Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

Although the gentleman knew that he would be changed irrevocably by the act of killing another man, he admitted to himself that he was already different—aware of his mortality in a physical way and cognizant that his most cherished viewpoints did not in any way alter the world that happened violently around him. The scorpions had shown him that he was not immune to death.

Long Clay adjusted the telescopic sight of his rifle, and weak moonlight glowed within his right eye like a cataract. “You need to understand our tactic.” “We trust you,” said Stevie. “You need to know it fully,” the gunfighter replied, “in case I get put down.” “Okay,” replied Stevie and Dolores. “Go ‘head.” Brent was certain that he was about to hear the machinations of evil. “On an instinctual level,” Long Clay said, “a man fears torture and disfigurement more than he fears death. He can imagine what it’s like to be branded, because he’s burned himself; he can imagine what’s its like to be blind, because he’s been in a dark room stumbling into furniture; and if he’s ever had any pain in his privates, he can imagine what being castrated might feel like.