she stood up. Suddenly alert.
Beyond the glass doors in back, tall waves continued to battle, crashing against each other, tossing off islands of foam. The water’s roar seemed to be inside her head.
I have to go outside.
She had to see what the storm had left behind. She stepped unsteadily to the door, shoes sliding on the wet surface.
I’m a journalist. I have to document this for my blog. Maybe I can sell the photos to a news network.
But she wasn’t prepared for the horrors a few steps from the house. The fallen trees and flattened houses. Everything crumbled and broken and down.
The people covered in plaster dust and mud, scrambling over the wreckage, searching house to house for survivors to rescue, finding only bodies.
She wasn’t prepared for the howls and cries. The half-naked man who ran over the debris on the street, screaming as blood flowed down his back like a scarlet cape. The pale white baby feet poking out from under the collapsed wall of a house.
I’m a journalist.
She raised her phone to her eye. Steadied it. Focused on a man carrying two corpses over his shoulder. And . . .
Oh no . She studied the phone. Out of power. Dead. She stared at it. Shook it. No way to charge it. No way.
So now she wasn’t a journalist covering the tragedy. Now she was just another victim.
Men were already piling bodies where the little white post office had stood.
Lea saw arms and legs dangling from beneath crushed, collapsed walls.
She shivered. Each breath she took burned her nostrils and made her throat ache. The air was choked with dust and dirt that hadn’t settled.
I’m alive.
The island had been flattened. She squinted into the billowing gray light. The houses and shops were piles of trash. Splintered boards strewn everywhere. Fallen walls fanned out on the rain-soaked ground like playing cards.
Fifty-two Pickup.
She thought of the cruel card game her brothers used to tease her with when she was little.
“Want to play a card game, Lea?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s play Fifty-two Pickup .” Then they’d raise the deck high and let all the cards tumble to the floor. “Okay. Go ahead, Lea. Pick them up.”
That’s what it looked like here. Playing cards tossed and scattered over the earth.
Is that how she would write it? Could that be the lead to her story?
I can’t write it .
She slumped onto the trunk of a fallen palm tree and wrapped her arms around herself. I can’t write it because I don’t believe it yet. And I don’t want to write about such nightmare and heartbreak. Where would I begin? How would I ever describe an entire island crushed and flattened as if stomped on by a fairy-tale giant?
Fairy tales and childhood card games were flashing through her mind. Obviously, because she wanted to escape. She wanted to go back to somewhere safe and clean and nice. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.
She suddenly pictured her father sitting in his Barcalounger in the tiny living room back in Rockford, holding the newspaper in front of him, folded down the middle the way he always read it, and shaking his head. Reading and shaking his head, his face twisted in disapproval.
You’d be shaking your head today, Dad.
How could she write about the corpses they were pulling out from under the debris? Dead faces, locked in startled expressions. She watched the mud-covered workers stack the bodies like trash bags in the town dump.
The smell . . . Already. The sour smell of death.
And the sounds. Moans and shrieks and anguished cries rang out in the dust-choked morning air like a horror-movie soundtrack. The pleas of the injured waiting to be rescued. The survivors discovering their dead. The sweating, cursing men digging, pawing, shoveling into the rubbled houses. The groans of the men hoisting more corpses onto the pile.
It seemed to Lea that everyone left alive was howling in protest. Everyone who could move and make a sound was screaming or crying or wailing their disbelief
Beyond the glass doors in back, tall waves continued to battle, crashing against each other, tossing off islands of foam. The water’s roar seemed to be inside her head.
I have to go outside.
She had to see what the storm had left behind. She stepped unsteadily to the door, shoes sliding on the wet surface.
I’m a journalist. I have to document this for my blog. Maybe I can sell the photos to a news network.
But she wasn’t prepared for the horrors a few steps from the house. The fallen trees and flattened houses. Everything crumbled and broken and down.
The people covered in plaster dust and mud, scrambling over the wreckage, searching house to house for survivors to rescue, finding only bodies.
She wasn’t prepared for the howls and cries. The half-naked man who ran over the debris on the street, screaming as blood flowed down his back like a scarlet cape. The pale white baby feet poking out from under the collapsed wall of a house.
I’m a journalist.
She raised her phone to her eye. Steadied it. Focused on a man carrying two corpses over his shoulder. And . . .
Oh no . She studied the phone. Out of power. Dead. She stared at it. Shook it. No way to charge it. No way.
So now she wasn’t a journalist covering the tragedy. Now she was just another victim.
Men were already piling bodies where the little white post office had stood.
Lea saw arms and legs dangling from beneath crushed, collapsed walls.
She shivered. Each breath she took burned her nostrils and made her throat ache. The air was choked with dust and dirt that hadn’t settled.
I’m alive.
The island had been flattened. She squinted into the billowing gray light. The houses and shops were piles of trash. Splintered boards strewn everywhere. Fallen walls fanned out on the rain-soaked ground like playing cards.
Fifty-two Pickup.
She thought of the cruel card game her brothers used to tease her with when she was little.
“Want to play a card game, Lea?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s play Fifty-two Pickup .” Then they’d raise the deck high and let all the cards tumble to the floor. “Okay. Go ahead, Lea. Pick them up.”
That’s what it looked like here. Playing cards tossed and scattered over the earth.
Is that how she would write it? Could that be the lead to her story?
I can’t write it .
She slumped onto the trunk of a fallen palm tree and wrapped her arms around herself. I can’t write it because I don’t believe it yet. And I don’t want to write about such nightmare and heartbreak. Where would I begin? How would I ever describe an entire island crushed and flattened as if stomped on by a fairy-tale giant?
Fairy tales and childhood card games were flashing through her mind. Obviously, because she wanted to escape. She wanted to go back to somewhere safe and clean and nice. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.
She suddenly pictured her father sitting in his Barcalounger in the tiny living room back in Rockford, holding the newspaper in front of him, folded down the middle the way he always read it, and shaking his head. Reading and shaking his head, his face twisted in disapproval.
You’d be shaking your head today, Dad.
How could she write about the corpses they were pulling out from under the debris? Dead faces, locked in startled expressions. She watched the mud-covered workers stack the bodies like trash bags in the town dump.
The smell . . . Already. The sour smell of death.
And the sounds. Moans and shrieks and anguished cries rang out in the dust-choked morning air like a horror-movie soundtrack. The pleas of the injured waiting to be rescued. The survivors discovering their dead. The sweating, cursing men digging, pawing, shoveling into the rubbled houses. The groans of the men hoisting more corpses onto the pile.
It seemed to Lea that everyone left alive was howling in protest. Everyone who could move and make a sound was screaming or crying or wailing their disbelief
Similar Books
