I slam to a stop beside a rusted pickup and throw the door open, my hand clipping the switch as I jump. Beneath the truck, hydraulics roar and anchor spikes hammer into the ground, fighting the wind’s pull. If we take a direct hit, those spikes are the difference between my truck taking minor damage to becoming a flying projectile.
I am only a couple of steps away when I spot a lanky teenage boy struggling to help an elderly woman across the yard. She's moving painfully slow, one hand clutching a small pet carrier, the other gripping the boy's arm. They're never going to make it to the storm shelter at this pace.
“I'm coming!” I shout, racing toward them. The woman's white hair whips wildly around her face, her nightgown flapping against rail-thin legs.
“We can't get the shelter door open!” the boy yells, panic stretching his young face. “The wind is too strong!”
I reach them just as a chunk of a tree branch sails past my head. “I've got her!” I wrap my arm around the woman's waist, taking her weight. “Where's the shelter?”
He points toward a mound near the side of the house. I spot the concrete door built into the small hill, half-buried in landscaping. The door is propped open only a few inches, straining against the wind trying to slam it shut.
“Get to the shelter!” I shout at him, taking the pet carrier from the woman's trembling hand. “Go hold that door!”
He hesitates for only a second before sprinting toward the storm cellar. Smart kid.
“I've got you,” I tell the elderly woman, who's surprisingly light against my side. “What's your name?”
“Irene,” she manages. “My cat?—”
“I've got your cat too,” I assure her, clutching the carrier to my chest as we stumble forward. The wind is punishingnow, nearly knocking us sideways with each gust. The roar is deafening, a wall of sound that makes my ears ache.
I glance over my shoulder and immediately wish I hadn't. The tornado has changed direction, bearing down on us with terrifying speed. Debris swirls in its outer circulation—pieces of fence, branches, something that might have been a lawn chair. We have maybe two minutes, if we're lucky.
The boy has managed to wedge himself against the storm cellar door, holding it open with his back, his face contorted with effort. Rain plasters his dark hair to his forehead as he reaches out toward us.
“Hurry!” he screams. I tighten my grip on Irene's waist and push forward, every step a battle against the wind that seems determined to throw us back.
“Almost there,” I pant, my legs burning with effort. The tornado's roar swallows my words, but Irene nods, her thin frame surprisingly resilient against the battering elements.
Twenty feet. Fifteen. The wind turns solid, shoving us sideways. I duck as a piece of metal siding whistles past my head. The boy’s gaze snaps past us, widening, and I know without looking what’s coming.
“Go, go, go!” I shout, nearly lifting Irene off her feet for the last stretch. We reach the shelter entrance as the pressure drops hard, my ears popping. The boy grabs his grandmother’s other arm, and together we haul her through the narrow opening.
“The cat!” Irene cries as I push her down the concrete steps.
“I’ve got it!” I tumble in after them, the carrier clutched to my chest. The boy braces against the door, struggling to pull it shut against the vacuum pulling at it. I pass the carrier to Irene and lunge toward him, throwing my weight in. Together, we force the heavy steel door closed just as the world above us erupts.
The latch slams into place, the sound swallowed by the deafening howl overhead. The small underground sheltershudders, concrete walls vibrating under the force of it. I grab the steel support beam, locking my arm around it as dust shakes loose from the ceiling.
“Will it hold?” the boy shouts over the roar, fear plain in his face.
“It'll hold,” I assure him. Whether or not that reassurance is the truth remains to be seen.
Irene clutches the pet carrier to her chest as her cat lets out an ear-splitting yowl, adding to the roaring storm outside. The animal's terrified cries continue as debris hammers against the shelter door, each impact making us flinch.
“Shh, Butterscotch,” Irene murmurs, her papery fingers sliding through the carrier's grate. “We're safe now.”
The boy slumps against the wall, his thin shoulders trembling. “Gran wouldn't leave without the stupid cat,” he explains, voice cracking.
“What's your name?”
“Jason.” He wipes rainwater from his face. “Thank God you showed up when you did,” Jason says. “I tried calling 911, but the signal kept dropping.”
“Storm interference,” I explain, as the world above us continues to rage. “Cell towers don't mix well with high winds like this.”
The shelter is small but well-stocked—bottled water in a corner, battery-powered lantern hanging from a hook, even some canned goods on a small shelf. Someone prepared for this, even if they couldn't get here in time.
I check my watch. Tornadoes this size typically pass in minutes, but the aftermath can be just as dangerous.
