Twist of Fate

By Lincoln Reed

Mark ducked away from a barrage of hail moments before the gunshot clacked. The bullet skimmed his shoulder as a gust, gritty and wet, kicked him to the sidewalk. The tornado slashing through the Indiana countryside was closing in—debris and trees rotating in a torrid sky like dust in a vacuum. Mark dragged himself up and darted into a narrow alley, slumping against a brick wall as lumps of ice drummed the concrete.

The grocery store manager checked his wound, noting mechanically the warm sensation of blood on his fingertips. He was lucky. If it weren’t for the storm, the shooter’s aim might’ve proved lethal. Then what would happen to her? He applied pressure to the cut and leaned his head back a moment for clarity.

With firmer resolve, Mark verified he had five rounds in his revolver. Only takes one.

The shooter had two distinct advantages. No, three. First, he had bunkered himself within the church. Second, he had decent aim. Third, he had Mark’s daughter.

Mark’s jaw reflexively tightened. The twister was at the outskirts of town, gaining momentum, churning the landscape in a blender of houses, cars, and fences.

What if she’s hurt? Frightened? If he so much as—

Mark closed his eyes, trying to shut out the scenarios that threatened.

A shrill scream echoed from across the street.

Lia.

Must focus. Stay clear. He exhaled, readied his revolver, and poked his head around the alley’s opening. Forty yards to the church.

The tornado loomed in the yellow horizon, humming like a freight train, shredding everything in its path. Not much time left.

Mark lunged into the street. Bullets smacked the road. He pumped his arms and sprinted until a gust barreled him into the side of an SUV. A gunshot shattered the windshield. He hunched behind the rear bumper.

Lia. Her name was an ache. Lia at one, at two, three. Lia in her school photos, Lia with his eyes, her mother’s smile. Lia who despised vegetables.

He’d brought her to work that day as he had each Saturday for the past year. Turned his back for a moment before glimpsing the man dragging her away, carrying her down the sidewalk and into the church as a tornado siren wailed.

With all the gusto left in his legs, Mark ran toward the parish, swung open the front doors. “Lia!”

Wind howled. Walls groaned.

He had never used the gun. The revolver was for security, hidden beneath the checkout register—a last resort. He’d never shot another person, nor had he the stomach for violence.

Lia. If it meant holding her once more, tucking her in, kissing her forehead… he would kill. He’d shred the kidnapper’s throat.

With arms straight and gun extended as he’d seen cops do in the movies, Mark checked all the rooms on the first floor. His heart punched his ribcage with each labored breath as adrenaline surged through his limbs…

Footsteps.

A bald head with a grizzled sneer edged around the corner.

Mark unloaded a bullet. Drywall sprayed. The kickback jolted his arms.

The man dipped into a hallway and returned fire. Mark stooped behind a pew. The church’s ceiling rattled and lifted in a whoosh—whisked into the twister like a Band-Aid ripped off in one clean motion.

Lia. Her baptism, in this church. Choir recitals. Youth group. And, one day, the aisle he would walk her down…

Mark resumed his chase until reaching the basement door.

He tried the doorknob.

Locked.

He stepped back, aimed the gun, steadied his nerve, shot a hole through the bolt.

Hinges squealed. The door swung inward, revealing a staircase leading into pure darkness.

With the windstorm pulling him away from the threshold, Mark sprang into the cellar, plummeted down the stairs, and landed with a thud.

“Daddy!”

Lia’s strained cry snapped Mark once more into action. He rose to a knee. Then bowed as gunshot tore through a nearby crate.

Mark’s revolver sang in reply until empty.

Click.

He set the gun on the ground and listened for Lia as the storm’s intensity threatened to muffle her voice.

When his eyes adjusted to the basement’s dark interior, Mark noticed the variety of storage boxes and wooden containers organized like walls in a maze—boxes of foodstuffs, canned goods, and imperishable items his store had donated to the church’s soup kitchen.

He opened a lid and snatched a can of green beans.

Lia hated green beans. Loathed their texture and taste. Refused to eat them.

“Daddy! Help!”

The bald man yanked Lia up the stairs and into the storm.

Mark gripped the canned beans like a football and sprinted toward the sound of his daughter’s shriek. He pursued up the steps, grabbed Lia’s leg, and tugged.

The kidnapper’s black eyes pierced Mark’s. He lifted his gun toward the grocery manager, squinted, and—

Thunk.

Canned beans smacked the man’s skull.

The kidnapper went limp. Released, Lia stumbled backward. The weapon clattered to the ground.

With a swoosh, the tornado sucked the would-be captor away from the basement, into the air, and gobbled him into its thunderous tempest.

Mark caught Lia and held her tight. She whimpered in his arms as he repeated, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Daddy’s here.”

When the storm had passed, Mark carried his daughter from the basement into an evening devoid of wind. The twister had traveled beyond the town, leaving behind an unsettling serenity amongst scattered wreckage.

He kissed Lia on the temple and presented the can of beans. “See? I told you.”

Her blue eyes, still shaken, locked with his, confused.

Mark gave a soft smile. “Veggies are good for you.”

She hugged to him with a tight squeeze and nestled into his chest. Mark sighed. Don’t worry. I won’t make you eat these. Can’t sacrifice our lucky beans.

As the day waned and survivors emerged from their hiding spots, Mark carried his daughter away from the flattened landscape.

They were going home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 45 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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