"Hurricane Farnor"

Chapter One

Winn Dixie Store #701, Wauchula, FL

June 1st, 2001, 8:07 a.m.

Five years after he transferred from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Howard Myers finally understood how this quiet country town operated. Many people were either farmers or had some sort of interest in the agricultural business. Life was relatively slow and more simple here. Husbands and wives rarely quarreled publicly, and to do so was considered improper. There occasionally were scenes, but then he interceded for the other patrons and asked the couples to take their discussions outside the store.

His customers typically had huge families; vans and trucks filled his parking lot a-plenty today. And why shouldn't they? It was a Saturday after all. Howard greeted a few customers as they entered and started to do his morning inspection. Every department seemed to be blossoming except for one. Unfortunately, his produce section was suffering the most at this moment. People rarely bought from his store since the Farmer's Market was just across the street and at least twenty cents cheaper than his prices. Even his own employees bought their fruit and vegetables across the street. So about once a month, since he needed the money, he'd sell the produce with a major discount to the employee of the month.

Although it was quite normal for the store to be at 68 degrees Fahrenheit, this morning, it felt cooler. In fact, it felt a little too cool for Howard's liking. Perhaps someone had been tampering with the temperature gauges on the A/C again. Last week, he caught a few of the stockers in his office with a key. They hadn't touched it then, thankfully, but this morning, they could have succeeded. Well, he'd take care of that right away. The trucks that visited Winn Dixie came every Tuesday and Saturday. He usually didn't pull the stockers away from their breaks once the trucks came, but today, they needed to be taught a lesson and the true meaning of a dollar.

Myers turned on his heel back to his office and on his way thanked some more customers for their business as they left the store. As he strolled inside and flipped on the lights, he studied the A/C gauge carefully. The digital numbers still read sixty-eight. "Brad?" he called to his head cashier, who was in the business office and counting up one of his underlings' drawers.

"Yes, Howard?"

"Does it seem more cold in here today than normal?"

"It's always been freezing in here, Howard. Which award winning newscaster sold you the headline--Brokaw or Rather?"

"Doesn't it seem to be colder than usual? You haven't seen anyone come in here this morning, have you?"

"Nope. I came, but you know that if I ever touched that damn gauge that I'd be turning the damn air down and not up!" Myers agreed; Brad McKellen usually wore sweaters and the long sleeve tops during the day unless he had to come out of his space. As Howard exited his office, he stole a quick glance at McKellen. True to form, Brad was in a sweater. He journeyed to the front desk and was just about to go into the store when a teenage clerk interrupted him. "Mr. Myers? Everybody's complaining about the cold. Can you please turn down the air?"

"If I do that, the dairy and produce sections might overheat. Sorry, I can't do that," he shrugged.

"But it's getting colder! The guys working dairy say that the walk-in freezers are dropping way below their normal freezing temperature."

"Tell them to open them up and get some of that wonderful hot Florida heat."

"Won't the ice cream go bad?"

"Just call them up and have them do as I say, please," Myers spat and left the desk to go check the back of the store. As he passed the frozen food section, the doors flung themselves open with a powerful wind and threw him as well as several other customers into the center of the aisle. The wind soon turned into a gale, and the carts banged into one another as well as the people. "What the hell's going on?" he yelled and dodged some TV dinners as they too flew out of the freezers.

Soon, the patrons' cries on the frozen food aisle could be heard throughout the entire store. Some tried to help dig the injured out of the pile of food while others simply gawked at the awkward occurrence. The smart ones packed up their belongings and left hastily. Howard managed to force his way out of the gusty winds only to bear witness with the three hundred other consumers in his store that a magnificent black cloud took formulation right over his twenty foot drop ceiling. He ran down another aisle to the customer service desk and the teenage clerk he previously gave orders. "Don't just stand there like a stump, Andy, call the fire department!"

"Wouldn't an ambulance be better, Mr. Myers?"

"Boy, you'd better do as I say if you wanna keep your job for another five minutes!" Myers slammed his fist onto the counter and picked up a public announcement phone. "Attention, Winn Dixie shoppers, do not enter the frozen foods aisle. We've having some kind of malfunction in the..." his finger released the talk button as the cloud gave off an ominous clap of thunder. "My God..."

Suddenly, a harsh blizzard began to pour forth from the cloud. Unfortunately, not just snow was falling. Huge chunks of icy hail also fell upon the poor people. Some tried to take cover under their umbrellas while others tried to run for the exit. Another spectacle on the alcoholic beverage aisle made Howard's jaw drop nearly to the floor.

Customers who had been examining the bottles in hand could now not release them. The bottles froze straight to their palms, and those people were the luckier ones. Champagne corks spontaneously started to fizzle and pop; it wasn't long before they started to gouge consumers in the eye.

Myers himself in the midst of the chaos was attempting to open the automatic doors that had been frozen shut. He stamped on the mat several times, but it was no use. The doors would not budge.

"Somebody grab a fire extinguisher!" one of the patrons yelled.

"Wait, no! Don't ruin my doors, please! I just had the panes re-installed!" Myers pleaded.

"Get out of our way!" another shouted and shoved the store owner aside.

"Please! There's got to be another way out! Did anyone try the back loading dock?"

A beefy man in his late thirties with a jean vest and a red bandanna wrapped round his head strolled past Myers carrying a dry powder fire extinguisher. "This'll do the trick," he shouted and commenced his beating to the glass.

"I suppose today's as good as any other day to start a new business," Myers muttered and lightly smacked his forehead with his palm.

"This is the fire department. We've brought a battering ram. Stand clear of the doors," the chief announced from outside with a bullhorn.

The biker immediately dropped his weapon and dropped back with the rest of the crowd. Six brave firemen approached the frozen doors with the bronze pole. "Could I make a request, please?" Myers ran up to the first pair and screamed through the cracked opening.

"What is it?" one of the men huffed through his mask. "Make it snappy, this damn thing is heavy!"

"Could you please aim for the metal instead of the glass?"

"Get out of the way, idiot, or else you'll be feeling a giant five hundred pound rod poking you through your stomach in five seconds," the fireman barked.

The biker jerked Myers backward by the belt of his pants just as the fire brigade's first strike hit the automatic door's glass. They pounded the battering ram through the door three more times, and on the fourth, they successfully smashed their way inside.

The Winn Dixie parking lot filled in one minute with the entire store's population as the storm continued to wreak havoc inside. Howard Myers was one of the last to leave, and as he watched his store become demolished by the demonic weather, the fire chief approached him. "Howard, I'm awfully sorry about this."

"And just what is going on with my store?" he remonstrated and thrust both hands up to the heavens.

"Well, from what I can figure," the chief scratched the back of his head, "is uh...well...I hate to say this...probably from the Devil."

"Are you crazy?" Myers turned his head to give the chief an incredulous glare but instead, his expression became dubious. "What the..."

A man dressed in nothing but rags pushing a filled cart away from the store quietly made his way throughout the parking lot's chaos. "Hey!" both the fire chief and Myers yelled.

The stranger stopped dead in his tracks, made eye contact with them, let go of the cart, and took off. "Stop, thief!" the chief continued and gave chase. Howard followed but then stopped at the abandoned cart. Moments later, the chief came back breathless and empty handed. "I coulda used your...help...back...back there," he panted and held onto the cart for support.

"Sorry—I couldn't help but notice the contents."

The chief composed himself and peered inside the shopping cart. It was filled to the brim with ice cream and milk—practically three months' supply. "I don't get it. What's this mean?" he asked Myers, who shrugged.

"Dunno. Maybe we'd better take this to the church and get Father O'Leary to exorcise the dairy demons," he rolled his eyes.

The humor was wasted upon the chief; he shook his head 'no', and waived his finger around. "Nope. I'd check the meat department if I was you, Howard."

Super Gas Qwik Mart, Ocala, FL

June 1st, 2001, 12:02 p.m.

Mulder proudly pulled his Mustang convertible up to the pump and noticed that this station was 'full serve'. "Hmm...old fashioned service. Wonder where ole' Bobby Lee is?" he muttered to himself and honked the horn. A few moments later, a young man that looked no older than twenty in a boiler suit with stains smeared all over himself strolled up to the ex FBI agent.

"What kin I fill ya up with, mister?" he inquired and opened up the tank.

"Just the regular 87 octane, please."

"Gotcha. Need me to check under your hood for any problems?"

"Actually, this is a brand new rental, but thanks just the same."

"Oh, so you're a tourist, then, huh? You here on business or pleasure?" The attendant loaded the pump into the tank and leaned against the side of the car as he filled it. He pronounced the word 'tourist' like 'turist', which made Mulder wince. That meant that he couldn't be passing through the most educated town right now. He hoped and prayed that this guy would be his only chance meeting.

"Sure," Mulder replied inattentively and kept the radio going with a slight turn of the ignition.

"And now we turn to the news. This report is brought to you by Pep Boy's Auto Discount Parts, where you'll never have to turn anywhere else for an uplifting discounted price. A flash flood has completely washed out the I-75 south bridge near the city of Brandon. Local authorities are somewhat puzzled as to how this disaster happened; a record high draught of four months without a drop of rain throughout the state has been recorded. The back roads and country routes are your only means of travel in between there and southern Florida, folks. Strict watering regulations for Lake, Putnam, and Marion counties are in effect as of yesterday, May 31st. Our next story concerns the poor townsfolk of Wauchula. Seems that a local Winn Dixie store was hit by what was reported to be an indoor winter storm. Did I read that right? Hmm...yes, I guess...I did. Thankfully, there were no deaths, but forty people were injured by runaway carts, wine corks, and hail the size of golf balls. This has got to be the strangest story I've had to read over the air, Louella. Are you sure that this isn't some part of a script for a drama?" Mulder shut the stereo off and opened the car's glove compartment. He removed a map and got out of the car.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you're gonna have to get back in. State law says that only one person can fill up the tank, and you're lookin' at him," the man declared and let go of the pump's trigger.

Mulder bit his lip and wished that Scully were next to him in the passenger seat. Without her, he had no federal authority whatsoever. He did keep his personal firearm stashed under the driver's seat with a spare clip in the glove compartment, but a snaggle toothed red-neck gas station clerk was no excuse to use it—the notion to do so was becoming very tempting, though. He obeyed and leaned over his door. "Excuse me, can you tell me where Wauchula is from here?"

"Just hold off a second, mister, I'll be right with you." The clerk retrieved the pump, closed the gas tank, and eyed the meter. "That'll be $16.05, mister."

When a coal black hand neared Mulder's head, he was about ready to scream. This was the first and last time he would ever use 'full service' ever again. Mulder withdrew his wallet and deposited a twenty into the attendant's hand. "Now about Wauchula...-"

"You be needin' some change, sir?"

Mulder sighed and stared very longingly at his Walther's hiding spot. Swallowing an impatient growl, he glared at the man's petroliferous forearms and shook his head. "Just keep it—where's Wauchula?" he asked for the third and hopefully final time.

"You seem awfully pushy for just bein' a vacationin' tourist, mister." The clerk slipped the currency into his back pocket and wiped his greasy hands off with a rag. "But we like tourists in Florida, so I'll help you out. Now, what's this all 'bout Wauchula? Don't you want to be headin' t'wards Orlando?"

"I was actually on my way to Sarasota."

"Oh, well...looks like you're up shit creek without a paddle, then. Unless you want to take the back roads."

"I realize that, thank you," Mulder responded sardonically and flipped the map to face the annoying clerk. "Would you mind helping me find the quickest route to Wauchula?"

"What brings you to go over there? Sarasota's nowhere near that neck of the woods."

"I just remembered my aunt Betty Lou lives there; I'd like to pay her a visit."

One more nosy comment, and so help me god, the gun's coming out. Maybe it's a good thing Scully's not here.

"Well, you're in Marion county now, in the city of Ocala. Wauchula's in Hardee county, and that's probably about another hundred twenty miles southwest. Yep, here it is." His finger traced a path and rotated the map around towards Mulder. "Just take route 27 south, and then make your way to the town on route 17 westward from there. Think you can handle that, mister?"

"How do I get to route 27 from here?"

"Just take a left outta the station to that traffic light. Then make a right down Jefferson. The sign for 27's turn is about half a mile down that road. Wish I could remember which way the turn-offs go, but if you got a nose for direction, you'll be able to figure it out." He pointed as he spoke. "Besides, they're marked pretty well—we like our tourists in Florida to find everything very easily, no matter how rude they are," the clerk mumbled the last phrase under his breath, but Mulder heard it.

He tore the map away from the man, started the engine, and floored the gas on the way out of the station. "Asshole!" the attendant yelled and flipped Mulder off.