Year's Best SF 17

Jane comes in off the porch, where she’s been putting Revolution on the dogs to kill the ticks they pick up in the hay that grows wherever there aren’t any trees or blackberries. “What now? They only announced the watch twenty minutes ago.” The shrieking goes on and on, you can’t hear yourself think. Finally it stops and the radio buzzes three times, and then a robot voice declares, The National Weather Service in Louisville has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the following counties in Kentucky: Anderson, Franklin, Henry, Nelson, Mercer, Scott, Shelby, Spencer … Kaylee stops listening and goes back to her data entering and her texting. Nest status: No constructed nest. Adult activity: At/on, then flushed from nest. (When Kaylee squeezed through the crack between the barn doors an hour ago, the mother vulture, as always, got up and hesitantly stalked, like a huge black chicken, away from her two gigantic eggs lying on the bare dirt floor. The father didn’t show up this afternoon, which suits Kaylee just fine. Jane says he’s all bluster, but he threatens her as if he means it, hissing and spreading his enormous white-tipped black wings like an eagle on a banner, and she’s scared of him. Scared he’ll barf on her, too; they do that, to drive predators away.)

“I’m going out to the garden,” Jane says now. She’s wearing her big straw hat, so she’ll be safe from dive-bombing tree swallows. “If you hear thunder, get off the computer fast, okay?”

“Okay.” Though right now the sky through the study window looks just flat gray, not stormy at all. Young status: (Leave that blank. The eggs should be hatching in ten days or so. Jane’s hoping for two live babies this time. Most often one of the eggs is infertile.) Number of dead young: 0. And so on. Submit.

She’s worked her way through Patio (eastern phoebe) and Pond Box (chickadee) while keeping up on Lady Bearcats practice with Morgan, and Macy’s cat’s hairball with Macy, who’s at the vet’s, and checking Facebook every few minutes, and is just starting on Path Box (bluebird, her favorite) when the radio emits its blood-curdling screech once again. Jane is still in the garden. When the robot comes on again, Kaylee is the only one in the house to hear it say, The National Weather Service in Louisville has issued a tornado warning for the following counties in Kentucky: Anderson, Franklin, Grant, Marion, Owen, and Washington until 6:30 pm. The National Weather Service has identified rotation in a storm located fifteen miles southwest of Lebanon and heading north-northeast at 40 mph. Cities in the path of this storm include Lebanon; Springfield; Harrodsburg; Lawrenceburg; Alton … Kaylee shoves back her chair, grabbing her SmartBerry, and runs to the door. “Jane! Hey Jane!” she yells. “They just said it’s a tornado warning!” Behind her the robot says sternly This is a dangerous storm. If you are in the path of this storm, take shelter immediately. Go to the lowest level of a sturdy building … “They said take shelter immediately!” she shouts.

Jane drops her shovel and starts trotting toward the house, calling “Fleece and Roscoe! Come!” She doesn’t trot too fast, she’s got arthritis in her knees like Kaylee’s grandma, but Jane is much, much thinner than Mammaw; think of Mammaw trotting anywhere! The dogs race up the steps onto the deck, followed by Jane holding on to the handrail. “Are you sure they said warning?” she puffs. “I wouldn’t have thought it looked that threatening,” and just then they hear the heavy rumble of thunder. Fleece, the white poodle, trembles violently and slinks through the doggy door into the house; she hates thunderstorms. The sky is starting to churn. As the rest of them come in, the radio is repeating its announcement, including the part about taking shelter immediately. Jane says, “Well that blew up out of nowhere! Okay, I guess we get to go sit in the basement for a while. Did you turn off the computer?” Kaylee shakes her head. “Get your data submitted?”

She nods. “Almost all of it.”

“Good. Go on down, I’ll be there in a sec.”