Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  Presently, Diego kissed his wife, slid the revolver into his left jacket pocket and looked at Xzavier. “Continue.”

  The Mexican released Nathaniel’s collar and prodded him forward. Presently, the captive walked, followed by his captors; Rosalinda remained behind.

  The trio entered a wide hall and turned to the left. At the far end of the passageway, Nathaniel saw a rectangle of amber light—the entrance to the parlor.

  A shotgun blast resounded.

  The trio paused, and Diego withdrew his revolver. Nathaniel’s heart raced.

  “No!” boomed a stentorian voice. “He dies slow.” Nathaniel recognized the speaker as John Lawrence Plugford.

  A piteous mewling sound emanated from the adjacent room.

  “Where’s our damn associate!?!” shouted a man who was either Stevie or Brent Plugford.

  “We are bringing him to you!” Diego yelled up the hall.

  “You have one minute,” said a cold and certain voice that Nathaniel knew belonged to the tall gunfighter, Long Clay. “Each additional minute will result in another execution.”

  Muttering an imprecation, Diego secreted his weapon. “We are coming now!” He gripped the captive’s left shoulder and pulled. “¡Rapidamente, rapidamente!”

  Nathaniel clutched his burning stomach and hobbled forward. Xzavier hastened his strides with indelicate shoves. In front of the advancing men, the amber portal grew.

  Nathaniel, Diego and Xzavier reached the end of the hallway and entered the vast funereal parlor. Opposite them stood Long Clay, wearing an iron tabard and a weird rubber mask atop his usual black clothing.

  Xzavier stood Nathaniel upright.

  Diego said, “We have done exactly as you—”

  Long Clay’s guns flashed.

  Chapter XV

  Your Whole Goddamn Life is Over

  Two muzzles glared upon the clear disks that were Brent Plugford’s goggles. Across the parlor, the left hand of the bearded Spaniard exploded, as the head of the Mexican with the branded neck jerked back. The perfectly concurrent shots resounded as one loud report within the parlor.

  Presently, the cowboy adjusted his grip upon his sister, whom he shielded from the tableau.

  Long Clay’s gleaming barrels blazed a second time. The eyes of the bearded man turned black, and gore erupted from the rear of his twice-pierced head.

  Gurgling, the Hispanic men fell to the nonagonal clay tiles.

  The dandy, covered with dark fluids, stumbled forward, saw the blasted guards and was stunned.

  Brent shouted at Nathaniel, “Get to the exit!”

  “Over here!” yelled Patch Up from his position beside the stairwell.

  Overwhelmed by the tableau, the dandy stared blankly at the negro.

  “Go to him!” shouted Brent. “Now!”

  “Get!” prompted Stevie.

  A loud wail resounded in the hallway behind the dandy, and he turned around.

  “Clear out!” yelled Brent.

  A woman raced up the passage, toward the bearded man. “¡Diego!” she yelled. “¡Diego, mi Diego!”

  The stunned dandy backed away, and the woman, who was pregnant, fell upon the body. Brent felt ill—he knew that the gunfighter had just killed the husband of the expecting mother.

  “¡Diego, mi Diego!”

  “Get away from her,” Brent shouted at the bewildered dandy, “and go!”

  The widow reached into her husband’s jacket.

  Long Clay pointed his guns at her face and heart.

  “Don’t let her draw!” yelled Brent.

  The dandy lunged at the pregnant woman.

  Nathaniel’s back obscured the struggle for whatever weapon laid within the dead man’s pocket.

  “I kill, I kill!” the Mexican woman yelled, “¡Diablos—estan diablos!”

  Long Clay pointed his revolvers at whatever parts of the pregnant widow were visible to him.

  Ubaldo looked at gunfighter. “You no can kill the pregnant woman.”

  The dandy yelled at his bereaved adversary in Spanish.

  Long Clay aimed at the woman’s forehead and shoulder.

  Stevie walked to the edge of the dais and pointed his shotgun at the entangled duo.

  “Hold,” John Lawrence Plugford commanded his youngest child.

  The dandy won a small revolver from the woman’s grasp, stumbled backwards and fell onto his buttocks.

  Brent relaxed, as did Dolores.

  “¡Vas al Infierno!” The widow threw a hard fist into the dandy’s stomach.

  Shrieking, the tall gentleman dropped the gun. The firearm clattered against the tiles.

  The widow lunged for the weapon.

  “No!” yelled Brent.

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Patch Up.

  Dolores hid behind her brother’s iron tabard.

  The widow grabbed the revolver.

  Long Clay fired.

  The pregnant woman shrieked.

  Brent’s stomach twisted, and Dolores gasped.

  The revolver and two curled fingers struck the tiles.

  “Get the gun,” Long Clay said to the dandy. “Quickly.”

  Nathaniel clasped the weapon and collapsed onto his stomach. Beside him, the widow clutched her bleeding hand and wailed.

  “Don’t let her get it again.” Long Clay switched out his guns for two fully-loaded replacements.

  The prone dandy, pale and convulsive, grunted a reply, and Brent surmised that he had been tortured during his captivity.

  “Let’s make our departure,” announced John Lawrence Plugford.

  Upon the dais, Stevie faced the prostrated captives. “Stay flat on the ground ‘til we’re gone. ¿You Comprende?”

  “Si,” said the whores and gentlemen.

  The young man leapt from the dais and walked toward the dandy. Long Clay monitored the dark catacomb portals with oscillating guns.

  Patch Up shouted across the hall, “Once I’ve made a survey, I’ll signal.” The negro turned to the stairwell, pointed his repeater rifle into the darkness and ascended.

  “Get that gun ready,” Brent said to Dolores.

  The redheaded woman clasped the nickel-plated revolver with both hands and pointed it forward. “Okay.”

  Then, the cowboy carried his sister past the blasted guards, toward the exit. The vast subterranean parlor was quiet, but for the sounds of footsteps and sobs. Brent tried not to think about the widow.

  After ten strides, the twins reached the gunfighter and his captive.

  “Look at me!” yelled Dolores.

  Ubaldo turned around and looked at the redheaded woman.

  “You hurt me for eight months,” Dolores said, “but I’m leavin’ this place, and you’re whole goddamn life is over!” She aimed the revolver at the man’s lower abdomen and squeezed the trigger. Gunpowder exploded flashing white.

  A jet of urine sprayed from Ubaldo’s pierced bladder, and he dropped to his knees, whimpering like a puppy. He shut his shiny eyes, and pink tears dripped from his open nasal cavity. His face slammed against the clay tiles.

  Dolores aimed at the prostrated man’s back and fired.

  Ubaldo’s vertebrae cracked. He choked and twitched, facedown in the puddle of blood and urine that his punctured body grew.

  Brent saw that Dolores’s hands were shaking.

  “Get going,” ordered Long Clay.

  As the cowboy carried his sister toward the stairwell, which was less than fifteen yards away she cracked her gun in half, replaced the spent cartridges and sealed the weapon.

  A dog barked.

  “Get off of him!” shouted Stevie.

  Brent looked over his shoulder and saw that the widow had fa
stened her bloody hands to the dandy’s neck.

  “I’ll get her.” Stevie set the heel of his right boot against the woman’s neck and shoved her backwards. He pointed his shotgun at her inhabited belly.

  “Don’t!” yelled Brent and Dolores.

  “You wanna have that little amigo?” asked Stevie.

  The pale and bleeding woman seemed to understand that the young man’s threat was real, and she remained still, clasping three red fingers with five others. Behind her in the hallway, a rust-colored mongrel growled.

  Stevie hooked a hand beneath the dandy’s armpit and helped him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

  The saturated gentleman clutched his stomach as if it might drop out of his abdomen and strode toward the exit.

  “Grab that dog!” John Lawrence Plugford said to Stevie.

  “Okay.”

  Brent carried Dolores through the portal and into the dark stairwell.

  “Come on up,” Patch Up shouted from above, “it’s clear!”

  “Okay!” The cowboy looked down at his sister. “We’re nearly out.”

  Dolores pointed the shaking gun forward.

  Brent was a strong man (he did not abstain from digging latrines or breaking broncos or running fences or working tack as did most cowboy foremen), but his additional encumbrances—especially his sister and the iron tabard—made his climb up the steps an arduous journey. A minute of strained exertion brought him to the middle of the stairwell, where he paused, panted and rested his burning muscles.

  “Still clear?” the cowboy shouted up the steps.

  “Still clear!” confirmed the negro.

  Brent resumed his ascent and heard his father enter the nether end of the stairwell.

  “I can’t believe it,” muttered Dolores.

  Above the siblings, the dark portal grew.

  Brent transcended the final step and entered the anteroom, wherein hung the tapestry of the ancient ziggurat. Only one brass censer remained alight, and the cinnamon-and-vanilla smoke it yielded did not conceal the ripe smells of lichens and blood.

  “I can’t believe it’s happening.”

  The cowboy carried his sister toward the vertical blue line that shone upon the far side of the anteroom. Prone beneath the glowing slit was a dead man who clutched a blunderbuss. The colorful feathers of a sunken arrow sprouted from his left nostril like a rectilinear flower.

  Dolores pointed toward the deep blue light. “That’s outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tears poured down the woman’s face.

  “All clear?” inquired Brent.

  “All clear!” Patch Up confirmed from outside.

  “I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

  Brent carried his sister past the last censer, kicked open the iron door and walked through the portal. The twins entered an azure world.

  “Oh my God,” said Dolores. There was joy in her voice.

  A dark blue Patch Up stood beside his dark blue wagon, pointing the bright blue barrel of his repeater rifle across the deep blue plain, toward mountains comprised of variegated blue hues. He waved a light blue palm at the siblings.

  “How’d it get to be mornin’?” asked Dolores.

  “I don’t know,” Patch Up said, “I thought it was still hours away.”

  Brent surveyed the horizons, all of which were clear, and counted his crew’s horses, all of which were present. Sprawled nearby were seven men with arrows in their heads and hearts.

  “That Deep Lakes came with you,” stated Dolores.

  “He did.”

  The woman pointed a blue finger at the pale palfrey. “You brung out Elizabeth.”

  “Think you can ride her?”

  “I can, but Yvette can’t sit hers.”

  “I know it.”

  Brent heard someone directly behind him, glanced over his shoulder and saw his father bear Yvette, who was enshrouded, into the azure world.

  “Any adversaries?” inquired John Lawrence Plugford.

  “None standing, approaching or throwing bullets,” replied Patch Up.

  Brent brought Dolores to her horse, and she returned the nickel-plated revolver to his holster. He set her posterior upon the embroidered sidesaddle, and she righted herself.

  “Gimme back the gun.”

  The cowboy gave the gun to his sister. “You want a holster?”

  “I’ll hold it.”

  “Tie somethin’ to the handle, so if you drop it, it ain’t lost.”

  “I may be a cancan girl with one foot, but I still got brains.”

  Brent kissed Dolores’s hand and approached his brindled mustang.

  John Lawrence Plugford carried his covered daughter toward the white stallion.

  “J.L.” Patch Up patted the wagon bench. “Put Yvette up here with me.”

  “I’ll hold her.”

  “Laid out on the bench is better—she shouldn’t get tussled.”

  “I’ll hold her so she don’t get tussled.” The patriarch would not relinquish his girl.

  The dandy emerged from Catacumbas, gripping his stomach and wearing a beard of blue-black ichor.

  “Can you ride your horse?” asked Brent.

  The dandy glared at the cowboy and walked like a weary crone toward his deep blue mare. Four hundred and fifty dollars seemed like incredibly poor wages for whatever tortures he had endured, and Brent did not in any way begrudge the gentleman’s anger. Nobody had expected this rescue to become so dangerous or so complicated.

  Stevie emerged from Catacumbas, cradling the fifty-pound mongrel in his arms. “I got the dog.”

  “Put it in the wagon,” Brent said, “and get on your horse.”

  Patch Up received the dog from Stevie and set it within the canopy, where it barked thrice. Brent mounted his brindled mustang. John Lawrence Plugford, holding Yvette to his chest, climbed onto his sturdy white stallion. Stevie mounted his spotted colt.

  An explosion thundered within Catacumbas. The ground shook, and Brent felt tremors deep inside his chest.

  “What’s happenin’?” asked Dolores.

  “Long Clay’s sealin’ up the stairs, so we can get us a good lead.”

  A second explosion shook the ziggurat ruins. The doorway exhaled a column of azure smoke, and Long Clay materialized, walking.

  “Bust up their wagons,” John Lawrence Plugford boomed, “and slaughter their horses.”

  Long Clay reached underneath his tabard, withdrew an oblong grenade, attached a rear taper and hurled the device into the air, toward the horses and stagecoaches that were situated on the east side of the edifice. A mare’s neck depressed the plunger, and the device exploded. The horse, nine of its neighbors and four stagecoaches were consumed by the white burst. Against the azure sky, blue limbs spun, blue gore rained and blue entrails twisted.

  The remaining animals jerked upon their tethers, but were unable to break loose.

  Brent pointed his pistol at the right foreleg of a colt and squeezed the trigger. The beast shrieked and collapsed to the plain. He aimed his gun at the limb of another creature and fired. The animal pitched forward and broke its neck. “Hell.”

  Stevie fired his shotgun. Buckshot peppered the chests of several horses. They shrieked and bucked, but did not fall.

  “Them pellets won’t put any down from this distance,” chastened Brent. “Use a rifle or a revolver.” The cowboy aimed at an animal leg and fired. A dark blue horse collapsed, rolled onto its back and kicked three hooves at the sky.

  Stevie sheathed his shotgun, drew his revolver, aimed and shot a horse through the foreleg. It screeched and tumbled to the plain.

  Dolores turned her horse away from the massacre.

  Long Clay hurled a
grenade into the air.

  Brent cracked his gun in half, dumped spent rounds to the plain, filled the empty chambers with new bullets and shut his revolver, which clicked.

  The plunger struck the roof of a stagecoach, and the grenade detonated. A bright explosion wiped the heads off of seven nearby horses and tore open the sides of five others. Eviscerated and decapitated animals staggered, and a mare with a dangling head trampled the neck of a fallen palfrey that shrieked like a human child.

  Dolores pressed her palms to her ears.

  Beneath her blanket, Yvette wept.

  The dandy stared at the ground.

  Brent surveyed the fog of blue dust that obscured the dead and dying animals. Beside an upended black stagecoach were two terrified horses, straining against and nibbling their lines. “Over there.” He pointed his revolver.

  “I see ‘em,” said Stevie.

  The brothers fired their guns, and the animals collapsed to the plain. Brent heard (or imagined) human shrieks amidst the bestial cacophony, and he wondered if nightmares of this gruesome scene would haunt his sleeping mind for the remainder of his life.

  Long Clay mounted his black mare.

  John Lawrence Plugford pointed north. “Go!”

  Patch Up cracked his whip at the braced quartet, and wagon wheels turned. Brent, Stevie, Dolores and the dandy urged their steeds into a quick canter. John Lawrence Plugford, cradling Yvette and trailing her spotted palfrey, coaxed his mustang into action. Long Clay shadowed.

  The Plugford crew departed Catacumbas.

  As they did so, the hard stone that had been stuck in Brent’s guts for eight months shrank. Although his sisters were not yet safe, they were free and alive, breathing the open air of the great landscape.

  Hooves rumbled, and the ruins shrank.

  The crew rode north across the blue plain.

  Dolores and the dandy rode in-between the flanking brothers, directly behind Patch Up’s rumbling wagon. John Lawrence Plugford and Long Clay followed from a distance of forty yards.

  “Can we take off these goddamn masks?’ Stevie asked from the saddle of his spotted colt. “Mine’s drippin’ with sweat.”

  “Not just yet,” replied Brent. (Long Clay had told them to wear their masks until they were well beyond the mountain range.)