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. 

Carathis (Art)

Carathis, by Chirun

Movie Review: Suicide Squad.

DC have got a long way to go to catch up with Marvel when it comes to movies.
After the disastrous critical failure of Batman vs Superman, it's clear they needed to spruce things up a bit, and you really would have had to have been under a rock for the last couple months not to have seen the banners, billboards, tv spots, and multiple merchandising tie-ins to DC's latest ensemble the-bad-guys-are-the-good-guys action mash-up, Suicide Squad.

Who the main character really is in Suicide Squad, it's a little hard to say. We begin with the mind behind the whole idea, military officer Amanda Waller, a high ranking strategist who is selling her idea of an elite team of super-villains, to be used in the event of a superhuman terrorist threat. With the powers of the mysterious Enchantress under her thumb, she begins assembling her team, selecting the finest thieves and hit-men from the darkest cells of Belle Reve Supermax penitentiary.

Amanda's trump card, the incredibly powerful Enchantress, has an ulterior motive. That of the destruction of the human race, naturally, and when given a little too much leeway with her powers, soon seeks out the means to put her apocalyptic plans into action. When Enchantress and her demonic minions begin laying waste to a major American city, Task Force X, the titular Squad, are put into action under the command of hard edged soldier Rick Flag, not to save the day, but just to rescue a person of value from the equation and get out of there alive.

The set up and the swift devolution into anarchy leading up to the actual mission is a big chunk of the films run-time, and if there's a first place you could criticize Suicide Squad, it's the pacing. A little too much time spent here, not enough there, and then a sudden apocalyptic threat, doesn't go down so smooth. The ride to the films third act is bumpy to say the least. Fortunately, the characters that populate the film are where the majority of the fun to be found lies.

The best performance in the film, without much surprise, is of course Will Smith. He's Will Smith, playing Will Smith, and as always, it's great fun. He has a character arc, a snappy personality, scene after scene introducing his incredible skills and the force that drives him. He is of course the big star of the piece, so naturally a ton of screen time is going to be devoted to him, but it would have been nice to see more of the other enjoyable members of the group, like Captain Boomerang, who gets a laugh from the audience on the majority of his dialogue, or the great Killer Croc, both of whom we get next to nothing of by way of backstory. Some characters, like Kabuki and Slipknot, displayed prominently on posters and promotional material, barely make an impact on the film's events at all.

There are many fine performances among the multiple cast members, like Viola Davis as the stern faced Amanda Waller, the cold commanding military commander who organised the whole shindig. She's a great character, but needed a bit more variety to her scenes than stone faced dialogue, in my opinion. El Diablo, who takes the role of the heart of the team, is lovable, enjoyable to watch, and just plain kicks ass when he needs to. Rick Flag, the commander of the team, is a confusing character however, he's not at all badly acted, he's just not a likable character. Everyone knows the goody-goody 'soldier' among the dirty dozen is always the boring character you root to get killed. So why then was Flag such a huge part of the film? He gets more screen time than everyone but Smith's Deadshot, and his love affair with Enchantress is actually the film's main character based plot. He doesn't seem to be intended to be likable, and he's not particularly heroic, not even in the 'honor among thieves' way.

A film with an ensemble this big isn't without some obvious duds, of course, and Suicide Squad does have a few turds in the punch-bowl.

Harley Quinn is a character that people have waited YEARS to see on the big screen. She's one of the most significant comic characters of modern day, and possibly the most popular female DC character ever. The character we get here, is something of a disgrace. Almost every line Harley delivers is a flat joke, and she comes across as a dull imitation. Her accent is sporadic and uneven, her personality is unclear and undefined. She's referred to as crazy a half dozen times in her first scene, yet at no point in the movie acts remotely insane. In fact, we see her clearly change her attitude to give the appearance of being crazy to others more than once, giving the suggestion that the entire crazy thing is an act put on by a completely sane character.

Harley Quinn wasn't the worst character in the film however. The Razzie without a doubt goes to Enchantress, who I really don't think could have been worse.
A body swapping Goddess of the old world controlled by Amanda Waller, Enchantress delivers a frankly nonsensical performance as the film's main villain. The visual design we see on the movie posters, a green skinned, black haired hag, looks fantastic for the few scenes she's in, and blissfully keeps her mouth shut, but for the most part of the film she takes the form of an idiotically gyrating everyday white girl who looks like the Empress from The Neverending Story, delivering stilted dialogue in a dopey deep voice. A huge amount of plot development is devoted to the relationship Flag has with the 'real' girl trapped within Enchantress, but as an audience, it's impossible to connect with this relationship as we never meet that character. We see a few scenes of an awkward, gawky woman in big spectacles deliver a few lines, but we don't see the lovable character she's apparently meant to be, and that we should be rooting to escape Enchantresses control. A poor villain is an inexcusable error in a superhero film, and having a great antagonist for our Squad to battle against would have changed the dynamic of the entire film for the better.

Of course, they did have that antagonist there the whole time, which is frankly baffling. The character everyone wants to know about, the latest in a long line of performances that define the way a comic book villain can be played, The Joker.
Leto's performance is definitely not the character we know from the comics. He's a street smart gangster, obsessed with obscene displays of wealth and outrageous showmanship. We wouldn't see the comic book version of the character owning a high end strip club, wielding a gold plated pimp cane, and driving a purple chrome Lamborghini, but this is a new Joker, and he's king of the underworld. The few flashback glimpses we see of The Joker and Harley running things from their ivory tower, the criminal world operating in fear of them, are great to see, and there really is no excuse that this wasn't the plot of the film. Why have a character like the Joker, well known as the most popular comic book villain IN HISTORY and use him for less than ten minutes of screen time?

Suicide Squad is not a bad film.
It's extremely popular to hate it right now, and I think it's not getting fair treatment as a standalone film. It's being lumped into the fun-to-tear-apart DC cinematic universe.
Although it is full of references to the larger world around it, the glimpse of the Flash isn't really ham-fisted in for example, and the sporadic appearances of Batman are actually pretty cool. Although I fully expected it to be the case, I didn't feel that it's PG-13 rating severely castrated it either. There weren't any obvious scenes that felt distinctly hampered by the lack of an R rating. If an R rating had been the case, we might have seen more dynamic enemies than faceless, safe-to-slaughter blob people, however.

A bad film has wonky parts that fit together poorly into a displeasing whole.
Suicide Squad has the parts. They're there. The cinematography is great, the soundtrack is top tier, and some of the characters are tremendous fun. The parts just don't fit together all that well. Massive slow motion scenes slow down the great cinematography, the soundtrack is SO full of hits, they play ten seconds of a genre defining song before cutting it off to move to the next track, three or four times in the same scene. Why put these enjoyable characters in a story that doesn't fit them? With protagonists so full of life, why make the villain a goofy caricature devoid of personality with the poorest acting performance in the entire film?

It feels like Suicide Squad wasn't quite the main event, and that this was the sequel, or the spin off, even. They had a great villain, in the form of the Joker, and they put him in as many scenes as they could manage, so why not just make the film about him instead of the uninteresting, uninspired and frankly unenjoyable Enchantress?

Something could be done with Suicide Squad. Whether they are waiting for the home media release to re-edit it and force everyone to pay for it again, like they did with BvS, we'll see.

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.

Carathis (Art)

Lovely piece of Carathis by the extremely talented Sweeney-Boo