Martha swung her light toward the sound. A rider had been knocked sideways when the impact came, his head striking a support post. Blood ran from his scalp into his eyebrow, disappearing into his beard.
"Down," Martha said, already moving. "Hold pressure."
A man with tattooed hands tore a strip from the hem of his shirt and pressed it to the wound without being told. Martha dropped beside them, directing the flashlight beam toward his eyes.
"You see me?" she demanded.
He blinked hard. "Yeah."
"You know where you are?"
"In your basement," he breathed, then managed a strained half smile. "Ma'am."
Martha nodded once. "Good. Keep pressure. Don't close your eyes. You close your eyes, I'll slap you."
A few riders barked a laugh, quick, startled, the kind that escaped when fear had nowhere else to go. Above them, the roar began to change.
It wasn't getting quieter yet, but the pitch shifted, like the tornado was moving away in circles, chewing through something else. The foundation still vibrated, but the punches became less direct, more distant.
Martha turned her head toward Dean at the door. His face was slick with sweat and dust. The men beside him were trembling in their legs from strain.
"How long?" someone asked, voice hoarse.
Martha didn't lie. "As long as it wants," she said. "But it won't want us forever."
A crash sounded somewhere to the left, too close, followed by a slow grinding creak, like a beam settling into a new position. The kid with the wide eyes started breathing fast again.
Dean, still braced at the door, threw his voice without turning his head. "Look at me," he barked. "You got a name?"
The kid swallowed. "Caleb."
"Caleb," Dean said. "You count your breaths. Ten in, ten out. Don't stop at nine. Don't rush. You hear me?"
Caleb nodded violently and started counting under his breath, the numbers barely audible over the storm. Martha watched Dean for a moment, surprised by the steadiness in him.
She'd seen plenty of men with loud confidence. This wasn't that. This was someone who'd been responsible for people in bad moments before.
The roar faded another notch. The debris impacts became sporadic. The air stopped vibrating like a live wire. Martha waited anyway.
She'd lived long enough to know storms like to trick you. They'd go quiet, then come back around to finish the job. She checked her old windup clock on the shelf, its second hand still ticking because it didn't care about electricity.
She forced herself to count another full minute, then another. Finally, the silence arrived in pieces.
The roar became a distant growl. The violent pressure on the door eased until it was just the weight of the house again. Martha stood, joints protesting, and stepped toward the steel door.
Her hand hovered near the bolt. Dean's eyes found hers. "Don't," he said quietly.
"I'm not opening it," Martha replied. "I'm listening."
They all listened. No freight train, no screaming wind, just the faint hiss of rain and the drip, drip, drip of something leaking. Martha exhaled once, slow.
"All right."
She took the bolt with both hands, braced herself, and slid it back. Metal scraped. The sound was loud in the new quiet. Several riders flinched anyway, ready for the storm to lunge back through the seam.