A Lady Calls by S. P. Stevens

3 a.m.

She was at her loudest now, a black wall of wind and rain testing the house to destruction. Another chunk of masonry fell and the walls sighed. I holstered the Glock. There had been no sign of looters for two hours.

A branch crashed through the kitchen window, showering me with glass, and the wind smashed plates and ornaments like a rowdy teenager. I staggered backwards into the hallway, unable to believe the storm’s fury, and turned for the creaking front door. As I lifted the latch, the door bulleted inwards, slamming against my face. I tasted blood, but pulled myself up in the opening, bracing myself between door jamb and frame.

I hesitated. Then, a tearing sound ripped the air as the tempest decapitated the building, lifting roof from walls like some demonic executioner swiping head from torso. Inside now outside, a torrent of wind, rain, wood and plaster fired down. I had no choice, I ran, out into the mighty lady’s buffeting power, as she fought to push me back with angry fists of air.

The street was a river, and an unlit car floated towards me like some ghostly, mechanical cow as a power line sparked, silhouetting it in electric blue. For that split second, as I fought to stay standing, I just stared. Slower to comprehend than the wall of water was to engulf me, the ton of metal dragged me under. Pain tore through my calf, but I surfaced, thrown against fence posts and storefronts, adrift in the sea of debris. By some miracle, I hooked onto a lamppost, where I clung onto life.

These days, my home is a refuge, and my chair has wheels, but at least the thieves never took their bounty, even if the Lady did.

by S. P. Stevens


Popular posts from this blog

Bookmark by Bryan van Scoyk

Not Yours To Keep by Fabrice Poussin

A Growed Up Man by Harry Husbands