Chapter 30 - Jensen
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Jensen
The garage doors aren’t going to hold. The standard commercial steel isn’t strong enough to withstand the tornado barreling down on Main Street, its thunderous battle cry a warning that there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
I make eye contact with Frank, whose wrinkled forehead is more creased than usual.
He lifts his chin toward the front of the shop where the garage doors are violently shaking, creaking and groaning as if they’re in pain.
He knows as well as I do how bad this is.
We’re not in the center of town, but close enough to know we’re in danger.
“We need to back up,” I yell above the noise, pointing to the opposite side of the pit.
When the sirens started blaring, I’d ordered everyone down here.
Sarah, our receptionist, sits pale-faced on the floor next to Mrs. Barclay and her five-year-old son, Gatlin.
Mrs. Barclay’s check engine light was on and she’d come in right as we finished up with our scheduled clients for the day.
Frank offered to do a quick diagnostic for her, but before he’d even had time to pull a single error code, the sky had turned from gray to green to almost black, and then the sirens sounded.
The safest place in the shop is the pits. They’re below ground level, but the safety netting overhead isn’t going to help us much. If the garage doors go, we’ll have little protection from flying debris.
“As far back as you can,” I urge Sarah and Mrs. Barclay, scooping up Gatlin to make it easier for his mom.
The two women don’t say a word as they hurry to the interior-most end of the pit, fear shining in their eyes.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say, re-depositing Gatlin in his mother’s arms. “We’re going to be just fine. ”
Sarah nods, but tears well up in her eyes.
Mrs. Barclay just wraps her arms tightly around her son, murmuring words in his ear, too low for me to hear above the whistling wind.
It reminds me of Sutton and Ethan and their faces flash in my mind for a second, but I quickly shove the image away. I can’t think about them right now.
I also can’t think about Callie, even though every single beat of my heart is screaming her name, I can’t let myself drown in the panic that threatens me every second I think of the woman I love.
The army taught me that the most important thing is to stay focused on the task at hand.
I have to do everything I can to keep these people safe.
Frank and I bunch in next to the women, all of us watching as the garage doors continue their battle against the wind.
The overhead lights flicker a few times before going out completely, and my ears pop as the pressure drops.
Gatlin lets out a little squeak of pain, but before I can say anything to comfort him, there’s a low hum, a vibration that ripples through my entire body. The warmth leeches from my skin.
“It’s coming,” Frank yells, his voice barely carrying.
Only, he’s wrong. It isn’t coming. It’s already here.
With a crash so loud it makes my ears ring, the steel garage doors crumple like empty soda cans, ripping off their tracks.
The windows shatter, sending shards of glass flying through the air like shrapnel.
Throwing myself over Gatlin and Mrs. Barclay, I do what I can to shield them, hissing as jagged fragments slice across my neck and back.
Frank lets out a bellow next to me, but he’s hunched over Sarah who’s covering her ears, mouth open in a scream.
Dirt, bits of debris, hunks of insulation, and god knows what else clog the air.
I squeeze my eyes shut to protect them, hacking out a cough as I press closer to Mrs. Barclay and Gatlin, trying to keep us as low as possible.
Gatlin is wailing in my ear, his terrified cries mixing with the sounds of wood snapping, metal clanging against metal, and the whistling of debris hurtling across the shop.
Monstrous wind, ruthless and unyielding, unleashes itself on the shop, on us and there isn’t anything we can do to stop it.
With my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, time seems to slow down.
It’s as if I’m watching it all in slow mo—Frank grimacing against the pelting debris, Mrs. Barclay gripping her son tightly, afraid he’ll be ripped from her arms, and Sarah clutching at the cross necklace she always wears, her lips silently moving in prayer.
All while the storm rages over our heads.
It feels like ten years have passed before the roaring of the wind starts to fade.
The air pressure stabilizes, and a heavy stillness falls over the shop.
No one moves or even breathes deeply. It’s as if we’re waiting to see if it’s really over or if the monster is only lurking in the shadows ready to come for us again.
I lift my head once I’m sure it’s passed and do a survey of the pit. There’s a thick, chalky haze in the air that smells like a mixture of damp earth, splintered wood, and something metallic. It stings the insides of my nostrils with each breath.
The emergency lights flicker to life, illuminating the shop in soft orange light. Scraps of metal, wood, and roofing material and more litter the concrete.
“Everyone okay?” I stand up and help Mrs. Barclay to her feet. She’s covered in dirt and trembling, but otherwise unharmed. Gatlin clings to her with wide eyes and tear-stained cheeks, but he isn’t hurt. Neither is Sarah, who is holding on to Frank, her lower lip quivering.
“We’re all good, Boss,” Frank wheezes. Blood drips down his arm from a sizeable gash in his bicep, but he waves it off when he sees me looking. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. Piece of metal got me, but I’m okay.” He points to my head. “What about you?”
It’s then that I feel the warm, sticky liquid dripping down my neck. A jagged cut runs across my right temple. It stings when I touch it, my fingertips coming away coated in crimson.
“There’s a first aid kit in the break room,” Sarah pipes up. “Is it safe for us to go out?”
“I think it just side-swiped us,” Frank says, twisting around to get a better look at the shop. He looks almost as surprised as I am that the place is still standing. “If we’d taken a direct hit . . . ” he trails off. None of us needs him to finish that sentence.
I hop out of the pit, groaning as the movement sends stabs of hot pain down my back. Leaning down, I take Gatlin from Mrs. Barclay so she can climb out. Frank and Sarah emerge slowly, their heads on a swivel as they take in the damage.
Outside, several car alarms are going off and there’s the faint sound of an emergency siren in the distance, but the storm is gone .
Sarah passes me, stepping over racks of broken equipment and scattered tools across the floor, heading for the employee breakroom.
I step through the gaping hole where one of the garage doors used to be.
The ice cream store across from us is missing a chunk of its roof, and the glass doors are shattered.
The locksmith two doors down is the same.
The entire road is covered in chunks of drywall, tree limbs and branches, trash can lids, and crumpled road signs, but all the buildings on our street seem to be standing.
“Y’all okay?” I call out to the workers from the ice cream shop who have also come out to see the damage. When they nod, I head further down the road. At the corner, there’s a pretty clear view of the main street. Stepping over debris, glass and twigs crunch under my boots.
“Oh my god.”
Downtown Dayton Spring took a direct hit. The postcard-perfect image I’ve gotten so used to seeing as I drive into work every day is nearly unrecognizable.
Roofs and awnings have collapsed, and the majority of businesses have been stripped down to the framing.
Telephone poles are snapped in two and low-hanging electrical wires are tangled together.
Cars have been flipped on their sides between clumps of brick, roof shingles, corrugated metal, and the pink fluffs of insulation that clutter the sidewalks.
There’s even a child’s bicycle twisted like a pretzel.
Sirens sound, but this time, the shrill wailing means that help is coming. Blue and red lights flash as emergency vehicles hurry to the epicenter.
Adrenaline jolts through me, and I run back to the shop.
All I can think about are the people in those buildings.
The people of this town. It may not have been where I grew up, but somewhere along the way, Dayton Springs became my home, and seeing it bleeding like a gaping wound, damn near rips the heart right out of my chest.
Sutton. Ethan. Callie. Sutton. Ethan. Callie. My brain, muddled and overwhelmed, is spinning with a million thoughts, all of them screaming for my attention. But it’s the names of the people I love that are the loudest.
It was Sutton’s day off. She’s not down there. She’s at home with Ethan. Callie is at the farmhouse. It’s okay, they’re not down there, I tell myself. It’s hard, though, to shake the unwavering feeling of wrongness swimming in my gut.
“Frank! We need to get downtown. The tornado went right down Main Street.”
Frank darts past me, needing to get a look for himself, while I look for Sarah, who’s standing beside Mrs. Barclay, the first aid kit in her hand. “Sarah, come with me. There may be people who need help.” I indicate the first aid kit. Sarah doesn’t hesitate, just follows me as we rush back outside.
But something else is niggling at me, clawing at me, and I can’t shake it. I reach for my phone in my back pocket, only to remember I’d left it to charge in my office.
A cop car is idling at the end of the road, and I recognize Jefferson Carmichael, one of Dayton’s finest speaking with Frank through the open window. “You folks, okay?” He asks as we approach, eyes widening when he sees the blood dripping down the side of my face.