Under the Gun
The flash lit the room. And even the dust bunnies hid (behind the broom in the corner).
Field froze. Standing in the middle of it all. Heart going hammer-hammer. Eyes darting ... from the window to the bed. From the window (which gave a non-view of the blustery, stormy darkness) to the bed (where his mate, the rabbit Aria, slept beneath the sheets).
It was 2 AM.
It was November.
Why was it storming like this ... in November?
Because you're in Indiana, he told himself. Wasn't a detriment. Just ... the way of things.
The television wouldn't work. The power was out. He had a flashlight in his shaking paws. Red plastic and big batteries.
And he stood there. Awake. Fully.
Before the power had gone ... before the television had died ... the words were unmistakable. "Warning ... " Field closed his eyes and shook. "Tornado," the voice on the news had announced, "warning. If you're in the following counties ... " Field aimed the beam of the flashlight at Aria's sleeping form. To make sure she was still there. To make sure she was okay. " ... you are under the gun," the voice had said. Like reading a Domesday declaration. "Under the gun."
Field couldn't sleep. Couldn't ... the wind was moving. Swirling. Raindrops were hitting the window like little, bursting bullets. And the tree-limbs, naked and wet as they were, were like arms of the dead ... waving in the illumination of the lightning bolts. The forked bolts. The slanted bolts. Ground-up. Sky-down. All over.
Field feared they would hit the house. The lightning rod ... was above their room. On the roof of their room. He feared they would hit the house.
Field was scared of storms. Maybe that was childish, but ... it was one of those things. Fear was one of those things (like love). It wasn't always rational. And he had ... known that funnel clouds were near him before. Had never seen one with his naked eye, but ... had known they were there. In the past. Before he'd been forced to flee into the dark and muddy basement. Or after he'd ... emerged. Seeing the damage strewn around.
Tornadoes. One of his most primal fears.
It only took minutes. It could happen in minutes. You could never even know ... and it would be on you. If you were ... away from a television, away from a radio. If you couldn't hear the sirens (and, from this far in the countryside, you couldn't). It only took minutes. And ...
Rumble ... boom ...
And lightning lit the room.
Field jerked. Nose and whiskers twitching, sniffing. Ears at their swivel-swivel. Paw ... clutching his tail. Mousey instincts starting to flare. And ... yanking the beam of the flashlight to his desk. The radio. He had batteries. Put the batteries ... some batteries. In the radio. Radio.
He went to do it, frantic, not thinking rationally. Thinking in ... choppy images, fractured thoughts. Animalistic.
Fear.
It took a minute ... he couldn't believe Aria was sleeping through this. She was a heavier sleeper than him, but really ... how was she sleeping through this? What was her problem? Was she okay? Wasn't she scared? Was she really asleep? How could she be sleeping through this ...
He got the radio on ... the static. All static. He turned the station. Static. His heart began to pound, and he ... moved the dial back and forth. The fuzz and the hiss and the pop of nothingness. Until he got a station ... which clicked and clacked, but ... he could make out the words.
The sound of the faint radio in the small, dark room. In this old, old farmhouse. The mouse's only connection to any societal infrastructure.
And the radio said, " ... cover ... immediately. Boone County ... "
The mouse shook his head, eyes watering. No. No, no, no ... no, please ... no ...
" ... funnel cloud reported ... five ... north-east of ... "
Which town? Which ... he couldn't hear. The static ...
And the fuzz took over. He could hear no more.
Field, quaking, slowly got to his foot-paws, knees wobbling. And he went to the bed. There was an electricity in the air, seemingly, as he shook Aria ... as gently as he could (considering his state of mind).
The wind was picking up ... more and more. Began to howl like an angry wolf. Like a predator. Like a searcher.
And Field crept back toward the bed.
"Darling," Field whispered, voice shaking. His breath was ragged. He had a bad habit of hyper-ventilating when he got scared. Part of his ... anxiety. He had anxiety problems. Always. "Darling," he said again, more urgently.
"Mm?"
"Darling, please," he begged, voice cracking. The tears blinking ... back. Blinking them back.
"What ... what's wrong ... " The rabbit blinked, trying to wake. Emerging from some dream. Some dream.
"It's ... outside. It's ... the tornadoes. They're here," Field whispered, voice so quiet ... as if afraid that, maybe, a tornado would hear him. And seek him out. Hunt him down. Again, like a predator. Him the prey.
Aria sat up. "What ... "
"The ... listen," he urged, voice low ... nose to hers. Twitching nose to hers.
The rabbit's white ears waggle-waggled in the dark.
The howl, the buffeting ... the rocking, the quaking, the aching. The old house and the wooden beams ... creaking. The trees bending. The thunder ... echoing, booming. Rocking. The lightning just before it. And the rain. How it slammed in sheets against the glass of the window. Against the shingles of the roof. Against the metal of the air conditioner. Making a tin-tin-tin sound. Tin-tin-tin.
"Alright," she whispered, and she took his paw. "It's alright."
"I'm ... scared," Field said, crying now. Openly. Knowing he could. Knowing she wouldn't hurt him ... knowing that, perhaps, it was his role, being the male, to be the stronger one, but ... he was crying, and she was not. Why was he like that? Why? But ... he wasn't ashamed for it ... he didn't have to be ashamed with her ... he loved her.
"Get the radio. Batteries," she said, slipping out of bed, wearing nothing. Pulling on a long t-shirt ... one of Field's button-up t-shirts ... Field only wearing some tattered jean shorts ... " ... you got the batteries?"
"They're ... in the radio. How ... how were you still sleeping?"
"I'm a deep sleeper."
"I ... I'm ... um ... it's getting hot in here," Field said.
"You're just worked up," she said, grabbing the radio (seeing that the mouse was too flustered to follow directions). "Calm down. It's okay," she said, though ... despite her attempts to hide it, her own voice hid a small, quavering fear. The roots of some greater terror. The rabbit was scared, too. But she couldn't show that ... for, if she did, the mouse would fall to pieces. And ... she needed to hold him together. She loved him. She was going to hold him together. He needed her ... and she needed him, and ...
"They said five miles from ... something. Some ... but I ... " The mouse coughed. Had been crying quietly, shaking, and ... coughed from the crying. "I ... I didn't hear what town. It ... but it's here," he whispered. "It's ... "
Aria crept up to him. Up in front of him ... and put her forehead to his. Her own paws trembling as she put them on his shoulders, closing her eyes. Whispering, their noses against each other, "Field ... "
"What?" he asked, paws grasping her fur. "What?"
"Field," she whispered.
"What?" he asked again, whiskers twitching. Twitching.
"Calm ... down. It is," she stressed, "going to be okay."
"I've been through this before. I grew up ... in the country," Field said. "I know what they can do," he said, voice at a near-panic.
"Field," she yelled.
The mouse went quiet.
"Honey," she said, lowering her voice again. Back to a quiet. She shushed him. "Come on," she said. "Let's go. We gotta get ... "
BOOM!
The house shook.
Field squeaked.
Aria jerked the mouse with her, already tearing for the door, and they went to the porch. Aria having the radio ... which was on but was ... static. All static.
Static. And silence.
"I ... the batteries must've been," Field stuttered, "old."
"Must've," the rabbit whispered, and she put her paws on the screen door. Breathed. Breathed. "Ready?" she asked. The rain was unbelievable. The wind was moving everything.
The mouse nodded. "I'm sorry," he said, squeezing her paw. "I'm so ... weak," he said. "I'm sorry." His voice was so quiet. So frail. His eyes pink from crying. His body was full of tics and twitches. "I ... want to be strong for you," he said. "I'm sorry. Darling ... "
"Shush," Aria said, turning around ... hugging him ... " ... baby, it's ... forget about it, okay?" She brushed a paw on his cheek. "You're not weak. Alright?"
"I ... "
"No," she insisted, shaking her head. Lightning flashing, illuminating her white fur. Snowy white fur. "No," she told him. "You're not."
They met eyes. Their love inherent in their gaze.
And Aria, swallowing, turned back around, put her paw on the screen-door of the porch, and ... opened it.
They plunged into the dark.
The basement was only accessible from the outside. That's how old the house was. Through the outside, through a big wooden door in the ground. Which led to a space beneath the kitchen.
And, half-bare, tired, overwhelmed, they made it to the door.
"I can't lift it," Aria shouted about the wind. The rain forcing her to squint. The wind scraping its fingers through her fur.
Field gritted his teeth. The door was heavy. It had a big, metal handle. He half feared being electrocuted as he lifted it, but ... he pulled it up ... and worked his paws beneath it, and he pushed the door open ... propped it up against the side of the house. And, in the chaos, ushered his mate below. Down the concrete steps. Past the cobwebs.
Down into semi-safety.
Field following, knowing that, if a tornado actually hit the house, the ... basement wouldn't save them. Maybe it would, but ... he knew how old this place was. He knew ...
He could only pray.
Only pray. Ask God to show them mercy. Shield them. Pray ...
He did, and ... he cowered with Aria in the corner, in the wet, listening to the sounds of the end of the world. Closing his eyes, shaking, leaning against her. Her arms holding to him. His holding to her ... together. Warm. Waiting ...
Waiting ...
And the radio wasn't working.
And it would be another thirty minutes before they felt it safe to venture back up ... to go back to the house.
And, in the eerie quiet of the kitchen at close to 3 AM, the mouse, mud-covered and eyes hurting, looked to her ... leaning against the kitchen table. Looked to her, wearing only one of his shirts, soaked ... shivering. Looking at her looking at him.
He gave her a warm, shaky smile. "We're okay, then?"
The rabbit bit her lip, nodding. Letting out a sigh. "Looks like it."
The mouse's heart still hadn't slowed. He just nodded, going to her ... hugging her.
And, the storms gone, the cold front moved in. The chill. The promise of flurries. And the mouse and rabbit wearily washed up ... crawling back into bed. Together. Nestled. Nuzzled. And sleeping until well past dawn.