Deadly Rain

The warning klaxon droned to life, its signal the sound of a dying animal to my ears as it warned of impending death should you not heed its warning. This was not my first time, but if I didn’t hurry it very well could be my last.

We were taught as children to drop whatever we were carrying and run. As a result many of us carried only what we could fit in pockets and prayed the storms would not strike with arms full of groceries. I got lucky today, since I was only out for a walk and my faithful companion was well trained. Together we ran.

The nearest shelter was not far, but something forced worry into my heart. I could always feel when something was going to go wrong–my mother said I was born with it. “A gift”. It had helped sometimes but often the warning I had was of no consequence. The bad thing usually still happened despite me.

I knew my apprehension was not for the deadly rain that the siren had announced. The fire from the heavens was a holy thing from God, a deserved punishment; it could not be evil. Many times I wondered why we hid in shelters from somthing that was holy, but I was always reprimanded for asking and never given a straight answer.

When I got to the shelter I found a mob in the street. A mob of vulnerable people who were quickly turning desperate and angry.

Normally the lines into the shelters were neat and orderly. Thet were all designed to hold many more people than would ever need them at once. So why were the doors to this one closed?

The siren warning of the coming holy storm pulsed several times to indicate that judgement was imminent. We had minutes left before the storm. I could hear some of what the mob was shouting as they banged on the doors; begging to be let in. “What’s going on,” I asked a pale woman clutching her baby.

“A madman,” she said shaking her head, “he’s locked us out!” She began sobbing.

There was nowhere else to go that we could reach in time and I knew I would do no convincing of a madman. And then I remembered the old forbidden tunnels. We might all be able to fit. It was sin to go there, but staying meant death.

“If you want to escape judgement,” I yelled, “follow me!”

I knew many would refuse the shelter but maybe a few would be saved. The woman with the baby followed.

This short story was written in 30-minutes as a response to the prompt: “It’s raining, but it’s not raining water”. It is presented here with minimal editing.