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REILY

T he garage is a mess of paint, cardboard, and too many bodies.

I’m elbow-deep in a pile of protest signs, trying to separate the ones that say “Save Silver Creek!” from the ones that say “No Dam Way!” Clem’s leaning against the workbench, arms crossed like he’s waiting for me to screw this up.

Seamus is in the corner, stacking T-shirts like they’re bricks for a fortress.

And then there’s Boris and Barfbag, who somehow ended up in charge of marker duty.

“Yo, Reily,” Boris holds up a sign he’s been working on. The words “Gary Iorns is a Jerk” are scrawled in black Sharpie, the ‘I’ in ‘Irons’ clearly missing.

Barfbag snorts, doubling over like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “Dude, you forgot the ‘R’. It’s like, Gary I-orns . What’s an Iorns?”

Boris frowns, squinting at the sign. “It’s, like, a type of jerk. Obviously.”

“Guys,” I snap, handing them another stack of blank cardboard. “Focus. If you’re gonna butcher the spelling, at least make it legible.”

Clem chuckles, pushing his Skoal cap back on his head. “You sure you want those two in charge of anything? Last time I saw them, they were trying to deep-fry a Frisbee at the drive-thru.”

“Hey, that was art,” Boris says, defensive.

“Explosive art,” Barfbag adds, grinning like a hyena.

Seamus tosses a T-shirt at them. “Art doesn’t set off the fire alarms. Keep it together, or I’m sending you two to the back of the protest line.”

The garage door rattles open, and a stream of volunteers pours in. I didn’t expect this many people. The shirts are disappearing faster than I can count them. “Clem, we’re gonna run out of supplies.”

“Already on it,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call in some backups. We’ll get more paint, more shirts. This thing’s bigger than we thought.”

Boris points to a stack of blank shirts. “We could, like, make more. Custom designs. Abstract protest vibes.”

“Abstract my ass,” I mutter, but I hand them the markers anyway. Better they’re here making bad shirts than out causing trouble.

By the time we’re ready, the street outside my house is packed. Five thousand people, maybe more. Signs bob above the crowd like flags, and the hum of voices is louder than I’ve ever heard it. Clem shoves the megaphone into my hands. “You’re up, Reily.”

I freeze. “Me? Why me? You’re the one who’s good at this.”

“Because you’re the one who got us here,” he says, giving me a nudge toward the crowd. “They’re here for you.”

The crowd quiets as I lift the megaphone.

My hands are shaking, but I swallow it down.

“Listen up, Coldwater! We’re not here to start a fight.

We’re here to finish one. Gary Irons thinks he can come in, take what he wants, and leave us with nothing.

But we’re not nothing. We’re a town that fought back when the mine closed.

We’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere. ”

The crowd roars, and I feel it in my chest. “This is our home. Silver Creek, Mirror Lake—they’re ours.

And we’re not gonna sit back while some billionaire tries to take them away.

But hear this: no violence. No destruction.

We’re better than that. We’re Coldwater, and we’re gonna show them what that means. ”

Clem claps me on the back, grinning. “That’s my girl. Now lead the way.”

I step off the porch, the crowd parting like water. Behind me, the chant starts low and builds: “Save Silver Creek! Save Silver Creek!” Clem’s at my side, Seamus a step behind. Even Boris and Barfbag are in the mix, holding their misspelled signs high.

We’re marching now, all of us, a sea of people moving as one. The streets of Coldwater haven’t seen this kind of energy in years. I feel like maybe we’ve got a shot.

The crowd swells behind me as we march down Main Street, the chants of “No Dam Way!” echoing off the storefronts.

City Hall looms ahead, its white columns glaring under the afternoon sun.

Susan Reece is already on the steps, her camera crew setting up like she’s about to film the next big blockbuster.

She waves me over, her grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“You think Boss Hoag has the guts to come out and face us?” I ask, my voice already scratchy from shouting.

Susan adjusts her mic, her eyes flicking toward the building. “We’ll make it really hard to ignore us. That’s the power of the press.”

“And the power of five thousand pissed-off people,” Clem adds, stepping up beside me. He raises his fist, and the crowd erupts into another round of “Save Our Lake!”

My throat feels like sandpaper, but I grab the megaphone again. “Silver Creek isn’t just water—it’s our history! Our future! And we’re not gonna let Gary Irons or Boss Hoag take it away from us!”

The crowd cheers, louder this time. Boris and Barfbag are front and center, their misspelled signs held high. “Yeah, no dams for jerks!” Boris yells, completely serious.

I glance at Susan. “He’s really committing to the bit.”

“Don’t knock it,” she says, her camera rolling. “Bad spelling gets attention.”

The door to City Hall creaks open, and Lt. Roscoe steps out, his uniform straining over his gut. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. The crowd’s chanting shifts— “We want Hoag! We want Hoag!” —and Roscoe flinches like he’s been slapped.

“We’re here to talk to Boss Hoag!” Clem shouts, his voice booming.

“Yeah, give us the wolf, not the sheep!” Boris adds, looking way too proud of himself.

I lean toward Susan. “That’s pretty deep for him.”

She smirks. “Seamus coached him to say it.”

Roscoe clears his throat, holding up his hands like he’s trying to calm a pack of wild dogs. “Now, folks, let’s keep this civil. If you want to talk to the mayor, you can make an appointment individually.”

The crowd boos, the sound rolling over Roscoe like a wave. He glares, his face turning red. “You people asked for it!” he shouts, jabbing a finger at us. “Mr. Irons has graciously given us a stipend to hire an outside security agency to deal with you pests.”

The words hang in the air, and for a second, it’s silent. Then the crowd erupts into angry shouts, and Roscoe backs up, slamming the door shut behind him.

The rumble starts low, a growl that vibrates through the ground and up my legs.

I turn toward the sound, and there they are—Apocalypse Jack and his gang of lunatics, Cold Slither, roaring down Main Street like a pack of wolves.

Their bikes gleam under the sun, chrome and black leather swallowing the road.

The crowd’s chanting falters, replaced by murmurs of confusion and unease.

Boris and Barfbag, of course, are the exception. They’re practically vibrating with excitement. “No way,” Boris breathes, his eyes wide. “It’s them . It’s really them.”

Barfbag starts chanting, his voice cracking with enthusiasm. “We’re Cold Slither, you’ll be joining us soon! A band of vipers, bringing your doom!”

Clem’s hand snags the back of Boris’s shirt, yanking him hard. “Will you punks knock it off? This isn’t a damn fan convention.”

The gang doesn’t slow down. Jack leads the charge, his bike skidding to a stop right in front of City Hall.

The rest of the gang forms up behind him, a wall of leather and menace.

Jack swings off his bike, the movement smooth like he’s done it a thousand times—and he probably has.

He snatches a megaphone from a protester’s hand, barely glancing at them like they’re an afterthought.

His voice crackles through the speakers, sharp and mocking. “As the duly appointed, fully deputized security agent of the fine city of Coldwater, I’m politely asking you good people to go the hell home before we curb stomp you into red paste.”

He tosses the megaphone to the ground and crushes it under his boot. The screech of feedback is deafening, but it’s nothing compared to the roar of engines as the gang revs their bikes and charges into the crowd.

The protesters scatter, most of them too smart to stand their ground against a pack of bikers. But not Clem. He’s already stepping forward, his fists clenched. “Like hell I’m letting these clowns push us around.”

I grab his arm, digging my fingers in. “Not now,” I hiss. “You start swinging, and this whole thing turns into a brawl. We can’t win this way.”

“So what, we just let them chase us off like a bunch of scared kids?” Clem’s voice is low, tight with anger.

“We’re not out of the fight yet,” I say, pulling him back. “But we’re not winning it with our fists today. Come on.”

The bikers are herding the crowd now, their bikes cutting through the square like wolves through sheep. I keep my grip on Clem, dragging him away from the chaos. Boris and Barfbag are still staring at the gang like they’re rock stars, their protest signs forgotten.

“Move it, you idiots!” I shout at them, and they finally snap out of it, scrambling to follow us.

Coldwater’s never felt smaller than it does right now, with the roar of engines at our backs and the taste of defeat in the air. But I mean what I said—we’re not done. Not even close.