Lucas is no longer looking at me but at the tornado, his expression a mixture of awe. “You going to chase it?”
“Am I going to chase it?” I scoff, yanking my secondary camera from its case. “What I'm not going to do is stand here making small talk while that tornado is forming.” I glancepointedly at his Channel 8 jacket. “Shouldn't you be warning actual people in its path instead of mansplaining tornadoes to me?”
I don't wait for his response. Time is precious, and this tornado waits for no one. I quickly collapse my tripod, securing my equipment. The wind howls around us as I zip my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.
My boots kick up dust as I reach my weathered red Silverado—Dad's truck, retrofitted with my own modifications. I toss my gear in the passenger seat and fire up the engine, checking my radar one last time. The supercell is intensifying, exactly as I predicted. The tornado's path will take it northeast, toward smaller communities that might not have adequate warning systems.
Lucas appears at my window, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. “My crew's meeting me at the intersection of County Road 18?—”
“Good for you.” I put the truck in drive. “Try not to get them killed.”
I peel away, watching him shrink in my rearview mirror. Part of me feels a pang of regret for being so harsh, but I push it away. I have a job to do.
The road stretches before me, a straight line cutting through golden wheat fields toward the massive column of swirling darkness. My phone buzzes on the dash, Emily's face lighting up the screen. Perfect timing, as always.
I hit the speaker button. “Kind of busy, Em.”
“You're chasing, aren't you?” The disapproval in her tone comes through loud and clear. “The Woodward County tornado is all over the news. Tell me you're not driving straight toward it.”
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel as the wind buffets my truck. “Would you believe me if I said I was at a spa getting a facial?”
“Lila, this isn't funny. They're saying it's at least an EF-2.”
“EF-3, probably.” I can't help the excitement in my voice as I watch the tornado form through my windshield. “You should see this beast, Em. Dad would've?—”
“Don't tell me what Dad would've thought about you risking your life like this.”
I swallow hard, focusing on the road as it grows slick with rain. The tornado is moving northeast, exactly as I predicted. I need to parallel its path, close enough for good footage but not so close that I become part of the debris field.
“It's not about risk, Emily. It's about data. It's about warning systems. It's about?—”
“It's about Dad,” she finishes for me. “It's always been about Dad.”
Rain hammers against my windshield now, the wipers barely keeping up. I spot the same white van from earlier in my rearview mirror. Weather Boy is following me after all.
“I've got to go, Em. I promise I'll call you when I'm clear.”
“Lila, please?—”
I end the call, guilt gnawing at me even as my focus sharpens on the task ahead. The tornado has fully formed now, a massive writhing funnel connecting cloud to earth. Through my open window, I can hear its roar—like a freight train, people always say, but it's more than that. It's alive. Breathing. Hungry.
I pull onto a side road that will position me to track its movement. My truck bounces over ruts and potholes as I race to get ahead of the storm's path. I half expect to see Weather Boy parked behind me like paparazzi, but he speeds past me a second later. He’s after the bigger flashy fish in the storm chasing pond.The ones that will make headlines and win him a National Broadcasting Emmy. Good riddance.
The sky has darkened to an eerie greenish-black, punctuated by flashes of lightning that illuminate the landscape in freeze-frame moments of clarity. In one of those flashes, I see it. A farmhouse directly in the tornado's path, about a mile ahead.
“Shit.” I grab my radio, quickly tuning to the emergency channel. “There's a property at approximately County Road 15 and Highway 270 directly in the tornado's path.”
I don't wait for acknowledgement. There's no time. I slam the accelerator, calculating distances and wind speed in my head. The rational part of my brain knows I can't outrun a tornado to warn strangers who should have already taken shelter, but rationality has never been my strong suit when lives are at stake.
The rain intensifies, sheets of water hammering my windshield as I grip the wheel tighter. Through the deluge, I catch glimpses of the massive funnel, now at least half a mile wide, chewing across the landscape with terrible purpose.
My radio crackles with a response, “Copy that. Emergency services are already enroute to your location.”
I squint through the windshield as lightning flashes again, illuminating the white farmhouse. There's movement. A figure running between buildings. My stomach drops. They haven't taken shelter yet.
“Dammit,” I mutter, pressing the gas pedal to the floor. The truck lurches forward on the muddy road, tires fighting for traction. I'm a quarter mile away when I see a pickup truck parked in the driveway. Someone's definitely home.
The tornado's roar grows deafening as I push my truck to its limits. Mud sprays from my tires as I swerve onto the property's long driveway, my headlights cutting through the unnatural darkness. The massive funnel is barely a mile away now, debris already spinning in its outer circulation.
