5. Lila #2
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, urging both my truck and the storm. Part of me—the reckless part Dad always tried to temper—wants to get closer than is strictly necessary for documentation. The scientist in me knows exactly how close is too close.
I take a sharp turn onto County Road 18, the truck fishtailing slightly on the rain-slick asphalt.
My equipment slides in the back, secured but protesting the rough treatment.
Through gaps in the curtain of rain, I can see the tornado has widened, its circulation intensifying as it chews across the landscape.
The radio now crackles with emergency broadcasts, warning residents to take shelter immediately. I scan the horizon for structures in its path, relieved to see mostly open farmland. Someone's livelihood is likely being destroyed with every acre it crosses.
I push the truck harder, racing along the rain-slicked road as the massive tornado carves its path through the landscape.
My heart pounds in rhythm with the wipers slapping across the windshield.
Through sheets of rain, I spot a high point about half a mile ahead with a great vantage point and clear sightlines in all directions.
“That's the sweet spot,” I murmur, easing off the gas as I approach the turnoff.
I navigate carefully onto the muddy shoulder, positioning my truck perpendicular to the tornado's path.
The massive funnel is fully visible now, a dark writhing column against the greenish sky, maybe three-quarters of a mile away.
Close enough for excellent footage, far enough to maintain a crucial escape route.
Working quickly, I grab my main camera and tripod, setting up just beyond the hood of my truck. Rain pelts my face as I secure the tripod legs in the softening earth, making sure it's stable against the gusting winds. My fingers move with practiced precision, adjusting settings, checking focus.
“Mature tornado, EF-2, possibly EF-3,” I narrate as I begin recording. “Rotation intensifying as it moves across open farmland.”
Through my viewfinder, I watch the tornado's hypnotic dance.
Its power is breathtaking—terrifying and beautiful in equal measure.
I zoom in on the debris field at its base.
The data from this system could be invaluable.
Exactly the kind of real-world validation the professor's algorithms might need.
I catch myself mid-thought and curse under my breath. voluntarily. In that split-second of clarity, I can see smaller rotations dancing around the primary circulation like demonic children around their mother.
“Dammit,” I mutter, adjusting my camera to capture the multiple-vortex structure. This is exactly the phenomenon he described in his email.
The tornado continues its relentless advance, now about half a mile away.
Close enough that I can hear its distinctive roar beneath the thunder—that freight train sound that never quite translates in recordings.
The rain suddenly shifts direction, driven by the storm's powerful inflow jets, pelting my back instead of my face.
I'm so absorbed in documenting the tornado that I almost miss the approaching headlights.
A vehicle is coming down the road behind me, moving fast despite the deteriorating conditions.
I ignore the approaching vehicle, focusing on my work.
The tornado has reached its mature stage, a wedge shape, churning with debris.
I need to finish my documentation before adjusting position.
I feel, rather than see, the vehicle pull up beside me as the car stops about twenty feet away. Great. Probably some storm-chasing tourist who'll want to chat when I'm trying to work.
I hear a car door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps squelching through mud. Whoever it is, they're heading my way. I ignore them, focused entirely on keeping my shot steady as the wind buffets against me.
“Ms. Brooks?”
I slowly turn, rain streaming down my face, to find Dr. Reed standing ten feet away.
His button-down shirt is already soaked through, dark fabric plastered tightly against his body.
Rain drips from his hair in messy strands across his forehead while he clutches what looks like a handheld anemometer and some kind of sensor array to his chest like he’s trying to physically protect them from the storm.
Unfortunately, the wet shirt situation is doing deeply unhelpful things to my concentration. Because suddenly I can see all of him.
The lean lines of his body hidden beneath those carefully pressed professor clothes.
The broad shoulders. The flat planes of his stomach outlined through soaked cotton.
Even his sleeves are clinging to his forearms, and my brain immediately betrays me with the memory of wondering what he looked like under all those button-downs.
Apparently the answer is unfairly good.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I shout over the wind.
Jonah blinks rain out of his eyes, looking simultaneously determined and completely overwhelmed by the weather around him.
Honestly, he looks ridiculous. Like some drowned academic who took a wrong turn and accidentally wandered into a disaster movie. And yet my pulse kicks annoyingly harder at the sight of him standing there in the middle of a storm looking like that.
The expensive equipment in his hands is getting more drenched by the second, but he barely seems to notice. His focus locks onto me immediately instead, concern written plainly across his face even through the sheets of rain.
I can't believe this. Of all the ridiculous, dangerous stunts— “Are you insane?” I shout, gesturing wildly at the tornado that's now close enough to feel its power tugging at us.
A powerful gust nearly knocks him off balance. He stumbles, clutching his equipment tighter. The sight is so absurd that I almost laugh despite my anger. That’s when I notice what he drove. A SUV with a Channel 8 logo on the side. “You came with Lucas?”
“I dropped him off a few miles back. He had to get footage for the station, but I wanted to set up my equipment here.”
“He left you? Alone?” I'm incredulous. “With a tornado bearing down on us?”
“I've studied these systems for fifteen years,” he insists, stepping closer.
“In a lab!” I snap back, my attention divided between him and the approaching tornado. “Studying them and standing in front of one are completely different things.”
A violent gust nearly knocks me sideways. The tornado getting closer, and the wind is picking up dramatically. Shit. She’s shifting. “God dammit. She’s a sidewinder. We can’t stay here.” I need to make a decision—fast.
“What?” he yells over the noise.
“She’s shifted her track. She’s coming straight for us.”
“But it’s moving away.”
“Look, I don’t have time to explain this,” I yell, grabbing my camera from the tripod. “That thing's coming straight for us, and we need to move.”
His eyes widen as he looks past me at the massive funnel. For the first time, real fear flashes across his face. Good. At least he's not completely divorced from reality.
“Get in the truck!” I shout, already grabbing my tripod with one hand while clutching my camera with the other.
He hesitates, looking back at the news van like it's a lifeline. “But the van?—”
“Leave it!” I snap. “That van won't outrun this. My truck might.”
The tornado's roar grows louder, bearing down on us. I don't wait for his answer, just sprint to my truck, tossing the camera and tripod into the back. When I glance back, he's standing there, frozen like a deer in headlights, staring at the monstrous funnel.
“Move your ass, Reed!” I yell, throwing open the passenger door. “Unless you want to become flying debris!”
That snaps him out of it. He lurches forward, slipping in the mud once before scrambling into the passenger seat. I'm already behind the wheel, firing up the engine before his door is fully closed.
“Seatbelt,” I order, throwing the truck into reverse and spinning us around in a move that sends mud spraying from all four tires.
The tornado is less than a quarter mile away now, its massive circulation pulling at us like some hungry god. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I can see debris flying—fence posts, tree branches, something that might have been part of a shed.
“Hold on!” I warn, slamming the accelerator to the floor. The truck lurches forward, tires fighting for purchase on the slick mud as I steer us away from the tornado's direct path.
Dr. Reed grips the dashboard with white knuckles, his scientific composure completely shattered. “It's moving faster than I calculated,” he shouts over the roar. “The intensification rate is exponential!”
“No kidding!” I swerve around a fallen branch, eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror where the tornado fills the frame. “Maybe save the observations for when we're not about to die!”
The truck fishtails as we hit a patch of standing water. I counter-steer instinctively, fighting to keep us on the road as rain hammers the windshield. Through the downpour, I can barely make out the county road stretching ahead.
The radio crackles with static. “...confirmed tornado on the ground, large and extremely dangerous. Take shelter immediately...”
“We need to find shelter,” Reed bellows, his voice tight with tension. “A ditch, a culvert—anything below ground level. A vehicle is the last place we want to be.”
“My truck is built for this. We just need distance,” I say through gritted teeth.
I take a sharp turn onto a connecting road, heading east. The move puts the tornado on our left flank rather than directly behind us—exactly what we need. The massive funnel churns across the landscape, its path shifting as it encounters different terrain.
“It's changing direction,” Reed observes, his scientific mind apparently kicking back in despite our situation. “The rotation pattern suggests it might be?—”