He grabbed a heavy red plaid shirt from the pile and pulled it on. It was tight across the shoulders, but it was dry. "Do what she says," Qatar ordered, looking at his men. "Get out of the wet gear. Reluctantly, the men complied.
The barn transformed into a bizarre locker room. Heavy leather jackets and soaked denim vests were draped over handlebars and tractor tires to dry. The fearsome hell's angels were suddenly clad in oversized farmers flannels, faded John Deere sweatshirts, and thick, goofy looking wool socks. It stripped them of their armor. They looked less like an invading army and more like exhausted, freezing refugees.
Martha moved among them, carrying a small galvanized bucket filled with dry sawdust. She directed a few men to pull an old cast iron burn barrel into the center of the concrete floor far away from the hay and the motorcycles. "Ventilation is bad, so we keep it small," Martha explained, tossing the sawdust into the barrel along with some dry kindling from the workbench. She lit it. A small bright fire cracked to life, throwing off a meager but desperate amount of heat.
The men crowded around it like feral cats. Martha retreated to her bench. An older biker, thin as a rail with a face that looked like a worn leather saddle, limped over and leaned against the wood. He was wearing one of Arthur's green cardigans. "Name's Bones," he said, his voice a raspy whisper.
He pulled a crushed pack of Malbras from his jeans. I told you no smoking near the hay, Martha said. Ain't lit, Bones replied. Just placing the unlit cigarette between his lips to chew on the filter. Just need the familiar taste.
You got a lot of grit, Martha. Most folks would have let us wash away. The river doesn't care who you are, Martha said, watching the fire. Neither do I. Bones chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.
You remind me of my old lady. God rest her soul. She didn't take any [ __ ] either. He paused, looking at the clothes the men were wearing. These belong to your husband.
Yes. He passed recent. 14 years. Martha said flatly. Bones nodded slowly.
And you kept the clothes. It's practical. Martha deflected. Fabric makes good rags. Keeps out the drafts.
Sure. Bones smiled. Knowingly. Practical. Before Martha could respond, a deep structural groan echoed through the floorboards.
It wasn't the wind. It was the sound of heavy earth shifting. A sharp pop rang out from the rear of the barn, followed by the terrifying hiss of rushing water. "Everybody up! Cutter roared, his voice cutting through the panic before it even had a chance to bloom.
Martha grabbed her magite and sprinted toward the rear double doors. Dutch barked wildly, running circles around her legs. She shoved her way past three bikers and hit the beam against the back wall. Water was coming in. It wasn't a trickle.
A thick muddy torrent was forcing its way under the heavy wooden doors, spreading rapidly across the concrete floor. The bedrock outside hadn't just pulled the water. The current had undercut the earth, driving the floodwaters directly against the foundation. "The woods bowing," Miller yelled, pointing at the center of the heavy oak doors. The iron latch was holding, but the thick planks were groaning, bending inward under the immense pressure of the water outside.
"If those doors give, the water takes the floor. The bikes go with it. Martha shouted over the den. "Move the bikes to the front." a young biker yelled. There's no room.
Bones shouted back. They're packed in tight. Martha looked around frantically. She didn't panic. Panic was a luxury for people who had someone else to save them.
She analyzed the assets. 43 men, a tractor, and 100 bags of winter feed. We don't move the bikes, Martha commanded, her voice dropping into an authoritative bark that demanded attention. We reinforced the door. Sandbag it.
Cutter was beside her in a second. With what? Tack room. Martha pointed the flashlight toward the enclosed stall in the corner. 50 lb bags of sweet feed and rock salt.
Get them out here now.Qar didn't question her. He spun around, a general rallying his troops. You heard the lady. Miller, Wyatt, Grady, get on the bags. The rest of you, form a line.
Move. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by the sheer terrifying instinct to survive. The men formed a human chain from the tack room to the rear doors. "Heave!" a biker yelled, tossing a heavy burlap sack of sweet feed to the man next to him. The bag flew down the line.
Martha stood at the rear doors, directing the placement. "Drop it here against the bottom gap. She pointed to the rushing water. A biker slammed the bag down. It instantly soaked through, turning the feed inside into a heavy, immovable brick of sludge.
Next, faster, Martha yelled. Bag after bag flew down the line. Feed, rock salt, bags of hardened cement mix from the '9s. The bikers worked with a brutal synchronized efficiency. Muscles strained under Arthur's oversized flannel shirts.
They slipped in the rising muddy water, cursing violently, hauling themselves back up to catch the next heavy sack. Cutter was at the front of the line, ripping 50 lb bags out of the tack room two at a time, and hurling them to his men. The water in the back of the barn was ankle deep now, swirling around the rear tires of the closest motorcycles. It's still bowing. Martha shouted, pressing her gloved hands against the center of the massive wooden doors.
She could feel the vibration of the flood outside. A millions gallons of violent energy trying to break in. We need a brace, Cutter roared, splashing through the water to reach her. He pressed his massive shoulders against the wood, digging his boots into the flooded concrete. The bags aren't enough to stop the pressure on the upper half.
Martha panned her flashlight wildly around the barn. Her eyes landed on the old Massie Ferguson tractor. "The brush guard! Martha yelled. "On the tractor!
It's heavy gauge steel tubing. It's bolted to the frame. If we take it off, we can wedge it against the doors and pin it to the floor anchors. Cutter looked at the tractor, then then back at her. "Bolted with what?