The Motorcycle on Main Street
The first scream came before Marcus Reed could open the envelope.
“Hey! Somebody get some help over here!”
Marcus looked up.
The envelope slipped from his fingers.
It landed on the pavement, skidded beneath the front bumper of an old pickup truck, and disappeared from sight.
For a second, Marcus didn't move.
Then he heard the second scream.
“Help! Get it off me!”
He ran.
Main Street had been almost unnaturally crowded that afternoon.
Motorcycles filled both sides of the road, their chrome flashing beneath the September sun. Black leather vests moved through the crowd. Engines rumbled. Conversations overlapped. Pine Hollow was a small town, and nothing like this had ever happened there before.
Nearly two thousand bikers had arrived.
Marcus had been trying not to stare.
Now everyone was staring at the same thing.
A black touring motorcycle had fallen sideways near the intersection.
It was enormous.
Nearly nine hundred pounds of steel, chrome, fuel, and machinery had collapsed on top of a man.
His right leg was trapped beneath the motorcycle.
Gasoline streamed from the damaged tank.
“Get it off me!”
The man's face was white with pain.
Several bikers stepped toward him.
Then stopped.
Smoke was beginning to curl from beneath the engine.
“Everybody back!” someone shouted.
Marcus pushed through the crowd.
“Get away from the bike!”
A large biker grabbed his shoulder.
“Kid, don't!”
Marcus pulled free.
“He's trapped!”
“We know.”
“Then help him!”
“We can't lift that thing.”
Marcus looked at the motorcycle.
Then at the injured rider.
Then at the thin stream of gasoline running across the pavement.
It was heading directly toward the hot exhaust.
Marcus's mind became strangely calm.
He had spent most of his childhood around machines.
Tractors.
Farm trucks.
Hydraulic systems.
Old combines.
Generators.
Broken equipment that could crush a person if handled carelessly.
His employer, Walter Harris, had taught him something important.
Machines didn't become dangerous because they were complicated.
They became dangerous because people panicked.
Marcus dropped to his knees.
“What's your name?”
The trapped man gritted his teeth.
“Tom.”
“Tom, look at me.”
“I can't move my leg.”
“I know.”
“Get it off!”
“We're going to.”
A biker crouched beside Marcus.
“Kid, that's a Road King. It's too heavy.”
Marcus examined the frame.
“No. It's heavy, but that's not the problem.”
“What is?”
“If everybody grabs it and pulls, it'll shift.”
The biker frowned.
Marcus pointed beneath the motorcycle.
“It's resting on the frame and his leg. If you move it sideways, you're going to crush him.”
Another man stepped forward.
“Then what do we do?”
Marcus looked across Main Street.
“Harris Auto & Farm Repair.”
The shop stood less than fifty yards away.
Marcus shouted.
“Mr. Harris!”
The door flew open.
Walter Harris appeared.
“What happened?”
“Bring the floor jack!”
Walter looked at the motorcycle.
Then at Marcus.
He understood immediately.
“I'm coming.”
He disappeared inside.
The injured man groaned.
“Please…”
Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Stay still.”
“I'm scared.”
“I know.”
“Am I going to lose my leg?”
Marcus hesitated.
“No.”
He didn't know if that was true.
But the man needed something stronger than uncertainty.
“You're not losing your leg today.”
The injured rider stared at him.
Marcus looked toward the smoke.
“Keep your head down.”
A small flame appeared beneath the engine.
Marcus shouted.
“Everybody back!”
The crowd moved.
Except Marcus.
A biker yelled, “Kid, get away!”
Marcus ignored him.
He crawled closer.
“Kill the engine!”
Nobody moved.
Marcus turned.
“Whoever owns this bike, kill the engine!”
A man stepped forward.
“The ignition's buried.”
“Then disconnect the battery!”
“I can't get to it!”
Marcus cursed under his breath.
Walter Harris returned with the floor jack.
“Got it!”
Marcus pointed.
“Put it under the strongest part of the frame.”
Walter nodded.
“Three men stabilize it.”
Three massive bikers immediately moved into position.
Marcus looked at them.
“Don't lift until I tell you.”
They nodded.
He positioned the jack.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“On three.”
The smoke thickened.
“One.”
The injured man screamed.
“Two.”
Marcus pumped the jack.
“Three!”
The motorcycle shifted.
One inch.
Two.
The men holding it strained.
Marcus pumped again.
“Keep it steady!”
The floor jack groaned.
The motorcycle rose just enough.
“Pull him!”
Daniel Mercer stepped forward.
He was older than most of the bikers around him, perhaps late fifties, with silver in his beard and a scar along his jaw.
He grabbed Tom beneath the shoulders.
Another biker took his arms.
“Pull!”
They dragged the injured man free.
Marcus shouted:
“Move him!”
They carried Tom away from the motorcycle.
Marcus looked down.
The gasoline had reached the exhaust.
“Everybody back!”
The flame jumped.
Fire raced beneath the motorcycle.
Then the entire machine erupted.
People scattered across Main Street.
A wall of heat struck Marcus's face.
Someone pulled him backward.
“Move!”
Marcus stumbled.
The motorcycle burned.
Tom lay several yards away, clutching his leg.
Marcus immediately ran toward him.
“Stay with me.”
Tom looked at him.
“I thought I was dead.”
“Not today.”
Sirens approached.
An ambulance turned onto Main Street.
Paramedics jumped out.
Marcus stepped aside.
They took over.
One of them cut Tom's pants open and examined the leg.
“Possible fracture.”
Marcus nodded.
“He was pinned for about three minutes.”
The paramedic looked at him.
“You get him out?”
Marcus shrugged.
“With help.”
The paramedic glanced at the burning motorcycle.
“Good work.”
Marcus finally stood.
His hands were black with grease.
His shirt sleeve was torn.
His heart was pounding.
He looked around.
Something felt wrong.
The entire crowd was silent.