And that's only in the parking lot.
This storm came out of nowhere,
with lightning like nothing I've ever seen.
It keeps striking, again and again.
People are burning, convulsing,
their shoes blown off. Things I never
thought were flammable are on fire.
The lightning isn't stopping.
A woman ran out of the store just now.
I drove toward her, thinking I could help.
Stupid of me. If I'd opened the door, we'd
both be dead. But, oh God, I never imagined
the horrible things a human body does
when it's fighting to survive.
24 dead now.
I don't know what's happening.
I went out for milk, came back
to the car, and the radio was making
loud screeching sounds.
Then the lightning started.
My phone's dead. The radio's just
pops and crackles. I'm safe in my car, I think.
I need to go home to check on my family.
If I don't make it, please,
whoever finds this note—
My name is Mike Edwards. Tell my family
I love them, and that I died trying
to get back to them.
I made it. I'm parked in my driveway.
I can see my kids in the front window
of our house. They're only 20 feet away,
but I can't help them.
Going outside is impossible. Opening
a window is suicide. The garage door
doesn't work because there's no electricity.
All we can do is wait.
Storms don't last forever.
It's not stopping. Everything's burning.
There's smoke at the back of our house.
The milk is warm.
Not much room left to write (sorry about
the receipt—it was all I could find).
I'll make it short.
I have a plan. I'll drive straight through
the front window, get far enough inside
so the lightning can't reach.
I'll load my family into the car, and we'll drive.
Somewhere without lightning.
We'll live through this. I feel it more strongly
than I've ever felt anything in my life.
And when we're all together again,
and my wife and children are safe,
I'll write their names at the bottom of this note,
as proof that we survived.