path of the storm. And so would I. As soon as I finished my loop, made sure everyone in my town was safely indoors. Then I’d park my vehicle and take shelter inside the fire station, which also served as the ESDA office. From there, we’d coordinate the storm cleanup and any rescues.
I pulled into the parking lot at Statler’s Fill-Up, intending to turn around and head back into town. The wind was making driving even the SUV difficult; the rain was nearly blinding, and it had begun hailing bits of ice about the size of quarters.
That’s when I saw Ed. Though he was obviously soaked, he was ignoring the rain and wind and ice as he struggled to close the front door. The wind had forced it back against its hinges and the heavy metal handle was threatening to smash into the big plate-glass window where Ed’s Jamaican-themed poster was hung.
I pulled up just beneath the wide metal canopy that sheltered the pumps and jumped from my SUV.
“Get the hell inside, Ed!” I yelled. “Now!”
Above us, the canopy was vibrating with the force of the wind.
Ed shook his head as rain streamed down his dark face.
“I turned off the pumps. But I gotta get this door closed. If it breaks my window, everything inside’ll be ruined.”
I took a quick look at the sky. Realized there was no time for patience. Or talk.
I pointed. Glanced back at Ed. Saw his eyes widen.
We ran inside. Me in front, Ed fast on my heels.
Behind us, it was as dark as an hour past sunset.
Inside, the overhead lights flickered. And the thought flashed through my mind that a tornado didn’t really sound at all like a train. More like a growling, ravaging beast about to consume us all.
Wind roared through the doorway, knocking me off my feet.
I slid along the slick, wet linoleum floor.
Ed threw himself sideways to avoid stepping on me.
The lights went out, pitching us into darkness.
The roar became deafening.
Then the building shuddered—something I felt rather than heard.
The front windows seemed to implode.
Suddenly, the wind was inside with us. All around us.
I wrapped my arms over my head as stinging glass and pieces of debris peppered my body.
I think I screamed.
And then it was over.
I lifted my head cautiously. Not that I really expected anything more to happen. But when it feels as if you’ve just lived through the end of world, caution seems appropriate.
The sky, still overcast, suggested twilight rather than full dark. The rain, still falling, wasn’t driven by an impossible wind. And it was cool. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in a matter of minutes.
Inside Statler’s, it was also dark, cool and rainy.
Because there was no roof anymore. Only rafters and sky where a roof had once been.
I stood, letting the debris that covered me fall away from my body. As I moved, I checked each limb and joint carefully. Slow, methodical movements that reflected a brain moving in slow motion, too. And I asked myself—more as a matter of academic interest than focused concern—if it was shock or a miracle that left me feeling no pain.
A miracle, I decided.
I turned slowly, looking around me.
Enclosed within the two remaining walls of the little building was a demolition scene. Random bricks and beams. Twisted framework and broken tiles. Collapsed shelves. Piles of merchandise. Hot-pink flamingos. A cash register. And a plastic palm tree, still amazingly inflated.
In front of the station—separated from me by yards of rubble, a ragged four-foot section of brick wall and little else—was my SUV. The gas pumps were still solidly connected to the ground. But there was sky where a metal canopy had once offered shelter.
I took a step forward.
Then full consciousness—full awareness—returned with a snap. I’d used my arms to cover my head, and my right forearm throbbed with the impact of some heavy object that I now recalled had struck it. My back—my whole body—ached from falling and from being pummeled with debris. And, though my vest had protected my back, I felt the sting of dozens of cuts and scratches on my arms and legs.
Almost as quickly as I realized I’d been hurt, I dismissed the injuries as minor. And irrelevant.
Ed, I thought urgently. Where’s Ed?
“Ed!” I called.
And then I called his name again as I began climbing through the rubble between me and where I remembered last seeing him. He’d stumbled over me, thrown himself to the right. Into an area where collapsing roof and collapsing walls now