The sound of thunder like the war hammers of Norse gods had awoken Jan. As he tried to wake Inger, the folds and whorls of the coal black clouds surged ever closer. Lightning raced across the front, casting brief flickers of illumination across the field. It looked like the synapses of a disembodied giant brain thinking dark, malignant thoughts. A gust of wind flipped the picnic bench, sending their gear tumbling and flying away.
“Fy fæn!” he shouted in surprise.
Inger stirred beside him. “What is it?”
“Wake up! We have to go to the cellar! Now!” The wind sounded like the biggest train in the world chugging right toward them as they lay on the tracks motionless, like pinned insects on display.
The tent ripped from end to end. The sound of the tear unheard in the chorus of chaos. Fiberglass poles sprang and bounced away. Flaps of material writhed and twisted, flailed about, felt but not heard.
He saw in another round of flashing lightning that Inger’s eyes were open and her mouth was moving. Fear stretched taunt across her features. Something hard punched him in the arm, spun away, gone forever. He reached for her as his sleeping bag kited off the ground, shooting into the black beyond like a down filled bullet.
He pulled the groggy Inger in his wake—she stumbled along with her own sleeping bag wound around her right ankle, unable to kick it free—as he dead reckoned their way towards the safety of the campground office. Single-minded determination propelled him onward to the bolthole of salvation against this cataclysmic ferocity. The storm quickly grew around them, rampaging like a mad bull.
Picture linked via The Heart of Writing