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 Prodigal'

My Fifth official Doomtown story, The Prodigal

-

“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

-

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

-

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'

-

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

-

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.

The Fourth Wind

There was something in the wind that night; Babette could smell it on the air. 

The higher she climbed the more she was certain of it. The claws on her long limbs left scuffs in the bark as she pulled herself up the tree. Were anyone accompanying her, she'd have left them below. None had the speed to follow her, she practically skipped up the last few branches. Her arms were so deceptively slender as she tugged her weight up hand over hand. 

Babette had always explored. Right from the first, she couldn't stop herself. 

The memories were dim now but she remembered a place where she had explored all day, finding passageways just large enough to squeeze through or holes to crawl into, giggling in the dark for hours while Rachel called for her. 

Rachel, the wizened, dark haired woman who had played mother to Babette for so long. Rachel wouldn't be searching anymore. No more would she come looking for the little red haired girl who used to hide. 

Babette couldn't put her finger on when, the years passed so quickly to her, but it had seemed that all of a sudden Rachel was having to look up to scold her. Her lanky frame was so tall now, so fast, so strong.

Reaching the heights of the tree, Babette stuck her head up as high as she could stretch, bony shoulders raised and pointy little breasts stuck out.

She breathed in. 

Something was there. She wanted it so badly that she was scared of fooling herself, but she knew it, something strange was in the forest. Her long red hair was blowing in all directions, sending the twigs and leaves gathered in it falling to the Earth below. 

Babette let her eyes close, those big almond eyes that saw more than one world, and let herself breathe. Her heart was hammering with excitement and exertion. She tried to calm it, but couldn't. She'd knew she'd never focus enough like this. 

She slid back down to sit on a branch and propped herself up, staring out into the darkness of the forest. The silence descended. Every little chirp and hum of the creatures around her, she heard. It was all so familiar. She had heard it all before. She waited for the smell to come again, the smell of something new approaching. 

She caught herself trying to will it to come again and stopped. Inside, she was alight with energy, screaming with exuberance for something to happen.

Waiting atop the tree, the stillness soaked in. A sadness began to creep over Babette. 

Just another night like the all the others? She didn't know if she could endure another. 

The long return to the sad hovel she called home, the stares of the others huddled in the dark. She couldn't stand it. All this time waiting for the change she anticipated, her heart would burst in her chest if she honestly thought that it would never come.

Lylesburg had told her she was a fool. That she was still a child. 

He told her that everything was in her head and that's where it should stay. Only the Baptizer could know the path ahead, and the great head had not spoken in years. Always his words were to wait, to hold, to hide. 

In the years since the exile, they had done nothing but hide. 

Babette didn't need to hide anymore, she had done enough in her youth, she had grown tired of it. Hiding in the dark was a child's game. 

Babette had grown tired of many things in the last few years, but nothing upset her more than having to hide again. She didn't need to. Babette could run, gods could she run. Those long pale legs of hers carried her quick and as quiet as the wind, and if anything ever caught up with her she had teeth and claws to bare. 

Babette was not afraid. Not like Rachel and Lylesburg always were. 

Babette wondered if she was the only one who knew that it was not their kind's way to fear the night. While the others crept and shivered and whispered, Babette ran, and climbed, and looked, and saw.

Now she was calm. She could almost feel it coming. 

The forest air on her skin was less cool, the sounds of the night's inhabitants around her fading. When she opened her eyes would it be the forest out there? Or would it be the other world? The things she saw there she could drink like water. She saw faces, heard noises and voices. She watched the others and it felt warm and fun and so good. She could curl up in it, sometimes, when the winds went her way and she felt a rush of senses not her own. 

People laughing and fighting and fucking and crying. Babette had a hundred second hand eyes and ears and fingertips to see and hear and feel through. 

Compared to the worlds she saw and knew, Lylesburg knew nothing. 

Babette smiled as she opened her eyes and the forest spread out before her. She knew so much. Babette had clever ears. She heard the others as they huddled in their homes, talking, sobbing, arguing. Over and over she heard Rachel and Lylesburg speak of the next move, the next step towards a new home. Another pointless journey to another temporary home. When he thought he was alone in his little room, Babette heard Lylesburg asking his questions of the wrapped shape always by his side. The same questions he'd asked for years. 

'Where do we go from here?' 'Why haven't we heard from him?'

Then, quietly, more hushed and whispered than the others, 'Have I failed you?'.

The breeze up there whistled in Babette's ears, her senses awakening.

The horizon was muddy with the coming dawn. Babette's eyes watered at the slightest glimmer of it. She had come so far tonight, it would be a tight run back, chased by the dawn. She began to drop through the branches, trailing leaves and pines down around her. Her pale flesh, hidden by nothing but freckles, scratched red with irritation from the bark. She dropped onto the cold dirt ground with barely a sound.

For a heartbeat she listened, watched. Heard nothing, saw nothing.

Babette took one last glance behind her and then she was moving, long legs taking her in loping strides, balls of her feet barely touching the ground. 

The pads of her feet were thick with callouses, but still they ached. She had a half hour at most to return to the place the tribe had settled.

The tribe. The remains of what was once the tribe.

Years ago there were halls, there were chapels and homes and lives being lived. There had been so many. After the exile, of what once thrived there remained only debris. Every time, going back to them, was a reminder of the fear. She hated being there, but there they would remain until Lylesburg, in his wisdom, decided it was time to move on again in his endless self-imposed exile.

Would the next inevitable exodus take them to a real home? Babette didn't think so.

Only one could truly lead them home. Babette knew. It was rare now, but sometimes the face she saw, the voice she heard, was his. She took a deep breath, took the smell on the four winds and inhaled in deep, filling herself with promise.

She ran.

-

In the years of exile, The Tribe had lived in worse.

It was a loose circle of five wooden huts in a clearing. Held a few feet off sun baked ground by rotting stairs, erected decades ago for some long forgotten event. 

A small greeting booth sat facing out into the forest, its glass front smashed in, floor littered with trash. Empty plastic pamphlet holders were screwed to each and every door, whatever gospel they once preached a mystery. 

Peeling yellow paint still stuck to the walls, windows with their glass long smashed out now draped with sacking and black bin bags. A few of the huts had skylights to let light pool on the rotting brown carpet. 

The largest two huts, containing waiting rooms attached to tiny offices, had broken ceiling fans instead. The snapped blades hanging down from the center of the rooms like some giant dead insect.

Only one hut still had a little balcony intact. A shabby construction facing the forest, nails protruding from the hand rest. A ratty tarpaulin formed an awning, flapping in the breeze.

Rachel stood solemnly upon the balcony and stared out, watching the red light of dawn begin to bleed over. 

Every dawn she found herself there. Rachel didn't sleep. 

Big brown eyes were set deep in bloodshot sockets, as if she were perpetually moments away from tears. She went to the stairs, looking where she stepped to avoid piercing her foot on another naked nail. What was a mother without a home for her children? Rachel was mother to so many.

She carried on, stepping slowly down the creaking steps and towards the forest, listening.

Rachel wished the girl was still small enough to pull behind her skirts. This was no life.

Rachel tugged her dresses tighter, not out of the morning chill, but as reassurance against the horrors in her head. The long black dresses she wore concealed her from throat to heel, the ghost white flesh of her skin looking like damp paper in the early light.

It came then, through the forest ahead. On four massive paws it trod, stealth abandoned in favor of speed. The thing crashed towards Rachel, and the woman let the tense air caught in her throat out in a sigh of relief.

The thing seemed part cat, part ape. 

A coat of coarse red fur covered it in places, the rest of its flesh bare and scorched like a sunburn. The face of a gargoyle leered, eyes bulging from its skull and protruding snout filled with angled teeth. It came to a thunderous halt before Rachel and looked up at the dark haired woman. Rachel's expression was fierce, torn between welcoming relief and scolding anger. The beast sulked by her into the shadow of the awning. It slumped to the ground, exhausted. Slowly, the thing began to change.

It always started with the hair, the red coat seeming to recede into flesh, up the beast's shoulders and thighs. Patches of pale skin appearing on legs and spine. Then the muscles began to loosen, become soft, lose definition. The skin of the thing looked liquid, bone and tissue rearranging itself. Arms lost width and strength, becoming slender again. Great paws stretching into thin fingers, nails caked in dirt from the forest floor.

Those big bulging eyes became smaller, but only a little.

Soon enough Babette stared up at Rachel, breathing through her teeth, fighting to find her voice.

“I'm sorry,” She croaked. The voice was harsh and strained, something inside her not quite completely free of the beast yet.

Rachel looked down at the gangly teenager while she could, for as soon as the girl stood she would have to crane her neck. A mother needed height to give the right impression.

“One day, I will stand here watching the sun rise,” Rachel began. Her voice was soft, quiet, “It will fill the world with light, the birds will take wing and all the flowers will come alive, and you will not have returned. Because you will have grown old, and learned nothing.”

Babette came to her feet then, brushing herself off. Her eyes were watering as the sky brightened.

“I'm sorry,” She repeated, her human voice returned. She shaded her eyes and looked to the door.

“Too old for these games,” Rachel chided, and turned her back on the girl. She uncoiled one of the many scarves that hung around her throat, and offered it to the girl.

“Cover yourself.” Rachel ordered.

The door opened with a crack, and Rachel stepped inside. 

Babette trailed a few steps behind, quick fingers tying the scarf into place around her hips. Once more she felt the sting of mother's words to a scolded child.

The door jam had been kicked in at shin level and splinters of wood stood out, Babette had to tug the door closed with a grunt before the loose metal latch caught hold and the door clicked into place. The room within was silent, air still cool from the night. 

Within hours it would be thick and unbearably hot. Babette willed the day to pass soon, for night to come and explorations to continue.

A few of the huts had mattresses, this one was without. Babette's corner was piled with blankets and pillows, sunlight barred from entry by various makeshift defenses over the windows.

Other members of the tribe would be out and roused soon, those among them that could tolerate the sun, enjoying the warmth and the light. The extended family of the breed that had lived and traveled together for so long. 

Babette remembered so many faces, so many that no longer numbered among the dozen or so individuals that were left following Lylesburg. None were truly fraternal to Babette of course, no real blood flowed between the breed. Among the tribe there were souls old enough to be Babette's ancestors. Even Rachel, who looked no older than a woman gracefully traversing her forties was decades older than she appeared.

While the others bathed in the warmth of day, Babette and Rachel had no choice but to sweat in their oven of a dwelling and tolerate the company of one another.

And the company of Mr Lylesburg, of course.

The door to the office stood still and closed. Lylesburg would be within, as always. The old one could tolerate the sunlight, but he barely left the little office anymore.

When Babette realized Rachel was making her way to the door her gut clenched. Not again. His rants, his lectures, his stale wisdom.

“Come,” Rachel said.

If she could have, Babette would have opened the door and left. But she was trapped already. Shunned with burning light from the world outside into the hut she would remain trapped in all day. She wanted to cry or scream or tear at the walls.

Instead she could do nothing. She rubbed at her eyes and went to the door. The old man welcomed her in.

Lylesburg sat cross legged upon a ragged carpet, the office shady and untouched by dawn. His face was hidden in gloom, his long hair held behind his head in a simple ponytail. His shirt was long, sleeves hanging to his knuckles. The hem was ragged and loose, the colour had the appearance of once being something other than the ghostly bleached white it was now. 

The exposed flesh around his neck was red and raw from his constant scratching with uneven fingernails. He did it now, the moment Babette stepped in.

Scratch scratch.

Babette hated the noise so much she wrinkled her nose before she could stop herself. 

Lylesburg ceased his nervous scratching and wiped his hands on his knee. The man's pale fingers twitched helplessly in search of a cigarette. He'd been out for days now. Always the first thing Lylesburg wanted every time they neared civilization.

“It's morning, child,” he said. 

Babette couldn't quite tell if he was meeting her gaze or looking elsewhere. Lylesburg always seemed preoccupied, staring into space, or at the shape kept rolled protectively in a white shroud in the corner behind him. 

The room smelled slightly, a soft scent of burning. Lylesburg always seemed to be burning something. Candles, incense. Trying to keep some faint memory of former tradition alive.

“Sit,” he said. His scabby hand flicked out with an impatient gesture.

She knelt, hands on her thighs. The white shape in the corner of the room lingered in Babette's peripheral vision. The first finger on her left hand automatically touched her breast, over her heart, and the tip of her tongue. The respectful gesture was not repeated by Lylesburg.

He seemed small when he sat like that, cross legged and curled in on himself. Everything about the imposing aura of the man had waned in the time since the exile. Babette saw through the man, saw the shake in his hands that he blamed on addiction. 

Faith had visibly drained out of Lylesburg like his very blood.

Lylesburg sat there now, picking at the hem of his shirt, and spoke. His voice could still carry weight when he wished it, old wisdom and years in his place had made him a man unaccustomed to arguing.

“Every night you leave. You run like a rabbit away from us and you leave. And every dawn at daybreak you come scurrying back, chased by the light, to hide again.”

Babette opened her mouth to speak, to tell Lylesburg she had no choice. She was silenced with a raised finger before speech could come.

“You are young. I know this Babette, don't think I'm so old I forget youth entirely. But you are not stupid.”

He flattened the palm of his hand, indicating the floor before him. Babette went from her kneel to a cross legged position. Supplicant, subservient. She stared at the floor between them, red curls hanging over her eyes. The lessons of the old man had worn thin over the years.

“Babette, child. I know you seek answers, but you will not find them in the forest. As you did not find them in the mountains, you did not find them in the fields, and you certainly did not find them in the city, when I had to put myself, and all of the family who travel with us, at great risk, to come and find you. The questions you have are internal, child. Seek within yourself, as I have told you before. Learn your place here. Talk to Rachel, she is nanny to the tribes gathered with us. Speak with the old ones, with the quiet ones. You may be young, as I have said, but I believe you know much of the world.”

More than you. Babette thought to herself. You hide in your gloom and you know nothing.

Lylesburg continued.

“But regardless of what you think you know, know this. I lead here as a man who seeks a home for his people. I seek the safety for our tribe. I seek for the good of all of us. I am on your side, child.”

“Yes,” Babette replied. She didn't look up

“Then why do you resist me so, child? Where do you go all night? What is it you search for?”

“Nothing, I just got lost. I didn't mean to be so late.”

The lie hung in the air for a moment. Babette listened to Lylesburg breathing. There was a quiet wheeze there that hadn't been there a few months ago. Babette wondered if others could hear it. 

“Come and sit before me irritated. Wrinkle you nose in disgust if you must. Disrespect me if you feel the need to do so. But do not sit there before me and lie to me, girl. I have known you since you were a tiny little helpless thing, mewling in the darkness. Don't think you can lie to me.”

Scratch scratch.

“Now. Where have you been tonight, child? And speak truth. I'm not too old to punish you.”

Babette stared at Lylesburg under her knotted eyebrows, teeth gnawing at the soft insides of her cheeks. Lylesburg coughed. Babette began.

“I smell something on the wind. Something new. Or... something old. I don't know. Something familiar.”

“All you need is here, child. We are all here,” Lylesburg opened his arms in what was clearly intended as a welcoming gesture. Babette saw it as arms closing around her, clutching, holding her still.

“We're not all here, are we?” she asked. Her tone was almost teasing. Lylesburg didn't miss it.

“What?” he snapped.

“We're dying here,” Babette continued, her hands clenched into fists resting knuckle first on the ground before her, “We're hiding here in the shadows between the cracks and we're dying here!”

“When it is time to move again, I will know, child. Why must you persist?”

“Because you'll never lead us home! Only he can! We must seek him, we must seek word from Cabal!”

Lylesburg was on his feet in an instant, his voice thunderous.

“Do not speak his name before me, how dare you?” He advanced upon Babette so fast she braced herself to be struck.

Lylesburg did not raise his hand, only stood there, his gloom seeming to fill the room inch by inch as he spoke.

“He is not here for you, I am. He did not lead us free of the fires, I did. He took what was offered, stole his blessings, and disappeared. He seeks us not!”

Babette looked up at Lylesburg. She wanted to scream back at him, to stand and roar and tell him the winds had changed, damn his arrogance, and see the hurt in his eyes when she reminded him that the baptizer had chosen another. She held her tongue.

Lylesburg seemed to become aware of himself all of a sudden. The gloom waned around him. He dropped to his knees. When he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

“He seeks us not, child. We are abandoned. Do not waste your hopes upon Cabal. We will thrive without him.”

Babette remained silent.

As Babette stepped, head hung, from Lylesburg's room, Rachel rose to touch her. Just a simple, reassuring hand upon the girl's shoulder. Babette nodded a silent thank you and went to her corner. 

The sheets were cool for the moment, but soon they would warm up as the sun began to rise. The oppressive heat would then swell, and Babette would be trapped. 

She curled into her blankets and shut her eyes to the world around her.

-

Babette pulled her knees up and curled her arms around them. She had slept poorly. Tears were in her eyes.

She wasn't cold. She wasn't afraid. 

She was surrounded by kin that she had traveled with for her entire life, and was completely alone.

It couldn't go on. Another day of it and she would simply expire. 

This world wasn't hers. It was too quiet, it was too empty. So full of sorrow and loss. 

But what had she lost? She didn't really know. Nothing she couldn't find again, she supposed.

She closed her eyes. The other world flooded over her. 

She existed in it, huddled there, the feelings pulling her in, womb-like. It was a voice this time, a man's voice. Hard and strong, full of anger and energy. She didn't know whose ears she heard through, whose senses she vicariously stole for a few moments. A flutter of emotion and tears came. This wasn't her world either.

She wouldn't open her eyes yet. She wasn't ready to go back. Babette wanted to stay where she was. She hung there, between worlds, with neither offering a place for her. There had to be another world for her. All the dreams couldn't be for nothing.

Babette opened her eyes. There would be a world between, and it would be hers. She knew that Lylesburg could not take her there. She rose. Rachel was too slow to stop her.

Babette stepped into Lylesburg's room, tossing the door open. The old one was scratching at his neck, peering out the window. He turned suddenly and looked at the girl before him.

Babette was naked. Tall, lanky. Her hair hung in dirty curls around her shoulders. Freckles coloured the white skin over nose, breasts, and thighs. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Wide eyes reflected the light from a small row of candles as she stared back at Lylesburg.

“Child, for his sake. I've had enough of you for one night,” He said, irritated.

Babette ignored him. She looked to the shape. The one in the corner, wrapped and silent. The old man stepped into her line of sight.

“Remove yourself, girl.”

Lylesburg opened his mouth to speak again, but must have seen something in her eyes. The beast behind the girl's face peering out. 

He raised a hand to protect himself, but her claws came up too fast. Sharp little razors that parted old flesh. Lylesburg fell, crying out a shapeless word.

Blood streamed from where she had cut deep, one frail arm twitching in pain.

The majesty that surrounded the man fled like so many scuttling bugs. Babette looked down at him. Lylesburg's face was the face of any scared old man. Red rimmed, watery eyes stared out in fear and shock.

“Child,” he croaked, barely a whisper. She towered over him. She was always called the child, but Babette had grown.

“I'm not a child. You are not fit to lead,” Babette said. Lylesburg raised his arms to ward off another strike, but none came. He looked across his shoulder in entreaty, but the shape in the corner remained silent.

When he saw her moving towards the wrapped bundle, Lylesburg immediately became frantic.

“No! Babette, you can't!” he screamed, clawing at the floor beneath him.

She stood. The bundle in her arms was the size of a child, but it seemed to weight nothing.

Wrapped tightly and neatly within the white cloth, Babette could feel a stirring. Not movement, but consciousness. 

Awareness. 

A comforting warmth fed into her lungs, breathed in through her nostrils and her mouth. The taste of ozone on her tongue. Her heart beat faster, lit with energy. In her arms she held the world.

Lylesburg stared at her in horror.

“How dare you?” he asked. His eyes were red with tears as Babette stepped over him, the bundle in her arms like a babe in swaddling clothes.

Lylesburg screamed after her in denial and rage. She left him lying on the floor there, in his blood.

Rachel blocked the door as Babette approached it. The woman's expression an unreadable mask. Her eyes seemed to search Babette's face, looking for something.

Slowly, Rachel stepped aside, leaving the door open and yawning into the fresh night.

“Find him,” she whispered.

Babette wanted to say something to the woman she called mother, but had no words to do so. She smiled, and in a flurry was gone into the night.

Babette felt the gazes of the tribe upon her as she left the building. The bundle in her arms was shapeless, but unmistakable. She began to walk towards the forest.

Shouts were raised, even a cry of horror. A voice begged for someone to stop her.

Babette forced herself not to look back, not to look at any of the faces belonging to the only family she had ever known. 

The strength that flowed through her from the bundle gave her drive, and cause and love and power all in a flood of emotion so great she wanted to fly.

I am not abandoning you. I am saving all of us.

She began to run. Had anyone been chasing, they couldn't catch her.

Gods, Babette could run.

-

Lylesburg was upon the floor, staring down at the droplets of his own blood, as Rachel entered. When she looked down upon him he glared daggers at her.

“This is your fault,” he said. Rachel stared back through the accusation, her expression the same as ever. Lylesburg fought to raise himself to his elbows.

“She's mad. The girl is crazed, Rachel. Curb her. We must reclaim Him. Insane,” the old man's words were flowing together, becoming mutterings. He held out his hands for help.

Rachel came towards him.

“She's right,” Rachel said. Lylesburg gaped, shocked.

“Rachel...” he began.

“You have lost your right to lead,” her expression remained unchanged as she dropped down over him.

Rachel's hands tightened around Lylesburg's throat.

-

Babette followed the winds. 

The stink was back. She followed it without thought. She seemed never to tire, her legs driven by an energy far beyond her own flesh.

Somewhere in the back of her head was a link, a link to someone important. A thread to the one fit to lead. A hope. A life. A world between. She'd heard his name whispered in the darkness, she'd vicariously felt his fingertips on her flesh, tasted his kiss.

Babette pulled the bundle closer to her breast, cradling it tight. 

To it, she whispered.

“Take me to him.”

Heroes of Hollywood.

   It was ten thirty on the corner of Franklin and Los Palmas when I encountered one of Hollywood's superheroes.
I had been minding my own, keeping watch for a parking space amongst the nose to tail rows either side of the road. Parking was a nightmare in Hollywood in this season. Harrison Ford was in town for the premier and the tourists were thick.
The road was busy with cars looking for spots to ram themselves into like salmon, and I stared down at the floor beneath me, contemplating the folds in my long leather coat. Then it seemed a strange quiet fell upon the area, and I looked up to meet the wide eyes of a strange individual standing beside me. How had they got there so quick or so quietly? I can only assume metahuman powers.
"Hey." Came an elegant voice. Between two fingers the newcomer toyed with a bright green piece of candy.
"Evening." I replied, looking them over with a quick glance. No cars seemed to pass anymore. The night was quiet, time suspended.
The strange individual was wearing knee high black riding boots that just fit under the rim of a black skirt that flailed around long legs in the wind. Hips were held in a tight belt, into which was tucked a pink corset top featuring some pretty boastful cups. Blond hair fell over shoulders.
"Do you fight crime?" Came the voice again.
There was a moment before I responded where I tried to look into the big blue eyes that shone out from behind the wide black masquerade mask upon the strangers face, but I regained my composure.
"Not professionally, no." Said I.
"Oh." The stranger said, somewhat disappointed. "Because there was a pretty big thing over here a few days ago, with some pretty bad guys."
The big eyes swept my coat.
"Thought I saw you there. Are you not with the rest of the Hollywood superheroes?" A gloved hand came up to stroke at a powerful chin that bore the faint stubble of a few days without a razor.
"No." I responded, my accent obvious. "I'm from out of town."
"Oh, a crossover? Then welcome to Hollywood. I'm Elizabeth."
Elizabeth extended a slender hand, which I shook reluctantly, fearing her inevitable super strength.
"But most people around here call me..." She paused, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "The Black Canary."
I nodded in recognition, shaking the offered hand.
"If you ever need me, I'll be over there." She said, raising a cigarette to her lips and walking away with a soft sashay to the broad hips. The Black Canary strode across the road, her heels clicking through the parking lot, and into the void between the park and a huge storage canister. The darkness enveloped her entirely. After a moment the softly glowing flare of a cigarette could be seen.
Hollywood was in good hands.

Chimps

The members of the board at the Los Angeles Zoo sat about their wide table and once again got into the same debate they always did. Was it really the best course of action for every animal in the zoo to be a chimp?
Of course it had started out as a brilliant cost cutting maneuver. The chimps that had been taught to operate the elephant suit were efficient, much easier to feed than the elephant, and seemed to genuinely enjoy their job. It took eight chimps to operate the complex elephant outfit, stomping around the elephant enclosure, hooting and making elephant noises, and the public was none the wiser. Soon it was a simple process to slowly begin converting all the large mammals to chimp operated exhibitions. The giraffes were a task, but the chimps took well to the tutorship of balancing on one anothers shoulders within the neck of the costume and operating the mouth and eyes.
The board of directors looked around at one another and finally the inevitable question was raised.
"What else can we put the chimps to work as?" The deputy director asked his fellows. The large mammals had been only the beginning of course.
Each chimp enjoyed his or her work, being paid a double ration of bananas, and taking advantage of the chance to better themselves. The chimps in the gazelle costumes had learned to run fast. The chimps in the lion costumes were adept at replicating the subtle menace of the big cats flawlessly. The alligators were specially trained chimps in wetsuits and breathing equipment.
Trouble had arisen when the smaller creatures came up for review, and it was decided that if possible they should be replaced by more chimps.
"But what of the size concerns?" Came the troubled query from a board member. "No chimp can possibly operate a five inch wide stony toad costume effectively!"
There had been much stroking of chins and comparing of possible answers over that one. The final solution had simply been to construct larger sized costumes and place the exhibits behind craftily distorted glass to distort the apparent size of the creatures to the viewing public. Once more, they were none the wiser. Even most of the chimps were now chimps in other chimp costumes. Chimps that desired to explore their sexuality or their roles in society by changing appearance within the boundaries of their own species.
Four hundred chimps now worked and operated within the confines of the LA Zoo. There were virtually no other animals left.
A janitor had entered the board room and began his sweeping of the floors surrounding the table. The deputy director watched as the man swept calmly, arranging the dust and debris from a week of debate into neat piles. Something about the way the man's skin held to his joints was odd though, as if he were not a man at all.
The deputy director narrowed his eyes and watched the other members of the board.
"Surely not," he said, his voice tinged with concern.
The other members of the board looked back at him with an almost curious expression.
"But of course." Came the voice of the Zoo Director. He smoked a cigar and rapped his fingers on the table. "Why, a regular man would want his hourlies and his salaries, his time off and his lunch breaks. These fine chimps only want their bananas and the chance to better themselves. Why, what greater challenge to the charming animals than to learn the subtle nuances of the human being?"
The janitor gave a curt nod to the assembled board of directors, and left, sweeping his neat piles out with him. The door closed behind him.
The deputy director watched as the chairman of the science committee pulled a banana from her pocket and began to eat it in silence.
"Then, fellow members of the board, I ask you: Are there any among you who are not chimps in the skins of my dead fellow board members?" The deputy director looked warily about as the other board members exchanged glances, nods, shrugs.
The Zoo director crushed out his cigar on the table before him and dusted his hands, the skin fitting just a little tight over his long simian fingers. The deputy director noticed only now, the Zoo director's accent was not the perfect Brooklyn twang anymore, but a practiced actor's estimation thereof.
"Then, It seems there is only one job left for the chimps to be put to," he said.
The deputy director tried to rise from his seat, but the chimps were already upon him.