“Banks,” I croak, trying to lift my arm to point to the battered car.
“Don’t.” His hand gently taps my arm. “Don’t move it.” Alaska’s lips roll together in a tight line, vanishing under his thick mustache. “I’m sorry. Your friend is gone. He is dead.”
I try to shake my head. “Die. Let me die.” My voice is so hoarse, I’m not sure if the stranger can hear me.
“I can give you two hundred years. You’ll heal. You’ll have superhuman strength. You’ll never get sick. You’ll be fast. You’ll just have to drink blood. This doesn’t have to be the end, friend.”
There is a part of me that doesn’t want to die, and then I think about my dead brother, and the urge to live drifts away quicker than it appeared.
I shake my head. I’m not interested in two hundred years without Banks. What kind of life would that be?
“You’re lying.” Alaska’s voice is soft, an understanding dawning in his crimson eyes. “That’s okay.” He bites into a delicate part of his arm, blood swimming down his skin. He presses his wrist against my mouth, forcing me to drink it down.
I don’t know what’s happening. I try to resist him, but I can barely move or feel any part of my body.
“I hope you’ll forgive me quicker than I’ll forgive myself for this,” he warns before draping his hands on either side of my neck, snapping it in one quick motion.
Death isn’t as friendly or as peaceful as I expected it to be.
Present day
Tornado alley is my favorite place to be.
Oklahoma has the best of cool air from the north and moist air from the Gulf, creating the perfect conditions for a twister.
Realizing I love storms doesn’t mean I love the damage they leave behind. It’s why I do what I do. I chase to gather as much data as I can so the communities in Oklahoma are prepared for the worst.
Even if I’m chasing a thunderstorm that won’t produce a tornado, it might have harsh winds, heavy rain, and hail. People deserve to be aware of any type of weather, no matter the severity.
It’s why I keep all the Dust Bunnies social media accounts up to date. No matter how early or late, our followers will know what is going on and what they need to be ready for.
Dust Bunnies is the storm chaser team created by my best friends and me when we were in college. It was an all-girls’ squad until Ruka joined us. He is more of a protector, and not that I would tell him this, but he is definitely one of the girls. We are living our dream, and I don’t know how this life could get any better.
Between our social media, live streams, giving local weather stations real-time data, my photography of the storms landing in popular weather-related magazines, and copies of the images selling on our website, Dust Bunnies is doing very well.
Better than we ever could have imagined.
Never did I think that by the time I was twenty-five, I’d be living the life I thought I’d have when I was much older.
“Nari! Come on. Let’s go. Everyone is meeting us at the station!” My brother, Ruka, yells from the other room in Japanese.
“I’m coming!” I reply, even though I’m nowhere near ready.
I told our parents I would call this week, and I want to do it before we get on the road. We will travel a lot starting today, following storm cells to see how much action we can catch.
Dancing into a pair of jeans, I slip on an old grey t-shirt that has been washed too many times. The logo is so faded that I can’t remember what it was, and the material is thin, yet super soft.
I toss my long black hair into a messy bun and look at myself in the mirror. “Phone.” I pat my pockets and go through my morning checklist. “Check. Teeth brushed. Check. Washed my face, check.” My phone blares, and I reach for it to see who is calling.
It’s Mom.
Ruka pokes his head in my room, his shaggy black hair nearly covering his eyes. “Come on. We’re going to miss it, or worse, the Twisted Trackers will get ahead of us.”
Since Ruka and I are roommates, we only speak Japanese when we are directly talking to one another or speaking with family.
“It’s Mom,” I explain, lifting my phone in the air to show him that not only is she calling, but it’s a video request.
Ruka ducks, so he doesn’t hit his head on the doorway, welcoming himself into my room to take a seat on the edge of the bed.
