There is no naked terror quite like the terror of sitting in a cold, dank basement with people you are thrown together with by circumstance whose names you don't know but upon whom your continued survival may be directly connected to. The power is out, only floodlights light the hallway and a chill permeates the bones of the author sitting, shivering in front of her laptop, typing because she needs to find a way to keep her sanity in some fashion in an insane situation and typing--with its regular, familiar movements--is a comfort that cannot be measured.

It's cold, it's dark, it's dank, it's creepy and the wind is howling above, the roar punctured every so often by either a police siren or the tornado siren.

There isn't any comfort to be had in the familiar movements of fingers on keys. There isn't any comfort at all to be had.

Death is at the door. Will he knock? I have no idea.