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sound of my approach , I decide, and I pick up my pace.  Both hands stay on the little Ruger.  All she has to do is hide behind a tree for a second, wait for me to walk past and then let me have it.  And I figure she’s that kinda girl.  Call me crazy.
    The trees thin ahead and I find a dirt road.  Her boot print sits on top of a heavy truck tire track.  I step to the grassy middle of the road and follow after her. 
    I’m jogging now and my shoulder hurts like hell.  I feel goofy and slightly euphoric from the endorphins.  But there’s no mistaking all hell is about to break loose behind me.  My eyes scan from side to side hoping to spot a barn or an old house or anything.  I need a place to hole up, clean up, take a few aspirin and get some kind of game plan together.  Chasing Goldilocks over the river and through the woods just for the sake of doing it is just plain stupid.  I can feel the lightning hit before the crack.  I duck down as flat as I can go without hitting the deck.  Something heavy falls in the woods behind me.
    Finally, I see a farmhouse off to my right.  It appears to have been abandoned long before zombies and angry women with shotguns roamed the forest.  The wood siding has been bleached gray by time and the porch wrapping around the front and sides has long since fallen in.  The roof appears to be mostly intact and covered in green moss, only a few small holes penetrate the old wood shingles.  The front door is slightly ajar and I can see the foot of a staircase.  This oughta work, provided I’m not in the direct path of anything rotating. 
    I walk around the side of the house and find two warped and broken cellar doors.  Bingo.  All of these old houses have root cellars.  It may not save me from a big tornado , but it may keep me upright and breathing after a little one.  I lift the corner of one of the wooden doors and look down inside. 
    I pull out my flashlight and shine the steps.  From what I can see, the steps are covered in coon shit and leaves.  Cool stinky humid air breathes against me.  The old house groans and creaks and a big limb from one of the trees lands on the roof.  I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of it.
    I shine the light around some more.  Could be possums down there or rats.  Probably a million spiders and millipedes.  Hope to god that’s all.  I’m not sure why there would be a Zed down there but they tend to turn up in the damndest places. But it looks like mostly shit. 
    The clouds overhead are rotating.  It is hard to see through the treetops so I leave the cellar entrance and enter the house.  The stairs creak and groan under my weight.  I walk as close to the wall as I can, hoping the stairway will hold.  Upstairs, I move quickly to one of the windows and look outside. 
    In the distance, I can see what looks like a small but dark funnel moving towards me.  At the top of the tree line, I can see dirt and debris flying up and out of the spinning vortex.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say God hated me,” I mutter.  I lean outside the window frame and listen intently but cannot hear it.  In fact, I hear nothing at all.  No birds, no bugs, no wind.  It is perfectly still.  I look up and see that everything is spinning faster in the sky as the storm gathers strength.  Another great arc of lightning splits the sky downward followed by an instantaneous thunder clap that shakes the entire house. 
    I look around the room.  Old shoes, moldy magazines and empty beer cans litter the floor.  In the next room, the floor has collapsed and odd bits of wiring jut away from the walls.  In the third room, I see what I am looking for.  A torn section of blue vinyl tarp lies crumpled in the corner.  I snatch it up and run downstairs. 
    The branches on the trees are beginning to sway violently and small bits of debris dance in the air.  The air temperature is falling as I throw open the root cellar doors.  I wrap the tarp