Procella
 

LANGLY:

Bryce sees it, too.

"Think this might not have been the day to go out for lunch?"

"Might not have been." We turn around and hope to god the fucker isn't headed our way.

Wind is seriously kicking up. Stuff is blowing all around the streets, and people are starting to freak.

Sure, tornadoes can happen anywhere. We just don't usually get 'em around here. Sometimes we get the tails of hurricanes, but we're far enough inland that we don't get clobbered like the shoreline does.

I always think of 'The Wizard of Oz' when I think of tornadoes. The urge to scream 'Surrender Dorothy' is about to take over, but I don't know that anyone would get it. Most of all Bryce. I mean, Bryce is okay, but I bet he never saw the flick. Bryce is one of those kids that never had a childhood, so he decided to have it in his 20s. Sad to say, he managed to get caught at it, too.

I got caught likewise, but I wasn't trying for a lost youth. Mine was simply the prolongation of mine.

And I've managed to keep it going. At least for a while.

Although a little while ago I scared myself when I said I was gonna kill Patrick when I got home...sounded like my old man, talking about me.

Right now, though, the person who's scared of getting killed is me. And not without good reason. I'm not small, and I'm having a hard time not getting knocked over by the wind. Bryce isn't as big as I am, and he's gone down twice now. I picked him up the last time, and he didn't bitch about it.

He looks pretty fucking scared. I bet I do, too.

I pulled my hair back this morning, but it's flapping me so hard it hurts. We've got three blocks to get back into the security (?) of our office.

I don't think we're gonna make it.

The rain starts kicking in, and it's coming down wicked hard. I feel like about a thousand Silverman needles are jabbing me. Bad memories.

Less than a minute, and we're drenched.

The wind is brutal.

God I hope this isn't happening in Alexandria...tornadoes can be weird that way. They'll totally tear up one house and leave the one next to it standing without a scratch. I hope all the cats are in. I hope Ally and the kids are okay. I hope Junior and Frohike and Byers are in a safe place...

I've gotta get to them.

First I gotta get through this in one piece.

Bryce is totally knocked down now. And I can't buck the wind. We both lie down against the curb, and I close my eyes, and I pray to God this is over soon...

Soon won't be fast enough this time.

**********************************************************************************************************

This is like being body-slammed by a bulldozer. Or Patrick. I think about how he landed on us this morning, and I was like, Oh God, I'm gonna break.

This time, I really could break. And it's not funny.

I'm scared.

Just make it stop. Make it stop, so I can get the hell back to Virginia to make sure my family's okay...

Please.
 

MICHAEL:

God, it got windy all of a sudden.

Big switch from earlier when I was in the pool. Then it was like the air was made of lead. I made my 200 laps, but I almost died doing it.

I'm the only one in the offices right now, and I notice some of the stuff is getting a little bit tetchy from the wind and interference. I decide I'm gonna shut down some of the stuff. At least the expensive stuff. It shorts out, we are fucked. Yeah, Byers and Ally have big bank accounts, but it's not like we can hit on them every time we need a new toy. Or a replacement.

I close up a bit. I better go and check on Ally and the kids. I mean, Ally's cool and all, she can do it, but you know, it's a Frohike thing. We're like such hopeless male chauvinist guys.

It's gotten real dark out here, too. We don't have many windows and we usually keep the blinds shut. So it's always kind of dark in the offices, and when you step outside, you're almost blind from the light. I've learned not to go out when I have my lenses in without grabbing a pair of sunglasses first. Something about those puppies that makes your eyes go nuts in the light.

Don't need them today, that's for sure.

SHIT! What the fuck is that thing?

It's big, and it's black, and it's like spinning towards us...no way. Can't be. Doesn't that only happen in Kansas and places like that?

Maybe it got lost and figured us for Kansas.

Whatever, I'm getting my ass inside, right now.

I get inside just about the time we start getting pelted with raindrops. Ally doesn't seem impressed when I tell her it looks like we're getting a tornado. All she says is, least it's not an earthquake.

What do you want? Ally's from San Francisco originally, and did some time in LA. So for her, like, earthquakes are the thing to be scared of.

Except the wind is really screeching now, and she looks a little nervous. She's got Miranda and Patrick and Shelby's there, too, and she suddenly seems a little more worried, and she goes over to the phone, probably to try and dial Langly.

She can't reach him.

Well, it's getting close to lunchtime. I tell her maybe he went out.

"That's what has me worried," she says softly.

"He's a big boy, and he's smart, he'll be okay." I hope this as I say it, although I would die before I ever admitted it to him.

CNN is on, the weather is the story. Bunch of tornadoes in the DC area, and throughout southern and western Maryland and northern and central Virginia.

We would be northern Virginia.

The wind's gotten so fierce that the TV image flickers. Ally says she's gonna get her earthquake TV-if she can find it.

Earthquake TV?

"Yeah, we got a 5-inch black and white, runs on a million batteries, so you can watch TV during the earthquakes." Miranda looks at me like I'm stupid.

Sue me. Never lived on the West Coast.

Wonder how it would be there. I always thought it'd be sort of cool to live there. Ally and Miranda liked it a lot. Course, they're natives.

Oh Christ. I gotta call Kelly...I hope she's okay.

The one good thing about Kelly, her lab is underground. There's a bunch of floors underground in the Life Science buildings at Georgetown, and she's in one of them. I feel a little better knowing this. She may not even know this is happening.

Maybe I shouldn't call her and get her all upset. I mean, she might be just moving through the day and not even know what's happening outside, no point in messing things up for her. And Dr. Scully's real nice, but she doesn't like people spending their lives on the phone and doing personal business on her lab time. They got lots to do. Kelly's really having to scramble to keep up. She likes her job a lot, but she feels real swamped.

Better not to hassle her right now.

Ally tries Langly's number again. No dice. He ain't in.

She dials the prof and Juliet. No answer. Says the phone's out of service.

Oh fuck.

Where the hell is my dad?!
 

FROHIKE:

I always have the strangest sense of déjà vu when I'm in Ms. Russell's office, seeing as it was our office for so long in DC.

We're disheartened by what we're finding. Used to be that Ms. Russell would do work for corporations that were concerned over depleted inventory, suspected embezzlement, software piracy, implantation of computer viruses for the purpose of sabotage, and hacking into unauthorized systems. Not that I would anything about these activities, of course.

I don't steal or embezzle, at any rate. Everything else is up for grabs.

She still gets requests for these kinds of jobs. Lots of them. She could work 24/7 and still have work left over.

She doesn't operate that way. She's been turning down corporate clients in favor of employees who feel they're being screwed over by their employers.

Needless to say, she has plenty of business. Her fees are stiff, but people are angry enough to be willing to pay the freight.

And what we are finding is, regrettably, these employees nearly always have something to be concerned about.

We've just finished chatting with Renegade on line. Much of the work is done by him in his discreet mountain location. Even I am not sure where he is located. Ms. Russell does, but she would never divulge it.

How they manage their relationship in the context it exists is a mystery to me-but they do better than that. They seem content with the way things are. She has no desire to move out into the wilderness with him, and he can only deal with urban life in small doses. The context of the relationship may be virtual, but the relationship itself seems solid-and makes her happy.

It's been a difficult day. Jo's situation, coupled with no sleep, are running me into the ground. My ulcer is having a field day-and this when Michael specifically requested that I cook tonight.

I get a chance to banter a bit with Renegade, which is always enjoyable. He promises he'll be around soon. That's as definitive as you'll ever get from him. But it's good to know that we will see him in due time.

Renegade is perhaps the only hacker with a reputation even more legendary than The Thinker. Who now is the late, deceased Thinker.

And to think all this time he was Langly's older brother. I would never have guessed. I know that they enjoyed a close on line relationship...but that's not unusual in the virtual world. Say what you will about computers, but there are communities out there-and the Internet has brought them together. Community and contact has been redefined and will continue to be.

I think I belong to another era, perhaps, because it's my belief that humans still need to see each other's faces, to hear each other's voices, to touch one another. The cyberworld is certainly a place to connect...but in my mind, not the ultimate one.

I guess I'm just old-fashioned that way. For someone who believes in technology and the power of the Internet as strongly as I do, I'm quite the Luddite in matters of human relations.

Also in music. Michael is forever after me to upgrade my vinyl to CD's.

Not a snowball's chance in hell.

We're rehashing some of our findings together when we hear what sounds like a loud pounding on the roof. There are no windows here-we considered that an asset-so we don't know what's going on outdoors.

I walk out to see what's happening.

Rain. Hard, vicious, brutal rain...blackened skies, hurling their fury on us.

With wind to match.

A summer storm.

I hope Michael is all right. I suspect he is fine. He's in the offices, and he'll know what to do to keep the equipment from being destroyed.

I just hope he has enough brains to get out of the pool.
 

BYERS:

On-line conferences are frequently annoying, but I'm grateful not to have to step outside. Supposedly, we are in the path of numerous tornadoes-I know that tornadoes are not a common occurrence in the DC-Maryland-Virginia area, but they're not unheard of, either.

And in this case, I'm doubly grateful not to have to step out, as this is my meeting with the lawyers that my father referred me to. I get the impression these individuals are probably more familiar with white collar crimes, although allegedly they have bailed out more than a few congressmen and other notables who were either stupid enough or unfortunate enough to be caught drunk driving, bar fighting, or consorting with ladies of the evening.

I think my crime has even less status than the aforementioned ones; the contempt of the attorneys I am conferring with is palpable, even on-line. I can't fault their manners, but sometimes, attitudes override even with the most constrained courtesies.

Juliet is in the kitchen, preparing lunch. This is her first time cooking since her injury, and I look forward to it. She offered graciously, perhaps as a balm for what will probably be an uncomfortable discussion.

In spite of my embarrassment and unease, I am still unrepentant. I'm not sorry I did what I did. And I would do it again, and with increased force, should anyone ever dare attempt to harm Juliet again.

The two attorneys, whose names are Armstrong and Lovelace (I'll have to check the masthead of their stationary to see where they fall in the pecking order, but assuming my father called them, I'm certain they are not first-year associates), both of them somewhere around my own age or at least within a few years, WASPish in the extreme, and judging from their accents, both natives of the New England area.

"How are you, Dr. Byers?" Armstrong leads off the discussion.

My father must have apprised them of my doctoral status. I gave no indication of it in the police reports; my occupation is listed as professor, but that doesn't necessarily indicate that the holder is a PhD.

"I've been better," I admit.

"We're sure." The voice is modulated, not unlike my own, but I hope that I don't exude that lack of sincerity.

Fuck their sincerity. What I need is not to have a criminal record. Or at least a minimal one.

"First we need to have you tell us what happened."

It's in the police report, of course, but I'm assuming they want to hear it in my own words.

I wish we'd opted for data conferencing. I really feel uncomfortable with a video conference set up.

At least Juliet is not within visible range at the moment. She of course can hear me-the apartment is so small-but I know she will not intrude. She knows I am sensitive about this matter.

And she knows it was for her.

After lunch, I think I'd like to crawl into bed with her and make love until I have no anguish left.

That could take a while, but I'm willing to give it a try.

I reiterate the story for what seems to be the thousandth time. It sounds so cliched, so trite, when I tell it. I would like to make myself sound noble, but mostly, I come off as ill-tempered and lacking in control.

Which is exactly what I was afraid of.

Armstrong and Lovelace feel that, in view of the fact that I have no previous record (our incident in Baltimore a dozen years ago was conveniently expunged, although the convenience I suspect that was in their minds was not ours), have a respectable job, and that the attack was on my fiancee, that they can cut me a very reasonable deal, if not get the charges dropped. I find myself letting out an audible breath. I hadn't realized that I'd forgotten to carry on such a basic function for a significant
period of time.

Between feeling somewhat hopeful that I can escape, or minimize, a conviction for criminal activity, and the smell of what Juliet is cooking, I'm hungry again. My nose picks up the fragrance of Greek salad and spankopita. Juliet may not be Greek, but you'd never know it from the way she can cook in that style.

She moves about the kitchen slowly, haltingly, but her movements have become more stable and less tentative than they have been. I embrace her without a word, and she leans against me, both for support and affection.

And I need her support. No matter how weak her leg may be, her spirit is what gives me strength.

"C'mon, let's eat," she says, kissing me and giving me her lovely smile.

I offer to serve, and she agrees readily to that.

"And as a special treat, I'll let you do the dishes," she laughs.

What a privilege.

Actually, as long as I'm not behind bars, I'll gladly do the dishes for the next century. I wonder if I can propose that as a potential punishment.

There's wine, too-retsina. Normally not one of my favorites, but it does go with the meal, and it will get you drunk rapidly. I could stand to get drunk rapidly this afternoon.

I pour Juliet a glass, and just as I'm about to pour one for myself, I hear a loud crash...and watch as pieces of our roof fly off into the heavens, sending rain and wind furiously into our apartment.

I grab Juliet and fling her to the ground and throw myself on top of her. I'm not gentle, but this is one of those times where urgency counts more than gentility.

And we wait.
 

LANGLY:

Finally.

I can feel rain bashing down on me-still the Silverman needle effect in action-but the wind is gone.

I'm totally dazed when I try and sit up on the curb. Not to mention drenched and dirty. And I've got a gash on my left arm, and it's bleeding pretty good.

Oh fuck. Bryce. Where the fuck is he?

I can't see a goddamn thing and I soon realize why. My glasses are gone. Shit! I'm Atom Ant, man-totally helpless without my glasses.

I yell out for Bryce, and I'm not getting an answer. I start down the curb where we were walking. Street is trashed. There's glass and metal and god knows what all over the place.

I think that's him. And he's not moving too good. I'm gonna flip him over, but then I notice he's bleeding, I think out of his head. I lean in closer so I can see, and yep, it's in his head. Oh fuck.

"Hey, dude, you hear me?" I yell to him.

"Uh-huh." More like groaning than talking here.

"C'mon, man, we gotta get you some help." I'm trying to pull him up, and he's smaller than me, but he's not like the same size as a lunchbox, and it's a real pain. He's as soaked and messed up as I am. Oh man, I hope what he got, it's not serious, we're a long way from work-well, not if you're in prime shape, but we hardly qualify at the moment.

Jesus fuck. And all we wanted was something to eat. Funny how that happens. You think the worst thing that happens is it's hotter than hell, and then you find out, hey, that was like nothing.

"C'mon, man, move!" I'm dragging Bryce along, and I mean dragging. He's lost his glasses, too.

Wonderful. Two bats wandering around fucking DC totally blind. We look like some of the looters who're probably about to come out and see what they can get.

I can't tell if he's hurt bad because I can't fucking see well enough. Farthest away I can see anything clearly in good light without my hair and water and dirt in my eyes is about six inches, and none of that's gonna hold up right now.

"Slow the fuck down, will you?" He's hurting for certain, but I got to get him indoors.

"Just take it easy, will ya? You gotta get inside, now! You got your head messed up!"

"You take me to a hospital, I'll fucking kill you, you asshole," he hisses this at me.

"Hey, whaddya want, you wanna go into a coma or something? Jesus, dude, we gotta get you some help!"

"Look, I'm not going, I'm not!" He's like in pain talking, but he's not moving now.

"Look, dude, you can't just go back to work like that, you gotta get fixed up!"

"Then take me home!"

"I'm not taking you home, not till you get your head looked at, you idiot!"

"Then take me to your house! You got a wife, let her look at it!"

Ally doesn't know shit about medicine. But she's a mommy at heart, to all of us, and maybe she can convince him to do something about his head...

Course, we got to get there first...and I hope to God they're all okay...

This is not gonna be fun.
 

FROHIKE:

The tornadoes are not in our path; the rain beats steadily, but we can hear the wind declining as we watch The Weather Channel.

Tornadoes are discriminating, but there is no logic to their discrimination. Alexandria was largely spared, as was Fairfax, Arlington, Anniston, and Silver Springs...but places such as Baltimore were hit heavily...

Oh. My. God. Baltimore.

Martha is in Baltimore.

Jesus H. Christ. I've got to find out if she's all right.

And if everyone else is as well.

I excuse myself hastily.
 

No, I didn't write down her phone number.

I have it committed to memory.

I try the first pay phone I see, which is of course out of order, as is the second and the third one. The entire network in the area is most likely down.

At moments like this, I wish I believed in cellular technology as a personal means of communicating, but even with that, there'd be no guarantee that the substations in the area would be operational, and chances are, even if they were, the cells would be overloaded.

I need to find out if my son is all right, first of all. Then Langly and Byers and their respective significant others. The Mulders. Silver Springs was reportedly not in the path of any of the tornadoes sighted, but I'd feel better knowing for certain.

And I've got to know if Martha is all right. I don't know why, but I do.

Decision time. What to do?

I decide to head for the Capitol area. Power and phone service tend to recover rapidly there, more so than in other areas. So much for democracy.

Parking is, as always, a challenge. I luck out and find a space about a block from the Pentagon just as someone, probably a tourist judging from the minivan with the Georgia plates, bails out post-haste.

Langly works down here. I'm sure they were untouched; the Pentagon has so many backup generators and subsystems that a blackout of more than a second or two is highly unlikely. The way they're set up, hospitals have more of a chance of suffering from electrical problems than they would.

It's still raining, but not so hard as it was before. Most people are off the streets; you rarely see DC this desolate at midday during the week in summertime. All I see are two bedraggled looking men, one supporting the other, coming up the sidewalk. One of them is brunette, and looks rather bloody...I need to see if they need any help.

Oh Jesus Christ. It's Langly, and someone I don't recognize.

"Langly!" I shout at him. I'm sure it's him. Even wet and dirty, the hair and the height still make him stand out.

"Wha-Frohike? That you?"

"No, it's the Pope! Of course it's me!"

"Well, thank you for sharing that, because I can't see a fucking thing!" He seems unduly irritated-until I discover, on closer inspection, that he is minus his glasses. His complaint that he can't see me is not unfounded here.

The man leaning against him is bleeding from the head, but when they come closer, a quick inspection reveals that it's mostly a surface wound. Head wounds appear to be worse than they are many times when blood is involved-it's when they're not bleeding you have to worry.

"Do you know this person?" I ask Langly.

"Yeah, it's Bryce, we work together. Bryce, Frohike."

The man leaning against Langly is somewhat shorter than Langly but definitely taller than me, with dark hair worn in spikes and as much body piercing as Michael. At least visible body piercing. If he has a navel ring, or god forbid, one in his privates, at least I don't have to look at it.

I notice at that point that Langly has a good sized gash in his arm, and while Bryce's wound gives the more frightening appearance, this one looks as though it went deeper, almost as if a chunk of metal hit him, or a large piece of glass.

I've got to get medical attention to these two.

And I've got to get hold of Martha.

END OF PART 83