//This is an edited version. I haven't changed the content, but I am attempting to repair the grammar and spelling.
Chapter One: Morning Light.
"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets..."
–Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)
Humans maintain a strange idea that dark, wet days are somehow more belligerent that bright, sunny ones. This is largely a fallacy. Clear skies and puffy clouds have seen more of human violence than night or rain. Darkness has touched mankind with a creeping sense of unease since time immemorial. Bright sun offers a immaterial comfort to pair with that feeling, even though the weather has little impact on a day's danger. Thus, when the sun shone down on a large town in America's heartland, the people began their days amiably.
Amanda Wolfe, called Amy, would have whistled her way to work, if she knew how to whistle. It was something she'd considered, but couldn't quite make herself learn for reasons unrelated to the intricate motions of the tonguei. Instead, she strutted. Her fashionable clothing, the subtle makeup, the way she held her head or her wrist – It was her play. The length of the mall was her theater, her runway. The music store which employed her was a destination, but the show was the goal.
It would not be precisely accurate to say Amy worked at the music shop. For her, the business day was a social event. In many ways she was a typical blond, including legs that caught many a eye and a tendency toward ditsy comments. But she could also maintain intelligent dialogue on a great variety of subjects. A psychologist might suggest that social trauma during her formative years (that is, she was teased for being a nerd) results in an ongoing decision to play the foolish flirt rather than give evidence of being a reasonably intelligent person. Her act was convincing.
“Hi Louis!”
After passing though the food court – bustling with deliveries that could not be sent during the customer-packed operating hours, she'd stopped to look over the shoulder on the mall's resident painter.
“My name is Lou! How many times must explain that to you?”
Lou looked about fortyii, his brown hair was receding with such speed it threatened a route. His skin had taken on a ruddy appearance from his excursions, for he was a naturalist and an explorer.
“Lou is a girl's name. Your name has to be Louis. Maybe Louie. Can I call you Louie?”
“Only if I can call you Mandar,” Lou intentionally altered her name.
“Don't call me that, it makes me sound like a space monster!”
“Then learn to address me as Lou!”
“Okies! Sure thing, Louis!”
Lou Durer operated a small stand where he sold his paintings. From there he also ran his own website for the same purpose. At least, he attempted to. Lou fostered a lifelong enmity with machines. Computers were a nemesis. He could put them to use where it suited him – despite his reservations, his website doubled his income. Lou would be readily at home a thousand miles from the nearest stoplight, but uncomfortable in a crowd of three. Somehow, his artistic island saw less traffic than the lonely music store sandwiched between bright boutiques a dozen feet beyond it. Yet, those who investigated, were treated to naturalist images of great skill: forested mountain peaks stretched across one great canvas and a single flower of edelweissesiii filled another. When people appeared in these paintings, they seemed distant, often looking away from the painter. When Amy addressed him, Lou closed his aged Powerbook; grateful for a reason to postpone his efforts. When she departed, he took out a sketchbook and attempted to capture her fleeting figure. He did not save these sketches.
Above the artist's head the mall's PA rang with the announcement that the town's only officially elected disk jockey, known as BJ the DJ, was starting his show. He'd be taking referendums and citizen's referrals this hour, before beginning his hundred-minute all request lunch houriv.
Behind the artist's back, the mall's day guard shuffled in. Normally Alvin Quatermane would be spit-and-polish while at work. Budget cuts had reduced the 'active security contingent' to a single, overworked man. Thus he was forced to sequester himself in a tiny office and keep watch over dozens of cameras; permitted escape on in response to emergencies. Or the occasional pretzel. With cheeze saucev. Despite everything, Alvin normally wore the uniform with pride. This job was just a holding pattern until that new post on the PD opened up, he told himself most mornings. He had the degree and the training to be a cop, he just needed the city's budget to make room.
In the mean time, Alvin Quartermane stayed close with his fraternity. Last night, he partied late and drank heavily with those fellows, intending to sleep though his day off (he swore he never had that much time when he had classes). Except, when your only counterpart fails to show, the management has little choicevi. The night watchman, a retired sheriff's deputy who went by Bud – didn't even comment on the messy appearance. He was too tired by 10 o'clock to notice.
For Alvin, Lou and Amy, the day progressed precisely as it ought to for most of the next hour. Amy chatted with everyone in sight (and, when her manager wasn't looking, with a number of people more distantly connected). Lou sketched for a bit, but found Amy still impossible to draw. It was a warm, bright November Thursday, and Lou decided everyone, besides himself, shared a good moodvii.
The mall was about to open its doors a siren went off. The ancient device produced a stunning racket. Alvin had had been in his office, nearly sleeping, when it sounded. He knew at once it was a tornado siren, and among his other duties he was expected to insure proper response to an emergency. He might have overreacted to the danger slightly because of his embarrassment at nearly being asleep – as though the warning had caught him at it – but his reaction was more appropriate than he knew.
Lou might have ignored the massive noise – it wasn't tornado season, they must be just testing it – and just allowed himself a chuckle at the “EEP!” from the music store in the corner. But Alvin's sudden appearance had him thinking otherwise.
“Everyone! Follow me! We've got to get into the tornado shelter, Now!” The young guard was not normally the sort to be particularly vocal. He was always an amiable and easygoing fellow, as Lou thought. The nearly panicked commands he now issued stirred something in the middle-aged painter. A few others quickly followed the security man, now running, back down the hall near his office. He threw open a heavy door and ushered a handful in. By this time the mall had several dozen employees, but most of them chose to ignore the siren. The great steel door swung shut, and the little band was plunged into total darkness.
“Hold on. I've got a light somewhere.” came the voice of their default leader (Alvin). Soon a flashlight pierced the black. “Follow me, there's a basement here that's solid.”
A small voice spoke up “shouldn't we wait for the rest?”
“Door's not locked. If they're following us, they can still get in. There are other cellars too.”
This did not completely satisfy the group, and a general commotion murmured though the few who followed him: Amy and Lou, and short, pale girl he did not recognize whose black clothing nearly made her disappear in the dark room.viii
““How long do we wait to come out?”
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