"Keep your money," Martha said, her voice cutting through the rain. She shifted the beam of the flashlight, aiming it past the house up towards the crest of the hill. The beam hit the faded red siding of the massive dairy barn. "The yard's going to flood in 20 minutes," Martha shouted. "The barn sits on bedrock.
It's dry. Get your bikes up the hill before you all drown. The big man stared at her for a fraction of a second. Then he nodded. Once, a sharp, decisive jerk of his chin, he spun around, facing the chaotic mass of men and machines in her front yard.
He didn't shout, he bellowed, "Push him up the barn. Move your asses before the river takes them. The paralysis broke. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by adrenaline, and desperate, violent motion. The yard turned into a mud pit as 43 men went to war against gravity, mud, and dead weight.
Martha didn't retreat inside. She stayed on the porch, her flashlight cutting through the deluge, acting as a beacon. It was a brutal, ugly process. The hill up to the barn was steep, and the grass had already turned to slick, impossible sludge. Riding the bikes up was impossible.
The rear tires just spun, throwing rooster tales of mud into the faces of the men behind them. They had to push. Grady, get on the right side. The leader roared, putting his shoulder against the [ __ ] bar of a stalled bagger. Heave.
Martha watched as three men, leathers heavy with water, boots slipping, strained against a single motorcycle, veins bulged in their necks. They cursed, slipping to their knees in the muck, dragging themselves back up by the handlebars, refusing to let the machine fall. The flood water was lapping at the lower edges of the yard. Now swirling around the tires of the last few bikes. It was a race.
Martha jogged down the porch steps, the mud instantly sucking at her boots. She moved past a biker with a bleeding gash above his eye, heading straight for the barn. She unlatched the heavy wooden double doors, putting her back into it, hauling them open against the wind. The inside of the barn was cavernous, smelling of old hay, dust, and decades of dry rot. It was pitch black.
She found the Coleman lantern hanging on a nail near the entrance. She struck a match with cold, shaking fingers, lit the mantle, and cranked the knob. A harsh, hissing white light flooded the front half of the barn. "In here!" she yelled, waving the magite toward the open doors. The first bike breached the crest of the hill.
Two men shoved it over the lip of the concrete foundation and into the barn. They dropped the kickstand, collapsing against the wooden walls, chests heaving, coughing up rain and river water. Then came the next, and the next. The barn, built to hold 60 head of cattle, quickly began to fill with chrome, steel, and exhausted outlaws. The air grew thick with the smell of hot exhaust, burning oil, sweat, and wet leather.
Martha stood by the door, acting as a traffic cop. Park them tight. Kickstands on the wood planks. The dirt floor is too soft, she ordered. A younger biker, looking no more than 25, tried to push a massive road glide past her.
His boots slipped on the wet concrete. The bike tipped toward Martha. Before she could move, a hand the size of a dinner plate clamped onto the handlebars, arresting the 800B machine in midair. It was the leader. He shoved the bike upright with a grunt of exertion.
Watch where the hell you're going, kid. He growled. The young biker swallowed hard, nodding, and pushed the bike into the back of the barn. The leader turned to Martha. Water was pouring off his face.
His beard was caked in mud. Up close, he smelled like river water, gasoline, and wet wool. I'm Cutter, he said, breathing heavily. He didn't offer his hand. They were both covered in filth.
Martha, she said flatly. We got three more stuck at the bottom, Cutter said, looking out the barn doors into the raging dark waters up to the cylinders. Martha followed his gaze. The lower yard was gone. The flood had claimed it.
The water was a black rushing torrent churning with debris. Large branches, a plastic cooler, an entire uprooted fence post tore past in the current down at the edge of the rising water. Five men were fighting a losing battle. Three bikes were mired deep in the mud, the water rushing violently around the wheels. The men were chest deep, trying to heave the machines up the slope, but the current was too strong.
Leave them.Qutter roared into the dark. Get up the hill. No way, man. It's my sled. A voice screamed back barely audible over the roar of the water.
Leave the damn bikes, Wyatt. The water's going to take you with them. Cutter bellowed, taking a step out of the barn. One of the bikes tipped. The current caught the broadside of the machine, ripping it out of the mud.
It flipped, pinning one of the men against the submerged trunk of an old apple tree. Martha didn't think. She grabbed a thick coil of heavy nylon tow rope hanging from a beam near the door. She shoved one end into Cutter's chest. "Hold this.
Anchor yourself to the tractor. She barked, pointing to the rusted Massie Ferguson in the corner. Before Cutter could argue, Martha tied the other end around her waist in a quick bowline knot. She grabbed her magite and charged out of the barn, sliding down the slick mud of the hill toward the churning water. "Lady, what the hell are you doing?
Cutter yelled, but he wrapped the rope around his massive forearm and braced his boots against the concrete lip of the barn door. Martha hit the water. It was freezing. The cold punched the breath out of her lungs. The current was terrifying, yanking at her legs with impossible strength.
She waded in, the mud sucking at her boots, aiming her flashlight at the trapped man. It was the one called Wyatt. The bike was pinning his leg against the tree, and the water was rising to his chin. The other men were frantically trying to lift the bike, but the current was pinning the steel against the wood. Martha waded up to them, the water cresting her waist.
You can't lift it. She screamed over the noise. The water pressure is too heavy. She shoved her way past a heavily tattooed biker who looked at her like she was a ghost. She reached under the muddy water, her bare hands feeling along the frame of the trapped motorcycle.
She found the front forks. Don't lift. Pivot. Martha yelled. Spin the front tire downstream.
Let the current push it off him. The men stared at her. "Do it!" she screamed. Two of the bikers grabbed the front wheel and the handlebars. They stopped pulling up and yanked hard downstream.
The current caught the wheel, violently pivoting the front of the bike. The rear tire slid off Wyatt's leg. "Pull him up! Martha yelled. They yanked Wyatt out of the water.