The Thunder
At first, it was faint. A low rumble, like distant thunder rolling across the plains.
Then it grew louder. Stronger. Closer.
The windows rattled. Silverware trembled against plates. Diners leaned toward the glass, eyes wide.
Engines. Dozens of them.
One motorcycle roared into the parking lot. Then another. Then ten. Then twenty. Chrome gleamed in the sunlight, flags snapped in the wind. The lot filled, the air vibrating with the synchronized thunder of an army on wheels.
They dismounted in unison—men and women of every age, jackets heavy with patches, faces marked by time and battles of their own.
Inside, the biker shifted uneasily, his confidence draining with each rev of an engine outside.
