The urgency and fear in my voice yanks him out of his trance.
Banks curses, “Fuck!” Then yanks the gearshift into reverse to get us out of here. “I’m so sorry. I thought I knew. I thought?—”
“Just drive, Banks. Let’s get out of here. Let’s find some type of shelter. Maybe we can make it home. We aren’t far, and we have a storm cellar.”
Banks rips the steering wheel to the right and whips the truck around. The tires skid against the pavement, the sharp scent of burning rubber drifting through the vents. My brother yanks the gearshift into drive and presses on the gas, his foot meeting the floorboard.
“Oklahoma, I don’t know if I can outrun it. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” he says over and over again.
“No. Don’t talk like that.” I turn around to look out the back window, the air leaving my lungs when I see how much the tornado has grown in just a short amount of time. “We will be okay. You’ll make sure of it.”
The debris field is wider, swallowing the sparks flying off the telephone poles to our right and left. Similar to fireworks, the ink-filled clouds glow with pops of reds and oranges.
It’s ironic how beautiful a murderess can be.
I’m staring at her now, waiting for her to lift me into where I’ll be forgotten for all years to come.
“Go faster!” I shout in panic, the truck sliding from left to right, getting pulled by the strong wind.
“I’m going as fast as I can. We aren’t going to make it home. We have to find another option if we want any chance of survival.”
I turn back around, staring through the cracked windshield. Chunks of large scraps fall in front of us, causing Banks to make sharp and quick turns. A hay bale drops to the left of us, and tons of straw smacks against the windshield, blocking our view.
Banks flips on the wipers, clearing the glass that we can barely see out of anyway because of the cracks webbing across it.
Narrowing my eyes, I point to a small gas station to the right. The outside seems dusty, as if it hasn’t had a patron come by in quite some time. A ribbon of faded blue paint wraps around the canopy covering the gas pumps.
Banks’ brown eyes peek into the rearview, his throat moving when he gulps.
“Yeah, okay. That’s probably our best bet. We might have a few minutes to find some sort of shelter. We will have to move fast, Oakley. My truck is going to fly. We can’t be in here a second longer than necessary. Do you understand?” He wipes his damp forehead with the back of his arm, his eyes wild with fear.
“I got it. Do we look for a storm cellar or risk going for the front doors?”
“Storm cellar. It has to have one. It’s our only chance.”
That isn’t reassuring.
The truck jerks right when he heads for the gas station. The once-empty road is now covered in broken fence posts, hay, and whatever else this storm has picked up and dropped off.
“Go, Banks. Why are you slowing down?” I shout, slamming my palm against the door.
He gasps, “I’m not.” He struggles to maintain control of the steering wheel, the greedy hands of the tornado pulling us backwards to swallow us whole.
“Let’s go! Let’s make a run for it now. There’s no time.” I grab the handle with one hand, lifting my other to release the harness when my eyes catch something coming at us quickly.
“Banks!” I scream so loud, the howl of the storm muting my distress.
His own eyes round, his hands gripping the steering wheel to brace for impact. A metal sheet pierces through the windshield, stabbing through with so much momentum that it cuts my brother at the throat.
“Banks! Banks! I’m here. Oh, god. Fuck!” I reach over to press my hand against the wound, but I can’t reach it.
The harness won’t let me.
Reaching for the button to release me, a gurgle and cough have me flick my eyes up. Banks grips my hand, stopping me, doing his best to shake his head.
Blood pours down his neck and chest, soaking through to his skin.
“Ban—” His name cuts off when the truck loses its battle against the raging wind.
