Sheets of rain slide down the narrow streets and across the brim of his hood. Under a slate sky he picks his way across the chipped tarmac and winds his way through the abandoned husk of the city.
All at once the sirens blare, harmonizing for a moment in a chord of strange, celestial beauty. Then the raggedness of their song pierces his ears. He quickens his pace, changing route, but he doesn't need to run. He's close enough to the metro entrance.
In the west, the sky takes a violent turn. It becomes reddened and the clouds knotted, as if a wound has broken the side of the atmosphere.
He finds the metro entrance and shuffles down the stairs. He holds his shovel aloft like a cudgel and checks to either side that he is alone. He is, for now. The coming storm will drive other people down into the metro. Them and other things.
He knows there is a section of collapsed tunnel a little further down. He navigates the tracks with an electric torch until natural light breaks through the collapse he was looking for and the distant sirens flood into the metro. A good place to watch the storm.
He doesn't know why he feels compelled to watch the storms. Perhaps it is because you never truly know what is going to happen. He waits for a while, eating a breakfast bar to pass the time.
Won't be long now. In the sky above the city, thousand-fold prismatic shards of light turn the heavens into a twisting kaleidoscope. He feels the buzzing sensation of psychic radiation rising in his skull. His vision blurs a little as the storm winds itself up. Colours shift from side to side. Then the first strike begins.
Paddy Dobson
3rd October 2021