Borderlands 2

by Unknown

  Michael’s ear falls into the bathwater with a loud plunk and I have to remember not to scrub so hard when I wash him. Momma would’ve had a fit before she got so quiet, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind. I blow a sweaty strand of hair away from my forehead and fish around the bottom of the tub with one hand for the lost part. I need my other hand to hold onto Michael. Wouldn’t want him to fall under the water, too! I find his ear soon enough and stick back onto the hole in the side of his head where it came from, but it keeps sliding off back into the water. Finally, I give up and lift Michael into his roller chair where I wipe him dry real good with a big fluffy towel nice and hot from the clothes dryer.

  Just think what Momma would say about that ear! She thinks I never do anything right. Michael, he was always the smart one. He made good grades in school and always had lots of friends. Popular, you know? And Michael was always good to me, too, sticking up for me when the other kids laughed at me or called me ugly names and ran away. One time, the kids left me out in the woods holding an empty pillowcase. They said they were going to fan out and drive some kind of animals called “snipes” toward me so I could catch them in the pillowcase. I was real happy that the kids let me play with them and I waited and waited, but the snipes never came and neither did the kids. I found out later that they all laughed and went home. I don’t see what was so funny, do you?

  Anyway, Michael came into the woods the next day and found me still holding the pillowcase and waiting. He never said a word about the way I’d peed and messed my pants. That’s Michael for you. A real prince of a young man, like Momma always used to say.

  One day Momma came in my room crying and told me Michael crashed his little red car and was hurt real bad; broke his neck, she said. When they brought him home from the hospital, Michael was in a chair with wheels and couldn’t move his arms or legs or talk or anything. He could move his mouth a little, and his eyes, that’s all. So Momma took care of Michael, feeding him and bathing him and shaving him and everything. It’s too bad about Michael, Momma said all the time. We’ve got to take care of your brother now.

  But then a couple of weeks ago, Momma never got up from the couch after watching Jeopardy. She’s still there in the front room, sitting on the sofa in front of the television set. She watches the television all day and all night, even when there’s nothing on but fuzz and static. Momma never blinks, even though her eyeballs got all dried and crusty. I guess she just got tired from taking care of Michael all the time.

  I don’ mind taking care of Michael while Momma rests. He’s my brother and I’d do anything for him. He’s always been good to me and now it’s my turn to be good to him.

  I’m going to shave Michael’s face now. Momma always said she hated whiskers on a man, even before we took Daddy out to the big green park with trees and rocks and buried him in a long box in the ground. I like the sound Daddy’s straight razor makes on the leather strop hooked to the bathroom wall. Whop, whop. Whop, it goes. It doesn’t take long until the blade’s sharp enough to split a long black hair pull out of my head.

  I turn to Michael with a smile, but Michael doesn’t smile back because I accidentally slipped and cut off his lip the last time I shaved his face. But I can tell by the way his eyes roll around that he’s ready for Daddy’s big sharp razor. This time I’ll try not to slice anything off by mistake.

  Like Momma always says, “Practice makes perfect.” And I’m getting better all the time.

  THE ATONEMENT

  Richard Rains

  From Fort Worth, Texas, we get a story written in the style and mood of Rod Serling—in fact as I read “The Atonement” I kept thinking old Mr. Zone himself would have loved this story. Its author, Richard Rains, has sold his work to several Texas newspapers and magazines, co-edited a cookbook, and (by dint of a Cavalier fiction contest) co-authored with Stephen King one of three published versions of “The Cat From Hell.” Although more traditional than the usual Borderlands tale, this story made the cut because of its keen attention to detail, crisp sensory images, and seamless narrative.

  It was already snowing when Vogel stepped out of the post office and into the raw, unrelenting winter that had come unseasonably early to Mannheim. As he reached out to close the steel-plated service door, a sudden gust of icy wind swept through the alleyway, slamming it shut for him. He checked to make sure that the door was secure; satisfied that it was, he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses firmly against his nose and pulled the collar of his overcoat snugly about his neck. Clenching and unclenching his gloved hands in an effort to loosen the stiffened joints, he walked down the alleyway and into the street.

  He had worked a long day, several hours extra, and now only primal thoughts occupied his mind: he wanted warmth, companionship, shelter; he wanted surcease from the arthritic pain that he suffered. With a refilled prescription, some schnapps with friends at his favorite bar, the company of a whore, perhaps, followed by a good night’s sleep, Vogel’s immediate needs would be satisfied.

  When he came upon The Apothecary, the only drug shop in his neighborhood that kept late hours, he instinctively turned the doorknob. Locked. Puzzled, Vogel peered through the plate glass window. Only a single pale light burned at the back of the store. He looked around the room until noticing the clock above the prescription counter. 19: 40. Glancing at his wristwatch, he verified that the time was accurate.

  Vogel knew that something was wrong. The drug shop never closed before 21: 00. He tried the door again. Still locked. Then he noticed the calendar hanging on the wall. Today’s date had been circled in red. Then it struck him: today was Yom Kippur, the most sacred of Hebrew holy days.

  Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, Vogel laughed to himself. What do these goddamn Jews feel they have to atone for? For being themselves? For being who and what they are, what they always will be?

  Vogel shook his head at the inanity of it all, slid his aching hands back into his pockets, and walked on. As he walked, a thought insinuated itself into his mind. A thought which had recurred often of late. Death. He thought of death. It had been seven years since he had brought death to anyone. Seven years since anyone had died as a result of his … ministrations. His curiosities, Seven years, too, of living under a name not his own, of living a life that he detested, in a world not of his choosing, while so many of his comrades were discovered, tried, and unjustly punished.

  Seven years. Without death.

  The death of a Jew.

  Ein underer tote Jude.

  Another dead Jew.

  That was what Vogel sought alter all of these impotent, frustrating years: another dead Jew. That was the thought that oozed, worm-like, through his mind, that bloomed darkly within him like a blood-red flower.

  Death: he could almost taste its bitter, ashen blossom on his tongue.

  Hurriedly, Vogel walked on.

  As the minutes passed, the chill reality of snow, of bitter-cold wind, of frozen bricks beneath his shoes reestablished itself in his mind.

  Soon he rounded a corner onto Mullenstrasse, where he could see, through the falling snow, the lights of Das Alta Bierhaus, a half-block down. Cheers, laughter, and the boisterous melody of a polka echoed toward him, urging him on, urging him to join his friends—Hans, Jurgen, Dietrich, Karl-Georg. They would all be there by now for their nightly fellowship. But theirs was more than a mere gathering of cronies for the purpose of eating and drinking and singing themselves into a stupor. Theirs was a meeting of true comrades, Men who shared the same past, loathed the same present, and were working diligently and in secret—like thousands of others like them—to create the same perfect, orderly future.

  Vogel continued on

  As he was about to enter the bar, he saw the woman.

  She was standing across the street, leaning against the side of a building, her blonde hair and white gloves stark, even, in the falling snow against her dark fur coat. She was smoking a cigarette; and she was watching him.

  Vogel studied her. He was waiting
for the whore’s signal: a lingering look, an averting of the eyes, a return look of confirmation. When he got it, a smile of recognition formed on his lips. His heart fluttering in anticipation, he approached her.

  She was tall and slim, and a plumed hat tilted stylishly across the side of her face, a strikingly beautiful face framed by flowing ash-blonde hair.

  Vogel looked into her eyes: they were light blue, almost gray, and they stared back at him without blinking. The eyes of a professional: cool and indifferent, adept at sizing up a potential customer.

  This one has class, Vogel thought. In the days of triumph, during the war, she might well have commanded a luxury suite at the Hotel Anderberg in Berlin, servicing an exclusive clientele of high-ranking military personnel, industrialists and bankers. Perhaps even Der Führer himself. Now, in these wretched times, she was reduced to selling herself in the street like a common prostitute. Or so Vogel imagined …

  As the whore brushed back an errant lock of hair from the side of her face, Vogel looked at the white gloves that she wore: gloves that only a lady of substance or a first-class prostitute could afford, gloves filled with hands that were narrow and fine-boned, fingers that were long and tapering and steady.

  The fur coat and the white gloves.

  The blonde hair and the cool blue eyes.

  Vogel felt himself becoming aroused.

  The whore lifted the cigarette to her lips, drawing off it slowly, self-assuredly; then she exhaled a deliberate, lazy stream of smoke out into the cold snowy air.

  Vogel found himself intrigued by the whore’s poise, her aloofness. He felt his knees begin to weaken.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Drink?” he said, indicating the bar.

  The woman shook her head no.

  Vogel looked at her a moment, then said, “How much?”

  “Three marks.”

  Expensive, he thought. Especially in these times when so many things—including sex—were bartered. Vogel remembered once acquiring the services of a whore in exchange for a half-full pack of cigarettes. Three marks was one-fourth of his weekly salary. But Vogel knew the depth of his hunger, and so quickly nodded agreement.

  The whore took a final draw from her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of one of her dark, spike-heeled shoes. Then she motioned for Vogel to follow her.

  They walked for some time. Through a frozen, deserted park; across the rubbled backlot of a burned-out synagogue; down narrow, darkened streets. The extended walking allowed Vogel’s thoughts to shift and refocus: again he thought of death, of murder. He thought of killing with his own bare hands. Killing a Jew. Such pleasure, he thought. Such exquisite delight!

  The woman strode on swiftly, purposefully, always maintaining a steady pace, always a step ahead of him. Vogel knew that she was in control and it made him feel powerless. A feeling he feared and hated, a feeling he would not have tolerated during the war.

  But because Vogel wanted and needed what this beautiful and strangely silent woman had to offer, he let himself be let deeper into the maze of unfamiliar streets and alleyways.

  Finally, though, deciding that he had been delayed enough, he grabbed the whore’s arm, stopping her, “How much farther!” he demanded.

  She looked at him with those penetrating blue eyes. Her gaze was steady, controlled.

  Vogel had rarely encountered such directness in a woman; it both disconcerted and fascinated him.

  “Sind sie angstig?” she said.

  “No. Of course I’m not frightened,” Vogel replied. “I only—”

  It was her smile that silenced him; a faint, knowing smile that teased the corners of her mouth.

  Vogel had the distinct feeling that something had been stolen from him,

  “It’s not much farther,” she said softly, reclaiming a trace of tenderness.

  Vogel watched her for a moment: so difficult to break away from he gaze, from those enticing blue eyes.

  Then he nodded and they walked on.

  Some of the areas they passed through had been rebuilt, though many still lay in disrepair. Financed by the Americans, the rebuilding helped to create the so-called German Federal Republic—risen from the ashes of the old. But the Americans were fools, Vogel thought. They were helping us back onto our feet—and that was their mistake. For soon we would rule again, and for the next thousand years …

  Finally they came to the mouth of a dark alley, between two buildings. The whore walked in, motioned for him to follow, but Vogel was unable to move. Muscles tensed, he stared into the darkness. A sudden intuitive fear of entrapment told him not to enter, told him to end this venture now, to turn around and go back.

  But Vogel did not believe in intuition: he was a practical man who believed only in what he could see, what was real. So when the whore stepped from the mouth of the alley and walked up to him, peering deeply into his eyes and touching his cheek gently, so gently, with her white-gloved fingers, and said to him, “Don’t you want me?”—Vogel felt his heart flutter and, ignoring his intuition, followed her into the alley.

  Immediately they were shrouded in darkness. Moist, rotting things squished under Vogel’s feet; even in the frosty air the stench was nauseating. What must have been sheets from old newspapers and clumps of oily discarded rags reached out like hands to grasp at his ankles. Vogel felt the sweat of fear breaking out on his face and neck, felt his heart hammering in his chest. And yet he continued to follow her, blindly stumbling over the garbage-strewn floor of the alley.

  Then he heard a voice. Or thought he did.

  A plaintive, mournful voice that seemed to echo toward him from out of the darkness …

  And then … footsteps? Footsteps coming up swiftly behind him?

  Vogel felt the first risings of panic. He was too frightened to turn around. He speeded up until he was practically tripping over the whore’s spiked heels …

  Finally, after what seemed like a grueling eternity, he and the whore reached the end of the alley, which was faintly illuminated by a nearby streetlight.

  Vogel turned quickly around.

  Nothing. Nothing at all.

  No one had followed them. It had been only his imagination.

  Vogel sighed in relief. Using the back of his glove, he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. Then he looked at the whore, nodding for her to walk on.

  Before he could take a single step, though, a hand shot out from the darkness at the edge of the alley, clasping his ankle.

  Vogel cried out in horror—

  The crack of machine-gunfire rent the air.

  Bundled warmly in his heavy officer’s coat and hat and gloves, Obermann stood and watched as another line of Jews was swiftly eliminated by the gunnery crews. After being snot, most of the corpses toppled backward into the long, deep trench behind them. The remaining ones, those which fell forward or to the side, were shoved over the edge by kommandos of prisoner-workers. Obermann enjoyed watching this little display; each morning, during his constitutional, before assuming his own special duties, he made a point of stopping here. There were many ways to kill at Strassenberg, and Obermann knew this was one of the most efficient.

  A new batch of Jews was being lined up now: sickly, ashen, frail-looking creatures lost within gray pajama-like fatigues. Perhaps two dozen in all: men, women, and a pan of young girls, possibly sisters, who clung to each other in tearful desperation. A few moans were heard, a few cries for mercy issued forth, but most of the prisoners stood there in silence, stoically accepting their fate.

  The twin Mausers spit fire.

  The prisoners fell.

  Again and again, until several hundred had fallen into the trench. Until there were no more. Today’s quota had been filled. Tomorrow, like clockwork, the killing would begin again.

  Obermann smiled. He walked up to the trench, which was nearly full now, following days of exterminations. The horizon of corpses began only six or seven feet beneath his dark spit-shined boots. Obermann watched as armed g
uards circled the perimeter of the trench, scanning the bloody, tangled sea of bodies for survivors, and occasionally picking one off. After they had finished, the commandos began their task of shoveling the powdered quicklime onto the corpses. The quicklime would commence to eat through the flesh, hair and organs, all the way down to the skull and bones, a precaution against the plague.

  Obermann stepped all the way up to the edge of the trench, until the toes of his boots were just inching out into the air. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, feeling the searing tang of quicklime gently tease his nostrils, causing them to prickle pleasurably. Ahh. The smell of death.

  Then he felt a strange, sudden pressure on his legs. Startled, he opened his eyes and looked down to see a spindly, skull-faced Jew, dusted with quicklime, with a bloody bullet hole in his side, clutching frantically to his ankles. Recoiling in shock, Obermann tried to move but couldn’t: the little, half-dead Jew would not let go. He tried to kick his way free, but the Jew’s grip was tenacious: like powerful wiry talons cutting through his boots into his flesh. Obermann bent over to try and break the grip with his hands, but in so doing shifted his center of balance and suddenly found himself pitching head over heels into the trench.

  He shrieked in terror.

  Landing with a sodden thud, he began to sink down immediately between several corpses. A sickening miasma of urine, feces, and putrefying flesh assailed his nostrils. Quicklime rubbed off on Obermann’s face and neck, crept into his nose and ears and mouth, and he imagined it beginning to eat through his skin. He gagged. He screamed again. Suddenly hands were pulling him back to the surface, and then hands were encircling his throat, choking him.

  Obermann looked up into the mad, wrathful eyes of the skull-faced Jew.

  Then a shot rang out, followed by several more. Obermann felt the pressure on his throat cease. Suddenly he could breathe again.

  The guards pulled him to his feet, then lifted him out of the trench. He was staggered, shaken. They removed his coat and shirt and quickly washed him down with soap and water. They told him that he would be all right, that the quicklime had not had time to do any damage to his skin. And they apologized, profusely.