Official Doomtown Fiction: Echoes.

Tenth official Doomtown story, Echoes

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There was an eerie quiet that held sway over the town below. The smoke from the explosions was still rising, the dust still settling, but silence more or less reigned in Gomorra. Jonah Essex stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the town, and tried to ignore the unease in his belly. No matter what happened in town that night, for him it was nothing but disappointment.

Jonah turned back to his little camp and took a seat. His old horse was grazing lazily, and on the ground next to him, the burden.

It didn’t look like much now, just a bundle of leather lying in the dust. It wasn’t right to see it like that, stripped of its place, its glory. But such deals with darkness demanded that things get a bit dirty. Jonah laughed in spite of himself and remembered what he’d come up here to do.

“I guess we’re all dealing with devils today eh mate?” Jonah asked his horse, who continued to chew peacefully. He settled himself to the ground, tugging the dog eared deck of playing cards from his jacket and shuffling them absently. He watched the echoes of smoke trail into the sky across the desert.

“Bet them indians’ll think there’s a right good party going on with a signal like that.” Jonah smirked at his own joke and started dealing himself a game. His horse shuffled her hooves and gave a nervous neigh.

“Oh shut up, it wasn’t that bad.”

The horse gave a whinny, eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, panicked.

“What the hell,” Jonah coughed, and he managed to get his pistol into his hand as the shadow fell over him.

Mario Crane stood over Jonah, his gaunt frame blotting out the sun.

Jonah cocked the pistol, the sound echoing lightly across the rocks. “Crane.” He whispered up the sallow faced man who stared down at him.

“Essex.” Crane’s pistol was in his hand, cocked and ready. They stared at each other.

“Not very nice way to greet an old friend, Crane.” Jonah nodded. Crane gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his gaunt shoulders.

“By all rights I shoulda shot you down already, Essex. Lying, murderous piece of dirt.”

“Doesn’t sound like you, though, does it?” Jonah gave a toothy grin. “Shooting people in the back is for folk like me, innit?”

Crane slowly lowered his pistol, slipping it soundlessly into his holster. “Cut the talk, Jonah. Why’d you bring me up here?”

Jonah hesitantly uncocked the hammer with a shaky thumb and flipped his pistol back into his holster. With a nod, he made a gesture towards the smoking ruin that was Gomorra far below. “There’s our town, Crane.”

“Who made it out alive?” Mario asked, stepping forward near to Jonah. The proximity of the man made Jonah’s skin prickle in anticipation.

“Too early to tell. Lot of dead though … circus took the town for a fine old show.”

“Where is she?” Crane asked, looking off towards the town, his eyes narrowed.

“Dunno. Still down there somewhere. Made things her problem and ain’t been seen since. I did find that though.” Jonah nodded to the burden, lying silently beside him.

“What is it, really?” Mario asked.

“I don’t have a clue, Crane. Like anything in this town, it ain’t what it seems though. It’s power. It’s the right to lead. It’s guns that go like the Devil himself picked up a couple shooters. You seen it.”

“I sure have.” Mario nodded. He raised a hand to his chest, on reflex.

“ … and I want you to have it.”

Mario Crane stared down at the holster, and spoke without looking up. “You call me up here to do me a favor? You got a crummy sense of humor Essex, don’t doubt it.”

Jonah spread his arms wide. “Look, it may be hell on Earth, but I like this town. All the smoke and soot in the air reminds me of London. And it’s ours, mate, make no mistake. The wreckage down there belongs to the gang now, seein’ as there ain’t much left to stop us. I’m gonna hang about to claim it. We just need a leader.”

Mario worked his jaw, a placeholder reaction for a man who no longer drew breath, before spitting on the ground between them.

Jonah shrugged and kept going. “Every leader of the gang has worn it. Comes with bestin’ the best. It takes real guts.”

“I want nothing to do with you, Jonah. I’m not a part of your little gang. You’re killers and thieves, the lot of you. And you’re lucky as hell I didn’t kill you weeks ago. Contact me again and I can’t promise the same luck’ll hold.” Mario turned to leave. “If Sloane’s really gone, then I’ll give you the same warning I gave her. Leave Gomorra and keep a low profile … because if I hear the name again, I’ll end the person answering to it.”

“Wait!” Jonah snatched up the holster and ran to face Mario again. Jonah lifted it slowly to him, with reverence. “I meant it, Crane. It’s a true prize, worthy of the man who got the drop on Sloane.” Mario extended a hand for the holster, but Jonah pulled it back. “But it comes with a deal, though, don’t it?”

“I’m not gonna play games here Jonah.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the one that stood up to her; so you should be the one to take it. You want an end to the thievery, the killings? You got it. I’ll back you up to the others, and they’ll fall in line. You give the orders. You’ll be in control. You got the power to make it happen … the power of Sloane.”

“And what’s the catch?”

Jonah gave a low shrug, a gesture of simplicity, almost an apology. “You got to use it to kill her. Get your revenge, and take her gang. She’s got to go, Crane.” Jonah swept his arm towards the town. “Look what happened without you … without us. We pick up the pieces, and you can steer Gomorra any direction you like.”

Mario stared down at the belt in Jonah’s hand, then back up into the Brit’s eyes. Jonah raised an eyebrow. “So are you in, or do I have to find another dead man?”

After a moment, Mario inclined his head in the slightest nod, and held out his hand for the holster. “So what do I do? How does it work?”

“This isn’t the west end; no song and dance needed. It’s just a holster, mate. Put it on.”

Jonah relinquished the item to Mario’s waiting hand. It felt like nothing at first, just a simple holster. He caressed the dark leather, running his fingers across the black stitching. No carvings, no detail, no glimmer or flash of magic.

“What’re you waiting for mate? Try it on for size. See how it fits.” Jonah said, taking a step back from Crane.

Mario took the holster in both hands and fastened it about his hips. He exhaled. That’s when the sensation came. There was something there, deep within him. Something tangible that he could feel as soon as the leather was tightened about him. The reassuring weight of the empty holster hanging at his hip seem to give him an awareness he’d never experienced before. Mario’s mouth cracked in an uncharacteristic grin. He quickly became aware of it and banished it from his face.

Jonah looked on in silence, smiling.

Mario could hear that sniggering voice in the back of his head, the same one that haunted his dreams whenever his mind reached for sleep, and knew it was time to silence it for good. “Enough,” he whispered. But the voice grew louder. The sneering, laughing croon of the manitou that haunted Mario Crane began echoing in his head, loud enough it hurt. Mario’s face once again twisted into a grin, a horrible rictus leer that tore at the edges his mouth. “Enough!” Mario coughed through his own teeth, unable to control his hands as they twisted and jerked at his sides, caressing the leather of the holster.

The voice in Mario’s head had become a roaring beast, reaching a shattering crescendo. He felt himself falling away, felt his own senses being crushed. His vision began to blur, his ears blocked with laughter, and the scratches of claws tore at the fabric of his own mind.

Jonah staggered back another step, watching the undoing of Mario Crane with rapt attention.

Then suddenly … silence.

The thing that wore Crane like a suit jerked its neck to face Jonah so hard and fast he heard bones grind. It was still grinning that awful smile as it opened Crane’s mouth to speak in a grating mockery of the dead man’s voice. “Thank you, Jonah. Fits like a glove.”

Original Doomtown Fiction: Exeunt Omnes

Exeunt Omnes - By Ross Fisher-Davis.

The sword on Abram’s hip was heavy. For some time now, it had weighed on him. Heavier than the gun in his holster, heavier than the weight of his impossible charge, heavier than the crushing regrets of his past.
He ran his hand to the hilt and gripped it firmly. The weight was reassuring. The weight was his righteous force to bear. He steeled himself to swing Evanor against his enemies one last time.

The streets of Gomorra had begun to empty. People were either running, hiding, or already dead. The taste of panic still lit the dusty air, and the Fourth Rings explosions had coloured the sky with a looming miasma of red sand and dust. Down every street there were screams. Abram wanted to run to his people, to protect them from the horrors the circus had unleashed, but he gripped the hilt of Evanor tighter, and strode on. The remaining deputies had to be trusted to help the townspeople, but the head of the beast had to be severed before the jaws would stop snapping. Abram, and the souls that strode at his side towards an otherwise empty clearing near the town center, were coming for Ivor Hawley.

When Abram had come to Gomorra, he hadn’t pictured it like this. He’d seen a border town, terrors in the past. Renewing, rebuilding. Not walking through streets lit with Hell, with men and women, crazy and criminal alike, to face the forces of darkness that gripped Gomorra in a choke-hold.
At his side were the good ones, the ones who’d stepped up to take Gomorra back.
Wendy, she’d been here since the start, rifle in her steady hands, and determination on her face. Old Prescott Utter, looking like something that blew in with the tumbleweeds, but still here, and still fighting. Pancho and Kingsford, a wanted outlaw and a wanted outlaw Huckster. Almost made Abram want to smile. He didn’t know if they were doing this for the town, or just hoping for a pardon out of it. Abram liked to think he saw the best in people. Muttering to herself and wringing her hands furthest from Abram was Valeria Batten, previously of the Fourth Ring. Their conduit to information. It was this scholarly woman, one lens in her fine spectacles shattered, who had given them Ivor’s location, the convergence of his leylines.

Behind them all, frantically twisting a screw in a tiny little weapon that looked more like a child’s toy, was the Frenchman.

When Abram had met Pasteur, he’d thought the man’s nut thoroughly cracked. Seemed fair enough that everything hinged on the science of a madman now though. Abram’s arm still ached from where Louis had injected the cocktail that would, if promises held, protect the assembled from Ivor’s apocalyptic contagion.

Louis was cursing at himself in French as he fussed with the little weapon. The tiny vial within that held their hopes. No bullets, no swords would cut through the monster that Ivor had become. Pasteur claimed he could undo the ringmaster with the product of bottles and chemicals.
Abram felt the ugly truth rising again. To face the monster with untested science? Took a lot of faith.
Please let him be right. Please let us be right. His grip firm upon the hilt of his heavy sword, Abram prayed as they walked.
“Because he is my right hand, I shall not be shaken…”

______________________

Drew held a hand out and frantically motioned for Tyler and Jack to quiet down. He leaned to peer out of the horse paddock they had been setting up all night.
“He’s here I swear it, the Goblin’s here.”
There was a crash up ahead, something big.
Jack and Tyler looked at each other warily, their faces ruddy with smoke from the blasts.
“That ain’t no Goblin Drew, that sounds like a monster. We gotta get outta here!” 

Tyler was wringing his little hands like he’d seen Ms Jenks do when she examined his homework.

Drew turned on them, a child, his tiny slingshot gripped tightly in his hand.
“And go where? Back to the orphanage? Where the others are hiding like mice? No, we chased this thing down, we’re gonna trap it and get it. This is our Goblin. Then they’ll see what the Jackalope gang can do.”
“Way better than a kung-fu gang.” Chimed in Jack between coughs.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Now let's go over the plan!” Drew stepped back into the paddock. He gestured at the net they’d strung up between the rickety doors facing the town.
“So when Jack runs in here, he’ll jump over the net and lead the Goblin right into it. And then…”
Jack raised a hand.
“Why’s it gotta be me you use as bait?”
“You’re the fastest Jack.”
“Nuh uh, you’re the fastest, Drew, you always telling that story about how you outrun that dust devil coming back from the corner store.”
“I’m leader and I say so Jack, that’s why. So after you jump the net, and the goblin gets all stuck up in it, Tyler up there,” He pointed to a canvas sack, hanging precariously from the rafters, bulging with shapes, “He lets loose the big bag, it lands on the goblin’s head and wham! We got ourselves a goblin!”
Tyler examined the net and the bag suspiciously.
“What if…. I mean…You think this is gonna work Drew?”
“You gotta have faith Ty, what can go wrong?” Drew winked.


Abram drew his pistol and aimed up into the dusty haze before him. Shadows dwelt there, figures thrashing, fighting. Grisly yells and cries, sounds of a clash. Wendy readied her rifle in stoic silence.
Each one of them stood with breaths caught, waiting for the enemy to emerge from the dust.
A clown, blood spattered down the front of his motley, stumbled into view, a fire poker held in one hand. He tripped, fell, and landed splayed out in the dirt, a tomahawk buried in his back.
The figures that emerged from the dust were no fourth ring. Abram motioned for his allies to lower their weapons.
“Who goes there?!” he called out.
The first two figures were unremarkable men; a bearded soldier reloading a shotgun, and a swarthy man in a torn shirt, a curved sword slung over his shoulder. The man who walked between them, however, stood so tall it seemed for a moment a trick of the eye.
“Abram…” Wendy said, shock in her voice, “Abram, it’s the Chief. That’s Stephen Seven-Eagles.”

“Why do they call him that?” Maria asked.
“Looks like he eats that many for breakfast,” snorted Pancho.
Abram hushed them and stepped forward,
“Chief Seven-Eagles?” he said, warily. The Chief continued to approach until he stood a mere foot from Abram, his massive chest bare and crossed with war paint and spilled blood. From around his head, a corona of white feathers stood tall, each one decorated with words for ferocity, for power, for blood.
“Sheriff Grothe?” Stephen replied, a voice like rumbling thunder, “You yet live.”
“For the moment.”
Stephen looked left, then right, then back to Abram.
“Your town is broken.”
“It’s my town now, huh?” Abram raised an eyebrow.
“Your responsibility to fix it, man of God. That is your burden.” Stephen pointed at the hilt of Evanor.
“That is it. Just so happens my friends and I here are on our way to crush Ivor Hawley into the dirt.”
Stephen looked to his men, the bearded one spat as he responded.
“The circus man, the big one.”
Stephen nodded gravely.
“The Crooked Man. They say he can’t be killed.”
Abram opened his mouth to speak, when he was interrupted by a rush of enthusiasm from Pasteur. 

“He can most certainly be killed, Monsuier Oiseau. Here, here is his downfall.”
Pasteur produced the tiny pistol, beaming. Stephen didn’t look convinced.
“It’s true,” Said Valeria, her quiet voice scratchy with smoke. “His power is in his blood, in the infection. This counter-pathogen fights back, makes the infection become….allergic to itself, it’ll devour him from within.”
“Science cannot bring down magic.” Stephen said, looking at the little weapon. Pasteur positively beamed.
“Science can do everything, monsieur,” he pointed to the sharp point of the needle at the muzzle of his device, “This science will unmake his magic. I promise you.”
Stephen’s face was devoid of emotion. He looked to Abram, and to the sword on his hip again.
“Is this true, man of God?”
Abram nodded, “It’s what us men of God like to call a Hail Mary pass. It’s the only chance we got, so we’re gonna make sure it’s done right.”
“If this little dart can unwork the Crooked Man, then I will see it pierces his black heart myself. ”
“Thought it was my town.” Abram smiled.
“Your town stands atop my land, Sheriff. The wolf walks one step at a time.” He extended a hand like a slab of stone. Abram took it.

_____________________

Tyxarglenak smelled blood, and he felt good. The screams pushed him to higher and higher heights of glee as he stormed through the high street, knocking a carriage into a storefront with a smash. He felt an impact in his back, and turned to see a deputy with a smoking pistol extended before him. Gang Yi fired again, the bullet taking off a chunk of Tyx’s ear. Tyx lashed out, claws shredding the air. Gang Yi was fast, he’d always been fast, but Tyx was still testing his new powers, and the orb glowing in his chest surged with energy. Tyx came forward like a storm, thundering towards Gang Yi so fast, the deputy lost his footing, and stumbled. Claws gripped at Gang Yi’s leg before he had time to hit the floor, and with one smooth motion Tyx flung the deputy full force into the wall of the nearest building.
Smash. Tyx liked it.
Turning, Tyx saw another little creature for him to smash, standing in the road up ahead. The tiny figure was staring, mouth agape in terror, and turned to sprint away towards the open doors of a large building. Tyx grinned with joy, and followed.

“It’s not a Goblin, it’s not a Goblin!!” screamed Jack as he sprinted into the paddock and promptly tripped over the net, sending him flying headfirst into a pile of hay.
Drew peered out from behind his spot at the back and cringed as he saw the monstrosity that was Tyxarglenak chasing Jack smash through the paddock doors like they were paper.
It had on a laughably tiny outfit, ripped and torn as if it had bulged out of the clothes in a sudden growth spurt, an orb the size of a fist was pulsing and glowing in its chest, throbbing like a heart. Jaws that looked wider than Drew was tall were spitting and lashing. It stepped through the net and the poxy trap tore from the wall immediately.
“So much for that. Tyler now!” Drew yelled, pointing with his most dramatic finger.
Tyler was balanced precariously above, and reached to pull the drawstring supporting the bag.
It flopped onto Tyx with a sound like a bird flying into the orphanage window and fell to the ground in a heap.
Tyx looked up and swatted, smashing away a chunk of timber and sending Tyler swinging loose over the paddock, hanging desperately to a chunk of the second story.
Tyx reached out and tugged Jack from the hay bale, squirming and squealing in Tyx’s massive deformed grasp. At the same time, both boys let out a screech for help.
Drew was biting his lip so hard he could taste blood. He dug in the little ammo pouch for anything and fumbled to bring his slingshot to bear. It was the little chunk of ghost rock he’d found in the ruins of that creepy old manor on the edge of town. The luckiest thing he owned. He closed his eyes, thought of blue skies, and the laughs of his friends, and let it fly.

__________________________

Ivor Hawley peered deep into the eyes of Revered Perry. The priest was grasping futilely at his throat while one of Ivor’s massive claws slowly crushed the life from him, breath by choking breath. The smell of burning wafted past Ivor’s nostrils, his yellow eyes glimmered.
“Still no answer? Nothing? How disappointing.” with a crunch, he snapped the reverend’s neck and tossed him aside in a heap, flicking blood from the tips of his claws. He raised his foot off the chest of Sister Mary Gideon and she gave a heaving gasp.
Ivor’s once lithe limbs were now twisted to horrid proportions for reaching, tearing. In one wicked hand he still gripped his cane, and brought it down hard on the ground next to Sister Mary’s head. Her habit had been torn from her head, long hair spilling out thick with dirt and blood. She was gripping her bleeding side and grimacing in pain.
“Your turn then, my dear. Answer honestly, and I’ll let you go.”
Ivor leaned in, his rictus grin splitting his already monstrous face in half like a leering puppet. A mouth filled with rows of needle sharp teeth yawned down at her. He extended a claw and touched it tenderly to Sister Mary’s lips.
“Where is your God, dear sister? Why hasn’t he come to save you?”
Sister Mary stared back at the ringmaster, no fear in her eyes. He gave a great sigh in mocking sadness.
“I thought so. So sad, really. To be shown everything you’ve lived for amounts to nothing. Maybe the next one will be luckier eh?” he grabbed the front of her robe in his claw and pulled.

“Hawley!”
The call echoed across the clearing. Ivor looked up, eyes shining.
“Grothe?” Ivor muttered to himself, curious. He dropped Mary back to the dirt and rose to his full height.
Abram Grothe, Evanor gripped in his fist, approached the ringmaster.
Stephen Seven-Eagles gestured to his two men.
“Jackson, Smiling Frog, whatever it takes, you get this man close as he needs.” Stephen thrust Pasteur forward, the vial gun gripped tightly to the Frenchman’s chest.

A silence seemed to blow over the town square. Ivor ran his sickly yellow eyes over the assembled posse. Lawmen, outlaws, Native men. Ivor snorted.
“Is this it? This is the best you can do? The ones too stupid to run? Underestimating me would be an amateur mistake, Grothe.”
Ivor’s gaze found Valeria, and for just a moment his grin faltered.
Sister Mary, seeing the Ringmaster’s attention diverted, reached down into her robe and pulled her revolver, firing up into Hawley’s back.
The Ringmaster made to reach for her, but the nun was up on her feet and running, torn robe gripped to her chest.
“Ooh, shooting people in the back. Try not to get into that habit,” Ivor sneered, looking to Abram, “Catholic joke. Would have thought you’d get that.”
Abram stepped forward, raising the blade of Evanor and pointing it at Hawley’s grotesque figure.
“Ivor Hawley, by the power invested in me by the Church of almighty God and the state of California, I sentence you to death for your crimes against the people of Gomorra. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Ivor spread his hands wide, and flicked his cane in a perfect overarm arc, his coattails flapping.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, It’s SHOWTIME!”

____________________

Be it unerring accuracy, divine intervention, or sheer chance, the chunk of ghost rock flung from Drew’s slingshot struck the green orb in Tyxarglenak’s chest with a sound like the orphanage dinner bell, leaving a shining crack across the marble-like sheen. Tyx roared, sending Jack flying to the ground. Tyler swung himself down into the hay bales, and ducked for cover.
There was a rumble, quiet at first, but only at first. Growing to a deep bassy thunder that seemed to move through the spaces between the air. Tyx twitched, squinting and frowning, a pained expression on its massive face. The orb began to shudder, cracking. The boys watched, stunned and with disbelief, as it bulged outward.
“Get down lads!” Tyler yelled, and he had just hit the dirt as the orb burst. Not into shards, but into light.
A blazing green fire that brought with it a creature unlike anything they’d ever seen. If Tyx had scared them before, he looked like a puppy compared the winged horror that seemed to be emerging, beetle black and gleaming from the blazing light of the cracked orb. Clawed hands reached for Tyx, pulling him into a grinning jawed face straight from nightmare. Tyx gave a screech of terror, and the creature from within the orb roared in triumph.

The boys clamped hands over their ears, and squeezed their eyes shut tight, still seeing the blazing green light that was consuming Tyx. There was a sound, a great whoosh like a dam bursting in reverse, a blaze of light, and then silence.
When Drew cracked open an eye to see if the world had ended, there was nothing. The ground was scorched black, and nothing remained.
Then he saw it.
He shuffled over to blow on the steaming orb as it lay in the dirt. The cracks had gone, its perfectly smooth surface once more whole. Something made Drew lean a little closer, peering deep into the swirling mists within. Just for a moment, he swore he could see Tyx in there, tiny face yelling in mute rage, before the green mists swirled again.
He picked up the orb with his gloved hand, and dropped it into his ammo pouch.
You never know.

____________________

Ivor moved like lightning, his claws grabbing, punching, and thrashing. Snatching at limbs and arms and weaving between the blades and bullets of his opponents. Maria Kingsford traded blasts of energy with the ringmaster, her blazing fire slamming into his body, Abram wielded Evanor with a skill surpassing his training, the weapon hungered for it, and Abram felt himself move with strength beyond his own mortal frame. Stephen Seven-Eagles spun his axe overhead, the weapon of his ancestors, roaring his battle song. It was a blur, a frenzy, and through it all Ivor laughed at the cuts, the wounds, cackling as his twisted body knitted itself back together like an endless tapestry of horror.

One of Ivor’s long legs snapped out, catching Wendy in the side and sending her flying into Pancho, and the cane cracked Maria so hard on the side of her head she saw stars. Stephen was watching the battle in his head, waiting for the moment, watching the Ringmaster’s movements, becoming rhythmic, searching for momentum, but there was none, no way to predict where he would strike next.
Valeria came at Ivor, a gleaming cavalry saber in her hand.
“I wondered where that had got to,” Ivor purred, drawing her close, “A thief and a traitor… I’m going to save you for last Valeria.”
The sabre sizzled in Ivor’s grip and he twisted it slowly, forcing her close and close as he snarled down into Valeria’s face.
“Do it now Louis!” Stephen roared.

Smiling Frog and Jackson Trouble lifted the scientist between them, pushing him up and forward to the ringmaster’s open back. Louis reached out, aiming the precious vial gun.
“NOUS SOMME LEGION!” The Frenchman cried.
Ivor was too fast.
Sending Abram and Stephen flying with a swipe of his cane, Ivor twisted and butted Louis fully in the face. The Frenchman reeled back, blood spraying from his nose, and Ivor reached behind him, gripping Valeria by the forearm and throwing the woman like a human projectile into Louis.
“Not….nice!” Ivor screeched, launching forward to punch Jackson with all his might. Jackson’s head snapped back with a sickening crunch, and he fell to the ground like a cloth doll. Smiling Frog turned to run to Stephen’s aid, and found himself staring down at his own chest as Ivor’s cane skewered through it moments later.
Shaking the dead man from his cane. Ivor turned back to the fight at his heels.

Stephen rolled onto his back, regaining his wits and spitting dirt, and found Louis streaming with tears.
“Non…..non non…..mon Dieu, non.” He wept.
“Louis, gather yourself. We try again.”
Louis turned, his face a mask of pain. The tiny weapon lay crushed on the ground beneath where he had fallen, the glass vial broken.
Stephen fell to his knees, the precious red liquid seeping into the dirt.
He tore a feather from his headdress.


Pancho Castillo’s bullets brushed off Ivor like rain. The ringmaster advancing on him like death incarnate, Pancho questioned himself once more, why had he gotten himself into this horror, then focused. He sucked a breath in between the terror and mentally blessed his lucky bullet.
“Vete al infierno.”
The shot caught Ivor in the eye. The ringmaster clamped a hand to his face and staggered backwards.
Maria came forward next, a blast of energy from her outstretched hand knocking the ringmaster in the gut and doubling him over.
“Children’s tricks!” Ivor snarled, opening one of his clawed hand and shooting out a screaming soul blast at Abram. Maria cried out a warning, but Prescott Utter was the only one close enough. He threw his weight against the Sheriff, knocking Abram aside and taking the full brunt of the blast. The old prospector was lifted from his feet and came to the ground with a crash. He was gone before he even hit the dirt.
Abram looked around him, at the fallen dead, at the desperate fight still in his allies, and at Evanor. Ivor was regaining his footing, blood pouring down his face from Pancho’s bullet wound.
One chance.
Abram rushed forward with a cry and thrust Evanor’s point through the stomach of the ringmaster and up into his heart.
They came face to face for a moment, Ivor’s yellow teeth bared into Abram’s face.
“What now, Sheriff? What do you do when everything fails?” Ivor’s claws crept up Abram’s body, grabbing at his throat. Abram stared back, keeping his grip on Evanor tight.
“Faith, Ivor.” Abram whispered, his gaze swept over Ivor’s shoulder as Stephen Seven-Eagles leapt onto Ivor’s back, bringing down the feather in his hand with all his might. The red tipped quill piercing the ringmaster’s flesh at the apex of his bony spine.
Ivor screeched, dropping Abram as he lurched back, twisting an arm to try and reach the feather that now protruded from his back. His jaw snapped irregularly, a coarse barking noise coughing from between his teeth. Black veins were throbbing up his throat, a map of the seeking, surging counter-pathogen that was undoing the Ringmaster. He reached forward, snatching for Abram’s throat, but his claw closed on nothing. He tried again, and realized his vision was blurring, presenting him with doubles of his enemies. He saw weapons raised.
How many, six? Twelve? He wasn’t sure anymore.
Bullets rained into the ringmaster, a blast from a rifle took him in the shoulder. Again and again the thudding impacts smashed into his form.
He gave a laugh, a horrid watery giggle that squelched in the back of his throat.
“The show…” He took a step forward, leering, blood seeping at the corners of his eyes, “...must…”
Hawley crashed to the ground, one arm reaching out, grasping at nothing, his face locked in a bloody rictus grin, leering at the assembled men and women of Gomorra who had undone him.
“...go…”
A crack in the clouds was sending a tickle of light down, reflecting from the blade of Evanor. Ivor found himself staring at it, as Abram raised the blade over his head, and swung it down.
Ivor Hawley saw no more. 

Wendy Cheng sat by the horses, and watched.
Everywhere, destruction. Ruined houses, ruined lives.
She wiped dirt and blood from her face with the hem of her ripped shirt.
Her town had been broken.
It would take everything to fix it this time. So much lost.
The sky was beginning to peer through the cracks in the dust and clouds above, sending light shining down onto her town. The town she loved.
She began to reload her rifle for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
Wendy had been there since the beginning, and she knew Gomorra had seen worse.
It had lived through Knicknevin. It had seen through the storm.
Wendy knew Gomorra could survive. 

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.

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'Someone Else's Problem'

My sixth official Doomtown story, Someone Else's Problem

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 “What it sounds to me like is none of this is any of our damn concern, Yules. Since when do we come runnin’ when Gomorra is in shambles? It’s always in shambles,” said Jonah Essex.

Pancho Castillo eyed Ulysses warily, while Sloane watched the discussion in silence.

Ulysses threw his hands up, sick of explaining himself. “It’s different this time. Something’s seriously wrong. If you’d seen the look of that place you’d know it too.”

“It’s an asylum, Ulysses. It ain’t meant to look like granny’s living room,” said Jonah.

“That’s not what I mean. The Ring are doing somethin’ awful there. The sick are goin’ in but not coming out any better, if at all. Hawley is locking them up and doing something to ‘em … something wrong. That warden barely even looked human.”

Jonah shrugged. “We gonna start getting mixed up in this kinda stuff now? Boss?” He looked over at Sloane, leaning against a rock. She gave a disinterested shrug.

Maria Kingsford exhaled smoke. “We attract enough of our own darkness not to go looking for more, Ulysses. You know it isn’t our way to get mixed up with Gomorra’s affairs.”

Ulysses shook his head, staring down at his own feet. He opened his mouth to concede when Pancho spoke up.

“It is different this time. Yules is right.”

Jonah gave a great huff. “Oh you too? What happened? Fourth Ring clown carriage run over your foot?”

Pancho hadn’t planned on saying anything until he knew it would do him some good, but he was sharp enough to know when something serious was looming.

“I was in town with a lady a while back and took her to one of the hideouts in town, but someone rigged it to blow sky high.” Pancho said. All eyes turned towards him.

“Go on,” said Sloane, quieting even Jonah.

“Enough nitro to knock the teeth out of anyone in town … the wires ran straight to one of the big tops. That circus is playing for keeps.”

Jonah laughed. “I can’t believe you’re taking these guys seriously. They ain’t criminal masterminds. Hell, they’re gonna be throwing pies at each other at the orphanage tomorrow.”

Ulysses shrugged, “Maybe he’s right. The orphanage certainly isn’t much of a target.”

Maria’s raised a dark eyebrow. “Apart from the children.”

Sloane’s face hardened, and she mounted her horse in seconds. A silent communication of urgency rippled through the group.

Maria grabbed her gun belt, Pancho took up his hat, and Ulysses gave them a firm nod as they saddled up.

Jonah was left in the dust, growing ever more incredulous.

“You kiddin’ me? Ridin’ off to save the day like El Grajo?” Jonah scuffed his boots in the dust, staring after them in disbelief. If they wanna go, he thought, they can burn with the rest of ‘em.

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'The Prodigal'

My Fifth official Doomtown story, The Prodigal

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“Mr. Mayor,” Rafi lingered near the door. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a young gentleman who insists upon seeing you.”

The mayor’s eyes lazily rose from his book. “I specified not to be disturbed; was I not clear in my request?”

Rafi swallowed, regained his composure, and spoke again.

“He says he’s related to you, Nicodemus.”

Nicodemus raised an eyebrow, carefully closed the book, placing it out of sight in silence.

“Send him in,” Nicodemus whispered.

The young man who strode in was tall, lean with dark hair. He gave Nicodemus a look that mixed determination and outright wonder. Finding his manners, he took off his hat, letting it hang by his side.

“Nic? Mister … Mayor Nicodemus Whateley?? Is it you?” He asked.

Nicodemus nodded slowly, watching the boy’s every move like a cat.

“None other.” He said, slowly rising from his desk. “But you knew that. You, however, are a mystery here. So who might you be?”

The youth took an eager step forward. “Name’s Theodolphus, but Mama called me Theo … Theo Whateley-Boyer. From your second cousin, twice removed … also your fourth cousin, on the Providence side, I think. I come a long way looking for you, Nic. I come a helluva long way.”

“People who come looking for me oft regret the decision.” Nicodemus stepped around his desk to approach the boy, and Theo felt the Mayor’s stare grip his heart. Nicodemus Whateley’s black pupils contained nothing but darkness.

“Blood calls to blood, Nic. I hear it screaming out across this town.”

“Screams are a frequent sound in Gomorra. Who sent you? Speak.”

“The family, Nic … back east. We ain’t heard anything in so long. Then when the news came through that everything in Gomorra had fallen, we thought the worst.”

Theo drummed his fingers against the brim of his hat.

“I went to the manor first, but you weren’t there. You’re all that’s left, Nic. You’re the last one who had contact with the master …”

“Knicknevin is no more. I freed them of that tether,” Nic said. “I’m my own master now, Theo. And so are you.” He made a motion in the air to brush the young man away.

“That’s the thing, Nic. The family don’t know what else to do. They’re fighting amongst themselves … no real leader, no real direction. I heard about you though. I heard what you done here in Gomorra! You’re what we need!”

Nicodemus seemed to stare through Theo, appraising him.

“We need you, Nic. The family needs you,” Theo said, determination hardening his face.

Nicodemus reached out and took the boy by the shoulders gently, but with purpose. A smile crawled across his features.

“Theo, I am the family.”

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'Nine Tenths of the Law'

Fourth official Doomtown story, Nine Tenths of the Law

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The doors creaked open as Malcolm leaned on them, stepping up into the wide entrance hall.

“Watch your step Miss Morgan; it’s a little dusty. But it’s big … fit for anything really. I hear Morgan has a lot of business these days!”

Lula lifted the hem of her skirts from the dust as she stepped through the door, a look of distaste upon her face.

“Some of us at least. Why isn’t anyone doing business here already? This place is huge.”

Malcolm looked over his shoulder, and then up to the ceiling, a painful smile stretching across his face. “Oh, you know how it is. Just waiting for the right person!”

“If it’s all as you say it is, I’m interested. Show me around?”

“Absolutely,” He looked warily down one of the passages, listening for a moment before advancing.

Malcolm began counting off features as they walked, flinching every time the click of Lula’s heels echoed behind him. “You saw the welcoming hall; there’s room for a still, a storefront, and a few big offices, each as roomy as the last.”

“Must have been an impressive company that used to own all this.”

“Sweetrock? Oh, the biggest Gomorra until the Storm. All gone now … mostly.”

Reaching a staircase leading up to the the second floor, the old man put his hands on his hips and nodded. Above them hung a tattered banner bearing a shovel and pickaxe logo.

“So, what do you say?”

“There’s gotta be a catch, Malcolm. Rats? Mold?”

“This house is clean Miss Morgan; of that I can assure you.” The old man wrung his hands.

“Well, my new portrait would lighten up any old room. Knock off another ten percent and call it a deal.”

The old man almost backflipped with joy.

“I’ll get the deed! You stay right here. I mean it, really don’t … don’t go nowhere.” He rushed up the hallway.

Lula climbed the stairs and gave a tug at the old banner.

Mine.

“What was that Malcolm?” she called out, gritting her teeth to pull harder.

That’s mine.

“You agreed on the price. It’s awfully poor form to take it back now. Sign the papers so this place can be mine!”

The banner finally came loose, and Lula turned, her triumphant smile shifting to terror.

Looming at the foot of the staircase stood a grinning, spectral horror. Blazing with fury and screaming with rage, it rose towards her.

“THIS PLACE IS MIIIINE! YOU … CAN … HAVE … NOTHIIING!”

Malcolm heard footsteps so fast, he thought horses had started wearing heels. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Lula’s petticoat as she sprinted out the door into the light of day. Malcolm tossed the deeds into the dust.

“Again with this, Howard? Really?!”

Malcolm cursed into the yawning darkness of the building and stomped outside to straighten the “For Sale” sign once more.

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'Behind the Stick'

My third official Doomtown story, Behind the Stick

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The dimly lit tables of Cooke’s Nightcap were sparsely populated as Forster Cooke stood behind the bar, surveying everything. Across the room, Asakichi wiped down the tables, and he gave her a big smile when she looked his direction. He was still smiling when he turned to the door and saw her standing there. He rubbed his eyes at first, momentarily failing to recognize Samantha. Her hair was wild from riding, a pistol holstered at her hip. She strode right to the bar and sat down before him.

“Samantha?” Forster said. Her hair and eyes reminded him painfully of her mother.

“It’s Sammy now, you know that.” The strength in her voice filled him with pride.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I’m here to knock some sense into yer thick skull. You followed me here, didn’t you?”

“It’s not like that.” Forster reached out gently toward her.

She pulled away quickly. “Like hell it ain’t. If you think begging’s gonna get me to come back, you’ve got another thing comin’. I’m with Sloane now.”

“Samantha, you’ll always be my daughter. Your sister and I –”

“She ain’t my sister,” Sammy snapped, her eyes darting across the room to Asakichi with a glare sharper than a knife.

Forster looked between his two girls in despair.

Sammy snapped her fingers sharply, speaking up so half the saloon could hear. “Gomorra is Sloane’s town. You stay here, I can’t protect you, and I know you think you can, but you can’t protect me either.”

A man sat down beside Sammy, so quiet he could’ve been a ghost. “Good to see you again Sammy,” said T’ou Chi Chow, tenting his hands on the bar.

Sammy looked between Chow and her father, and then swore under her breath. “I shoulda known you’d end up out here, Chow. Gomorra’s only a slight step up from the Armpit. But you oughta know better than to drag my father along with you!”

Chow smiled, his calm demeanor unphased. “All wise men have wiser allies. Your father is a man of many talents.”

Forster leaned over the bar, his brow furrowed. “Mr. Chow is doing important work here. It was my decision to come with.”

Sammy turned back to her father. “Important work that’ll get you killed. Take my warning … you won’t get another one.”

Forster looked down at her and sighed. “I may be an old barkeep. But no one, not Sloane or the Mayor himself, can stop me from keepin’ my girls safe. Ain’t nothing gonna convince me otherwise.”

Sammy looked back at her father’s weathered features and nodded. She leaned in, just a few inches, but the intimacy meant the world to Forster. “I know, Daddy,” she whispered as she stood. “Just be careful.” Forster watched her leave, right up until the door stopped swinging.

The Bandit King smiled, tilting from side to side. “Daughters … bandit hordes … I don’t know which one is harder to manage.”

Forster nodded as he poured another whiskey for his friend.

Official Doomtown Fiction: Double or Nuthin'.

My second official Doomtown story, Double or Nuthin'

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Rico’s hands flashed the cards across the table so quick they were a blur, and then slapped one of his powerful hands down on the table loud enough to make everyone jump.

“And that was when I realized that I might be in some real trouble.” Rico continued the story that had taken four hands to build, loud enough to grab the whole saloon’s attention. He pointed a finger into Charlie’s face and flipped over the first of his dealer cards.

“Now I knew being lost in the Maze was bad enough, but now that I’d lost my horse, I knew I was in for a time of it. Lady Luck, that fickle mistress, was scowling down on me, let me tell you.”

Grant and Morley glanced down at their cards briefly, before Rico’s arms spread wide, as if to encompass the whole room, and gave a hoot.

“That’s when I saw it! Maze Dragon … biggest one I ever seen. Coming right at me outta the blue.”

The dealer’s cards came up, and with a flourish, Rico was tugging in winnings from all three players at the table.

“Bad luck gentlemen. You know what they say, ‘Next time lucky.’ How about another round? Now where was I?”

Grant looked down at his swiftly dwindling pile of chips and opened his mouth to speak, when Rico tossed him another hand and a winning smile.

“That’s right! It was all thanks to the information I’d found when I was exploring the old Knot Mine that gave me the advantage I needed to outwit that big overgrown skink, and so it was that I developed a cunning plan that would lead me safely out of his clutches, and get me the gold after all.”

“Wait, where did the gold come from again?” Charlie said, looking up from his cards, failing to keep up with the story and focus on his hand at the same time. Rico waved the question away with a flourish of deft hands and dealt out the last card.

“Whole ‘nother story; we’ll come around to that later, don’t you worry yer pretty little head about it. So anyway, the dragon bears down on me, and I can feel his breath right on my face, he’s so close.”

Glancing across the cards on the table, Rico clapped his hands together and gave a deep sigh.

“Well gentlemen looks like the fickle mistress is on my side tonight, don’t it?” He leaned forward to scoop up his opponents’ last surviving chips.

“Wai– … wait. What happened with the dragon?” Morley asked, missing the flush he could have had with the right discard.

Rico looked up, a wide smile on his face.

“Then allow me to continue, of course. Everybody loves a good story. In the meantime, shall we say, double or nuthin’?”

Official Doomtown Fiction: 'For What Ails You'.

The first of my official Doomtown Fiction stories, For What Ails You

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You there, sir! Yes, you! You have a worried look about you. What could possibly be troubling you, my good man? Come, come, over here now. Don’t let the crowd fool you. This ain’t a revival, just good ol’ fashioned wonders.

See you got a spot of boils there. Bad news, that is … been seeing it all day.

How many kids do you have, eh? Three? Hand to heart, it’s nearly impossible to keep those little ‘uns safe. Must be making your hair fall out … but we’ll get to that in a moment. Coughing already, are they? Shame, shame. Been goin’ around something fierce from what I hear.

Well, what If I told you that I can protect you and your loved ones, all for little more than the price of a mint Julep? ‘Madness,’ you say! But look again, good sir: Scuttlesby’s Miracle Tonic! Distilled through an incredible mix of far eastern phosphenes, lunules, and mountain orchids, filtered through a unique skeuomorph of my own design, this fantastic tonic guarantees a clear mind, sharpened senses, and a body free of any sickness, fever, or malady you care to name … and it’ll even regrow that hair to boot! Don’t be shy, take a whiff sir.

Smells like science, doesn’t it? I could tell you were a perceptive man the moment I set eyes on you. That’s why I’ll offer you a deal like no other. This very day, a one time only offer, you can supply your whole family with Scuttlesby’s perfected, proven, and patented panacea.

Boils? Thing of the past.

Itchy rash? A mere memory.

And best of all, take care of those poor little children’s coughin’ and wheezin’ the whole day through.

Does it truly? Good people, would I stand here — a proud man, with knowledge gleaned from mystical medicinal masters from the Far East — and lie to you? Why would I, when it’s simply a matter of unique design working in cadence with the body’s natural equilibrium through correcting all negative bio-conductive influences? Elementary science!

Dabney Scuttlesby’s a man of his word. You’ll never feel better. Guaranteed results, on my dear grandmother’s life.

Three bottles sir? Of course. And one for you my lady? Absolutely, though not even I can improve on that lovely face … medicine can only go so far, am I right gentlemen?

And why not celebrate with a trip to the circus? Tickets to see the marvels of those fine souls at the Fourth Ring, courtesy of yours truly. That’ll brighten the kids up quick smart, let me tell you. No, no, don’t thank me, I’m just a man doing his service to the fine folks of Gomorra.

A wise purchase! Let your family know miracles are on their side.

You sir! Yes, you with the limp! What would you say if I told you I could take all that pain away, for barely more than the price of a plate of bacon? Come on over, let Dabney take care of you.