A low rumble intruded the silence. It grew in volume and menace like an approaching thunderstorm. Parm went inside and came out wearing his uniform and carrying his equipment belt weighted with his service revolver, a can of pepper spray, and an expandable baton.
“What’s happening?” Matt said.
“It’s the Wild Ones, Pitt Landing style.” He hitched up his belt. “Why don’t you come along? Bring your camera.”
Matt went inside, slipped his feet into some borrowed flip-flops and grabbed his Canon. When he came outside the Jeep was idling, Parm at the wheel talking on the cell phone.
The roar now blotted out all other sound, the vibration dislodging dead leaves, sending them drifting down from the trees. By the time Matt reached the vehicle Parm had disconnected. He backed out to the driveway and headed for the Highway 7A, the main road that lead to the lake.
They stopped at the intersection. “Here they come,” Parm shouted. He pointed to his right.
Matt got out of the vehicle, turned on his camera and started to shoot.
A ragged formation filled the street, three to five Harley’s abreast. They rode proud, straight-backed, faces in the wind, every member in full Hell’s Angels regalia. Sun glinted off chrome and lacquer as they passed the intersection cruising well under the speed limit. The roar of the engines, like a hundred locomotives, rattled the joints of Matt’s bones, made his cheeks flutter, and trembled the asphalt he stood on. The procession took five minutes to pass, at least a hundred bikers.
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