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KIM BALDWIN. Gable wriggled out of the drainpipe, gasping for air
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Gable wriggled out of the drainpipe, gasping for air. Her heart pounded in her chest like a runaway jackhammer, and her body shook all over. The adrenaline rush was so intense she thought she might faint.
It registered that one of her tennis shoes was gone, ripped from her foot and nowhere in sight. All the stuff that had been f ying around had pelted her legs pretty good, and she’d have some impressive bruises to show for it. But she was otherwise uninjured. She could hardly believe she was alive. Thank you, Lord.
The convenience store on the opposite corner was now only concrete foundation and scattered wood, plaster, bricks, and assorted wreckage. The store’s large metal Dumpster was lodged in a tree, twenty feet off the ground. Pieces of lumber and store shelving and dozens of cans of food littered the road. Any one of those could have killedme. Right where she’d stood only minutes ago, the tornado had driven a huge two-by-four several feet into the ground. A few feet away, an enormous white pine had been pulled up by its roots, leaving a gaping hole seven feet wide.
Stunned, she climbed up onto the roadway and surveyed the area around her. Her Jeep was still right side up, but the front windshield was shattered and the vehicle was sitting half on and half off the road, a dozen yards from where she’d parked it.
The rain started anew as she reached for her radio and headed to the Jeep. “Dispatch from McCoy. Reporting tornado touchdown, Cedar Trail at Wolf Run Road. Debris in the area. No injuries. Over.”
Though she tried to keep her voice even, she could not completely disguise how much the twister had scared her. She had grown up in Tennessee, and though she retained the soft-spoken slower cadence of a Southerner, she had mostly lost her accent. It surfaced in the occasional word, and was more apparent when she was stressed. Tornado came out tornayduh.
Gable had thrown a pair of knee-high Wellies in the back of the Jeep in case she hit some f ooding. After the dispatcher responded, she pulled the black rubber boots on and got behind the wheel. As she reached up to adjust the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself.
Holy shit. Her short brunette hair was standing up at odd angles, as if she’d stuck her F nger in an electrical socket. A pungent slime from the drainpipe covered her face and neck, turning her normally bronzed
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FORCE OF NATURE
complexion an eerie greenish gray, and her eyes were so dilated that the black pupils had nearly overtaken the hazel irises.
Her soaked clothing was F lthy too—her T-shirt and jeans were the color of mud, and they clung to her uncomfortably. She looked like an extra in a grade B horror f ick, a member of the undead, rising from the grave. Somewhat apropos, she thought.
The pavement had disappeared where the tornado traversed it, and branches and downed trees lay scattered all about the roadway. She put the Jeep into four-wheel-drive and maneuvered over and around what she could, but she had to get out several times to haul some obstruction out of her way so she could proceed.
The road curved up and over a hill. At the top, Gable braked to a stop and sat gawking at the devastation below her. Dear God!
The twister had carved out a path of destruction a quarter mile wide through the forest. Trees were snapped like matchsticks, jagged edges uniformly cut F ve feet off the ground. There were two homes within the area, and from a distance, both looked like they’d been hit by bomb blasts.
She headed toward the nearest one and keyed her radio. “Dispatch from McCoy. Two homes leveled on Cedar Trail. Stand by.”
The two-track driveway to the F rst of the f attened homes was overgrown with high weeds and blocked by a padlocked gate. The place was obviously another seasonal cottage still closed from winter. ThankGod. She reported it to dispatch as she sped toward the other house.
This driveway was open. And despite the rain, Gable could tell from the tire impressions in the dirt two-track that it had been recently used. Shit. She gripped the steering wheel harder and headed up the drive toward the house, which was set well off the road in a small clearing cut into the forest.
The F rst thing she came to was a red pickup truck lying on its side, partially blocking the driveway. She was able to squeeze the Jeep around it, but a few yards farther on, the home’s F ve-hundred-gallon propane tank prevented further progress.
The smell hit her at once. Gas! Holy shit!
Her heart pounding, she cut the engine and eased out of the Jeep.
The tank was intact but on its side, gas hissing from a broken pipe that stuck out of the top. When she turned the valve beneath it, the hissing stopped. She grabbed her helmet and a thick pair of leather work gloves
• 17 •
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