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Johnny Eponymous
A Pen Name for Christopher J. Garcia
1260 Cortez Dr. #4
Sunnyvale, CA 94086
650 964 4322
thefabulousshow@yahoo.com

The Path of the Ancients

By

Johnny Eponymous

Lord, take mercy on the souls of the brave men and women who perished in the

footpath of the ancients.

Marlin Bridger, June 18th, 1886 edition of the Happenstance Revolve

Avalon Arizona lay in ruins that streaked smoke in a great lonely like a lawman’s

cigar as he rides across the plains. Not a single building stood beyond the wrath, the

splinters of the theatre and saloon littering Broadway. The horses had felt it first and ran,

three dragging a hitching post behind them as they managed to distance the ancients at

full panic’s sprint. The surviving newspaperman had named them the Ancients, unaware

of the creation timeline that led to them. He watched the fury from the top of the coach,

listening the calls of the townsfolk as they dashed away on foot, on penny farthings, on

pig or goatback.

“The gorge!” screamed the survivors who ran from the sound of the stampede of

Old Scratch’s herd. “They came out of the gorge! From Shelton’s Gorge!”
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Shelton’s Gorge, the only inheritance Ronald Shelton had received after the

cancer proved too much for his father, the noble miner who had spent his life digging in

the gorge he won in a fixed poker game. He had discovered a mineral, sheltonite, and

had used it to great effect, lining the roof of his work hut with it, heating his nights

without waste. He had died after a solid month in the gorge, only leaving once the sores

began to show. Ronald had gone down after burying his father in his most precious of

places: directly under the front walk of the bordello. No one had seen Ronald, nor his

collection of lizards, in more than a year, though the sounds of one of the Shelton-Bonnet

machines cutting, digging, sifting, and snuffling sheltonite out of the gorge could be

heard for miles around, day and night, sometimes even over the raucous of the boys

outside of the Burly-Q. Leonard Hailen went to the top of the saloon with his spyglass,

saw the piles of sheltonite…and something moving in the great plume of dust that the

mining machine kicked up. Leonard left town the next day. The town left town the

following afternoon.

Marcus Andersen managed to catch a runaway horse, the circular path it had

chosen only made it scare stronger. Marcus rode for Tombstone, fifty-seven miles away,

to the only man able to help them take on the Ungodly that climbed from Shelton’s

Gorge: Professor James Bonnet, the single greatest scientist in the history of Arizona.

The city of Happenstance stood an hour longer than Avalon had the day before.

The brick of the jail had taken the Ancients more time, and the stone of the courthouse,

build with ill-gotten good money, had taken two complete passes. From this reporter’s
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vantage point, I can see that the Ancients are bunking down in the flames with embers for

beds.

Marlin Bridger, June 19th, 1886 Edition of the Fair Weather Bee

The Ancients screamed as they made contact with the first building, Reverend

Louis Fabian’s small borrowed wood shack. The Reverend himself remained a vision of

faith, even as the meter-long crawl pierced him through the gut. Impaled, the beast in the

lead kept him on, dragging the man of God through the town that never cared much for

him or his sermons. One of the other Ancients bit into the impediment, starting a minor

scuffle that ended up flattening the south side of town. The lizards gripping each other’s

jams, rolling and lashing tails that cracked the baked ground.

The town got a much better look than Avalon had before the falling. They had

even heard of it in the paper, from the refugee stories and the Bridger article. Some had

fled, run for Fair Weather, Bisbee, or for homes they left in the East years before. Then

again, most stayed.

“Why would they come here?”

“Bridger? The same fella who wrote that Thunderbird story?”

“Just another rotgut still exploding, nothing more. Twenty foot lizards? Ninty

feet long? It’s a bunch of poppycock!”

Some put themselves on top of Ragnorak hill, looking down at a great train of

desert kicked into the air. The monster were clear, even at twelve miles down, but every

one made an excuse not to run, not to go for the safety of the hills. Bridger stayed longer

than any of them, watching as they crashed into the town. Four of them, each a beast
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with a crest, a ridge of back with spikes that grated wood to dust. Martin laughed as the

first brave men since the Ancient assault began came towards the monsters, rifles and

pistols sending useless metal to the hides. Perhaps Happenstance lasted longer do the

annoyance that shot at them attack, and were searched out and turned from man to

memory in mouth and under foot.

Bridger was prepared to die, ready to meet the monsters, but the stills behind the

saloon exploded, sending up flames of blue, turning Happenstance to inferno.

And the monsters stopped, turned and rolled in the fire, played in the flames.

Eventually, they curled up, napping in the sun, the fire, in the ruins of 387 lives. Martin

ran for Fair Weather, only 6 miles to the south. He would have at least one more article,

would be able to warn another town that would not listen.

Run, Heaven’s Ridge, for the Four Ancient Deaths are coming! No man who

stands before them will live to tell the sight of teeth, tail, and talon. Those who believe

me will live to see another day or two, at least until the Apocalypse comes to your hiding

place and sends you to your Final. Run, Heaven’s Ridge! Run now!

Marlin Bridger, June 20th, 1886 Edition of the Heaven’s Ridge Gazette

Marcus Andersen arrived at the Bonnet warehouse, just a mile outside of

Tombstone. By far the largest structure in Arizona: eighty feet high, and a Capital’s

width across it’s widest, obviously built as matters required more space. Tin and wood

and rock made the warehouse, barely hidden behind the small rise that separated it from

Tombstone proper. Marcus led his exhausted horse to the trough outside the warehouse,
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let him drink. Marcus in his terror had gotten lost, ended up in mining towns far to the

south, managed to steal a drink of water, but forced the horse to drive on, making for

Tombstone, for Bonnet and his inventions.

“Who’s there?”

The rich tones of Scotland came through the voice that rang off of the metal wall.

The great professor walked out, his arms smeared with grease up to the elbows, his face

showing clean lines where beads of sweat went rolling onto the innovation of the day.

The Bonnet eyes, grey as the hammered metal that he worked, stared through the dirt and

sized the young man in front of him. Marcus had never been thought of as much of a

strong man, though he had twice won boxing matches with men who worked the mines.

“My name is Marcus Andersen. I’m a friend of Ronald Shelton’s, Professor

Bonnet.”

Bonnet stepped back, smiled a grin that spoke of his years as a favorite on the

Western lecture circuit.

“Well then, you should come in. Any friend and Ronnie’s and so forth.”

Bonnet kicked open the door and submerged his forearms into a tub of water. He

spoke as the water began to splash onto the desert that served as the floor in this portion

of the warehouse.

“I haven’t seen Shelton in at least a year. Probably more. Not since I delivered

the Manual Mining machine. How is the old boy?”

Marcus knocked some of the dust from his clothes.

“I am fairly certain he’s dead, sir. Most of the town is. Something…something

destroyed Avalon yesterday.”

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The Professor dried his hands. Walked to an elephant foot umbrella holder and

removed a pair of glass handling tongs.

“Really? You mean the whole town? Not just another of Morris’ stills knocking a

building to the ground?”

Bonnet opened a small safe and pulled the door open. He spoke to Marcus as he

removed a dull rod from the safe with the tongs.

“What could do that? Thunderbirds? That article last year was a hoax. A well-

played hoax, but still a hoax.”

Marcus watched the professor closely as he dropped the rod into a cylinder,

spilling steaming water onto the ground. The Professor kicked a handle, closing the lid.

The sound of power running through hoses came echoing through the warehouse.

“Lizards. Giant lizards. They came from the gorge.”

The professor watched as hoses curved, filled with steam and began providing

movement to a giant staircase. Marcus watched as the slats moved up the incline before

they went vertical and then folded flat for the trip to the bottom. He was hypnotized by

the complex workings.

“Lizards. Giant Lizards. I’m afraid that I don’t quite find…”

“Honestly, sir, the town is no more, and lizards are to blame. I thought that you

would be the best person to come to, the only one who could come up with a way to

destroy them.”

Bonnet walked across the warehouse, grabbing a wrench from a table before

arriving at the staircase. Bonnet wailed three fast shots into the side of the pulley that

controlled the guide. Marcus came to Bonnet’s side, pulling a small rag from his pocket,
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wiping the sweat that had gathered somewhere along the ride. He spoke through the

cleaning.

“Sir, how well did you know Avalon?”

Bonnet flipped a lever and steam began to vent out of the scrub oak chimney.

“I spent the better part of a year in Lil’s.”

“Then you remember Leonard Hailen, the man who was born in Avalon, drank his

first in Avalon, and always swore he’d die in Avalon?”

Bonnet stopped, returned the lever, reestablishing the seal.

“We had many a drunken hour together, up watching the stars with his spyglass. I

guess you’re going to tell me that he’s dead, just like the rest of the town.”

Marcus watched as the staircase began again.

“No, he’s one of the survivors. He looked into the gorge the other day. Whatever

he saw scared him, sent him out of town. He came here. He’s in Tombstone.”

Bonnet let the machine run and went to a stand of small devices, grabbing a penny

farthing.

“He’ll be at the Birdcage if he’s in town. Your horse ready to go?”

Marcus followed the professor out of the warehouse onto the ground. The

professor climbed on his bicycle, and Marcus grabbed the reins of the horse, the horse

that didn’t want to move from the trough.

“You better hope that Leonard’s there, boy-o, ‘cause I think I’ve got a good

thrashing left in me.”

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Heaven’s Ridge fell against the hard desert ground, a pile of broken walls and

bodies that tried to fall the Ancients. They have won. The monsters have defeated man.

The ancients will continue to the sea, and from there only God can tell. Heaven’s Ridge

has fallen, and many more like it will follow soon. I have made my peace, and all the

readers should either do the same, or run, fast and far to a place unknown.

Martin Bridger, June 21st, 1886 edition of the Cottonwood Sage Master