The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,1

crazy. The sun shone erratically through the torn and whirling clouds. Intense shafts of light cast long shadows across the ground. A deathly calm settled over the land. The birds fell silent and farm machinery sat idle and untended in the barns. Albert strained his ears but heard nothing but a dog howling far in the distance.

Or maybe it wasn’t a dog?

The first violent gusts struck as he came around the bend in the road and spotted the Jones farm. He broke into a panicked run, scrambled up the front porch stairs, and grabbed the doorknob, turned, and pulled.

Locked! When no one came to answer his pounding, he raced around the house to the kitchen door that was always open—except today it was bolted. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered into the kitchen. Nobody there.

Then he heard it. He took two steps and poked his head around the corner of the house. A howling funnel was barreling toward him across the deserted prairie, a locus of black destruction clad in a swirling coat of cloud and dust. Awed by its swift progress, Albert stood fixed to the spot, hypnotized by its power. Flying dirt blinded him and tears of pure panic filled his eyes. He looked around desperately for some place to take shelter.

He knew the Jones family had a storm cellar, maybe behind the barn, but it was too late to go back that way. Desperate, he raced toward their sturdy chicken house, glanced back for an instant and saw the monster still advancing, and then ran as fast as he could, praying they hadn’t locked the coop. He twisted the heavy latch, a crude metal plate mounted on a sturdy spike. He plunged inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

Albert found himself in near-absolute darkness, but his eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through the cracks. He panted and wheezed, half choked by the stink of feathers and chicken shit. Fumbling through his pockets for his inhaler, he remembered leaving it on the table by the television. He fought back panic as he heard the howling beast outside change its tune. Was the horrible noise abating? Had the monster turned from its course?

Albert threw himself on the ground, heedless of the warm excrement that immediately soaked his trousers, and peered through a screened vent set low in the wooden wall. If the funnel had indeed altered direction, just for a moment, it had changed its mind again and was back on track. He saw it advancing, tearing across the prairie, a living thing compounded of everything it demolished along its path. Albert looked back into the interior and only then, as his eyes once more adjusted to the gloom, did he see the chickens. The hens were huddled all together in a silent, compact heap in the far corner of the chicken house.

They knew they were going to die, and he was seized by the same horrible dread. Shaking uncontrollably, he dragged himself to the mound of poultry. He made himself as small as he could and pushed deep into that warm living pile an instant before the tornado hit. The birds’ silent acceptance of their fate exploded in cackling, thrashing screams that sounded almost human. Albert yelled with them, calling for his mama, feeling the air being sucked from his lungs. In that wild moment, he remembered the diagram the allergist had used to explain how the sacs in his lungs sometimes collapsed and denied him oxygen. He kept yelling, emptying himself completely, his voice reduced to a high, thin, useless shriek. Albert knew his end had come when the beast outside drowned out his pathetic squeak. The last thing he felt as the chicken house blew apart and showered debris everywhere was the warm, convulsive spurt of urine as he peed his pants.

The shining sun stood high in a clear blue sky. Not a single cloud marred the perfection overhead. Martin paused, feeling dampness in his carefully combed hair. He brushed his hand across the nape of his neck and was annoyed to find his shirt collar wet as well. With the tip of one polished shoe, he cleared away some splintered wood and rubble so he could put down his briefcase. He wiped his neck with a fine white handkerchief, then carefully folded it and tucked it in his back pocket before checking his appearance again. The crisply creased trousers and polished shoes were satisfactory, but the tailored dark-denim jacket had