1052: Story 1052: Revenant Riders 1052: Story 1052: Revenant Riders They rode in with the dusk—hooves like war drums, wheels forged from old bone, and chains that sang like ghosts in the wind.
The Revenant Riders, a spectral biker gang from a lost age, once roared across the desert highways in the late 1960s, following whispers of immortality.
They called themselves The Hollow Hounds, a pack bound by blood rituals, chrome, and curses.
Their last ride ended in a burning chapel, their bodies buried in a circle of salt and iron.
But now, something had disturbed their eternal slumber.
A summoning.
A ripple in the cursed winds.
The first sign was a howl, not human nor canine, carried on the twilight wind across the scorched outskirts of the town of Ragwater.
Then came the smell of gasoline, rot, and brimstone.
Lights flickered.
Radios screamed static, then laughter.
Tires screeched in the distance—though no roads led into the desert that way.
Then they were there.
Seven Riders.
Leather cracked with age.
Helmets rusted and spiked.
Their bikes—grotesque hybrids of machine and meat—howled like beasts, exhaling steam and flies.
Their leader, Knuckle Jack, rode a skeletal chopper crowned with a stag’s skull.
His eyes burned blue beneath a cracked visor.
When they entered Ragwater, the dead followed behind.
Literally.
Their engines exhaled soulfire, waking corpses from their graves, twisting the freshly dead into new shapes—things that crawled, slithered, or galloped behind the roar of the Revenants.
They weren’t just returning for revenge.
They were looking for a tithe.
A toll paid in souls.
The town’s last survivors—led by ex-preacher Mara Calloway—took refuge in the hollowed-out cathedral, desperate and cornered.
She remembered the old stories, the outlaw legends.
She even remembered the pact the town’s ancestors made with the Hounds, exchanging blood for prosperity.
No one thought the pact would still be binding.
“They ride when the world tips toward Hell,” she whispered.
“And the world’s tipping fast.”
Night fell hard.
The Revenants circled the cathedral like wolves.
Their bikes howled, wheels leaving trails of flame and rot.
One by one, survivors began hearing voices—offers of resurrection, youth, power.
All they had to do was ride.
And many did.
One by one, the Riders grew in number.
Mara, standing alone in the bell tower, rang the cracked bell—the one used to ward off spirits in ages past.
It sang once, twice… then shattered, releasing a burst of pure light.
The Riders screamed.
Their wheels caught flame.
But Knuckle Jack simply laughed.
“You think you can stop the tide, preacher?
We’re not ghosts.
We’re the future.
Death on wheels.”
By morning, Ragwater was gone.
Only tire tracks remained—burned deep into the earth, etched with ancient runes.
And far off, in the desert wind, engines still roared.
The Revenant Riders were still moving.
Searching for their next town.
Their next ride.