EDITOR’S NOTE: This arc takes place before Ghost Rider #1

TWO-LANE HIGHWAY

Part I: Century’s End

By Chris Munn

I’ve seen Hell.

I’ve seen the terrors and unimaginable horrors of the uninhibited human heart let loose.

My name is John Blaze, and if you ride with me then only one thing is certain…Hell is much, much more than just a state of mind.

The bar reeked of sweat and booze, the stench assaulting the senses of anyone that wasn’t a regular patron. It was a haven for the biker clique, the greasy engine-junkies that lived for only two things: fast bikes and faster women. There were no cars parked outside, only cycles.

One particular cycle, however, left the bikers in awe. Chrome alloy…silver skull emblem engraved on the side…and flaming tires. The bikers worshiped it as much as they were afraid of it, knowing that the unnatural bike was just the precursor to the rider.

“So how’d you get the bike to do that?”

Trev Mexicanos sat across from the biggest enigma in the Northeast United States. New Jersey sees all kinds of weirdness pass through, but the man that had recently frequented the bar took the prize for being the weirdest.

“What the hell are you talking about?” the man asked in response to Trev’s question as he raised his eyes from the beer in front of him.

“Wait, wait, let me guess!” Trev said, waving his hands in front of him. “You laced the wheels with phosphorus, so when they make contact with the pavement it lights ’em up with the sparks!”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” the man said as he lit up a cigarette. Reddish-blonde hair hung down his back in a ponytail, his sunglasses resting atop his head. The smoke from the cigarette floated up with each exhale of the man’s lungs, framing the light that hung overhead with an eerie precision.

“Then tell me, man!” Trev exclaimed, “Everybody in this damn bar wants to know about it. You can’t leave me in suspense.”

A look of anger flashed through the man’s eyes, but only for a moment. The look was quickly replaced with a bemused smirk, followed by another slow drag of the cigarette. “You really want to know?”

“Hell yes!”

“My name’s John, by the way,” the man said as he put his cigarette out in the ashtray. “John Blaze. I used to be a stunt rider in the Crash Simpson Cycle Spectacular, and once upon a time I held the title of World’s Greatest Stunt Rider.”

“Hey, I remember you!”

“Don’t interrupt, Trev. It’s rude.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, have you ever heard of the Ghost Rider?” Blaze asked.

“Ah man, who hasn’t?”

“Well I got a little secret for you,” Blaze whispered as he leaned closer to Mexicanos. “I’m him.”

“What?” Trev yelped, almost jumping out of the booth.

“Calm down,” Blaze said as he lit up another cigarette, “I’m not like that anymore, haven’t been for a long time. But yeah, I was the Ghost Rider.”

“B-b-b-but you’re not anymore, right?” Trev asked, obviously scared out of his mind.

“Right. I got rid of that demon a long time ago, Trev. Too bad for me, he decided to come back. Took over a new host body, my brother to be exact. Because of the Ghost Rider I lost my wife, a few friends, and ultimately my brother as well.”

“But, if that’s all in the past…” Mexicanos questioned, “how does that explain the bike?”

“Watch this,” Blaze said as he pulled a knife out of his trenchcoat. He ran the blade across the palm of his hand, then lifted it up for Trev to see. Instead of blood running out of the open wound, fire seeped from under the skin. “My body is saturated with hellfire, my friend. That’s what makes the bike do that, it’s connected to my being. See this shotgun?” he asked as he revealed a sawed-off double barrel under his coat. “It shoots pure hellfire, nothing else can come close to it…not even thirty ought buck.”

“This is insane,” Trev muttered under his breath.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Blaze said as he stood from the table, “I need to get back to my carnival.”

“Carnival? That’s your carnival in town?”

“The Quentin Carnival,” John said as he tossed a flyer on the table, “in town all week.”

Trev sat and watched in fear as the man walked through the bar and out the door. He sat there for hours longer, wanting…needing…to tell someone the story he had just heard. The only problem was that he knew no one would believe him.

The Quentin Carnival stretched across the campgrounds of Millville, New Jersey, lighting up the populated spot with rides and tents. Cotton candy and balloons populated the arms of the children, stuffed animals resting in the arms of parents and girlfriends. Laughter filled the air, and none laughed louder than two youngsters named Craig and Emma Blaze.

John sat in his trailer, watching his children at play in an attempt to ready himself for his stunt show later in the evening. Craig and Emma always had a calming effect on him for some reason. Maybe it was just because, after all he’d been through in the past, they were lucky to be alive.

How many years had it been since Roxanne had passed on? The time had become a blur after he discovered that a demonlord named Blackheart had made his late wife a demonic bride, transforming her into the creature called Black Rose. Blaze had always felt responsible for that, with his time as the Ghost Rider dooming everyone around him to a fate worse than death. How many souls had he sent screaming to Mephisto? Too many to count, he was afraid.

“Dad!” Craig’s voice announced, snapping John back to reality. “You got somebody at the gate wanting to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Craig.” John stood and pulled on his coat. He stared down at his chest, rubbing his hand over the leather jumpsuit adorning his body. He’d kept it, worn it, since his first transformation into the Ghost Rider all those years ago. It was a reminder of what he used to be, a reminder that evil can work through many forms.

“Wolf,” John said as he walked to the manager’s office, “who’s this mysterious guest of ours?”

The miniature man named Wolf scratched his beard while opening the door to the trailer. “Some guy that said he knew you back when the old man owned the Carnival. He reeks of trouble, John, old friend or not.”

“Always the doomsayer,” John stated with a smile. He walked into the trailer, and upon recognition of his guest his jaw hit the floor, “Red Fowler?!?”

Sitting on the couch was a man in his late 30’s with short-cropped, red hair. He looked haggard, tired, and unkempt…like he’d been one step ahead of some terrible fate that awaited him. Red looked into John’s eyes, sparking something in the man’s weary face.

“Johnny!” he exclaimed as he stood up. “Thank God I found you!”

“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” John asked as he gave his friend a hug. “We didn’t particularly part on pleasant terms, if I remember correctly.”

“Johnny, can I talk to you in private, please?” Fowler asked as he threw a glance at Wolf.

“I get the hint,” Wolf said angrily as he turned and exited the trailer.

“What’s up?” Blaze asked as he took a seat behind the desk.

“I need your help, Johnny,” Red pleaded, “I need the Ghost Rider.”

“Red, because you’re my friend…” John said with a cold stare, “I won’t kick your ass out of this trailer and away from my family. You, of all people, know what Zarathos did to me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry!” Red asked, his voice raising.

“What do you need help with?” Blaze asked, propping his feet on the desk.

“Something’s after me, Johnny,” he said nervously, “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s been tracking me for months. You were the only person I could think of that would be able to stop it.”

“Ghost Rider’s dead,” John said as he left the chair for a standing position, “but trust me, I can take care of whatever’s after you.”

“Thank God,” Fowler muttered under his breath, his eyes closed in relief.

“Where do I find this thing?” John asked as the two walked outside and back toward John’s personal trailer.

“There’s a house, off the I-19, that I stopped at earlier for rest. That’s where I left it, and it’s the best lead I’ve got,” Fowler related.

“You’ll be safe here,” Blaze said as he grabbed his shotgun from the table, “and I’ll be back soon.”

The eyes of the stone statue followed the movements before it, the object of its gaze completely unaware of the monolith’s audience. It was the guardian, the keeper of the secrets held inside…and no one was to enter. No one but him.

The hellfire-thrower, the soul-sender, the podigy of the unholy…he had so many names unknown to him. The statue knew them all, however, and only one of these names would grant him entrance. Whether or not the name was one known to him was another story all together.

He would be here soon, much to the anticipation of the demons crawling before the guardian. They wanted the chance at flesh and hellfire unbridled, the chance to prove themselves to Ahriman. They would have their chance, but the guardian doubted that they had what it would take.

The sentry could hear the hellfire hitting the pavement, and it made even that most ancient of demons cringe in fear.

The kickstand popped easily with a tap of his foot, balancing the bike in a standing position. John dismounted the metal steed, the flaming tires providing the only light in front of the broken down house. Even on mystical wheels, the journey had taken a while to make, settling the sky into darkness once the sun had departed.

His hand blocked the wind as he lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. He walked around the front of the house, checking out the surroundings for anything abnormal.

“Time to get started,” he muttered to himself as he walked up the front steps. His shotgun was withdrawn from the holster and his cigarette tossed to the ground as he reached the large door, where he hesitated for a second. Then, his foot slammed against the wood, shattering it and effectively breaking the lock.

“Come out, come out,” John yelled as he entered the pitch black interior, “whatever you are!”

Suddenly, the shattered door reformed and slammed shut behind him. John smirked as he cocked his gun and made his way deeper into the house. Whispers sounded off around him, an unholy language that would have driven a normal man mad. John was far from normal, the voices providing an annoyance, if anything at all. One word, however, was recognized in the whispers. ‘Zarathos’.

“To hell with this,” he said to himself as he raised his gun toward a corner that appeared a little too dark. A blast of hellfire exploded from the gun’s barrel, illuminating the room with an infernal light. The blast hit the corner, sending the hiding demons shrieking back to the pit they came from. The fire started on the wall provided John with a glimpse of his surroundings. Demons covered the walls, the ceiling, even the floor upon which he stood…hundreds of eyes all pointed straight at him.

“Aww, SHIT!” John excalimed as he turned to blast his way out of the house. The demons began to to swarm, releasing their hold on the wood and plaster in order to take the down the intruder. The darkness once again eveloped John as the demons attacked, leaving him with no way out of the trap. The trap he’d blindly walked into.

*Knock* *Knock*

Clara Menninger was the resident psychic for the Quentin Carnival, but was far more than a simple tarot reader or crystal gazer. She was the real thing, able to see the light at the end of time and interpret the future from it. Her vision had been clouded as of late, however…ever since John Blaze had left on his quest.

She stood from the table in her trailer to answer the knocking at the door. Opening, she was surprised to see an unfamiliar face standing before her.

“Ms. Menninger? My name’s Red Fowler, I’m a friend of Johnny’s,” he said politely, “mind if I come in?”

“Make yourself at home,” she said as she opened the door and returned to her table.

“Ms. Menninger, I…”

“Please, call me Clara.”

“Sorry, Clara…I need to tell you something, something about Johnny.”

“What about…John?” she asked, hesitation in her voice. Under normal circumstances, the thoughts of others were an open book to her. But this man, Fowler, was closed to her sixth sense. This made her nervous, something she wasn’t used to.

“Well, Clara,” he said with a distinctly different voice than before, “Blaze has a big problem on his hands.”

Clara sat in silent shock as Red Fowler changed before her eyes. His short hair grew into long strands of barbed wire, his eyes become large and red, and his size grew immensely. No mouth was visible on his burnt, blackened body; yet a voice still came forth.

“I see you don’t recognize me,” he said with a voice dripping with malice, “I am Blackheart…and you will soon know pain in ways you thought were inconcievable.”

NEXT: Blackheart’s infiltrated the Quentin Carnival, with Craig and Emma in his sites! Meanwhile, can John withstand the horrors set before him in the haunted house, or will he be forced to make a deal with the ruler of Hell itself?