“What do we do?” America asked, sitting up and planting her hands on the seat.
“How far out are we?” I asked.
America scrambled for her phone. She tapped on it a few times. “We’re just outside Emporia. So, a little over an hour?” she yelled over the sound of rain and a thousand ice chunks nailing the paint at forty miles per hour.
I slowed down even more, seeing the glow of brake lights from vehicles pulled over on the shoulder. The windshield wipers were echoing my heartbeat in a fast but steady rhythm, like the dance music at The Red.
“Shepley?” America said. Worry tinged her voice like before, but she was also afraid.
“We’re going to be okay. It’ll pass soon,” I said, hoping I was right.
“But your car!”
The tail end of the Charger slipped, and I tore my hand away from America’s, using both of mine to navigate the wheel against the skid. We slid across the road, toward the median. I overcorrected, and then the Charger began to fishtail toward the ditch. Hand over hand, I turned the wheel again, taking my foot off the gas. The Charger tilted to the side, and we slipped down a short embankment before landing in a full drainage ditch.
The water crested at the bottom of my window, the grassy brown river arching and ebbing against the glass, begging to be let in.
“You okay?” I asked, holding her face in my hands, checking her over.
America’s eyes bulged. “What … do we—”
Her phone began to shriek. She took one glance and then showed me the screen.
“Tornado warning,” she said. “For Emporia. Right now.”
“We have to get out of here,” I said.
She nodded and turned around in her seat.
“Leave the luggage. We can come back for it. We have to go. Now.”
I rolled down my window. America took the cue, unbuckled her seat belt, and rolled down hers as well. As she began to climb out, I unbuckled but paused. The ring was in my backpack in the backseat.
“Damn it!” America yelled from the top of the car. “I dropped my phone in the water!”
The faint rise and fall of tornado sirens blared in the distance as the hail was replaced by rain.
I reached back for my bag, slipped it over my shoulder, and climbed out of my window, joining America on top. Water was sloshing over the top of the hood. America crossed her bare arms over her chest, shivering in the wind, her hair already becoming saturated with rainwater. In just a pair of shorts, a tank top, and sandals, she was dressed for a hot summer day.
I took a quick look around, assessed the water, and then jumped off. It barely came to my waist.
“It’s not deep, baby. Jump.”
America squinted her eyes against the rain.
“We have to take shelter, America. Jump to me!”
She more fell than jumped, and then I helped her across the ditch to the grassy knoll. Cars were parked on both sides of the turnpike, but not all traffic was stopped. A semi blew past us, blowing America’s hair back and soaking us with water.
America held out her arms at each side, her fingers sprawled out, her mascara running down her cheeks.
“I don’t see anything, do you?” I asked.
She shook her head, using her tank top to wipe her face. “That doesn’t mean anything though. They could have reports of circulation or lowering.”
“That overpass is closer than town. Let’s go there. We can call your parents …”
A melody of screams echoed behind us, and I glanced back to see what was going on.
“Shepley!” America screamed, looking southwest in horror, toward the RV park nestled in a patch of trees. The branches were bending, nearly to their breaking point, thrashing helplessly in the raging wind.
“Fuck,” I said, watching a cloud slowly fall from the sky.
America
Wet and freezing, I lifted my shaking hand to point toward the blue finger dangling from the clouds above. Someone shouldered past me, nearly knocking me forward, and I saw a man sprinting toward the overpass, hugging to him a toddler with pigtails and white sandals.
The turnpike led to an overpass over Highway 170. The RV park was below on one side, and a gas station was on the other side, just a quarter of a mile away.
Shepley held out his hand. “We should go.”
“Where?”
“The overpass.”
“If it goes over the bridge, we’ll be sucked out,” I said, my teeth beginning to chatter. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was cold or terrified. “The gas station is the safest place!”
“It’s closer than Emporia. Hopefully, it will miss us.”
More people ran past us toward the junction, disappearing as they descended down the hill to hide under the bridge. A truck slammed on its brakes in the middle of the turnpike, and seconds later, an SUV rammed the truck. A loud crunching of metal and glass was muted from the growing wind created by the tornado. It had grown larger in just the few seconds when I turned away.
Shepley signaled for me to wait while he jogged to the wreckage. He peeked in, took a few steps back, and then rushed to check on the driver of the truck. His shoulders slumped. They were all gone.
“You can’t stay here!” a woman said, tugging on my arm.
She held hands with a young boy, about ten years old. The whites of his eyes stood out against his dark bronze skin.
“Mom!” he said, pulling her away.
“It’s going to plow straight through here! You have to find shelter!” the mother said again, taking off toward the gas station with her son.
Shepley returned to me, taking my hand. “We have to go,” he said, turning to see dozens of people running toward us from their parked vehicles.
I nodded, and we began to run. The rain stung my face, blowing horizontally instead of toward the ground, making it hard to see.
Shepley looked back. “Go!” he said.
We ran across two lanes and then paused on the far side of the grass median. Traffic was light but still moving in both directions. We stopped for a moment, and then Shepley pulled me forward again, across both lanes of oncoming traffic and then down the on ramp toward the gas station. A tall sign overhead read Flying J. People were running from the parking lot toward the overpass.
Shepley stopped, and my chest was heaving.
“Where are you going?” Shepley asked no one in particular.
A man holding the hand of a grade school–aged girl ran past us, pointing ahead. “It’s full! They can’t fit any more!”
“Shit!” I cried. “Shit! What do we do?”
Shepley touched my cheek, worry tightening the skin around his eyes. “Pray it doesn’t hit us.”
We ran together to two bridges that allowed the turnpike passage over the top of Highway 170. Large concrete pillars loomed over us, creating the underbelly where the metal met the hillside. The crevices of both bridges were already pregnant with frightened people.
“There’s no room,” I said, feeling hopeless.
“We’ll make room,” Shepley said.
As we climbed the steep incline of the concrete hill, cars that were still crossing overhead sounded like bass drums. Parents had tucked their children into the deepest corners they could find and covered them with their own bodies. Couples huddled together, and a group of four teenage girls wiped their wet cheeks, alternating between cussing at their cell phones and praying.