“I’ve got to find my brother.”
“ANDERS!” Peggy gives a startled cry as he revs up his engine and tears away.
A feeling of dread comes over me as I watch him go.
Whereishis brother?
5
Patrik, Peggy, this is my daughter Wren.” Dad introduces us when we’re safely in the belly of the storm shelter, the door closed behind us.
The air is dense and stifling and it sounds as though a freight train is whooshing past over our heads. You wouldn’t want to be claustrophobic.
“Thank you for having us,” I say breathlessly as Patrik slides the latches across the door. He does this slowly, with one hand, because his other is secured in a cast and held in a sling. He nods at me stoically as he limps down the steps. Sheryl mentioned that he’d had a fall last week, broke an arm and two ribs. Apparently farming has one of the highest rates of death and serious accidents of any profession. I learned this only after Dad and Sheryl had signed the deed to their place.
Patrik is tall and thin, with Jonas’s coloring and broad facial features. I bet he was once a giant of a man, but his stature has waned with age. He must be upward of eighty, and Peggy seems only a few years younger than that. Do they still work? Surely not. But Dad had said that Jonas was taking over the farm from them, not that hehadtaken it over.
“Of course, dear,” Peggy replies to my thanks, removing herpink coat and revealing shoulder-length white hair. She offers me a shaky smile but is obviously worried sick about her boys.
I am too, and I barely know Anders, let alone Jonas. I try to distract myself from what’s going on by taking in our surroundings.
We’re in an underground bunker that’s about ten feet by twelve feet wide. The walls, floor, and ceiling are bare concrete. There’s a well-worn, faded purple two-seater sofa against one wall and a few storage boxes lined up against another. A chest of drawers sits to the right of the door.
Peggy flicks on a light and a smaller second room at the back becomes illuminated.
“This is some storm shelter,” Sheryl says with amazement.
She once told me about her family’s tiny, dark shelter in Oklahoma. It had no electricity and it leaked, and when her dad and older sister siphoned out the floodwater one time, they found a snake in there.
“Our family’s been here a long time,” Peggy replies wryly, getting a radio out of one of the storage containers and turning it on. “We’ve seen our fair share of bad weather, and we’ve had time to make this more comfortable over the years. The boys used to play in here.” She blanches, as though remembering that they’re still outside. “Would you like a water?” she asks us weakly, getting a few bottles out and handing one each to Sheryl and me. She nods toward the second room. There are four wooden chairs and a small table, on top of which is a stack of tatty-looking board games, the images faded and scratched and the cardboard fraying at the edges.
Dad remains with Patrik by the door. Patrik is muttering a reply to something Dad has said, but I gather he’s not much of a talker.
“Has a tornado ever come right through the farm?” I ask nervously as I open my bottle.
This shelter seems sturdy and safe enough, and it’s clearly been built away from other structures to avoid being buried beneath rubble. That’ll be why the door is at an angle too: any debris that hits it will be more likely to just slide off.
But what if the door is ripped clean away? What if we’re all sucked out into the eye of the storm?
I can’t believe Anders and Jonas are still out there.
“One tore its way through a couple of fields once,” Peggy replies to my question, pulling out a couple of chairs at the table.
Sheryl acknowledges the gesture by taking a seat. I remain standing, too fidgety to sit still.
“That wasn’t a good year for us,” Peggy continues. “But the house stood. Here’s hoping the Fredrickson luck holds.”
Sudden thumping on the metal door sends my attention shooting in that direction. Patrik climbs the stairs surprisingly agilely and hastily unlocks the latches, pulling open the door to reveal a dirty-looking sky littered with flying debris. Jonas’s face appears.
“Comeon, son!” Patrik shouts, dragging him inside.
I look beyond him to see Anders, a rush of relief surging through me as he follows his brother inside and closes the door, sealing out the hissing wind.
Jonas seems even taller and broader in this small space. He’s soaked through and his wet T-shirt clings to his skin, emphasizing all his grooves and contours.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Patrik yells suddenly, making me jump.
Anders is still at the top of the stairs, sliding the latches into place.
