Bolide

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Nik-note: Had to write this to get it out of my head, resume focus on Fresno.

Bolide 1/3

That terrible Tuesday remains etched on my memory. I was idly leafing through one of Dad's 'Civil Engineering' magazines. Half-watching Pete, my just-teen brother storm his new, solo 'World of Tanks' on the big screen. Half-watching our school-friend's three kittens' antics. 'Laurelle' and 'Hardy', the two 'tuxedos', were playing tag. Tabby 'Tiger' was prowling.

I was almost glad when my phone bleeped. I peered at the text. A 'Severe Weather' warning ? Bolide in-bound ?

"Pete, time out ?" Took him ten seconds to clinically destroy his current AI opponent, freeze the game, look around. "Your scary friend Stu still on his meds ?"

"I-- I think so, Matt. Why ?" As I showed my phone's message, his burbled, delivered the same. "What is this ??"

"Bro..." By the time I took that breath, my phone, despite two 'signal' bars, had ominously gained a 'Limited Service' warning. "Jackoed ? If not a Stu-level mega-prank-- About a decade ago ? Didn't a small meteor air-burst above a Russian town ?"

"Heard of it, Matt-- Cheb' or Ched' something ? Nasty..."

"Twenty metres, ten kilo-tonnes," I confirmed. "Blast took out half that town's windows. This is larger, headed our way."

"Here ? Welsh Borders ??"

"Western Europe..." I grabbed, woke my lap-top, whose WiFi linked via house WAPs to our fast fibre-line. The icon spun, spun, then reported 'Unable to connect'. "Huh. Web's totally Jackoed, too. Put up News 24 ?"

The clearly-scared presenter was shakily reading a bulletin, "... estimated between fifty and hundred metres, possibly larger, with several possible 'out-riders'. Expected to air-burst above, possibly impact any-where between North-West of Alps and Atlantic in about half an hour. Air traffic being diverted, grounded. Ski-slopes cleared. Euro-tunnel and other high-speed trains halted. Motorway speed limits reduced. Major bridges closing. High-sided vehicles warned to 'park up'. Big or tall trees may blow over. Shelter in place: Keep away from windows, move to interior rooms..."

As one, we looked across the open lounge's atrium, up the towering glass frontage of this converted barn. I took a shaky breath. A second. I said, "Pete, Mum only opened and let cottages #3 and #4. Looks like their two couples are away for the day. How long would you need to re-shutter them ? And the shop ?"

"Ten minutes, Bro. Fifteen at most."

"Go for it." As he scrambled to his feet, I added, "I'll sound the flash-flood alert, roll down these shutters. Move our bedding into the back."

As he zig-zagged towards the door and its storm-porch, I opened the windowed 'flight engineer' panel beneath the mezzanine's stairs. Back in the Pleistocene, the linear cave behind us had been a stream-mouth. Then, erosion found a route to a lower level, surfaced almost a quarter-mile away at what's now the 'Upper Gape'. Primitive humans moved in here, eventually followed by millennia of cheese-makers.

Later, the stream found a third route, the 'Lower Gape', beside our 'Domesday Book' village with its ford and 'pack-horse' bridge. But, in a storm, that passage could over-fill, excess bursting from the 'Upper Gape' to pour through the village. Intrepid spelunkers had explored the minor maze, emplaced float-gauges and flow-meters. Though this Spring had been horribly dull and dank, there'd been scant heavy rain. All sensors stood 'In the Green'. Lifting a guard-lid, I turned the flood-warning system's switch from 'Auto', through 'Test' and 'Clear' positions to 'Alert'. Tucked into the apex of our roof, the siren began its slow, ululating wail.

Then, dodging kittens, I strode to the window-wall. Behind the side-gathered drapes, there were switches and manual winder ports for the roller shutters. The top four set the left half of the strong 'security' shutters closing outside the triple-glazing. The lower four operated the lighter 'internals' between the sealed glazing panels and inner 'décor' pane. Though intended for solar and thermal control, they might help. I crossed the frontage, repeated my work with the right half.

Catching my breath, I ran upstairs. I hauled the futon mattress, duvet and pillow from my neat room, dumped them over the mezzanine rail into the lounge. I would not normally venture into my brother's eye-wateringly untidy room, but needs must. His bedding followed mine.

Back down-stairs, I piled the bedding and my lap-top onto a castored modular sofa unit, trundled it towards the back. Beyond twin wide, double-swing, loop-handled fire-break doors, the spinal corridor opened. Our big kitchen and its long breakfast-bar showed at left, twin wash-rooms and laundry opened off the facing side-corridor to my right. Latter also held our emergency lights' tubbed deep-cycle batteries.

A fire-doored adit continued beyond the laundry to the back of our modern shed. That housed our site's work-shop, garaged the quad-bike and cars. As Dad was supervising drill-piling in 'difficult ground' for an urgently re-designed HS2 bridge, and Mum was at a 'Romantic Authors' conference in Bournemouth, both his huge SUV and her neat MPV were now away.

Further inward along the 'spinal', I passed Mum's big combo-locked study on the left, and the facing library / home-office / study-den. Another pair of loop-handled fire-break doors took me beyond the former cave mouth, into the first set of masonry and brick 'cheese vaults'. My grope found, brought up the lights. Holding an even temperature, currently a dozen degrees cooler than house-front, this had been ideal for cheese ripening and storage. The décor was still utilitarian. Modern racking held our 'attic' usuals, such as big, lidded tubs of old paper-backs and magazine back-issues, Board games, Snow-siege supplies. That sorta stuff.

I parked the heaped sofa unit near the back, looked around. One alcove held a trad, lever-action tube well, set over a floor-drain. We did check its valves from time to time, but I remembered it might need generous 'priming' with a litre or three of water. I grabbed the empty gallon container from its nearby niche, took it back as far as the kitchen, rinsed twice, stood it under the tap.

[Belushi TD]

Oooooo, this has a nice start!

Belushi TD

[jemhouston]

Oooooo, this has a nice start!

Belushi TD

Nice and terrifying.

[warshipadmin]

Nik's orders for today. Sit at keyboard and get on with part 2.

[Belushi TD]

Nik's orders for today. Sit at keyboard and get on with part 2.

I strongly suspect since he's got it numbered 1/3, that he's already got 2 and 3 in the can, and is either whetting our appetite, or doing edits.

Belushi TD

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Bolide 2/3

Pete practically flew in, gasped, "Shuttered ! What now ?"

"Yay !" I tilted a thumb, warned, "Back there is a lot colder than I remember. Use a wash-room, then grab a week's changes of socks and smalls, plus lots of out-door wear. Keep-sakes. Your new game-box, disk-sets. And, sorry, school-stuff. We may be 'Home Schooling' again. If you can spot those gallon water containers I thought were shelved, please."

"Sounds good. What's next ?"

"If we lose the shed, the back-up generator's gone. LPG tank will probably 'fail-safe'. So, fridge-raid. Picnic stuff ? And a 'take-away' meal for tonight ? I could zap us some frozen Korma and rice ?"

"Sounds good."

"Keep meal tubs toasty in the picnic box. Fill the 'handy' Thermos and the big pump-action for hot drinks. Pack disposable plates, bowls and sporks..."

"Sure..."

As I nimbly transferred freezer tubs to the microwaves, dabbed timer buttons, I pleaded, "Bro, what am I missing ?"

Pete blinked, nodded. "Lots. I'll fetch the kittens through, also their bed, carrier and tray. And their spare bag of granules. Cat food, bowls."

"Uh-huh. Which reminds me: Paper towels, bin-bags. Lotsa bin-bags. Buckets and wash-bowls..." I waved. "Now the Korma's on, I'll fill a case each with Mum's 'casuals' and Dad's suits. Toss their duvet down. Grab my stuff. Don't leave yours too late..."

Behind us, the big TV's news presenter was almost gabbling up-dates. Something about French, Luftwaffe and RAF jets perhaps launching heat-seekers at out-riders, a North Sea RN warship perhaps launching missiles at the 'Main Event'. Sounded a tad peroptimistic, but surely worth a try.

"And the old portable TV from the guest-room," I added. "Should run off our 12 Volt emergency line, has a fold-up rabbit-ears aerial."

"Cool, Bro !" Pete blinked. "Shop's old radio has a 12 Volt option, yes ? If TV network is down, might still get some news."

"That's good thinking. Grab it. And a bag or two of fun stuff." Given our differing looks, people took us for cousins rather than full brothers. I'd be sixteen this Summer, was reasonably clever but, without trying, Pete tested twenty points higher. I earned my steady 'B' STEM grades with un-relenting work. Pete, like Author Mum and Civil Engineer Dad, was in Mensa. His 'B' grades came with now-routine admonition, 'Could do *so* much better if applied himself'.

Fortunately, we were sorta-complements rather than full rivals. Pete could figure stuff that stumped me, 'break trail'. Much, much wider read, I could find obscure references, analogies to 'light-off' his oft-scary wits' 'after-burner'.

Pete headed his way, I headed mine. Normally, I'd only enter the 'Master Bedroom' to hunt dust-bunnies with the central-vacuum system's snake. Yes, I earned my allowance doing house-work and other chores. Pete's was mostly a bribe to stay out of trouble. Thankfully, he stopped teasing me after Mum finally said, 'Yes, yes, Pete, Matt *would* rock a 'Downton Abbey' rig. But, I'd prefer a pair of totally cute Anime 'Café Meidos': Faux DD busts, bob wigs, Mary-Jane heels, floofy tutus and frilly bloomers ?'

Now, I opened my parents' deep, walk-in wardrobe. Pulling two suit-cases from a-top the regimented shelves, I folded two big grabs of hanging-bagged suits into Dad's, tossed some Tees, 'combat' pants and a jog-suit on top, zipped it shut. Armfuls of Mum's leggings, Tees, 'peasant' blouses, circle skirts and sweeping 'palazzo' pants went into hers. I added keep-sakes, a jog-suit on top, closed up.

Duvet and pillows arced into the lounge, followed by their en-suite's towels. I knew there were valuables in their some-what hidden wall-safe, I even knew how to open it. But, this was the 'Loss-Leader', to 'Divulge under Duress' with the alternate code which triggered the un-documented silent alarm. Our 'Serious Stuff' was in a much bigger, better safe else-where, which I also knew how to access. As both safes were rated to survive house-fires, even collapse, they were better left as-is.

I dragged the cases down the stairs. Pete had put 'Laurelle' and 'Hardy' into their big carrier, was warily un-peeling 'Tiger' from head-high on the right-hand drapes. Cats !! Rather than comment, perhaps distract, I went up-stairs again. After I used the mezzanine wash-room, I tossed the fluffy towels into the lounge. The guest room yielded its duvet and old TV. I checked the 'car' cable was still curled under the battery cover, carried it down. Another castered sofa module was gone, along with bedding, towels and kitten carrier.

I went up to my room. My suit-case swallowed a lot of neatly folded or hung clothes, then my 'pending' reading and school-work. Sandals, phone and lap-top chargers went into the corners. No keep-sakes, I didn't 'do' keep-sakes. Alarm clock. The spare watch I rarely wore. Pete waited for me to descend, then went up the stairs two at a time. Our parents' cases were gone, along with another modular unit and the kittens' accessories.

On the way back from the 'cheese vault', I checked in the kitchen. The tubs had cooked. I slid the folded serving trolley from its stowage beneath a kitchen unit, opened and latched it thus. The insulated box emerged from its niche, swallowed the tubs. I piled spare paper towel rolls, party flat-ware and a bag of sporks a-top them. A new roll each of tie-handle 'bin' and 'handy' bags. Fridge-raid makings of bread rolls, spread and packets of sliced meats. Mustard-pickle and ketchup. The salt sprinkler. Assorted mugs.

With that box on the trolley's lower shelf, I nested main and both spare wash-bowls on the top deck, piled in the washing liquid's bottle, pan-scrubbers and such. Pete sorta flew past with his new game box under one arm, his bulging suitcase in tow. Out-bound, he shook his head, warned, "Now saying could be nearer two hundred metres: That would be very bad ?"

"Yes." I managed a breath. "How's it going ?"

"One more trip, then 'Duck and Cover'."

I nodded as both kettles worked up to boiling. "Bit melodramatic, but you might still get a couple of texts out to Mum, Dad: 'Siren Shutters Cave Luv u2'."

As Pete swallowed bile, began dancing fingers on his phone, I added, "I'll set the site CCTV to full-speed, full resolution, no auto-delete. Half an hour should be enough."

"Gotcha..." Remarkably, his phone pinged to say the text was away. "I'll be..."

"Grab the last of your stuff, I'll set the CCTV." Pete dashed away while I opened the 'flight engineer' panel again. Releasing the keyboard drawer, I worked its track-ball to start a secure 'Hi-Res' session. As I said to Pete, half an hour should be enough. I didn't say 'Live or Die' or anything like that. If he didn't work it out for himself, it would not matter either way. Close the drawer, close the cover panel. Grab the last coats off the hooks by the front door.

[jemhouston]

Enough time to come up with a good plan.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

When time is utterly of the essence -- 'Incoming !!'-- better a napkin-scribbled, but workable plan now, rather than a pluperfect 'Power Point' presentation that's simply too late...

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Bolide 3/3

Pete met me in the kitchen, pointed, said, "I've filled both 'Thermos'. Put lemon-tea powder, coffee, sugar, creamer on the trolley. Time to go ?"

"Time to go." I reached up to the 'maintained' emergency light above the outer doors, retrieved a strong fabric strop plus chunky carabiners. Wrapping the loop-handles, I buckled them snug. We wheeled the trolley into the back, parked it against the wall. Another strop secured these doors. Back in the lounge, the big TV's presenter was repeating warnings as fast as an auctioneer.

A long, long minute passed.
Then another.
Perhaps it was infra-sound from an early 'out-rider', perhaps some sort of 'ground wave', like a big quake's 'P-type': Suddenly, the air turned 'ominous', setting the kittens to hiss and growl.

Then the noise began.

We knew thunder-storms. We'd been taught to point, count five seconds per mile from flash to bang. We knew big, bad thunder-storms, with golf-ball hail, strike-split trees, power trips. This, though: This was more how an awed friend described a stadium's 'Heavy Metal' concert from too near the stage.

It began loud.
It got louder.
Then yet louder.
It became too loud to think, to even hear.

We felt it in our chests, our guts, our teeth, our bones. Everything shook. The secured shelving writhed, rocked and swayed. Those heavy fire-doors flapped to their strop's limit. Utility power failed. The main lights went out, plunging us into near-darkness beyond the weak 'maintained' luminaire. Pete and I clung to each other like pre-schoolers, our screams lost beneath the barrage.

The pass lasted for ever before, very slowly, fading away to echoes and distant rumbles. Impossibly, my watch claimed it had all taken less than a slow egg-boil.

Still almost deaf, we felt the last, big, slow rumble through our feet. Gradually, as our hearing recovered, came a scary, yet some-how re-assuring sound. Though our generator hadn't auto-started, from some-where nearby, our flash-flood siren yet ululated alarm...

Pete took a step towards the dimly lit doors. I held him back, mouthing, "Too soon."

He nodded, hesitated, glanced to the catering trolley. And, with a truly wicked grin, mouthed, "Bro, is there any lemon tea on this space-ship ?"

[jemhouston]

Priorities are straight.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Nik-note: Between struggle with my eye-sight, hunting elusive key phrases and a dawning realisation that one (1) chapter would not provide adequate epilogue, 'Bolide' has been some-what delayed...
--
#04
By the time we'd sipped those drinks, our wits had mostly recovered. Our abused hearing would take a little longer, of course.

There'd been nothing, nothing since that last, huge rumble. As there'd been no blast wave or gust front, it was not local. Down-side, the source probably fell on line between us and the Aberystwyth coast. Worse, my very good friend Fiona Jones, 'Of the Kittens', her parents and young brother Berwyn, were on holiday there, staying with relatives...

First things first. Pete checked his phone, got no signal. I woke my lap-top. Though the WAPs and cable-modem were 'up', drawing from our 12 Volt supply or the latter's UPS, there was no service from the ISP. With our 'wired' phone sharing the fibre line via VOIP, that would be down, too. Likewise, 'fail-over' to the 'cell' network.

I un-strapped the inner cellar doors, looked around for damage. A few over-stacked paper-back novels had tumbled from library shelves, but nothing important. I checked Mum's 'study' door was still secure. I knew the combo-code, having deployed a UV torch to fluoresce skin-oils on used keys. But, I'd not access unless 'Dire Domestic Disaster': Even this Bolide didn't qualify...

Yes, the pleasant stories, articles and genteel 'Romantic' novelettes Mum carefully crafted sold steadily, paid well. Hopefully, she didn't know I suspected that, under a pen-name, she *also* wrote a spicy, best-selling Victorian 'detective' series. This featured elegant English Rose 'Fiona Bixby-Smythe', wed and widowed the same afternoon, and her sassy teen side-kick, 'Olwyn Bixby'.

When two masked men pushed past the hotel reception's elderly stewards and emptied their revolvers into hapless 'Jerome', 'Olwyn', his tom-boy niece, had grabbed the big cake-knife. Screaming like a Banshee, she'd charged those vile assassins. Face-slashed one as he fled, impaled the other. After the 'Peelers' drew blank, with clever Mr. Holmes lost down that water-fall, those young women teamed up to investigate why 'Jerome' had been targeted: Fenians, swindled shares in a diamond mine, revenge blood-sworn 'Unto The Third Generation'...

Such was not my usual fare, but a glance at that first book on our local town library's 'Returns' trolley lifted my nape hair. The protagonists were unexpectedly intelligent, the well-written text eerily Deja-vu. Did Mum have an identical twin or doppelganger ? I thought not. Yet, unlike the carefully formulaic 'Blue Rinse' stuff, every thought, every word from 'Fiona' echoed Mum's familiar wit, humour, industry and, yes, passion. Even the torrid, 'Bodice Ripper' cover rang true.

But, who was 'Olwyn' ? Wasn't my so-sensible, very Welsh Fiona. Wasn't either of Mum's two sisters, nor any of the sisters-in-law. All 'Home Makers', you could never describe them as 'Sassy'. Nor any of their kids who, unlike oft-unpredictable genius Pete, were safely 'ordinary'...

Dad's side ? We had little to do with them: He'd 'Gone into Trade' rather than 'Law' or 'Finance', so was beneath contempt. They sneered at Mum, a mere 'Jobbing Scribbler'. Pete and I attended our local town's college instead of some famous boarding school, so would surely be unfit for 'Real Life' as they knew it. But, given Dad's opinion of his uber-miserable 'boarded' years lay far, far beyond unprintable...

Moving on, the kitchen was intact, shaken but not seriously stirred. Pete reported wash-rooms and laundry were okay. He freed the kittens into the further wash-room, leaving the pan-lid down for safety.

I edged into the atrium. It stood, still had a roof, was apparently intact. No dangling stairs, sagging mezzanine or other structural horrors. The big TV screen had a six-inch crack across the top-left corner. We'd not know if the underlying OLED matrix had survived until power resumed, which it really should have done. Why hadn't our big generator woken ? I accessed the 'flight engineer' panel. It confirmed we'd no utility power, reported an unfamiliar, most-unwelcome generator error message. 'Tilt '? Oops...

[kdahm]

Oops, indeed. If something moved the generator off it's mountings, or just moved the mountings, then they were very lucky indeed.

The most unbelievable part of the story was the kitten wrangling. Extracting three kitties from their preferred spots and getting them into a carrier in less than half an hour? Normally impossible.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Herding Coders, cats, kittens just requires a little lateral thinking.

Simply engage their curiosity, then get out of the way...

Plan_B, put a box on the floor-- Swoosh !!

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

#05
The cable-modem's network diagnostics confirmed no fibre service. Though 'safely' buried, the line came up our Lane from the Village Box, where all bets were off.

I studied the 'fixed' and both 'Pan-Tilt-Zoom' CCTV cameras. The Shed seemed intact, interior dimly lit by its grilled sky-lights and 'maintained' luminaire. A broad streak on the floor suggested a shelved paint pot had strayed. The Adit's cameras showed no gross anomalies. Our four holiday cottages and the tiny site-shop also seemed intact, though their shutters had clearly taken a beating. Swinging the PTZs showed there was something odd about the Barn's frontage, but my eyes were drawn to the area's trees. Or, rather, the scant few still standing...

"Matt, what---" Pete stopped, stared, whispered, "Shelter-belt's down ! The 'Old Orchard' ! The 'Knoll Copse' ! The Lane's 'Tall Row' ! The 'Ugly Tree' ! 'Crow Central' !! Even the Plantations on the Valley's Southern slope !"

"Yes, but look ?" I pointed to those nearest enough to resolve. "They've all fallen towards the South. And our Lane's trees are mostly on the South side. If the quad-bike's okay, we should be able to get the pup-trailer and tools through to the Village. Else just the motorised wheel-barrow..."

"You reckon they need help ?"

"I'm sure they do..." With site and landscape scanned, I halted, secured the hi-res session. And, yes, checked the RAID SSD box had 'acquired' everything: It had. I reviewed a few seconds from several channels, whistled softly. This footage would be literally priceless, both as 'social media' and, given the external cameras' known locations, optics, for Photogrammetry.

After turning the still-ululating siren to the steady 'All Clear' tone, I drew a shaky breath, said, "Pete, we may have to take in half the Village families. Worst case, most of them. Even with the cottages and guest room-- So, open the inner cellars, un-pack some drums, hang hammocks between the bays' eye-bolts."

"Hammocks ? Bro, where do we get a couple of dozen--" Pete paused, then his eyes went wide. "Dude ! Those big plastic drums have 'Prepper' stuff ?"

"You nailed it." I nodded. "Yes, Dad did a lot of 'Disaster Relief' work. Saw what local 'Boot Kernels' needed. So, there's 'Snow Siege', 'Primary' and 'Secondary' supplies, lots of hand-tools, screws, nails, mending plates...

"Among other things."

"Other..." Pete whispered. "Things ?"

"Yes. Further back, there's lots of 'Victorian' and 'Dark Age' stuff. Treadle-powered equipment. Makings for bio-gas fermenters, wood gasifiers, safe 'stills. With thermometers, barometers, hydrometers and all that jazz..." I hesitated. There was much, much more, which clever Pete could probably figure for himself. Now, I only dared mention, "Plus, Mum trained as a teacher before going 'Freelance'. From time to time, she fetches boxes of 'Remaindered' or 'Estate Sale' books. I help her add sheets, sachets of anti-acid, bug-bane and desiccant, fill another drum..."

"When--" Pete stopped, took a shaky breath, carefully asked, "When would I have been told ?"

"Later this year, perhaps ? When Dad gets a break after his tricky HS2 bridge ? Or next year?" I shrugged. "Today proved you're qualified."

Pete gulped, whispered, "Thanks, Bro."

"Don't thank me, Bro: You've earned it." I took a breath, warned, "Just don't tell your friends, or the cousins: Most lack the sense to keep their mouth shut..."

[jemhouston]

That last line, truer words were never spoken.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

#06

I copied down the details of those two couples renting cottages #3 and #4, thinking it could be useful. Rather than risk the Adit, whose doors might have jammed, we peered out from the Barn-front's storm porch. Amply sized, with a generous tray for parking muddy boots, caked snow-shoes or short skis beneath dripping coats and 'golf' umbrellas, its two 'leaf-and-a-half' side-doors allowed sheltered ingress via which-ever was 'down-wind'.

"Bro," Pete pointed to the Atrium frontage. "Security grilles failed: Outer glazing panels gone to shards..."

"Sorta-kinda," I agreed. "But they held off enough for the inner shutters to do the rest..."

To our great surprise, the big Shed and the hulking LPG tank beyond seemed okay. The Shed frame had clearly been 'wrung' but, between us, we wrestled the doors open. The 'maintained' luminaire greeted us. Yes, a part-can of non-drip paint had flown from a shelf, missing the two cars which were off-site. We edged around the spill, checked the quad-bike for damage, then peered at the big generator. It could also supply vehicle battery charging, multiple 110 Volt site-tools and, off-duty, the arc-welding gear racked near-by.

"Error code's 'Tilt', Bro," Pete puzzled. "But flex-mounts and concrete 'bed' look intact-- WTF ??"

I checked the fuel and lube sight gauges, dipped the oil to be sure, stopped to think aloud. "Only runs within a dozen degrees of 'level' ? Happier with less ? No, can't be that. Does not like much vibration ? Hmm: Didn't a modern Baltic cruise-ship nearly go on the rocks in a storm ? Engines shut down when the 'sea-state' frothed their lube-oil ?"

"Like our 'Heavy Rock' play-list ?" Pete nodded. "You nailed it. Looks okay now. May I ?"

"Sure."

He lifted the guard lid, pressed the recessed 'RESET' button, then 'Start'. A whirr from the starter motor was followed by an unsettling wheeze, then the engine waking. A few seconds later, it settled 'In The Green'. A cheerful 'Clunk-Clack' signalled the fail-over contactors had operated. Motion sensors auto-lit the Shed's big, waterproof batten lights.

I spared a moment to check the generator's exhaust still led safely through the side-wall, opened the Adit access. That was clear. I took a breath, said, "Okay, Bro, what do we take ?"

"Uh, hand-tools ? Tubs of nails and screws ? Mending plates ? Wrecking bars ? Saws and loppers for downed branches and trees ? Rope and tackle ? The three jack-props ? Some cordless power tools ?" He shivered. "And, yes, safety gear."

"All of the above." I nodded. "Plus the stack of 'totes'. And, for better wood-mending, glue, 8 mm auger, dowels, soft-faced hammers. Could run late, so all three 110 Volt tripod LED work lights, both big 110 Volt extension reels and the portable generator."

Wary of that paint spill, we lifted down and coupled the wall-leaned 'pup' trailer, which had a tipping facility. While Pete collected tools, I opened the vented, floor-stood 'Flammables' cabinet, retrieved the two spare gallon 'Jerry-cans'. Their 'juice' also fuelled the big chain-saw, the post-auger / stump-grinder and other 'serious' tools, for which I was not yet qualified. Dad liked 'Big Toys', especially when he could declare them as legitimate site 'Business Expenses'.

The motorised Barrow, though, I could use. And, yes, it had a towing loop, intended for safely winching up/down a ramp. Coupling a tow-bar let us 'daisy-train' it behind the 'pup' and quad-bike. Technically, our 'quad' was a speed-limited mini-tractor, with accessories for mowing the 'soak-away' hard-standing, wrangling hedge-lines, grading the Lane's gravel and such. Yes, Dad liked his tax-deductible 'Toys'. Its hefty roll-bar had additional work-lights, plus orange beacons for local forays onto public roads. Like the Barrow, concealed about the tractor body were three (3) GPS trackers. One was fairly easy to find, the second non-trivial, the third nigh-impossible. Several perps had been *very* surprised by local Police following latter to their door...

Between us, we added a few more items, such as the wall-hung 'Ryobi+' cordless drill-drivers and 'Sawsall' with accessories, their spare batteries and a pair of chargers. One of the locked cabinets held Dad's much heavier 'DEWALT' tools but, like the big chain-saw, they were well out of my league. We tied our two telescopic multi-ladders atop the Barrow.

Equipped with work-boots, hard-hats, hi-vis tabards and such, I pressed the 'quad's electric start and off we went. Like a skidoo, the 'quad' had tandem seating. Pete perched thus, steadying himself on the roll-bar's grab handles.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

#07

As we'd seen from the CCTV, the Lane hedges' 'Tall Row' had all fallen clear of the road. Though stripped of their leaves, they'd snapped near the ground or simply up-rooted. Sadly, they'd had scant soil-depth for serious tap-roots. I doubted any could be saved. Perhaps better to grub out, generously 'post-hole' the sub-surface, replant with saplings ? Certainly, less unsightly...

The 'Ugly Tree' had, of course, collapsed across its hedge into the Lane. Its wide 'tree-skirt' of tabular roots was almost vertical. An old tree, it must have been magnificent before brutally 'pollarded' at the turn of this century. The re-growth should have been thinned, pruned every five years or so. Didn't happen. It now had a massive trunk to about three metres, an unsightly 'fist' of truncated branches, a leaf-stripped snarl of thick re-growth.

"Can't edge past," Pete glumly observed. "Can't cut up that trunk. Back-track, go over-land ?"

I looked. I thought. I looked closer, estimating angles. I smiled, said, "No, we just ask it nicely."

"Huh ?"

"What would happen if we cut most of that stuff from above the 'fist' ?"

"Bro, we'd still be stuck with that trunk across the road !" Pete shook his head. "Too big to drag or swing."

"Look at the size of its 'root table': Reckon it would self-right without that 'top-hamper' ??"

"Scary," he allowed. "Could just flip-- The jack-props ! Rope to pull them clear ! Like kicking out chocks to launch a ship !"

Which is what we did. Pete and I emplaced our props and their 'bell-ropes', then we set to work sawing and lopping. We still had to sub-divide many branches, but the way the whole soon flexed upwards validated our plan. Before long, there was a big, big heap of branches at the side, the trunk trying to lift from the damaged hedge-line's partial fulcrum. With Pete watching for the least instability, I trimmed the last major re-growth away. The trunk lifted a hand-span. From a safe distance, we pulled away one prop. The trunk swayed. The second's removal drew a scary shift.

"I re-name this Tree ' Uglier' !" Pete pronounced as we grappled with the third. We pulled, pulled, tugged then, on three, snatched. The prop flew clear. For a few moments I thought we'd need to warily 'start' the trunk with a branch trimmed to a long lever. Suddenly, it pivoted to near-vertical, dropping the big 'tree-skirt' back into its raw hole with a scary scrunch.

"Dude..." Pete allowed. "Glad I'm not under that !! Reckon it will recover ?"

"Sure," I quipped. "Just in time to be split by lightning..."

[jemhouston]

Loving the story

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

#08

We tidied around, resumed our trek to the village. After turning onto the road beside our wall-affixed sign, '*The Cheese Board*. Holiday Cottages. RV stands. Prop: Mike & Sue Baxter', we had to dispose of several stray branches. Noting roofs wrecked, windows lost, trees downed, I pulled up in front of the Village 'Green'. Our elderly 'Keeper' had 'line-chalked' a heli-pad's 'H' in the centre, was now using a peg and string to lay out the circle. At the most open corner, two women were erecting a clothes-line pole and improvised wind-sock. I recognised one as 'Marie the Shop', jolly manager of the Village's tiny 'General Store' and its 'cubicle' Post Office. She waved, called, "Hi, Matt ! Pete ! You okay ?"

"Shook our fillings loose," I quipped. "Here ?"

"You put the flood alert siren on ? Yes ? Made us wonder, check, spread the warnings. A bunch of us owe you our lives..."

"Just the neighbourly thing to do," I allowed. "Where is every-one ?"

"The 'Bridge Inn', mostly: Car-park and beer-garden our assembly areas. Power's out, but Sam's pulling free pints from both 'trad' manual pumps. Docs Meredith and Nurse Jones doing triage in the court-yard." Marie hesitated, said, "We were so lucky: No-one killed, few badly hurt. Both breaks clean, now set, splinted. One possible concussion..."

The mallet-wielding woman asked, "You've brought wood-working tools ? Mending makings ?"

"Yes," Pete replied. "Sorry we took so long, had to up-stand the 'Ugly Tree'."

I could see their obvious doubt, but the claim was so absurd, it just had to be true. I asked, "Have you had any news ?"

"Not much." Marie shook her head. "Everything's off but the old BBC 'AM' service, which is weak. Or that old radio's batteries are giving out...

"They're saying the big 'Lump' smacked into the Cambrian Hills. Gouged a skew crater the size of Tetlow's football stadium. Tossed fiery debris half-way to the coast. Started a dozen big heath fires, smoke's making it hard to see detail..."

"They had that nice Brian Cox on," her assistant added. "He said it's the best observed 'fall' ever, seen by weather satellites, diverted air-craft, even Space Station astronauts..."

"And we were so lucky," Marie stated. "If those fighter pilots hadn't intercepted 'Out-Riders', we'd have lost several towns. If the Royal Navy ship's missiles hadn't nudged the main 'Lump', we could have lost Birmingham, Tetlow, everything to the Cambrian Hills..."

"So, us ?" Pete whispered. Yes, barring outrageous luck, Pete, me and the kittens might be this area's only survivors...

"Not just half the windows along its path." Marie put it in plain words. "And a 'Michael Fish' of wind-storm damage..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

#09

Rather than dwell on that, I nodded politely, put the 'quad' into gear. We trundled along to the 'Bridge Inn', turned through the open gates. As the crowd of traumatised neighbours and kin-folk stared at our little road-train, I called, "We've brought some tools ! Where to start ?"

Didn't quite raise a cheer, but you could see their mood visibly lifting. Dad was right: Prompt delivery of a 'Boot Kernel' to empower survivors bordered on magic...

Before our aunts and cousins could stand from their crowded benches and tables, Sam Jones, the burly Publican, strode closer, called, "You're both okay ? And you've brought tools ?"

"Yes and yes," I replied. "But just small stuff. Uh, did the stored 'Market Stall' canopies make it through ?"

"Oh, yes !" He laughed. "And, with your rope and clever ladders, we'll be able to patch some roofs, cover lost windows !"

My gaze swept, estimated the numbers out-doors, and the extra tables, chairs. Sam nodded, warned, "Both of the main room's big cross-beams have split, sagged. We can sidle around to the bar and toilets, but use the open floor ? Not with those like that..."

"We've only three jack-props. Small mending plates. Nothing longer than decking screws..." I thought for a moment, asked, "Can you find some really heavy slotted angle-iron, like your cellar racking before the upgrade ?"

"I-- I've still got it, Lad !" His eyes went wide. "Angles ! Their flat diagonal braces ! And you'll need bearer pads, too !"

As Sam organised porters, Pete and I were totally group-hugged by our kin. Mum and Dad ? Former presumably safe at her conference in Bournemouth. Dad ? That tricky HS2 bridge-build near Birmingham, but he'd sat through several earth-quakes, hurricanes, so probably okay...

Good news, along with the other Village folk, our kin had enough warning from phones and siren to retreat to internal rooms, barricade, 'Duck & Cover'. They were okay, albeit scared witless. Seems the Valley flanks had focussed, echoed shock-waves from the Bolide's pass. Bad news, picking scraps from the cross-talk, both their homes were beyond immediate repair unto 'habitable'. As yet, both families were too glad to be alive to ask if we could take them in. They surely knew that, at this time of year, Mum usually let all four cottages.

Happens, given the dank Spring, this season had begun 'Uncommonly Slow'. There were two booked this week, three next week, four there-after. I expected all would cancel: Our Bolide surely counted as ' Force Majeure' for a full 'No Foul / No Blame' refund of deposits. And, yes, we'd allow 'Benefit of Doubt', bill any short-fall to 'Consequential Loss'.

However, our two aunts' were probably not the only families thus stricken. Yes, there were two vacant cottages now. But, and it was a very big 'but', I'd prefer to open that pair to non-relatives. Also, though I doubted many clients read so far into the standard 'Terms & Conditions', there was provision for supervised removal of baggage. Some years back, a nasty car-crash on a notorious 'Blind Summit' put a young couple in hospital. Mum and I fetched 'Mairi the Postie' as witness. We respectfully re-packed their cases, sent those along to the hospital. Yes, Mairi giggled a bit at some of their belongings, especially the saucy lace and lewd 'Batteries not Included', but did not gossip.

After, having noted my astonishment, Mum sat young me down, poured us each a remarkably large 'Harveys Bristol Cream' sweet Sherry. She knew I understood basic 'Human Biology', genetics, consanguinity and such. She explained how 'Family Time' could involve rather more than merely putting 'Tab_M' into consenting 'Slot_F' to make babies: My ears and nape soon went as red as the Sherry...

Here and now, I'd prefer to keep our two couples' bookings 'live', at least for a couple of days. I reckoned they'd flee the area as soon as the roads cleared. Of course, they had to survive the Bolide's 'Pass', get back to us...