Night Storm

Max Dwight was having a hurricane party. He rented an old beach house in Siesta Key, Florida, while attending the Ringling College of Art and Design. It was his first time living away from home, and he felt lucky to find a cheap place to rent on the beach. Sure, the place didn't look exactly like it did in the online photo gallery, but it was an excellent place to crash.

The cottage was close to the beach. A hammock stretched between two palm trees, providing an excellent view of sugar sands and lightly rolling waves. Max hung out in his swim trunks and flip-flops when not attending classes. His skin was bronze, his hair slightly whitened by the sun. He called his little place Margaritaville, although the name was corny and overused.

The weather alerts about Hurricane Milton didn't concern Max. His college friends said there was nothing to worry about. The newspeople always exaggerated storms to scare people. Max believed them. He came from Wisconsin and never experienced tropical weather. While his neighbors boarded up their windows and planned to evacuate, Max stocked up on beer, chips, and frozen pizza. He invited his new friends to his hurricane party.

When Max returned from his shopping trip, traffic was light going onto the key. He noticed it was heavier headed inland. He guessed everyone was probably stocking up for the same reason he was. The grocery store was busier than usual, and cars were lined up outside the gas stations. Max didn't realize he had made it back to his beach cottage slightly ahead of the bridge closure.

Max busied himself, putting his beer on ice and lighting his charcoal grill beneath the patio awning. Heavy gray clouds hovered over an ominous green sea. The wind picked up the waves, creating whitecaps, and threw piercing sand onto the patio. The palms waved, and the hammock swayed. Max continued to prepare for his party, singing, "I blew out my flip-flop, stepped on a pop top."

The increasing soggy weather didn't bother him much. He was having a hurricane party, and it was supposed to rain. He began to worry around seven-thirty when none of his friends showed up. Max still didn't realize the bridges were closed, preventing anyone from driving onto the key.

The cottage was on a heavily wooded lot, back from the main road. The driveway was easier to see if one knew exactly where it was. Most people didn't realize the old cottage was back there. The few neighbors who knew had evacuated several hours beforehand. Max was completely isolated in his own private Margaritaville. Even the police who patrolled the area looking for hangers-on bypassed the old place.

The burgers Max put on the grill began to char. He flipped one onto a roll and chewed discontentedly. He thought he had made plenty of friends at college. They hung around together and drank at a local bar. Yet, they didn't show up to his party.

"Fine bunch of friends," Max grumbled, chewing on his dry burger. He closed the lid on his grill and, wandering inside, plunked onto the couch. The wind picked up, blowing the curtains through the open patio doors. He slammed them closed, locking them together with the bolt at the top. He sat back down and shivered.

The cottage seemed suddenly colder than usual. Max wrapped an old Mexican blanket around his shoulders and hunkered over. The cottage walls shook, and plaster fell from the ceiling. It fell in Max's hair. He ran his fingers through it, dislodging white flakes. The young college student began to worry.

It didn't occur to him that he hadn't heard from the cottage's owners. He paid his rent online with an auto-payment and didn't think further. No one informed Max he had to evacuate, nor did anyone prepare the cottage for storm-forced winds.

Frowning, Max looked through the large patio doors. The palm trees swayed in the increasing winds. The hammock strings broke, sending it swirling into the air. It danced like a ghost, slammed against the windows, and disappeared altogether. The lights flickered, brightened, and flickered again. They held a dim light that seemed to fade and brighten rhythmically. Finally, they went out, plunging Max into semi-twilight.

Max lay on the couch beneath the Mexican blanket and curled into the fetal position. His thumb found his mouth, and he sucked like a baby. It took years for his mother to wean him of the infantile habit. He was nearly thirteen when he stopped sucking his thumb. He only resorted to the old dependency when he encountered stressful situations.

Max watched with disinterest when the charcoal grill rolled past the window. The wind overturned it, scattering smoldering charcoal across the patio pavers. A strong gust carried it away in the same manner as the hammock. Above his head, the roof shook again, and the walls heaved in and out, resembling an old funhouse mirror.

It was still early, closing in on nine o'clock and midnight dark outside. Milton continued to churn in the gulf, preparing to heave onshore. In desperation, Max found the local news forecast on his phone. According to the weather reporter, it would take another three hours before landfall was expected. Max sat back against the couch, his teeth chattering. He shivered and pulled the blanket close to his chest.

Hours passed. Max decided he had to leave. He couldn't stay a moment longer. His jeep loomed like a gray heap in the dooryard. If he made a dash for it, he could get away. He would drive all the way to Wisconsin without stopping. Max rushed for the glass patio doors. Struggling with the bolt, he finally released it and pulled the handle inward. Running headlong into the wind, Max yanked on the jeep's door.

"Locked!" he muttered, pulling harder. Rain pelted him from all directions. The wind gusted, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Max squinted his eyes closed and envisioned his keys sitting on the bamboo coffee table. He would have to run back inside to get them. Feeling like a fool, he bent his head and sobbed. Then he remembered shoving his keys in his pocket when he returned from the grocery store. He grabbed them and unlocked the jeep. Climbing in, he jabbed the key in the ignition and slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

The heavy wheels spun in the soft, wet gravel. Max pushed the gear shaft into reverse and floored it. The tires spun, digging in deeper. Max slammed his head into the steering wheel. A welt appeared on his forehead. He beat his head up and down in utter frustration.

After half an hour of despondence, Max opened the jeep's door and rushed toward the cottage. A strong wind gust pulled his legs from beneath him, sending him sprawling in the mud. Pushing up with his hands, he regained his feet. Instead of heading toward the patio doors, he felt himself pulled toward the surf. The angry waves reached the low bulkhead, dividing the beach from the cottage property. The soft sand beach had disappeared altogether beneath the surging water.

Max could not control his movements. The wind grabbed him in its deadly grip, pulling and pushing him like a grotesque puppet. Cold saltwater rose to his ankles and teased his knees. He knew nothing about the power of furious water. It had him in its grip and wouldn't let go until it destroyed him.

Max felt helpless against nature. He realized he would drown if he couldn't release himself from the hurricane's watery grip. It had complete control of him. The water rose to his thighs; the wind battered him from every direction.

His life flashed before his eyes. He saw himself taking his first steps and sitting on the potty while his mother watched over him. She treated him with circus peanuts when he peed or poohed in the toilet. When the kindergarten bus approached, he buried his face in his mother's skirt and refused to leave her. He heard his mother and father arguing, and then his father disappeared from his life. He was ten years old.

Max hated watching his mother go to work in the morning. He knew her boss was taking advantage of her—in more ways than one. When her boss moved in with them, Max ran away from home. He got as far as the bus station when his mother found him. While his mother worked, the boss returned when Max came home from school. He had things he wanted to show Max, dirty things that took place in the shower or in bed.

All the horrors the boss put him through flashed before Max's eyes. In those few short moments, he went through it all again. The terror mingled with the ferocious storm. He struggled to release himself from both agonies.

Max had a talent for drawing cartoons. They were dark and foreboding creations. His characters wore hellish masks and roamed the dark alleys of children's souls. When he pulled out his pencil, he slashed the paper, releasing all his anger against his mother's boss. Those comics landed him a scholarship to the Ringling College of Art and Design. He left Wisconsin for Florida and thought he had forever closed the door to his past life.

He would have stayed in his home state if he had known what awaited him on Siesta Key. Nothing prepared him for Hurricane Milton. Max was about to die, and he knew it. Nothing could save him.

As he prepared for his fate, a wind gust lifted him. It flung him against the cottage wall, leaving him like a heap of overused rags. The hurricane held its breath. It would blow again soon. Crawling on his hands and knees, Max found the patio doors with his forehead. He stood and pulled them open quickly. Rushing inside, he slammed the doors closed and bolted them again. The wind resumed its howling.

Max found the couch and plopped onto it. He sat yoga style and pulled the Mexican blanket over his shoulders. He shivered with both cold and fear.

Milton barreled ashore at full force. The wind lifted the cottage roof and rolled it back like a sardine lid. Flying shingles battered the abandoned jeep. Angry gulf waters invaded the cottage, turning the couch into a raft. It bobbed up and down, with Max clutching the soaked blanket. His beach white hair plastered his forehead. Rivulets dripped from his quivering chin. Again, he faced a life-or-death situation.

Why had he listened to his college friends? Many of them were from Sarasota. They had experienced hurricanes many other times. Had they made a fool of him? He was just a hick from Wisconsin. A poor boy from a small town. Were they laughing at him behind his back? His old paranoia about people returned in full force. Everyone was out to get him. His mother, her boss, and his new friends. They wanted him to fail.

Wind and rain swept down through the denuded roof. Flood water rose, sogging out the sofa. It became a crushed velvet lump beneath Max. He had nowhere to go, no hope of survival, and his strength ebbed away.

Outside, the jeep huddled beneath the raging storm. It remained firmly embedded in the muddy dooryard. Max envisioned it in his mind. The jeep would provide protection the cottage failed to deliver. Taking a chance with the wind, he flung open the patio doors and dashed toward his vehicle. Safely inside, he slammed the door closed.

Oblivion descended upon Max. His mind and body escaped from his dilemma. Although the jeep rocked in the gale-force winds, he didn't notice. Instead, he stared glassy eyed through the jeep's window. The cottage walls canted awkwardly and folded up like a cereal box. The rafters crashed on top of them. The hurricane wildly teased palm fronds, creating ghastly swaying shadows. Max didn't see any of it.

The morning sun streaming through the jeep's back window awoke Max. Marshmallow clouds drifted across clear blue skies. He blinked. Cautiously pushing open the jeep's door, Max stood in the cottage dooryard. His rented home lay in a jumble before him. Leaves and tree limbs scattered the flooded property.

Flashing red and blue lights penetrated the denuded trees. Gathering his momentum, Max rushed along the long driveway. He reached the street as the patrol vehicle disappeared along the beach road. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned despondently to trek back to his jeep.

"Hey, Mister," a strong voice called out. "You need help?"

A fire rescue vehicle pulled up alongside him. Three firefighters emerged. Unable to speak, Max fell to his knees and then collapsed. He awoke in the back of an ambulance, an IV bag attached to his arm.

"You took some chance riding out that storm," an EMT stated, frowning. "Why didn't you evacuate with everyone else? There are lots of shelters open."

Max shook his head, unable to speak. He wanted to say he didn't know about the evacuations. No one had told him. No, he hadn't paid attention. He was too busy planning his hurricane party. He had to admit he acted stupidly; he was a fool. Next time, he would know better.

If there was a next time...

Max had nowhere to go. His belongings were swept away with the cottage. The only thing he had was his jeep. It would eventually take him away from Sarasota—far away where he would never experience a night storm again.