Storm Taken: A Supernatural Thriller

by William Michael Davidson

  “Weaponized weather?” I said, in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I don’t think the storm is weaponized. It’s more like the storm is trying to weaponize us.”

  “One other problem we’ll have to contend with,” Deborah said. “We don’t have a drunk guy—at least at the moment—to send across the water to make sure we can really make it all the way without the lightning getting us. So we need a guinea pig. I don’t know who, but we need someone to swim out ahead to make sure it won’t come down and nail us halfway across.”

  This brought a contemplative silence, but it didn’t last long. I think Jesse was the first to turn in his chair and look toward the room Mickey and the Samoan had ushered Drake into. I heard the creaking of the folding chairs as one by one everyone turned to look in that direction: the principal’s office. It was a unanimous vote made without a single word.

  “Alright,” Deborah said, rubbing her hands together and getting everyone’s attention back up front. “Then let’s start talking details and make this plan happen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jesse and I left shortly after Deborah and her volunteers began looking through their maps to devise a practical, efficient plan of going through the neighborhoods and alerting all of the island’s residents. The lightning started again at exactly 8:18, proving that Dominic’s theory was accurate. There was no discussion after that as to whether or not the theory was valid; from that point on, the only discussion was how the thousands of residents currently on the island were going to be mobilized in an orderly way to get across to the water.

  The plan was fairly simple, all things considered. Deborah’s team would begin at midnight. They would hit every quadrant they had established, knock on doors, yell from street corners, and do whatever it took to deliver one simple directive: all residents were to meet at 7:00 pm the following evening on Second Street, begin their line at Toledo Avenue, a block away from the Second Street Bridge, and wait in an orderly, peaceful fashion until given the order to cross the water. Deborah’s volunteers would be there to help keep the residents calm and to establish some form of order. I wasn’t sure what Deborah was going to do about the very elderly and those who couldn’t swim, and I had the feeling she didn’t either. We were all going to have to wing this on some level, but the most important thing was to help as many people off the island as humanly possible.

  Not everyone would make it. We all knew that.

  I didn’t like how we would all be lined up along the street. It would slow people down and afford less possibility to get across, but there were few options to spread out. Deborah said she would consider this and look into it. If people wanted to swim across from another point on the island, she certainly wasn’t going to stop them.

  At seven o’clock, Deborah would pick up my family, and we would go with her to the front of the line. She wanted Dominic, the brains behind the theory, to be up front with her.

  The most troubling part of the plan, however, was the reality that the storm would be worse than ever the following night, and all of those people—including my own family—would have no choice but to stand outside in it and wait. There was no time to remain indoors and wait for the storm to cease. We only had ten minutes. Ten minutes! We had to be outside, lined up, and ready, so that we could begin to cross the very moment the last flicker of lightning died out. That meant we would have to stand out there in the midst of the wind, the thunder, and the lightning and endure the tempest until it subsided. There was no other option and no time for anything else.

  The neighborhood had taken a beating from the storm that night. Three light poles had been blown apart by the lightning, and as we walked through the concrete rubble in the street, my heart feared what the following night would bring. Two wooden telephone poles were struck as well; both looked charred and were now leaning, electrical wires twisted all about them. The clouds were lower, so low, they hardly even looked like clouds. Instead, they appeared to be more like some mystic, black vapor that hovered there, waiting to suffocate us.

  The lowering of the clouds and the lessening of peripheral lights from beyond the storm brought on a thick darkness. We used our flashlights to get back to my house and would have had a tough go at it without them.

  My wife was ecstatic when she opened the door to see Jesse and me standing there. I had been gone longer than expected, but she knew that it would take some time to explain Dominic’s theory to the authorities, so she didn’t give me too much grief over it. She nearly jumped on top of me in her excitement and Toby, right behind her, embraced me as well.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” he said excitedly. “That storm was scary! Do you think Bessie is okay out there?”

  He was still worried about Bessie. Little Mia was with him, holding a paper of something she had sketched with crayons. The proud artist, she held the drawing up for me to see, but I really had no idea what it was. I think moms, in general, are better at that kind of thing; they have the innate ability to decipher toddler hieroglyphs.

  I had barely stepped foot inside when I noticed a new expression—a troubled one—appear on my wife’s face. She didn’t have to say anything. I knew something was wrong.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Owen.”

  “What happened? Where is he?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “What do you mean he’s not here?”

  “He left a note and took off not long after you,” she explained, on the edge of tears.

  Samantha and Marsha came around the corner, grave expressions on their faces. Perhaps Darrel had snapped out of it, because I thought I could hear Dominic talking to someone in the living room; I could only assume it was Darrel.

  “He wants to make sure that Candice is okay, and in his letter, said he was going to go to Klutch’s house,” she said. “He said he wants to hear what they think the storm is, too. I’m not sure he really believes Dominic.”

  “What do you mean he doesn’t believe it?” I said, aghast. “It proved itself tonight. Right after eight, the storm shut down.”

  “I know, but he was already gone by then.”

  “So he just left?” I said again, completely dismayed.

  My wife nodded.

  “How could he do that? I told him to stay here. I told him! When he agrees to stay here, then he needs to stay here. I’m going to get him.”

  I turned to leave, and Jesse grabbed me by the arm.

  “I’ll go with you, buddy” he said. “You don’t wanna be out there alone.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. Really, I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’d rather have you here looking out for my family. Stay here, please. Just keep them safe. I’ll be right back. It’s only a few blocks away.”

  “Alright,” Jesse said, handing me the flashlight. “You just be safe, okay? And remember, don’t be a pansy.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  I kissed my wife goodbye as she started to cry, but I was far too livid to be much comfort. I was seeing red. I was going to walk into that home, grab my son by the collar, and pull him into the street before he even knew what had happened. I hadn’t spanked him since he was a little boy, but tonight, as the storm raged on, I questioned whether I should resume that practice.

  I was just stepping outside when Darrel approached me. I was surprised to see him looking so alert. Standing before me, I saw a cognizant, aware, and concerned man, not the zombie that had wandered about the house for the last several days.

  “Eddie, I wanted to talk to you before you left,” he said. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for being so out of it for so long. It’s been rough, but I think I’m better now. I wanna help.”

  “Darrel, it’s more than understandable. You have every right to be upset. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But I just want you to know that I’m here to help. Me lying around isn’t going to help anyone. Let me know what I can do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Start out with just keeping
everyone calm. Keep the kids from being too scared. That would be a good start.”

  “Alright,” he said. “I can do that.”

  “We’ll get through this,” I said, and slapped him on the shoulder.

  And then I was off into the darkness with my flashlight. The oppressive clouds hung low and sizzled above the rooftops, and I was terrified to be out there alone. What if the lightning started coming down again? What if those electrical balls wrapped around me like they had Hot-rodder and pulled me up?

  But I had more determination in me than fear. It could have been Hell itself that I had to travel through. It would have made no difference.

  I was going to get my son, and nothing was going to stop me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I quickly reached Klutch’s house. It was brighter inside the house than many of the other adjacent homes, as Klutch and some of his followers had rounded up lots of lanterns and candles. I was surprised to find the door ajar when I arrived. It almost appeared to be an open invite.

  Inside, I could hear Klutch speaking to his small group of storm disciples. I walked right up to the front door but hesitated on stepping inside quite yet. I assumed, since people had been running through the streets advertising this house as a safe haven, I would be welcomed if I walked inside. But I had a shotgun in my hands, and I wasn’t quite sure how they’d respond to that. I stood silently on the porch and listened.

  “As I’ve been telling you, we don’t have to guess what this freak show in the sky is,” Klutch said, and even though he was probably only speaking to a very small crowd, he spoke as if he were addressing an entire nation. He was passionate. “This is the last frontier of warfare. Weaponized weather. I’ve been saying that since this storm first hit, and now everything this boy has told me only proves my theory. The sounds they heard on the radio? That’s machinery, my friends. They don’t like talking about it, but our own military has been experimenting and working on ways to weaponize weather for years now.”

  The boy? Owen? What did my son tell him, exactly?

  “We need to stay together now, no matter what,” Klutch said. “This is an invasion. I don’t know what country got the guts to mess with America and has this technology to back it up, but you better believe our boys are doing everything they can right now to deal with it. But we need to stay in here and fortify. You have no idea what is going on past those waters, and it’s probably worse out there than it is in here. We need to stay here, maintain our provisions, gather weapons, and wait this out.”

  Weaponized weather? Sit here and wait it out? This guy had to be kidding, right?

  “There’s a reason I didn’t lose one man when I was a platoon leader in Iraq,” he said, almost yelling at this point. “I was the Convoy Commander for over 180 Convoys. I’ve been up and down the roads in Iraq and through the Valley of Death more times than I can count. This ain’t any different than going down those roads and looking out for IEDs. I know how to lead men, okay? I know how to make decisions, okay? And I’m telling you, if those people try to cross that water, a couple bad things are gonna happen because of it.

  “Maybe the machinery does have gaps like the boy says, and maybe they will get through, but that’s just going to let the enemy know that there’s a whole community down here that’s still alive. We don’t need to advertise that fact; it’s better if they think we’re dead and we find a way to survive. There’s a time to act and there’s a time to lay low, and right now it’s time to lay low. Do you all understand?”

  A few “amens” followed his brief speech, and I realized Klutch was a good speaker. He was probably a great leader, as well. I understood why he always walked around with a chip on his shoulder. It made perfect sense. When in the military, serving as a platoon leader in Iraq, he had been admired, respected, and feared. Here, in society, he was a nobody. But now that he was back in a position of wartime leadership, with lives depending on him, it had awoken that part of him.

  I understood perfectly why the residents who had gathered in this home were so enamored by him. In a time of peace, they would have dismissed him as a common dreg to society, or worse, ignored him completely. I think that would have been the worst kind of insult for Klutch. Yet in a crisis, Klutch was an easy man to follow. That was what concerned me about Owen. He was going to get sucked in by all of Klutch’s fiery words and bravado. I worried for him.

  I poked my head inside. Klutch paced in front of a massive brick fireplace like a preacher at a pulpit. There must have been twenty or so residents sitting in the room, some on couches, some on chairs, some on the floor, soaking up every morsel of falsehood this guy was throwing out. It was Jim Jones all over again.

  I hadn’t scanned the room very long when my gaze fell upon Owen. He stood in the very back, not far from me, his arm around Candice, listening like an obedient disciple to the man on stage. He must have sensed my presence, because he looked over just then and saw me. I didn’t have to say anything; the enraged look on my face conveyed plenty.

  He whispered something to Candice and walked over to me. As I motioned for him to come outside, Klutch got wind of what was happening. He stopped talking for a moment, assessed what was taking place, and then launched back into a tirade about the weaponization of weather.

  Owen followed me outside, his head slightly lowered. He knew what was coming.

  He followed me all the way to the front sidewalk, and I stood there looking at him for a good minute, planning my words, thinking through everything I was going to say. I switched the shotgun to my left hand as thunder crackled in the sky overhead and placed my flashlight into my pocket with my right hand. There was no need for it at the moment; there was enough light coming from the windows and open door of the house to see by.

  “You have no right to leave your home and family when I asked you to stay and watch over them,” I said firmly, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You completely disobeyed what I asked you to do, and even worse, you didn’t keep your word.”

  “Dad, everyone was fine. I just wanted to see what was happening here.”

  “Really? Well, now you’ve seen. It’s time to go.”

  “Dad, I think he might be right,” Owen said. “He’s served in the military. He knows about this kind of stuff. He thinks that we might be making a big mistake if we leave because we could be under attack out there. It’ll be even worse if we cross over.”

  “Yeah, I heard his ridiculous little rant myself,” I said. “Come on, Owen. How old are you? Sixteen? You’re not a little kid anymore. You can’t get sucked into this guy’s nonsense. Didn’t I teach you better than this?”

  “You and Mom always taught me to question things. You said being a writer means you use your mind and you don’t take things at face value. You look at the other side, you see where the other guy is coming from. Isn’t that what you always said?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m doing!” he said, raising his voice. I was shocked. My son was raising his voice at me? This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. “I’m doing the very thing you taught me to, Dad. I’m questioning things. I think this guy may be right.”

  “But you’re not supposed to question me,” I said. “I’m your dad! That’s different!”

  “But, Dad, you’re not─”

  “I’ve heard enough,” I said, pointing a finger toward home. “This entire island is meeting tomorrow night at seven o’clock on Second Street to get across that water when the path clears. We need to get ready. Let’s go.”

  I took a couple steps away from the house and noticed Owen hadn’t moved an inch. I turned around in disgust and disbelief. Owen wasn’t following. His feet were firmly planted on the sidewalk, his arms crossed in front of him, defying my command. This just wasn’t possible. What was happening? Why was I losing control?

  “I said, let’s go!”

  “Dad, I’m not going.”

  “What did you just say?” I asked.

 
; “I said I’m not going,” he said, in a voice that was half-child, half-man.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “That’s not an option. Get home right now.”

  “Dad, no,” he said, and his voice cracked. In the light emanating from the brick house behind him, I thought I could see tears in my son’s eyes. His voice warbled. He was afraid. “I want to stay here. Candice hasn’t been able to find her parents since the shooting, and Klutch promised to do a search tonight and tomorrow to find them. And I want to hear more about what he’s saying. He thinks it’s a mistake for us to cross over.”

  I was completely out of words. I even contemplated raising the shotgun I was carrying, pointing it at him, and forcing him to move away from the house. But I couldn’t point the gun at him; I couldn’t even remember if it was on safety or not.

  I felt assaulted by terrible, monstrous visions of my little brother’s hand slipping into the cold waters of the Kern. I remembered screaming when the hand slipped out of mine and into the deep.

  That was what this felt like again. I was taken back to that place and time that seemed so long ago, and I was sickened by the feeling of someone else I loved—my own son—slipping through my grip yet again. I couldn’t let him go. I wasn’t ready; not even close.

  “Don’t do this to me, Owen,” I said. “Don’t do this to your mom and your brother. You can’t do this.”

  “Dad, I love you,” he said.

  The vision of my son defiantly standing there blurred as my eyes welled with tears. I felt myself shaking all over, and I was breathing hard.

  “You know I love you,” he said again. “But I want to stay. I want to hear more, and I’ll come back. I promise, Dad, I’ll come back.”

  “Owen . . .” My voice trailed off.

  I always knew I’d have to let go of my son, but I thought it would be later than this. I thought Madison, Toby, and I would stand at an airport and hug Owen goodbye as he boarded a plane to college. I always imagined I’d go home afterward and have a long cry about it with my wife and contemplate the silence in my home.