The Tornado

Jeff Nobles was not a happy man. He had been traveling since sunup through the vast, flat farmlands of Kansas. He had sold only one vacuum cleaner in two days. Hell, the farms were so widely spread out that he only had the opportunity to present his sales pitch to three families today. Now the sky was overcast, and it looked like a good chance for rain. One more house and he would call it a day. He checked his gas gauge, which registered less than half a tank. His old Ford pickup he named Rosco got pretty good gas mileage, but he had better find a gas station soon. He drove for another fifteen minutes without seeing a house. Rounding a curve, there was a rather large house set back from the road in a circle of ancient oak trees. The driveway was dirt, but that mattered not to Rosco. A small dust trail billowed behind him as he approached the house. He disembarked from the truck and surveyed his surroundings. The house appeared uninhabited, with weeds flourishing along the side of the porch. Jeff shrugged his shoulders and lugged the vacuum cleaner up the porch steps. Opening the screen door, he banged on the weathered front door. After several attempts, he cursed under his breath and tried the doorknob. It was locked. Accepting his fate, he dragged the vacuum cleaner back down the steps. That's when he cast his eyes skyward, noticing the darkening sky and the funnel cloud hurtling straight towards him. He let the vacuum cleaner slip from his grasp and stood rooted in his tracks. Then he sprinted to find shelter behind the house.

The weeds in the back of the house were of such height that the cellar went unnoticed at first. Then he saw it. A root cellar or storm cellar, as some called it. Dug into the earth and partially submerged, with a poured concrete surface positioned behind a towering pecan tree. Jeff thanked God and ran for the cellar. The door, made of solid oak and affixed with heavy wrought iron hinges, bore the marks of time yet remained exceptionally sturdy. He opened the door and entered the dark, musty room. The deafening roar of the tornado subsided as he closed the door. Absolute darkness, save for the three fissures in the door, remnants of its gradual deformation throughout the years. He removed his cellphone and used its light to examine his surroundings. The walls on one side housed shelves stocked with jars of preserved fruit or vegetables. Positioned across the room, there was a lengthy wooden trough that had been lined with wooden slats, leaving gaps in between each one. Inside, there were numerous clusters of potatoes, a significant portion of which had sprouts protruding from their skins.

 A loud crash resonated throughout the room, as the tornado ripped through the land, scattering the house and uprooting every tree in its path. An eerie silence followed. Jeff smiled and leaned against the shelves. He dodged a bullet. The quart jar in front of him read peaches 1988. He examined it carefully and then shook the jar. I can't believe it, 34 years later and it's still edible.

Making his way towards the door, he extended his hand and exerted pressure to shove it open. The door wouldn't budge. Through the cracks in the door, he could see the trunk of the large pecan tree lying against the door. No matter how hard he pushed, the tree would not give an inch. Who could he call for help? His office was in Dodge City, but that was at least fifty miles from here. Well, he would just have to wait until they could send someone out. He dialed the number and brought the phone to his ear. Nothing. "Must have hit a wrong key in the dark." He moved close to the cracks in the door and carefully punched in the numbers. Nothing. Then it hit him like a punch in the solar plexus. In this underground, cement-covered prison, there was no reception.

Taking a seat on an empty apple crate in the corner, Jeff attempted to gather his thoughts. He failed to notify the office about his morning sale and couldn't recollect if he informed anyone about his current whereabouts. He was single and lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of Dodge City. Although they were friends, there was no telling when they would begin to worry about his disappearance. Using his phone light, he glanced around the room and noticed that the walls were made of bare earth. If he only had a shovel, he would dig his way out of this mess.

Rosco. Surely a passerby on the road would notice the wreckage of the house and the pickup truck and search for any survivors. The logical place to look would be the storm cellar. He sat back and relaxed. This may be a long wait.

Jeff was jolted awake by a creature crawling on his cheek. He stood in terror, swatting at his face. He scanned the area with his light and discerned a gargantuan spider leisurely retreating beneath the potato bin. "God almighty, what if there are snakes in here, too?" He was still awake when the sunlight filtered through the door.

Removing a jar of peaches, he tried to remove the top. Over time, it had oxidized and refused to budge. After gently tapping the lid against the door, he was finally able to loosen the top, enabling him to remove the ring and pry off the lid. Taking a bite of the peach half from the jar, he quenched his thirst with its sweet juice. He drank the remaining juice and finished the peaches. Feeling better, he sat back on the apple crate and again weighed his options. Reaching into the potato bin, he picked up a potato and surveyed it. "Hell, people in Ireland lived on potatoes." He rubbed off the thin layer of dust and dirt and bit into it. "A little spongy, but not all that bad." He ate it, followed by another one. Jeff realized he was talking to himself.

It was early July, and the nights were warm, but in his underground prison, the temperature never changed. He wished he had a blanket or his coat. At least it wasn't suffocating hot.

As Jeff noticed the diminishing charge on his cell phone, he acknowledged the urgency to use it wisely before it died completely. "Well, that's not the worst thing." He lined the fruit and vegetables in order so he could recognize them in the dark. Jars of peaches and pears in two rows. Canned corn, peas, okra and beans in separate rows. Sauerkraut, he wasn't sure about, and set aside. The potatoes were carefully sorted and separated based on their firmness. He did his best to polish them clean. Sitting on the flimsy apple crate, he wished for a nice easy chair or, better yet, a couch. A TV would be a nice touch too. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Every morning when the sun entered through the cracks in the door, he scratched a line on the wall above the bin. Five marks now. "Ok folks, I'm getting a little tired of this. It's about time someone opens the gates of this hell. My only source of water is what's in the canned goods. I don't think that will last another week."

In the middle of the night, he was awakened by the distinct sound of something scurrying. He no longer had a light to see what it was. Were there mice or rats sharing this space with him? Perhaps the spiders were so large he could hear their footsteps. Then his thoughts turned to snakes. Jeff was deathly afraid of snakes, even the non-venomous ones. He knew Kansas had its share of copperheads and rattlesnakes. He opened his eyes and could see them crawling on the floor. It looked like balls of spaghetti unrolling and curling together again. He screamed and tried to stand on the apple crate and cling to the dirt walls. To his horror, a large rat pounced on the snakes and began thrashing them around the room. He closed his eyes and clung to the wall.

Jeff realized he was hallucinating when he saw the empty floor, illuminated by the morning sun filtering through the door. He wearily sat down on the crate and cried for the first time. Breakfast comprised half a jar of pears and a potato. Only two jars of pears and three of peaches remained. When those were gone, he would be out of his sole source of water. If someone found him, would they even recognize him? He looked at the marks on the wall. Eleven days now without shaving or washing. His clothes hung on his emaciated body like the skin on a Chinese Shar-Pei dog. Surely someone had noticed his truck, and the demolished home.

The call came into the office of the "We Move It" wrecking yard five days after the massive tornado tore through several counties in central Kansas. "Hey Billy Joe, it's Willy." Near the old Crandal Cemetery on E-50 road, I discovered a disabled Ford pickup flipped over in a ditch. In front of the old Jameson place. The house took a direct hit and was completely obliterated. I don't believe the place has been inhabited for nearly five years. The pickup, though, is only three years old, and I called sheriff Langston. He is sending someone out to look around. According to him, the place is owned by Jameson's son who lives over in Crandal, and the truck does not belong to him. Langston will notify him about the house. If you can find the time, the sheriff would like you to bring the pickup back to your yard while he tries to locate the owner.

Jeff never heard the deputies as they searched the area around the wreckage of the old home. The cellar was virtually soundproof, and he slept most of the time.

"Billy Joe, this is Sheriff Langston. That ford pickup you hauled off three days ago belongs to a man named Jeff Nobles from the Dodge City area. Sells vacuum cleaners door to door. Looks like his truck got caught in the tornado that wiped out the Jameson house. No one has heard from him since. Trees down everywhere out there. A real shame. That was a nice old house. Robert, the son, runs a heavy equipment business and intends to get a crew together to clear the place and sell it. Must be close to 100 acres. Today we are going out to conduct another thorough search for the body of Mr. Nobles. Should be buzzards circling by now. In a few days, I'll let you know what to do with the pickup.

Jeff had a friend now to converse with. A beautiful young lady with long blond hair and bright blue eyes. He decided to call her Suzanne based on his memories of a girl he knew back in school. She appeared the night after he scratched the 13th mark on the wall. Suzy dear, I wanted to let you know that I only have one jar of pears left. Would you like to share the last jar? Once the jar is gone, I won't have much time left, so it doesn't matter when I finish it. Don't be alarmed by this beard. I just have no way to cut the damn thing off. No, I'm not really as old as I look. Turned thirty-one last January. How old are you? Huh, only nineteen. Are you from around here? Come, set beside me on this apple crate. Not the most comfortable seat in the world and you could sit in my lap if you want." He reached for her and she faded into the darkness. Jeff Clasped his hands in his lap and started to cry. There were no tears, as his body was too dehydrated for that. That's when he heard the noise. It sounded like a tractor of some sort. He ran to the door and tried to see through the cracks. There was definitely movement out there, but he could not distinguish what it was. He thought he heard voices over the noise of the tractor. He pounded on the door and attempted to scream, but all that came out was a high-pitched squeak. Then he smiled, as he could feel the tree trunk vibrate. "At last. They're gonna move the tree and I can open the door," he squeaked to no one in particular.

The man climbed down from the frontend loader and confronted Robert. "Hey boss, that tree is a total beast. I can't budge it without a bulldozer. Even in that situation, the structure will still be destroyed."

"Robert studied the problem. Do you have any dynamite and caps in the truck?"

"Yeah, boss. We still have three sticks left over from the hotel job. What you thinking?"

"Let's demolish the concrete, chop the tree into several pieces, and transport the entire mess to the dump over the next week. We'll fill the cellar with concrete pieces and dirt and level it off. I'm heading down to the real estate office to list the property. I'll check with you later. Be careful with the dynamite. The police never located the body of the man with the pickup, did they?"

"Don't know, boss. No one ever tells me anything."

Jeff was puzzled. Why didn't they move the tree? Was it too big? Maybe they went for a chainsaw. Then came the piercing sound of a drill penetrating the concrete overhead. What the hell are they doing? He didn't need an air hole. Just remove the damn tree. He broke off a piece of the potato bin and pounded on the ceiling. The drilling stopped. Jeff held his breath. Then the drilling started on the other end of the ceiling. He hammered over there, but to no avail. A deafening silence followed the drilling. Jeff huddled next to the door. He motioned for Suzanne to join him.

The explosion shook the ground for a mile away. The end of the cellar roof blew into a thousand pieces of cement and dust filled the air. To everyone's amazement, the pecan tree shattered in the middle and flew across the yard.

Robert returned to a befuddled foreman and crew. An ambulance was parked in the yard. "What the hell happened?" he asked his foreman.

"Well, boss, I can't rightly tell just yet. We planted two sticks of dynamite as we planned and set them off simultaneously. Funny thing happened. The stick in the end blew as planned and reduced half the cellar to rubble. The other stick flew under the tree and then went off. Shredded the tree and knocked the oak door off its hinges. Now here is the weird part. Through the cloud of dust walks this apparition of a man apparently blind as a bat grouping around, calling for Suzanne. The guy was nothing but skin and bones, with his clothes shredded and his beard smoking. Despite our efforts, all we could get from him was his constant calling for Rosco and Suzanne. We called the ambulance and then searched the rubble for Suzanne or Rosco, but found nothing. I'm going to take the rest of the day off, boss. Kind a shook up."

Robert glanced toward the ambulance and grinned. "Well, I'll be dammed."

The End