Official Doomtown Fiction: The Last Ride

Eighth official Doomtown story, The Last Ride

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Pancho Castillo’s stolen horse reared as he let off another shot into the frenzy of motion around him. There was blood on his boots, and in his hair. Blood belonging to enemies, blood belonging to friends.

Bringing his mount under control, Pancho swore aloud. Sloane was lost somewhere in the mayhem. His horse gave another nervous whinny as a group of terrified townsfolk ran by, pursued by one of the wretched creatures that were swarming through the town like locusts. Dressed in the rotten clothes of the Sanatorium, the man snarled and spat as it tore after its prey.

Pancho leaned aside in his saddle and pistol whipped the thing across the back of its scarred head, sending it tumbling to the dirt in a heap. He looked back over his shoulder, searching. Ulysses had been right behind him, but the chaos had separated him as well. Pancho cursed and dug his heels in, spurring his horse on through hell.

A great crash came from nearby, and the entire building to Pancho’s left shook as a gigantic figure, grotesque with bulging muscle, smashed through the doorway with brute strength and rumbled off into the crowd. The Fourth Ring was throwing everything they had at Gomorra. He rode alone through a burning nightmare of clowns and fear and made a mental note to save his luckiest bullet for Hawley’s grinning face.

A youth in blue on horseback almost rode into him, and stopped long enough to catch his breath.

“What in blazes is going on kid?” Pancho called to him. The young man stared for a moment, his eyes wide with shock, but steeled himself in his saddle.

“Everyone with a gun and guts to use it is meeting at the sheriff’s office. We’re gonna take the town back.”

Pancho snorted, “Good luck, kid.”

The boy looked like he was about to pass out, but rode on anyway. Pancho was watching him go when there was a blaze of blue light up ahead, illuminating the smoke from a burning building and setting a group of the slavering sickened ablaze.

“Kingsford,” Pancho muttered to himself. Not everyone was lost, at least.

Maria Kingsford was standing in her stirrups, a blazing pistol in her right hand and flames blasting from the palm of her left.

“Maria, whole town’s gone to hell! We gotta do something!” he yelled to her as he rode up, trampling a clown holding a pitchfork.

“Where’s Sloane?” Maria roared. Her body was surging with power and Pancho could almost feel her voice on his face when she spoke.

“People are dying, amiga. We gotta help them. The Fourth Ring is tearing the town apart!”

“Where’s Sloane?!” Maria repeated, her face deadly serious.

Pancho aimed and shot down a lanky trapeze artist running at him with a butcher’s knife. “Sloane can take care of herself. These people can’t.” The fire in Maria’s eyes dimmed slightly. The ground shook as another hole to Hawley’s hell below the Earth opened up somewhere across town. “Help me, Maria. We can help stop this.”

“You got an army in the dust back there Castillo?” Maria frowned.

Pancho looked down the long burning road to the Sheriff’s office, “Maybe I do.”

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'The Blowoff'

Seventh official Doomtown story, The Blowoff

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There was a ringing in Erik Samson’s ears; he tasted blood. Coughing, he pulled himself up off the street and found dust everywhere. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.

He had been walking home, hadn’t he? Strolling through the evening light, work tools at his hip. Then something happened. He couldn’t remember.

Erik tried to call out, but his voice was broken and hoarse. Blurry shapes moved about, people stumbling. As he regained his footing, he saw a woman nearby, white dress stained black, her hat crumpled from the force of the blast.

The blast! There’d been an explosion. Erik rushed to her side and pulled her up into his powerful arms. “It’s okay, ma’am. You’re safe,” he said. Erik looked about, seeking answers. Everywhere in the twilight there was dust and smoke and cries. He carried her to the wall of a nearby building and set her down. He began searching for other victims, almost falling into the hole before seeing it, sending a mound of dirt scattering down before him.

It took Erik a moment to shake the ugly dread he felt looking into the opening at his feet. The crater in the center of Main Street yawned, gaping and deep, a foul stink rising up from below. As he squinted, he saw movement in the hole. “There’s someone down there!” came a shout from nearby, and people crowded to the edge to peer in. A figure lingered there, some poor soul who’d fallen in no doubt.

Erik climbed down, the jagged sides easy to descend, and found himself peering into the depths of a tunnel. The figure who was staggering towards him from the darkness was a miserable sight, soiled clothes mired in filth. “Sir? Are you okay?” Erik said as he narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dust and smoke. The figure had a gait like a dead man, arms slack, mouth agape.

The sense of dread returned suddenly, and Erik found himself reaching for the hammer dangling at his hip. The eyes in the scarred face were like those of a rabid dog, wild, bloodshot, and brimming with madness. His fingers fumbled as he tugged the steel free, but the man leapt for him with terrifying speed, hands and nails snatching and dragging Erik down. He struggled, spit flying into his face from between the broken yellow teeth of his attacker, as the stink of decay washed over him.

There were more screams above, not confusion this time, but terror. Erik tried to cry out a warning to them, but his call was smothered in the surge of shambling bodies that emerged from the blackness before him. He braced himself at the mouth of the tunnel, pleading God for strength. They came at him, arms and teeth and wild staring eyes, climbing over one another in a frenzied mass that hit with the force of a tidal wave as the army of blighted spilled onto Main Street like a sea of the dead.