A flash of movement caught my eye. There was someone running between buildings on the west side of town. I squinted through the windshield, trying to make out who it was in the rapidly dimming light.
Mrs. Patterson. The elderly widow who lived alone in that little blue house on Elm Street.
I yanked the wheel hard, tires squealing as I turned down her street. She was trying to make it to her house, bent almost double against the wind, her walker clattering uselessly beside her.
I pulled up next to her and jumped out. “Mrs. Patterson! Get in the truck!”
“My cats!” she shouted over the wind. “I left them in the house! I have to?—”
“I’ll get your cats,” I promised, guiding her firmly toward the passenger side. “But you need to get to the shelter now.”
“But Mittens doesn’t like strangers, and Whiskers hides when he’s scared?—”
“I’ll find them,” I said, practically lifting her into the truck. “I promise.”
The roar was building now, that freight train sound every Texan knew to fear. I looked west and felt my blood run cold.
The tornado was visible now, a massive dark funnel stretching from the clouds to the ground, maybe five miles out and moving fast. Debris swirled around it like a halo of destruction.
I had minutes. Maybe less.
I gunned the engine, racing toward the shelter. Mrs. Patterson clutched the door handle, her lips moving in silent prayer. I screeched to a stop outside the shelter and half-carried her to the door, pounding on it with my fist.
“Mrs. Baxter! Open up!”
The door swung open immediately. Mrs. Baxter took one look at Mrs. Patterson, then at the approaching tornado, and her face went white.
“Marcus, get inside?—”
“I’m going back for her cats,” I said, already turning away.
“You’ll die!”
“Then make sure someone tells Xavier I’m sorry,” I called over my shoulder, running back to my truck.
I didn’t let myself think about what I was doing as I drove back to Mrs. Patterson’s house. Didn’t let myself think about Xavier, about everything we’d just started to build together, about the fact that I might never see him again. I just focused on the house ahead, on finding those damn cats before the tornado ripped everything apart.
Mrs. Patterson’s front door was unlocked, swinging open when I pushed on it. The wind was so strong now it nearly tore the door off its hinges. I stumbled inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
“Mittens! Whiskers!” I called, feeling ridiculous even as I did it. “Here kitty, kitty!”
The house groaned around me, the walls shuddering. Through the windows I could see the funnel cloud getting closer, maybe three miles out now. Debris was already raining down—shingles, branches, things I couldn’t identify.
I heard a meow from somewhere upstairs. Of course they were upstairs.
I took the steps two at a time, my boots thundering on the old wood. The roar outside was deafening now, drowning out everything else. My ears popped from the pressure change.
“Come on, cats!” I shouted, throwing open doors. “We don’t have time for this!”
I found Mittens, a fat orange tabby, hiding under the bed in the master bedroom. I grabbed her, ignoring her yowls of protest and the claws digging into my arm. One down.
“Whiskers!” I called, tucking Mittens under one arm while I searched. The windows rattled violently in their frames. The whole house was shaking now.
A black and white cat shot out from behind the dresser, heading for the stairs. I lunged for him, catching him by the scruff just as the windows exploded inward.
Glass rained down around me. I turned my back, shielding the cats with my body as shards pelted my shoulders and back. The roar was everything now, so loud I couldn’t hear myself think.
I ran for the stairs, both cats struggling in my grip. The front door was still open, but debris was flying past it now. There were boards, metal, and what looked like someone’s entire shed. The tornado was right on top of us.
