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

  Bathilda, a young nurse with a heart as bright as her Beetle, cherished her profession. The daily opportunity to alleviate suffering and offer solace to those in need was a profound privilege. However, she was no stranger to the toll it took. The emotional weight of witnessing human vulnerability, the physical strain of endless shifts, it all accumulated, a heavy burden carried on her slender shoulders.

  The asphalt ahead was a shimmering, distorted ribbon, the torrential downpour obscuring the road like a gauzy curtain. Bathilda, usually a confident driver, navigated the treacherous conditions with heightened caution, her fingers gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. Each sluggish mile stretched into an eternity, delaying 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 counterpoint to the relentless rain. Glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror, she was met with the ghostly visage of a sleep-deprived nurse. Her once-neat ponytail had surrendered to the humidity, wisps of hair framing a face etched with fatigue. Her eyes, usually bright and alert, were bloodshot and shadowed, mirroring 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 minutes ticked by, each one a torturous delay. The traffic lights remained stubbornly red, an inexplicable anomaly in the deserted intersection. A growing sense of impatience gnawed at Bathilda, her longing for that glass of wine intensifying.

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

  Another minute passed, and still, the lights remained unchanged. A wave of frustration washed over her. Checking her rearview mirror, she saw only the empty, rain-slicked road stretching behind her. Deciding to investigate, she rolled down her window, exposing herself to the biting wind and the deluge of rain. Leaning out, she scanned the intersection, her gaze searching for any sign of another vehicle or a reason for the malfunction. The intersection 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 laced with a hint of guilt. "It's up to driver discretion until they fix it." She knew this was a flimsy justification, a desperate attempt to rationalize her impatience, but her exhaustion made it impossible to argue with herself.

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

  "It always amazes me," she mused, "how one place can be so empty, and another so full." Roads, she thought, were the lifelines of civilization, the conduits through which the lifeblood of commerce and connection flowed.

  Switching lanes, she settled into the rhythm of the traffic, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, a blurred landscape illuminated by the Beetle's headlights. She reached for her pack of cigarettes, her fingers fumbling with the cellophane wrapper. Lighting one, she inhaled deeply, the nicotine a brief, sharp jolt against her fatigue. She turned on the radio, hoping for some distraction.

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

  "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 incident brought back a vivid memory of her last 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 accident, filled her with a sense of unease.

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

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

  Bathilda's breath caught in her throat. Her mind went blank, the words echoing in her ears like a death knell.

  "What!?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the storm. St. Mary's, her sanctuary, her place of purpose, was gone. The rain, a relentless, hammering curtain, momentarily thinned, revealing a scene that clawed at her sanity. It's true. Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping 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 concrete and steel ripped apart like paper. This wasn't a mere storm; it was a primal force of destruction, a hellish entity unleashed upon the world.

  And it was coming for her.

  The tornado, a colossal, churning behemoth, was carving a path of devastation along the very freeway she traveled. It moved with an unnatural, predatory speed, closing the distance with 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 blaring horn, a mocking 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 slammed 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 needs to get down to their basements and hunker down. If there's anyone left on the freeway... you need to leave... off as soon as you can 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 disintegrate beneath her.

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

  The wipers, frantic and futile, slapped back and forth, struggling to clear the deluge. The rain beat down like a relentless drum, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the thin metal 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 black and gray, loomed behind her, a towering monument to destruction. The wind roared, a deafening symphony of chaos, and Bathilda's blood ran cold.

  In her terror, she forgot the cigarette still burning between her fingers. The ember reached her skin, a searing sting that snapped her out of her trance. The sudden pain, the jarring break in her concentration, 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, sickening rotation. Bathilda fought to regain control, but it was too late. 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 lanes.

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

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

  The Beetle, now facing the wrong way, sat crippled and vulnerable. The wipers, still stubbornly working, cleared the rain-streaked windshield. The traffic had vanished, leaving her alone with the storm.

  The tornado, now clearly visible, was a terrifying spectacle. It moved with a malevolent grace, a dark god claiming its due. Bathilda turned the 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 anyone outrun 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 laugh escaping her lips. "Look at the fucking size of that thing!"

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

  The dark humor, a desperate attempt to cling 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 was pulling her, dragging her closer to the storm. The windshield ripped free, a sheet of glass flying into the swirling chaos. Bathilda was exposed, vulnerable, at the mercy of the elements.

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

  She took one last, desperate drag from her cigarette, the wind tearing it from her lips. The tornado loomed, a black maw of destruction, its roar deafening. Bathilda raised her arms, shielding her face from the onslaught of wind and rain.

  Is this it?