Borderlands 2
BORDERLANDS 2
Edited By Elizabeth Monteleone & Thomas F. Monteleone
A Macabre Ink Production
Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright 2014 by Elizabeth Monteleone & Thomas F. Monteleone
LICENSE NOTES
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Editors
Elizabeth Monteleone has been the guiding force behind Borderlands Press since 1990. It is her sincerest wish that you enjoy the many books we have produced during that time.
Tom Monteleone has been a professional writer since 1972, and four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. He has published more than 100 short stories in numerous magazines and anthologies. His stories have been nominated for many awards, and have appeared in lots of best-of-the-year compilations. He is the editor of seven anthologies, including the highly acclaimed Borderlands series edited with his wife, Elizabeth. Borderlands 5 won a Bram Stoker Award in 2003.
He has written for the stage and television, having scripts produced for American Playhouse (which won him the Bronze Award at the International TV and Film Festival of New York and the Gabriel Award), George A. Romero’s Tales from the Darkside, and a series on Fox TV entitled Night Visions.
Of his thirty-six books, his novel, The Blood of the Lamb received the 1993 Bram Stoker Award, and The New York Times Notable Book of the Year Award. His four collections of selected short fiction are Dark Stars and Other Illuminations, Rough Beasts and Other Mutations, The Little Brown Book of Bizarre Stories, and Fearful Symmetries (2004), which won the 2004 Bram Stoker Award. His novels, The Resurrectionist and Night of Broken Souls, global thrillers from Warner Books, received rave reviews and have been optioned for films. His omnibus volume of essays about the book and film industries entitled The Mothers And Fathers Italian Association was published by Borderlands Press (www.borderlandspress.com) and won the 2003 Bram Stoker Award for Non-Fiction. He is also the author of the bestseller, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing a Novel. His books and stories have been translated into twelve foreign languages.
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This Is For
David F. Bischoff and
John DeChancie,
Two Guys Who Are Writers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
General introduction, acknowledgments, and author/story introductions copyright © 1991 by Thomas F. Monteleone
“Foet” copyright © 1991 by F. Paul Wilson
“The Chrysalis” copyright © 1991 by Lois Tilton
“Breeding Ground” copyright © 1991 by Francis J. Matozzo
“Love Doll: A Fable” copyright © 1991 by Joe R. Lansdale
“Apathetic Flesh” copyright © 1991 by Darren O. Godfrey
“The Potato” copyright © 1991 by Bentley Little
“Saturn” copyright © 1991 by Ian McDowell
“Androgyny” copyright © 1991 by Brian Hodge
“Sarah, Unbound” copyright © 1991 by Kim Antieau
“For Their Wives Are Mute” copyright © 1991 by Wayne Allen Sallee
“Dead Issue” copyright © 1991 by Rex Miller
“Down the Valley Wild” copyright © 1991 by Paul F. Olson
“Taking Care of Michael” copyright © 1991 by J. L. Comeau
“The Atonement” copyright © 1991 by Richard Rains
“Peacemaker” copyright © 1991 by Charles L. Grant
“Stress Test HR51, Case #041068” copyright © 1991 by Stanley Wiater
“Churches of Desire” copyright © 1991 by Philip Nutman
“Sweetie” copyright © 1991 by G. Wayne Miller
“Romance Unlimited” copyright © 1991 by James S. Doff
“Slipping” copyright © 1991 by David B. Silva
BORDERLANDS 2
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION - Thomas F. Monteleone
FOET - F. Paul Wilson
THE CHRYSALIS - Lois Tilton
BREEDING GROUND - Francis J. Matozzo
LOVE DOLL: A FABLE - Joe R. Lansdale
APATHETIC FLESH - Darren O. Godfrey
THE POTATO - Bentley Little
SATURN - Ian McDowell
ANDROGYNY - Brian Hodge
SARAH, UNBOUND - Kim Antieau
FOR THEIR WIVES ARE MUTE - Wayne Allen Sallee
DEAD ISSUE - Rex Miller
DOWN THE VALLEY WILD - Paul F. Olson
TAKING CARE OF MICHAEL - J. L. Comeau
THE ATONEMENT - Richard Rains
PEACEMAKER - Charles L. Grant
STRESS TEST HR51, CASE #041068 - Stanley Wiater
CHURCHES OF DESIRE - Philip Nutman
SWEETIE - G. Wayne Miller
ROMANCE UNLIMITED - James S. Don
SLIPPING - David B. Silva
INTRODUCTION
In some ways, I feel like Neil Armstrong—you remember him, don’t you?—after he returned from his journey into history and his first steps on the lunar surface. (It is said by those who know that his first words were not that “small step…giant leap” business, but actually something like “Gee, this shit’s kinda powdery…but it looks like it’ll be okay.”) Or maybe Edmund Hillary—after he finally made it to the top of Everest. Or maybe even me—after I’ve been running with the most beautiful, intelligent, scintillating, willing-to-experiment, hates-to-nag, accepts-me-the-way-I-am woman in the northern hemisphere
Why should I feel like any of the above, you might ask?
Because I’m sitting here trying to write an introduction to this second batch of Borderlands stories, and I’m facing the challenge of what the ballplayers call the sophomore jinx. After a simply great rookie season—which is what Borderlands 1 enjoyed—it is tough to come back and do it as well. Editing and publishing the initial volume wasn’t exactly in a class with the achievements of paragraph one, but the book did turn out to be a tremendous critical success and a benchmark by which all other original anthologies of the Nineties will be measured.
Is he hyping us?—you might be asking yourselves …
No, not this time. The original Borderlands was conceived to be an anthology of fiction, which pushed the limits of what was being done in darkly imaginative fiction, which expanded the envelope, opened the gates to new territories, scorched pathways through the jagged landscape of the imagination, and all those other neat metaphors.
And the nice thing was—it actually did it.
Dig: the limited, signed hardcover sold out within six months; it garnered rave reviews from every major publication ranging from “best anthology of the year” to the “best anthology ever”; fifteen of its stories received nominations for superior achievement by the HWA, Inc.; many of the stories were selected for subsequent “best of the year” anthologies; it was nominated for the World Fantasy Award. It was so successful, in fact, that it served as the cornerstone for a specialty publishing venture I founded, called Borderlands Press, and which is doing very, very well, thank you.
So you see—I’m talking about a very tough act to follow. As the series shambles into the Nineties in earnest, I am faced
with finding a continuous stream of kick-ass fiction when no one else seems to be able to do it.
Hey, that’s okay. I’ve been married a couple of times—I like a good challenge.
But seriously, friends, what I’m trying to say here is that even though it’s been tough (I figure I read about one thousand manuscripts over the six months the anthology was open), I still caught up with a high fastball and clocked one into the downtown seats. Yeah … you hold in your hands the second volume of in-your-face, provocative, visionary fiction—Borderlands 2. In keeping with the traditions established in the initial volume, I have managed to shake up the table of contents so you have more to deal with than the list of Usual Suspects (you know who they are) who manage to get their stuff in just about everybody’s magazines and anthologies with stories which often strike me as less-than-inspired. Oh sure, you’ll find work by some of the best and most recognizable names in the field in here, But you’ll also discover, as I did, some of the most exciting and daring new fiction by writers who are still making their hones as the class acts of the Nineties.
I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to discover these newer writers and share their visions with you. Someday they’re all going to be writing novels and dedicating their second books (the first ones always go to parents and wives and husbands and children … to me for giving them their Big Chance and all that stuff, but for right now, they’re the Young Turks, the Surly Invaders who, if they could, would take us out like assassins in the night, who would slice us with their words and watch us bleed.
And we should be glad they’re here. Because they are the future of the genre of darkly imaginative fiction, and we need their new ways o seeing past the veil of the everyday, of revealing the shrouded shape beneath Steve King’s sheet.
And so, welcome to Borderlands 2. The stories which follow don’t have to be read on a dark night, with glowing embers banked in the fireplace, and a dark wind howling across the moors. You can read these tales under the clear light of day and pure reason, and they will still knock you around and dance some flamenco rhythms on your head. You won’t find any of the traditional bugbears and boogymen here. No ghosts or vampires need apply. No zombies, no werewolves, no mummies, succubi, or Hitchcockian spouses planning to do in their mates. None of the tired old symbols which have defined the genre for far too long will be found here.
And that’s what Borderlands is all about. So turn the page, and have fun with your new fears.
—Thomas F. Monteleone
Baltimore, MD, 1991
FOET
F. Paul Wilson
When I solicited stories for this anthology series, one of the phrases used to describe the kind of fiction I’m looking for was “stories which do not employ the usual symbols and traditional plot elements …” Written with a delicately satiric touch, F. Paul Wilson’s “Foet” fulfills that requirement perfectly. He is the best-selling author of novels The Keep, The Tomb, and Black Wind, and an extremely accomplished writer of the short story. His collection, Soft and Others, belongs on every HDF reader’s shelf. He is also the editor of the upcoming Horror Writers of America anthology, Freak Show. But enough about Paul, now it’s time to find out what the strange title to his story really means.
Denise didn’t mind the January breeze blowing against her back down Fifth Avenue as she crossed Fifty-Seventh Street. Her favorite place in the world was Manhattan, her favorite pastime was shopping, and when she was shopping in midtown, it was heaven.
At the curb Denise stopped and turned to stare at the pert blonde who’d just passed her. She couldn’t believe it.
“Helene? Helene Ryder, is that you?”
The blonde turned. Her eyes lit with recognition. “Ohmigod, Denise! Imagine meeting you here! How long has it been?”
They hugged and air-kissed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Denise said. “Six months?” “At least! What are you doing in the city?”
“Just shopping,” Denise said. “Accessory hunting.”
“Me. too. Where were you headed?”
“Actually, I was looking for a place to get off my feet and have a bite to eat. I skipped lunch and I’m famished.”
“That sounds good.” She glanced at her watch. A diamond Piaget, Denise noticed. It’s tea time at the Waldorf. Why don’t we go there?
“Wonderful!”
During the bouncy cab ride down Park Avenue, Denise gave Helene a thorough twice-over and was impressed. Her blonde hair was short and fashionably tousled; her merino wool topcoat, camel’s-hair sweater, and short wool and cashmere skirt reeked of Bergdorf’s and I. Magnin.
Amazing what could happen when your husband got a big promotion. You could move from Fairfield to Greenwich, and you could buy any little thing your heart desired.
Not that Helene hadn’t always had style. It was just that now she could afford to dress in the manner to which she and Denise had always hoped to become accustomed.
Denise was still waiting to become accustomed. Her Brian didn’t have quite the drive of Helene’s Harry. He still liked to get involved in local causes and in church functions. And that was good in a way. It allowed him more time at home with her and the twins. The downside, though, was that she didn’t have the budget to buy what she needed when she needed it. As a result, Denise had honed her shopping skills to the black-belt level. By keeping her eyes and ears ever open, buying judiciously, and timing her purchases to the minute—like now, for instance, in the post-holiday retail slump—she managed to keep herself looking nearly as in style as someone with a pocketbook as deep as Helene’s.
And on the subject of pocketbooks, Denise could not take her eyes off Helene’s. Fashioned of soft, silky, golden brown leather that seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of the cab, it perfectly offset the colors of her outfit. She wondered if Helene had chosen the bag for the outfit, or the outfit for the bag. She suspected the latter. The bag was exquisite; the stitchwork was especially fascinating in its seemingly random joining of odd-sized and odd-shaped pieces. But it was the material itself that drew and captured her attention. She had an urge to reach out and touch it. But she held back.
Later. She’d ask Helene about it during tea.
Sitting here with Helene on a settee along the wall in Peacock Alley at the Waldorf, sipping tea and nibbling on petits fours from the tray on the table before them, Denise felt as if she were part of the international set. The room whispered exotic accents and strange vowels. Almost every nationality was represented—the Far East most strongly—and everyone was dressed to the nines. The men’s suits were either Armani or Bill Blass, and a number of the women outshone even Helene. Denise felt almost dowdy.
And still … that handbag of Helene’s, sitting between them on the sofa. She couldn’t escape the urge to caress it, could not keep her eyes off it.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Helene said.
“Hmmm?” Denise said, embarrassed at being caught staring, wondering if the envy showed in her eyes. “The bag? Yes, it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” Helene said. She pushed it closer to her. “Take a look.”
Soft. That was the first thing Denise noticed as she lifted it. The leather was so soft, a mix of silk and down as her fingers brushed over the stitched surface. She cradled it on her lap. It stole her breath.
“Um … very unusual, isn’t it?” she managed to say after a moment.
“No. Not so unusual. I’ve spotted a few others around the room since we arrived.”
“Really?” Denise had been so entranced by Helene’s bag that the others had gone unnoticed. That wasn’t like her. “Where?”
Helene tilted her head to their left. “Right over there. Two tables down, in the navy blue sweater chemise and matching leggings.”
Denise spotted her. A Japanese woman, holding the bag on the coffee table before her. Hers was black, but the stitching was unmistakab
le. As Denise scanned the room she noticed another, this one a deep coffee brown. And she noticed something else—they belonged to the most exquisitely dressed women in the room. Among all the beautifully dressed people here in Peacock Alley, the women who stood out, who showed exceptional flair and style in their ensembles, were the ones carrying foet bags.
Denise knew in that instant that she had to have one. It didn’t matter how much they cost, this was the accessory she’d been looking for, the touch that would set her apart, lift her to a higher fashion plane.
The Japanese woman rose from her table and walked past. She glanced at Denise on her way by. Her gaze dropped to the bag on Denise’s lap and she smiled and nodded. Denise managed to smile back.
What was that? It was as if the women with these bags had formed some sort of club. No matter what the dues, Denise wanted to be a member.
Helene was smiling knowingly when Denise looked back at her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Helene singsonged. “Do you?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Where do I get one?’ Right?”
Right. But Denise wasn’t going to admit it. She hated being obvious.
“Actually I was wondering what kind of leather it is.” A cloud crossed Helene’s face.
“You don’t know?” She paused, then: “It’s foet.”
“Feet? Whose feet? And then Denise realized what Helene had said. “Oh … my … God!”
“Now, Denise—”
Foet! She’d heard of it but she’d never thought she’d see it or actually touch it, never dreamed Helene would buy any. Her gorge rose.
“I don’t believe it!” Denise said, pushing the bag back onto the sofa between them and staring angrily at Helene.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I committed a crime or anything.”