Unfinished Tales, Vol. 2

Ned sat in the hotel room, watching the weather, Travis Meyers pointing and gesturing to Crayola colored computer cartoons of storms that moved across the screen in staggers. Outside, thunder and wind buffeted the walls of the Super 8, and Ned thought he heard hail, which was good.

Ned listened, rapt, to the word of Meyer, specifically for words like supercell and wall cloud. He knew, knew, the dew point was right today, that the jet stream was in proper alignment. He studied, as directed, the Doppler 8000 images, looking for the hook.

It was just a matter of time.

Then Meyer said: “We’ve got a Tornado on the ground. People in Luther, Wellston and Chandler need to take cover now.”

He reached over, snatched his sat phone off the nightstand and dialed without looking. The phone rang twice, three times in his ear.

“Yeah?” the voice on the other end said.

“Get ‘em loaded up.”

“Right.”

Ned thumbed off the phone, stuck it in the right front pocket of his overalls, then snatched up his white cotton robe from the dresser. He slipped it over his head and checked to make sure the imprint of Meyer’s head was centered. Ned brushed some lint off Travis’ forehead, looked into the mirror and smiled.

He snatched up the keys to the bus, grabbed the laptop, and strode out the door and into parking lot, rain pelting his freshly shaved head. He noted the green tint to the clouds, inhaled deeply, and smiled.

He pushed the folding door to the bus open with a foot, bounded up the steps and slid into the seat. He turned the key and smiled again when the engine sputtered to life. In a matter of minutes, he had the laptop Velcroed to the dash and plugged into the bus’s satellite system. He tapped a few keys and linked into Travis and the Doppler 8000 feed. More keystrokes and Travis’ voice echoed through the speakers in the back of the bus.

“…our spotters on the ground say the tornado is at least a mile wide, maybe larger. This could be an F-4, possible an F-5. I repeat, people in Wellston and Chandler need to take cover now…”

Ned smiled. This was the one, after all this waiting.

Ned tuned Travis out, then glanced around. Where the hell was Buddy? His foot tapped the floor in time with the hail and rain. He flipped on the four windshield wipers, his own modification to the bus, and was satisfied as they swathed the glass clean. He didn’t figure he’d need them, what with the Rain-X he’d applied yesterday, but it was good to have a backup plan.

He started to dial Buddy again, when he saw the fat man lead the tour group out from the Hotel’s tiny lobby.

“Hurry and get ‘em in. We’ve got to get to Stroud!”

Buddy nodded and waved the group along. Ned tried to remember where they were all from. He knew six or eight were from France, but after that… Hell, it was Buddy’s job to keep track.

Buddy appeared at the bottom of the steps, looked up at Ned, then stopped.

“What’s with the robe?”

“What?”

“The robe?”

“What robe?”

“The one you’re wearin?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Buddy?”

“Your fucking robe man!”

“What robe!?”

Buddy’s head turned an apple shade of red. Ned thought it looked funny.

“Buddy.”

“Yeah?”

“Get’em on the bus. Now. You want your tornado, right?”

Buddy looked at robe, then nodded. He motioned the group onto the bus, telling them to fill in from the back and to use the seatbelts. He reminded those who’d forgotten their cameras, that Wind Raider tours offered disposable 35mm for $30.

Ned reached over, flipped the button, and the doors closed with a mechanical flop. He dropped the clutch, and the big blue bus lurched out of the parking lot. In a matter of moments, he hit the open road and pointed the bus down the Turner Turnpike.

* * *

Ned could hear Buddy behind him, chit-chatting with the tourists, telling them his standard tornado stories, how he’d watched one from his grandpa’s front porch as it mowed through the houses in the next block.

It was a lie, of course. All Buddy’s stories were lies. But he told them well, and the tourists didn’t know the difference. They wanted the romantic thrill of the storm and Buddy dished it out for $1,000 a week that didn’t include hotel or food.

It was initially why Ned had signed up with Buddy. He’d needed someone to finance his chasing.

Ned checked the laptop while dodging around a Toyota filled with scared octogenarians. Or he imagined they were scared. He considered slowing beside them, opening the doors and waving, but thought better of it. The radar showed the front crest of the storm just outside of Stroud, and the storm was all that mattered.

He felt Buddy kneel next to him.

“Hey, seriously, what’s with the robe?”

“What fucking robe?”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Buddy hissed.

Ned pointed out the front of the window. The sky before the bus was angry, swirls of blues, blacks, grays and greens. To the north, Ned’s right, they could see clear blue skies, and also to the far left, but the middle of their field of vision was a giant, swirling mass.

“Is that a tornado?” Buddy said.

Ned nodded.

“It can’t be. It’s too damn big.”

Ned smiled.

“Ned, stop the bus.”

Ned smiled again.

“Ned. Stop. The. Gaddamed. Bus.”

Ned could hear movement behind them, a push forward of clothes and mass and gentle swearing, maybe a “merde” here and there.

Buddy grabbed Ned’s shoulder just as Ned blew through the Toll Tag plaza and aimed the bus for the Stroud exit.

Ned turned his shoulder loose from Buddy’s grip, reached forward and mashed the door button, then shoved Buddy down the steps and out the door. He watched Buddy bounce and twist along the shoulder of the road in the side mirror, then glanced up at the round convenience store mirror over his head. The tourists all stared out the back of the bus, watching Buddy.

Ned drove up the exit ramp. He mashed the brakes, ignored the stop sign, then slid the behemoth around the corner, somehow managing a slight fishtail that straightened the bus out north/south. A mash of the accelerator and he was at the turn for the old outlet mall parking lot. He took the turn.

The tourists had begun to shriek behind him.

“What?” he shouted. “You paid to see a tornado, right?”

Ned drove the bus in a wide circle around the weed-filled parking lot, eyeing the approaching tornado. It now nearly filled the entire sky in front of him. He pointed the nose right at the beast, and stopped the bus.

He quickly reached into the glovebox and pulled out his Velcro slippers. He looked back over his shoulder as he pushed is bare feet into the slippers. The tourists were massed at the back door, shouting at each other and frequently casting furtive glances at Ned and the tornado. Ned howled. Some began crying.

Ned scrambled out the front door and onto the hood of the bus, then onto the roof where he had attached a square of Velcro. He faced the tornado, smiled, then fastened his feet on the square and threw out his arms.

The tourists spilled out the front door of the bus and ran in all directions, seeking cover that didn’t exist. Some ran in circles. Some sprinted for the turnpike. One man ran laps around the bus.

Ned hooted. “Look at what I bring you, mother! The Travis has guided me well, and I am ready to receive you!”

Ned could feel the wind beginning to pick up, the bus bouncing and wobbling beneath him. He wished he could do a dance, but his feet wouldn’t move. He glanced back toward the tornado.

He heard a whistle, felt a sting, then looked down to see a red and yellow McDonald’s straw sticking out of his leg just below his knee. A glance showed him the straw also stuck out the back of his leg.

“Oh, thank you, Mother,” Ned said, his last sound before being gift wrapped in blue bus.