Page 8 of Waves of Fury

The commercial break seems oddly out of place on TV considering the nationwide weather phenomena and natural disasters that are happening. I’d like to think the sinkhole in Ohio is a tad bit more important than a pill to help with erectile disfunction. I flip to another station that’s on location, a frantic reporter waving toward the sinkhole destruction. She’s attempting to hide the panicky edge in her voice, but her eyes are glittering with fear.

What the hell is happening?

Has the moon finally decided to unleash its fury we’ve been promised for the last half century?

Most importantly, where’s my damn sandwich?

Needing a distraction, I make the decision to call my brother. We’re not exactly close and that’s on me, but it doesn’t mean I’m any less worried about him. I hit his contact on my phone and wait for it to connect.

It rings and rings until I’m sent to voicemail.

Great.

Did he change his number? Is he screening my calls? Or, worse yet, is there something going on in south Texas I don’t know about? My gut sours and I’m thankful I don’t have any food in it yet. I consider dialing Dad next. The thought is gone in the next instant. Even the end of the world isn’t enough to get me to speak to him ever again.

It’s fine. Knox is fine. Everything is fine.

You always were good at lying to yourself, Kellen.

The lights flicker several times but remain on. I toss my phone onto the desk and stalk back over to the windows. Rain has begun to pelt the glass, washing away the bloody bird residue. With the increasingly darkening skies and wind speeds picking up, the bay sloshes violently, much like the remaining coffee in my stomach.

I groan as another blast of pressure makes it feel as though my eardrums are going to pop. What the hell is even happening?

Outside, the clouds roil and dip lower and lower until they seem to swallow the bay altogether. Unlike the usual fog that rolls in, these clouds rumble with thunder and flash with lightning. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Grumble.

This rumbling comes from within me rather than outdoors. My stomach is not impressed with the magnificent view. I swear to God if I have to go down a floor and eat from a vending machine in the company break room because my sandwich is being held hostage, I’m going to lose my mind.

I feel as though I’m caught in a constant, never-ending loop of wanting to call Knox and Dad over and over again but barely refraining, marveling over the terrible storm battering outside, and checking the news for any developments.

And yet, still no sandwich.

This is the Monday-est Friday ever.

Tyler

Why do people suddenly get hungry when they think the world is ending?

I mean, I’m not complaining. I’m busy as hell and tips are great.

But I am concerned about my brothers being out to sea. And they are still out there because I can see their location, two blinking purple circles far away from the city and bay.

Aaron is a good captain. It wouldn’t be the first time he got caught in a storm, with a boat full of clients, no less. He’ll navigate the storm like he always has.

I can’t shake the gnawing feeling deep in my gut, though. It eats at my stomach lining as I wait for the woman in front of me to decide which of the sugar-laden coffees is the healthiest. Finally, she makes a decision and I’m able to order Tabby’s drink.

As I wait for them to make her drink, I overhear two guys in suits discussing a sinkhole in Ohio.

“It’s a lot,” the older of the two says. “My wife is ready to go to Tahoe.”

“She thinks this is the end?” the other guy asks, sipping his coffee. “Goddammit, they added more than two pumps of hazelnut. I can’t drink this.”

The older man chuckles. “Have them remake it, Bart. It might be your last for the foreseeable future.”

My frayed nerves relax at their teasing. If these guys, obviously successful businessmen, are more concerned about their coffee order than the high winds whistling between the buildings, I suppose I should take a page from their book.

I’m not like Mom and Dad.

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