The Tempest by A.J. Scudiere (best books to read in your 20s .txt) 📕

into Dev, shocked at what must be twenty people— ranging from elderly to infants—crowded into the space at the bottom of the steps. Behind him, the man still hunched under the door he’d closed flat across the top of the steps gave them a small push. “Go on down. Lower is safer.”

As they hit the last step, and he pulled up to his full—if short—height, he explained. “We built this fifteen years ago after a big one took out the house and killed my sister.”

Cage understood. So many good things were built as a reaction to harsh loss.

“All the neighbors know to come and weather the storms here,” the man added and, as Cage looked at the crowd, he realized this wasn't just all the “neighbors.”

These houses were too far apart for this many people. He did a quick head count, coming up with more than the twenty he'd originally guessed.

This man wasn't going to lose anyone else.

Holding out his hand, Cage said, “I’m Cage Mazur and this is Deveron Swan.”

The man nodded at both and simply replied, “William Butler. All are welcome here.”

In the corner, a mother curled up with two small children. She waved to the newcomers, but quickly turned back to the picture book she held open, hoping to distract her little ones. Two others, slightly older, asked if they could join and she welcomed them onto the blanket she'd laid out.

Several folding chairs sat propped against one plain cinderblock wall. Feeling the sudden need to do something other than stare or just stand around, Cage helped a man who was opening the metal chairs and seating the elderly people on them. One woman unfolded a soft blanket to pad the chair for a man who must have been her father.

Cage would have done that for his father, but his mother and father weren't like these people. And that's why they weren't still here. He turned to ask William, “How can I help?” But above him, the roar of the wind stole his voice as they all looked up.

40

The tractor slowed as it hit the gravel of the driveway, making Joule's heart race.

“Jerry, go faster!”

But he called back, “We're fine.”

She didn't believe him. The tractor was slow on a good road, and on the gravel, it was pure crap for speed. She watched the rocks crunch under the large tires and wondered if she could jump off safely and make a run for it.

With Toto, she didn't think so. And even without him, she might twist an ankle—something she couldn't afford with this kind of pressing danger.

She grabbed for the kitten, having thrown her jacket on, and hastily shoved him into one of the pockets, holding him in place. He must have been afraid enough to not squirm. She didn’t like the funnel in the distance. Her heart raced every time she looked at it, but ignoring it didn’t seem to work any better.

“Jerry, we’re faster if we run!” Though as she said it, Joule began to wonder if Jerry could even run.

She had no problem making her decisions based on keeping herself and Toto safe. But keeping Jerry safe? That was a harder call. Maybe she was a shitty person, but she didn't feel that one in her heart.

Joule reminded herself that he’d found the tractor and at least they were trying to work together.

“Not yet! I want to get closer to the house,” he called back, and she turned again to face backward in her seat. Compared to what she'd seen earlier, this funnel was slim, twisting and dancing in the distance.

Maybe Jerry was right. Maybe this stupid, slow behemoth of a tractor could outrun it. She clutched the edge of the seat with one hand, the tiny kitten softly with the other, and her jaw tight enough to make her wonder if she was cracking her teeth. And she waited.

This was one of those moments that she didn't get to decide. Fate did.

Would the tornado pick up speed and rush toward them? Would they be too far from the house to run the remaining distance? And when they got to the house, what then?

She turned again and looked, trying to assess what this place might be like. Did it have a raised foundation or a real tornado shelter?

Jerry, still a good one hundred yards from the house, finally stopped the tractor. He stood up awkwardly, the steering wheel at his waist, the seat behind him, but he grabbed the keys and said “Okay.”

Joule jumped onto the ground before he even managed to climb down. She was running for the front door, her hand still clutching Toto. The heavy objects in the pockets of her cargo pants bounced against her legs. Surely they were leaving more marks that she didn't need, but bruises were none of her concern right now.

“Around back!” Jerry yelled to her. “They have a cellar.”

Jesus, did he know everyone in Alabama?

But Joule veered, swiftly changing direction. The extra distance she'd run let Jerry catch up to her as they headed around the house. Sure enough, dark green cellar doors slanted from the back wall, old-fashioned style. They probably stored root vegetables in there. The farmhouse was a slice of history still functioning in rural Alabama.

But she didn’t have time to oooh and ahhh and marvel at the things she wasn’t used to. Joule leaned down to lift one of heavy doors. As she wrapped her fingers around the handle, she noticed the lock.

Still bent over, still ready to tug the door open, she turned back to Jerry. The wind picked up, forcing her to yell. “There's a lock!”

The cellar wasn’t worth anything if they couldn’t get into it. Her second fleeting thought was that people left the keys in their very expensive and shiny, new tractor, but they padlocked their root vegetables?

But Jerry only nodded, not seeming to think too much of it.

Joule looked up, wondering if they could get into the main part of the house. It had