Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  Stacy thanked him, Julius pulling the camera off the tripod. “Mind if we grab some footage in your field?”

  “Okay by me. But I wouldn’t dillydally. Those clouds don’t look good.”

  “We’ll be gone in ten minutes.”

  As the man headed for the barn, Julius hiked the Sony. “Where to, Stace?” Stacy surveyed the acreage. To the west, red earth rose in a sloping ridge, framed by hundreds of cedars. Bitner’s grandfather had planted them. He’d built the house, too—a modest clapboard with a shingle roof and sun porch.

  “Just get me a shot of the plants. I can use file footage for the rest.”

  “Works for me.” They moved into the field, Julius dropping to one knee. As he zoomed, he glanced over his shoulder, the clouds black as night. “I don’t like this, dude.”

  Stacy felt a raindrop. “Good thing you didn’t grow up in Oregon. Where I come from, a little rain never stops anyone.”

  “Ain’t rain I’m worried ’bout.”

  As Julius triggered the camera, more raindrops fell, Stacy’s coat turning dark. A memory flashed, he and his mother splashing through puddles. Stacy smiled. “Just like home, Julius, just like—ouch!” The rain suddenly turned to hail, pebbles landing like bird shot.

  “Come on!” Julius ran for the cedars, Stacy right behind him. The hail came in sheets now, the sound deafening. With every step, the stones grew larger, hammering their bodies as they dove for cover.

  Safe beneath the trees, Julius wheeled to shoot, Stacy taking stock of his wounds. He had a welt on his neck and a cut on his ear. But as he stared at the wall of hail behind him, he wondered how he’d gotten off so lightly.

  Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.

  Stacy stood, staring at the changed vista. In less than a minute, the land had been drained of color. He took a breath, the air thirty degrees colder—and hauntingly still. A wave of euphoria swept over him, the joy of a survivor. “Unbe-liev-able!” He crunched through the ice, smiling at Julius, the man’s expression unsettling. “What?”

  “I think we better go.”

  Julius’ voice sounded strange, like he was speaking into a bucket.

  Before Stacy could respond, his ears popped, the cedars stirring. “Julius?” Out of nowhere, a massive funnel cloud swooped over the ridge. The black fog of swirling wreckage was enormous, five hundred feet wide and bearing down fast. Stacy couldn’t believe his eyes. In the twisting mess, he saw a boat, several trees, and a motor home.

  “Run!” Julius screamed.

  Stacy bolted for the barn a hundred yards away, the roar behind him a hellish freight train’s. As debris rained down like fire and brimstone, he checked on Julius.

  The cameraman was right behind him, rolling video the entire way!

  Clay Bitner staggered from the barn, winds tearing him to shreds. Raising a hand to block the dreck, he searched for the newsmen, but they were nowhere in sight. As he dashed for the house, he heard the dog howl. He didn’t have time to untie the thing.

  He had to get to his family.

  Stacy gasped for breath, he and Julius under siege. The tornado was a thousand feet wide now, its lethal winds raging at three hundred miles an hour. The barn was still fifty yards away. They’d never make it.

  “Julius—?” The cameraman tackled him, the pair tumbling into a ditch. Stacy lay face down in the mud, Julius on top of him. The reporter tried to get up, but his coworker held tight, dirt pelting their bodies like a sandblaster. The roar of the cyclone was unbearable. As it passed over them, Stacy could feel the weight of Julius’ body lighten, feel his own body being lifted.

  He could think of nothing to do but hold on—and pray!

  Ellen Bitner had just poured herself a cup of tea when the first hail stone struck. Her twin daughters were playing on the rug, the baby down for a nap. The pounding ice sounded like golf balls against the roof, but that was nothing compared to what came next. Racing to the bedroom, she plucked her daughter from the crib, the child’s screams disappearing in the roar. As they ran for the living room, a window shattered behind them. “Mommy!” Her daughters covered their ears, the house moaning like a specter.

  Clay Bitner grabbed the door of the sun porch. It ripped off and flew away. He fought his way inside, the structure disintegrating around him. He heard trees uprooting, nails being ripped from wood. “Clay!” his wife screamed. As if tethered to ropes, he pushed forward, step by painstaking step. When he reached the kitchen door, he saw them, wife clutching the baby, twins latched to their mother’s legs.

  “Ellen!” He grabbed the knob and hung on, his body going horizontal. “Get the girls in the cellar!” His fingers were slipping. “Please—”

  He hung on a second longer, then disappeared.

  “Nooooooo!” She ran for the door, but a falling hutch blocked her path, the china shattering inside. “Claaaay!” she sobbed, her daughters wailing in terror.

  As shelves gave way, the family parrot squawked in its cage, pictures breaking by the dozen. They’d never make it to the cellar now! In a panic, she headed for the hall, girls in tow. She thought about getting in the bathtub, but instead grabbed every blanket she could find. The roar was mind-numbing now, the house coming apart at the seams. As more windows exploded, they hid beneath the bedding, walls crumbling around them. “Somebody help uuuuuus!” she screamed.

  When no one did, she braced herself, the house lifting off its foundation.

  ***

  Stacy opened his eyes. His lashes were crusted. And his body ached.

  But he was alive!

  “Julius?” He could no longer feel the cameraman on his back. Struggling to his knees, he tried to focus. The ground was speckled with insulation and hay, utility poles surrounding him like giant matchsticks. “Julius!”

  He staggered to his feet, eyes sweeping the alien plain. Every cedar on the ridge was gone. As were the crops, barn—and house!

  “Dear God!” He rushed to what was once the Bitner home, limping over debris. “Julius…Mr. Bitner… anybody!” He passed broken branches, razor-sharp aluminum. “Can anyone hear?” he yelled. No response, the air reeking of sulfur.

  Panic was setting in. What if he couldn’t find anyone?

  What if he was the only one to survive?

  No. Julius had to be alive. Had to!

  “Juliuuus!” he hollered again, scanning the stark horizon. To the left, a pitchfork wobbled. To the right, a tractor balanced on its nose.

  “Stacy?” a muffled voice sounded.

  The reporter wheeled—was he hearing things? “Julius?”

  There was a long pause, then, “Over here, dude.”

  He’d definitely heard it that time, and it was music to his battered ears!

  “Where are you?”

  A mound shifted. “How the hell should I know?”

  Stacy shoved a TV out of the way, clawing at the wreckage. “Julius…can you hear me?”

  “’Course, I can hear you. Get me outta here.” Stacy removed two sheets of siding and a closet door. Beneath them, Julius lay caked with mud—and grinning from ear-to-ear. “Check it out, dude.” He climbed to his feet. “I’m still rollin’!”

  Amazingly, the Sony was still on his shoulder, still hooked to the deck, and yes, still rolling. “Why, you crazy—”

  A child’s cry silenced them. They stared at one another, then raced toward it, hurdling a picket fence. Most of the slats were gone, as was the gate, the hitching post, and the dog tied to it.

  “Can you hear us?”

  The cry came again, followed by a woman’s voice, “Heeeelp!”

  They dove on the pile, tossing junk over their shoulders. “Dude!” Julius spotted a foot. Fueled with adrenaline, they dug Ellen Bitner out, baby still nestled to her bosom, daughters still clinging to her legs.

  All four were alive!

  “My husband…” She struggled to catch her breath. “…did you find Clay?”

  Stacy and Julius glanced at each other. “No,
ma’am. Not yet.”

  They helped her to her feet, girls holding on as if the ride wasn’t over. With two black eyes, she looked for her house. Everything was gone—the walls, furniture, even the bathtub. Yet strangely, the cup of tea remained on the kitchen table. And the parrot still squawked in its cage—though it was stripped of all feathers.

  “Claaaaay!” she screamed. “Where are yooooooou?”

  Stacy and Julius searched for an hour, but they never found Clay Bitner. His wife called for him again and again, as did the children. But he was gone.

  “Mobil 1 to Base.” Julius had parked the Escort on the south side of the house. When they found it, it was on the north side, seemingly unscathed. “This is Stacy…” Julius cranked the engine. It started on the first try. “…do you copy?”

  The radio was dead, or at least non-operational in the aftermath of the storm.

  Their only choice was to go for help.

  After ensuring the family’s safety, they pulled away from the farm, snaking their way through rubble. In a few hours, the area would be crawling with volunteers—Red Cross, FEMA, the Salvation Army—but right now, it was eerily quiet.

  Stacy stared through the window. The land around him had been forever altered. Just like the lives the twister had touched. Stacy’s and Julius’ included.

  ***

  “My God, sweetie!” Katie clung to his filthy neck. She’d treated him miserably since the Phil Twitchell incident. It felt good to be hugging again. “Are you—?”

  “All right,” Toole butted in. “No time for that.” He advanced down the hall in a goosestep, cigarette blazing. He had his lead story—boy, did he! —and thanks to Julius, some award-winning footage to go with it. “We have a newscast to do, people.” He turned to Stacy. “You ready?”

  Katie—along with everyone else—stared in disbelief. “You can’t be serious…look at him!” Stacy’s shirt was black at the neck, his coat slashed to ribbons. In addition, his left eye had closed, and his face was covered in mud. “He needs medical attention!”

  “And he’ll get it. Soon as we finish.”

  “Tape’s ready.” Julius limped up the hall, looking worse than his counterpart. His skin was riddled with cuts, and one of his pant-legs was missing, exposing a swollen knee. “Total runnin’ time’s three minutes. But I can cut it down—”

  “We’re airing it as is.” Toole sucked on his KOOL, no longer able to suppress a smile. “This one’s going to make us famous, boys. What do you say, Stacy?”

  All eyes moved to the reporter. Sensing he had no choice, he nodded agreement. “Let me just change—”

  “You’re not changing a thing!” All eyes shifted back to Toole. “People wait an entire career for an opportunity like this. Do you know how lucky you are?” He didn’t feel lucky. “When this hits the feed, every news director in the country’s going to shit himself. And they’re going to air the footage with a big fat C.G. at the bottom— ‘Courtesy KEGT, Avalon, Oklahoma!’”

  “But what about his face?” Katie spoke up. “He can’t go on the air like that.”

  “The hell he can’t!”

  “One minute,” the floor director barked.

  “Come on, Stacy. Let’s go make history.” Stacy stared at his boss, then at Katie. With a shrug, he headed for the set. “Yes!” Toole bellowed. One-by-one, they took their seats, Julius rushing the tape upstairs. “After we read the intro, I’ll toss it to you. I just want you to recount your experience. Not like a reporter. Like a victim. And don’t be afraid to sound shaken.” Shouldn’t be a problem. “I want our viewers to feel what you’re feeling. To know what you’ve been through. And to see that you’re here, in spite of it all, to tell them about it.”

  “Ten seconds.” Katie checked her lipstick, Larry adjusting his tie. As the floor director mouthed the countdown, the news intro blared.

  “Dismay, destruction, and death.” Katie spoke with genuine concern. “Good evening, I’m Katie Powers. Tonight, Texomaland residents are counting their blessings. Or mourning their losses. This after an F-5 tornado ripped through their lives.”

  “The deadly twister,” Larry hopped in, “zigzagged across both states, leaving stunned Texomalanders to sift through the ashes. I’m Larry Toole.” The director cut to a wide shot. “Ten people are dead, another fifteen are missing, the loss of property incalculable. Joining us now live is Great 8 reporter—and tornado survivor—Bill Stacy.” He turned to his shell-shocked set-mate, placing a hand on his shoulder. “First of all, Bill, let me say how thankful we are to have you here safe.” Toole leaned in as if speaking to a child. “Now I know this is difficult, but can you tell us what happened?”

  Stacy turned to the camera. “My photog and I were shooting a story on the drought.” Chip rolled video from the booth, the images shocking. Everyone in the building watched in amazement, Dick Wilhelm smiling like a raffle winner. Stacy shared his story, at least the parts he could remember. As the video turned to static, he stared at the desk. “Sadly, we weren’t able to save Mr. Bitner. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his family this evening…” He almost lost it, unable to get the little girls’ faces out of his head. “…they can certainly use some.”

  Toole beamed, already envisioning the news promos. “Thank you, Bill, for that captivating report. And for ignoring your injuries long enough to share it with the folks at home.” He turned, offering a reassuring nod. “We’ve got an ambulance standing by to take Bill and his cameraman to the hospital.” In actuality, Brannuck would drive them, but only if necessary. “And we’ll update their conditions at ten.” Toole switched gears. “Here to explain how this deadly system moved over Texoma is Great 8 meteorologist Thad Barker.” The director cut to a close-up, Stacy waiting for the segment to end. All he wanted was a hot shower and a good night’s sleep—if he could sleep, that is.

  Thad reviewed charts and explained graphics, covering his ass for the bungled forecast. “…so as you can see, Larry, no one could’ve predicted a freak storm like this.”

  “Thanks, Thad. And you’ll have tomorrow’s pinpoint forecast for us later?” The weatherman winked, Larry facing the camera. “When we return, Reg McNair reports on disaster relief efforts. And the price of stamps soars to twenty-five cents! Stay with us.”

  “Clear!”

  As Stacy hobbled off the set, a grating voice stopped him. “Hey, Dorothy, glad you and your little dog made it back to Kansas in one piece!”

  The emotions of the day—of the last few weeks—came to a sudden boil. Stacy wheeled, grabbing Thad by the throat. “You son of a bitch!” In the man’s terrified eyes, he saw every kid that ever picked on him. The empty bed at the hospital. The tears of the Bitner girls.

  They had to go through life without a father!

  “Stacy, no!” Katie watched him cock his fist, Larry turning to see the blow. It sent Barker through the green screen, his skull bouncing off the concrete floor. Dazed and whimpering, he covered himself to prevent further attack. None came.

  Stacy had already left the studio, an orange smear of makeup on his throbbing right hand.

  ***

  “I don’t have to tell you how serious this is.” Dick Wilhelm crossed his arms, leaning against the desk. Even on days like today, he loved the television business. As a child, he’d spent countless hours studying the black-and-white images, absorbing everything from Lloyd Bridges’ Sea Hunt to Edward R. Murrow’s See It Now.

  As an adult, he’d used that experience to build a network—the radio station in Sulphur, the TV stations in Texas, and KEGT in Avalon, the station he grew up watching. His goal was to build an empire. And he wasn’t about to let a clash between employees get in the way.

  “Your altercation with Barker is potentially damaging.”

  Stacy stared at the floor. He knew it was damaging. And he knew how serious this was. He was about to lose his job, for God’s sake!

  “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  Stacy drew a lon
g breath. “I know what I did was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry.” Larry Toole tapped on a fishbowl, stirring the creature inside. “I shouldn’t have put you in that situation. I know what you’ve been through…” He turned, trying to look sincere. “…and I didn’t help matters by putting you on set.”

  The speech sounded rehearsed, but Stacy nodded anyway.

  “Striking a coworker is a serious offense,” Wilhelm continued. “There are legal implications. And it puts me, as owner and general manager, in a precarious position.”

  Stacy continued to look down, waiting for the axe to fall.

  “I believe, however, that every dilemma is an opportunity in disguise.”

  Stacy looked up, his superiors staring down at him.

  “We get our asses kicked up north every ratings period.” Toole circled the desk. “There are several reasons, but we think our lack of physical presence there is the key. Channel 7’s studios are in Paul’s Valley. Channel 2’s are in Clarion.” Stacy had no idea what this had to do with him. “Because of your actions yesterday, we’ve been forced to accelerate our plans. Barker’s filed a restraining order. And his attorney—”

  “Thad hired a lawyer?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Wilhelm and Toole looked at each other, their shocked employee shaking his head. “Look, Stacy, everyone at Channel 8 knows Thad’s an asshole, but we all put up with him, because the viewers love him. And besides, he’s got a contract.”

  “Yeah, well, contract or not, he’s a racist. Do you know what he called Julius?”

  Toole raised his hand. “That doesn’t make what you did right. Although I must admit, there were more than a few people who enjoyed the hell out of it.” The news director fished for a cigarette, the G.M. glowering—smoking was strictly forbidden in his office. “We need to wrap this up.”