The Rider - Chapter 4: Storm Clouds

As the rays from the rising sun pierced the dusty windowpanes of David's bedroom, the illuminating streaks made the shadows of the slats of the wood and caulk grow ever thinner and longer. The beams danced over the colorful, yet well-worn apache rug that surrounded David's bed. The light fell into his old boots lying haphazardly next to the old cedar chest that rested against the foot board. A few seconds passed, and to any observer it would have appeared that the light had jumped out of the boot directly onto the denim vest that hung on the bedpost. Then it slowly and surely crawled up along the down comforter and the still form atop the mattress, finally reaching its limits on the soundly sleeping man's face. The thin membranes of his eyelids could not prevent the assault, and abruptly he was stirred awake.

It had not been more than two hours since he had arrived home after finding himself sleeping under an old highway bridge. How he had found himself there and the strange dream he had experienced was still fresh in his mind. As he rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed he thought, "It must be due to overwork." After all, the extra hours he had been putting in at work to save for the upcoming trip to the Sturgis motorcycle rally had surely had begun to take their toll. But, despite having only spent two hours asleep, he found he was surprisingly refreshed.
He rose up and walked over to his bureau and shook the stuck drawer loose to slide it open over the protesting sounds of wood on wood. He reached in a pulled out a pair of raggedy old black jeans, a pair of holey socks and a pristine black t-shirt that showed a flaming skull silk-screened on the front and back with the letters AZ Bike Week Glendale…2045. He got dressed quickly; pulling on his old snakeskin boots, and headed out the backdoor to the still-warm sporty.

He sat astride the bike and lit up a smoke, enjoying the morning air. When he glanced at watch on his left arm and saw that it was still too early to head into work just yet, a plan came to mind of a long ride around some of the back roads not usually taken on his normal routes and hopefully finding a breakfast diner. It seemed like just the thing. Finishing his smoke, he stubbed it out with the heel of his boot, switched on the key and pushed the starter button firing "Annabelle" to life. With the toe of his boot he snapped the shifter into gear, released the clutch, twisted the throttle, spinning tires and gravel blasted out on to the pavement.

There is simply no better way of life than tooling down old country roads on a Harley in the warm, clear morning air of the Sonoran desert. As he took the long route through the old canyons and desert plains, David realized that this stretch of road was one he had ridden several years ago and he tried to recall if there were any diners along the way. The only one that came to mind was an old abandoned one from the 1950's that was about a mile ahead. "I guess I'll just have to wait til I get back into town," he thought. As he crested the small hill on the road, the old diner came into view. There were old cars and period trucks parked in front of it, and the old sign looked restored. "Must be a car show," he surmised as he pulled up to the front entrance.

The diner was open for business. The bike was leaned over onto its stand; he reached down turned the fuel off and switched the key back and out, and dismounted in one fluid motion. Briefly glancing skyward on his way into the diner, he noticed the sky had swiftly and suddenly gathered dark clouds. "Lucky I found this open. Looks like it's gonna rain like hell with those black thunder busters forming." The waitress didn't reply she just smiled and closed the door behind him.

The "Breeze" carried herself aloft the desert sky and surveyed her surroundings. In the distance she saw dark clouds forming and thought, "There were no storms scheduled for today in this area, "and drifted over to investigate. When she arrived, the remains of a long forgotten and crumbling building came into view just below the ominous clouds. The well-worn and barely legible sign out front read: Bob's Diner. Parked near what was the front entrance was a shiny old bike, which upon investigating she knew to be her namesake from her mortal life. It now belonged to her grandson. She knew that he would never leave his precious steed out in the desert, abandoned. The wind howled... David???