He didn’t pause to wipe the slime from his forehead. With every stroke, the space above the root plug opened by an inch. It allowed a gush of trapped air and black foam to whistle over the crown. His right forearm burned with muscle burn. His shoulder muscles knotted into rigid cords as he hacked through the stringy layers of taproot.
The wood didn’t split cleanly like seasoned firewood. It frayed into tough, stringy ribbons that caught the blade and tried to wrench the wooden handle from his fingers. Twice the axe stuck fast in the waterlogged grain. He had to use his knees and the heel of his good hand to pry the iron loose, his breath whistling through his teeth as he fought the panic of the enclosed space.
The draft through the gap was turning into a scream. The air behind the dam, tightly packed by forty thousand gallons of water, was forcing its way through the narrow notch Len had carved. It carried a fine mist of cold spray that coated his face and hair with black grease. The smell was choking. A packed stench of rotting roots, marsh gas. The foul, metal tang of iron sludge that had piled up in the under-road drain for over a decade.
