Calm Before the Storm

As night approaches, the grasshoppers chirp defiantly against the silence. A storm is brewing—a familiar event in these parts. Moisture saturates the air as clouds churn from whites to grays. The wind begins to howl, sweeping across the prairie.

My chair creaks as I rock to the rhythm of the rustling suncatchers. I’ve always loved storms, especially in the open, where they bare their teeth, nothing taming them. The smell, though, is strange. It’s not that of rain but of smoke, thick and treacherous. Birds fill the sky, fleeing quickly in anticipation. Drops fall slowly at first, then faster until the sky is filled with small bullets littering the grassy hills.

My gut screams for me to retreat inside to the safety of the house's roof and walls. Then, one second to the next, the sunset is swallowed whole by the darkness of the storm. The blackness inches toward me as I rise from the chair. I urge myself to move toward the edge of the porch, unsure of what I expect to see. The rushing gusts and sheets of rain drown out the once-obvious creeks of old boards. 

I hold my hair down to my neck as I lean over, trying to observe the area. The unrelenting tempest blurs the view. I take a step down, feeling more vulnerable outside the overhang. I’m instantly soaked, my dress clinging to my body. The rattling of the wind chimes causes me to jump as they begin to fly from the awning and skid across the yard. 

My heart races. Almost in unison, a trumpeting sound slices through the air. It is so startling that I’m thrown from my feet and tumble forward. A burning sensation rips up my arm. In panic, I struggle to bring myself to a seat. The pain distracts me from the whirlwind until the splitting of the ground drags me back to focus. The gaping trench stops directly at my feet. One hanging haphazardly over the edge. I struggle backward, trying to scramble up the steps again. My screams for Pa remain unanswered. 

Lightning strikes the roof, setting it ablaze. Oranges and yellows engulf it, only to be fed by the wind. Reminding me of a lighthouse shining in a hellish night. But to what could it be beckoning?

Smoke fills the house as I push through the door, rushing past the living room and up the stairs, searching for Pa. I can’t find him. He’s not in the kitchen, bathroom, or bedroom; all I can do is give up. My thoughts shift to survival; I have nowhere to go; this house is all I’ve ever known. I hope the shed doesn’t go up in flames, too. I grab a bag and start stuffing as many pieces of clothing as possible. Making sure I have basics, a pair of pants, a shirt, what else? Think! A toothbrush and toothpaste. Soap! I pack in a tizzy, leaving a trail of discarded items in my haste. The air is noticeably dangerous now and getting harder to breathe in by the second. After grabbing a few more things, I zip up the bag and run out of the house.

The outside is pitch black. I race down the porch into the pummeling rain. I carefully avoid pits in the ground as I slunk through the mud and grass to the shed. Pulling the door open, I fall inside, turning and slamming it shut behind me. After locking the handle, I push an old chair under its bottom to reinforce it. Dust trickles down from the ceiling after slamming around, causing me to cough. Then, the blaring again, this time so loudly my palms jerk over my ears to be able to bear it.

Glaring through the shed's tiny window, I watch as my home is reduced to cinders. It’s almost impossible to make out anything outside of the shed without the flames. The smell is awful—that of iron, sulfur, and smoke. With no other options, I sink to the floor and wallow in desperation and despair before letting sleep take me from this horror.

Streaks of light shine through the small window, pressing me to wake up. My muscles are stiff, and sand pulls at the corners of my eyes as I blink them open. My knees pop as I stand upright, stretching my arms over my head. I can see it’s daybreak through the window, but a gray fog seems to be hanging in the air. Unsure of what to do next, I decide it is necessary to emerge from the shed. If nothing else, to find food and, hopefully, Pa somewhere in town.

The town resembles the pile of rubble my house was left in. Plumes of smoke are suspended in the sky. Steaming trenches run through what used to be roads, splitting buildings down their middles. Prints, both human and beast, litter the ground. Not a soul walks the streets outside of myself. And the horrid smell of rotting eggs nestles its way into my nostrils.

I make my way down Main Street. It now resembles a post-apocalyptic scene with a broken infrastructure and an overly assertive lead character. Overwhelmed and fear-stricken, the grocery store seems like my best bet for food. I have no coin, but I doubt cashiers will be minding the checkout.

The store is standing but vandalized; its front panes are smashed, and chunks of glass are scattered about the ground. I step through; there are still no bodies to be seen. Cans lay still in the aisles, as do other random goods, as if a tornado came in and swept the items off the shelves. Firstly, I grab some of the extra cloth bags from the checkout counter at the front. Then, the priority is running to the snack aisle, grabbing trail mixes and granola bars, anything I can find that’s non-perishable, light, and packed with protein. Rushing to the cooler, I grab some water, then make my way to the medicine aisle, holding an assortment of first aid tools, pain relievers, and cold medicines. Who knows what the coming days could bring? I want to be prepared. After leaving the store, I head straight to the police station, hoping they picked Pa up drunk somewhere last night and left him there. I also hoped that some semblance of normalcy was still around.

I was so wrong. The police station, too, had been burned down. Its walls were charred and soot-covered. Leaning through the doorway, I saw locked cells with piles of ashes that were once people. If Pa was here, there’s nothing to be found of him now. With no other options, I’m left standing in the middle of Main, looking destruction and chaos in the eye, with no idea what caused this.

After wandering for hours, I finally returned to the shed, facing the reality that life will never be the same again. My entire world has been reduced to shambles, and I am the only one left to rebuild it. As dusk sets, I hold onto a faint hope that if I survived, others would have, too.

There’s not much in the way of light outside the moon shining through the window. I make do with its faint illumination and note that I’ll try to find candles or a lantern when I search again tomorrow. I feel around my bag and pull out a jar of stored peaches. I open it and down a few slices, cautious not to consume too many as I don’t know how long I’ll need to stretch them. I cradle the jar close to me in the dark as I lean against the rigid, unfinished walls of the shed. And then it came again, the sounds of horns that had played before. The one that marked this horrid change. I shoot up, straining on tiptoes for a better outside view.

At first, they were faint, slight movements in the shadows. Outlines playing tricks on my eyes against the shades of the night sky. But as I adjust to the castings of the moon’s rays, I see their actual forms—creatures, not people, with stone-like skin bound in black armor. Claws hang from their hands, and ridges run their backs. Their steps crumble the ground beneath their feet, leaving craters across the field’s surface.

I slap my hand across my mouth to stifle my screams as I try to take in what I’m seeing. As I stare, there’s what reminds me of ants crawling from the gashes desecrating the Earth. Beasts climb the trench's walls, falling over one another and rising to the surface. Swiftly, one turns, and I could almost see myself in its glowing irises. I drop, sliding down the wall, hoping, praying it's not curious enough to come and find me. Too afraid to stand, I get on all fours and make my way to the door as quickly and quietly as possible, wedging the rickety chair below the handle as I had the night before.

Footsteps lurk beyond the shed, tons of them as if an army is marching across the prairie. From time to time, scraping like nails scraping down a rusted chalkboard as something grates against the outside of the metal structure. Each time, I fear my breath could be my last. Never have I felt so vulnerable, so alone. Seconds, minutes, or hours pass, and my skin crawls with every shift and shake. Tears roll down my cheeks, my cries suppressed. More scraping sounds beyond the walls, and then the handle rattles once, twice, and thre--.