Chapter 12 - Race Against the Drowning Clock
The mountain ridge was an unbroken nightmare of loose shale, blind drop-offs, and howling headwinds.
Gabriel rode like a demon possessed. Every bump sent shockwaves through his wounded shoulder, but his grip on the handlebars never wavered. His body acted as a shock absorber, leaning back to keep Maya completely insulated from the violent vibration of the roaring engine.
Below them, the Black River churned violently, swollen by late summer rains. The digital clock on the bike’s stripped-down console ticked relentlessly: 3:42 PM. Eighteen minutes left.
Ahead, the mountain trail abruptly narrowed into a collapsed timber bridge spanning a forty-foot gorge. The center planks had rotted away decades ago, leaving only two rusted iron girders spanning the gap above a two-hundred-foot sheer drop.
There was no time to turn around. No time to find another trail.
Gabriel downshifted, the engine screaming in protest.
"Eyes closed, Maya!" he yelled through the wind.
He aimed the front tire directly down the center of the eight-inch-wide iron girder. If the front wheel slipped by half an inch, they would plunge into the abyss.
Gabriel pinned the throttle. The bike screamed across the rusted metal with razor precision. For two seconds, gravity seemed to vanish as the rear tire skipped over a missing bolt, launching them through the air across the final four feet of empty space.
The Panhead slammed down onto the solid rock on the other side with a bone-jarring crash. The front forks bottomed out, sparks showering from the skid plate, but Gabriel wrestled the handlebars back under control, powering through the turn without losing a mile per hour.
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3:51 PM.
Through the pines, the towering concrete face of the Black River Dam finally emerged, its rusted flood sirens beginning to wail their mournful, automated warning across the valley.
