The Storm so far

1.
At six forty seven in the morning on a cold November day, a grey Ford truck sped down U.S Route 1, a highway that runs along the East Coast, starting in Florida, then running up through various states to end in Maine, running along the South side then curling up to the North along the East. The man driving was a twenty-six year old named Noah Lawrence. Noah had dark brown eyes, curly black hair, was six two and weighed about two hundred pounds. He had grown up in the Hudson Heights district of Manhattan and had moved to Maine for work. He was a bachelor, he had never been married, had no kids. Currently unemployed, he was driving from his home in the city of Harrington to the nearby town of Machias to apply for a job at the Bangor Savings Bank there. Unfortunately, he would never reach Number One Center St.
Noah’s brown eyes were accented by dark circles; he was tired. No, tired was not the word for it. He was weary. He had been looking for work for three months now, application after application, interview after interview, rejection after rejection. He was sick of it. Noah was beginning to think that he wouldn’t ever find work, that he would be evicted from his apartment and die, homeless and starving on some sidewalk somewhere. No. He shook the thoughts from his head, ridding his mind of the disturbing idea.
He flicked a button on the side of the wheel, increasing the speed of the windshield wipers to match the rising intensity of the rain. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and even darker ones sat on the horizon. Thunder boomed in the distance, and far away there was a flash of lightning. A storm was coming, and it was a big one. Noah stared out of the windshield, his eyes focusing on the barely visible road, and he continued to drive toward Machias, toward the ever-growing clouds on the horizon, toward the oncoming storm.
2.
The rain fell onto the tops of the trees, splattering against the leaves then running down the branches to the trunk, streaming down the dark pillar of bark and wood, finally hitting the earth, soaking into the soil, saturating the ground. The forest was dark, the already weak morning light obscured by the dark clouds and overhead branches made it almost impossible to see.
A man was running through the forest, dodging between trees, leaping over bushes and piles of underbrush. He was tall and thick, but not fat. He was wearing dirty, worn out jeans and a soaking hoodie which hid his face. He was running as fast as he could, sprinting through the darkness and the wetness. His breath was coming faster now, and his heart was throbbing harder. His thighs were burning and his neck and chest hurt. But he couldn’t stop now, not after he had evaded them for so long. He couldn’t hear them but he knew they were there. They always were. And to stop now, to let them catch up meant death.
Suddenly, he broke free of the trees. Dead leaves and underbrush were underfoot no longer, now his boots crunched in gravel. The ground continued for a few meters past the tree line but then ended abruptly in a cliff. The man skidded to a a hart, throwing gravel up into the air. He walked carefully but quickly to the edge and peered over. Nothing was to be seen; a grey fog obscured the space below the cliff. It could have been a short drop or a huge canyon, there was no way to tell. There was a noise of rushing water, but was it at the bottom of the cliff? Was it deep enough? The man stared down into the opaque abyss, contemplating his options. The few he had both could conceivably end in a messy death. He cocked his head, listening intently. And then he heard soft footsteps coming from the forest. He made a decision and jumped.
About ten seconds later, two men clothed in military camouflage burst out of the trees. They were both male and they were both carrying .9mm Glock 7 semiautomatic handguns. One of the men was taller and the other shorter.
They ran up to the cliff and looked over. “You think he went over?” asked the taller man in a raspy tone.
“Yeah,” said the smaller of the two, “I mean, where else would he have gone?”
“So is that it?” said the other, “after all this fucking chasing I don’t even get the satisfaction to put a bullet in his brain?’
“I guess so,” answered the short man, and then: “Shit,”
“What?”
“The boss will want a body,”
“Fuck. We could dress up another body, and say it was him,”
As the short man began to say something a third voice broke in, cutting him off. The new voice did not belong to anyone either of the men knew, and it appeared to be disembodied. The voice was soft yet easily heard, slipping into the men’s heads like like some insubstantial fish.
It said: “No you won’t be reporting back to your boss, I’m afraid, you are going to be unavoidably detained,”
“What? Who said that? Who the fuck are you?” said the big man.
“I’m your replacement,” said the voice, and then two thin objects came flying out of the forest. The objects spun, and thunked into each of the foreheads of the men. It was only after the men fell to the ground that the objects were clearly distinguishable, two long throwing knives were stuck into each respective forehead of the men, handles still quivering.
3. Noah was just driving past a line of twenty cherry red tractors, parked dormant on the side of the road when he saw the man, sticking out his thumb. Noah depressed the brake, and with a slight screech, stopped the car at the side of the road, pulling up alongside him. He rolled down the window and as the rain began to fall into the car and soak the seat he called out to the man.
“Where you headed?” he asked, raising his voice to compete with the pounding of the rain.
“Machias,” said the man, in a voice much too old and gravelly for his face. He was tall, standing at least six five, with long legs and a thick, strong body. His jeans had once been blue, but now they were almost brown, covered in muddy stains. He wore a black sweatshirt with a hood that was also stained from mud. He was soaking wet, dripping everywhere. None of this deterred Noah, he didn’t care about the interior of his car enough to worry about the water and the mud.
“Hop in,” called Noah, unlocking the passenger door. The man opened the door, and climbed in.
“What’s your name?” asked Noah, as he pulled the car off the shoulder and back onto the road.
“Leonardo. Leonardo Cole,” said the man in the same gravelly tone as before. His face was young, but also tired, the same weariness that was evident on Noah’s face, only a thousandfold increased. A thick grey mustache and raggedy beard hid most of his face, but Noah could see his shining blue eyes, for a moment they looked lost, almost sad but then it was gone.
“Leo?” asked Noah, “Can I call you Leo?”
“If you like,” said Leo, running a filthy hand through a mop of greasy hair, then looking at his hand. “Shit. I’m a mess,” Noah said nothing, concentrating on the road. The rain had increased its intensity again, and it was steadily getting harder to see. “Where are you going? Just Machias, or farther?”
“Just Machias, I’m going to apply for a job,” Noah said, surprising himself with the outburst of personal information to a total stranger.
Leo said nothing but gave a little noise that signified that he understood.
“What about you?” Noah asked, “Why are you going to Machias?”
Leo sighed. “I’m going to fix something. Something that needs to be fixed,” he said. Noah waited for further elaboration, but none came. He almost asked about it, but a look in Leo’s eyes told him not to. Leo wouldn’t, or couldn’t tell him more. Unseen by Noah or Leo, a couple yards behind the truck, a motorcycle rumbled, driving after them, the noise and sigh of it obscured by the ever-increasing storm.
4. Noah drives on. He thinks about finding work, he thinks about his past, his parents, his lost love, his education. He thinks about the meaning of life, and why we are here, and he thinks about his upcoming application. He thinks about how he is driving, if the windshield wipers are going fast enough, if he can see out of the windshield. He thinks he hears the rumbling of another engine, but it is just thunder. He thinks about the oncoming storm. Noah drives on.
Leo thinks. He thinks about why he is going to Machias, what he will find there. He thinks about what will happen if he fails. He thinks about the men that were chasing him and if they still are. He thinks about what would happen if they caught up. He thinks, that probably, if they had not caught him so off guard, he could of taken them easily. He thinks about his wife and children, and he thinks about suicide. But most of all, he thinks of rain.
Rain thinks. He thinks of power and oppression, of bottomless wealth and endless death. He thinks of fire and chaos and the glory of it all. He thinks of crime and war, destruction and fear. He thinks of killing, endless bodies lain out, empty and lifeless. He thinks about the storm, and the fact that it is coming.
5. “Have you had breakfast yet?” asked Leo. It was about five minutes later and they were nearing Machias.
“No,” said Noah, and as he said it he realized he was ravenously hungry, “no, I have not. Why?”
“Are you on a pressing schedule to apply for this job?” Leo said, ignoring Noah’s inquiry.
“No,” Noah said again. He had left early, hoping to be in and out, to avoid morning traffic.
“Okay,” said Leo. He pointed out the window at a diner on the side of the road, “Let’s get some grub,” he said, “my treat,” Noah was about to say no, that he didn’t want to get stuck in morning traffic, but before he could say anything, his stomach rumbled hungrily.
“Fine,” said Noah, with a resigned tone. He turned off the road and stopped the car in front of the diner. They got out of the car, and, gravel crunching underfoot, they walked to and entered the diner.
It happened just as their coffee arrived. Noah was staring out the window when it happened, so he saw it before it entered the diner. He saw something fly toward the window, cleanly shatter it, and continue through into the diner. It shot past him, between Noah and Leo, missing Leo’s neck by a hair’s breadth. Noah turned his head, following its path, and saw where it had landed. The object in question was a thin blue throwing knife, an engraved cobalt handle and a thin silver blade. It was embedded in the adam’s apple of the waiter, who had been standing right in front of them, on the other side of the counter, ready to serve them their food.
The waiter coughed blood, a red ball of goo flying from his mouth to splatter on the counter, staining the tile red. He gurgled, and then fell to the ground. The plates crashing on the ground seemed to wake up all the diners, who were staring openmouthed at waiter. The noise of breaking glass shook them out of the shock, and then they started to scream. Everyone was nearly hysterical, all except Leo. Another knife shot into the diner, again passing between Leo and Noah, shattering the coffeepot. Hot coffee poured out onto the body of the waiter. Noah fell off of his chair, half falling, half leaping away from the danger. Leo dived down too, rolling under a table just as a third knife whizzed by.
Noah crawled under the table to join Leo. “What the fu—?” he started to say but Leo cut him off. “Go. Run.” He said, slipping something into Noah's pocket. Noah didn’t need any instruction, that was what he had been planning to do before Leo said it. “Don’t take the car. Stay low,” Leo said, and shoved Noah forward. Noah took the momentum and started a low run, quickly trotting with his back curled low. When he was close to the door, he almost tripped over a dead body. A knife was buried in the forehead of a man, and he was lying across the diner, spread eagle. Noah felt a wave of nausea, clamping a hand to his mouth. He stayed there for a second, wondering if he should really go for it, then made his decision.
Almost as soon as he stepped out on to the gravel, a knife shot past his ear. He kept going, feeling knives all around him, barely missing their intended target, him. Disregarding Leo’s instructions, Noah ran straight for the car, he needed a fast way out. When he was a few feet from the car however, the pipe bomb taped to the engine went off. Noah saw fire and smoke, he was knocked onto his back. His vision was orange, he was coughing as acrid black smoke poured into his lungs via his nose and mouth. His right wrist seared with pain, it felt broken and burned. His skin felt scalded, it was raw and tender to the touch. Noah blacked out, feeling his mind go blank.
6. When Leo heard the explosion he waited for several minutes before carefully rising. He walked quickly and carefully out the door, still wary of the knives. When it became evident that no one was in the area except for the dead bodies and himself, Leo relaxed. He walked over to the black husk of Noah’s car, the skeleton was still hot to the touch. It was still raining, and the fat drops sizzled when they landed on the chassis, sending steam up into the cold morning air.
“Fuck,” said Leo, “I told him not to go for the car.” An acrid smell of gasoline was in the air, some was probably still aflame somewhere in the car. Leo examined the ground, found a trail of blood and blue denim. The trail led a couple of yards through the parking lot, and it ended in fat black skid marks. The skid marks were wide, indicating a big vehicle.
“Fuck,” Leo repeated. Noah had the drive. The drive was in his pocket. They had taken Noah. They, if they knew it or not, now were in possession of the drive. Not good.
Leo went into the diner, and picked a corpse at random. He shuffled through the man’s pockets, retrieving cash, car keys, and a cellphone. He popped the back of the phone off, and slid the sim card out, tossing it to the ground. He put the back back on and turned the phone on. It was empty, all the pictures and contacts were gone. Leo walked out into the parking lot, and methodically tried the key in all of the cars. It turned in the lock of the door of a grey pickup, the door clicked open and Leo climbed in. He started the car, , and pulling onto the main road, followed the direction of the skid marks the way they led, towards Machias.
7. Noah awoke to darkness. There was something over his head, a sort of cloth bag, it made breathing difficult and it smelled musty. He was sitting on a chair, that much he could tell. His hands were cuffed onto the chair, the metal biting into his flesh. He thought back and realized what had happened. The car had blown up. Jesus Christ, he thought, and then he remembered his right arm. As he thought about it, he realized the arm in question was twisted the wrong way at the wrist. He moved it, and felt his radiocarpal joint explode in pain. Noah screamed, long and loud, the sound echoing against the walls.
Long after Noah had stopped screaming an the pain had died down from a white hot burn to a dull throb, a voice echoed into his hearing.
“Hello,” it said, and with that, the cloth bag was pulled off of Noah’s head. At first he couldn’t see anything, his eyes watering as they tried to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. When his eyes cleared, he saw that he was in a small, plain room. In front of him was a long wooden table, behind which sat three men. The men all wore suits, and were expressionless.
“Can you hear me?” asked the man in the middle. Noah managed a slight nod. “Good,” he said, “now we’re going to ask you a few questions. If you do not comply, there will be consequences like this….” He gestured at Noah, and the man on his left got up. He was a giant of a man, standing around six foot six and weighing, Noah guessed, at least three hundred pounds. He walked over to Noah and then shot his arm out, grabbing Noah’s wrist in on gigantic palm. The man twisted it sideways, and Noah felt pain like he had never felt before. He screamed, writhing in his chair. Spots swam before his eyes and he felt himself almost black out. He leaned forward, and vomited on the ground. The man let go of his wrist, and walked back to the table.
“You see?” said the man in the middle, “it will be better for you to comply. So now, down to business. First question, what do you know of Leonardo Cole?”