LITMIR.BIZ

      5

      Wildhorse Heights, Texas

      Tense from the trooper’s warning, Kate drove beyond the roadblock.

      Her knuckles whitened on the wheel as she navigated around the chunks of plastic, metal and garbage scattered over the two empty southbound lanes. About a hundred yards in, the freeway dipped with a gentle slope, giving her a sweeping view of what used to be the Old Southern Glory Flea Market.

      “Oh my God!”

      For as far as she could see, the landscape was a graveyard of crushed cars and trucks, punctuated with the ghostly pronglike remnants of trees jutting from a sea of debris.

      Small fires flickered amid the destruction.

      It looks like a gate to hell.

      Ahead, Kate saw the long line of ambulances, fire trucks, police cars and emergency crew vehicles, their lights flashing. She parked between a fire truck and a TV news van. The rain had stopped. She was dressed in fitted jeans and a belted top, but her flat leather shoes wouldn’t do. Metal, wood and glass covered the ground. She got a pair of old hiking boots and woolen socks she kept in the trunk, put them on quickly and tied the laces tight. She pulled on her rain jacket, grabbed her phone and tried to call Chuck. Nothing happened. She tried texting. It didn’t work. No service. The cell towers must be down. Damn. She tested her phone’s camera. It worked. She tested the keyboard, created a file called Storm-1. Okay, she could still write and take pictures.

      She gathered her spare phone battery, notebook and pens, slipped the chain with her press ID over her neck and recalled Chuck’s orders.

      Get us the facts, the heartbreak and the heroes.

      Her pulse quickened as she rushed into the chaos. Rounding a heap of splintered lumber and smashed Sheetrock, she stopped in her tracks at the scene before her.

      With a funereal air, two firefighters were placing a yellow tarp over the bodies of four dead people: two adult men and two adult women, side by side on the ground, in a neat row. Nearly stripped of their clothes, their battered bodies were blood soaked. One of the women was missing a foot. One of the men had a shard of glass sticking out of his stomach. Not far off, she saw another yellow tarp on the ground with three more pairs of feet extending from it. Two of the pairs belonged to children.

      Kate steadied herself on a picnic table until she found her composure.

      She offered a silent prayer for the dead, then thought of her daughter in Ohio, wishing she could be with her now. After blinking back her tears, Kate opened her notebook, made notes and moved on.

      I have to do this.

      Everywhere, people staggered in wide-eyed shock, shouting names of loved ones at the debris.

      Kate came upon an overturned car with a metal signpost rammed through the windshield. The car had a large white X sprayed on it. Two women sat on the ground next to it draped in a tattered blanket. They were on the road but much of the asphalt near them had been peeled away.

      She lowered herself and sat with them.

      “Hi, I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. May I talk to you?”

      The women were in their twenties, their faces were scraped and their eyes were tearful. One of them gave a little nod.

      “Can you tell me where you were when the storm hit and what happened?” Kate asked.

      The first woman had short blond hair. She looked at the horizon as if the tragedy were replaying there and trembled as she spoke.

      “My sister and I were stuck in the traffic, trying to get out, when we saw it coming—the hail, everything going black. Things started hitting the car.”

      “Lawn chairs, tables, steel poles,” the second woman added.

      “I thought we were going to die,” the blonde woman said. “We heard this roaring, like ten freight trains. The ground shook and this pressure came, this huge pressure, like something trying to crush us. Our windows shattered. We could hear the metal of our car literally crumpling.”

      “We just hugged each other and prayed,” the second woman said.

      The blonde woman said: “Then the car rocked back and forth and the tornado picked it up. We spun and flew for about fifteen seconds then it dropped us and the air bags popped. We were upside down... I screamed for my sister. But we were alive, thank God. People pulled us out. Our legs and shoulders hurt but we’re all right...but other folks—” The woman stared at the sky like she no longer trusted it. “Others weren’t so lucky.”

      Kate steeled herself, offered words of empathy, moved on and talked to more survivors. All the while her deadline was ticking down. She needed to find the Saddle Up Center, get official comment from the scene, write up what she had and find a way to get her story to the bureau.

      Everywhere people were calling for help.

      Rescuers worked to pull people out of the rubble. They used their hands, pipes, pieces of wood, whatever they could as emergency radios blared. The air smelled of churned earth, fresh-cut lumber and desperation.

      Helicopters thumped far off overhead, paramedics moved out the injured on gurneys, others used doors or sheets of plywood as makeshift stretchers while volunteers held IV bags.

      Kate saw several firefighters huddled at a table, talking on radios, poring over rolled-out maps. She identified herself and asked for a status report from the most senior member of the group, Station 9 Captain Vern Hamby.

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