Kansas Summer

The Cyclone

 Panic grips me. My eyes dart around the barn. Mr. Jackson hurdles towards me, grabbing me by my shirt and dragging me into the rain.

“We have to get to the storm cellar!” he yells, holding his arm above him to deflect the incoming hailstones. I am still in a daze, and the pelting hail does nothing but disorient me further. I stumble along after Mr. Jackson, despite his efforts. “Come on King!” he yells.

I snap back to reality. My father. I break free of Mr. Jackson's grip, and break for my truck.

“King! What are you doing? KING! What the hell are you doing?” I have never heard Jenna's dad curse before my entire life. It stuns me for a second. During that second, Mr. Jackson pounces on me, knocking my wind out. “Now, get to the storm cellar!” he hisses.

I spit out a clump of mud. “I need to get to my dad!” I yell back, vigorously struggling to unlodge him from my back.

“Your dad will be fine, Colin! Get to shelter!”

“No!” I growl ferociously, shaking my head violently. “I won't lose him like I lost Jenna! He's everything I have left! Get off me!”

A large bolt of lightning strikes less than one hundred feet away. The thunder shakes the ground and causes the whole left side of my head numb. I slowly pull myself up off of the ground. Looking behind me, I see that Mr. Jackson has rolled off of me and is lying face-up, trying violently to swat away the golf balls falling from the sky.

In a sudden gust of wind, the hailstones pelt us in torrents. I am snapped back to my own plight, taking quite a few on the back of my head. I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness, and I struggle to repel the blackness. Mr. Jackson isn't as lucky as I am. Blood spatters his forehead, running down his face by the swiftly-falling rain. Ignoring the pain, I drag myself to my feet, hoisting Mr. Jackson's limp body around my shoulder. Only fifty feet away, Mrs. Jackson holds open the storm cellar door. She screams at me, but her words are made inaudible by the wind and the hailstones threatening to knock me out.

I somehow manage to find the strength to carry on. Reaching the cellar steps, I nearly collapse, but I catch myself. Mrs. Jackson helps me carry her husband down the steep incline and into a comfortable chair. I find a long sofa, and fall onto it, breathing heavily and trying to regain total consciousness. I cradle the back of my head tenderly; everywhere hurts.

I hear Mrs. Jackson bolt the door shut and hurry down the stairs. I roll my head to watch her light a candle just as soon as the lights flicker out. She wastes no time in lighting three more before her match burns out. The lights in my own head begin to flicker for a few moments. I grit my teeth and push the feeling aside. Swinging my legs slowly perpendicular to the sofa, I rise, and feebly stumble over to where Mrs. Jackson is wrapping her husband's head in gauze. I feel a pit in my stomach like an anvil dropping through a sea of styrofoam.

“He—he will be okay—won't he?” I plead nervously.

Jenna's mom turns her head to look at me. Abandoning her husband, she stands up, embracing me in a hug. My chest heaves and I feel weak. The tears flow from my eyes like they had not two hours ago. “I'm so, so sorry,” I sob.

“Colin. Colin, it's alright.” I never had a mother to hold me, at least that I could remember. I had no doubt that my real mother would have done this for me, but I cannot remember a time where my stepmom ever held me close when I cried, let me cry on her shoulder, and tell me that everything was okay.

“I'm so sorry,” I repeat hoarsely, sniffling heavily.

Mrs. Jackson's firm hand pats my back. “Now, go lie back down on that couch and I'll get you some soup real quickly, just as soon as I finish with my husband. The storm's almost over, and then you can go see your dad.” I nod and stagger back to the couch, gingerly sitting down again, moving to recline once I feel less light-headed.