Storms

“…as you may have heard, tonight we will get the most rainfall over this section of the East Coast in over a decade,” the weatherman spouted, flashing his perfect white teeth at the camera, “and some experts are even saying that, though it’s very unlikely, we may even have a tornado over this area in the early evening…” He gestured over a small part of the digital map behind him, smiling obliviously at the screen.

*****

“Tornadoes? How about that, then?” Jacob Bunting said uninterestedly before turning back to his work. He had been an accountant since the early nineties and it showed. His face was pale and a deep boredom only a life of sitting in an enclosed office could bring about was etched into his eyes.

“Erm… Mr Bunting?” said a voice behind him. He sighed and swivelled his chair around.

“What can I help you with, Mrs Atkinson?”

Sarah Atkinson was junior to him, a young woman with a dark green suit and black-rimmed glasses, her sleek black hair pulled back in a tight bun.

“Mr Bunting, that tornado’s going to go straight through the village I live in. It goes almost right over my house!” Her eyes flashed as she spoke. “Mr Bunting, if there’s going to be a storm, I want to be at home with my husband to see it through.”

Jacob sighed again. Sarah lived two hours away; she was here on a two-day course and wouldn’t be going home until tomorrow.

“They said a tornado’s very unlikely, Sarah.” He deliberated for a moment, and then reached a decision. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s see what’s happening at lunch. If they’re still talking about storms and hurricanes and whatever else then I’ll let you go home. But not a moment before.”

*****

Mahendra Anil glanced around his tiny shop. Beside him, on a small TV he half-listened to the same report Sarah had heard. He'd never supposed it was possible to announce such a warning with a smile.

It’s getting dark already, he thought to himself. It was easy to see how a storm could be coming. A hurricane had hit the same area almost a dozen years ago, he remembered, when he’d only just opened up shop. It had taken him days to clear up after the panic buying, and he had to account for hundreds of pounds worth of stuff that had simply been looted in the confusion.

Apart from himself behind the till, there wasn’t another soul in sight. As quickly as he could, he slid his large frame over to the shining glass doors, slipped them shut and locked them.

He turned back to the till and continued to restock the pastries on the counter, and a few minutes later he heard a knock at the window. There was a small group of young men standing outside, most of them with leather jackets and shaven heads.

“Oi, mate!” demanded the one at the front. “Oi, let us in!”

“Shop’s closed!” Mahendra said forcefully, his strong Indian accent not disguising the contempt in his voice. He’d seen most of them before. Most likely the pub down the road had closed early to prepare for the impending storm.

“We just need a beer, mate!” another one said, his speech slightly slurred.

“Firstly, I’m not your mate,” Mahendra barked, walking right up to the glass, “and secondly, I told you, shop’s closed!” He slammed the blinds down, blocking out the gaggle. He heard them muttering discontentedly; his blood boiled as someone said “Bloody Paki,” but slowly their muffled voices drifted away from the shop, and he was alone again.

*****

“I’m sorry sir, but no-one passes,” the officer said in a practiced, monotone voice, “please follow the diversion, sir.”

Taylor Green had been sitting there arguing for ten minutes, and he was beginning to get more impatient and aggressive.

“Just let me over the bloody bridge!” Taylor said through gritted teeth, “Don’t you understand? My daughter is in the back and she is going into bloody labour, so let me over the bridge SO I CAN GET HER TO A BLOODY HOSPITAL!”

The officer, a tall, handsome black man, shook his head. “Sir, this bridge is in serious need of repair and a storm’s likely to hit at any moment. I’m sorry, but I can’t let anyone over; God help me if a tornado were to hit while you were crossing.”

In the back seat, a teenage girl groaned in pain again, beads of perspiration forming on her brow.

“Please, officer,” the man pleaded, all his anger evaporating, his heart wrenching with every agonised cry his daughter made. “This is the quickest way to the hospital; there may be birth complications, it runs in the family, and if we take the diversion we probably won’t get there in time.”

Again the officer shook his head. “I can call an ambulance if you’d like, sir,” but the man was already reversing, muttering “Too slow” under his breath.

*****

“Severe winds are starting to build up now,” the weatherman gushed, the irritatingly perfect grin gone from his face, “and a tornado is looking more and more likely by the minute. I would advise anyone and everyone in the area to find a secure place to sit the storm out.”

A grim half-smile formed across Gerald Christopher’s face as he heard this, forcing the last plank of wood over the window and nailing it on. Gnarled and wizened, he was nearly a hundred and still going strong; he would often joke that people regularly mistook him for eighty. His skin was darkened and toughened by the years; a survivor of two world wars and a missile crisis, he wasn’t the sort to allow a gust of wind to finish him off.

He admired his handiwork as he stood up straight and massaged his aching back. Flicking on the gas fireplace and settling down on his favourite armchair, he picked up the paper and read quite contentedly, disregarding the images of destruction that the front page would most likely carry the next day.

*****

Sarah Atkinson jumped out of her car and sprinted up to the house. At around 4 o’clock the news had come on, solemnly informing her that a tornado was very likely on its way.

She didn’t find that difficult to believe. The sky had darkened to a sinister grey, and the rain was lashing down. Soaked to the skin before she even reached the door, she fumbled helplessly with the keys for several moments before getting the right one.

“Bill?” she called, pushing herself through the doorway. “Bill, I’m home.” The house was deathly silent. “Bill?” she called again as she mounted the staircase. She waited and listened on the landing. Still no sound.

The house was beginning to rock at its very foundations; outside she could hear the wind howling and pummelling at the flimsy brick. Slowly, she pushed the bedroom door open.

Her husband was sitting bolt upright on the bed. He wasn’t bad looking, with deep blonde hair complementing his rounded, slightly boyish face, a perfectly normal looking guy. What wasn’t normal, however, was the fact he was completely naked. And that another woman lay beside him.

The scene froze, Sarah in the doorway, the guilty couple shifting nervously on the bed. “Erm… hi, Sarah,” Bill started, “I thought you weren’t getting home until tomorrow.” If it wasn’t so heartbreaking it may have been almost comical.

Sarah felt her legs carry her back down the stairs as hot, angry tears flooded her face. She didn’t stop until she felt herself slam the cellar door behind her and lock it. Slowly, she slid down the wall and buried her face in her hands. Somewhere far away, her husband was shouting after her- he and his whore could face the wind together- and the wind was roaring. She would sit this storm through alone.

*****

Mahendra stiffened again as he heard voices approaching; a moment later, he cried out and dived back as a dustbin crashed through the glass door, sending shards flying through the darkening air. In an instant the drunken gang had swarmed through the doorway, grabbing at shelves, knocking down displays, laughing and cheering the whole time.

Stunned, the shopkeeper could only watch as the men became crazed wolves, roaring and howling and slashing and rampaging, until they ran back out, leaving as quickly as they had come, leaving only ruined shelves and broken glass in their wake.

*****

The throbbing was getting stronger now. A constant, circular pulse at the girl’s navel, the essence of life forcing its way into the world. She cried out again and clawed at her stomach, her breathing ragged, the very air slicing like blades against her throat.

In the front, her father gripped the wheel with a single-minded determination, his knuckles turning white as he stamped on the accelerator.

It was coming closer, faster than they’d ever expected. They didn’t have much time.

*****

Gerald coughed and slipped from his chair onto the floor. His newspaper fell crumpled at his side; slowly he could feel the world slipping away, the lights dimming, the room spinning.

The coals in the fireplace glimmered with glowing embers. The fire had burned its last and died about an hour before, as the gas that was its lifeblood leaked out into the room.

Mustering the last of his strength, he crawled agonisingly slowly along the floor, ancient crooked hands gripping feebly at the carpet. He reached the window, and tried to open it, but his nails clawed only at boards and splintered wood.

With a final spin, his consciousness left him and the world became black.

*****

Burying herself in her cellar, a woman sobbed uncontrollably as her husband pleaded for her to come out, to talk, to give him another chance. Down the road, an Indian shopkeeper stared in disbelief at his life, lying in ruins around him among smashed-up displays and broken glass. Further away, a girl sat in the back seat of a car, crying savagely as she cradled the blue, lifeless bundle. In his home, an old man’s heart stopped beating, and his eyes went grey and cold. And on the television, a weatherman became more and more hysterical as he told people that a storm was in full swing, a panicked voice pleading them to stay inside.

*****

The next morning, people began to emerge from their cellars and basements, blinking in the harsh daylight with surprise. The storm had come and passed. It had caused no damage.