Prologue

Garrison, Indiana, 2011

The sky spelled doom.

Carl Jenkins clamped down on the bill of his worn out baseball cap, squinting as a gust of wind swooshed across his face. Dark clouds, like billows of smoke from a smoldering fire, had crept in, replacing the blue sky earlier in the day. The ominous sign hovered over the small farming community of Garrison, Indiana. It meant only one thing—a storm was on the way.

After guiding his last milk cow into the barn, Carl called it a day. The short trek up the hill led him to the century-old farmhouse where he saw his wife, Mavis, through the kitchen window, standing in front of the stove.

The wind howled as he walked up the porch’s tattered wooden planks and into the house.

“You’re just in time,” she said, giving the chicken and dumplings a final stir.

“Smells good.” He removed his cap and tossed it on the bench in the mudroom, then ran his hand through his thick, matted down hair. Tomorrow was Saturday. He’d go into town to Al Parker’s barbershop for a trim in the morning.

Rolling up the sleeves on his red and black flannel shirt, Carl walked to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He shook off the excess water and reached for a hand towel when a sharp pain surged through his lower back.

“Ouch!”

“Again?” his wife asked.

Hunched over, he winced in pain. “Just twisted it is all. Too fast. I’ll be fine.”

Mavis sighed as she turned off the stove’s burner. “That’s the third time this week you ‘twisted’ it too fast. How many times do I have to tell you to go the doctor and have him check you out?”

“I’ll soak in a hot tub after supper,” he said, rubbing the kink with his hand. “That’ll fix it.”

“Carl–”

His hand shot up. “Mavis, please stop. I’ll be fine.” He scooped up the folded newspaper on the edge of the counter. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

He gently lowered his body into a chair at the kitchen table. Squirming in his seat, he fought to find a comfortable position. He glanced at the newspaper, pretending not to notice his wife pressing her thin lips together as she filled two plates with stew. She set the dishes on the table before returning with a basket of homemade bread sliced into thick chunks.

Carl folded his hands. “Lord, thank you for the food you’ve given us. Thank you for the health and strength we’ll receive from it. And thank you for blessing us and this farm. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mavis repeated.

Carl unfolded the daily edition of the Indianapolis Star and perused the front page articles. He and his wife were halfway through supper when the song coming from the portable radio on the windowsill ended abruptly.

“This is a KJA breaking news weather announcement. A powerful windstorm has made landfall east of Delaware County.”

Mavis darted from the table to turn up the volume.

“Gusts are expected to reach up to seventy miles an hour making driving conditions dangerous. Downed power lines and trees have been reported.”

“Sounds like a bad one.”

Carl looked up. “Uh huh.” He put a forkful of dumplings in his mouth and went back to reading the newspaper.   

A gust of wind produced an eerie howl. Limbs from the maple tree rattled up and down against the kitchen window. 

Carl peeled his attention away from the newspaper and watched Mavis sit down at the table when the lights flickered. He stared at the ceiling, waiting to see if the power would go out.

Mavis clutched her napkin as if it were a security blanket. “Something bad is gonna happen. I feel it.”

Carl watched her grip the flimsy material so tightly, tiny pieces of soft paper fell onto the table. He set his fork down. “Ah, hon, don’t worry. Those weather guys always make it sound worse than it really is.” He reached across the table and gave her hand a good squeeze. “Just finish your dinner.”

Staring at the half-eaten portion of food, she pushed her plate away. “I’m not hungry.”

With one last scrape of his fork, Carl scooped up what he could of his meal, licked the utensil, and placed it on the plate signaling he was done. He handed the dish to Mavis and picked up the newspaper. “I’m gonna finish reading this on the porch.”

“Carl, stay inside. The storm!”

“It ain’t gonna hurt me,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides, I love watching a good storm.”

He walked through the family room toward the front entrance, flipped the switch to the porch light, and stepped outside.

The wind rippled the porch awning, creating a repetitive thudding noise. Carl swayed back and forth on the old porch swing, scanning the newspaper pages from top to bottom.

The warm, humid air gave him a sudden craving for a cup of coffee. Maybe Mavis would like to join me. He jerked his head back and chuckled at the absurd notion.

“Coffee inside.”

The porch swing creaked when he stood up. In the distance, a pair of headlights pierced the darkness.

The car sped down the road, much faster than the 45 mile per hour limit. He watched the vehicle skid past the sharp corner rounding out County Road. The noise from the whipping winds didn’t drown out the sound of squealing tires as the car violently fishtailed.

Carl wanted to call out to the driver, but nothing came out of his mouth. Helplessly, he watched the green Grand Am slam into a tree.

He raced down the porch steps and across the front yard as hail the size of gumballs pelted his body. But he didn’t care.

The car was a mangled piece of metal. He tugged on the door handle. “Come on!” Grunting with his teeth clenched, he tried again, praying the door would open. “Please, God! Come on! Come on!” But the driver’s door was jammed shut.

He yanked on the handle again, but the force he exerted triggered pain in his back as if someone stabbed him with a knife. He screamed, pressing his hands on his lower back. Struggling to catch his breath, he collapsed against the car.

Carl pounded on the cracked window, hoping the noise would rouse the driver slumped over the steering wheel. Cupping his hands around his eyes like a pair of binoculars and squinting through the hail, he still couldn’t make out who it was. Using his hand like a windshield wiper, he pushed the wet surface back and forth to get a clearer picture inside the totaled car. A thick strand of long, dark hair lay across the woman’s face.

He gasped when he recognized her. “No! It can’t be.”

His head tilted up at the sound of wood cracking. One snap. Then another. By the third crack, he watched in horror as the winds uprooted a tree that plummeted onto the roof of the car, grabbing black wires from the electric pole with it on its decent.

Carl dove to the ground, shielding his head from the sparks shooting from the car’s engine like a mini fireworks display.

He stumbled to his feet.

Live wires draped over the crushed car ignited flames beneath the hood. The fire spread quickly. Flames leaped onto his shirt, scorching the fabric. Fiercely, he slapped his arm.

Seconds later, the fire set off an explosion, engulfing the car in roaring flames.

The blast sent Carl flying. When he hit the ground, his head made contact with something hard and his vision blurred. His fingers dug into the cold, wet dirt as he tried lifting his chest off the ground. But what little strength he had wasn’t enough and his body collapsed.