He finally turned to look at Walter and Dorothy. So, yeah, I'm helping you because maybe if you can cross the finish line, it means the rest of us aren't completely screwed. The radio crackled before anyone could respond. Grizz, we got a problem. Lead truck here.
There's a tree down across the highway. Big one. We're not getting through without moving it. Grizzly lifted the radio. How big?
30 ft, maybe more. Pine tree looks like the snow load snapped it. Can we go around? Negative. Ditches are too deep, too much snow.
We move it or we turn back. Grizzly's face was stone. We're not turning back. Convoy halt. Everyone out.
We're clearing this tree. The Suburban slowed to a stop. Through the windshield, Walter could see the lead truck maybe 50 yards ahead, its hazard lights flashing. And beyond it, blocking the entire width of the highway was a massive pine tree. "Stay in the vehicle," Grizzly ordered as he opened his door.
"Keep warm. This might take a while. " Walter watched through the window as the bikers gathered around the fallen tree. There were 12 of them. Total seven men, five women. They looked impossibly small against the treere's bulk.
The trunk was easily 3 ft in diameter, and the branches spread out like skeletal fingers across the snow-covered asphalt. Grizzly was directing operations, pointing and gesturing. Two of the bikers disappeared into the back of one of the trucks and returned with chainsaws. The sound of engines roaring to life cut through the morning air. "They're going to hurt themselves," Doc Matthew said.
His breath fogged the window. That tree weighs tons. Even cut into sections. They'll need heavy equipment to move it. But the bikers were already working.
The chainsaws bit into wood, sending up sprays of sawdust. They worked in teams. One person cutting while others stood ready with ropes and chains. When the first section separated from the trunk, six of them grabbed it and heaved muscles straining boots slipping on ice. The section moved.
Inch by inch. They dragged it to the side of the road. Walter felt something tightened in his chest. These people didn't know him. Didn't know Dorothy.
48 hours ago, they'd been strangers. And now they were out there in singledigit temperatures moving a tree that could crush them if they made one wrong move. All because two old people needed to get to Montana. I don't deserve this, he whispered. Dorothy's hand found his again.
Yes, you do. We both do. Everyone deserves a second chance, Walter. Even us. The work continued.
One section, then another, then another. The chainsaws screamed. The bikers shouted to each other, coordinating lifts, warning about weak ice cursing when branches caught on the asphalt. Grizzly was in the thick of it, his massive frame straining as he helped lift sections that took three normal people to move. 30 minutes passed, then 45.
Walter's coffee had gone cold. Dorothy had dozed off again, her breathing steady against his shoulder. Doc Matthews watched the work with the critical eye of someone cataloging future injuries. At the 50inute mark, Grizzly's radio crackled to life, but it wasn't one of his people. The voice that came through was unfamiliar, rough with an edge of menace.
Well, well, devil's backbone out for a morning drive. Didn't your mother teach you to stay in your own yard? Grizzly's hand went to the radio, but he didn't respond. His eyes scanned the treeine on both sides of the road. The voice continued.
We've been watching you clear that tree. Awful nice of you to do our road maintenance for us. But see, this is Iron Cross territory now, and you boys know you're not welcome here. Walter's heart started hammering. Who is that?
Doc Matthews's face had gone pale. Iron Cross MC, the rival club grizzly mentioned. This is bad. Through the windshield, Walter saw the biker stop working. They'd all heard the radio transmission.
Hands moved toward waistbands, toward pockets. Preparing, Grizzly finally lifted the radio. His voice was calm, almost conversational. Reaper, been a while. Not long enough, Grizz.
You want to tell me what you're doing rolling six vehicles through my territory at 7:00 in the morning. Just passing through. No trouble. No trouble? The voice reaper laughed.
It wasn't a pleasant sound. You bring 12 devils backbone into Iron Cross country and you say no trouble. That's funny. That's real funny. We're on a timet.
Reaper got two civilians who need to get to Silver Falls. Medical situation. We clear this tree. We're gone. You never see us again.
Silence on the radio. Then two civilians. What? You're running a taxi service now? Something like that.
Let me see them. Grizzly's jaw clenched. Not happening. Then you're not passing through. Simple as that.
You want to cross Iron Cross territory. I see who you're carrying. Those are the terms. Walter saw Grizzly's hand tighten on the radio. The other bikers were tensing, spreading out slightly, creating defensive positions without seeming to move at all.
Stand down, Reaper. This doesn't have to get ugly. Already as ugly, Grizz. You made it ugly when you crossed the line. Now, either you show me your passengers or you turn those vehicles around and crawl back to whatever hole you came from.
Dorothy was awake now. She'd heard everything. Her hand clutched Walter so tightly it hurt. What's going to happen? Doc Matthews didn't answer.
His eyes were locked on Grizzly. The big biker stood in the middle of the highway, snow falling around him, surrounded by his people. For a long moment, he didn't move. Then he turned and looked directly at the Suburban. At Walter and Dorothy through the windshield, the message in his eyes was clear.
Your call. Walter's mind raced. They could turn back, go to Copper Ridge, wait out the storm, try to make the journey another time. The safe choice, the smart choice. But Dorothy didn't have another time.
The doctors had been clear weeks, maybe a month or two if they were lucky. Every day they waited was a day closer to never. Walter made a decision that would change everything. He opened the Suburban's door and stepped out into the snow. Walter no.
Doc Matthews grabbed for him, but Walter was already moving. He walked toward Grizzly, his boots crunching in the snow, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Every eye was on him. The devil's backbone bikers, the invisible watchers from Iron Cross, probably even God himself looking down and wondering what this crazy old man thought he was doing. Walter stopped next to Grizzly.
I'm Walter Callahan, he called out to the empty forest. His voice cracked, but he pushed on. Korean War veteran. My wife Dorothy is in that vehicle. She's dying.
Cancer. We're trying to get to Silver Falls to see our grandson before it's too late. That's the whole story. No drugs, no weapons, no trouble. Just two old people trying to see family one last time.
The forest was silent except for the wind. Then from the tree line maybe a hundred yards north figures emerged. Eight motorcycles rolled out onto the highway. Their riders dressed in black leather with different patches. Iron cross MC.
They moved in formation engines rumbling until they formed a line across the road. The rider in front bigger than Grizzly with a shaved head and a scar that ran from his eye to his jaw killed his engine. He climbed off his bike and walked forward his boots leaving deep prints in the snow. Reaper. He stopped 10 feet from Grizzly and Walter.
His eyes cold and calculating swept over them both. Korean War, huh? What unit? Walter's voice was steady now. Seventh Infantry Division.
Fought at Chosen Reservoir. Something flickered in Reaper's scarred face. My grandfather fought at Chosen. Came home missing three toes and half his sanity. He looked at Grizzly.