The rain, a relentless, drumming assault, hammered against the winds of Bathilda's bright yellow Beetle, each drop a tiny, furious fist. Sixteen hours of relentless work at St.Mary's Hospital y behind her, a grueling marathon of suffering and healing, and all she craved was the f embrace of a full-bodied red wihe image of a steaming, fragrant bath, the crimson liquid swirling in a gss beside her, was a bea of hope iempest of exhaustion.

  Bathilda, a young h a heart as bright as her Beetle, cherished her profession. The daily opportunity to alleviate suffering and offer soce to those in need rofound privilege. However, she was ner to the toll it took. The emotional weight of witnessing human vulnerability, the physical strain of endless shifts, it all accumuted, a heavy burden carried on her slender shoulders.

  The asphalt ahead was a shimmering, distorted ribbon, the torrential downpour obsg the road like a gauzy curtain. Bathilda, usually a fident driver, navigated the treacherous ditions with heightened caution, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. Each sluggish mile stretched into ay, deying the promised sanctuary of her home and that waiting bottle of wine.

  "Just my luck," she muttered, her voice a weary sigh.

  Bathilda brought her Beetle to a halt at a set of traffic lights, the rhythmic swish of the wipers a hypnotic terpoint to the relentless rain. Gng at her refle in the rearview mirror, she was met with the ghostly visage of a sleep-deprived nurse. Her oneat ponytail had surreo the humidity, wisps of hair framing a face etched with fatigue. Her eyes, usually bright and alert, were bloodshot and shadowed, mirr the stormy night.

  "Definitely not winning Miss USA anytime soon," she quipped, a sardonic smile flickering across her lips.

  The Beetle's engine idled, a steady, rhythmic thrum against the backdrop of the storm. The miicked by, eae a torturous dey. The traffic lights remaiubbornly red, an inexplicable anomaly in the deserted interse. A growing sense of impatienawed at Bathilda, her longing for that gss of wiensifying.

  "Why isn't the light ging?" she murmured, her brow furrowed in fusion.

  Another minute passed, and still, the lights remained unged. A wave of frustration washed over her. Cheg her rearview mirror, she saw only the empty, rain-slicked road stretg behind her. Deg to iigate, she rolled down her window, exposing herself to the biting wind and the deluge of rain. Leaning out, she sed the interse, her gaze searg for any sign of another vehicle or a reason for the malfun. The interse was deserted, the silence broken only by the relentless drumming of the rain.

  Against her better judgment, Bathilda decided to run the red light, making a right turn onto the freeway. "Surely, the light's broken," she reasoned, her voice ced with a hint of guilt. "It's up to driver discretion until they fix it." She khis was a flimsy justification, a desperate attempt to rationalize her impatience, but her exhaustion made it impossible tue with herself.

  Having worked at St.Mary's for three years, she khis route intimately, every curve and ine etched into her memory. Even in the blinding rain, she merged onto the freeway with practiced ease, joining the steady stream of traffic. The trast between the deserted interse and the bustling motorway was stark, a reminder of the city's intricate work of arteries and veins.

  "It always amazes me," she mused, "how one pce be so empty, and another so full." Roads, she thought, were the lifelines of civilization, the duits through which the lifeblood of erd e flowed.

  Switg nes, she settled into the rhythm of the traffic, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, a blurred ndscape illuminated by the Beetle's headlights. She reached for her pack of cigarettes, her fingers fumbling with the cellophane er. Lighting one, she inhaled deeply, the nie a brief, sharp jolt against her fatigue. She turned on the radio, hoping for some distra.

  The weather report crackled through the speakers, the announcer's voice, John Johnston, barely audible through the static. Fragments of information filtered through: act reports, warnings against non-essential travel, dire pronous about the treacherous ditions.

  "No shit," she muttered, taking another drag of her cigarette.

  Suddenly, a car roared past her, overtaking her with reckless speed. The spray from its tires, a blinding curtain of water, momentarily obscured her vision, and she swerved instinctively, her heart pounding in her chest.

  "Asshole!" she yelled, her voice lost in the roar of the storm.

  The i brought back a vivid memory of her st patient: a man with a mangled arm and shattered legs, the victim of a horrific traffic collision. The image of his mangled limbs, the sheer brutality of the act, filled her with a sense of unease.

  She took another drag of her cigarette, her hand trembling slightly. Then, just as she was about to dismiss the i from her mind, John Johnston's voiow clear and urgent, pierced through the static.

  "We're receivis that a small tornado has just torn straight through St.Mary's Hospital in downtown Freemont. Anyone living in, or around the viity..."

  Bathilda's breath caught ihroat. Her mi bnk, the words eg in her ears like a death knell.

  "What!?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the storm. St. Mary's, her sanctuary, her pce of purpose, was gohe rain, a relentless, hammering curtain, momentarily thinned, revealing a se that cwed at her sanity. It's true. Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp esg her lips.

  It wasn't just a storm. It was a monstrous, swirling vortex of chaos, a living tempest that dwarfed the six-story hospital like a child's toy. The building, once a bastion of healing, was now a fucked up skeleton, its crete and steel ripped apart like paper. This wasn't a mere storm; it rimal force of destru, a hellish entity unleashed upon the world.

  And it was ing for her.

  The tornado, a colossal, ing behemoth, was carving a path of devastation along the very freeway she traveled. It moved with an unnatural, predatory speed, closing the distah a terrifying ease. Bathilda's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the impending doom.

  "Shit!" she screamed, her voice lost in the howling wind. A reckless driver, a blur of steel and arrogance, roared past, scraping the side of her little yellow Beetle. The bring horn, a mog symphony of indifference, echoed through the storm.

  "What the... asshole!" she yelled, the adrenaline surging through her veins. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, and smmed her foot down on the accelerator. She had to escape, had to outrun the monstrous entity that was rapidly closing in.

  The radio crackled to life, a desperate voice cutting through the static. "…anyone in the downtown Freemont area o get down to their basements and hunker down. If there's anyo on the freeway... you o leave... off as soon as you and…"

  "I'm trying, John!" she shrieked, her voice a raw, desperate plea against the howling wind. The speedometer needle climbed, trembling as it approached 170. The Beetle, a tiny, fragile shell, rattled and shook, threatening to disie beh her.

  Bathilda had never driven this fast, not even in the best of ditions. Today, however, was a desperate dah death. The rain-slicked road, the near-zero visibility, the monstrous force bearing down on her – all demanded a reckless, desperate speed.

  The wipers, frantid futile, spped bad forth, struggling to clear the deluge. The rai down like a relentless drum, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the thial of her car. Bathilda leaned forward, her eyes straining to pierce the swirling gray. She entered a state of hyper-focus, a desperate trance where the world narrowed to the road ahead.

  Then, for a fleeting moment, the rain subsided.

  The sight that greeted her was a nightmare made real. The tornado, a swirling vortex of bd gray, loomed behind her, a t moo destru. The wind roared, a deafening symphony of chaos, and Bathilda's blood ran cold.

  Ierror, she fot the cigarette still burniween her fingers. The ember reached her skin, a searing sting that snapped her out of her trahe sudden pain, the jarring break in her tration, caused her to jerk the steering wheel.

  The Beetle, a tiny, fragile thing, veered sharply to the right.

  "Bitch!" she screamed, the word torn from her throat.

  The car spun, a dizzying, siing rotation. Bathilda fought tain trol, but it was too te. The Beetle was a runaway carousel, spinning wildly across the rain-soaked asphalt. She screamed, a primal cry of fear and desperation, as the car careened across nes.

  Miraculously, she avoided colliding with the other fleeing vehicles. The spinning slowed, and the Beetle smmed into the crete barrier, the impact sending a jolt through her body. Her head smmed against the side window, a sharp, blinding pain.

  She touched her temple, her fingers ing away slick with blood. Her vision blurred, a crimson haze obsg her sight.

  The Beetle, now fag the wrong way, sat crippled and vulnerable. The wipers, still stubbornly w, cleared the rain-streaked windshield. The traffic had vanished, leaving her aloh the storm.

  The tornado, now clearly visible, was a terrifying spectacle. It moved with a malevolent grace, a dark god g its due. Bathilda turhe key, but the engine wouldn't start. Dead. She tried again and again, her desperation growing with each failed attempt.

  "Why am I just sitting here?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why aren't I running?"

  But where could she run? Could arun a force of nature? The Beetle, even at its fastest, had been no match.

  "I've never actually seen a tornado first-hand before," she marveled, a bitter ugh esg her lips. "Look at the fug size of that thing!"

  She pulled anarette from her pack, her hands shaking. "I suppose I shouldn't be worried about the cer sticks killing me anymore, should I?"

  The dark humor, a desperate attempt to g to sanity, was lost in the howling wind. She lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply, and then choked on a fit of coughing.

  "Might be better that there wasn't anyone around to see that," she wheezed.

  The Beetle began to move, not from the engine, but from the relentless wind. The force of the gale ulling her, dragging her closer to the storm. The windshield ripped free, a sheet of gss flying into the swirling chaos. Bathilda was exposed, vulnerable, at the mercy of the elements.

  She yanked on the handbrake, smmed her foot on the brakes, but it was futile. The Beetle slid forward, a helpless leaf caught in a raging current.

  She took o, desperate drag from her cigarette, the wind tearing it from her lips. The tornado loomed, a bck maw of destru, its roar deafening. Bathilda raised her arms, shielding her face from the onsught of wind and rain.

  Is this it?