Then those riders made calls from bars, from garages, from homes across three counties. They came. They wore their colors. The winged death's head on their backs. They were young and old men and a few women.
They rumbled through small towns, turning heads. The group swelled to 50, then 100, then more. By the time the main column turned onto the state highway leading towards Pine Creek, they were a river of chrome and denim, a thousand strong. The sound was like continuous thunder. Daniel was back at the community hall polling station with his mom, Jennifer.
He was nervous, expecting a sheriff to come arrest him any second for cutting the chain. But instead, he heard it first, a distant rumble that grew and grew. The two volunteer poll workers, Lucy and Rose, looked up from their table. A few early voters in line, turned their heads. Then they saw them. The first motorcycles appeared over the crest of the hill.
Then more and more, an endless line of them. They rolled into the small gravel parking lot in a precise, deafening procession. The air filled with the smell of exhaust and oil. The bikes parked in orderly rows. The riders cut their engines.
The sudden silence was more terrifying than the noise. A thousand Hell's Angels dismounted. They were big, bearded, tattooed. They wore their patches like armor. They looked around, their expressions unreadable behind sunglasses.
Mark stepped forward. He took off his sunglasses. He walked towards the polling station door. The small crowd of regular voters parted like a wave. Lucy, the head poll worker, a frail woman in her 70s, stood up, her chin trembling but held high.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady. "Mark stopped. He looked at the sign that said polling place." He looked back at his men, a sea of leather and solidarity. Then he looked at Lucy. "We are here to vote, ma'am," he said, his voice quiet, but carrying in the stillness. A ripple went through the crowd.
Daniel stared, his mouth open. "Well," Lucy said, blinking. "Well, then you'll have to get in line, and I'll need to see your ID and voter registration cards." Mark almost smiled. He reached into his cut vest and pulled out a worn wallet. He produced a driver's license and a voter registration card.
"Yes, ma'am." He turned and nodded to Paul. Paul nodded to the others, and without a word, the Thousand Hell's Angels formed a single long snaking line. It started at the door of the community hall, went across the parking lot, and disappeared down the side road. They stood, arms crossed, perfectly still. A silent, intimidating wall of humanity.
The message was clear. This voting place is open for everyone. News travels fast. Within an hour, local news vans arrived. then national ones. Reporters stood a safe distance away, cameras zooming in on the unbelievable scene, the most notorious motorcycle club in the world.
Standing peacefully in line to vote, Commissioner Griffin arrived in a sleek county SUV, his face purple with rage, he stormed up to Mark, who was now near the front of the line. Chief Donnelly was with him, looking nervous. This is intimidation, Griffin shouted, pointing a finger at Mark. You can't do this. This is a blockade.
Mark looked down at the finger, then slowly back at Griffin's face. We are in line, commissioner, just like any other citizen. We're exercising our civic duty. Is there a problem? You're scaring people.
No one will come vote with you here. As if on cue, a car pulled up. It was Mr. Henderson from Maple Ridge. He got out, gave the long line of bikers a wide-eyed look, then saw the chain was gone. He smiled, nodded at Mark, and got in line behind a biker named Tiny, who was 6'5 and covered in skull tattoos.
Tiny gave him a slight nod. Seems okay to me, Mr. Henderson said loudly. Griffin sputtered. He turned to Chief Donnelly. Arrest them for trespassing for that chain.
Donnelly stepped forward, clearing his throat. Mark, you know I got to ask the chain on the logging road. It was cut. You know anything about that? Before Mark could answer, a small voice piped up.
I did it. Everyone turned. Daniel stepped forward from behind his mom, his face pale but determined. I cut the chain. It was on the public right of way.
It was illegal. My teacher said the vote is sacred, so I cut it. A profound silence fell. Mark looked at the small boy, then at Griffin. A slow, cold smile spread across Mark's face.
He looked back at Chief Donnelly. You going to arrest an 11-year-old boy for civic engagement, Chief? While the man who ordered the illegal chain stands right here. The cameras zoomed in on Griffin's furious, trapped face. Donnelly looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.