An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes (20 page)

Just as Dante's about to wake them, the rain dampens to a steady drizzle, restoring his view. Flat fields of brown and pale green slide by on either side. The menacing clouds still hang overhead, flickering from within.

Suddenly, there's a flash of red, immediately followed by a deafening crack of thunder that seems to shake the world.

Mari's and Archie's eyes pop open. Sam remains asleep.

Mari removes herself from Archie's arms and sits up. “What the hell was that?” she asks, her voice groggy. “We hit something?”

Dante tilts his chin in the direction of the road ahead. “Storm. Looks pretty bad.”

“Where are we?” Archie asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching as best as he can in the confined space.

“Crossed into North Dakota about half an hour ago.”

Archie puts on his glasses and then leans forward for a better look. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Another thunderclap booms overhead. The rain's intensity redoubles. The sky grows even darker, giving the impression that it's midnight instead of midday.

“I might need to pull over,” Dante says.

“Fuck that,” Sam mutters, eyes still closed. He hugs his pillow and sinks back to sleep.

“I hate to say this,” Archie says, “but I think this might be a tornado.”

Dante looks at him in the rearview mirror. “Tell me you're joking.”

“I used to be really into meteorology,” Archie says. “Weather patterns are fascinating. Probably some of the most complex math there is. So many variables and—”

“Get to the point, Arch,” Mari interrupts.

Archie points out the window. “Look at those clouds. Dark. Low hanging, but towering. They're cumulonimbus. They make tornadoes.”

“Maybe it's just a really bad thunderstorm,” says Mari. Dante shakes his head in disbelief. He steps on the gas.

Archie puts his hand on his shoulder. “Slow down. If we do see a tornado, the worst thing you can do is to keep driving.”

“Then what should I do?” he asks, gazing at the threatening clouds.

Archie leans forward and clicks on the radio. Immediately, a woman's urgent voice fills the speakers.

“—Richland, Ransom, Barnes, Cass, Steele, Traill counties until one
P.M
. Multiple touchdowns have been sighted. If possible, seek shelter immediately. If you are outside, lie flat in the nearest depression, ditch, ravine, or culvert.”

There's a series of screeching beeps, and then the message restarts. “The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for Richland, Ransom, Barnes . . .”

As the voice loop continues, their eyes all shift to the shallow ditch that runs alongside the road. It does not seem to promise much in the way of protection.

Sam finally opens his eyes. “A
warning
isn't that bad, right?
Watch
is the bad one.”

“No, a
warning
is the bad one,” says Mari.

Sam shakes his head. “Think about it. Like you
watch
something that's happening. So if there were an actual tornado, it would be a
tornado watch
.”

“No, you
watch
for a tornado,” Mari says. “Once you see it, you
warn
people.”

“Mari's right,” Archie says.

“Maybe they're not around here, though,” says Sam. “That was a lot of county names they read.”

In the distance, they hear an emergency siren whir to life. The pitch of its prolonged whine rises and falls, rises and falls. Though faint, it's a testament to its volume that they're able to hear it through the storm and from within the car.

A few moments later, the sound of the rain transitions from a steady thrum to a sharp staccato. The droplets become little white spheres that bounce off the hood and pavement like golf balls.

“Hail,” Archie says. “Big-ass hail. Definitely not a good sign.”

“So should I pull over?” Dante asks.

“Keep driving,” Sam says, watching the hail fall. “There's not even a funnel-shaped cloud.” He closes his eyes again, apparently bored.

Archie points to the north. “You mean like that?”

Dante takes his eyes from the road to see a shadowy smear upon the lighter clouds in the yellow distance beyond a farmhouse. At first, it seems motionless. But after a few glances, Dante notices what looks like a dusty cloud. He quickly realizes that it's gathering into a slow spiral. Each time he glances over, the cloud looks more like a funnel.

Mari takes Archie's hand. “Maybe it's moving away from us.”

But then the farmhouse disappears within the dark, spinning cloud.

Dante pulls the car onto the shoulder and slams on the brakes. “Everyone out!”

It takes some effort to push open the doors against the wind, but Dante, Mari, and Archie eventually succeed and push into the storm. The world is roaring and shifting. They shield their heads with their arms, sprint to the shallow ravine, and throw themselves into it.

They fail to notice that Sam is still in the car.

The sky flickers with lightning. The thunder grows to an unceasing rumble. Heavy gusts of wind whip dirt and dust through the air. Hail pelts the earth.

Dante lifts his head for a moment and sees what looks like a dark wall of clouds approaching. It is as if he is looking at the edge of the world. He glances at the others to make sure they're still safe. But he only sees Mari and Archie, huddled against each other.

He looks back to the car. Just as he feared, he spots Sam's head pressed against the glass of the window, somehow still asleep.

He glances back at the tornado. The distance between them is closing rapidly. It seems only a minute or two away.

Dante takes a deep breath, hops to his feet, and then rushes to the car using all his strength to push against the wind that seems to come from every direction. He yanks open the door. Startled, Sam stares at Dante. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dante doesn't wait to hear what—he grabs Sam by the arm and pulls him out of the vehicle.

Dante drags Sam through the wind until they reach the ditch, and then he shoves him down to the ground next to Mari and Archie. Dante lowers himself on top of his friends, stretching out his arms to shield them as much as possible even though it means he can't cover his own head.

Their clothes billow. Dust and dirt whip against Dante's skin. Mari's hair flies in his face.

Frightened and only half-believing in the reality of their situation, he braces for the worst.

The hail seems to cease, but their world becomes the wind. It does not seem possible, but the wind grows even louder, it blows even stronger. It roars and whips the tall grass into a frenzy. It drowns out the universe.

Dante hears something whistle by overhead. Several more objects whizz through the air.

Archie starts to look up, but Dante pushes his head down. A fraction of a second later, another object zooms past, grazing the air just inches above them.

“
I'm so alone
,” Sam says.

“
I want my mom
,” Mari says.

“
I'm scared
,” Archie says.

“
I'm gay
,” Dante says.

Suddenly, there's the sound of bursting glass. A moment later, something scrapes across the back of Dante's arms like a hundred razor blades. He grits his teeth. Leaves his head unprotected to cover his friends. They need him now more than ever.

But as suddenly as it started, the wind begins to die down. The rain passes. Silence settles all around them.

Finally, Dante looks up. “It's gone.”

The dark funnel has disappeared. The wall of storm clouds has moved on, and in its place are insubstantial, white clouds and a shock of blue sky. Sunlight peeks through. The contrast is surreal.

Dante pushes himself up, uncovering his friends, and falls back onto his butt. Blood trickles down his arms. He feels no pain but knows it's gathering.

Archie and Mari roll onto their backs. They kiss and then look up to watch the sky transform, at once apocalyptic and heavenly.

Sam climbs to his feet. “That was fucking scary,” he says. He brushes off the dirt and grass clinging to his clothes. “Well. Let's go.”

Dante closes his eyes and says a silent prayer of thanks.

After he finishes duct taping a semi-transparent plastic garbage bag where the side window used to be, Sam closes the car door and steps back to examine his work.

“See? We don't need to stop. It's fine.”

Mari, Dante, and Archie eye the window's sad stand-in.

“Maybe this is a sign that we should go home,” Mari says.

“We've already come this far,” Sam says. “We can replace it in Seattle. I'll put it on my dad's credit card.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

“That's what I'm talking about,” he says. “And because you're being such a good sport, tell you what: I'll even drive the next leg.”

“How generous,” she says, and then turns toward Dante. “How's your arm?”

Dante twists his shoulder to reveal a number of red scrapes running the length of his forearm. Rivulets of bright red blood drip down his skin.

Mari moves closer and examines his cuts. “It doesn't look like any pieces are still in there. But let's go clean it. Then we can change into some dry clothes. Get some lunch. My treat.”

Dante nods. He heads down the walkway toward the travel center along with Mari and Archie, who are holding hands.

Sam hops onto the trunk of the car and slips a cigarette between his lips. He lights it as he surveys the parking lot, the damp pavement glistening under a bright sun. It is as if there had never been a storm, as if the world had not just nearly taken their lives.

What if it had?

The parking lot is filled with people milling about their cars, talking to strangers about the storm, about what they heard, what they saw, what they know. Even without being part of their conversations, Sam senses the nervous energy, the lingering fear mixed with excitement and coated with disbelief. He feels it, too.

He takes a long drag from his cigarette and then checks his phone. Still no e-mails or texts or calls from Sarah. After the message he left for her last night, he's been expecting something. For better, or for worse.

Sam exhales a puff of smoke and dials her number. It rings a couple of times and then goes to voicemail. He ends the call and then slips the phone back into his pocket.

“Mind if I bum one?” an old man in a trucker hat says as he walks up to Sam. One of the man's shirtsleeves is folded and pinned to the shoulder. He only has one arm.

Without saying anything, Sam hands a cigarette to the man.

“A little help?” the man says, tilting his head toward his missing limb.

“Sorry,” Sam says and lights it for him. The old man nods his appreciation as he stands opposite Sam, staring into the distance.

“Hell of a storm,” the man says.

Sam nods.

“Largest twister I seen in a long while. Were y'all near it?”

“Kind of,” says Sam.

“From what I hear, two young people died up the road. People saying they was just married. Matter of fact, on their way to the airport for their honeymoon.” He shakes his head. “A goddamn shame.”

“At least they died together,” Sam says.

The man lifts his hat and runs a hand through what little hair remains on the top of his head. “Take it from an old man. Don't matter if you got somebody next to you. Every damn person who ever lived died by himself.”

“So then what's the point?”

“The point is how you live, not how you die. And you ask me, the way to live is to surround yourself with those you love.” The man takes a long drag, letting his old man wisdom sink in. Noticing the car's license plate between Sam's feet, he asks, “A long way from home, eh?”

Sam shrugs.

“Where y'all headed?”

Sam doesn't feel up to explaining where he's going and why he's going there. Maybe a t-shirt would be best. Instead, he just says, “West.”

The man nods. “So how you like North Dakota?”

“Besides the fact it just tried to kill me?”

The man laughs. “You can't take it personal, son. It's just weather. It has to get like that sometimes so it can get like this.” The man gestures toward the clear skies just as a few birds flit by overhead.

Sam surveys the flat fields. “It felt personal.”

“You from the city, eh?

“Kind of.”

“Well, just give it a chance,” the old man says. “It's actually kind of nice. Quiet enough to think. Space enough to breathe.” The man exhales a puff of smoke. “Yup. Born and raised in these fields. I'll probably be buried in them soon enough.” He drops his cigarette and snuffs it out with the toe of his boot. “Anyways, a young person like you probably doesn't want to listen to the ramblings of an old, one-armed man like me. You probably got a pretty girlfriend to get back to. But thanks for the smoke and the conversation. You have yourself a good trip, wherever you end up.”

“Likewise,” Sam says.

The old man nods once more and then walks away.

There's something about the man that reminds him of one of Sarah's uncles. Sam had accompanied Sarah to his wedding last summer. But about halfway through the reception, she disappeared. Left alone, Sam just sat at the table and watched people dance. Her uncle had sat down next to Sam and they talked for a bit. He was actually a pretty interesting guy. Had gone to clown school in Paris before buying a bar in South Philly. Still. He wasn't Sarah.

After her uncle left to mingle with the other guests, Sam had wandered around trying to find Sarah. He finally found her outside. She was out back, on a bench. Sitting on some guy's lap, passing a cigarette back and forth. One of the waiters, she later explained. She knew him back in elementary school, she explained. She also explained that nothing had happened.