Page 10 of Forsaken Oath

I freeze, my hand hovering over the radio. At first, I think it’s part of the movie—the eerie hum that always signals something bad is coming. But it gets louder. Too loud. A piercing wail that slices through the night.

No. These aren’t just any sirens.

They’re tornado sirens.

“Oh, fuck.”

My heart kicks into overdrive, and I sit up straight, scanning the parking lot. Now everyone is in motion. The night is a disco beam of headlights cutting through the darkness as cars pull out of their spots, fast enough that gravel sprays behind them.

The wind shifts, picking up speed as the temperature drops. It was as if invisible hands were pushing and pulling at the air, a dance of elements that left goosebumps cascading over my legs. Unease sloshes inside my veins.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I quickly close my windows and reach for my phone. The wail of the sirens drills deeper into my chest with every passing second. I’ve never dealt with a tornado in my life. Where the hell am I supposed to go?

Part of me wants to gun it, to hit the gas and speed out of here like everyone else. I’m fast—faster than most people.

But not faster than a tornado, a voice in the back of my mind whispers.

Thunder booms overhead, rattling the windows of my car as I fumble for my phone. “Jesus Christ.” A storm wasn’t in the forecast tonight, I’m sure of it.

The sirens are getting louder, more insistent, and people are scrambling to leave the drive-in. Panic crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me. I can’t stay here. I’ve seen enough movies to know that a tornado will suck up a sitting car faster than Vivie eats all the cookies.

Oh my god—Vivie.Margot.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I curse, swiping my purse and shoving open my car door. I’m hours away from them, and we rarely get tornadoes in Avalon Falls. I let those little facts offer me a speck of comfort.

I open my recent calls history, my thumb slamming on my sister’s name anyway. I don’t even know what I’m going to say, but it feels wrong tonotcall her. I switch it to speakerphone as I run toward the back of the clearing, heading for the food trucks and the diner. Maybe they have some kind of tornado shelter somewhere.

Employees are shouting orders to one another, closing down their trucks with an urgency that fuels my own.

I stare down at the phone, my heart plummeting when I notice the call hasn’t connected. “Fuck.” I don’t have any service here.

I skid to a stop in the middle of the picnic tables, spinning on my heels as I try to figure out where to go. I spot a handful of people sprinting toward the diner, so I pocket my phone and follow them.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I push myself to go faster. The neon lights of the diner glow like a beacon in the darkness, a glimmer of hope. I send a silent prayer for a basement or any kind of shelter, because the three out of the four sides of this building are glass. And I’m no weather expert, but hiding out in a glass box during a tornado feels like a special kind of way to die.

The wind tears at my hoodie and whips my hair into my face. “Fuck, I should’ve done more cardio,” I pant.

I burst through the glass door, the little bell tinkling above me as I yank the door closed behind me. I give myself three seconds to adjust to the bright white light, blinking too fast even though I know it doesn’t help.

The diner is alive with a cacophony of panic—families huddled together, some crying, some murmuring quietly, while others shout at each other to move faster. Glasses clink as they’re pulled from tables, chairs scrape against the floor as people shove tables aside to crawl under them. The lights flicker ominously, and every time they do, the murmurs rise, as if we’re all holding our breath, waiting for the world outside to collapse.

Thunder booms again, louder this time, rattling the windows and making the glass panes tremble. The sound spooks me, my heart skipping a beat. The flickering lights seem like they could go out any second, threatening to plunge the diner into more chaos.

I beeline to the second booth on the left side and crouch down. Before I can scoot underneath the table, three guys extend their arms as barricades. They yell something at me with scowls, shaking their heads and pushing me back. But whatever they’re saying is lost on me. I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart. It beats faster with every breath, urgency and dread making my fingers tingle.

I push to my feet as terror claws up my throat. I have to find something to hide under, I know that much. I’m a sitting duck in the middle of a restaurant like this.

The lights flicker twice, and it feels like everyone collectively holds their breath. They stay on, and I make an executive decision. I run toward the kitchen, determined to find somewhere to hide before I can’t see anything. I’m hoping for a chef’s table or hell, even in the walk-in freezer.

Five steps in front of the teal-blue swinging kitchen door, a hand flies out from underneath the last booth. Strong fingers encircle my ankle, and my body jerks to a stop.

“Hey, let go of me.” Fear makes my voice wobble as I shake my leg.

“Don’t,” a voice shouts, tugging me back toward the booth.

I lose my footing and land on my ass—hard. “Fuck,” I curse with a wince.

“Sorry, Peach. Kitchen’s a bad idea though.”

---