushed between the two lines, trying to get to the noise to stop a panic from spreading. Along the wall, he saw it was a teacher—or at least some adult, her hands over her face, screaming plenty loud despite her mouth being blocked. In a wave moving out from her, he could see the children fidgeting, starting to cry. Stupid woman!

  There was enough room between children sitting against the hallway walls to push his way through. He got to the screamer and peeled her hands away from her face. He got into her face and hissed, “Shut up.”

  Her fingers pulled at his hand and she mewled.

  He got his mouth right to her ear. “Don’t make me slap you in front of these children. And I will slap you.” He was incensed, and it showed in his voice. Here were a bunch of seven year olds acting like grownups, and a grownup acting like an infant.

  His threat shut her up. Her eyes met his and he gave her his best gang-control glare. She cowered from him, but she also shut up.

  He stood up, panting, trying to beat back the anger and get it out of his voice. “Everything’s okay, everybody,” he said. He turned to smile at the nearby children. “She’s all better now, and everyone is fine.”

  “Dad!” He heard Holly’s voice and looked around. She was standing, further down the hall, and trying to come for him.

  He tiptoed through the children’s legs and met her halfway, pulling her up into his arms. “Everything’s okay, baby. Let’s sit down.”

  He expected to hear the train sound of a tornado, the crunching of breaking wood, something, by now. But there was nothing but the murmurs of children, a few of them still crying, the shushing of teachers trying to calm their charges.

  “Are we going home?” said Holly.

  “Soon,” he said. “Or to Aunt Sherryl’s maybe, or to day care.” A couple children had wiggled their way to the side enough to allow him to sit down. He thanked them, sat, and gathered Holly into his lap.

  “After-school care,” she said, irritated. “I’m too old for day care.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You smell funny.”

  Fear. He suspected that he smelled like fear, the chemical stink of sweat from a man who was afraid for these children’s lives. He held her tighter, closed his eyes, and waited for the thing to come upon them.

  *

  The sound of her own name brought Malika out of the total darkness of unconsciousness.

  She was wet. And she hurt. Her head hurt, and her shoulders hurt. For a few seconds, that’s all she knew.

  Then she heard her name again. She opened her eyes, only then understanding they had been closed. She could see some light, but in crazy geometric patterns, like some 20th century art form—she tried to remember from Art Appreciation last year which movement that might be. Op maybe? Or Cubism?

  She was on her stomach and tried to turn over, to get a better look at her surroundings, but she couldn’t move.

  “Malika!”

  Maybe I’m dead. Maybe that’s God, and I’m dead, and I’m being called. Or Jesus, I suppose. Or—

  “Malika, for God’s sake!”

  Would God use his own name in vain? Could it even be in vain if it were God himself using it? That was a puzzler. One to ask her pastor.

  “Are you alive?”

  Wouldn’t God know the answer to that? Then her mind swam a bit clearer, and she understood it was someone here,
on the planet Earth, calling to her.

  “Adam?” she said, but her voice came out a croak. She tried it louder. “Adam, is that you?”

  “Meek!” he shouted, and then he started crying. Last time he had done that—or last time she had heard it—was the day she told him it was over between them.

  “Don’t cry,” she said, but too softly for him to hear. Where the hell was she? In school, she supposed, but where? She tried to remember the day until now. She remembered lunch, clearly, with Dylan. Then nothing much in her memory from the afternoon, but she knew it had to be afternoon. No, she did remember, being in chorus, her last class. I’m probably late to debate. Mr. Evans was going to be mad at her. Dylan would be even madder, and Sarah and Cody would get a win by default. It didn’t count towards a grade, but it counted toward her pride. She tried to get up. She had to get there before she forfeited.

  But when she tried to push herself up, nothing happened. She felt a tile floor beneath her palms, and a puddle of water on the tile, and the weight of something across her shoulders. She felt her butt—nothing on top of it—and her legs.

  No. Wrong. She couldn’t feel her legs. She tried moving them, tried kicking out.

  Nothing. She was sending signals to her legs, ordering them to move, but nothing was happening.

  She began to panic. “Hey, help! I can’t move!”

  “I’m here.” Adam. He had control of himself again.

  “What’s wrong? I can’t move.”

  “Tornado. A tornado hit the school.”

  That didn’t make any sense. Tornado was wind and maybe rain and— Oh. Like it had blown the roof off and it had come down on her. Something like that?

  “Is the roof on top of me?”

  “I guess, maybe. I’m going to go look. I’ll be back in two minutes, tops.”

  Don’t go. She bit her lips closed to keep from screaming the words. In the meantime, she tried to move what she could, inventorying her body. Her butt was free. Her forearms were free. Her chest was pinned to the floor. Her legs—she didn’t know, couldn’t feel them at all. What if I’m paralyzed?