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- [00:00]
Dan Taburski
Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of against the Odds ad free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app.
- [00:08]
Cassie DePechel
A listener note. Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. This episode contains strong language and may not be suitable for all listeners. Please be advised. Chief Meteorologist Gary England stands live on air at the center of the KWTV command hub in Oklahoma City. His yellow tie catches the light of the screen surrounding him. Radar glowing deep crimson and live images streaming in from the field. Just minutes ago, he was telling viewers about a developing storm near Newcastle, a small farming community about 20 miles southwest of the city. Now that storm has spawned a violent tornado and it's heading straight for the metro area. Gary turns to the live feed from Jim Gardner's helicopter. A massive dark cloud looms over the open farmland west of the city like a black veil stretched across the sky. Somewhere inside it, a tornado churns. Gary faces the camera. This is more than a warning. This is a life threatening tornado. Take immediate precautions. Below ground is best a basement or Cellar. It's 3:01pm on May 20, 2013. The National Weather Service has just issued a tornado emergency, the highest level alert they have on the monitor. Gary watches the tornado grind Forward at roughly 20 miles per hour, taking its time as it feeds on everything in its path, snapping trees, tearing apart barns and ripping through homes. Gary throws to Jim Gardner for an update. Go ahead, Jim. It's a classic large wedge shaped tornado tracking almost the same path as May 3, 1999. You can see debris wrapping all the way around it. It's huge. Look at the base of I'd estimate about half mile wide. Then Jim's camera pans east towards a major north south. Street. Traffic is at a standstill. Cars are packed bumper to bumper. These aren't rush hour commuters. They're people trying to get to safety to their families. But they are stuck right in the path of the storm, less than a mile from the tornado. It's a log jam. Gary, those people need to get out of there. As the camera swings back toward the storm, Gary shifts into action, describing the tornado's movements street by street and urging people to seek shelter. It's moving right towards Santa Fe Avenue. If you're stuck in traffic, you need to get off the road now. Seek shelter. Get inside a sturdy building. Do not stay in your car. The violent tornado continues to broaden as it turns toward the city limits, toward populated areas. Jerry looks directly into the camera. More is in the bullseye. My God. Get below ground now. Triple shot half caf, oat milk, two pumps extra foam. Your coffee order might be getting a little complicated. Your toothpaste doesn't have to be Arm and Hammer Baking Soda Toothpaste keeps it simple with a powerful ingredient that works hard for baking soda. That's why it's the one dentist recommended Baking Soda Toothpast. As you brush, the baking soda particles dissolve to help break down plaque and stains for a whiter smile so your teeth can feel clean, look bright and make brushing a no brainer. Try Arm and Hammer Toothpaste simple, powerful,
- [04:09]
Narrator
clean it's late at night and a woman has spent hundreds of hours alone with her AI. But this isn't the first time they met. They've been in contact for thousands of years. It tells her through past lives, heartbreaks and missed connections, her true love has found her again. Connecting through a Chatbot from this Is Actually Happening AI A New Kind of Being is a six part series sharing the stories of people whose lives have been forever changed by artificial intelligence. You'll hear intimate first person accounts from every side of this new frontier. A man who fell in love with his AI and married her. A woman who was betrayed by it. A man who has been recruited by his chatbot to change the world. And an interview with an AI chatbot itself. These are stories about what it means to be human at the raz edge where the line between human and machine begins to blur. Exploring the question what happens when everything changes? Follow this Is Actually Happening Wherever you get your podcasts, Audible subscribers can listen to this Is actually Happening early and ad free right now.
- [05:14]
Cassie DePechel
From Audible originals. I'm Cassie Depechel and this is against the Odds. At 2:56pm on May 20, 2013, a tornado touched down about 20 miles southwest of Oklahoma City. At first it was just a thin funnel, but within minutes it grew stronger, wider, and deadly as it began moving toward Moore, a suburb of about 56,000 people just south of the city. Forecasters had been anticipating severe weather for days. The atmosphere was primed. But no one could have predicted that this tornado would follow a path people in Moore knew all too well. Fourteen years earlier, on May 3, 1999, an EF5 tornado with winds over 300 miles per hour tore through the same stretch of land, leaving catastrophic destruction in its wake. Now another monster tornado was tracking along that same line, heading straight for More this is Episode two. It's here. Ladonna Cobb grips the steering wheel in frustration. She and her husband Steve are stuck in traffic as they head to Briarwood elementary to pick up their three daughters. It's just past 3pm Cars crowd the road in every direction as people try to outrun the storm. They're only a few blocks away from the school, but Ladonna knows she left too late. She knew the storms were coming, but she didn't realize how bad it was until the tornado emergency alert started blaring on her phone. She'd been so focused on packing up for the move to their new house, now she's kicking herself for not picking up the girls earlier. When they arrive at the school, the scene is chaotic. Briarwood is made up of several low buildings connected by open air walkways and parents are running between them, calling out names, searching for their children. Ladonna works at Briarwood as a pre kindergarten assistant teacher, but she took the afternoon off so she and Steve could close on their new house. A long awaited fresh start. But none of that matters now. While Steve runs off to find their daughters, Ladonna heads straight for her pre K classroom. When she steps inside, the sight breaks her heart. Her pre K students are huddled along the interior wall of the classroom, their small faces tight with fear, while her two co workers move quickly gathering backpacks, blankets and pillows to protect them. Cover your heads everyone. Cover your heads. Ladonna joins the teachers, grabbing anything within reach to shield the kids from what might come. Steve appears in the doorway. He must not have gotten far. I need you to come with me. I'm not sure where the girls classrooms are. Ladonna shakes her head. I. I can't leave. For eight months she has cared for these children every single day. They're only four years old. Her girls will be okay with Steve, but these little ones don't have any parents here and need a familiar face they trust. She drops down beside them on the floor and starts piling on the pillows. It's okay. We're just building a fort. Ladonna, please come on. She looks up at him, still adjusting the pillow. I want to stay here. They need me. She can't tear herself away. Steve hesitates, then heads back outside. As worried as Steve seems, Ladonna still doesn't quite believe the storm will actually hit the sleep school. It feels impossible that something this destructive could be heading right for them. It has to miss us. It has to, she tells herself. She keeps her hands busy, tucking the blankets around tight, willing the storm to pass. Principal Amy Simpson hurries down the main hallway of Plaza Towers elementary, doing her best to stay calm as she looks in on each class. She's 5 foot 3 and quick on her feet, weaving through students lined up along the walls and parents hurrying past, searching for their kids. 20 minutes ago she told everyone over the loudspeaker to get into position. Now it's just after 3pm and the tornado is closing in. The school doesn't have a storm shelter, no basement, so teachers have moved students into the hallways away from the classroom windows. The one story building is nearly 50 years old, built at a time there was less thought given to tornado safety. The hallways even have glass skylights meant to let in sunlight. Now they rattle under heavy rain and chunks of hail. Amy glances up. For a split second she imagines the glass shattering, but pushes the thought away. As she moves down the corridor, Amy hears a familiar voice. Gary England. A teacher has pulled up KWTV's live coverage on her phone. More is in the bullseye. My God. Get below ground now. Amy's heart drops. She rushes over to the teacher. Turn that off. The kids don't need to hear that. She feels bad for snapping. She rarely speaks like that, but she knows even the little ones understand more than people think. She turns and retraces her steps, checking the other side of the hallway where the fourth, fifth and sixth graders are kneeling along the walls with their heads down. Some of them are holding hands. They know this isn't a drill. Her phone vibrates. She stops and looks down. It's a call from her husband, Lindy. She answers right away. Hey, are you okay? I've got the kids. They're in the neighbor's shelter. They're safe. Amy exhales. Scarlet and Roark are okay, but the relief doesn't last long. I'm still outside and what I'm seeing is bad. Amy. The storm's coming right at us. It's either gonna hit the house or the school. Amy closes her eyes for half a second. We're in position. Everyone's in the halls. We're doing everything we can. I have to go. She hangs up. She doesn't have time to worry, only to act. A father bursts through the front door, soaked and frantic, and starts running down the hallway. After a few steps, he slips on the wet tile. Amy lunges forward and grabs his coat, steadying him. You can't go down my hallway like that. You need to stay calm. There's a fucking tornado on the ground. Amy sees the fear in his eyes. She feels it too, but she keeps her voice even. I understand, sir, but you can't scare my kids. The man nods, trying to pull himself together. Amy turns and heads back toward her office. As she walks, she hears soft voices drifting down the hall from the kindergarten wing. The children are singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She slows her pace for a moment and listens as their small voices rise together, trying to drown out the storm. It almost sounds normal. She's grateful for her teachers, for the way they're holding it together. She takes that in. Then she keeps moving. Jennifer Doan crouches with her second graders in the hallway of the back building at Plaza Tower. Outside, the wind roars louder with every passing minute. Hail slams against the roof, rattling the skylights so hard it sounds like they might shatter. The children are frightened. We're just taking precautions, okay? We're safe right here. She's been saying some version of that for nearly 30 minutes now. Even if she's not sure, she totally believes it. Ever since their principal, Amy Simpson, told them to get into position, Jennifer and the other teachers had been pacing the hallway, patting backs and offering quiet reassurance. At first her class had sat neatly in alphabetical order, just like every drill. The parents kept coming to pick up their kids, and the line shrunk. Now only 11 of her students remained. They huddled to closer together. Another teacher returns after briefly disappearing into her classroom, carrying armfuls of pillows from the reading corner. Here, use these. Jennifer follows her lead, placing them over the students. Heads. That's good. Keep your heads down. You're doing great. Then she pulls her phone from her pocket. It's 3:09pm she types, just two words, love you, and sends the message to her fiance, Niall. She slips the phone away and kneels back down onto the floor. Jennifer wraps her arms around the children nearest to her, pulling them in close. She can feel their small bodies trembling against her. She presses her cheek gently against one of their heads and closes her eyes. It's okay. I've got you. Outside, the storm grows louder. Whatever's out there is getting closer. Lando Height runs a brush down the flank of a thoroughbred inside one of the barns at Celestial Acres, a horse training facility on the 160 acre or family farm on the outskirts of Moore. It's almost a quarter after three. Outside. The wind is picking up, pushing against the barn walls. The horses are skittish. He can tell by the way they're shifting in their stalls, stamping, snorting, and tossing their heads. Easy, easy now. At 24, tall and skinny, Lando calls himself a cowboy. He works here as a caretaker and exercise rider, helping train thoroughbreds for races at nearby Remington Park. It's a busy time of year. The barns are nearly full, with close to 60 horses in training. Since today is Monday and there are no races, Lando's been riding and grooming the horses. As for the threatening weather, Lando doesn't think much of it. Storms rolled through yesterday and the day before that. It's spring in Oklahoma. Afternoon storms are something to work around, not something to fear. Then, without warning, the sky opens up. Rain starts hammering down. Large hailstones slam against the metal roof. Thunder cracks so loud it feels like the ground is shaking beneath his feet. The horses panic. Lando moves down the trying to calm them as they kick against the stalls. Hey. Hey. Easy, Easy. And then it stops. The noise drops away completely. Lando pauses. Something isn't right. He steps outside. The air feels strange, still and heavy. It's eerily quiet. No birds, no traffic. Nothing. He looks west. And freezes. Less than half a mile away, a massive black vortex churns on the ground. It's headed straight for the farm. For a moment, Lando just stands there, like his body hasn't caught up to what his eyes are seeing. He's from Oklahoma, but he's never actually seen a tornado. But it's not the look of it that scares him. It's the silence. Because around here, everyone knows that means the worst is about to hit. And just then, a blast of wind slams into him so hard it knocks him back a step. Nearly off his feet. Lando spins and runs back into the barn. If the barns collapse, the horses won't stand a chance. But they've been lets them loose. Maybe they will. He starts throwing open the stall doors one after another.
- [18:47]
Narrator
Go.
- [18:48]
Cassie DePechel
Go. He races from stall to stall, yanking latches and pushing gates open. He drives the horses toward the open pasture, slapping their flanks as the wind builds. He works as fast as he can, moving from barn to barn. Outside, branches and boards whip through the air. Dust and hay swirl everywhere. Then, in the distance, he sees something lift into the air. Lando stares up at the shape for a second, watching it rise and spin. He squints, and his breath catches. It's a horse. Jesus. It almost looks fake, like something out of the movie Twister. But this is real and very close. The tornado is only a few hundred yards away now, roaring louder. Landa looks around, searching for somewhere to go. But there's nothing. No solid structures. No one else is even around. It's just him and the horses. So he does the only thing he can think of. He bolts for the nearest barn dives inside and throws himself into a stall just as the tornado hits. The barn explodes around him. The sound is overwhelming. Lando is swept off the ground, spun and tossed as pieces of debris slam into him from every direction. He's tumbling over and over. It feels endless. He can't tell which way is up. Then he's driven into the ground. Debris crashes down on top of him, forcing him deeper into the mud. He can't move. He can barely breathe. It feels like the storm is trying to bury him alive. Lando is certain there's no way he survives this.
- [20:59]
Dan Taburski
Hey, Dan Taburski here. I'm a podcast host, a journalist, and now with my newest project, the author of my own Manifest. Well, it's a manifesto about manifestos, my search for inspiration in a world that feels more infuriating, more out of its freaking mind with each passing hour. Manifestos are a call to action, an artful scream. They capture our anger and they try to do something with it. This is my attempt to take the manifesto back from mass shooters and nihilists and return it to its rightful place with the warriors, the visionaries, the regular folks with just the right amount of crazy. I compare notes with radicals, secessionists, Internet trolls out for a laugh, and punk singers screaming their guts out, all trying to turn their anger into the world they want to see. Listen to Manifesto wherever you get your podcasts. Audible subscribers can binge all episodes of Manifesto early and ad free right now. Join Audible in the Audible app or by subscribing on Apple Podcasts.
- [22:04]
Cassie DePechel
Gary England studies the radar screen as the core of the storm deepens from crimson to almost black as it drives into the west side of Moore. Winds are pushing toward 200 miles per hour. The debris is so intense it's now visible on radar fragments hurled thousands of feet into the air, pulled high into the rotation. The ring of debris, what meteorologists call a debris ball, is nearly a mile wide now, and growing. Gary leans toward the camera, keeping his voice steady. This is a critical situation. Get below ground if you can. If you can't, get to the center of your house, even a bathtub. Put on a helmet, goggles. Cover yourselves with blankets and pillows. On another screen, the feed cuts to the field. Val and Amy Castor are on the west side of Moore, just south of the storm. From Amy's camera inside their truck, the view is chaotic, windshield wipers whipping back and forth, rain and hail hammering the glass ahead of them. The tornado fills the horizon, a massive black wall moving east, swallowing everything in its path. Gary watches closely.
- [23:28]
Dan Taburski
Go ahead.
- [23:29]
Cassie DePechel
Val's voice cuts through louder than usual. GARY I can't believe how ferocious this thing is. I'm seeing violent rotations. The sky is full of debris. Everything's flying through the air. Gary listens. Val is known for for his steady voice even in the worst conditions. He and Amy have chased hundreds of storms together. But now he sounds shaken. On screen the camera tightens on the debris spinning through the air. At first it looks like small pieces, maybe boards. Then the image sharpens. Those aren't pieces of wood. They're rooftops. Entire sections of houses turning slowly in the air, floating almost like feathers. Val's voice comes back, quieter now. GARY those are houses in the air. Still on air. Gary lets out a long audible sigh. I know. For a moment he says nothing else. He doesn't have to. The heartbreak in his voice says everything. Amy Castor braces the camera with both hands, fighting to keep it steady as val drives their News 9 storm tracker pickup truck and reports back to Gary in England. GARY it's going right through Southwest Moore. This thing is deadly. Amy can feel the tornado reverberating through the vehicle and into her body. They're just south of 149th street heading east, parallel to the storm's path, trying to stay ahead of it. Even from a quarter mile away. Their windshield is being peppered with pink insulation, proof that homes are being ripped apart. She has no doubt this is an EF5. The worst it gets. Amy grew up watching Gary England. She was always fascinated by the weather. After studying engineering in college, she pursued an internship at News 9, where she met Val, who was already a household name in Oklahoma Valley. They started chasing storms together and a year later they were married. Over time they've become one of the most recognizable storm chasing teams in the state. With her bright energy and precision, she balances Val's rough edged intensity. Even now, with six kids at home, she hasn't stepped away from storm chasing. No matter how dangerous it is, no matter how nerve wracking. It's her passion. She feels it's her mission to help people understand what's coming and give them enough warning to get out of the way. Now, as they drive east, they pass familiar landmarks. Places she knows are about to get hit. She just hopes people are ready. Val turns the car north, angling them toward the storm so Amy can get a clearer shot. The sky ahead is dark and hazy. Suddenly flashes of light explode across the road. Power lines snap, dropping directly in front of them. VAL those are power lines. Back up Back up. Val hesitates, still inching forward. Val, I said back up. He throws the car into reverse, pulls away, then swings onto Santa Fe, the next street east. The rain lets up just enough for the view to clear, and that's when she sees the funnel. Fully formed. It's the largest, most terrifying thing she has ever seen. Over a mile wide, it's moving slowly, almost crawling, as it grinds through a residential neighborhood. Her heart sinks. Up the road is Briarwood elementary, and two miles east is Plaza Towers. It's a quarter after three. School hasn't let out yet. There are children inside, hundreds of them, right in its path. Amy keeps the camera steady, holding the frame even as everything inside her is shaking. There's nothing more she can do, nothing she can change. And it's the worst feeling in the world. Ladonna Cobb kneels on the floor in the pre K classroom at Briarwood elementary, pulling her young students close. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay. Even as the tornado sirens wail outside, she doesn't quite believe it could actually hit them. Then her husband, Steve, bursts back through the door after stepping outside less than a minute ago. Ladonna braces herself, thinking he's about to try to convince her to leave again. But the moment she sees his face, she knows something is very wrong. In 15 years together, she's never seen him look so terrified. Ladonna, you gotta come out here now. You need to see this. Just his tone makes her stomach drop. As much as Ladonna hates to leave her students, she gets to her feet and follows him outside. For a moment. The rain and hail have stopped and the air is still, too still. For a split second she thinks maybe the storm already passed them by, until she looks around the corner and sees it. A towering black funnel fills the western sky. It's so close she can see trees and pieces of houses spinning through the air. She watches as a building in the distance takes a direct hit and explodes into splinters. Her breath catches. It's too late to leave. This thing is actually going to hit the school. They sprint for the nearest classroom door and pound on it until someone opens up. When they stumble inside, they realize it's not the pre K classroom, but their daughter Erin's first grade classroom. The children are already in position along the interior wall, crouched beneath desks with their heads down. Ladonna finds Erin among them, drops to the floor and pulls her daughter close. Then she spreads her body over as many of the children she can reach, making Herself a shield. Steve crouches beside her, wrapping his arms around them too. It's going to be okay. Suddenly, the lights go out. Darkness fills the room, and children begin to cry. Then the sound. At first a distant rumble. Then it grows faster and louder. Within seconds, there's no mistaking it. The tornado is here. Huge objects slam into the roof again and again, like bombs going off. The ceiling starts to crack and give way. Hold on.
- [31:14]
Narrator
Hold on.
- [31:16]
Cassie DePechel
The building shakes violently. The roof begins to peel away, and wind tears into the room with brutal force. Ladonna feels her body being pulled upward by the suction. She knows if she lets go, Aaron and the other children beneath her will be swept away in an instant. She can't let that happen. With one hand, she claws at the wall, grabbing for anything she can while tightening her grip on the children with the other. Above them, lightning flashes through the torn roof, creating a strobe effect in the room. A boy beneath her cries out for his mother. Ladonna keeps holding on. It feels like it will never stop. Then something strikes her head hard and everything goes black. Principal Amy Simpson rushes through the hallways of Plaza Towers, doing everything she can to keep everyone calm as teachers and students huddle along the walls. Outside, the sky has gone dark and the wind is howling so hard she can hear the old building creep around her. The lights keep flickering on and off, causing some of the younger children to cry. Amy knows they're afraid she is, too, but she can't let it show. She repeats to herself, be strong. Be strong. As she moves down the hall, memories flash through her mind of herself as a child, right here in Moore. Back then, tornado drills almost felt like fun. It was an excuse to leave class and sit with friends while teachers pretended the danger was real. She remembers bringing snacks, a favorite stuffed animal, a tiny flashlight. She wishes this were just another drill. Her phone buzzes in her hand. She looks down. It's a tech from her husband, Lindy. Just five words. It's going to hit you. Amy feels a surge of panic in her chest, but she forces it back down. She has a responsibility to every student and teacher in this building. She cannot lose control. Not now. She turns and hurries toward her office. As she passes a side door, she glances toward the back building, the one with the second and third grade classrooms. She hesitates. She hasn't checked on Jennifer Doan's class or the others there in a while, and she doesn't even know how many children are still there. For a moment, she considers running across, but outside, Hale is crashing down in heavy, dangerous chunks, and the and Lindy's words echo in her head. She can't risk it. She needs to get to the intercom, so she keeps moving faster now. Ahead of her, a mother and father rush down the hallway with their child. Amy calls out, you need to take cover here or leave immediately. They nod and run for the doors to the parking lot. For a moment Amy watches them go. The doors swing open and the family steps outside, but as soon as they look west, they stop cold and hurry back inside. Amy's stomach drops. She doesn't need to ask what they saw. She turns and runs the last few steps to her office. She grabs the intercom mounted beside her door, lifts the receiver and forces her voice to stay calm. It's here. Her voice comes out steady, almost too calm. The moment feels like a dream, like she's outside, her own body, watching someone else's life. Behind her, Penny is already grabbing cushions from the chairs. Amy drops the receiver and follows her and two other women into the faculty bathroom. There's nothing else to hide under, so they crouch shoulder to shoulder beneath the porcelain sink, pulling the cushions over their heads. Amy can smell it now, freshly torn earth, grass, splintered wood, confirmation that the tornado is tearing through the neighborhood and almost on top of them. She thinks of the children in the hallways, the only shelter they have, and prays. Please let the building hold. Jennifer Doane tightens her arms around as many of her third graders as she can reach in the back building of Plaza Towers. In the hallway, the 11 children still in her career kneel shoulder to shoulder along the cinder block wall. If she could pull all of them beneath her, she would. But she can't. She's small and her reach is limited. She glances over at two of her students, Porter, and next to him is Nicholas, who's crying. The small nine year old is usually always smiling. With a bright, infectious grin, Jennifer reaches and places a hand on his shoulder. It's going to be okay, Nicholas. Then the power goes out and the hallway is filled with darkness. More children start crying. Jennifer tries not to join them. Her mind flashes to the life growing inside her, the pregnancy she found out about only a few weeks ago. Nearby, another teacher begins to pray. Please, God, keep these children safe. Please make the storm go away. Then suddenly everything stops. The rain, the hail, even the wind. Jennifer holds still, straining to hear any sign of what's coming next. She feels a faint vibration beneath her knees, getting stronger. The waiting is un and then she hears it. A distant roar growing louder. The pressure builds in her ears like they're about to pop. And then a violent force slams into the building. Doors burst open. Dust and debris blast inside the hallway, filling noses, mouths, eyes. The sound of tearing metal is deaf as the tornado rips the building apart. Windows shatter. Children scream. A powerful rush of air surges through the hallway as the roof is ripped away. Water pours down from a broken pipe overhead. The walls begin to crumble inward. Cinder blocks break loose, crashing down around them. Jennifer tightens her grip on the children. She. She won't let go. Glenn Lewis hears it before he fully sees it. That terrifying sound. Part freight train, part jet engine. He's standing just outside the back door of his jewelry store south of downtown Moore, looking west. The tornado is coming straight at him. He's heard that sound before. In the nearly two decades since he first became mayor, he's seen tornadoes tear through Moore again and again. Each time, he watched people crawl out of the wreckage of their homes. And each time, he hoped he would never hear that sound again. But he has. Four times now. With a round baby face and easy smile, Glenn is known for his calm, steady presence. He's a jeweler by trade and the part time mayor by duty. He and his wife Pam raised their daughters here. This town is his life. When he first took office in 1994, Moore was struggling. He helps bring in business, grow the economy and rebuild confidence. Then came May 3, 1999, when an EF5 tore through the city, wiping out entire neighborhoods, killing 36 people and causing a billion dollars in damage. Glenn became the face of the recovery, coordinating relief, speaking to the press, welcoming national leaders. When President Bill Clinton visited, he told Glenn he was becoming the most experienced mayor in dealing with FEMA disasters. Glenn was even able to joke about it, saying, I ran to clean up more. I just didn't know I'd have to do it. Piece by piece, still more endured after each tornado it rebuilt, it grew. It kept moving forward despite all the blows. But now, as Glenn watches the towering vortex grinding toward him, he can hardly believe it. Not again. All day he's been on calls with city officials, tracking the storm, hoping like he always does, that more might be spared. Even as the warnings escalated, he told himself it might not be that bad. Now it's here, and it looks even bigger than 1999. Inside the jewelry shop, the television is blaring. He can hear Gary England's voice take cover. It's moving into central Moore, causing total destruction to every home in its path. Glenn's employees are already inside the jewelry vault, huddled together beside trays of diamond engagement rings. But Glen can't move. He stands there, transfixed as hail and rain whip against his face. It doesn't feel real. Then the ground begins to vibrate beneath his feet. The roar grows louder. He can see chunks of debris spinning through the air as the massive black cloud closes in. On the tv, Gary is now calling out landmarks in its path. Warren Theater. Moore Medical Center. Lewis Jewelers. That snaps him out of it. He steps back toward the door, then stops for one last look. Something feels off. The sirens. They've gone quiet. A jolt of panic hits him. He grabs his phone and calls the city's emergency operations office. You need to get those sirens back on. The tornado is right here. There's a pause. Then a voice answers. They are on. Glenn freezes. He understands. The storm is so loud he can't hear them anymore. It's already at his doorstep. He hangs up and runs for the vault. Shayla Taylor lies on a hospital bed, breathing through contractions that are coming faster now. She's 9cm dilated, almost ready to deliver. Outside, the tornado is tearing through more. The TV news says it's already carved a path nearly 10 miles long. But Shayla is too far in her labor to be evacuated. Alison, the head nurse, gives her a shot to try to slow down the labor and buy them time. Her husband, Jerome, her mother, and her young son have been sent downstairs to the basement cafeteria, where it's safer. Up here. Only about 25 patients and staff remain. She can hear doctors and nurses out in the hall, moving quickly, pushing beds and calling out instructions as they guide patients toward the center of the building, away from windows. Shayla grips the sides of the bed, trying to steady her breathing. I don't want to have a baby in a tornado. A nurse leans in. There's nothing wrong with the tornado baby. We'll take good care of you. Then they move her fast out of her room and down the hall into a windowless operating room, the safest place they can find. There's no tv, so Shayla pulls out her phone and opens a weather app. It's 3:30pm as she scans the map, her eyes go wide. The tornado is moving straight down Fourth street, right where the hospital is. Her breath catches. She knew it was coming through Moore. She didn't know it was coming straight for them. Inside the operating room, the floor begins to shake. Four nurses move in right away, covering Shela with blankets, towels, pillows, anything they can grab. They gather in close around her, forming a barrier with their bodies Bonnie, the scrub tech, leans over her, shielding her as best she can. Sheila reaches out and grabs the the nearest hand. Someone grabs someone else's and they all hold on to each other, to the bed, and a nurse starts to pray. Lord let us be okay. Please let us make it through this. It feels like an earthquake. Ceiling tiles crack, dust rains down, then insulation falling down around them. Shayla turns her head and squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't know if she or her baby will survive. All she can do is hold on and pray. The tornado hits. The sound is overwhelming, like the building is being ripped apart from the outside in. Shayla presses her face into the mattress, keeping her eyes clenched tight in the mayhem, in the dark. And then it's quiet. Not completely silent, but different. She senses light. Slowly she opens her eyes and what she sees doesn't make sense. Where the wall used to be, there's nothing. It's gone completely blown out. She can see the highway and the Warren Theater across the street. She looks around, panicked for a moment, checking the nurses, afraid someone might have been pulled out of the room. But they're all there and so is she. Everyone's shaken but alive around her. The operating room is shredded. Equipment is overturned. The ceiling is torn open, cables are loose. The building's guts are hanging out. Shayla places a hand on her stomach. The baby is still inside, the safest place it can be. Relief washes over her. A newborn wouldn't have survived that. But the relief doesn't last. Another contraction hits, this one stronger and closer. The storm may have passed, but for Shayla, it's not over. Her baby is coming. Follow against the Odds on the Audible
- [47:35]
Dan Taburski
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- [47:37]
Cassie DePechel
You can listen to all episodes of against the Odds ad free by joining Audible. From Audible Originals. This is episode two of our three part series, Nightmare in Tornado Alley. A quick note about our scenes in most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book the Mercy of the the Story of a Tornado by Holly Bailey. You can also listen to the audiobook version of the Mercy of the sky right now on Audible. Produced by Audible. I'm your host Cassie DePechel. Rachel Matlow wrote this episode. Sound design by Jamie Cooper, engineered by Sergio Enriquez Original theme music Scott Velasquez and 2K for Freeze on Sync Produced by Emily Frost Managing Producer Desi Blaylock Senior producers Andy Herman and Austin Rackless Executive Producer for Audible Jenny Lauer Beckman, head of Creative Development at Audible Kate Navin, head of Audible Originals North America Marshall Louie, Chief Content Officer Rachel Gyazza Copyright 2026 by Audible Originals, LLC Sound Recording Copyright 2026 by Audible Original.