Degrees of Evil

a. e. branson


Deuce examined the weapon Quint handed him.  It resembled a rifle-style blaster, except the barrel was too thin and the magazine too thick.  He found it disconcerting to not recognize this particular instrument of war.

“What is its designation?”  Deuce asked.

“I call it an atrocity,” Kyla muttered as she gazed down the field the three of them stood upon.

The artificial sunlight from the ceiling of the manmade cavern they occupied cast shadows beside them, distorted by the remaining stubble of harvested grains adapted to this environment.  Fifty meters away at the other end of the field, the carcass of a coyote, exterminated during a livestock raid above ground, hung between two poles.

Quint shrugged.  “A correct designation would be disintegrater.  But we just call it a grater.  Fact is, shoot something with this thing or run it through a grater, you get the same result.  Go ahead…

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