Videography was left to us, provided we delivered raw footage regularly. Charles or Dennis—I couldn’t remember who—suggested taking the audience through every stage of our process, which was why we’d already submitted a home base tour the previous week.
Even if this storm didn’t produce, ideally, we should record the breakdown along with our thought process. The more complete our footage, the better we looked. Our interviews had gone well. We had boasted of our experience and shown confidence.
We had to give CineVision quality clips, no matter how redundant, that would hopefully increase our screen time. Better to have too much than not enough.
Lex found a camera, and I dictated what appeared on the screen and why it was significant. Thirty minutes later, I grabbed my phone and called Vern.
“It’s game time, folks,” Lex said to the future audience.
As it rang, I kept my eyes on the computer screens.
“Do you see this? We’ve got something brewing,” Vern said in lieu of hello.
“That’s why I called. It’s go time. That cell in the northwest is going to hook in the next couple of hours, and I want to be there when it happens.”
“The other cell looks promising too.”
I shifted my gaze to the supercell forming farther north. I let the radar cycle, reading the numbers and matching them to the air currents. “No. I say we head to Lipscomb County. We’ll keep watching. If the other one persists into something more, it’s only another forty or so miles north.”
It wasn’t uncommon for several systems to develop across the state simultaneously. Often, they were clumped together, requiring storm chasers to read the subtle hints of each forming cell to determine where a tornado was most likely to form. It sometimes came down to hunches and guesswork. If you chose wrong, you could easily miss an opportunity. The goal was to pick the cell most primed for activity and dive in.
I gave the camera a face as I got off the phone. “We’re moving out. Got me a date with a cyclone, bitches.” I made aVwith my fingers and performed a lewd gesture with my tongue.
Lex laughed. “That will be edited out for sure.”
Vern had volunteered to call Noah and Elliott, so Lex and I packed gear into Black Bug.
Elliott had nicknamed our chase vehicle after Lex’s unveiling a few years back. She was a rebuilt Lexus GX470 he’d snagged from a junkyard. Four-wheel drive, V8 engine. Spacious enough, we could set up a base of operation in the gutted back. It was squishy by the time we packed it full of gear and team members, but it did the job we needed it to do.
Lex had reinforced the exterior, upgraded the suspension, and dropped the chassis so it sat lower to the ground, making us less prone to rolling in high winds. She wasn’t great on gas, and the lack of seat belts would get us in trouble with the cops one day, but that was a sacrifice we were willing to make for better functionality.
The previous year, we’d given her a paint job, black with lightning bolts slashed across the doors, and our Twisted Fates logo on the hood. She was beautiful.
Lex was our full-time mechanic, and he was always making upgrades. He had plans to improve her road stability, but we wouldn’t risk putting her in the shop until the end of the season.
Oil Slick woke when I pulled the plugs on the laptops. She announced her displeasure before jumping off the desk and prancing away, tail high and ears back in a snoot.
Lex set the active camera on a shelf and aimed it to record us working. He dictated what we were doing.
I clamped the gear into the built-in station in the back of the bug. The laptops had cellular data boosters, so we could keep real-time radar active the entire time, even in poor weather conditions. I clipped our GPS gear in front for the driver—usually Lex—and collected the GoPros and dash cams, installing the latter and storing the former in the foam-lined bins. We had headcams, radios, photography equipment, and safety gear. Ourprized possession was a recent purchase. A turtle probe designed to gather data from the eye of a storm, if we were lucky enough to place it in the path of a tornado.
Lastly, I collected the two satellite phones we used while on chases for emergencies. I carried one, and Vern carried the other. Our regular cells lost connectivity with the towers during most storms. Although satellite phones were better, they failed from time to time.
In under fifteen minutes, we were ready to ride. It was shortly after two. Knowing I would likely be gone for hours and wouldn’t have service, I begrudgingly told Lex I had to run home first. I did not say it was to check in with my mother—I was twenty-four, for fuck’s sake—but I suspected he knew the truth. Everyone did. Keeping Stella happy meant keeping her somewhat under control. If she spiraled, she sucked me into her vortex and took me down with her.
“Pick me up once you’ve grabbed the other three.”
The last thing I wanted was to deal with my mother, but life had taught me that the easiest way to reduce suffering was to tackle the infection head-on.
My mother was the infection, and escape was the only possible cure. Until I could manage to move away, I applied bandages to the wound. I needed this show. I was bleeding out.
The instant I pulled into the driveway, my mother exited the house, perpetual worry creasing her prematurely aged forehead. Frenetic energy vibrated off her as she twisted her hands together, impatiently waiting for me to approach. Two decades of stress had done a number. Hell, it had done a number on me.
Bracing for impact, I shouldered from the car armed for war.
“Look how pale you are. You’re sick,” she announced, a quiver in her voice. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. You should be in bed. Come on. I’ll tuck you in and make soup.”
“Mom, I’m not sick.”
