Borderlands 2 Page 7

  The boy has an accent, you notice, an odd one; but you only shrug the shoulder over which you speak: “That’s too bad, kid. Now why don’t you run along home now, huh?”

  “Was there much blood?”

  Again, you stop. You turn and face this inquisitive youngster. You notice that he, too, is wearing insufficient clothing against the chill, aside from the stocking cap. His arms are wrapped round himself and he bounces up and down on his heels. You notice a shiny black ribbon tied round his goose-pimpled left arm, just below the short sleeve. You wonder who died.

  “Listen, kid. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

  An expression of hurt spreads over the boy’s face as he turns away. You watch him for a moment, curious, and then turn homeward.

  Once on the porch of your home, you flip through the tangled mess you call keys. You jump when lightning flashes over the sky. It is closely followed by loud thunder. -

  Rain begins to fall.

  Should you watch TV or go to bed? You know that if you watch television all night you’ll end up sleeping most of the day away tomorrow and then the weekend will be over before you know it. On the other hand, if you go to bed now you’ll lie awake for hours staring at the wall, and then the late-night-dreads will set in. You don’t want that.

  The crack of another, closer, thunderbolt threatens to throw a tingle up your spine. Is such a thing still possible? A real shiver … how long’s it been?

  Okay: TV it is.

  Beer or soda? In the tiny kitchen, you open the refrigerator door and your mind is made up for you: beer. Out of soda.

  Then you are in the recliner, shoes off, cold can of beer in one hand, remote control in the other. Stations are flipping by, the light strobes on your face: all other lights are out now.

  There.

  You think you’ve seen this one before but that’s all right because it’s black-and-white (you like black-and-white) and has practically just begun. Outside: cold and stormy. Inside: warm and cozy. Perfect.

  In five minutes you are snoring.

  With a start, you are fully awake without knowing what it was that woke you. Still here, in the recliner, in the living room. You see that a different film is playing on the TV screen now, this one in color. You squint at the glowing numerals on the VCR: 3:33. Still, the sound of rain slapping the pavement outside.

  You lift the can of beer from the table next to your chair, find that it has warmed, drink from it anyway.

  A knock at the door sends dribbles of foam into your lap. Damn. Who can that be?

  On your feet, you set the can down and head for the door. It couldn’t be anyone from work, no one there speaks to you. A neighbor perhaps? Doubtful. They, too, avoid you. Everyone avoids you.

  Another knock greets you as you reach the door and open it, a little.

  It is the shadow-child. He is facing away from you and you see that his clothing is completely soaked, clinging wetly to his back. He is shivering, still wrapped in his own goose-pimpled arms.

  “What is it you want from me, kid?”

  He turns, one thin shoulder moving up in a tight shrug. “A bowl of soup would be nice,” he says.

  You weren’t going to let him in—a trick, he’s tricking you—but his soggy state compelled you to relent. His shirt and cap are slung over the back of a chair as he slurps chicken noodle soup at the kitchen table. His dark hair is pasted flat against his skull. He has your favorite beach towel wrapped around his shoulders, one corner of which he uses as a napkin.

  “Here,” you say. “Try this.” You tear a sheet of paper towel from the roll above the sink and hand it to him. He takes it with a nod.

  “Where do you live, Vaughn Meadows?” you ask, shaking your head again at the name he gave as his.

  “It’s hard for me to remember, but I know it’s far away from here.”

  “And your parents? What about them?”

  Spoon poised before his lips, he looks at you. He shakes his head, then takes in the soup.

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why do you wear that thing around your arm?” Again, he shakes his head back and forth.

  So: ask more questions or shut up? Would you get any answers? The clock on the wall tells you that it is nearly 4:00 A.M.

  “There’s a couple of blankets on the couch,” you say to the boy. “You can sleep there.”

  He lifts the bowl and drinks the remainder of the soup. “Thank you.”

  Very near sleep. Your bedroom wall sinks back into a fog bank as your body slowly relaxes itself, your respiration deepening. When you hear the muffled, close-yet-far-away sound of gunshots you believe that it is the beginning of a dream.

  Voices. Rapid-fire gunshots. Screams.

  Not a dream.

  You lift your head from the pillow and the suppressed sounds of violence become more distinct. It is the television in the next room you hear. The boy, Vaughn.

  Your bedroom door opens directly onto the living room. From the doorway, you see the blanket-wrapped child seated on the floor, expressionless oval face turned up to the screen.

  “What are you watching?” you ask, half expecting him to jump at the intrusion. He doesn’t.

  “One of your videotapes.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “Dawn of the Dead. Just starting.”

  You move into the center of the room and plop into the recliner. “You shouldn’t be watching that, you know.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before.”

  On the screen, a man with a shotgun kicks open a door and blows the head off another man. No reaction from the boy. Searching for the remote control, you see that the open can of beer is missing from the table. You ask Vaughn Meadows what happened to it.

  “Right here,” he says, and one hand emerges from the folds of the blanket. The sides of the can have been squeezed together. “I drank it.” His eyes never leave the screen.

  “Where’s the remote?”

  His other hand appears, gripping the flat, black box.

  “Turn it off and go to sleep.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  You rise, step around him, push the power buttons of both the TV and the VCR. The room falls into near total darkness. “It’ll be light soon. Try to get some sleep.”

  “Does anyone ever visit you here?”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  No answer.

  “Go to sleep.”

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  You hear him scoot over to the couch. As you reach the bedroom door, his voice floats out to you: “The ribbon?”

  Nonplussed, you respond, “Yeah, what about it?”

  “If I take it off … I will stop.”

  You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing.

  “Do you want me to take it off?”

  “I want you to go to sleep.”

  7:30 A.M. In the kitchen, Vaughn Meadows is devouring his third bowl of cold cereal. As you don a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt you peer out your bedroom window at the small, sodden patch of backyard. No lawn mowing today. So: what to do on a rainy-day Sunday? See another movie? Go to the mall? Find the kid’s parents?

  You enter the kitchen, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and take up a chair opposite Vaughn Meadows. You blow across the top of your cup. With a short, distracted laugh, you decide it’s question time again.

  “You’re not American are you? Where are you from?”

  “I think I am American.”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where were you before you went to the movie theater last night?”

  “Here.”

  “Here, where?”

  He points a finger at the front door.

  “Did you follow me?”

  He nods.

  “Why?”

  “Do you have more of this? It’s good.”


  “Tell me first why you’re here.”

  He smiles then. A very knowing smile. “Take me to your leader.”

  You shake your head, rub a hand over your eyes, look at him again. His dark hair is neatly combed, his face clean, his smile widening.

  You sip your coffee. You ask, “Vaughn, is there something you want from me?”

  Now a giggle comes out. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, forget it.”

  The books you purchased—or at least their covers—seem to amuse Vaughn Meadows. “Are they very disgusting?” he asks, his face glowing.

  “Sometimes.”

  From the cashier’s stand, you move out into the shopping mall, half expecting someone to approach and ask about the child. Did you kidnap him? What’s going on here? Let’s see some identification, buddy.

  But no one looks at you or the boy. Everyday business.

  “Will you let me read one of them?” he asks.

  You say no and then ask him if he wants pizza, burgers, or fast Chinese.

  The question: “How come you haven’t told anyone?” He looks pointedly at you.

  Driving out of the parking lot, your books and a couple of rented videotapes (0-rated Disney films) rest in the boy’s lap. The car smells faintly of pepperoni. The question startles you. “What?”

  “Why haven’t you told people—the authorities, or anyone—about me?”

  You slip on an expression that says: Don’t bother the driver while he’s driving, as your brain mulls this question over, tasting it.

  Finding it flavorless.

  No tears were shed for Bambi’s mother, though there was much giggling and head-shaking at Thumper’s antics. Now, as the tape rewinds, you turn to your visitor. “Have you ever seen that movie before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long ago? Do you remember that?”

  His head shakes. Back, forth.

  “It couldn’t have been very long ago—how old are you? Eight? Nine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  “Eight.”

  You pick up the other cassette. The Cat from Outer

  Space. “Have you seen this one before?”

  “Yes,” is Vaughn Meadows’s reply, and he grins.

  “Take me to your leader.”

  Monday afternoon leaves you tired, worn out, wanting only to recline.

  “Hello!” At the door, Vaughn Meadows’s voice is bright and cheery. “We have to return the videos and you are in need of groceries. I watched a lot of commercials today, they’re funny. Oh, and the telephone rang.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t pick it up.” He follows you into the living room, his hands on his hips. “Should I have, do you think?”

  You fall into your chair, stretch, sigh greatly. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Why don’t you go home now?”

  You close your eyes—the sting somehow pleasurable—and let your muscles relax, loosen, a notch at a time, until you feel as though you’re ready to melt right through to the floor. The room is silent. You unstick your eyelids to see Vaughn Meadows staring back at you. He stands perfectly still, hands glued to hips: a statue in your living room. “What?” comes from your lips.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  You would shrug at him if you didn’t feel so drained, so permanently in place. You raise your eyebrows to him instead.

  “Do you care?” he asks, and his small head with combed hair tilts to one side.

  “I don’t know,” you respond, and your voice sounds strange in your ears, as if changing altitudes. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to care, you know?”

  Then the very air in the room seems to change turn gray. No. Only your eyes, your tired mind playing tricks on you.

  “I want to show you something,” says the boy.

  “What.”

  “You. I want to show you.”

  Vaughn Meadows moves out of your view and out of the room. You hear the bathroom door quietly close, and your eyelids close, too. So comfortable. No aches, no pains. Only sweet nothingness.

  Time has passed; the last vestiges of light coat the windows. How much time? It seems it has only been a minute, maybe two, but your mind plays tricks. You try to stir, yet from the neck down your muscles apparently have no intention of complying.

  Vaughn Meadows is in the room. He is completely bare but for the black band round his arm: his skin is pale and somehow flat. A cardboard cutout, you think. He grips a small, shiny square in the fingers of one hand. There is a large pan (the one you use for stews and spaghetti) on the floor at his feet.

  Of course, this is a dream.

  “Don’t worry,” the cardboard Vaughn says, “you won’t feel a thing.” Then he half-steps forward, placing a foot on either side of the pan, knees apart. He brings the angers holding the razor blade up and makes a five-inch vertical incision in the center of his chest. Blood spills, bubbles, courses downward, stowing only briefly at the navel, then drips from the boy’s tiny penis, making ponk-ponk sounds in the pan. Not cardboard, then.

  “You know how it feels not to feel,” states Vaughn Meadows, conversationally. He drops the blade into the pan with one careless hand and looks at you, and the look is unmistakable. Joy. Your muscles persist in their mutiny; you can’t lift a finger.

  “What?”

  “Absence. The total absence of sensation, pain, feeling … you are familiar with it, am I right?” His slender fingers move to the wound and pull at it, widen it, make the red flow faster. His eyes are still upon you. The plonk-plonks are becoming drip-drips and then—

  —PAIN IN THE EXTREME, SUNBURSTS OF BRIGHT AGONY IN THE CENTER OF YOUR CHEST, SPASMS THAT WILL KILL YOU IF—

  —but, so stupidly, so incredibly stupidly, you find yourself nodding your head. Viciously nodding your head.

  Vaughn Meadows’s own little head nods slowly as he grins. “Uh-oh,” he says, nearly laughing now. “I lied. Sue me.”

  Up-down-up-down, idiotic is your head, and there’s no use trying to stop it.

  “Aaaaand, when one ceases to feel,” he continues, “one ceases to live. Isn’t that also correct?”

  Chin thumps chest, hair rats itself between head and headrest. Your face is growing hot.

  “Of course it is.”

  Nails of the fingers tug the sides of the slit, pull it even wider. The hot stream is rapid, completely missing the pan now—

  —FLESH, HEART RIPPED OUT, BODY TORN IN TWO—

  —and your mouth, suddenly operable, shouts, “Stop!” and you are startled by the voice, as if it came from somewhere else, somewhere not of you. There are tears on your face, tears, you think, of shock. But the pain is gone now … but from the boy, so much—blood …. The word is a croak, it still doesn’t sound like you.

  “Yes.” Laugh. “This blood’s for you.”

  “… die …”

  “Oh, yes. I will die, but not from this.” His glowing eyes move from your face to his own narrow chest. Smooth skin parts further. “I can’t even feel this which … is the point …”

  His body sways a little, he has to move a foot forward quickly to keep his balance. Weakening.

  “I can’t feel it, I have never felt it.” His head comes up again, his half-lidded eyes fixed back upon yours. “But this, this … —grin becomes grimace, pallid lips stretch—

  … is the first day … of the rest … of your … stupid … life …”

  One hand exits the spouting slit, slides beneath the ribbon colored awful midnight—” … the tie that binds … —and pulls.”

  Break.

  And the boy falls flat on his still-smiling face as one pale, impossibly white foot nudges over the pan before coming to rest in a widening crimson pool.

  You now are able to move.

  But you don’t.

  Dark ou
tside; a punctuation of faraway lightning thunder.

  Somewhere, sometime, between lifting the boy’s slight corpse to your shoulder and gently depositing it into a shallow backyard grave, the midnight ribbon somehow finds its way to your arm. Wrapped.

  Where it pretends to be secure.

  THE POTATO

  Bentley Little

  There are only several repeat offenders in Borderlands 2. This is not by design, even though I’m always looking for new talent; it just worked out like that. But Bentley Little is a California writer who seems to have tapped into Borderlands’ line very well. He writes the kind of story that employs a singular image or takes a surreal turn that demands the reader do some work on his or her own. He is the author many short stories and his second novel, The Mailman, is currently available. His latest effort is a thought-provoking tale of obsession, desire, and something a bit more troublesome.

  The fanner stared down at the … thing … which lay at his feet. It was a potato. No doubt about that. It had been connected to an ordinary potato plant, and it had the irregular contours of a tuber. But that was where the resemblance to an ordinary potato ended. For the thing at his feet was white and gelatinous, well over three feet long. It pulsed rhythmically, and when he touched it tentatively with his shovel, it seemed to shrink back, withdrawing in upon itself.

  A living potato.

  It was an unnatural sight, wrong somehow, and his first thought was that he should destroy it, chop it up with his shovel, run it over with the tractor. Nature did not usually let such abominations survive, and he knew that he would be doing the right thing in destroying it. Such an aberration was obviously not meant to be. But he took no action. Instead he stared down at the potato, unable to move, hypnotized almost, watching the even ebb and flow of its pulsations, fascinated by its methodical movement. It made no noise, showed no sign of having a mind, but he could not help feeling that the thing was conscious, that it was watching him as he watched it, that, in some strange way, it even knew what he was thinking.

  The farmer forced himself to look up from the hole and stared across his field. There were still several more rows to be dug, and there was feeding and watering to do, but he could not seem to rouse in himself any of his usual responsibility or sense of duty. He should be working at this moment—his time was structured very specifically, and even a slight glitch could throw off his schedule for a week—but he knew that he was not going to return to his ordinary chores for the rest of the day. They were no longer important to him. Their value had diminished, their necessity had become moot. Those things could wait.