Stranded. Debby Giusti

they had just traveled. Trey’s car hadn’t crested the hill. Relieved, Colleen drove into the barn. Before the engine died, she leaped from the car and pulled the doors closed, casting them in semidarkness.

      Outside, wind howled. Rain pounded against the wooden structure.

      “Help me.” Vivian’s voice.

      Colleen raced around the car and opened the passenger door. The woman’s face was pale as death. Blood soaked her clothing. For the first time, Colleen saw the gaping hole in Vivian’s side.

      Removing her own coat, Colleen rolled it into a ball and pressed it onto the wound to stem the flow of blood. Holding it tight with her left hand, she reached for her cell and tapped in 9-1-1.

      Before the call could go through, a ferocious roar, both powerful and insistent, gathered momentum, like a freight train on a collision course with the barn. Even without seeing the funnel cloud, Colleen knew a tornado was headed straight for them.

      The barn shook. Hay fell from the overhead loft. The noise grew louder. Colleen’s ears popped.

      Swirling wind enveloped them. Clods of Georgia clay and shards of splintered wood sprayed through the air like shrapnel.

      She threw herself over Vivian, protecting her. God help us, Colleen prayed as the tornado hit, and the barn crashed down around them.

      * * *

      “Frank,” Evelyn screamed from the kitchen. “There’s a tornado.”

      Startled by the tremor in his sister’s voice, Frank Gallagher pulled back the living room curtain. His heart slammed against his chest at what he saw. A huge, swirling funnel cloud was headed straight for her house.

      “Get to the basement, Evie.”

      Her sluggish footsteps sounded from the kitchen as she threw open the cellar door and cautiously descended into the darkness below. Injured in a car accident some years earlier, Evelyn’s gait was slow and labored, like a person older than her 42 years.

      “Duke?” Frank called. The German shepherd, a retired military working dog, appeared at his side.

      “Heel.” Together, they followed Evelyn down the steep steps.

      An antique oak desk sat in the corner and offered additional protection. Frank hurried her forward.

      “Get under the desk, Evie.”

      A deafening roar enveloped them. Frank glanced through the small basement window. His gut tightened.

      Debris sailed through the air ahead of the mass of swirling wind bearing down on them.

      His heart stalled, and for one long moment, he was back in Afghanistan. The explosion. The flying debris. The building shattering around him.

      Trapped under the rubble, he had gasped for air. The smell of death returned to fill his nostrils. Only he had lived.

      Duke whined.

      “Frank,” Evelyn screamed over the incessant roar. She grabbed his arm and jerked him down next to her.

      Frank motioned for Duke to lie beside them. The thunderous wail drowned out his sister’s frantic prayers. All he heard was the howling wind, like a madman gone berserk, as chilling as incoming mortar rounds.

      He tensed, anticipating the hit, and choked on the acrid bile that clogged his throat. Tightening his grip on his sister’s outstretched hand, Frank opened his heart, ever so slightly, to the Lord.

      Save Evie. The prayer came from deep inside, from a place he’d sealed off since the IED explosion had changed his life forever. Just that quickly the raging wind died, and the roar subsided.

      Frank expelled the breath he’d been holding.

      Evelyn moaned with relief. “Thank you, God.”

      Crawling from under the desk, he helped his sister to her feet and then glanced through the window. Mounds of tree limbs, twisted like matchsticks, littered the yard. At least the house had been spared.

      He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. No bars. No coverage.

      Evelyn reached for the older landline phone on the desk. “I’ve got a dial tone.”

      “Call 911. Let them know the area along Amish Road was hit and to send everything available. Then phone the Criminal Investigation Division on post. Talk to Colby Voss. Tell him the Amish need help.”

      “Colby would tell you to stay put, Frank. You’re still on convalescent leave.”

      Ignoring her concern for his well-being, Frank patted his leg for Duke to follow him upstairs.

      Another close call. Was God trying to get his attention? A verse from scripture floated through his mind, Come back to me.

      In the kitchen, Frank yanked his CID jacket from the closet and grabbed leather work gloves he kept nearby. Pushing through the back door, he stopped short and pulled in a sharp breath at what he saw—a different kind of war zone from what he’d experienced in Afghanistan, but equally as devastating.

      The tornado had left a trail of destruction that had narrowly missed his sister’s house. He searched for the Amish farmhouses that stretched along the horizon. Few had been spared. Most were broken piles of rubble, as if a giant had crushed them underfoot.

      A sickening dread spread over him. The noise earlier had been deafening. Now an eerie quiet filled the late Georgia afternoon. No time to lament. People could be trapped in the wreckage.

      “Come on, boy.” Frank quickly picked his way among the broken branches and headed for the path that led through the woods. He ignored the ache in his hip, a reminder of the IED explosion and the building that had collapsed on top of him. Thankfully, a team of orthopedic surgeons had gotten him back on his feet. A fractured pelvis, broken ribs and a cracked femur had been insignificant compared with those who hadn’t made it out alive.

      Still weak from the infection that had been a life-threatening complication following surgery, Frank pushed forward, knowing others needed help. Skirting areas where the tornado had twisted giant trees like pickup sticks, he checked his cell en route and shook his head with regret at the lack of coverage.

      At the foot of the hill, he donned his leather work gloves and raced toward the Amish Craft Shoppe. A brother and sister in their teens usually manned the store.

      “Call out if you can hear me,” he shouted as he threw aside boards scattered across the walkway leading to the front porch. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Answer me.”

      Duke sniffed at his side.

      “Can you hear me?” he called again and again. The lack of response made him fear the worst and drove him to dig through the fallen timbers even more frantically.

      An Amish man and woman tumbled from a farmhouse across the street. Their home had lost its roof and a supporting side wall.

      The bearded man wore a blue shirt and dark trousers, held up with suspenders. Dirt smudged his face and his cheek was scraped.

      “The store was closed today,” he shouted, waving his hands to get Frank’s attention. “The youth are at a neighboring farm.”

      “You’re sure?” Frank was unwilling to give up the search if anyone was still inside.

      The man glanced at the woman wearing a typical Amish dress and apron.

      “Jah, that is right,” she said, nodding in agreement.

      “What about your family?” Frank called. “Was anyone hurt?”

      “Thanks to God, we are unharmed, but our neighbors are in need.” The man pointed to the next farmhouse and the gaping hole where the wall and roof had been. He and his wife ran to offer aid.

      Before Frank could follow, he glanced at the nearby barn. The corner of one wall remained standing, precariously poised over a pile of