Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  The badly injured man knew that he would be physically incapable of chasing after Gris, and so he devised a simple tactic that he hoped would conclude the internecine engagement. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled, agonizingly, toward the body of Jose Pastillo, the vaquero who had killed Stevie. Brent surmised that the fellow (like the Midwesterner and others) had joined Gris’s crew without knowing the real reason why the battle had first begun and what was at stake. “It’s like a war,” mumbled the cowboy as he reached the corpse.

  Brent put his good hand underneath Jose Pastillo’s nape, sat him upright and covered his gory head with a hat. “There.” Presently, the cowboy claimed the fallen revolver, crawled into the graveyard, hid behind an unmarked stone, set the purloined weapon down and withdrew his own nickel-plated pistol. Twenty feet southwest of his position in the cemetery sat the corpse, hunched forward and ready to play checkers.

  Shaking and dizzy, Brent monitored the riven land that laid south of the body. Nothing moved, excepting brilliant celestial smoke and vultures.

  “¡Ayudame!” cried the cowboy.

  An unseen man said, “¿Quién es ese?”

  Brent waited in silence. He did not repeat his cry for help, which likely had some flaw in terms of enunciation, despite how many times he had heard the captives wail it from the façade.

  Vultures applied their sharp beaks to obsidian corpses. Throughout the tableau, the hooked chisels of scavengers echoed.

  A narrow shadow spilled from the southwest corner of the fort and inquired “¿Quién es ese?” Footsteps ground grit slowly, like the jaw of an old man eating peanuts.

  Brent raised his nickel-plated pistol and aimed it at the elongate black stain, which was sixty feet away.

  “I admit,” the unseen man said from behind the fort, “that I imprisoned two women and forced them to work as whores so that they could pay off your family’s debt. That was my crime.” Hard shoes ground grit, and the shadow lengthened. “You killed and tortured innocent men. You murdered three of my sons. You murdered a pregnant woman, who was my daughter-in-law, and you murdered her baby, who was a beautiful girl. You murdered a baby girl!” The footsteps and the shadow stopped. “Face me with dignity if you have any, you vile, myopic and uneducated American!”

  The cowboy could not contain his anger. “You stole and raped my sisters, you dumb hypocrite!” Vulture beaks chipped crystalline corpses. “You don’t deserve no goddamn dign—”

  Gris flung his left arm around the corner of the fort and fired twice.

  Jose Pastillo’s body fell over.

  Brent squeezed rapidly. Two bullets cracked against the fort wall. The third shot impacted Gris’s exposed forearm and knocked his gun into the air. When the cowboy’s hammer clicked upon empty shells, he dropped his weapon.

  Gris drew a second pistol.

  Brent reached for Jose Pastillo’s revolver.

  A gunshot flashed within the west crenellation. The bullet cracked against the rock in Gris’s face and sent it deep into his brain. His remaining eye bulged and gore squirted from his nose. The Spaniard stumbled forward, dropped to his knees and slammed to the ground. Three more bullets cracked his spinal column.

  “Dolores?” Hope fluttered within Brent’s chest. “That you?”

  Trailing dark gray smoke and covered with black soot, Long Clay emerged from the fort. The overall shape of his body was somehow different, and he lacked his right hand.

  Although the cowboy already knew the answer to his question, he asked, “Is Dolores okay?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Emptiness filled Brent.

  Coughing up blood and dark bits, the misshapen gunfighter hobbled toward the sunken stable.

  “Is Yvette okay?”

  Long Clay slid into the ground.

  “I need to check on Yvette,” Brent said to himself. “See if she’s still…see if she’s okay.” He clutched the top of a tombstone with his good arm and pulled himself to his feet. “I’m com—” His right knee buckled, and a grave marker struck the side of his head.

  Lying upon the cemetery ground, Brent Plugford stared up at the blue sky, where not one cloud trespassed. “We didn’t deserve none of this.” He looked away from the empty vault. “We didn’t.” The hooked beaks of vultures clicked against crystalline corpses and unearthed red crystals.

  Darkness consumed everything.

  Part V

  The Buried Phonographs

  Chapter I

  Their Small Purgatory

  The four air holes on the west wall glowed with the golden light of sunset.

  Yvette Upfield wiped flecks of dirt and dried blood from Mr. Stromler’s blonde mustache, placed her fingertips upon his mouth, parted the two desiccated worms that were his lips, brought the nozzle of her canteen to the opening and watched the gentleman unconsciously swallow the water that she slowly poured into him.

  Envious and with an idea, Henry stalked across the small chamber, sat beside the recumbent recipient of fluid, unfurled its long pink tongue and panted. The canine agendum was clear.

  Yvette ignored the animal’s request and poured a second tablespoon of water into Mr. Stromler’s mouth. His fuzzy throat pulsated.

  Frustrated, the beast reclaimed its tongue and whimpered. The immediate acoustics of the prisoners’ cell turned the complaint into a sharp metallic sound.

  “Silencio,” commanded Yvette.

  Henry eyed the woman, glanced at the canteen and tilted its head, perplexed.

  “We’re running out.” The choirmaster liked dogs—and had a strong affinity for this particular creature—but she could not prioritize the life of an animal over the life of a man.

  Yvette poured more water into Mr. Stromler’s mouth. A long pink tongue lashed at the fluid, and the blonde woman laughed for the first time since she had heard the explosions. “You sneak.”

  Feigning innocence, the animal raised its left paw and unfurled its tongue.

  “You’ve convinced me.” Yvette took the lid from the top of the stew pot, set it upon the ground and poured out two tablespoons of water.

  Henry walked directly across the gentleman—upon his head, chest and stomach—and lapped lustily.

  Mr. Stromler opened his eyes and surveyed the dark enclosure. Upon his face was a look of utter bewilderment.

  Yvette sat beside the man. “How are you feeling?”

  “Why am—” The gentleman coughed and winced. “Why am I here? This is…the prisoners’ cell, correct?” His voice creaked like dry wood.

  “That’s right. After you were shot, they brought you in here.” Yvette hesitated for a moment. “We’re locked in.”

  “Locked in?” the gentleman repeated with disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Stromler leaned forward, grimaced in pain and laid himself back down. “Damnation does my shoulder hurt.” He placed his right palm to the bullet wound and grunted. “Is the bullet still inside?”

  “It was removed before you were brought in. And the injury’s healing up fine—doesn’t seem to be infected.”

  “Thank you for tending to it.”

  “You’re welcome.” During the ministrations, Yvette had used only eleven tablespoons of water.

  “How long have we been confined…here?”

  “Three days.”

  “Jesus Christ.” After a long silence, Mr. Stromler inquired, “What happened outside—with the engagement?”

  “I don’t know. I heard some gunfire and…and some explosions.” Yvette had also heard Dolores scream out what were presumably her last words, but this was nothing that she could calmly discuss. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Nobody has come for us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then your family must have been…”
Mr. Stromler did not complete his awful surmise.

  “That seems likely.” As each day passed, Yvette’s ability to believe that any of her family had survived was weakened by logic. What could possibly explain their absence, other than death or captivity? She stuffed away her morbid ruminations and raised the canteen to the gentleman’s lips. “Drink some more.”

  “Why?” Mr. Stromler’s question conveyed an immense despair.

  “Because you should.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Yvette replied, “if you don’t keep going through the bad times, things will never get better.”

  Tears leaked from the corners of Mr. Stromler’s eyes, ran down his temples and disappeared within his blonde hair.

  “Don’t waste water.” The choirmaster wiped the gentleman’s face. “We’re low.”

  Mr. Stromler nodded his head. “I am sorry.”

  “Drink some more.” Yvette raised the canteen nozzle and saw Henry advance. “What’s the Spanish for sit down? I forgot.”

  “Sientate.”

  The dog placed its rump upon the stone.

  “I have an adversary,” remarked Mr. Stromler.

  “Henry won’t hurt you.”

  The choirmaster drizzled two tablespoons of water into the gentleman’s mouth, and he swallowed. “That’s all I want to give you right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  Yvette placed a stopper into the nozzle, rose to her feet and set the vessel deep within the highest cubby, far beyond Henry’s reach.

  Mr. Stromler remarked, “You are looking far, far healthier than when last I saw you.”

  “Thank you. I’ve just been resting and eating—Patch Up’s stew was real good, before it went sour.” When Yvette said the negro’s name, the gentleman’s eyes sparkled. She could not yet bear to ask what had happened.

  A moment of uncomfortable silence passed.

  “Is there a place that I may…” inquired Mr. Stromler, sheepishly.

  “To make water? There’s hole over there.” Yvette pointed to the northeast corner of the cell. “I won’t look.”

  “Mrs. Upfield?”

  Yvette opened her eyes and saw less. The chamber was black. In this drear perdition, she was a bodiless phantom, and her hideous memories were unconquerable.

  “Are you awake?” inquired Mr. Stromler.

  “Yes.” The choirmaster was a blind and shivering wraith.

  “There is somebody outside.” The gentleman’s voice had a hysterical edge.

  “Might’ve been vultures or coyotes—they fooled me at first.”

  “I heard footsteps, a person walking, and also—”

  Something rustled beyond the air holes. After a moment of quietude, metal scraped against stone.

  A chill tingled Yvette’s nape.

  “Who’s there?” inquired Mr. Stromler.

  The coarse scraping grew louder and abruptly stopped.

  Something clicked upon the stone bed, rolled and settled against Yvette’s right shin. The woman reached down and felt a small hollow cylinder. “It’s paper.”

  “A note?” inquired Mr. Stromler.

  “Maybe.” Through the air holes, Yvette said, “We don’t got no—we don’t have any light in here.”

  A guttural grunt was succeeded by the sound of metal scraping against stone.

  Yvette cupped her hands near the air holes, and a sharp point pricked her left palm. “Ouch!” She withdrew her hands. “You poked me.”

  In the darkness outside, a muted vocalization that contained the letter ‘s’ occurred. A crunching noise followed, which Yvette soon recognized as the sound of footsteps.

  “He’s leaving.”

  “See what he pushed through,” suggested Mr. Stromler.

  Yvette patted the area below the air holes until the tip of her right pinky landed upon an anomaly. She picked up the folded item and fingered its ribbed contents. “It’s a matchbook—half of one.”

  “Good.”

  “Take them.” The choirmaster pressed the matches into the gentleman’s hands. “You light one when I say to.”

  “I shall.”

  Yvette rubbed her palm, unrolled the small scroll and pinched its top and bottom. “Okay.”

  A bright yellow arrow hissed beside the blue skirt that covered her legs, flared red and settled upon orange. Yvette squinted and looked directly at the bottom of the letter.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel C. Upfield IV

  “Oh Lord Jesus.” A wide array of conflicting emotions surged through Yvette and electrified her blood. “It’s from my husband.”

  Mr. Stromler’s face brightened.

  Holding the curved letter in her tingling hands, Yvette read.

  16, 17 or perhaps 18 August, 1902

  Dear Yvette,

  I will be brief.

  My jaw was shattered, and thus I must communicate to you through the written word. I have very much work to do, and so I will only compose this letter during the brief respites that I am required—by my weakened condition—to take from my physical labors. (I do regret that I have not the time to write this communication in the calligraphic style that you so admire.)

  I am currently excavating the rubble that blocks the door to the prison cell tenanted by you and Nathaniel Stromler.

  As you must realize by now, most of your family has perished, including your father’s house negro and the native. Although the current location of the evil gunfighter is unknown, I was told that he was badly wounded in the engagement—physically altered in a manner that is difficult to credit. Brent survived, but is currently incapacitated and in my care. After a period of

  Darkness crowded the flame, and the match tip became a tiny red coal.

  “Can you light another?” asked Yvette. “I didn’t finish.”

  A flaming bug leapt across the darkness and became a glowing amber teardrop.

  After a period of unconsciousness that lasted for one or two days, your brother crawled toward my residence, which was a trunk within the family wagon. He freed me and collapsed.

  I had not eaten in several days (my cache of walnuts and raisins had dwindled two days earlier) and was too weak to walk uphill to the fortress, much less perform the menial labors that were required. After a necessary respite, I regained some strength and commenced the excavation.

  I hope to reach you and Mr. Stromler in two days, but I dare not risk overexerting myself, since three lives now depend upon my efforts.

  Although I occasionally suffer from hallucinations, I am fully aware that my current efforts will not balance out my odious crimes. You may dismiss me the very moment I am no longer of use to you, or you may have me jailed or hanged. I do not expect you to accept me back into your life, but I am grateful that I have an opportunity to aid you and your family in some way.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel C. Upfield IV

  “Brent’s still alive,” said Yvette. “I didn’t think that any of them—” She lost her words.

  The flame neared Mr. Stromler’s pinched fingers. “We are going to be rescued.” A smile appeared beneath his thick mustache. “We are going to live.”

  Eyes stinging with joyful tears, Yvette nodded her head. “We’re going to.”

  “And your husband is still alive.”

  Yvette nodded, but did not feign any joy.

  The flame exhaled a plume of smoke and died. Against the outside of the cell door, the rubble shifted.

  “That’s my husband.” Yvette was glad that the darkness hid her face from Mr. Stromler.

  Chapter II

  The Man Who is Samuel C. Upfield IV

  When she opened her eyes, Yvette Upfield saw the four blue dots that declared dawn to t
he inhabitants of the prisoners’ cell. Outside the door, the stones rumbled like a slow avalanche, although she felt more than heard their deep concussions. The dog sat before the sealed exit as if it expected a widely-heralded theater event.

  Yvette raised her head and looked down her body. Upon her pelvis laid a tiny white tube. She seized the little scroll, sat upright and opened the communication. Wind blew through the luminous air holes, and the paper trembled.

  Dear Yvette and Mr. Stromler,

  I briefly interrupted the excavation so that I might raise a bucket of water from the well. I shall insert the muzzle of a rifle into an air hole and pour the gathered fluid into the weapon’s open (and of course empty) chamber to facilitate its distribution.

  Please call out to me whenever you are ready to receive a fresh supply of water.

  In the near future, I shall be able to provide you with carrots, but currently their diameters are too large to transcend the air holes. I shall endeavor the auxiliary task of whittling roots during those regrettable moments that I am forced to recuperate from my exertions.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel C. Upfield IV

  Yvette looked down at her slumbering cellmate, the mending gentleman, and decided not to call out for water until after he had awakened. Eight months of suffering in Catacumbas had taught her the value of sleep and dreams.

  She rose to her feet, stretched, claimed the canteen from the cubby and poured water into the inverted pot lid. Henry’s attention was diverted from the spectacle of the closed door.

  The twenty-six-year-old woman who had been born in Shoulderstone, Texas and lived for seven years as a choirmaster in San Francisco summed and divided hundreds of beautiful and terrible memories in an attempt to determine what role Samuel C. Upfield IV would have in her future. As the dog lashed the water Yvette envied the simplicity of its existence.