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It's quite a lucrative occupation, storm chasing. Quite lucrative, if you milk it, but also extremely dangerous. A tonne of administrative and prep work goes into it, at least for the dedicated chaser, but all the preparation in the world will never mitigate the danger posed by nature and its fury.
Colin Moriarty drives down a long and featureless country road, travelling over land flat and almost lifeless aside from an ocean of grass and some trees plastered here and there around the occasional house. Easily destroyed, wooden houses, which a tornado will tear up like wet paper. The sky is black and purple, with breaks for sickly yellow light. The wind is picking up, and in the distance the clouds are beginning to pluck at the earth. Beside him, on the passenger seat, sits one of his many cameras, just as above his head, on the roof, are the machines that keep track of bad weather.
“Sweet Jesus, send me a big black beauty of a twister.” says Moriarty when he pulls onto the side of the road to check his data, always failing to be careful with what he's asking for. Along with the sane individuals travelling in the opposite direction to the growing storm, there's plenty of amateur storm chasers clogging the roads in their rented cars. Moriarty scowls at them they pass. He soon returns to the road, entering a sort of storm chasing queue. The sky continues to darken.
Ten minutes later, in the distance, thin ropes of visible wind reach down from the sky, the uncannily delicate fingers of a monster. Most fade away, retract back into the mother cloud. “Come on, you bitch.” Colin mutters, leaning forward to peer through his windshield, up at the high black ceiling of the world. Drops of rain begin hitting his roof.
But one thread touches down proper, and gains weight, spinning from a thin tube into a monumental funnel, which promptly splits in two, developing legs. The rest of the storm begins to feed it as it goes waltzing across the great plains, practicing a dance of destruction upon the earth.
“Yes!” putting his foot down on the accelerator, Moriarty goes racing down the sandy road, scattering gravel when he takes a turn sharply. He ought to do this with other people, but he's too much of a loner, too arrogant. Without shame he hopes the tornado doesn't dissipate, heedless of the lives at risk, hoping it's going to be infamous.
🌪️
Little does he know, but it will be infamous, and partly because of him. The Dead Man keeps walking, tearing up trees, demolishing unlucky cattle, drawing closer and closer. Dead Man Walking, named for its horrifying humanoid appearance and death dealing intent, the worst omen there can be. But Moriarty is only suspicious when it doesn’t interfere with his business opportunities, so he feels the usual fear one feels upon looking at a tornado, and no more. The number of chasers begins to decrease.
An artificial night falls, filled with lightning. The tornado knocks down power lines and throws trees, and Moriarty has to take dirt roads, dirt roads turning to mud. Hail impacts his roof and windshield, cracking it, rain flies like it has a mind of its own, and that mind wants him dead. He ought to turn back, the Dead Man is striding past to his left, but tornadoes are notoriously capricious and can change direction at any moment. Its roar is tremendous, like a busy train station in hell.
Moriarty does get a series of amazing photos, big money photos, chilling photos of a supernatural event. He's feeling very happy with himself, and very afraid, he's not going to lie. Lying about it would be absurd. The presence of a tornado exacts fear from even the most stoic men.
And then his car gets stuck in the mud. Big money mood instantly free falls into terror.
“Oh no no no. Oh no no!” He goes through all the techniques he can for freeing himself from mud, but the rain is falling so fast and so hard that the ground beneath his vehicle turns into a sticky quagmire. Getting out of the car is impossible, not when the trees are rocking the way they are, not when-
The Dead Man turns, and strides across the road, only to pause in the middle, and begin to stroll down it, its gargantuan legs now impossible to separate one from another. Moriarty is too close, and as a great internal stillness overcomes him amongst the screaming, furious wind, all he can do is continue to take photo after photo as the beast lifts a leg, and tears everything apart.