"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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
★
The first strike of the tornado came like a freight train, slamming into us with a force that stole the breath from my lungs. Boone gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and the truck lurched as if it were nothing more than a toy. The wind roared in my ears, louder than anything I’d ever heard, like the world itself was coming apart.
Everything was shaking—windows, doors, my bones. The darkness outside the windshield wasn’t just black anymore; it was filled with debris, swirling and smashing against the truck like a hail of bullets. I could barely see anything but the occasional flash of lightning, illuminating the massive, churning beast that was bearing down on us. A wall of dirt and debris swallowed everything in its path, moving with a deadly purpose, and the truck started to lift. I could feel the wheels leave the ground, the frame tilting.
I screamed Boone’s name, but the wind swallowed my voice, yanking the breath from my chest. Boone’s face was set in stone, focused, determined, but I saw the flash of panic in his eyes when the truck lifted again.
“Hold on!” I barely heard him, his shout carried away by the storm.
Then the world turned upside down.
The truck flipped, once, then twice, spinning through the air like we were caught in a blender. My seatbelt bit into my shoulder, squeezing my chest so tight I thought my ribs would snap. The world outside the window was a chaotic blur of black and grey, punctuated by flashes of light as power lines snapped and exploded. The noise was deafening—the crunch of metal, the scream of wind, the thudding impacts as the truck crashed down again and again.
We hit something solid, and the truck finally came to a stop, slammed hard against the ground, its frame twisted and broken. I felt the impact rattle my bones, my head snapping forward. Pain shot through my shoulder, my neck. My vision blurred, the darkness closing in, and for a moment, everything went silent.
When I opened my eyes, the world had changed.
It was quiet now, the roar of the tornado distant, though the wind still whipped around me. My body ached, pain radiating from my ribs and legs, and there was a strange pressure in my chest. I groaned, shifting, and realized with a jolt that I was lying on the ground—outside. Not in the truck.
I must have been thrown out.
The air was thick, heavy with dust and the acrid scent of gasoline and dirt. Each breath was painful, a reminder of just how hard I’d hit the ground. I tried to move, but my whole body screamed in protest. Something was definitely broken—maybe my ribs, maybe worse. But none of that mattered. Boone. Where was Boone?
I forced myself to sit up, gasping as my vision swam. My heart pounded, not from the pain, but from the sudden, desperate fear that clawed at my chest. I looked around, my eyes scanning the wreckage, the twisted metal and debris scattered everywhere. The truck was nowhere to be seen—no, wait. There, a few yards away, half-buried in mud and debris.
