Monday, March 25, 2013

Todd looked up, trying and failing to open his left eye. "Pus?" He shouted through the basement pitch. "Pus! Hit something if you're around." He listened: The sound of dripping water, the slow rustle of the sand and detritus against the blackened windows; finally, a wooden clank against a pole. A moment later, a flashlight clicked on.

The Octopus hung from a rafter, two limbs wrapped around the solid flashlight. It made sighing movements with its head and slowly traced the walls with the flashlight, surveying the destruction in a slow yellow tableau.

The washer and dryer were shattered, twisted metal fingers clawing at the wall and floor respectively, their doors in a corner, openings gaping like toothless, larval mouths.

Outside, the tornado siren still bayed.