Beyond The Storm Part 6

Abigail's gaze jerked back to the awesome activity in the sky. The atmosphere had an almost otherworldly feel. Blessedly, the hail had slowed and finally stopped, but the rain started again. And this time, the downpour was even more torrential than the last. Justin had the one windshield wiper that still worked-his, thankfully-on high speed.

As he pulled back into the street he frowned, staring straight ahead. "What's . . . that?" There was something in his voice. Something that made her blood run cold.

"Where?"

He tapped the windshield, but Abigail could tell that he was looking into the horizon. "Over Walterville way."

Since the hail had broken the windshield wiper on her side, she scooted over, next to him and peered into the twilight. Vision was dodgy because of the rain and the streaks the wiper left, but when a bolt of lightning lit the sky, it illuminated two distinct, boiling, heart-stopping, black ma.s.ses of air that seemed to be on a collision course.

Abigail watched as the clouds collided in a spectacular burst of lightning. Then, three funnels, one after the other, like the long, bony fingers of the grim reaper, dropped out of this unholy union and beckoned them just before they touched the earth and began a ghoulish dance.

Justin snapped the radio on.

"...twenty minutes ago! In fact, three individual tornados converged into what we believe to be an EF4, possibly EF5 tornado coming Rawston's way, and it's one of several sp.a.w.ned by a super-cell that has been growing and wreaking havoc for miles. Reports are coming in from the Walterville area now that indicate large-scale devastation of the northeastern quadrant of that town. The number of fatalities continues to grow from the already unthinkable dozens, and wind speeds reach between two and three hundred miles per hour. If you can hear this broadcast and live in the Rawston area, take cover now! We are getting reports of debris in the air! It's already leveled much of Walterville and shows no signs of letting up as it travels toward the Rawston, Southshire areas. Again, if you are just joining us, an extremely dangerous and deadly tornado touched down in Broadacre twenty minutes ago, traveled through Walterville, and is heading toward Rawston. If you have a bas.e.m.e.nt or crawls.p.a.ce, get down there and take cover immediately! If not, go to the room in the center-most windowless section of your house, bathroom, closet, under the stairs! If you can cover yourself with a mattress, do it!

6:52 p.m.

Someone was screaming. More than one someone. Bob Ray groaned and shot an irritated glance at the ceiling. A brawl? Now? This was going to ruin his fun. He pushed off the spot where he'd been lounging against the bar and enjoying a very deep, very s.e.xy conversation with his new friend, Renee. On tiptoe, he backed up and looked around.

Finally, he located the source of the noise and frowned. It was a couple. Looked like they were dressed in motorcycle leathers. They looked pretty bedraggled. Reaching into a cabinet on the wall behind the bar, he turned off the sound systems and everyone stopped talking at once. As Bob Ray came out front to where Renee stood, he could finally understand what these two were screaming.

"Tornado on the ground! And it's headed right at us!" the man shrieked as he barreled into the center of the room. "We're in its path and there is no time to escape!"

The woman who hurried along at his side was trembling and clutching his arm and crying. "It's huge!"

"Probably a mile wide! Maybe more. It's got to be a killer! Take cover! Now! We're outta time!" Panic ensued. Women screamed, men shouted and cursed, and dozens dove under the pool tables. Other people began to unload one of the two supply closets. Renee's eyes were huge with terror as she turned them on Bob Ray.

"Do something!" she shrieked, her fear bordering on hysteria. She clawed at his arms with her nails, both pushing and pulling him into action. "Help me!" Her feet were as leaden as his and they both stood-the frozen core of a frenzied mob.

Bob Ray's heart was pounding so hard he was scared it was going to explode. Thousands of thoughts rushed through his brain, just like they used to out on the football field when a giant linebacker would come soaring through the air at him, and he had to get rid of the ball. Fast. As he tried to locate and gather his senses, people jostled and thrashed and shoved him out of the way. Some even ran outside. Maybe to see how close the twister was. Maybe to try and out run it in their cars. Should he be doing that, too? Immediately, the single and multi-occupant restrooms were filled and locked. The first closet was crowded and the door pulled shut and blockaded.

Finally springing into action after what seemed like a lifetime of indecision, Bob Ray and a couple of men who hadn't yet taken cover feverishly tossed equipment out of the second closet. Renee stood by, pupils dilated, and screamed along with the thunder just beyond the ceiling. While Bob Ray was pushing several heavy boxes out of the way, the men jumped inside and pulled the hysterical Renee in with them. The building was vibrating now, and the wind was shrieking like a teakettle boiling over. Before Bob Ray could get back across the room, Renee had slammed the door shut. He jiggled the handle, his heart choking him with fear. "Open up!" he shrieked, and swore and beat on the door. "I'm still out here!"

Renee screamed at the men who cowered inside with her. "No! There is no time left! Don't open it! Don't!"

Fury had him savagely kicking the door. Inside, Renee screamed curses at him, and the men hiding with her held the k.n.o.b tight and shouted for him to stop. Something huge crashed into the side of the building, and Bob Ray finally accepted the fact that they had no intention of taking a chance to save his sorry hide.

On instinct now, he sprinted back behind the bar. Yanking open the industrial, half-sized refrigerator that was built into its underbelly, he flung out jars of maraschino cherries, lemon and lime wedges and everything else they kept in there. This refrigerator had been special order-made to handle a thriving business, yet stay compact and out of the way. Had to be at least a cubic yard of s.p.a.ce in there, probably more. He'd fit. Barely. He ripped out the racks, squeezed inside, and using the little shelves on the door as a handle, pulled it shut.

It was pitch black and-except for the roar of blood pulsing like water through a fire hose in his ears-quiet in there. So. Were these the last minutes of his life? Was this all there was? Was he going to die in a refrigerator, under a bar? Was that his destiny?

Bile rose in his throat as he remembered Heather. How were Heather and Robbie doing? Were they in the tornado's path? A terror he'd never known gripped him as he imagined them in that trailer as a twister bore down. Tears were wetting his cheeks as he began to bargain with G.o.d. "G.o.d! I know I'm a loser! But please, don't take it out on my kid and Heather. They're good, G.o.d. Please. Please, take me if you have to, but let them live. And if you let me live, I promise I'll be a better man-a better father and a better husband. Please, G.o.d, please."

Head wedged between his knees, Bob Ray cried like a baby. The woman he'd been ready to throw his marriage vows out the window for had just sentenced him to death. Heather never would have done that. Never.

She was good and kind and sweet to him even when he treated her like dirt. Though she'd been just as young and scared as he'd been before the wedding, she'd done the right thing. And, even though it had to be grueling, being stuck in a broken-down dump of a trailer all day with a baby, she was a good mom to Robbie. Always buckled him in his ca.r.s.eat and played with him and prayed for him and treated him like he was a blessing. Unlike him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even touched the kid. And the weird thing was, he loved that little boy. More than anything. Robbie was his son. Just a baby. So sweet.

Bob Ray's jagged sighs were filled with self-loathing and regret.

It was h.e.l.l, just sitting here waiting. And waiting. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion now. Then, just as he was beginning to wonder if this whole storm thing was maybe some kind of monster con-job by the two people who'd come screaming through the front door, his ears popped and the air seemed to whoosh from the tiny refrigerator as if it had been vacuum sealed.

Suddenly, Bob Ray was certain that if the tornado didn't kill him, a complete lack of oxygen would.

8.

6:53 p.m.

Robbie was screaming in her ear as Heather frantically yanked down the red velvet curtains that hung over the Rawston Christian Church's baptistery and flung them into the water tank. Thankfully, it had been drained after the last round of baptisms. As carefully as she could, she climbed inside and, once she had herself and Robbie well padded, she pulled the wooden cover over their heads. Settling into the darkness, she turned them both on their sides. As much as possible, without hurting him, Heather tried to cover her baby with her body and the yards of fabric.

"Shhh, Robbie, baby. Mommy's right here," she whispered, her voice shaking both from exertion and emotion. "We're just going to play the hiding game right now, okay? Like we do with Daddy sometimes?"

Robbie's shrieks quieted some as he listened to her m.u.f.fled voice. "Da-da?"

"Yes, Daddy is coming to find us so you have to be really quiet while we hide, okay?"

Robbie's little body shuddered and he sighed. Heather drew him infinitesimally closer into her embrace. Just before she'd torn the curtains down, she'd stuffed a shivering Robbie under her T-shirt and zipped her sweatshirt up over them both. Then, she locked her arms around his tiny, chilled body and began to murmur her prayers in his ears. She prayed that the arched timbers over the baptismal would hold. She prayed that the baptismal would stay put. She prayed for Robbie. She prayed for herself. And she prayed for Bob Ray, wherever he was.

When she was done praying for her guys, she started on everyone else she could think of who was perched, like so many dust bunnies, in the path of this giant vacuum cleaner.

After that, she asked for forgiveness for kicking in the church's kitchen window. But the building had been locked, and she hadn't known what else to do. In a frenzy, she'd beaten the remaining shards out with a rock, and then dragged a wailing Robbie in after her. Panting, gasping, wheezing, she'd surveyed the building, her eyes searching, searching, searching, her mind spinning.

Safe. Safe, G.o.d, what would be the safest place? It was then, she saw the cross, suspended above the pulpit, and its vertical beam seemed to be pointing to the baptistery. "Thank you, Jesus," she'd breathed and dashed, with Robbie hollering under her right arm, up the steps to the back room's entrance. She'd set Robbie down and muscled the cover back to see a deep, well-supported s.p.a.ce, just perfect for the two of them.

While she hunkered down over Robbie, Heather also asked forgiveness for everything else she could think of, including bringing Robbie into a teenaged marriage and messing up her and Bob Ray's lives with the stupid, selfish choices she'd made. And, when she felt that she'd done all she could and whispered her final "amen," she kissed her son's cheeks and told him how precious he was. And that he was a good boy and a blessing, no matter what anybody else might ever say to him. His cheeks were so plump and soft and his hair still just tufts of peach fuzz. She inhaled his sweet Cheerios and diaper powder babyness and tried not to let him know she was crying. Because it wouldn't be long now.

She hoped that when the devil she'd seen earlier touched down to do battle with G.o.d's house, that she and Robbie could stay together. Robbie's head grew heavy on her arm and his breathing slow and regular. The little stinker had fallen sound asleep. She smiled as a peace-the kind that pa.s.sed all understanding, she guessed-began to calm the terror in her heart.

6:54 p.m.

Abigail clutched Justin's arm as they stood inside the Quick In Go and watched the grim reports coming in on the Weather Channel. Wind whistled through the gap in the gla.s.s entrance doors and customers milled, nerves strung tight, wringing their hands. As they paced, they wondered what would happen and what, if anything, they should do to protect themselves. Several were on cell phones with friends and family, getting and giving updates. They found Jen Strohacker standing in the back with the store's manager, anxiously watching the TV. She must have come in from her tanning shop two doors down in this same strip mall. When she saw Justin, she rushed to him, her eyes round with worry. "You haven't seen Danny, have you?"

"No. I thought he'd be with you."

"No. No. My ultrasound appointment was canceled. He ran over to Bob Ray and Heather's to help with a flooding problem. He's not answering his cell phone . . ." Her voice rose and her hands shook.

"Jen," Justin pulled her hands into his and said, "I think phone service might be sketchy at this point. He's probably already home."

Sucking in a huge breath, she bobbed her head. "You're probably right. I'm just on edge because of the baby and everything."

Abigail glanced back and forth between them, sensing how much they both wanted to believe, seeing the worry, palpable, vibrating and pulling them all to the brink. She had no profound words of wisdom or comfort. Nothing but feelings of inadequacy and terror. She reached out and took Jen's hand, as much to comfort her, as to comfort herself.

The bearded man who sported a turban and a nametag that read Desh Pradesh, QIG Manager rushed out from behind the register and addressed the dozen or so people who were seeking shelter in his store. "May I have everyone's attention, please? People, I believe the storm will no doubt be causing us some damage within a few moments. First, I ask that you all try to stay calm. I have had some emergency preparedness training." He'd located several flashlights and held them up. "Why don't some of you take these and make sure the batteries work? If not, the new batteries are at the end of that aisle. Also, the first aid kit is here with me." He held it up.

"I hope we will not be needing it. Extra fresh water is stored in the back. Help yourselves to anything you need to make your stay more comfortable. And I mean anything. Except the till." Everyone chuckled nervously. "And ma'am? The one who is expecting a blessing, I have a chair here for you, if you wish. My wife also is expecting soon, and I know standing at this stage can be tiring."

With a grateful smile, Jen's knees buckled as she sank into the chair he offered.

"Is there anyone you need to call?" Justin whispered in Abigail's ear.

She licked her dry lips. "I should call my aunt," she whispered back, but wondered if her shaking fingers would be able to dial.

"Good. I want to check in with my grandparents." Standing arm in arm, they found their phones and called their families. Justin's grandparents were safe and heading to a shelter in Southshire with some neighbors. Abigail couldn't reach Aunt Selma or Guadalupe at the quilt shop, so she could only hope that they'd gone to Aunt Selma's together. Aunt Selma had a full bas.e.m.e.nt with a storm shelter built in.

"They're saying it looks like the storm might miss Southshire, so I guess my family is okay." Justin pulled her close and rubbed her shoulder. His voice was just as compelling as it had been last night, but now it carried the timbre of comfort. And strength. She was so glad he'd come after her. Going through this without him would be unthinkable.

"What do you-" she began, but was interrupted by a young woman with small children in tow as she came bursting into the store.

"Don't go out there!" she shrieked, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she herded her kids deep into the room and away from the windows. "It's heading straight at us! And . . ." she was sobbing now, "it's enormous!" Her kids, one on her hip and two preschoolers were blubbering along with her. Behind her, the entire sky was roiling and black now, lit only by sudden flashes of lightning. The flying debris was getting bigger now, sheets of metal roofing flipping and whipping across the parking lot, as rain battered the Quick In Go's front windows. In the distance, sirens were wailing like Irish banshees, forecasting certain death.

Tension had them all gripped in its clutches as everyone turned their attention back to the TV. The Weather channel now showed the tornado barreling down on Old Town.

" . . . once again, the tornado has crossed Fisher's Mill Highway and has reached the outskirts of Rawston, and we are watching it here in the studio as Doppler Radar tracks its progress. This weather system is producing violent winds and debris; if you are outside, take cover immediately . . . we are getting a report right now that the tornado is heading directly toward Old Town Rawston . . . we've got video . . . you can see that it is a very powerful tornado, and its base is estimated to be at least a half-mile in width, maybe twice that . . ."

The funnel was ma.s.sive. Abigail's eyes slid shut and sorrow spilled down her cheeks. No. Please. No. Not her beautiful shop. She battled back a wave of nausea as she looped her arms around Justin's waist and pushed her face into the comforting softness of his flannel shirt. Alternately, he rubbed and patted her back, and crooned some calming nonsense in her ear. Oh, how far they'd come in less than twenty-four hours.

The sound of the front doors slamming open had them spinning around. Chaz came flying in, shouting into his cell phone. Tripoli Cleaners was in the other arm of this U-shaped mall, directly across the parking lot. "Get out of your apartment! Take your mama and aunt down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, Kaylee! Hide in the middle, in that furnace room! The one with no windows, hear me? Now! No! Don't take anything. Just run! Run! Go, go, go! Now! Yes, yes, baby. I love you, too. I'm fine. And I'm praying for you, baby. I love you . . . You're breaking up. I'm losing you, baby. Are you there? Kaylee?" His head dropped back on his shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Jesus, please. Please, keep them safe." A heavy sigh rushed out in a groan and his shoulders flagged.

Abigail's breathing came in rapid gasps, and her heart was racing. Panic had her feeling as if she was going to fall. "Kaylee," she whispered.

"You okay?" Justin asked.

She whimpered. She knew she probably had to be cutting off his circulation by this point, but couldn't seem to unclench her grip on his arm.

Chaz stepped over to them and dragged a hand across his face. "Kaylee says the tornado has come as far as Fisher's Mill Highway." Chaz glanced at Abigail and added, "That place you ladies held her party last night is out there."

Abigail swallowed and nodded.

"It's nearly at Old Town now," Chaz said. They all sighed, at a loss for words. "I'm not sure that this is the best place for us to be . . ."

Justin glanced around. "I know. But we don't really have time to move now."

Desh covered the mouthpiece of his phone and said, "The QIG main office is requesting a head count from each of our local stores. Can everyone please come gather here, at the counter?" The three people, two men and a woman, who stood watching TV, turned to comply, as did the young woman and her children. Abigail guessed that the man who wore a white shirt and tie was some kind of businessman, just getting off work. The woman was middle-aged and her basket was loaded with batteries and canned goods. The second man was older, and looked as if he hadn't bathed in several weeks. Homeless, Abigail deduced.

Desh was getting a headcount when the power went out. Silence fell and they were plunged into darkness for a second before lightning illuminated a man standing in the doorway. People squealed at the ghostly apparition and one of the children began to shriek. Haruo Nakamura, normally a very reserved and quiet-spoken man, stood, his hair blowing in the wind, his arms beckoning and shouting at the top of his lungs. "Come on! I have big walk-in refrigerator, no window! Reinforced steel! There is still time!"

"No!" the young mother cried and gathered her babies to her knees. "Don't go!"

"Ma'am," Justin said, and strode toward her, Chaz on his heels. "We don't have time to argue. If what you say is true, you're better off with us. Let's go." He picked up one of her wailing kids and Chaz went for the other. "Now!" he shouted over his shoulder and she jumped to follow. Abigail helped Jen to her feet and they, too, plunged into the storm.

6:55 p.m.

Selma Louise Tully had lived through one of these monsters before. Barely. But, she'd learned a few things about preparedness. Unfortunately, she'd become complacent in the last four or five decades. She'd begun to ignore the siren's warnings. Forgotten a lot of the terror. Birthed and raised a family and gotten old and a little addled. And so, she was prepared, because Clyde had insisted, after the last big one back in '66.

And, Guadalupe was with her; so that made one more body safe and sound.

But Abigail and Elsa and many of her other friends and neighbors were G.o.d only knew where, right now. Like Clyde had with her, she should have insisted that they hide here in the special shelter he'd built for this very day. Her next-door neighbors had all been so cavalier only a short time ago, turning down Selma's urgent invitations to join her and Guadalupe in the bas.e.m.e.nt shelter with amused thanks, but not really believing the storm would amount to much. Selma sent up prayers over them all now.

Because they'd lost everything in the Topeka, Kansas, tornado of '66, her husband had become obsessed with beating the weather at its sometimes murderous game. He'd moved his family to another state. He'd studied European bomb shelters. He'd designed and redesigned the perfect family shelter for the perfect storm. And he'd labored, long and hard, a modern-day Noah, building the edifice that would one day see his family through whatever nature might get in its head to hurl at them.

The corned beef hash had finally burst out of the cans after twenty or thirty years of disuse, and most of the candles and other emergency supplies such as flashlights, had been pilfered by the kids for backyard campouts and sleepovers. Every couple of years or so, Selma would head down to the shelter beneath the bas.e.m.e.nt and restock a few supplies in order to honor Clyde's wishes, but largely . . . she'd forgotten about the place.

Nearly fifty years was a long time to outfit and maintain a tool that was so rarely needed. And yet, if the news was even half as bad as was being forecasted on the Weather Channel right now, the time for Clyde's shelter had finally come. Two decades after the man himself, had pa.s.sed.

"Jesus, have mercy on us. We're in the valley of the shadow, here," Selma whispered into the gnarled knuckles of her folded hands as she and Guadalupe stood on the threshold of her wrap-around porch to better view the ominous funnel in the distance.

Guadalupe's head was bowed as she prayed over her daughter, Elsa, who was in the high school gym at prom, but even so, Selma could tell she was crying. She dug a tissue out of her pocket and tucked it in Guadalupe's hand. "Elsa will be alright, honey," she murmured. "I've been praying for that kid since the day she was born, you know."

Guadalupe sniffed, her laughter, jerky. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes. "I know, my dear friend."

From where the two women were standing together at Selma's front door they could see that the twister over on the Walterville side looked to be barreling up Fisher's Mill Road. Selma lived ten minutes north and west of there. Over the years, people had tried to get her to move closer into town. Save time and gas, they said. But because Clyde had slaved over this place for so many years, building a safe, comfortable haven for her and the kids, she just couldn't make herself move.

The wind was really tearing up the street now. "Shall we head down to the shelter?" Selma asked and tugged on Guadalupe's sleeve. "Looks like it's still south of us. But it could surprise us and turn."

"I hope not," Guadalupe said and stepped inside after Selma. They bolted the doors and closed the windows, praying all the while. One last glance out the front window . . . and then the strangest thing happened.

A Ford Mustang, its turn signal flashing, horn blaring and doors flapping-like a winged Pegasus heading south for the winter-made a perfect four point landing on the neighbor's roof. It didn't take a full minute for the two women to make it down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and into the storm shelter.

PART TWO.

THE EYE OF THE.

STORM.

When we sail in Christ's company, we may not make

sure of fair weather, for great storms may toss the

vessel which carries the Lord Himself, and we must

not expect to find the sea less boisterous around our