Mice to Men

a short by

jaebi

CONTENTS

1. ACT ONE

2. ACT TWO

3. ACT THREE

4. ACT FOUR

5. ACT FIVE

6. ACT SIX

The summer was on the verge of falling to autumn, the air as crisp as a bite into a freshly picked apple. Weather so mild and pleasant it was agreeable to nearly everyone.
I immersed myself in it and all the dozens of men, women and children that were enjoying the afternoon weather.  I parked on a bench in Central Park and absorbed the ambiance of joyous life.
People watching had always been one of my favorite pastimes.  I find us infinitely entertaining and ten times as interesting as a show about a family of meekrats.  Some of our interactions are found in other animals but our potential seems boundless at times.  Humans are infinitely complex and that breeds our spontaneity.  Expect the unexpected, is the motto of our existence.  Our people are so diverse; yet still manage to share a collective beauty.
I felt my cell phone buzz; still on vibrate, as it tends to be when I’m in the studio.  The caller ID tells me it is Cynthia, my favorite girl as of late.
Cynthia and I met just as the unofficial summer kicked off at a Memorial Day party in Santo Domingo.  There we were, two New Yorkers full of rum, getting to know one another to the tunes of raunchy pop music.
At first I was worried she might recognize me from the local news.  But the truth was more than half the time I was on the air I took a backseat to my weather report.  Singles typically head to tropical destinations to meet folks from outside their city, so our romance nearly came to an early halt.  Neither of us wanted to risk running into a Caribbean fling back home.  In the end, it didn’t matter.  The flame inside of us broiled whenever we were near.  There wasn’t ever an awkward moment of silence or the anxiety around ending up in one.  We enjoyed drinking and hanging out as much as we did seeing each other naked.
After swapping photos of our getaway, it became clear that we were going to extend our budding relationship into the summer fling season.
It was the tail end of the summer now and our flame seemed to be burning strong.  I answered her call.  “Hey you.”
“Omigod, you have to come over here—you have to come over—“
“What’s wrong—what’s going on?  Talk to me.”
“Please, please, please.”
“Talk to me, what’s the matter?”  The more I tried to get her to make sense, the more she mumbled on.  She was hysterical, sniveling like a child.  I couldn’t understand her words or get her to calm down.  “I’m on my way.”
I’d never heard Cynthia like that.  She sounded like she was in trouble.  New York is a safer city than it was when I was a kid but any city of its size is prone to a fair number of random horrific events.  The kind of things that you never think will happen to you until they do.
I called 911 as soon as I gave the taxi driver the address.
“9-1-1, state your emergency.”
“There’s an emergency happening right now on Avenue B and 7th.”
“Are you in danger?”
“No, it’s my girlfriend.  She needs help—now!”  I’d never classified Cynthia as ‘girlfriend’ before but for some reason I thought that keyword might speed their response time.  “She called me for help, she was horrified, I think someone may have attacked her—please send someone.”  I hung up the phone.
I knew they were trained to immediately dispatch units when calls ended abruptly.  One of my colleagues did an expose on the city’s emergency response network.
I hopped out the cab without closing the door.  I shouted back an insincere ‘sorry’ when I heard the driver shout obscenities.  I then sped to the top floor of Cynthia’s three-story walkup.
“Cynthia,” I called, frantically, letting myself in with the spare key she gave me for emergencies.  I didn’t hear anything, so I called out a second time, as I skipped through the apartment. “Where are you?”
“Here—in the bedroom!”
I rushed toward the last room of her railroad apartment, immediately engulfed in the jasmine infused perfume she wore.  Cynthia was wrapped in her comforter and sheets, her almond shaped eyes peering timidly through a tiny space in the folds.
“I saw a mouse,” she mumbled, from under the covers.  “There’s a mouse in here.”
“What,” I responded, dropping my shoulders.  I felt the adrenaline seep out of my muscles like air from a punctured tire.  I asked her to repeat herself, desperately hoping for something less absurd.  She gave the same answer and I could only laugh.  The more I thought about it, the harder I laughed.
“It’s not funny.  Please, you have to catch it—I can’t stay here!”
I choked myself trying to speak.  It was just the kind of charming absurdity that made watching people so enjoyable.  But charming absurdities are like abstract art to relationships.  Intriguing at first, it draws you in but after six months or so, you can’t stand to look at it anymore.  People’s absurdities don’t change as easy a frame on a wall.  Folks rarely change at all and that leads to staleness.  The moment you realize your love has gone stale, you do all you can to give it new life.  Often it’s already too late, but closure never comes if you don’t secure your right to say ‘I tried.’
The doorbell rang.  I knew who it was instantly.
“Cynthia,” I called, as I opened the door.  Two of New York’s Finest eyeballed me curiously.
“Someone called 911,” one officer asked?
“Just a second officer,” I responded.  I thought they should see she was okay first.  I was aroused instantly as Cynthia’s curvy hips and shoulders swayed toward the door.  She nested her small frame against my side.  “I called the cops on the way over.”
“Derrick,” she said with a scolding tone.
“You were hysterical; I never heard anything like that in my life.”
“Oh my—“
“Are you okay ma’am,” an officer asked?  His voiced boomed in the hallway.
“False alarm guys—she saw a mouse or something—“
“In the kitchen,” Cynthia squealed.  “Oh my god, it’s still here.”  She squirmed absurdly.  Adorably.
The officers snickered, then one of them got serious again.  “Sir, 911 is for real emergencies.  Use better judgment next time.  And take care of the mouse for the young lady.”
“My mistake, have a good day officers,” I said, promptly closing the door.  New York City is full of the kind of cops you’re never happy to see unless your life depended on it.  “Happy now?  Now I’m on their cry-wolf list.”
“Why would you do that anyway?”
“I thought someone was killing you!  Why would you act that way over a mouse—you’re a gazillion times bigger.”  She squealed again when I said mouse, jumping up and down.  “They’re terrified of you—there’s nothing they can do to hurt you.  They’re not even capable of thinking of you, so how can a mouse come after you.”
“Don’t say it—eww, I don’t like it, I don’t like them.  Are you going to catch it?  Please baby, please,” she pleaded, absurdly, adorable, and beyond logic.
“Oh sure, let me just go and get my wascily rodent kit.
“We’re going to your place.”
Now it had gone too far.  Forced cohabitation was like leaving a naked slice of bread in the fridge overnight--instant staleness.
“Let’s go to the hardware store,” I surrendered.

Catching mice was simple.  Rodents weren’t high on the evolutionary scale.  They’re creatures bound by habit and instinct.  I’d read that they scurried around homes in distinct crawl patterns—the same each night unless something got in the way.  It was doubtful they even had a thought process, propelled exclusively by survival--the true rat race.  A few glue traps, peanut butter and cheese in strategic locations and this mouse was as good as dead.
I placed the traps in the usual areas, behind the fridge, in the corners behind the stove and kitchen sink and anywhere I saw those tale-tell pellets.
“Now we wait,” I said, flopping down next to Cynthia on her bed.
“Thanks for staying,” Cynthia said.  She planted a tender kiss on my cheeks then grazed her full lips along the side of my face until she reached my lips.  I basked in her sweet smell, knowing that the aroma would forever conjure her in my mind.
Cynthia pressed her lips against mine, letting her body melt against me, the way she always does when she wants to make love.  I obliged.
After Cynthia fell asleep, I eased out of the bed and went to the computer room, one of the smallest rooms on the railroad apartment, adjacent to the kitchen.  I settled in and caught up on the latest Internet junk and polished off a liter of orange cola.
Something grey streaked past my peripheral.  My fingers froze on the mouse and I shifted my eyes to focus on the area I saw movement.  It didn’t take long before a tiny mouse filled my field of vision and then scurried out of view again.
I moved slowly from my seat, taking the empty bottle with me.  I balanced on my toes toward the open entryway into the kitchen and leaned against the wall.  I could see the tiny grey mouse leisurely scooting around the kitchen floor.  It would move a few steps, stop and wiggle its whiskers, then move again.
I raised the plastic liter bottle, tensing for a clear shot.  If I hit the mouse dead on with the hard ends of the bottle, I could stun it and scoop it up in the trash.
Slowly, the mouse made its way back toward me, closer to the open area where I could get a clear shot.
I snapped my wrist and flung the bottle toward the tiny rodent.  The little guy vibrated and moved quickly.  I thought my aim had been good, but the closer the bottle came to my target, the more I realized I had missed.
The mouse ran toward the refrigerator on the other side of the kitchen, stopped and about faced.
I shivered as my eyes met the mouse’s tiny black dots.  The mouse’s pink nose and silver whiskers twitched maniacally.  I drew a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline pumping into my muscles.
The raging silence was filled with the moment you realize an altercation is going to become physical.  Admittedly a rare occurrence in my world, but I had certainly never imagined such intensity could come from a rodent—a mouse.
The mouse squeaked—squealed and dash in my direction.  I stepped back as the tiny animal charged, coming to my senses when it came within reach.  I kicked hard, my aim a lot better this time.  My slipper connected with the mouse and it flung two feet away.  The mouse landed on its back, rolled over and charged again.  The bastard was fast.
I kicked again, missing this time.  The force of my empty blow swung my body halfway around on my pivot foot.  The mouse jumped and clawed its way up my leg, a tickling sensation riding up my thigh.  Outraged, I grabbed for the mouse, catching its tail and hind legs between my thumb and forefinger.  The mouse wiggled and squirmed, feeling like a warm fuzzy stress ball.
The mouse squeaked loudly and popped out of my right hand, just before I grabbed again with my left.  This time I had the bugger dead center.  I grappled both hands around its body so it couldn’t wiggle and squeeze out.
I’d had several mice as pets when I was young.  The domesticated kinds were pretty, with sand brown fur and bright red eyes.  This mouse was hideous in comparison, dirty and grey and smelly.  But it did something my pets never did.  It looked at me.  The mouse stared directly into my eyes; saw me, acknowledged me even as it cowered in fear.
I’d held ferrets, guinea pigs and hamsters in the palm of my hand.  I studied them, their mannerisms, and their movements, held them close to my face.  Rodents never looked back at me—they never acknowledged me.
Humans are just another creature to rodents--a bigger, stronger creature but still just another creature.  I felt fear as the mouse sized me up and then I felt the rodent’s teeth sink into the wedge of my hand.
I reacted, flinging the mouse against the wall.  It smacked the wall sounding like half cooked eggs spilling on linoleum tile, and then fell to the floor.  The mouse twitched rhythmically.
I walked toward the mouse enraged by the stinging in my left hand, which had begun to spill blood.  I could see the mouse breathing, as its head turned toward me.  Those eyes met mine again; the rest of its body lay stunned.  I placed my slipper over the mouse’s head and pressed down.  There was a dying squeak and then a squirt of pink liquid shot from under my foot.
I felt my face twist as I cleaned up the mess thoroughly, making sure there were no remnants of the slaughter.  I’d decided not to tell Cynthia by the time I rinsed my bite wound under cold water.  I put a band-aid on and shuffled back into the bedroom.  I felt the dizzying affects of late night living as I slipped into bed next to Cynthia.  I didn’t feel myself falling asleep.

Rincina was waiting for me when I came to.  I knew I was dreaming the moment I realized I knew the mouse’s name and gender.
We stood in the kitchen across from one another—Rincina looking at me, and I at her.
Rincina’s nose twitched furiously and my hand began throbbing.  I lifted the bandage to check the wound and was somewhat relieved that it looked as bad as it felt, pulsing like an enlarged vein.
“My gift to you.  Once given to me,” Rincina said.  Her voice was airy, yet even, like a self-assured child.
I looked around as a sanity check but I knew it was Rincina that spoke.
“I speak, just as I see,” Rincina said, as I turned back to look at her beady eyes.
“I can fly.  Anything can happen in a dream,” I replied.
“I spoke to you before, but you could not understand.  You will understand now.”
“Understand?“
“What I see.”
“And what do you see?”
“You,” Rincina said.  She let out a high-pitched squeal but instead of clenching my ears like I might have done if I was awake, I clenched my wounded hand, which felt on the verge of explosion.”
I ripped myself from the lucid dream, tugging my torso from Cynthia’s bed so I was upright.  I braced myself, both palms against the mattress as I looked around pensively.  The sound of spraying water filled my ears, followed by a melodious hum.
My body eased as I imagined water falling over Cynthia’s bare curves.  My focus gravitated toward the weather reporter on the TV.  A well-shaped man in a suit that contoured his shoulders and torso stood before a map of the contiguous US.  He waved his harms in a windmill fashion to imitate a storm system gravitating toward the northeast.
“—and you can see here, this massive storm system swirling on its way toward the tri-state region.  When it gets here, it’s likely to lose some of its power, though our neighbors to the south—Atlanta, and as far north as Virginia will see some heavy rainfall.  We’re expected to get 2 to 4 inches here.”
I switched to the weather channel to see how my substitute was fairing.  Mike Winter was just a few years young and seemed to have a love for storms.  But he envied the likes of Al Roker, which I could understand on some levels.  Al was a top earning weatherman that is routinely sent around the country for one of the cushiest gigs in all of broadcasting.  He’s well known and appreciated and does very little actual work.
Mike stood left of center frame, a building and single light pole sharing the screen with him.  He was covered in a dark rain jacket, the hood pulled around the sides of his face, plenty of room for his microphone.  His voice was a calm shout, the pace of his words unbalanced as after a jog.  Gusts of wind poured from the speakers over Mike’s voice.
Mike gestured to his left, prompting the cameraman to pan and zoom out to reveal a walking tunnel in the building.  Mike proceeded to walk through the tunnel, orating what was plain to see.  The wind pushed against his body, his pants and jacket flapping like a flag.
The wind tunnel is a known effect.  Similar effects happen in many areas on the island with its narrow streets and tall buildings.  Mike explained this and then remarked how the wind on either side of the tunnel moved slower.  He then prompted the cameraman to catch a shot of the coast.
A massive connection of clouds blended making it difficult to imagine them ever being separate.  In the center stood a figure, massive arms and torso bending out of the clouds.  The arms disappeared into the clouds and I could see what had to be its’ fingers jutting out the other end.
I hit the info button on the remote.  Had I gone to the sci-fi channel accidentally?  That might have been possible but when did Mike Winter get into acting?
It was the weather channel—I had to still be dreaming.  I hit the off button and squeezed my eyes shut.
“Now you see,” asked Rincina?
Her voice was proof that I had been dreaming.  I turned toward the tender voice and recoiled.  “No.”
I had decent control of my own dreams.  As long as I realized it was a dream, I could do anything I thought of.  But thinking was hard in dream-state, so I shut my eyes and concentrated.
“Are you experiencing pain,” Rincina asked?
“Come on, wake up.  Wake up.”
“You believe you are resting.  It is my presence?  I believe we are linked now.  I can’t say whether it was my gift or your kill.”
“Exactly--you’re dead!  That’s why this is a dream.”
“What are dreams?”
“This!  I’m asleep right now which is why I can see you.”
“Ah, the images you see when you rest.  I did not know your name for them—dreams.”  Rincina’s voice leveled.  “You are awake, but you will see things as if in a dream.  Like when I saw you.”
“No,” I said, before hitting the power button again.  A common reel clip had replaced Mike Winter.  It showed a series of NASA satellite storm clouds covering massive areas.  Something was wrong with each of the images.  It reminded me of the figure off the coast.
I jumped out of bed, heading toward the computer room, with Rincina heavy on my heels.  I pulled up a reel of weather channel storm stills on the net.  The room throbbed and my heart climbed my throat.  Click after click, it was the same.
There was a thing in each of the photos.  Each of them different--some blue, some green skinned but all enormous on scale with the ocean and sky, reaching the clouds.  The images were not all telling—a limb here, another there.  Sometimes half an enormous body mingled before or behind clouds.  It was incredible.
I searched and selected a random video of a storm.  The one I found was an amateur recording taken from inside a home.  It captured an angry world outside the windows, grey skies and howling winds that flooded the camera’s microphone.  Trees and shrubbery shivered and leaned intensely while water splattered the windowpane making its surface resemble shrinking plastic wrap.
“What do you see,” Rincina asked?
I didn’t think I could solve for two problems at once so I forgave the fact I was hearing a dead mouse.
“Nothing.  Just a storm,” I said.
“Storm?”
“Yeah,” I said, scanning for another storm clip.  “Weather, you know.”
“No.”
I looked at Rincina, bewildered.  “How is it that you can speak, but don’t know half the things I say?”
“I have never actually spoken with humans.”
“What makes me so lucky?”
“It’s because of you that I am here.”
It’s because of you that I am here, I thought.  You terrorized Cynthia.  “Storm—it is weather—climate that is violent.  Rain from the sky, winds—they can cause damage, even kill at times.”
Rincina was silent.  I wasn’t sure if she understood my explanation but I didn’t care to delineate any further.  I had found the clip I was searching for.
I could feel my lips whisper a breathy, no.  I inhaled tightly as if I’d felt pain and water filled my eyes.  Anger and fear swelled in my chest, their forces rattling my entire body.
“What is it you see there,” Rincina asked, as she finished her climb to the desktop and faced the LCD.
I shook my head disbelieving the images.  A twister, the kind I had chased dozens of times, ravaged homes and fields on a Kansas plain.  Beside the tornado stood what I could only describe as a monster.  It stretched taller than the twister itself, like a titan out of mythology.
The titan’s legs resembled human thighs but tapered into scalpel shaped pegs where I expected shins and feet.  A leg ripped out of the earth like a spade, pulling debris with it, lurched forward and then planted again before the other leg followed.  The titan moved forward, pushing the tornado before it, its elbows visible on either side of the violent funnel.
“What am I seeing?”  I hadn’t meant to ask Rincina for an answer, but I would take what I could get.
“You are changed,” Rincina said.  She pointed her pink nose toward my throbbing hand.  I lifted the bandage, startled to see the wound creeping toward the palm of my hand like a fissure.  Rincina stood on her hind legs.  There was a scar on her belly, a large circle surrounded by smaller orbs.
“What’s happening to me?”
“You can sense more than you have ever been able to.  See more, hear more—just as I could see and hear you as you are.  It should not be possible, yet it is.”
“How?”
“I only remember there was a time when my existence was without cats, dogs—and humans.  Then, like you, suddenly I could see the weather you make.”
“What the hell are you talking about?  People don’t make weather.  That happens naturally.”
“So do your people, and so do mine.  All the world is nature.  It is natural for your kind to kill mine.  Just as it is natural for your kind to be killed by your storm makers.”
“You see them,” I said, grabbing Rincina on impulse.  Her squishy body filled the folds of my hand like a beanie baby.
Rincina squealed, her speech strained and said, “I only see the picture that you described--violent winds.”
“I heard you say storm maker--what is that?”
“You,” Rincina pushed out, her dot eyes accusing me.  I had grown sick of the stare behind those eyes that seemed to challenge my superiority.  I’d never thought of myself as a speciesist—but there wasn’t any doubt in my mind that Humans were superior to mice.
“There—what is that,” I demanded, pointing Rincina’s body toward the thing I saw controlling the tornado.  “Is that a storm maker?”
“Don’t you understand?  I can’t perceive beyond human senses.  I only see more than what my kind are capable of sensing. As far as I know, it is your kind that makes the weather.  When you walk, the ground shakes, where you live, food sprouts from the earth and feeds my people.  Your machines light they sky, cool and warm the air.  You kill and trap us.  Before I changed, these things just were.  Natural.”
“Are you telling me these things are real?  You telling me they make storms on purpose?”
“I only speak of what I know,” Rincina screamed.
“Derrick,” Cynthia called.  I hadn’t heard the shower turn off.  I tossed Rincina aside, behind the PC tower as Cynthia opened the bathroom door, a towel to her hair.
“Were you calling me,” she asked?
“This isn’t a dream,” I said.  My eyes were on Cynthia, but my words were meant for Rincina.
“When I changed, the things I saw when I rested and when I awoke became one.  The natural world became larger than I ever could have imagined as I was before.”
“Cynthia,” I said, turning the LCD panel toward her.  I wanted to show her.
“Your world, Derrick, is greater than your people can imagine.  Your hand.  She won’t understand.”
There was still a faint pulse where Rincina had bitten me.  I felt the area the scar had grown heat up as if it was under a blow dryer.
“Babe, are you okay,” Cynthia asked, walking over to me.  She planted cool, wet lips on mine.
“Fine, just looking at some old tornado footage.”  With enormous creatures directing their destruction, I thought.
“We’re supposed to be on vacation,” she said, nudging me up from the task chair.  I wrapped my arms around her, letting my body take comfort on her tender frame.  Finally something felt right again.
“Mmm,” Cynthia purred.  “You better shower and get ready, so we don’t miss our train.”  She nestled from my grasp and headed toward the bedroom, humming and drying her damp hair.
I stared back toward the LCD, the video image stretched full screen.  The monster’s form stood frozen behind the tornado, its body more human than not.  I didn’t see a head however, if it had one.  Everything above its chest stretched above storm clouds.
I realized I’d grown very fond of Cynthia when I felt a pang of guilt before I even broke the news.  At least I had fixed her mouse problem.

I sunk into the airliner seat and exhaled. When my double Jack Daniels arrived, I would tell the stewardess to keep them coming until I asked her to stop.
Those seats in business class were the first piece of comfort I’d gotten since the morning.  Cynthia took the abrupt pause of our weekend excursion so well I felt like an even bigger asshole.  There were no tears, no guilt trip—just a reserved and totally untruthful ‘I understand.’  She’s a good woman but I knew I would have to call at least a dozen times before she would let me speak to her again.
On the ride to the airport, Rincina hadn’t been able to shed any light on how it was possible I was able to talk to a mouse.  But as strange as talking to dead animals was, it was nothing compared to the monster.
I took out a folded printout of the tornado titan and looked at it.  Talking to a dead mouse paled in comparison to invisible monsters that have potentially ravaged the planet longer than we’ve been archiving weather.
These titans were monsters.  Real ones.  The kind that killed and destroyed with forces we haven’t completely comprehended.  Rincina’s words rang in my head.  All the world is nature.  We thought of hurricanes and tornados as natural disasters, forces of nature, but Rincina raised a point I couldn’t dismiss.  What did it mean if the monsters were every bit as natural as Humans?
The image of the titan behind the tornado with its elbows sticking out resembled someone mowing or vacuuming.  Could it be so simple?  If I ran a vacuum toward an anthill, how different would it be from a sandstorm for that colony of ants?
A few of the ants would sense, however ants sensed, their environment brewing in the distance.  Some would take cover immediately.  Others would continue living as they did.  The vacuum would move closer and more would take notice, begin to prepare, move their work and food underground where it was safe—where life was secure.  When the vacuum reached the anthill, it would make ruin of all the ants built, grabbing loose debris and hurtling it into the air.  Any ants caught in the center of the vacuums focus would be sucked into a torrent of airborne matter that would end their life instantly.  There isn’t a Human alive that would shed a tear.  Would the titans?
I folded the image and placed it back in my pocket.  The bite wound on my hand was healing into a scar larger than Rincina’s body, looking more like a burn in the center of my palm.  It was the same scarring on Rincina’s underbelly.
I doubted I would get many questions about that kind of thing in Kansas.  Bill seemed excited that I was coming down after all.  When it came to learning to chase tornado’s there was hardly a better mentor than Bill Ringo.
A meteorologist by trade, Bill had been chasing for fifteen years.  He could look at a storm structure and anticipate the funnels that developed.  He knew if a tornado cell would shift east or west, move fast or slow.  Bill’s team supplied the weather networks with 25% of all tornado footage and he had a second documentary in works.
I slowly graduated from massive storms to supercells, but once you chase a Midwest tornado, it makes Nor’easters seem like a summer breeze.  All the time I’d spent with Cynthia this season kept me away, so when I called Bill, he promised to have my gear prepped and ready by the time I landed.
#
“There he goes,” Bill shouted as my rental car pulled onto his ranch.  “You’re right on time buddy!”
I’d never seen this man at anything less than ecstatic.  I stepped out of the car doing my best to reflect the energy Bill radiated.
“You been listening to the weather, buddy?”
“I have,” I said.
“I like this human,” Rincina said.  That gave me the laugh I needed to reach Bill’s level of excitement.  He had cross species appeal.
“By this time tomorrow,” Bill said, grasping my hand with his, and then throwing his free arm around my back.  “We’re gonna have ourselves a little Chase Party.”  Bill laughed as I put my free arm around him.
Rincina chuckled like a tiny girl.  I looked at her over Bill’s shoulder and little shoulders shrugged before she said, “Only the males of your people embrace each other that way.”
“Come on in, you hungry?”
“A little,”
“Well alright, plenty of eats inside, wings and all.  When you’re ready, we’ll go outback and check your gear.  I promise it’s in better shape than when you left.”
After dinner and a few beers, I stole off to Bill’s barn.  A large red tin structure that looked like a strong gale could topple it—that being the idea, of course.  Each wall dropped flat and would become secured by clamps bolted to the ground--one less building to worry about getting torn apart in tornado alley.
I walked past Bill’s three road tanks to get to my storm tumbler.  The black armor had a soft glint even in the dim lit barn.  I walked around the entire vehicle running my hand over the ridges of the six tires then jumped into the cabin.  The tumbler hummed alive when I hit the ignition, gauge lights shining brightly.
“Purr like a kitten dont she,” Bill said, as he walked into the barn.  “Your action suit is in the locker, there.”
I hoped out and opened the locker.  The T-suit stood on its own.  I saw my reflection in the helmet visor.  My brow was serious and concentrated.  I felt the events of the next day bearing down on me, a stirring of uncertainty in my chest.  I suddenly wasn’t sure why I’d come or what I planned to do.  I only knew I was different.  And I had to see with my own eyes.
#

“Can you breathe,” Rincina asked.  She sat in the fold of the tumbler’s passenger seat.
“Of course, it’s a protective shell.  In case I get separated from the vehicle.  State of the art for my people,” I said.
“Amazing,” Rincina said.
Bill’s voice came over the radio, “The satellites have this one coming dam close to lots of homes.  We may pass some evacuee’s on the way over, so lets keep a tight line.  John will hold my rear and Derrick on tail.  Everyone got it.”
“Copy that,” I said, after I heard John confirm.  Chaser code said the most experienced was tour guide and captain.
I opted to take my storm tumbler instead of riding in one of Bill’s armored cruisers.  That meant I had to trail his team, for my safety, and more importantly so I didn’t get in front of any key shots.
I tried twice, but couldn’t find a sane way to tell Bill why I had to drive my vehicle.  Two years ago, I spent the entire heavy season with Bill and his team.  I knew the local roads and fields, learned the precautions and could navigate safe zones in every direction.  I knew I had reached a new plateau when Bill himself offered to help build my tumbler.
The storm had already begun to dominate the horizon by the time we hit the freeway.  The Code mandates observing local traffic laws, but the speed limit always ends up just a guideline.  We breezed toward the storm at a cool 80 mph.  The blue sky above gave way to a silver blanket of clouds; the moisture in the air began to cling to the tumblers Plexiglas.  The shatterproof windshield was only a thin bar across the front of the tumbler that gave a view of the horizon and not much else.  On board displays fed me the side and rearview images in addition to environmental data.
The tumbler’s alerts beeped, bringing my attention to the dashboard display.  The satellite image flashed red around the edges, a yellow circle highlighting the area on the map the tornado was calculated to touchdown, two miles southeast.
I focused my attention on the horizon above the freeway.  I had to scan left, then right before I saw it—a slow moving figure, enormous knees rising upward, pushing the titan forward.  I took off my helmet to get a better look at the creature; its massive body seemed composed of the clouds and sky framed by silver lining.  Muscle rippled arms stretched before it.  The arms seemed connected by a large disc the creature held into the air.
“Jeezus,” I exclaimed, as the creature pulled the disc from the top of the clouds.  A smoky-white funnel extended from the disc and descended toward the horizon.
“Is it your monster,” asked Rincina, looking in the direction of the forming tornado.  Before I answered, Bill’s voice came over the radio, “There’s a small dirt-road about a quarter-mile south.  We can use it to get us a better look--looks like she’s running from us.”
Bill was right.  The creature had pivoted, turning its back toward us and pushed its fully formed tornado further east.  I charted a course that matched the titan’s trajectory.
“It’s there Rincina—moving east toward Dickinson.  There are a lot of people in that town.”  We were too far west on the far side of the storm to hear the alarms that had to be sounding.  The display flashed a PDS (Particularly Dangerous Situation) for the county of over 20,000 people.  “It’s going to be a disaster.”
“God help them,” Bill said, over the radio as we entered the far side of the twister's influence.  The winds whipped through our convoy, a vicious whistle blew past the tumbler while hail, half the sizes of mothballs, bounced off the titanium shielding like corn off a hot griddle.
A bullseye styled animation blipped on my display.  Bill had sent rendezvous coordinates near the edge of the tornado's centrifugal wind forces.  I watched as his two truck-tanks moved into position before extending video cameras.
That was how Bill got footage few other chasers did, he took smart risks.  We were just a mile from the eye of the tornado, a precarious position, but it moved in the same direction we did.  We were a lot better off than anyone hunkering down in Dickinson.
According to my readings, the eye of the tornado was 500 yards wide and I was willing to bet anything that the disc the titan used to create the funnel was the same width.  I was willing to bet everything.
I slammed the gas petal against the floor of the tumbler.  Rincina squeaked as she flew of the windshield ledge where she had perched and hit the back of the passenger seat.  I shifted into overdrive then activated the counterbalance.  There was a small jolt as the spherical mass beneath the passenger cabin began spinning.  If the winds became too heavy, the sphere would stabilize the tumbler by shifting its weight where needed, keeping the tires grounded.
"Derrick, come in, Derrick!"  It was the first time I'd heard Bill less than jovial.  "What in the hell--have you lost it?
"Bill, I'm sorry. I can't just sit here--not this time--the people in that town couldn't have had enough time to evacuate."
"This isn't how we do things and you know it, man.  No grandstanding and every man standing--that's how I roll!  Get back in formation."
"I can’t do that.  Let’s hope the time we put into this tank pays off.  With any luck, we'll be enjoying a nice sirloin when it blows over.”  I hit the kill switch on the radio and focused on the titan.
The monsters’ hindquarters had serrated spike-like insect legs but its thighs and back were built like an Olympian.
"I know what your about to do," Rincina said, from the fold of her seat.
"Great.  You can fill me in."
"I know because it's what I did, only it took me longer before I confronted your people.  Before I confronted you.  I saw so many of my people slaughtered, baited and killed--simply for being.  When I lost my companion, I was forced to occupy the space where we met."  We sat a moment in silence and then, "I'm sorry, Derrick.  It wasn’t a gift I gave.  It is a curse.”
"Don’t you apologize.  You don’t need to, I—“
"You,” Rincina interjected.  “Did what you were capable of.  I might have lived, had I not been able to see you the way you see others of your kind--the way you now see your monster.  I fell victim to the curse and if you don’t listen to your friend, so will—ohh!”
The tumbler jarred heavily.  I felt the weight of the cabin shift as the sound of twisting steel filled the air.  The counterbalance was doing its job as we penetrated the tornado's wind stream.  I heard the sound the twister makes for the first time.  It resembled the deafening sound of a speeding subway car.
The titan's right foot was directly ahead and I suddenly wished I had some kind of firepower.  I wasn't sure if bullets could hurt monsters.  I could see it, but did that mean I could touch it?  I rounded to the left of the scythe shaped foot and pulled a hard right, the tumblers' weight slid smoothly across the asphalt thanks to the counterbalance.  The tumbler careened toward the titan’s foot.  I took a deep breath in the off chance we didn’t pass through the monster’s translucent leg.

There was the sound of a crane slamming into concrete as the tumbler crashed into the titan. My side of the tumbler lifted off the ground. The train sounds stopped and then I felt a moment of weightlessness. The street outside the tumbler spun once, then again. I snatched Rincina's body out of the air and pressed her against my chest. "Hold on!" The tumbler slammed into the ground, rolling over the driver side wheels, a full 360 degrees. Instead of hitting the ground, half of the wheels ended wedged on the side of a brick building. My head felt like I had taken a blow from a baseball bat. Tiny white dots dissipated before my eyes to reveal a warning light on several displays. There was some relief that all the ringing I heard wasn’t just in my head. "You okay," I asked Rincina. Her ears flapped as she shook her tiny head. "When you held me, I couldn't remove myself--I was bound in physical form." What had I had been thinking? Rincina was already dead--she couldn't be hurt. Assuming I wasn't holding onto her for dear life of course. "The ignition’s disengaged, I think the sphere is loose—I need to get out. I can’t cut it from here." I found my helmet and snapped it on the collar of the action suit. My ears filled with air pressure. The door took a few bangs before I was able to push it open, heavy armor pushing back because of the tumbler’s awkward angle. The air was still as I jumped out and slid down the roof of the tumbler. I saw the titan’s legs twenty yards away. Its knees bent and the storm clouds shifted. The monster’s neck pierced the clouds and peered down over me. The titan's head was shaped like a crown of lightning, jagged lines following the arc of its dome. It had a familiar shaped mouth and eyes that shone like balls of lightning. The titan looked directly at me. I looked directly into its eyes. Déjà vu. Thunder clapped as its face became entrenched with anger. The titan’s entire body swelled before it opened its mouth and let out a ferocious roar. Its eyes bounced with sparks of lightning and shards of electricity poured from its mouth. I felt the hairs on my arms and head pulling as if they were standing straight and my mouth suddenly filled with the cold taste of an alkaline battery. I heard Rincina scream a warning in the rear of my consciousness. I slammed into the ground, the wind had been knocked out of me and I realized my T-suit was sizzling, smoke rising from all over my body. I always assumed getting struck by lightning would have been a straightforward experience but that probably meant I had to actually feel a few thousand volts course through my body. The T-suit had dissipated the energy as heat. The titan wasn't pleased. The skies erupted with ground shaking thunder as I flailed around. I didn’t want to push the limits of my T-suit so I scuttled as fast as I could, crawling along my back and belly until I reached the underside of the tumbler, still cocked up on the side of the building. The metal above me rang like a clock tower as another jolt of lightning hit the tumbler’s roof. "Hurry," Rincina shouted. The counterbalance was hanging by a thread of frayed wires from the chassis. I sawed through it with a utility knife. My hands burned as another bolt of lightning hit the tumbler. I snapped back for an instant flapping them cool and then went back to cutting. Finally the last cable snapped and the counterbalance came free. I scooted from under the tumbler and climbed over the rear wheel, then fell into the driver side seat. "Something's happening," Rincina screamed. What isn't happening, I thought. But she was right--more was happening. Two red spots were growing larger on the display. I pushed the sun visor in the roof back to get a better view. The viewing pane was horribly scratched but I could still make out two smaller figures, more titans. Three titan's in all and they were brewing a family of twisters. One connected cloud mass with funnels extending from the base. I hit the ignition and floored the throttle. The tumbler felt lighter and more responsive. Two twisters touched down on either side of me, equidistant so their wind forces couldn't act directly on me until I was positioned outside of the neutral zone. I aimed the tumbler between the first titan's legs. It couldn't create a twister beneath itself and as far as I could tell, the monsters weren’t nimble. The maneuver gave me the time I needed to punch in a trace command. I locked in the coordinates where the wind from the smaller tornado’s met. A deep moan rumbled the ground as the first titan spawned another twister directly overhead. I silenced the tumblers alarms and focused on making it to my target. The smaller titans' closed in on the first, their three funnels visible on my rear camera image. The chassis moaned again as I approached the target on my map. Rincina released a tiny gasp as the nose of the tumbler began to lift. The rest of the vehicle lifted unsteadily, wobbling back and forth until we were completely airborne. The rise began slowly but my stomach quickly churned as we gained momentum, centrifugal forces pinning us against the seats. Endless dirt, branches and stone filled the sky around the tumbler--nothing recognizable, just a whirl of particles that became as much a part of the twister as the wind itself. I became disoriented, unable to tell up from down. The tumblers hull was taking a beating and then something heavy and solid struck. It clung to the hull and slowly slid across the surface. There was a scream and I thought of all the animals that cried out like humans—I hoped it was one of them and not one of us. Finally I saw the three lights I'd hoped for. The eyes and mouth of the first titan shone like beacons in the storm winds. There was another terrifying moan and the tumbler whipped furiously in the winds of all three tornados. I clenched my body and lifted a red trigger cover on the dashboard. The controls vibrated violently and I heard a piece of the hull wrench free of the chassis. Air screamed into the cabin as the titan’s lights swirled into and out of view. I needed the right angle, the right moment. I focused on the spin of the tumbler in the air--one instant, the lights were in front of me, the next they were visible in my rear view. I hit the switch beneath the red cover just as I saw the titans lightning in front of me. The tumblers anchor jettisoned from the trunk space, the winds making it a twenty pound steel spear. The storms screamed and thunder clapped. I knew the anchor had taken root when the rear of the tumbler snapped, spinning the vehicle counterclockwise around a stationary object. "What's happening," Rincina asked? "We hit it," I screamed. My heart filled with triumph. The tumbler wrapped three times then slammed into something solid. The titan rumbled and I realized we were on the side of its face, wheels down. I kicked the throttle into overdrive, spinning the tires into the monsters flesh or whatever it was made of. The tires made tearing sounds against the monster’s surface and the anchor wrench squealed under the stress. I prayed the anchor was tearing a hole in the titan’s neck or face—anywhere vital. There was a sudden jerk--an abrupt end to the rumbling and the howling winds fell silent. The pressure beneath the tires lessoned until the tearing sound vanished and I felt another moment of weightlessness. Then I felt the pull of gravity. The two smaller dots on the tumblers display shrunk and then vanished. The thin whistle of ten tons hurtling toward the ground replaced the sounds of storm. "You stopped the winds," Rincina said in wonder. "You did for your people what I could not do for mine." "Rincina, I'm sorry." I didn’t think I needed to say more—we had come full circle. I forced the emergency impact mechanism and crossed my fingers. I couldn’t remember exactly how much force the casing could withstand. I took a final deep breath as foam rushed into the cabin like instant shaving cream. Within seconds my entire body was suspended in a Styrofoam like casing. The sounds inside were muffled but I could still feel the ground coming closer. The tumbler would touch down any second. I breathed shallow. There wasn't much air trapped in the casing with me. I didn't think about hitting the ground. I was flying. Living. I was proud. I had saved countless lives. They might never know how, but I had battled a titan and won. It didn't matter that my people knew the battle had even occurred but it would matter to the titans. They will tell the tale across their nations. The tale began with Humans scattering like mice into holes when titans arrived. The titans ruled, killing us without retribution. Then came a Human that looked back at them, eye to eye. It didn’t matter if I died. I had honored my people in spite of the titans. Those that carried the history of their people will tell this story. And they would begin, “This be the tale of mice to men.”