Wraiths of the Broken Land (17 page)

Chapter XIII
Mean Men

Dolores Plugford watched the Oriental secret his damp dark phallus inside his drawers and reach for his opalescent silk shirt. A taste like soap and copper haunted her palate and she reached for the bringer of purgation (and obliteration) that was her wine bottle.

“You are skilled with your mouth.” The Oriental slid a manicured hand through a shirtsleeve; silk whistled.

Angry that she was adept at pleasing the different types of mean men who came to her in Catacumbas, Dolores drank. She washed the foul taste from her mouth with a bitter draught as she thought of freedom, her family and the tall dumb dandy who had ruined everything. After eight months of imprisonment, the dwindling star of hope had vanished utterly from the black sky.

The Oriental buttoned his shirt and glanced at her shorn left ankle. “What happened to your foot?”

“I s’pose they threw it out.”

“How did you lose it?” the man inquired, as if he were discussing a misshapen cabbage with a grocer.

“A man shot it.”

“A doctor should’ve pulled out the bullet and fixed the hole.”

“Nobody thought of that. I sure wish you’d been around to give us advice.” (The idiot did not seem to realize that she was making fun of him.)

“I once helped a doctor remove a bullet. It’s not so difficult.”

“I had six bullets.” Dolores’s left foot had been an unrecognizable mess the last time she had seen it.

The Oriental poked an ivory cufflink into his left sleeve. “The man who shot your foot must’ve been very angry.”

“You must be a professor.”

The Oriental paused. “Are you belittling me?”

“You’re little enough.”

A dark fist landed in Dolores’s stomach, emptied her lungs and doubled her over. Iron fingers grabbed curls of her red hair and yanked her upright. With a long and pointed fingernail, the Oriental tapped the woman’s tender stump. “I understand why you lost the foot.”

“Go roast.”

The man was perplexed by her remark.

“Roast in Hell you stupid mongoloid,” clarified Dolores.

Deep within the man, something smoldered. “I am not stupid.” The fingers clutching her hair tightened. “I have a good education.”

“So does that circus dog.” At that moment, Dolores knew that she wanted to die.

The wall impacted her ear, retreated and slammed into her nose.

Soon, the Oriental’s dark face expanded. “You are a dumb whore. Very, very dumb.” He inhaled wetly.

Spit struck Dolores’s left eye and dangled like a mucoidal tear, but she did not bother to wipe it away.

The man released her hair. “I will get the equipment. And I will return.” He turned away from the bed and walked toward the exit.

On the far side of the chamber, the door opened.

The Oriental paused.

Ubaldo stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees. His right eye was purple and hugely swollen, and his gaping mouth looked like a crushed tomato. Standing in the open doorway was a huge man who wore a rubber mask over his head, a thick iron tabard atop his gray overalls, four guns and giant work boots.

“Daddy?” said Dolores.

“It’s me angel.”

The huge patriarch sped at the terrified Oriental.

“Don’t hurt me, I—”

The small man was seized by the neck and slammed against the wall.

“Please—”

Thick fingers burrowed into the Oriental’s neck and yanked out his throat. Vomit sprayed from the open end of the corrugated tube like a garden hose, and his larynx buzzed a shrill pitch.

Dolores saw another man materialize in the hallway outside her cell. He was five foot nine and wore a rubber mask, an iron tabard, a beige shirt, denim jeans and cowboy boots.

“Brent?”

The man bolted across the room and threw his arms around her. “It’s me,” her twin brother said through his mask, “It’s me, I’m here.”

Tears spilled down Dolores’s face. “Oh god Brent. I can’t believe this ain’t a dream.”

“We’re here for real.” Brent pulled off his rubber mask, and his cheeks were wet with tears. “I love you.” He kissed her on the forehead. “We love you.”

Dolores squeezed her brother so tightly that the iron plate he wore dug into her corset and ripped the fabric.

Ubaldo crawled toward the door. John Lawrence Plugford stomped upon the Mexican’s forearm, snapping it. The crawler collapsed.

In the hallway outside appeared a tall narrow man who gripped two ebony pistols and wore a blood-splattered rubber mask, an iron tabard and black clothing. “Hasten.”

“Get your mask on,” the patriarch said to his son, “and carry her.”

“Got her.” Brent pulled on his rubber mask, drew a blanket over Dolores and slid his arms beneath her knees and behind her back. “Grab hold.”

The woman leaned forward and held her brother’s shoulders.

John Lawrence Plugford snatched Ubaldo’s collar and raised him to his feet. “Let’s get the other.”

The cowed Mexican silently endured his injuries and walked from the room, followed by the patriarch.

Brent raised Dolores from the terrible bed and carried her across the chamber, through the door and up the hallway to the tall narrow man, whose revolvers were aimed at the dark ascending stairwell. The stranger’s rubber mask swiveled minutely, and behind the glass goggles the woman saw two cold blue eyes, which appraised her face and body and lingered momentarily on her stump. He turned back to the stairwell.

“Are you Pa’s old partner?” asked Dolores.

“I am.”

The woman had heard her mother refer to Long Clay as ‘the fellow who the devil was afraid of.’ “Thanks for helpin’.”

The gunfighter nodded.

Accompanied by the patriarch, the injured Mexican walked toward the far side of the hallway. The pair brightened as they neared the ensconced torch and darkened shortly thereafter. Presently, they stopped outside the final door.

Ubaldo released his fractured right arm, winced as gravity strained the appendage, reached his left hand into his trousers, withdrew a bronze key and inserted it into the lock. Tumblers groaned, and a bolt clacked. The man with the wooden nose pulled the door wide and said, “The other.”

John Lawrence Plugford took a step forward and looked through the portal. He surveyed the room for a ponderous moment. “That ain’t—” His voice cut out.

“They made her dependent,” Dolores announced from Brent’s arms.

Staring into the darkness, John Lawrence Plugford inquired, “Yvette?”

“Is that you Daddy?”

“Yeah.” The patriarch’s voice was a translucent whisper. “It’s me angel.”

The huge man stood outside the room, still and silent for an awful moment, and then turned to face Ubaldo. Terror filled he man with the wooden nose.

“Don’t kill him yet,” cautioned Long Clay.

John Lawrence Plugford shoved Ubaldo against the wall; the Mexican’s skull smacked against the stone. The patriarch pressed the meat of his left palm to the man’s wooden nose, and the stitches that held the false proboscis in place pulled upon the surrounding skin.

“No,” pleaded Ubaldo. Air whistled through his nostrils.

John Lawrence Plugford thrust his hand upward. Wires ripped free, and crimson beads scattered into the air. The Mexican wailed.

“He deserves it,” said Dolores.

Ubaldo’s wooden nose dangled, anchored to the skin adjoining his corroded nasal cavity by two wires. He cupped his face. John Lawrence Plugford turned away from the dripping man and walked into the room wherein laid his daughter.

“I lost my soul in the walls,” declared the unseen woman. “There’s a bug that’s got it.” Her voice was enervated and girlish.

“Don’t worry,” said the patriarch.

“It took my soul away, and now I can’t move.”

Heavy footsteps echoed within the room. Presently, John Lawrence Plugford strode from the darkness, carrying an enshrouded corpse that Dolores soon realized was both alive and her sister.

“Oh God,” Brent quietly exclaimed within his mask. “Oh God.” His hands squeezed his twin sister. “Oh God. Oh God.” He shuddered.

“This place is terrible.” Dolores looked away from the skeletal thing that her father carried. “This goddamn world is terrible.”

Brent cleared his throat and looked at Ubaldo. “You…you got any other women pris’ners in this goddamn place?”

“No,” replied the dripping man through the glistening hand that held his face. “You can look—no other cells is locked.”

Dolores surveyed the hall and saw that most of the doors were ajar. “Where’s that fellow we sent here earlier,” Brent asked Ubaldo, “the tall blonde dandy?”

“He’s having dinner with the boss.”

“You’re gonna get him for us,” stated Brent.

“Si.”

The injured Mexican walked up the hallway. Carrying his piteous daughter, John Lawrence Plugford followed.

Long Clay turned to Ubaldo. “Stop.”

The Mexican halted.

“Let me see your face.”

Ubaldo lowered his left hand, and his nose twisted on its wires like a cat’s toy. Long Clay placed the tip of his long black revolver inside the man’s nasal cavity. Steel clicked upon recessed cartilage, and lambent torchlight dripped from the Mexican’s eyes.

“Do not cross us.”

“I will do what you say.” Ubaldo’s words buzzed inside the gun barrel. “I swears.” His breath caught erratically.

“He’s gonna sneeze,” warned Brent.

The gunfighter withdrew the tip of his revolver.

The Mexican sprayed gore upon the stone, groaned and stood upright. Long Clay yanked the dangling proboscis loose and discarded it. “Go.” The nose smacked against the wall and skipped up the hallway.

Cupping his dripping face with his good hand, Ubaldo entered the stairwell.

Long Clay looked at Brent. “Wait for my signal.”

“Okay.”

The gunfighter lowered his head and entered the portal. As he climbed the steps, the back of his iron tabard flashed.

Dolores looked at her younger sister, who was collapsed and pale in the arms of her father. It took the redheaded woman a moment to find her voice. “Yvette?”

The emaciated choirmaster brushed away the hair that hung before her dilated eyes. “You still look pretty.”

Dolores knew that she would sob hysterically if she attempted to respond, and so she reached for her younger sister’s hand, clasped what felt like a raw poultry and squeezed. It took all of her strength not to weep.

“Why didn’t my husband come?” asked Yvette. “Why isn’t Samuel here?”

Dolores felt Brent’s arms stiffen. She looked up at his rubber mask and saw that his eyes were narrowed and filled with hate.

Exasperated, Yvette whined, “Doesn’t anybody know?”

John Lawrence Plugford said, “We’ll talk about him later.” His words were black and irrefutable.

Dolores replaced her sister’s hand upon her narrow chest.

The family watched the stairwell.

“I don’t have no hands free,” Brent said to Dolores. “You think you can shoot a gun?”

“I worked at Jasper’s for four years.” (Although Jasper’s Palace of Good Chances and Dancing Cancan Girls was a reputable establishment, drunken gentlemen who lost large sums to truculent dice or restive ball bearings occasionally tried to reclaim their wages in a felonious manner. Resultantly, all employees were schooled in what the owner called ‘firearm preparedness.’) Dolores drew a nickel-plated pistol from Brent’s hip.

“Shoot every single one that touched you,” said John Lawrence Plugford. “Or point them out to me.”

“I know.”

The patriarch patted his daughter’s shoulder.

“Don’t murder nobody,” Yvette protested, “they’re weak is all.”

Nobody responded to the choirmaster’s advice.

Dolores looked at the front of the six-shot revolver, spun the barrel, saw two black holes, turned the weapon over, cracked it in half, discarded the spent shells, located the cartridge sash beneath Brent’s iron tabard, plucked out two bullets, loaded them into the empty grooves and snapped the gun shut.

“Did Stevie come?”

“He’s actin’ sentry upstairs.”

Dolores drew six more bullets from the sash and tucked them in-between her left breast and corset cup. “I’m s’prised he made the effort.”

“He’s sour,” Brent replied, “but he cares ‘bout you girls.”

“I need some medicine,” demanded Yvette.

“We’ll find you something once we’re out clear,” said Brent.

“And we’ve gotta get Henry,” Yvette added, “the circus dog. They’re mean to him and we’ve gotta get him out of here.”

“We’ll grab him if we can.”

“We have to save him.” The choirmaster sounded desperate.

Near the top of the stairwell, a tiny pinprick of light flashed thrice.

Brent said, “It’s clear,” and hastened forward. His left boot landed upon the bottom step, and his other foot aspired three levels higher. Dolores pointed the pistol up and out. Grayish-ochre stones and nestled candles sped past. Forty feet behind the twins, the patriarch, holding Yvette in the crook of his left arm and his sawed-off shotgun in his right fist, thundered up the steps.

Dolores was carried from the nether stairwell into a torch-illumined passageway and to the left. The floor wavered nauseatingly and she instantly regretted the quantity of sour wine that she had imbibed after her assignation with the Oriental.

Presently, the siblings passed an ensconced torch, and the flames reached after them like a clutching hand. The floor undulated. Sweat beaded upon Dolores’s brow.

“Hold that gun with both hands,” Brent advised as he bounded up the hall.

“Okay.”

Dolores clapped her left hand upon her right, and the gun steadied. She looked forward. At the far end of the passageway stood a rectangle of amber light. It had been five months since she had last been inside the parlor that laid beyond.

Brent bounded. Sprawled across the floor beneath an ensconced torch was an inert man in a bright yellow suit who was headless. A tarry stain comprised of roasted brain matter, blood, skull shards and hair sat upon the wall beside the flames.

“Pa got that canary,” said Brent.

“Good.”