Awakening of the Thunderbirds

^{Image from pixabay}

The mountain cracked with lightning and a thunder so loud car alarms were set off a hundred miles away. Closer to the fault line, buildings fell to the shockwave before the first trembles reached them. What came from below was made of electric fire. It burned like a phoenix born from the dead earth inside. The rocks left behind were hollow and frail, coated in oil and burned out.
Below that, mineshafts collapsed on themselves. Coal miners clung to the exposed shafts for fear of the abyss. Politicians promised to bring them home but argued about cost. That was before the thunderbird was spotted over the great plains, arcing fire and ozone burning the air, ripping the earth, and poisoning the water as it passed, and the miners were forgotten.
A second eruption tore the Dakotas in half and spread far into the Canadian wilderness. Texas, Florida, and Venezuela were all decimated as the oil that had kept the monsters dormant drained away and poisoned the seas.
And when the first thunderbird breathed in and cried out its first call, it sounded like a thousand voices whispering, “fake news.” Men and women in suits stood on the roofs of marble buildings and shouted at each other and stepped into its mouth to prove to each other it didn’t exist. And slowly the thunderbirds grew fat and sleepy and they dug up the cities and made new beds to await the next industrial revolution.