Rabbits of Deamlon Chapter 1: The Tornado

“Wiley, remember the north star!” Dad said behind a broad smile. Wiley’s Dad loomed over him as Wiley sunk in the green vinyl overstuffed chair. The pounding came at his Dad’s laboratory door again, and his Dad pivoted to face the door, revealing the massive thing beside his desk. The tall device with three legs scared Wiley.

Wiley awoke, flailing his arms in his sofa bed in his travel trailer, and sat up breathing hard. The trailer sat in a dense forest a hundred yards behind a large yellow brick hospital on the city’s outskirts. The former owner had pushed it into the woods beside an old fire trail leading from the hospital to a lake, one half-mile south. Wiley took a deep breath.

“I dreamed about Dad again. What did he mean by the north star?” Wiley asked out loud.

The dream’s details faded while he pondered the north star. Rain dripped from the jagged top edge of the trailer’s open rear. The former trailer’s owner had wrecked it beyond repair and discarded it in this forest. Wiley, homeless, adopted it as his own. “Weird dream,” he said to himself. He yawned and stretched, and his stomach growled. In the distance, thunder rolled.

The overcast skies from the previous evening had become darker gray. “It’s another beautiful day in the neighborhood,” Wiley said as he put his feet on the floor of his broken-down travel trailer. “The weatherman said there’s a chance of severe thunderstorms.” He stretched again. “I’ve got a feeling I may need to get to the Catholic shelter later today.” He had gooseflesh on his arms, and the dark hairs stood straight from static. Thunder rolled, and rain pattered on the trailer’s roof again. It had rained on and off through the night.

Wiley Myatt slipped on his boots and flipped back the tarp that covered the open end of the wrecked trailer. The sixteen-foot tandem axle trailer had an aluminum door, but he didn’t use it. He grabbed the umbrella he kept at the end of the damp, slick, plywood ramp, popped it open, and stepped to the ground.

He trotted in his underwear to the deep trench he had dug away from the trailer and relieved himself. Over his right shoulder, he eyed the black sealant he had troweled on the roof of the tied-down travel trailer.

I hope it lasts through this coming storm. Wiley finished and walked barefoot through pine needles back to the plywood ramp. The western skies grew darker.

At least he could see the new regional hospital from here. His stomach growled again, letting him know that breakfast should move to the top of his list. Back inside the trailer, he stood in the tiny wash closet. The long door mirror in the cramped closet showed his thin frame and ribs. After he dressed and combed his hair, he found a cracker box on the counter beside the kitchen sink. Since he had no running water, he kept food in the sink. He rummaged through chip bags, bread sacks, candy wrappers, all empty. “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and an empty box of crackers,” Wiley said, grinning.

He poked his head out the back and eyed the threatening gray clouds. Preparing to leave, he wanted to put the tarp down to guard against the coming rain. He had affixed a blue tarp to the rear’s top edge in case of rain, one he could unbuckle from the inside and unroll.

He slid on the nylon poncho he “found” at the Army Surplus Store downtown. The proprietor had turned his back, and Wiley tucked it in the waist of his loose-fitting jeans. He had learned never to wear tight-fitting jeans if he planned to “find” things.

After pulling on the hood, Wiley grabbed his white smartphone and slipped it into his back pocket. He had come across the phone not long ago in the hospital parking lot, almost stepping on it. Wiley walked across the asphalt beside a car and happened to look down and found it. Its owner must have dropped it getting in their car.

He walked around the trailer, checking the tie-downs before leaving for the hospital. “Can’t have my beautiful mansion blowing away.”

Growing up on the street, Wiley learned how to “find” what he needed. He had found this set of tie-down ratchet straps and ground anchors at a trailer park down the highway.

Satisfied, he tromped through the brush a short distance to the fire road, more of an overgrown trail than a road. Glancing back, he said, “Yeah, the trailer’s not much, but it’s better than a make-shift tent under an overpass.”

His stomach growled again, and the urgency of “finding” breakfast grew. A steady light rain pattered the side of the trailer.

He had no money and few choices but to sneak into the rear of the hospital again. One rule of street living – don’t take the same pocket too often. He had a choice of finding food there or walk miles to the church mission. This life of scrounging his meals where he could, and fending for himself and no others, suited him. No one cared for him, and he cared for no one.

You’re a hermit! Wiley chuckled at the thought. “And it’s how I should be,” he said.

The dream of his Dad standing over him came up, and of a time as a child when he lived in wealth and comfort. He had a real Mom and Dad – genuine wealthy parents. They left you and abandoned you at six years old. They left you with nothing! Shaking his head, Wiley scolded himself for falling into the same worn-out self-pity. I’m grown and over it! Let the past stay in the past.

His parents disappeared one night during a house fire, the day after Wiley had turned six years old.

He remembered Mom had long, wavy black hair and dressed in ankle-length gowns for dinner. “They flew the coop,” he said and grinned. “Ten years in the foster system, and all I’ve got to show for it is a junk heap of a trailer!” He laughed and kept walking.

Wiley left his last foster home at sixteen. He had to because his foster father beat him and told him to go, but the fight didn’t go on the official report. His fosters didn’t report the argument, but they did lie and report him as a runaway. He survived on the street for two years, dodging cops and social workers until he turned eighteen.

He never obtained a state ID, driver’s license, or a social security card. His parents had gotten a number for him before they disappeared, but he didn’t know it. Now twenty, he’d lived behind the regional hospital for the last two years.

I hate them all, the fosters and my birth parents included, and I can’t remember their faces! How wrong am I?

He checked the time on the smartphone. When he picked it up off the asphalt parking lot, the funny thing was, it had no one’s stuff on it. It had no playlists, no contacts, no photos, nothing. But it did have a service that kept adding data and minutes as long he played and rated the games it downloaded. He “found” a charger and would plug it in either at the hospital’s emergency room or in the boiler room after hours.

Wiley trudged through weeds along the fire road, and the yellow brick hospital’s service entry came into view. It started raining harder, and Wiley trotted as rain tapped his poncho hood in large droplets. He hated saying the name of the yellow brick hospital. They named it The Myatt Memorial and LaGrange County Hospital. But there had to be other Myatts – they could not mean his parents. He said aloud, “I’m not still upset about it or anything.” He laughed at himself.

At the asphalt parking lot, rain began to pour, and water drops bounced off the surface. Wiley splashed water as he ran across the parking lot to the concrete staircase. It led down to the boiler room. He held to the orange railings, ran down the steps, and stopped in front of the steel door. Wiley blew a drop of water off his nose as he reached the rain diverter.

Months ago, he had “found” the key to the boiler room on a janitor’s ring and copied it at a hardware store. He hid his copied key in the diverter above the doorframe and returned the original to its owner.

Frigid water ran down his arm as he fingered along the lip for the key, found it, and fumbled it into the deadbolt. The lock clicked, he pulled the door open, and Wiley stepped into the warm relief of the boiler room. Unafraid, he remembered the schedule – this early, the janitors would be out on their rounds.

He removed his cloak over his head and shook off the water. After learning the hard way never to set a thing down, he put the cold cape back over his head. The cloak swished as he stepped down the narrow walkway along the wall. He passed the two big boilers and headed toward the basement hall door.

Ahead, at the end of the wall to his right, the hallway door opened. No! Wiley started to turn and run back to the outside door. The person entering had stepped into the room and caught him, so he stopped and stood still.

“What are you doing here?” a girl asked. “Are you lost?”

A girl! He didn’t expect a girl or anyone, and she marched toward him. She had shoulder-length red hair that flared out when she walked, blue eyes, and freckles all over her face. She wore slacks, a polo shirt, and a badge naming her as a volunteer.

Wiley searched for an excuse. “I’m here to, um, inspect the boilers,” Wiley said, and he faced the belly of the nearest one and examined it.

“The boilers? Right.” The well-proportioned girl pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pants pocket. She lit one with an old fluid lighter and clicked the top shut while blowing smoke. “And I’m here to perform surgery. I know BS when I hear it. You’re not here for the boilers.”

I’m busted. I might as well come clean. Wiley found his voice, and he pointed behind her toward the hallway door, grinning. “Yeah, I’m headed to the cafeteria to get food.”

She laughed. “You’re here to steal stuff.”

“I’m going to steal some food, well, beg for food would be more precise. The cooks give me handouts if I go to the kitchen’s backdoor.”

“You have to steal to eat because you’re homeless, am I right?” She let her shoulders relax.

At once, Wiley’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. He scolded himself for revealing his meager situation. He started talking fast. “Stealing sounds bad, I know, and I don’t like to call myself a thief. I like to say that I find the things I need, and I get by doing that. Right now, I’m hungry, so I need to find food,” Wiley said with a smile.

She blew smoke up to the ceiling and flipped her hair with her fingers. “I understand. You got a name?”

“Myatt,” he said. He stepped forward and presented his hand to shake. She smiled and took his hand with a light grip. “Wiley Myatt.”

“Okay,” she said and chuckled at his formality. “Funkhouser, Rhonda Funkhouser,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Wiley smiled. Rhonda Funkhouser.

She nodded. “You’re smiling at my name, aren’t you? Everybody laughs at my name, but it’s okay. I’m used to it. I could turn you in, you know.”

Wiley said. “It’s not stealing, in the strictest way. I’m begging. I show up looking pitiful, and they give me food. But if they turn their back, I’ll grab an extra biscuit, or another piece of bacon, and some pancakes.” He waited for her to speak. She smoked her cigarette and analyzed him.

“I push food carts for the cafeteria and hand out trays to the patients, then I rode the elevator to the fifth floor, changed my mind, and pushed the button for the basement,” Rhonda said. “Look, I always come down here for a smoke break. There’s a cart of trays in the hall. You can have a tray.”

“Do you think it would be right?” Wiley asked.

“What?” Rhonda asked.

“I mean, a patient will miss his or her meal.”

“Since when does a thief worry?” Rhonda asked. Wiley frowned, glancing away. Rhonda stepped closer so Wiley would see her. The way she leaned into him made him smile. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in a long time. “Wiley, are you a thief or not?”

“I suppose, but I can’t steal food out of a patient’s mouth. You’re turning this around.”

“Wait here a minute.” Rhonda turned and walked to the hallway door and jerked it open. She disappeared into the hall. She opened the door and came back to him, carrying a hospital dinner tray. Wiley shook his head. Rhonda shoved it in Wiley’s chest. “Eat.”

He sat on the edge of the boiler’s concrete foundation and put the tray in his lap. Rhonda sat beside him and smiled a devilish smile as he forked a sausage link.

Wiley glanced at her. She’s pretty.  

Wiley considered Rhonda while he ate. She’s younger than me, seventeen or eighteen, and perfect if she didn’t smoke. Rhonda’s staring at me. He stared at his tray.

She held her cigarette between her two fingers and thumped the ash off with her thumbnail. “Do you like Elvis?” Rhonda asked.

He tried not to laugh but choked. The question came unexpected and struck him funny. He put the napkin to his lips. His eyes watered. “The dead guy?” he asked through the napkin.

She frowned. “The King is not dead!” she said. “Well, not dead in my heart.” She stepped on her cigarette and twisted her foot on it as if to add emphasis. “Elvis sang better than anybody, living or dead.”

“Freddie Mercury sang pretty well.”

“Who?” she asked, frowning.

“From the eighties, remember Queen?” Wiley asked.

“God, Wiley, the eighties? I’m seventeen, not seventy,” Rhonda said and laughed.

She’s crazy about Elvis from the fifties and sixties, but Queen from the eighties is before her time?

Lightning flashed, and the boiler room lights flicked. Wiley half stood to peer out the small street-level basement windows.

“The thunderstorm is here,” Wiley said. The wind blew hard in the parking lot, and the trees bent and swayed. The flickering basement lights did a strobe effect and freeze-framed his wide-eyed face.

“The weather forecaster said we were under a tornado watch,” Rhonda said.

“I need to get back to my stuff to make sure it’s okay. Right now. Here, take this,” Wiley said and handed Rhonda his tray. He checked his blue jean pocket for the boiler room key and ran for the door.

Rhonda set the tray down and ran after him. “Don’t go out in this. Stay here!”

Outside, Wiley wedged the key into the lip above the doorframe in its usual spot. His cloak blew over his face, and his shirt and pants became soaked. He ran, leaning into gusting winds as rain blew in sheets. Lightning flashed, and two seconds later, thunder exploded with an ear-bursting boom. The storm bore down on him.

Wiley sped down the fire road, and high weeds slapped his legs. Lightning flashed through the dark morning sky. Thunder crashed, and he ducked into the forest. Wiley circled a blackberry bush and hopped a pine log, then sprinted to his wrecked trailer.

The rocking travel trailer wouldn’t take more wind. Wiley ran to the first of four augers holding down the nylon straps across the roof. He checked the tightness and the ratchet cranks, and they held tight.

Marble-sized hail pelted down, hurting his head, and he covered it with his arms. The hailstorm stopped at once, and he stared at the sky. The rain stopped, too, and so did the lightning and thunder. The air became thick with a clammy yellowish quality. He went to the ramp and watched black clouds roll by in barrels looking like fat black pastries.

Then a siren sounded far to the west in the city center, and Wiley looked held to the trailer and scanned the sky to the west, toward the hospital. The siren blew long and high, longer than he had ever heard before. Through the greenish-yellow air, a thick, broad black stump hung from the clouds. The siren continued to wail.

“It’s a funnel cloud, a real funnel cloud!” Wiley said, shouting.

Wiley shuddered as the black tail slammed the ground west of the hospital. It roared as it kicked debris high in the air. A haunting veil of rain gathered around the thick thundering monster. Where it met the earth, it formed a bowl of dirt and rubble. The tornado touched the ground on his side of town and crashed into the forest. It roared toward him, throwing the trees high into the sky.

Standing frozen on his ramp and searching for a place to hide, Wiley searched in all directions. A gust or vacuum sucked him inside, and he landed on his back on the floor. The trailer vibrated. Once he could breathe again, he got up and went to the ramp. His blue tarp flapped a couple of times and flew off the travel trailer out into the forest. Tree parts and forest things bombarded the trailer’s side. Glass broke, and curtains stood out straight. He held to the jagged edge of the wrecked trailer as it rocked but remained upright.

Limbs and forest debris flew by his little trailer in pieces, smacking it and slamming the side. He froze at the ramp shivering and shaking, unable to move.

I’m going to die! “Get low! Crawl!” he said to himself, but Wiley’s shaking legs didn’t respond.

Wide-eyed and trembling, he squatted to crawl back inside. A solid piece of debris, a rock, or a pine knot ricocheted off the trailer’s edge and smacked the side of his head. Wiley fell against the tiny refrigerator and rolled onto his side between the dining table and the door.

He lost consciousness.

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