his head slowly.
“Kid… how old are you?”
“Seven.”
The man stared for a long second.
Then he whispered to his partner:
“Seven.”
The Sound of Thunder
At 4:42 p.m. the hospital parking lot began to vibrate.
Not another aftershock.
Engines.
Hundreds of them.
Motorcycles poured in — row after row after row — until the lot overflowed into the street. Black leather. Chrome flashing in the late sun. Patches that read Iron Vipers – Inland, Desert Nomads, Valley Reapers.
