FIC: Ghost Rider: Season of the Witch 5/??
Title: Season of the Witch
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (will warn if porn--it's my motto!)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: Things are going to get a little hairy for me after tomorrow, so I don't know if I'm going to keep a regular writing schedule, but I wanted to get this one up first. Enjoy!
Other Chapters: One, Two, Three
Four
Gorgeous stroy graphic by: jadeblood
Graphic by jadeblood
5.
The arid underbrush turned to ash and the desert sand seemed like glass beneath the flaming wheels of the Ghost Rider’s hellcycle, the thrum of its roaring engine beating out a diabolic rhythm into the angry night. The desert was alive and its shadows conspired against him, moving first as one dark, writhing entity and then tearing itself into many serpentine spirits with long, bony arms reaching out to snatch at him. And at the center of this phantom tempest three figures danced around a ghostly totem from whence the unearthly fire seemed to be originating, to the primal tempo of their own inferno, barking and whooping like savages, like creatures of hell.
The Rider circled around them, dodging the cold, grasping hands of the apparitions, assessing the situation. If he had needed more proof that Mephistopheles was conjuring up some sort of supernatural menace against him, all doubt was banished from his mind as he witnessed the barbarism of the demonic spectacle around him, the creatures rending the night until it bled forth their unholy fire.
Suddenly, he was flanked by two young men clothed as warriors of old riding what at first seemed to be spectral steeds, though their appearance kept shifting to that of hellishly warped dirt bikes. They ululated as they swerved towards him, each one in turn, trying to force him over, to trap him, to trip him up; the hellcycle expertly evaded each of their attacks intuitively with only the barest direction from Johnny.
“Our guest of honor is here,” cried the larger of the boys, his face smeared with red warpaint, in a voice that resounded like the peal of a mission bell across the plains. The other, smeared in black pigment, cackled viciously like a jackal, repeating his companion’s words over and over as he guffawed.
“And so let him face us now,” cawed the central figure, their leader, their chief standing at the heart of the raging fiery cyclone. “Let the Rider face the wrath of the desert’s chosen sons, let him face the Serpent Men. Just as the desert buries its own dead, it will now give them up to rise!”
“I hear lots of talkin’,” growled Johnny, his voice a guttural flame forced up and out of his cadaverous throat. “Now show me some action!” Be careful what you wish for, he thought with a snarl as the barren earth breathed in the shadow creatures, the crusted dirt cracked and heaved up the wasted skeletal remains of warriors long dead but no less the dogged for it. They shambled up from their informal and unmarked graves, clawing the dry sand with rotted fingers.
Even with the most masterful maneuvering, Johnny could no longer elude them on the hellcycle; the ground opened up beneath him, miring the flaming tires in freshly upturned soil like quicksand even as the ghouls seized hold of the bike from their freshly disturbed resting place, clutching at his leathers. But the momentum of the sudden stop carried him safely over the handlebars, sending him careening into the desert floor with a deft roll. “Alright, you wanna play?” the Ghost Rider leered. “Let’s play.”
The chain of hellfire was in his gauntleted hand as he stood, unfurling it before him like a whip. The ground was rising and falling, rippling with the emergence of the awakening dead; they swarmed him, dragging him under as they buried him beneath their teeming horde. Their numbers were too great, their strength unnaturally vigorous, and Johnny felt as if he was drowning in an endless sea of sickening decay; the stench was smothering, the press of their foul bodies oppressive and suffocating. Alright, time to keep your cool, Johnny, he thought as he steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and tensing his body in readiness.
Reaching out, reaching inward, with all of his force he pushed, sending the gruesome creatures scattering. Lashing out with the chain, he caught three of the corpses in its infernal clinch; before they could crumble and turn to embers, he made his move. Digging his heels into the hard earth, he swung the chain in a full circle about him, the zombie cadavers caught at the end of its grip anchored it and kept it at waist level; it caught the legion of undead with its blazing strike, rending each one in half and taking more than a few heads off. They burned before they even hit the ground, their mouths gaping open in a silent death scream. “Tell me that’s not the best ya got,” the Ghost Rider scowled, cracking his neck as, with a flick of his wrist, the chain wrapped itself neatly around his torso.
Johnny was knocked off his feet as a serpent of hellfire came crashing into his chest. “Now you’re starting to piss me off,” he warned, scowling. “Before this night is done, you will beg for my mercy, Serpent Men.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house-
Linda scrambled to her feet, still clinging to the doorjamb as if it would stop the spinning inside her own head. Her legs were like rubber beneath her, quivering, too weak to carry even her slight weight, and all she could whisper was, “Oh God, grandfather was right.” Well. Wow. That was unforeseen.
Her mind was numb, she couldn’t get a grip, she couldn’t think straight. She had to, she had to start right away, because grandfather could be in danger and Johnny-or whatever the hell he was with the flames and the ‘grr’-was counting on her to deal. And she was gonna, the best way-the only way-she knew how. She was still trembling like a leaf in the wind as she sprinted into the dining room, clambered up onto the china cabinet and seized the old shotgun hidden on top. She grabbed a handful of the shells, loading the gun and shoving the rest in her pockets.
She’d never felt the wind fight her harder than it was as she dashed across the short distance to grandfather’s mobile home; it threw her hair into her face, into her eyes and mouth, and very nearly threw her to or lifted her right off the ground several times, making the journey unexpectedly treacherous. Her cries were choked by her blowing tresses, her vision impaired by the cloud of dust that surrounded her. The gun in her hands seemed to be the only real thing, the only solid thing in the world. For a moment, terror welled up inside of her, the fear that she was nothing more than a tumbleweed on the night air, that she had only to let go for a split second and she’d go drifting off into the desert never to be seen again.
No, she thought. No. She grunted, bracing herself against the blusterous air current, and moved forward. Grandfather was standing in the open doorway of his trailer, reaching for her; the dust seemed to part for him. He pulled her in and together they struggled to close the door. She pulled him into her arms. “Oh thank God you’re alright!” she said as she hugged him tight. “Everything went…loony, and I didn’t know…Grandpa, I think I dreamed this.”
“You had a vision?” grandfather asked, taking her chin in his hand and brushing the smudge of dirt from her jaw with his thumb.
“A vision? I don’t think…Those nightmares I’ve been having,” she said as she ran to the small window above the sink and, pushing back the curtains, anxiously stared out at the burning plains. “I dreamt of fire, or I think I did; I dunno, it’s all kind of fuzzy. Johnny’s out there, he’s in trouble.”
“Who’s Johnny?” frowned grandfather.
“Mr. Ket-oh, I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain,” she told him, squeezing his arm tenderly. “I need to help him, grandpa. Listen, this is important,” she instructed as she scooped a dirty undershirt up from where it lay on the floor, tying it to each end of the shotgun and slinging the makeshift belt across her chest. “You’re safe here, right? Turn off all the lights, keep the door and windows closed and tuck yourself under the table if you feel threatened, okay? Just like when there’s a twister warning. You can take care of yourself, I know you can.”
Grandfather nodded evenly and Linda kissed him on the cheek. “You take care, my Little Tree,” he pinched her chin. “I will say a blessing for your safe return, and hope that you are not too pig-headed and stubborn to run away if the occasion calls for it.”
Linda found the garage door thrown open, scorch marks on the rutted cement branded permanently the path Johnny’s supernatural ride had taken; she touched them tentatively, surprised even now by their warmth, and raising her fingers to her lips, she cringed away from the overpowering odor of sulfur. Old Bess was sitting there in the corner, just waiting for her. “C’mon, baby,” she urged as she climbed astride the bike, repeatedly attempting to kick start it and listening to the ignition sputter. “Yes!” she cried triumphantly as the engine erupted with a steady purr, accelerating and whooping as she drove off into the desert night.
Back on the ‘Flats-
“I have to tell you boys,” the Ghost Rider said, picking himself up and dusting off the sleeve of his leather jacket off with a nonchalant sweep of his gloved hand, “I’m kinda disappointed. I thought you were special, that you had a little something extra.” The burnt and twisted remains of the zombie tribe lay scattered about him, crumbling to ash in the strong wind even as they writhed with the last of their unnatural life; he walked through them as if they were nothing more extraordinary as the sand beneath his boots. “But, you? You’re just a coupla punk-ass kids with too much time on your hands and a deal with the Devil on your souls.”
The two on the bikes were circling him again, more wary this time, with less bravado. The Chief still stood proudly, defiantly, at the center of his tempestuous fiery gale, his eyes dancing with an evil light; two others stood with him, flamboyantly worshipping the death totem that ominously rose into the dark night sky. It’d all make one helluva great Vegas show, mused that part of him that was still purely Johnny.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” the Chief promised him with a malicious grin and, placing one hand above the other, palm to palm, moved his fingers in a tight circle, conjuring a coil of flame. Pushing his arms outward, he let his creation loose; it flew in a snakelike manner through the air, twisting and writhing about. It wrestled around the Ghost Rider, even as he attempted to reach out to it, find its essence and manipulate it.
It was strong, astonishingly so; he could only just keep it from binding, constricting him, and it took an enormous burst of power-a power he did not yet have complete command over yet-to send it sailing off into the sky. Another followed, and then another; it was wearing him down. “This isn’t meant to be a final confrontation, Rider,” hissed the Chief. “This is but a prelude. You don’t know what you’ve awoken by coming here, but you will soon. Soon, Snake Dance will be at full power and we, his Serpent Men, will help him bring dominion to Serpent God once again.”
Johnny knew those names, had heard them only hours before from grandfather Littletrees casually remarked upon over a dinner casserole; there was something more to this, the sense of something older, almost of a proverbial connectivity. The fire serpents were getting stronger, more aggressive; now he could feel the hellfire throb a kindred pulse, could breathe it in, absorb it. He fell to one knee, gathering his force; his foes saw it as a sign of vulnerability. Their mistake; the Ghost Rider’s gain.
“I’ve heard it all before, kid,” he rasped. He watched furtively as the two on wheels, Black and Red, skidded to a halt on either side of him, his hand tensed around the end of the chain in anticipation, his fingers itching to reach for the shotgun holstered to his back as the young warriors climbed off their metal mounts and started towards him. “And, between you and me, it’s sounded more convincing.” Almost in position, almost within his reach…
He started in shock as the boy on his left, Red, went spinning off of his feet, landing on his side in a cloud of dust; his eyes were wide and glassy with disbelief and distress as he stared blankly at nothing. The sharp crack of a rifle only registered in the aftermath, and Johnny turned his head to see Linda standing there beside Old Bess, cocking the weapon, ignoring the empty shell as it went tumbling down to the ground. “I think what the man’s trying to say is,” she grinned wryly, “big talk, liiiiittle teepee.”
He could have laughed; could have kissed her; could have hollered at her, chastened her for being so damned bullheaded as to come out here on her own. But, at the moment, he planned to take full advantage of the disruption. Aiming his shotgun, he fired with all the fury he had drawn from the flame snakes, a round of angry hellfire targeted for the Chief and his death totem. What had began as a willful chaos now burst into a very uncontrolled and intemperate Hell, like an overturned ant hill.
In one smooth movement, he sheathed the gun and caught Black, who had hoped to use the diversion to his advantage, coming at him from his right, his gauntleted hand tightening around the kid’s neck. “I can see your sins, boy,” he hissed, the pits of flame within the bone hollow of his eye sockets churning like a hellish maelstrom. He burned through the young man’s soul like an ignited fuse, reaching so deeply inside, he blazed like a firebrand upon the boy’s heart. Petty crimes, like stealing some money from his mother’s purse, or lifting packs of cigarettes from Grant’s, boiled to the surface.
It was odd, something he’d not felt before, or at least not since San Venganza, where he had faced down an entire legion of damned spirits; the Ghost Rider could read the kid’s soul, as if it was still there within him instead of being claimed by and taken to Hell, as was the standard bargain. So, Mephistopheles had a very terrestrial plan for them as well, just like he did for Johnny. That made them all the more dangerous.
Johnny almost gasped and the Ghost Rider turned to steel at what he saw next: The five juvie delinquents were cruising down the highway; it was dark and they were inebriated and rowdy, tossing a bottle of Jackie Ds between them. The pointed glow of headlights gradually illuminated them from behind as a car approached, the blaring sound of a horn splitting the night when the boys, weaving and dodging along the tarmac, would not let the vehicle through. They parted and fell back, looking as if they’d just let the automobile pass. But they didn’t.
They surrounded it on both sides, jeering and gesturing at the driver. All of a sudden, the biggest of the pack, Red, lifted the bottle of booze and threw it through the open window on the passenger’s side. It hit the woman sitting there right on the side of her head; she slumped over, her face bloodied and slack with unconsciousness. The driver panicked and tried to swerved away. They wouldn’t let him. He was crying the woman’s name again and again, trying desperately to wake her; she didn’t stir. The car hit a pothole and went careening off the road straight into a rocky ditch.
The older model car didn’t have seatbelts or airbags, and the woman went flying through the windshield at an alarming speed, crashing into the unforgiving desert floor with a sickening snap; the man’s head and chest cracked against the steering wheel and dash, eyes open, unblinking. The boys paused only for a moment, laughing drunkenly at the carnage, one of them uttering the word ‘gross’ as his friend leaned over and spat up on the ground beside his foot. Then they sped off, never even looking back. Johnny recognized the couple. He knew them because he had just seen them that afternoon. The picture, in Linda’s TV room. Linda’s parents.
“Why?!” he snarled, tightening his grasp on Black’s throat. “Why didn’t you get help?” But the kid hung loosely in his clutch now, his eyes a simmering of burnt and ashen ember. “Guilty,” he growled with a frightening finality, throwing the boy’s body to the ground. He turned to Linda; she was staring at him uncertainly, fidgeting, trying desperately to look as if she wasn’t frightened but not succeeding very well at all. He held out his hand and moved towards her; to his surprise, she didn’t recoil or shrink away from him. Instead, she glanced hopefully at the invitation of his extended arm and took a step forward.
Her face transformed suddenly with stunned distress, her body going rigid; he froze. “Johnny, look out!” she screamed, raising her shotgun and aiming it square at him. Everything seemed to slow as she fired, the first round of rock salt sailing past his head, coming so close he could feel the breeze it made; he turned his head, his gaze following its path. It connecting with the chest and neck of the warrior stealing up behind him, flaming tomahawk raised in a sneak attack.
A second round shot from the two-barrel gun and only belatedly did Johnny have time to realize that she’d already discharged once before without reloading; what came from the rifle was no longer any conventional form of ammunition. He watched as hellfire soared past his shoulder, catching the boy directly in the face, observed as he burnt up from the inside, his lips receding, yawing wide in a soundless shriek of sheer terror; he looked like a ghoulish jack o’lantern with his eyes and mouth lit from behind with a ghastly light. The others, along with their death totem, were gone, vanished into the desolate desert night as if they’d never been there at all, a grisly mirage and nothing more.
The demon left him in an instant, withdrawing once more as he became flesh and he looked to Linda once more, astonishment in his turquoise blue stare; she was holding her arm up in front of her, gazing at it dumbly as the cold incandescence of Hell’s flame engulfed it, moving to her shoulder and then her neck and breast. The gun in her grasp had changed to a mass of twisted and gnarled metal and was seeping fire. She inhaled sharply and dropped it; it became normal once more as it hit the dirt. “…the Hell?” she asked breathlessly, swaying dizzily on her feet. She fainted.
“That’s just what I was thinking,” he replied simply.
Peace, Ghani
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Fandom: Ghost Rider
Disclaimer: Marvel and the filmmakers own 'em, I just play with 'em
Rating: PG-13 mostly for language (will warn if porn--it's my motto!)
Characters: Johnny, Carter, Mephistopheles
Warnings: Suffice it to say, spoilers
Summary: Visions of the past, as well as some personal demons of his own, are drawing Johnny to a small town in Arizona where Mephistopheles' force is gathering, entangling him in an ever growing web that encompasses a lost tribe of the desert and a new friend, Linda Littletrees.
A/N: Things are going to get a little hairy for me after tomorrow, so I don't know if I'm going to keep a regular writing schedule, but I wanted to get this one up first. Enjoy!
Other Chapters: One, Two, Three
Four
Gorgeous stroy graphic by: jadeblood
Graphic by jadeblood
5.
The arid underbrush turned to ash and the desert sand seemed like glass beneath the flaming wheels of the Ghost Rider’s hellcycle, the thrum of its roaring engine beating out a diabolic rhythm into the angry night. The desert was alive and its shadows conspired against him, moving first as one dark, writhing entity and then tearing itself into many serpentine spirits with long, bony arms reaching out to snatch at him. And at the center of this phantom tempest three figures danced around a ghostly totem from whence the unearthly fire seemed to be originating, to the primal tempo of their own inferno, barking and whooping like savages, like creatures of hell.
The Rider circled around them, dodging the cold, grasping hands of the apparitions, assessing the situation. If he had needed more proof that Mephistopheles was conjuring up some sort of supernatural menace against him, all doubt was banished from his mind as he witnessed the barbarism of the demonic spectacle around him, the creatures rending the night until it bled forth their unholy fire.
Suddenly, he was flanked by two young men clothed as warriors of old riding what at first seemed to be spectral steeds, though their appearance kept shifting to that of hellishly warped dirt bikes. They ululated as they swerved towards him, each one in turn, trying to force him over, to trap him, to trip him up; the hellcycle expertly evaded each of their attacks intuitively with only the barest direction from Johnny.
“Our guest of honor is here,” cried the larger of the boys, his face smeared with red warpaint, in a voice that resounded like the peal of a mission bell across the plains. The other, smeared in black pigment, cackled viciously like a jackal, repeating his companion’s words over and over as he guffawed.
“And so let him face us now,” cawed the central figure, their leader, their chief standing at the heart of the raging fiery cyclone. “Let the Rider face the wrath of the desert’s chosen sons, let him face the Serpent Men. Just as the desert buries its own dead, it will now give them up to rise!”
“I hear lots of talkin’,” growled Johnny, his voice a guttural flame forced up and out of his cadaverous throat. “Now show me some action!” Be careful what you wish for, he thought with a snarl as the barren earth breathed in the shadow creatures, the crusted dirt cracked and heaved up the wasted skeletal remains of warriors long dead but no less the dogged for it. They shambled up from their informal and unmarked graves, clawing the dry sand with rotted fingers.
Even with the most masterful maneuvering, Johnny could no longer elude them on the hellcycle; the ground opened up beneath him, miring the flaming tires in freshly upturned soil like quicksand even as the ghouls seized hold of the bike from their freshly disturbed resting place, clutching at his leathers. But the momentum of the sudden stop carried him safely over the handlebars, sending him careening into the desert floor with a deft roll. “Alright, you wanna play?” the Ghost Rider leered. “Let’s play.”
The chain of hellfire was in his gauntleted hand as he stood, unfurling it before him like a whip. The ground was rising and falling, rippling with the emergence of the awakening dead; they swarmed him, dragging him under as they buried him beneath their teeming horde. Their numbers were too great, their strength unnaturally vigorous, and Johnny felt as if he was drowning in an endless sea of sickening decay; the stench was smothering, the press of their foul bodies oppressive and suffocating. Alright, time to keep your cool, Johnny, he thought as he steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and tensing his body in readiness.
Reaching out, reaching inward, with all of his force he pushed, sending the gruesome creatures scattering. Lashing out with the chain, he caught three of the corpses in its infernal clinch; before they could crumble and turn to embers, he made his move. Digging his heels into the hard earth, he swung the chain in a full circle about him, the zombie cadavers caught at the end of its grip anchored it and kept it at waist level; it caught the legion of undead with its blazing strike, rending each one in half and taking more than a few heads off. They burned before they even hit the ground, their mouths gaping open in a silent death scream. “Tell me that’s not the best ya got,” the Ghost Rider scowled, cracking his neck as, with a flick of his wrist, the chain wrapped itself neatly around his torso.
Johnny was knocked off his feet as a serpent of hellfire came crashing into his chest. “Now you’re starting to piss me off,” he warned, scowling. “Before this night is done, you will beg for my mercy, Serpent Men.”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch house-
Linda scrambled to her feet, still clinging to the doorjamb as if it would stop the spinning inside her own head. Her legs were like rubber beneath her, quivering, too weak to carry even her slight weight, and all she could whisper was, “Oh God, grandfather was right.” Well. Wow. That was unforeseen.
Her mind was numb, she couldn’t get a grip, she couldn’t think straight. She had to, she had to start right away, because grandfather could be in danger and Johnny-or whatever the hell he was with the flames and the ‘grr’-was counting on her to deal. And she was gonna, the best way-the only way-she knew how. She was still trembling like a leaf in the wind as she sprinted into the dining room, clambered up onto the china cabinet and seized the old shotgun hidden on top. She grabbed a handful of the shells, loading the gun and shoving the rest in her pockets.
She’d never felt the wind fight her harder than it was as she dashed across the short distance to grandfather’s mobile home; it threw her hair into her face, into her eyes and mouth, and very nearly threw her to or lifted her right off the ground several times, making the journey unexpectedly treacherous. Her cries were choked by her blowing tresses, her vision impaired by the cloud of dust that surrounded her. The gun in her hands seemed to be the only real thing, the only solid thing in the world. For a moment, terror welled up inside of her, the fear that she was nothing more than a tumbleweed on the night air, that she had only to let go for a split second and she’d go drifting off into the desert never to be seen again.
No, she thought. No. She grunted, bracing herself against the blusterous air current, and moved forward. Grandfather was standing in the open doorway of his trailer, reaching for her; the dust seemed to part for him. He pulled her in and together they struggled to close the door. She pulled him into her arms. “Oh thank God you’re alright!” she said as she hugged him tight. “Everything went…loony, and I didn’t know…Grandpa, I think I dreamed this.”
“You had a vision?” grandfather asked, taking her chin in his hand and brushing the smudge of dirt from her jaw with his thumb.
“A vision? I don’t think…Those nightmares I’ve been having,” she said as she ran to the small window above the sink and, pushing back the curtains, anxiously stared out at the burning plains. “I dreamt of fire, or I think I did; I dunno, it’s all kind of fuzzy. Johnny’s out there, he’s in trouble.”
“Who’s Johnny?” frowned grandfather.
“Mr. Ket-oh, I’m sorry, I don’t have time to explain,” she told him, squeezing his arm tenderly. “I need to help him, grandpa. Listen, this is important,” she instructed as she scooped a dirty undershirt up from where it lay on the floor, tying it to each end of the shotgun and slinging the makeshift belt across her chest. “You’re safe here, right? Turn off all the lights, keep the door and windows closed and tuck yourself under the table if you feel threatened, okay? Just like when there’s a twister warning. You can take care of yourself, I know you can.”
Grandfather nodded evenly and Linda kissed him on the cheek. “You take care, my Little Tree,” he pinched her chin. “I will say a blessing for your safe return, and hope that you are not too pig-headed and stubborn to run away if the occasion calls for it.”
Linda found the garage door thrown open, scorch marks on the rutted cement branded permanently the path Johnny’s supernatural ride had taken; she touched them tentatively, surprised even now by their warmth, and raising her fingers to her lips, she cringed away from the overpowering odor of sulfur. Old Bess was sitting there in the corner, just waiting for her. “C’mon, baby,” she urged as she climbed astride the bike, repeatedly attempting to kick start it and listening to the ignition sputter. “Yes!” she cried triumphantly as the engine erupted with a steady purr, accelerating and whooping as she drove off into the desert night.
Back on the ‘Flats-
“I have to tell you boys,” the Ghost Rider said, picking himself up and dusting off the sleeve of his leather jacket off with a nonchalant sweep of his gloved hand, “I’m kinda disappointed. I thought you were special, that you had a little something extra.” The burnt and twisted remains of the zombie tribe lay scattered about him, crumbling to ash in the strong wind even as they writhed with the last of their unnatural life; he walked through them as if they were nothing more extraordinary as the sand beneath his boots. “But, you? You’re just a coupla punk-ass kids with too much time on your hands and a deal with the Devil on your souls.”
The two on the bikes were circling him again, more wary this time, with less bravado. The Chief still stood proudly, defiantly, at the center of his tempestuous fiery gale, his eyes dancing with an evil light; two others stood with him, flamboyantly worshipping the death totem that ominously rose into the dark night sky. It’d all make one helluva great Vegas show, mused that part of him that was still purely Johnny.
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” the Chief promised him with a malicious grin and, placing one hand above the other, palm to palm, moved his fingers in a tight circle, conjuring a coil of flame. Pushing his arms outward, he let his creation loose; it flew in a snakelike manner through the air, twisting and writhing about. It wrestled around the Ghost Rider, even as he attempted to reach out to it, find its essence and manipulate it.
It was strong, astonishingly so; he could only just keep it from binding, constricting him, and it took an enormous burst of power-a power he did not yet have complete command over yet-to send it sailing off into the sky. Another followed, and then another; it was wearing him down. “This isn’t meant to be a final confrontation, Rider,” hissed the Chief. “This is but a prelude. You don’t know what you’ve awoken by coming here, but you will soon. Soon, Snake Dance will be at full power and we, his Serpent Men, will help him bring dominion to Serpent God once again.”
Johnny knew those names, had heard them only hours before from grandfather Littletrees casually remarked upon over a dinner casserole; there was something more to this, the sense of something older, almost of a proverbial connectivity. The fire serpents were getting stronger, more aggressive; now he could feel the hellfire throb a kindred pulse, could breathe it in, absorb it. He fell to one knee, gathering his force; his foes saw it as a sign of vulnerability. Their mistake; the Ghost Rider’s gain.
“I’ve heard it all before, kid,” he rasped. He watched furtively as the two on wheels, Black and Red, skidded to a halt on either side of him, his hand tensed around the end of the chain in anticipation, his fingers itching to reach for the shotgun holstered to his back as the young warriors climbed off their metal mounts and started towards him. “And, between you and me, it’s sounded more convincing.” Almost in position, almost within his reach…
He started in shock as the boy on his left, Red, went spinning off of his feet, landing on his side in a cloud of dust; his eyes were wide and glassy with disbelief and distress as he stared blankly at nothing. The sharp crack of a rifle only registered in the aftermath, and Johnny turned his head to see Linda standing there beside Old Bess, cocking the weapon, ignoring the empty shell as it went tumbling down to the ground. “I think what the man’s trying to say is,” she grinned wryly, “big talk, liiiiittle teepee.”
He could have laughed; could have kissed her; could have hollered at her, chastened her for being so damned bullheaded as to come out here on her own. But, at the moment, he planned to take full advantage of the disruption. Aiming his shotgun, he fired with all the fury he had drawn from the flame snakes, a round of angry hellfire targeted for the Chief and his death totem. What had began as a willful chaos now burst into a very uncontrolled and intemperate Hell, like an overturned ant hill.
In one smooth movement, he sheathed the gun and caught Black, who had hoped to use the diversion to his advantage, coming at him from his right, his gauntleted hand tightening around the kid’s neck. “I can see your sins, boy,” he hissed, the pits of flame within the bone hollow of his eye sockets churning like a hellish maelstrom. He burned through the young man’s soul like an ignited fuse, reaching so deeply inside, he blazed like a firebrand upon the boy’s heart. Petty crimes, like stealing some money from his mother’s purse, or lifting packs of cigarettes from Grant’s, boiled to the surface.
It was odd, something he’d not felt before, or at least not since San Venganza, where he had faced down an entire legion of damned spirits; the Ghost Rider could read the kid’s soul, as if it was still there within him instead of being claimed by and taken to Hell, as was the standard bargain. So, Mephistopheles had a very terrestrial plan for them as well, just like he did for Johnny. That made them all the more dangerous.
Johnny almost gasped and the Ghost Rider turned to steel at what he saw next: The five juvie delinquents were cruising down the highway; it was dark and they were inebriated and rowdy, tossing a bottle of Jackie Ds between them. The pointed glow of headlights gradually illuminated them from behind as a car approached, the blaring sound of a horn splitting the night when the boys, weaving and dodging along the tarmac, would not let the vehicle through. They parted and fell back, looking as if they’d just let the automobile pass. But they didn’t.
They surrounded it on both sides, jeering and gesturing at the driver. All of a sudden, the biggest of the pack, Red, lifted the bottle of booze and threw it through the open window on the passenger’s side. It hit the woman sitting there right on the side of her head; she slumped over, her face bloodied and slack with unconsciousness. The driver panicked and tried to swerved away. They wouldn’t let him. He was crying the woman’s name again and again, trying desperately to wake her; she didn’t stir. The car hit a pothole and went careening off the road straight into a rocky ditch.
The older model car didn’t have seatbelts or airbags, and the woman went flying through the windshield at an alarming speed, crashing into the unforgiving desert floor with a sickening snap; the man’s head and chest cracked against the steering wheel and dash, eyes open, unblinking. The boys paused only for a moment, laughing drunkenly at the carnage, one of them uttering the word ‘gross’ as his friend leaned over and spat up on the ground beside his foot. Then they sped off, never even looking back. Johnny recognized the couple. He knew them because he had just seen them that afternoon. The picture, in Linda’s TV room. Linda’s parents.
“Why?!” he snarled, tightening his grasp on Black’s throat. “Why didn’t you get help?” But the kid hung loosely in his clutch now, his eyes a simmering of burnt and ashen ember. “Guilty,” he growled with a frightening finality, throwing the boy’s body to the ground. He turned to Linda; she was staring at him uncertainly, fidgeting, trying desperately to look as if she wasn’t frightened but not succeeding very well at all. He held out his hand and moved towards her; to his surprise, she didn’t recoil or shrink away from him. Instead, she glanced hopefully at the invitation of his extended arm and took a step forward.
Her face transformed suddenly with stunned distress, her body going rigid; he froze. “Johnny, look out!” she screamed, raising her shotgun and aiming it square at him. Everything seemed to slow as she fired, the first round of rock salt sailing past his head, coming so close he could feel the breeze it made; he turned his head, his gaze following its path. It connecting with the chest and neck of the warrior stealing up behind him, flaming tomahawk raised in a sneak attack.
A second round shot from the two-barrel gun and only belatedly did Johnny have time to realize that she’d already discharged once before without reloading; what came from the rifle was no longer any conventional form of ammunition. He watched as hellfire soared past his shoulder, catching the boy directly in the face, observed as he burnt up from the inside, his lips receding, yawing wide in a soundless shriek of sheer terror; he looked like a ghoulish jack o’lantern with his eyes and mouth lit from behind with a ghastly light. The others, along with their death totem, were gone, vanished into the desolate desert night as if they’d never been there at all, a grisly mirage and nothing more.
The demon left him in an instant, withdrawing once more as he became flesh and he looked to Linda once more, astonishment in his turquoise blue stare; she was holding her arm up in front of her, gazing at it dumbly as the cold incandescence of Hell’s flame engulfed it, moving to her shoulder and then her neck and breast. The gun in her grasp had changed to a mass of twisted and gnarled metal and was seeping fire. She inhaled sharply and dropped it; it became normal once more as it hit the dirt. “…the Hell?” she asked breathlessly, swaying dizzily on her feet. She fainted.
“That’s just what I was thinking,” he replied simply.
Peace, Ghani