The iron rail was suspended from the central roof truss by two links of three-quarter-inch chain, set at the junction of the upkeep walkway so that its note could carry through the entire three-hundred-yard length of the tram sheds. Three double-strokes was not a work call. It wasn’t a shift change.
It was the flood alarm.
Len was on his feet before the third chime finished shaking through the pine planks. His Surefoot baseline engaged automatically as his boots hit the grit-covered floor, compensating for the sudden shift in weight. He rose from the lard tub. His left forearm, bound between its cedar laths, slammed against his ribs. It sent a white-hot spike of agony through the fractured radius, but his Courier discipline overrode the pain. His right hand clamped down over the brass bell at his hip to prevent the clapper from chiming against the sound bow.
Through the soles of his heavy boots, his Road Sense caught the violent, low-hum shudder traveling through the dark rock foundation blocks beneath the rail bed. It wasn’t the rhythmic, clockwork thud of the high-pressure pumps. It was a chaotic, surging shaking. Thousands of gallons of high-pressure liquid tearing through an unvented channel. It hammered against iron bends and shook the anchor bolts loose from the stonework.
