The Dysasters

by Cast, P. C.

  I didn’t just make that happen. That wasn’t me. Was it?

  “You are welcome. You felt it, too, didn’t you?” Tate said.

  Foster frowned at him. “Okay, first, I wasn’t thanking you. I was thanking the, um, universe for that.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. Tate turned in his seat—again grimacing in pain. Foster glanced down at his leg. A crimson stain soaked his uniform. That might actually be bad. We have to get something to fix that ASAP. “And second, what feeling are you talking about?”

  Still turned in his seat, gawking behind them, Tate seemed not to hear her. “Daaaaamn. That tornado is not playing. No one’s getting past it. Seriously. It’s just sitting there, spinning, like a glitching video game.”

  Foster did a mental eye roll. Of course he’s a gamer.

  Tate finally turned back around. “You can slow down now.”

  Foster somehow managed to relax her foot enough to let up on the gas.

  “All right. Tell me,” Tate said.

  Foster glanced at him. He stared at her.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you felt it, too. It was like on the football field. Something happened to me. To us. I felt it all over my skin. Tell me you felt it, too.”

  Foster didn’t take her eyes off the road. She sighed and said the first thing that came to her mind. “Truthfully, the only thing I want to tell you right now is that I wish you’d do like the picture book says and go the fuck to sleep.” Heat needled her skin and Foster held very still, waiting for whatever the hell would happen next.

  Inside the window-rattling silence of the truck, Tate’s sudden yawn was fantastically loud.

  “Man, I can’t think straight. My leg hurts. I’m so tired. Everything that happened today just doesn’t seem real…” He propped his elbow against the window, dropped his head against his fist, and yawned mightily again. “I can’t believe Mom and Dad are gone. It’s not real, right? Tell me we’re stuck in a nightmare and I’ll wake up soon in my bed with Mom telling me I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry.”

  “Yeah,” she forced her voice to soften. “If calling it a nightmare makes it better then I’m good with that. And thankfully, we’re almost out of town.”

  Because your town is pretty much the size of a super Wal-Mart. She thought that part. It was best not to poke the sleepy bear.

  “Wait, what was I saying? My head doesn’t feel right.”

  “Rest while I drive. I remember there’s a little store just up the freeway. I’ll run in, grab some stuff to fix that cut on your leg, some sustenance, maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll even have something to wear that’s not covered in mud and”—she glanced down at the grime clinging to her ripped sweatshirt—“whatever else. You’ll feel better after you sleep, change, and get something to eat.”

  “Fine, but when I wake up we gotta get back there and start helping people,” Tate grumbled, his eyelids drooping to half-mast and then closing completely.

  Foster adjusted the rearview mirror. Behind them the wall cloud continued to maul the sky, and the rain-wrapped tornado was barely visible, and there definitely wasn’t any sign of Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s Range Rover. But a knot of worry sat in her stomach, heavy and thick like she’d eaten too much cheese.

  She’d felt it. She’d definitely felt it—not that she wanted to talk to Tate about it. Why the hell would she? Like she trusted him? A stranger? Plus, then she might have to admit that she’d also felt her Jedi mind trick working. Foster cut her eyes to Tate.

  Sure enough, Tate was zonked out—sleeping so deeply that his hands twitched with a dream.

  Did I really do that, too?

  Lost in her thoughts, the Quickie Mart seemed to pop up out of nowhere and Foster made a sharp turn into the gravel parking lot.

  Tate’s head shot up and he grunted disapprovingly.

  “Sorry.” Foster left the truck running and slid out of the cab. “Any requests?”

  Half asleep, or possibly half passed out, Tate mumbled something unintelligible and shooed her away.

  “Hey, don’t be upset when I don’t bring you back anything,” Foster said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder and scratching the base of her disgustingly matted bun. Her head itched. Her face itched. Hell, any exposed skin grew more and more itchy and uncomfortable as the mud dried, tightened, and turned into gross dirt scabs. Foster reached behind the seat, grabbed a dusty Spartan hat, and smashed it down over her tangled hair. With a sigh, she brushed away the dirt she could from her damp top, closed the door, and trudged toward the Quickie Mart, head down against the endless rain.

  Thwack! Foster tensed as she opened the dingy, rain-streaked door. Thwack! Thwack, thwack!

  “Dagnabit, piece a crap television. Work!” He reared back a pale, pudgy hand and smacked the side of the clunky box. Thwack!

  “Umm,” Foster cleared her throat, and let the door swing shut behind her as she wiped water and who knew what else from her face. “Excuse me?”

  The attendant hopped from his step stool, wincing when his feet hit the ground. “Caught out in that storm, huh?” He wiped a yellowing handkerchief down his cheeks, pink with exertion. “Not even an umbrella will save you from the rain now. Not no more.” He felt behind his ear and pulled out a toothpick. “It’s like them storms suddenly got minds of they own.” He grunted, shoving the toothpick between his lips while scratching at his bulging stomach.

  “Yeah.” The air conditioner kicked on and Foster shivered in the cool breeze. “I just need a few things, Band-Aids, water…” She bit her bottom lip to keep her teeth from clacking.

  “Over by the headache pills and all of them feminine lady things.” He winked and motioned to the back of the store.

  “Thanks.” Foster attempted a polite smile, but felt her lips twist into a disgusted grimace. No matter how hard she tried, being polite didn’t come easily, especially not to bumpkin Neanderthals. And, well, maybe she wasn’t trying that hard.

  Foster’s shoes squeaked on the sticky tile as she turned down the first aisle, the steady thwack thwack echoing behind her. With practiced expertise she plucked her favorite snacks from the shelves as she wound her way to the back of the store. She had made enough stops at enough stores like this to know exactly which, out of all of the gross processed foods, would stay in your stomach and which would leave you sprinting from the car to the nearest roadside ditch. Her stomach grumbled as if in remembrance. She’d made that mistake a few times.

  Staying as far away from the cold air of the reach-in as possible, she grabbed enough bottles of water to not only stay hydrated, but also to rinse Tate’s wound and some of the grime from her own hands and face.

  She tucked a box of large Band-Aids and gauze under her chin, snagged a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a tube of triple antibiotic goo and waddled, arms full, to the checkout counter.

  “And I’ll take a couple of these.” She pulled two SOMEBODY IN MISSOURI LOVES ME T-shirts off the rack by the register and threw them onto the pile.

  The man grunted, taking the chewed toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at the TV. “Always gotta be at least two people out there in them damn storms.”

  The flickering image cleared, and her pulse quickened.

  It was her.

  “One idgit out there like this one filming with one of them smart phones,” he continued. “And at least one other out there in the thick of it. Dumb ass rednecks.”

  No, it was them. She watched Tate join her as both of them lifted their hands and actually paused the tornado.

  “Well I’ll be…” His hand fell to his side and the toothpick made a hollow clink as it bounced off the counter and onto the floor.

  Her mouth went dry and she swallowed hard as she watched Tate stretch his arm back and … Static swallowed the image.

  Foster lowered the cap over her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to hide the rip across the front of her soaked sweatshirt. “Just this stuff.” Her hands trembled as she dug through
the bag for Cora’s wallet.

  “Hey, that’s you in the middle of that ball field,” his gaze swept over her, pausing at her dirt-caked hands, the rip in her shirt, and finally on the long tail of muddy hair draped across her shoulder. “Ain’t it?”

  “Me?” Her attempt at a casual laugh sounded more like the bray of a strangled goat. “Nah,” she shrugged. “No way. That’s not me. I don’t like sports. At all. Football’s even at the top of my sports I hate list.” She bit the inside of her cheeks to silence her nervous bleating.

  “No, no, that was you.” His wisps of hair fluttered as he bobbed his head up and down. “Same Panther’s sweatshirt. Same red hair. What’d you do to that tornado? I’ve seen my share of ’em out here, what with ’em poppin’ up every other week here in the past few months, and I ain’t never seen one stop. Not like that. Not like it was listenin’ to you tellin’ it to.” His twang deepened as his words came out in a rush of excitement. “Oh, man. I gotta call my cousin Bobby. He works up there at the news station. Be willin’ to pay at least fifty bucks for a real-life tornado tamin’,” he paused, yanking his phone from his pocket. “Whatever you are.”

  “Wait! You don’t want to do that.” Foster spoke automatically, willing him to hear her. Instantly, energy crackled over her body, a lot like a hot wind had just blown across her naked skin—which made zero sense.

  But then the pudgy man spoke, and Foster understood what had happened—what had actually happened for the very first time since she didn’t count accidentally putting Tate to sleep.

  “Guess I don’t,” his shoulders lifted and fell in an exhausted sigh. “Do I?”

  Foster blinked. “Shit, it worked. I mean, it actually worked.”

  His thick, sweat-streaked brow wrinkled with confusion.

  “Uh, okay, so,” Foster glanced at his nametag. “Billy Bob, really?”

  “Named after my uncle and my daddy.” He grinned proudly.

  “I just,” she shook her head. “Anyway, I’m going to take these things, and you’re not going to remember that I ever came in here.”

  “I never remember nothin’.” He nodded. “Would you like a sack for all that?” he asked, already bagging her goods.

  “Um, thank … thank you, Billy Bob.”

  He pulled another toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it between his lips. “Pleasure.”

  Foster was halfway to the door when guilt washed over her. “Crap.” She took out a couple wadded twenties and hurried back to the counter. “For,” she made a sweeping motion that took in the bag and the fuzzy television screen. “Everything.”

  Foster burst out of the Quickie Mart, excitement turning her walk into fervent skips. “Cora is going to pass out when I tell her—” She stopped short of the door to the truck, sorrow slamming into her gut.

  She’d never have the chance to tell Cora anything ever again.

  Foster doubled over. Chunks spewed from her mouth, coating the wet gravel in mockingly cheerful shades of brightly colored sour candy.

  She passed the back of her shaking hand across her lips. “Get it together, Foster. You can’t make this guy come with you if you’re falling apart, and Cora said he has to come. So…” She dug out a bottle of water and rinsed her mouth before squeezing the handle and hefting herself onto the seat. “I got stuff to clean that cut,” she announced, swallowing back her despair. “And some beef jerky. It’s practically a road-trip requirement.”

  Tate grunted, his head lolling to the side to rest on the window. Soft snores spilled out of his parted lips and Foster pulled back onto the two-lane road, hot tears silently slipping down her cheeks.

  6

  FOSTER

  The freeway stretched ahead, bordered by flat, dry, brown nothingness. All the middle states looked the same, and Foster couldn’t wait to finally be back on the West Coast. She took a swig from her almost empty water bottle, mentally kicking herself for not picking up a few Red Bulls at the Quickie Mart.

  God, Cora picked a hell of a time to die, Foster decided, skipping over the in-between stages of grief and landing smack in the middle of anger. Not an hour before I successfully used my Jedi mind trick—twice! And not for evil either like practically every time I’ve ever tried to use it before. But, I mean, who could really call trying to get out of doing homework evil? Well, I mean, who besides Cora. Anyway, Foster shook her head, trying to hold on to her anger, that’s not the point. This time, I used it for good and Cora wasn’t even there to see it. And I don’t want to think about what would have happened if it didn’t work. Tate would have annoyed me to death and that bumpkin could’ve gotten us captured or killed. For the umpteenth time, she checked the rearview mirror. Murdered by Eve and her creepy minions. Just like Doctor Rick.

  She squinted, flipping down the visor to block the sun as it continued its descent below the cloudless horizon.

  Wait. No, not dead—missing. Cora said that Doctor Rick is alive. Hope clenched her heart, and then fled just as quickly. Doctor Rick was alive, but he was also … not trustworthy. Cora’s words uncurled a memory. He’s not the man we knew.

  As impossible as that sounded, Foster believed in Cora with every fiber of her being.

  If she said Doctor Rick was alive. He was.

  If she said he’d turned into a bad guy. He had.

  Foster believed Cora, but that didn’t make her heart hurt any less. She blinked hard, refusing to cry.

  Okay, one thing at a time. First, I get us to Sauvie Island safely. Then I read Cora’s letter. Cora will have an explanation for this mess. Cora always had—

  “Did you abduct me?”

  Foster jerked in surprise, almost slamming the truck into the small sedan zooming by. “Uh, no.” Hiding her near collision, Foster flipped on the turn signal before drifting slowly, deliberately into the neighboring lane. “You fell asleep about two hours ago.”

  “Two hours?” The tendons in Tate’s neck bulged as he scrambled to look out the front, side, and back windows, wincing as the cut in his leg opened and began to weep scarlet. “Ouch! Damn!” He pressed his hand over his thigh and spoke through pain-gritted teeth. “You’ve been driving for two hours?”

  “Welcome to Nebraska,” Foster said with a flourish of her hand. “Not much better than Misery if you ask me.”

  He ran a hand through his wavy, dark hair. “I can’t believe you let me sleep for two hours!”

  Sighing softly, Foster tilted her head to the side. “And they were the most peaceful hours I’ve had since we met.”

  “Stop the car.” Tate’s glare was almost palpable, filling the cab with thick cords of tension.

  “Not until we need gas.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “And it’s a truck, actually,” she added with forced nonchalance.

  “Stop the truck.” His neck flamed the same cardinal red as the old pickup.

  “Not until we need gas,” Foster enunciated.

  “Fine.” Tate unlatched his seat belt.

  “What are you doing?” Foster asked, ping-ponging her attention from the road to him and back again.

  He popped the lock. “Getting out of the truck,” Tate stated as simply as if he was recounting what he’d had for lunch that day.

  Foster let out a bark of laughter. “I’m going, like, seventy.”

  “Then stop the truck,” Tate said with cool determination.

  Foster’s brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

  With another disinterested shrug, Tate pushed open the door.

  Tires screeched as Foster slammed on the brakes and careened onto the shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she spat, bolting out of the cab to meet him behind the back of the truck. “You almost got out of a moving vehicle. On the freeway! They would’ve been picking up pieces of you for days!” she shouted at him as he limped back in the direction they’d come, his thumb stuck out away from his body. “And now you’re, what? Hitchhiking? Oh, sure. That makes sense. It’s not like you look crazy or anything, all dirty and
bleeding from the leg.”

  Tate spun around so fast, Foster almost smacked into his chest. “I told you to stop the fucking truck!”

  Thunder rumbled overhead, the sky around them darkening.

  “And I told you that we need to get as far away from Bugtussle, Misery, as possible!” Rain dusted Foster’s arms and cooled the sticky hot air swirling between them.

  “Why?” Tate threw his hands up. “Because some woman I don’t know said some shit I don’t understand?”

  “It’s not a stretch to think that you don’t understand a lot of what people say.” A sudden gust threw bits of dirt and rock against her bare legs.

  “I’m not stupid, Foster!” Tate shouted over a roar of thunder. “My life was fine before I met you. Perfect even.”

  Foster couldn’t keep a wry burst of laughter from shooting from her lips. “Living in the dirty belly button of the U.S. was perfect? Your town had two stoplights! If that’s perfection, then you’re a hell of a lot dumber than I originally thought.”

  “And you’re more of a bitch than I thought, and that takes some damn doing!”

  Eyes wide, Foster sucked in a surprised breath. “It’s really easy to see why everyone calls you Douchehawk!” Plump raindrops splattered her shoulders, painting her new gray tee the same sooty shade as the gusting, churning sky above.

  “No one calls me Douchehawk! No one! Except you! If I wanted to take the time, I could figure out a shitty nickname to call you, too! If there’s even anything shittier than being called a huge, hateful bitch.”

  There it was again. The B word. And he was using it to describe her. If her hideous tourist T-shirt had sleeves, she’d roll them up in preparation to rear back and knock him on his ass. “You could figure something out? Really? Could you?” she asked, pitching her voice patronizingly high. “Well, I don’t think we have that kind of time.” She lowered her brow and balled her hands on her hips. “And I am not a huge, hateful bitch!” A blast of wind smacked against her back, and she tensed to keep from stumbling forward.

  “My parents are dead,” Tate paused, biting his lower lip. “I watched them get sucked up by a tornado and then burned in an explosion. And then you come along and kidnap me so I won’t be able to plan their funeral or be there for my g-pa or help fix my town. In one evening my life has been destroyed, and I want to know why and how I can put it back together. I can’t do that driving away from my home with you. So, bitch! Move!” Tate’s gaze narrowed as lightning cracked overhead.