"𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞."
Lou Johnston and Eddy "Boone" Higgins, two former best friends whose paths diverged after high school. Now, years later, they find themselves inexplicably draw...
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The wind howled overhead, a relentless force that seemed to tear at the very earth, pulling everything it touched into the vortex of chaos. Boone and I lay huddled in the ditch, the rain pelting down so hard it felt like needles against my skin. My whole body ached from the crash, my side throbbing with a sharp, persistent pain that made it hard to breathe. But we were alive. For now.
I could barely see Boone beside me, his body pressed flat against the muddy ground. The sound of the tornado—like a freight train bearing down on us—drowned out any attempts at conversation. We were trapped in the belly of the beast, and there was nothing we could do but wait and hope it didn’t swallow us whole.
I had been in storms before, terrifying ones. But nothing like this. This was a different kind of monster. It felt personal, like it was hunting us, like it had a mind of its own. And here we were, two tiny specks in the middle of its path.
I tried to focus, to think about what we needed to do next, but the pain in my ribs kept pulling me back. Each breath felt like a knife digging deeper into my side. Boone’s hand was on my arm, his grip firm even through the chaos. It was the only thing grounding me, keeping me from spiraling into panic.
A crack sounded above us, and I instinctively flinched as something massive flew overhead—a piece of a barn or maybe a tree. It disappeared into the swirling darkness before I could make out what it was. The air felt thick, electric, the kind of atmosphere that made your hair stand on end and your gut churn with instinctual fear.
I turned my head toward Boone, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze was fixed on the storm, his face pale and drawn. He looked like hell—drenched, bruised, and bleeding from a gash on his forehead—but his jaw was set, determination in every line of his face. He wasn’t giving up. Neither could I.
Another piece of debris flew past, this one closer. Too close. I felt the wind tug at me, pulling like invisible hands, and I clutched at the ground, my fingers digging into the mud.
"We have to move!" I shouted, but my voice barely made it past the roar of the storm. Boone turned toward me, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear him. I pointed up, gesturing at the relentless chaos above us, hoping he understood.
We couldn’t stay here. The ditch offered some protection, but if anything larger hit us, we were done for. My eyes darted around, searching for anything, anywhere we could go. There was nothing but open field as far as I could see, the horizon swallowed by the swirling mass of the tornado.
Boone was already pulling himself up, grimacing as he pushed his body to move. I did the same, biting back a groan as pain shot through my side. We half-crawled, half-stumbled out of the ditch, the wind immediately slamming into us like a wall. Every step felt like a battle, the storm pushing us back, trying to knock us down.
