Every biker turned instantly.

Cold wind moved through the rusted fencing while the crying child scrambled back to his feet and ran straight toward the biggest biker there.

His tiny hands shook as he held out the toy.

The hardened biker froze the second he saw the carved details.

“…where did you get this?”

The boy fought through sobs.

“My dad made it.”

Something in the biker’s face broke instantly.

The yard slowly fell silent.

“And his name?”

The little boy swallowed hard.

“Mom said you were there…”

A painful pause.

“…when they buried him.”

Several bikers exchanged nervous looks.

Then the child pulled a rusted dog tag from inside his vest.

The lead biker instinctively grabbed the matching half hanging beneath his own shirt.

His hand started trembling violently.

“But the grave was empty.”

Nobody moved.

Fear spread silently across faces that looked impossible to scare.

The biker slowly dropped to his knees in front of the boy, eyes wet now.

“…who told you that?”

The child looked toward the road outside the compound.

Then pointed.

A dark motorcycle slowly emerged through the fog beyond the gate.

The engine rumbled low.

And one biker whispered in horror—

“…that’s impossible.”

Part 2 in the comments.