by Lou Cadle
“Okay, here’s the new rules,” he said. “If your mom or dad comes to pick you up, you can go home. Everybody else stays after school until they do.”
A babble of voices broke out. The teacher closest to him made herself heard. “What about us?”
“Check with the principal on that.” If he were in charge, he’d make sure all the teachers stayed to supervise—but then, some of them might have children themselves, in the middle school or high school, and like any parent, they’d want to check on them. He looked at the swarming mass of people and raised his voice. “Everybody go back to your classrooms, okay? Just for a minute. Your parents will come and get you when they arrive.”
“I take the bus,” piped up one boy.
“We’ll find out if it’s coming,” Greg said, feeling well out of his depth. He saw Holly squirming her way forward between the other students. “Just go to your classrooms, and be patient. Maybe you can draw, or play a game, or sing,” he said. Definitely out of his depth on that.
The same teachers who had gotten the exodus organized most quickly were also those who herded their charges back into their rooms first. The screamer even seemed to be able to function now that the danger was past.
Holly came up to him and he squatted in front of her. “Can I go home with you?” she said.
“No, sweetie. I have to work. You can stay here for a little bit. If it gets to be supper time and I’m not here, they’ll get you something to eat.”
“Can I go to Aunt Sherryl’s?”
“Maybe. I’ll try and get her on the phone. If she comes, or Malika, you can go with them, okay? Or Mrs. Maberry from next door, or a police officer in uniform. But no one else.”
“Stranger danger,” she said.
Strangers probably were not going be the worst threat today. But he said, “That’s right, sweetie. I wish I didn’t have to work, but I do.”
“You help people.”
“Yes, I have to try and help,” he said. “Now get into your classroom before I get you in trouble for being late.”
“I have a new joke.”
“Great,” he said.
“What’s yellow and goes mmmmmmmmmmmmm?”
“I don’t know.”
“An electric lemon!” She laughed, then turned before he could stop her and skipped down the hall.
He almost chased her for a hug and kiss, but he couldn’t. He had to get back to the principal and make sure she was on top of her new duties, then get going with Massey to do whatever they could in the destruction zone.
As he walked toward the office, he thought of all that might need to get done. Rescue. Directing traffic. Taking people to the hospital. Ideally, Fire would do the heavy rescue. Ambulances would get the injured treated or transported. And there were more important things to do than direct traffic. He wondered if there’d be looting, especially at the downtown stores. Probably. He wished for a cadre of private security guards to station on every block, a uniformed presence to deter looters, even if they didn’t have the power to arrest anyone.
But it was going to be all up to them—however many of the force there were left on the streets—to do it all.
When he got back to the car, Massey said, “We had four cars out on patrol, but one isn’t answering.”
“Who?”
“Magarelli and Simms.”
A rookie and the only other woman on the force except for the chief. “Geez. I hope they’re okay.”
“I told everyone we’re headed back to the station, if we can get to it. I told them to meet us north of there on Elm, the first place the street is clear.”
“Good idea.”
They were silent as they drove south. It was only a half mile to the main east-west road through town, called Main Street while it went through Fidelity, and an alternate US highway outside of town. The debris on the streets swirled in a light wind as they drove through it. Greg could tell when they were nearing the path of the twister’s destruction; there was far more debris flung out in every direction with every block they drove.
Perversely, the sun came out from behind a cloud to illuminate the scene of devastation ahead, a swath that looked to be a block wide was a brown and gray streak, where once there had been homes and stores.
“It’s like someone took a steam iron to it, and flattened it,” said Massey.
Greg had been imagining something similar, a giant dragging a smoldering log. They pulled up to the edge of it and both got out of the car, leaving the doors open. People were stumbling around in the debris, calling names. Blood was visible on more than one of them, and a few were plastered with dirt. He recognized a few faces, but other faces were so covered with mud or blood that he couldn’t have recognized his own mother had she been one of them.
“We should get to our meeting,” said Greg.
Massey said, “I feel like we should help them.”
So did Greg, but he knew the emergency protocols. “We are. We will. Just let’s break out assignments between the six guys on duty now, and then we’ll do all we can, as fast as we can.”
Back in the car, Massey drove over two blocks until they were at Elm. They drove forward again into the debris field. This one was a bit further north, showing how the path of the tornado had gone east-northeast. It seemed to have hit the crossroads dead-on. But west of there, it had hit the south part of town. On the east side, it’d be the north part of town.
For the first time, Greg realized that meant his house may have been hit.
But running there right now wouldn’t change anything. If it was gone, it was gone. He had work to do for other people first.
Massey stopped in the street at the edge of the debris field. Before he exited the car, Greg tried phoning his aunt—no service. He tried Malika’s house. No service. He assumed the cell phones were out everywhere. He typed in “we’re fine” as a text to his aunt and pressed send, hoping it would go through soon. He hoped he’d get one back that said the same thing.
The first prowl car came in behind them two minutes later, carrying Evans and Brinkley, and the four men began to talk.
Massey said, “Maybe one of us should stay with his car at all times, and coordinate everything on the radio.”
One of the newcomers, Evans, said, “We still have Dispatch, even if they’re trapped underground. Radios are still working, so we can leave messages there. The chief says the fire department will get them out, and we’re to help citizens. That way, all six of us can be on the ground.”
“Right,” said Greg. “I think we need to divide town into thirds. Everything west of here. Everything from Elm to, say, Magnolia. Everything east of Magnolia.”
“Sounds right,” said Evans. “Do we know where Magarelli and Simms were?”
“Can get that from Dispatch,” said Massey.
Brinkley had been silent until now. Greg turned to him. “You okay?”
“I think my house might be in the path.”
“You won’t be able to work if you’re worrying about your family.”
“No. No one was home. My wife works way down south. She’ll freak when she hears about this, but she was well out of it, from what we hear. It’s just the house. We just had it resided.”
They all nodded, sympathizing. Evans said, “It’s okay, man, the insurance will cover it.”
Greg said, “Okay, so when the last car gets here, we’ll divide up the town, and whoever’s section of town it is, keep an eye out for the missing patrol team.” And he slapped Brinkley’s arm. “I hope your house is okay.”
“I’ll find out eventually,” he said, faintly.
Greg looked around. “Where are the other two guys?”
Massey went to radio them and came back to report on what he’d found. The last car couldn’t get through to the north of town. The tornado had effectively split the town in two, and it’d take some heavy equipment to clear any road. Quickly, they re-divided the town. Massey and Greg would do everything east of Central, where the el
ementary school was, and Evans and Brinkley would do everything west of there, cutting southwest to stay close to the tornado track. The guys stuck on the south side of town could work the whole town from that side, entering the tornado damage area from the south.
As they drove back to Central, Greg radioed Dispatch and found out where the missing patrol team had been at last contact—northwest of town, on the country roads, just as he and Massey had been southwest. “They should be out of the disaster zone, then,” said Greg. “So why can’t anyone raise them?”
Dispatch said, “Working on it.”
“What’s the news on the fire department? Is their station standing?”
“Yeah, the tornado hit north of it by about five blocks. They’re doing a windshield survey right now with two trucks. And they have someone trying to get them through to the north side way out on the edge of town, on County A, and they’ll check from that side, too. We’ll coordinate all that.”
“Great. So what do we do first?”
“Hold on for the chief.”
Rosemary Stephens’s voice came on the radio. “What sort of equipment do you have?”
Greg told her what he knew was in the trunk.
“Gloves?”
Greg looked at Massey, who shook his head. “We’ll try and find some,” said Greg.
“Do that. Try to get into downtown at Central and help who you can. Keep an eye out for looters. Find any, and cuff ‘em, bring ‘em back to the car, and shove them in the back. Forget about them while you go back to help. Any heavy lifting, leave for Fire. Radio in for medical care. There’s a triage center at the fire station.”
Massey muttered, “Which no one can get through to from here.”
Chief Stephens went on, “Send the ones who can get there to triage. We’ll get ambulances up from Cinci or down from the north, too.”
“Copy that,” said Greg. “We’re pulling onto Central now. Anything else?”
“Keep people from driving into the debris. We need barricades up.”
Massey and Greg exchanged a look. Barricades weren’t something they had. A dozen flares was about the most they could provide.
“We’ll get road crews on that from the county, right away, but do what you can until then. And report in any fires, gas leaks—like that. And when the fire department reports in, you may get reassigned. So be ready to move quickly.”
“Right,” said Greg. “We’re going on our handhelds now. Over and out.”
Captain T
The tornado that slammed through this small heartland town has, according to the radar, likely roped out, so we’re staying here for a little while, interviewing victims.
We’ve walked all the way in to the middle of town, where there once was a brick courthouse, a police station, and a few dozen thriving local businesses. Now, as you can see, there are tumbled bricks, and glass, and the walking wounded. From the sorts of damage I’m seeing, I’m guessing this one will end up being called a high EF3 or low EF4.
We’ve found this tree—pan up, Felix—that’s still standing at the edge of the worst damage, and you see that? That’s a refrigerator door up there. And I found this bicycle which I know you won’t believe is a bike, but get a close-up. See? Here’s the spokes, and the seat stem. I hope no one was on it when this happened.
We have a car here, on its side, and look at this rebar that punched right through the metal roof. Up ahead, beyond the barricades, the firemen working noisily there with generators and winches—they’re trying to unbury the police station. We think that no one is hurt inside, at least, and because they made it to a well built basement, they should be fine. There are plenty of policemen out on the streets—we’ve seen two ourselves in the last few minutes. They don’t want us to bother them, understandably, but I’d like to ask when they’re getting to the rest of these buildings, and in what order. There must be other survivors buried in these stores and office buildings.
And, I’m afraid, there are likely to be more than a few bodies buried here, too. Rain-wrapped tornados are dangerous. If you don’t hear a siren, don’t see the TV, don’t hear the warning on the radio—or don’t heed the warning—you can’t see it coming. There’s rain, and then suddenly, poof, you’re gone.
On that somber note, I’ll close out this video post. Stay safe, people. Look at this shot of a devastated downtown, and, as you do, please remember to obey all storm warnings.
Chapter 7
“I don’t like it,” said Massey.
“What?”
“That we talked about where we were going on the radio with the car down south. I wish we’d been able to do it face to face.”
“You’re thinking…?”
“Looters. We just told them where we won’t be.”
Greg looked ahead, to the damage area, to the mud-splattered people digging through the ruins of their lives. “I can’t imagine anyone would loot at a time like this.”
Massey snorted. “Failure of imagination on your part.”
“We can only do what we can do. Let’s go see what.”
As they walked forward, they passed the first damaged house. A rear porch had been ripped off, and a gutter. An older woman was outside, looking up at her gutters.
“You okay, ma’am? Anyone hurt?” Greg called over.
“Better than most,” she called back.
The opposite side of the street was a pay parking lot, half empty. At the far side, cars had been pushed into one another. One alarm still screeched.
“I’m going to run over and shut that off,” said Massey.
Greg continued down the street. More and more debris filled the sidewalk and street. The next house from the old woman’s had taken more damage. Shingles off the roof, collapsed chimney, cracked windows. Picking his way through the debris, Greg made his way to the front door, which he saw was popped open an inch. He knocked on it, calling, “Anyone home?”
No one answered. After twenty seconds, he knocked again and pushed at the door. It was stuck fast. At least it’d take a thief some effort to get in, too. He hoped no one was in there hurt. But he hadn’t the equipment to force the door and had to move on.
His shoes crunched over broken glass. If he was going to pick around in any of this, he really did need some work gloves. They had latex gloves, he knew, but nothing heavier. Well, hell. He made his way back to the house with the gutter damage and went up to the woman. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
He introduced himself. “We’re going to need work gloves. Do you have anything like that you could donate—work or garden gloves, something like that?”
“I have some garden gloves.”
“Anything will help.”
“Let me pull them out of my garage, and I’ll catch up to you when I find them.”
Next house wasn’t really a house at all—not any more. The nearest wall still stood, and the center of the house had a maze of pipes intact. But everything else that had been someone’s home was now collapsed into the center or blowing in the breeze around them. He saw a doll on the ground and hoped its owner had been at the elementary school and not here when the winds had destroyed this home.
Papers were blowing about—could be important papers, insurance or car titles, or junk mail. He stepped over a dented toaster oven and into a patch of clothes, still on hangers. One dress was inside a plastic hanging bag. His ex had kept her wedding gown like that until the marriage had started to go bad. Then she got rid of it.
Greg had an urge to pick up the dress, the papers, to save these important things for people. But he had to let it go. There were living people who needed help, and mere things had to be ignored for now. Ahead of him was the center of the destruction. Not a single tree was still standing. Old oaks, maples, and flowering fruit trees laden with spring blossoms had lined these streets just an hour ago. Now there was one, a black walnut, he thought, that looked like a fat broken toothpick, sticking up maybe ten feet, the upper part gone. The remainder was split do
wn the middle and totally denuded of bark. A few of the trees were still here, in the yards, but uprooted and stripped of everything green, with clothes and draperies and shingles draped over their bare branches like tinsel.
Ahead in the street, next to a dirty ball of a tree’s roots, a woman had waylaid Massey. Either he had gotten the car alarm off or it had gone off on its own, and now the woman was tugging at Massey’s sleeve, talking earnestly to him. Massey looked up and waved him over.
Greg got there as fast as the debris underfoot would let him. “What’s up?” he called, as he approached.
“This woman has lost a child,” said Massey.
Greg moved to her side.
“Now try and calm down, ma’am, and describe him,” Massey was saying.
Now that he was there, Greg could see that the woman was crying and her hand was shaking where it gripped Massey’s uniform shirt. “He’s black,” she said.
Massey’s eyebrow moved a fraction. The woman was middle aged and white, and except for the mud streaking her face, pale. Younger people were more likely to be in mixed-race couples, but for her generation, in Fidelity, it was fairly unusual.
“And he’s got curly hair. He’s about twelve pounds.”
Greg’s mind took a second to make the jump, adding up her age and the description. “Ma’am, are you talking about a dog?”
“My baby!” she wailed.
Greg was glad her face was turned to him now so she couldn’t see Massey’s look of disgust. “We’ll keep an eye out. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Tinker. For Tinkerbell, but I never called him by his whole name.”
“Thanks for telling us. Now, is anyone else in your house hurt?”
“It was just me at home.”
“Which one is yours?”
She pointed with a shaky hand to the house with the pipes and one wall. “I was in the bathroom, but he was on his doggie bed. Out in the living room.”
There was no living room any more. Greg doubted the dog had survived, and it was a wonder the woman had. “But you’re okay? No cuts, broken bones.”
“I’m fine.”
“We’ll do what we can. Is there anywhere you can go now—to a friend’s or relatives?”
