![unmechanical extended damaged bombs unmechanical extended damaged bombs](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NQziz8qVT6Y/UCTMooyaP1I/AAAAAAAAAS8/IIIKLX5OPDs/s640/unmechanical-ios-1.png)
There are black roof shingles littering every lawn. Trampolines sit overturned in the wrong yard. Five houses down from ours, a tree has landed on a friend's roof. Downed trees and fallen branches cover the pavement. "Have you seen your street?" she asks when I climb into the cab of her truck. A friend who lives in the county is driving into town. At 6.30am, our phones start beeping again. We finally go back to bed at four, fall asleep thirty minutes later. Search and rescue missions, she tells us. We learn from a friend married to a firefighter that all emergency crews have been called in. We connect with almost everyone we know in our town. We stay up more than two hours answering calls and texts, calling and texting.
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The detached garage and our cars are unreachable. Power lines hang in loops across our backyard, creating a maze we won't be able to breach for days. When we get to the back door, lightning flashes, illuminating the telephone pole that's been snapped in two. We walk the length of the house and see the power lines snaking down the driveway. Out the picture window at the front of our house, we see people circle their houses with flashlights, searching for damage. Everything else is darkness and an eerie quiet. At two o'clock the blue lights of a police cruiser flood the inside of our house. We wait in the hallway another half-hour, peeking out every few minutes. We try to open Twitter to see if they've extended the warning, but neither of our phones has a signal. It feels like three minutes to me, but others will say ninety seconds. Later people will disagree about how long it lasted. It's so overwhelming that all of your other senses fall away.īut then it all stops. People always say it sounds like a freight train coming at you, and now I understand why. I hear debris hitting the roof, the street, even the trees. We sit without moving, frozen in fear and holding onto each other as if it will help. I look into his eyes and say: "I think we're in trouble." "It's not a tornado." I look at him with disbelief. Then something else starts hitting the roof. 'We Lost Our Parents in the 2004 Tsunami'Īt 1.20am, the rain starts for real.'I Lived Through A Major Indonesian Earthquake That Killed Hundreds'.'My Family Is Homeless After Hurricane Laura, Our City Has Been Devastated'.All of a sudden, a feeling comes over me: this time our town will not be spared.
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Unmechanical extended damaged bombs windows#
There are no windows in this hall, but also no air. Instead, we take shelter in the hallway off the bedroom. Like most people in our region, we don't have a basement because of the seven-mile Lost River Cave system beneath our feet. Unsurprisingly, people in our town had been talking about this storm for hours on Friday. When we first moved to Bowling Green, Kentucky, in 2008, there were probably only one or two of these tornado warnings a year during the summer months. Then the sirens start outside, ringing through the night like air raids. We've only been in bed two hours.įirst it's the emergency alert on my phone jarring us awake. My husband and I are sound asleep when the alarms begin at one o'clock on the morning of December 11.