Seven Minutes

Elkins, Arkansas, Late Spring

3:46 p.m.

The tornado sirens begin.

I don’t really care. I’m playing catch with my kid brother, Andy. Our dog, Rocky, runs around our feet, barking and trying to grab the ball whenever Andy drops it. I absently notice the lazy flickers of lightning bugs near the edge of the woods. Part of me finds that strange, but I don’t know why.

The sirens come from the direction of town, overlapping like echoes in a cave. They start low, increasing in pitch and sustaining for a few seconds until the cycle repeats. I catch the ball, then stop to listen. The unseen wailing makes me nervous. In my fourteen years, I’d heard the sirens before, at least once every other spring or early summer. Tornadoes are more concept than reality for us, something that happens over in Oklahoma or in the eastern part of the state. I’ve always been told that we’re safe here in the hills of the Ozarks.

Something is different this time. Something wrong. Very, very wrong.

“C’mon, throw it!” Andy yells, waving his arms to get my attention. Beside him, Rocky stands motionless, his head cocked to one side, his tail at attention.

I comply, lobbing the ball in a wide arc. Andy starts toward it. Then he pauses. The ball lands on the grass a few feet to his left.

I turn around and look up. My stomach drops.

3:47 p.m.

The sky itself has vanished. I stare with awe into the vast expanse of outer space itself, only every star has been extinguished. It is mesmerizing, terrifying. I’ve never seen a blacker black, a darker dark, a deeper shade of pure shadow. It’s as if God has accidentally tipped over his inkwell onto Heaven itself.

With a jolt, I realize why the presence of lightning bugs has been bothering me. It’s much too early in the day for their dance.

I glance back toward the east. At the edge of the creeping darkness, I see a hopeful blue. It is shrinking, turning a sickly yellow-green, as if infected.

Still frozen, I look over at Andy. He stares upward, eyes wide, mouth gaping. Despite the coming void, the world around me has a yellow tint. The normally deep verdant leaves and grass look wrong, as if viewed through a filter.

Somewhere behind me I hear the squeak and subsequent slam of our screen door. I hadn’t noticed the unnatural silence that surrounds us. No wind. No bugs.

Nothing but the sirens.

3:48 p.m.

“Boys!” I hear Pa yell from the back porch. “Get in here!”

A gentle breeze tickles my hair. I hardly feel it.

“BOYS!” he screams. I snap out of my paralysis. Pa is a stern but calm man, slow to smile, incapable of any significant emotion. If he’s screaming, it’s wise to listen.

Andy is still locked onto the coming sheet of black. I rush toward him, grab his arm, and drag him toward the house. The breeze is picking up, causing the windchimes hanging from our porch frame to tinkle. The air smells wet and earthy, but no rain is falling.

Only then do I hear something other than the wailing sirens. Soft, nearly unnoticeable. A deep hum.

I see Mom behind the screen door, frowning, her arms crossed.

“John,” she says quietly to my father. “We should hurry.”

We’re nearly at our shallow back porch when I feel Andy resist.

“Rocky!” he exclaims. I look back and see our chocolate lab trotting away from our house, toward the woods. Andy rips free from my grip and darts toward him.

I hear mom gasp. “Andy!” she screams, pushing open the screen door.

The deep hum is growing louder.

A large mass rushes past me. Pa grabs my brother at the edge of the woods and tosses him over one shoulder like a flailing sack of mulch.

The yellow tint of the world has transitioned into a dark blue-green. The wind is blowing hard now. The sirens have stopped.

Feeling sick, I slowly comprehend what that must mean.

3:49 p.m.

“Noah, get inside! Quick!” Pa snaps, giving me a shove with his free hand as he passes. Andy is punching him on the shoulder and kicking the air helplessly.

“Rocky…” he sobs, his face red and damp. “Come back…”

The windchimes are ringing louder, more frantic. I feel like I’m being tugged toward the storm by the strengthening gale. On the porch, I chance one more look upward. A series of flashes strobe the sky. From the direction of town, a massive shadow catches my eye, silhouetted against the temporary gray. The flashes stop, and the uniform black returns.

Mom holds open the screen door, ushering me inside. I follow Pa through our tiny kitchen and halfway down the hallway. I hear a sharp pop. The lights in the house go dark. The T.V. in the living room silences.

I hear our muted heavy footsteps on the carpeted floor, our frantic breathing, the trees creaking outside.

The wind.

We reach the hallway bathroom. There are no windows here. It’s as dark as the sky outside. Pa yanks open the shower curtain, then deposits Andy into the bathtub.

“Get down, cover the back of your head with your hands,” Pa demands. He turns to me. I can just make out his face by the dimming blueish light from outside the open bathroom door. “Noah, get in and cover your brother.”

The muffled humming outside grows louder, transforming into a dull, steady roar, like a motorcycle engine.

“NOW!” Pa bellows.

3:50 p.m.

I get into the cramped bathtub and crouch over my brother. I also cover the back of my head. Mom bends over the edge of the tub and does her best to shield us.

Pa slams the bathroom door closed. The eerie blue light vanishes, replaced by absolutely nothing. I hear my father grunt as he crouches beside the bathtub. I feel his large hand on my back.

We stay this way for what feels like an eternity. Blackness. Shallow breaths. Andy’s soft crying.

The motorcycle engine is changing, becoming something larger. A distant train, riding steady and heavy on its rails, coming directly toward us.

Louder.

The train approaches, its rumble increasing in pitch. I hear more popping, both dull and sharp, as it flies down the tracks.

Louder.

No, not a train, a waterfall on a small cliff, crashing into the river below. The cliff is growing, getting taller and taller, the water slamming hard into the torrent, shattering logs. Are my eyes open or closed? I can’t tell. I’m in a barrel, floating toward the edge of the great falls, sweating, confined.

I begin to sob.

Louder!

I hear glass shatter somewhere, our entire house is groaning in agony. Make it stop! it screams, its wood cracking, splintering. Please, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!

LOUDER!

Not a waterfall, an airplane, a jet! There’s a jet in our hallway, its engine pointed directly at our door. The noise is unbearable, encompassing, a chainsaw beside my head. The entire world is rattling, roaring, shaking, crying, screaming screaming SCREAMING!

Our house explodes.

3:51 p.m.

We are inside, then we are outside.

Sickly gray light licks at my eyelids. Above me is a roaring tempest, lashing my back, trying to grab hold, to yank me and toss me into the infinite confusion above.

If I lift my head, I’ll drown in the wind.

I grip Andy tightly. He’s the only physical thing I know, my anchor to this world. I have one solitary mission: to keep him safe. I repeat this over and over to myself. The mantra tethers me to something, to anything.

I don’t know if my parents are still there.

But my brother is. I have him. He has me. We’ll figure this out.

Together.

3:52 p.m.

The train passes, same as it arrived. Off to another station.

I remain crouched in the bathtub, still grasping Andy for dear life, even as the screams become a distant murmur.

My ears are ringing.

My body is shaking.

I feel the firm squeeze of a familiar hand on my back.

Someone is sobbing behind me. I realize that I’m hearing my father cry for the first time in my life.

Some Time Later

I don’t know how long we stay like that, our small family huddled together in the ruin of what was once our house. But like everyone who lives through disaster, we eventually stand up, wipe off the dirt, and face reality.

Most of the bathroom ceiling is gone. A large hole lets me look at the gray sky above. The door is still closed.

I follow Pa into the hallway, Mom and Andy behind us. To our right, toward the bedrooms, things appear largely untouched. In the other direction, nothing remains but dirt and rubble. Our entire kitchen has vanished.

We had been five feet away from joining it.

I stumble behind Pa, shellshocked. I feel tense, as though somehow this is my fault. I foolishly replay the events in my head, trying to find some way it could have been avoided.

My father stops near a pile of unidentifiable debris, probably near where our kitchen table had stood minutes ago. From here, I can see the path of destruction, a straight line from the felled trees in the woods to the wreckage of our next-door neighbor’s house.

Pa turns. Tears are running down his hard face. I brace for a scolding.

Instead, he kisses Mom, then faces Andy and I. With a shock, he hugs us.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says. “I Just…” He swallows. “I love you boys. I don’t say it near enough. Just…remember that.”

A few moments later, I hear a familiar bark in the distance. Andy frees himself from Pa’s embrace. I glance up at the brightening sky, then watch my brother greet an old friend.

“We’ll figure this out,” Pa says again, almost to himself.

And despite the devastation that surrounds us, I believe him.