General introduction, acknowledgements and author / story introductions copyright © 1992 by Thomas F. Monteleone.
"Brazo de Dios" Copyright © 1992 by Elizabeth Massie.
"Witch Hunt" Copyright © 1992 by Andrew Vachss.
"The Owen Street Monster" Copyright © 1992 by J.L. Comeau.
"The Man Who Was Made of Money" Copyright © 1992 by Avram Davidson.
"The Brotherhood" Copyright © 1992 by John Alfred Taylor.
"The Sixth Sentinel" Copyright © 1992 by Poppy Z. Brite.
"The Man In The Passenger Seat" Copyright © 1992 by Bentley Little.
"Ghosts of Christmas Present" Copyright © 1992 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch.
"The Ugly File" Copyright © 1992 by Ed Gorman.
"Midnight Grinding" Copyright © 1992 by Ronald Kelly.
"Multiple Dwelling" Copyright © 1992 by Kathleen Jurgens.
"Night Life" Copyright © 1992 by Micheal Cassutt.
"A Stain Upon Her Honor" Copyright © 1992 by John Ames.
"Leavings" Copyright © 1992 by Kathe Koja.
"Traumatic Descent" Copyright © 1992 by Lawrence C. Connolly.
"Baby Sue, We Love You!" Copyright © 1992 by Marthayn Pelegrimas.
"High Concept" Copyright © 1992 by David F. Bischoff.
"Just A Closer Walk With Thee" Copyright © 1992 by John Maclay.
"The Banshee" Copyright © 1992 by Thomas Tessier.
"Hungry" Copyright © 1992 by Steve Rasnic Tem.
"Horror Story" Copyright © 1992 by Wilson & Neff, Inc.
All Characters depicted in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidential.
Cover Art by Dave McKean
Cover Design by Richard Thomas, Dave McKean and Michelle Prahler
Notice: a hardcover limited edition available from Borderlands Press, P.O. Box 32333, Baltimore MD 21208
Introduction
As I write this, the selection and editing of all the stories for the third volume of the Borderlands anthology series has been completed, and all that's left to do is write this introductory piece and the individual author/story intros.
But it doesn't really end there. There are always more stories, and I have already started reading the thousand-plus submissions laying siege to my post office box for Borderlands 4...
(Did I say volume 4?)
I know, friends—I can't believe it either.
It seems as if I just started reading for the first volume of this series...
But I'm getting ahead of myself. This introduction is specifically about the current volume of stories—in which you won't be finding any of the familiar stuff of suspense, dark fantasy, and horror anthologies. Werewolves, mummies, vampires, chain-clanking ghosts, spouses with murder in their hearts, and all the other familiar symbols of outre fiction just aren't going to be found here. In case there's any of you coming to this anthology series for the first time, be advised that this is not the typical batch of weird stories. Key words to describe Borderlands fiction are: innovative, original, experimental, provocative, surreal, seductive, enigmatic, and of course, memorable. This is fiction out on the edge, where it's okay to be different...
Last year I was worried about Volume 2 matching up with the now-legendary Numero Uno. I shouldn't have wasted the anxiety attacks. Borderlands 2 garnered as many raves as its progenitor and the limited edition is almost sold out.
If I've learned anything about editing during the lifespan of this series, it's to simply trust my initial feelings and judgments. And that's why I'm not concerned about the quality of Borderlands 3 matching up to the fiction that preceded it.
As usual, the gathering of stories for this volume represents a wide range of material in terms of theme, tone, length, style, and content. There are offerings by some of the most respected writers in the field alongside stories by bold-thinking rookies and newcomers. The submissions policy has been simple: keep the doors open to anybody who thinks they can yank me over the threshold and take me some place I've never been before. When I assembled the contents page, I tried to present the reader with a carefully-arranged schedule of offerings. If things go according to plan you will always be off your guard, never able to anticipate or prepare for the emotional and intellectual jolt of each new tale.
I read for Borderlands 3 from June through October of last year, and it wasn't easy or very pleasant. I had plenty of help though—several people pulled duty in the slush pile, and one of them, Elizabeth Barboza, worked so diligently, she would get no kick from me if she wanted credit as Assistant Editor.
I don't know about Elizabeth, but for me, there've been a lot of nights when I asked myself why I was doing it, why I wasn't reading one of the hundred or so books from my "gotta read" stacks, or why I wasn't writing a new story for somebody else's anthology...? I've wondered if this was what they always meant when they talked about a labor of love—because it was sure as hell a labor, but I couldn't really cop to loving it. If I was being honest about it, I guess I'd have to say the reason I make myself read so many submissions is twofold: when I find a story that really works, I feel vindicated and secondly, no one else is doing it.
Borderlands is the only continuing showcase for original fiction that's not being shoehorned into a particular "theme" anthology. This is a good thing for all the writers trying to sell their short stories. When you try to tailor a piece of fiction to a singular shtick or gimmick like "Dark Appliances: Great Horror Stories About The Kitchen" you can easily come up with something forced and silly. With an open anthology, there are no restrictions or constraints—the writers can run their imaginations at full bore and produce their best work, no matter what the subject matter.
And so you might be asking: Yeah, but how long can this go on?
Hard to tell, friends. I'm not going to bullshit you by telling you it's getting any easier. But I guess I will keep it going as long as there are enough writers out there every year who're willing to take the stretch, to push themselves to their creative limits, and as long as there are enough readers like you who are willing to support the ongoing project that Borderlands has become.
Thanks for being there. After three books, it's still fun. And as far as omens and portents go, that's a good one.
Thomas F. Monteleone
Baltimore, Maryland
September 13, 1992
Brazo de Dios by Elizabeth Massie
I have watched Beth Massie mature as a writer for more than a few years now. Having read some of her earliest appearances in the magazines of the small press, I knew she had the stones to be an exceptional writer. She writes with a subtle power that rips at your emotions with velvet claws. Beth more than fulfilled my expectations when her Borderlands 1 story, "Stephen," won a Bram Stoker Award in the Novelette category in 1991. Since then, she's published her first novel, Sineater, and continues to create what can only be called exceptionally wrought tales of human anguish. The following story may be her best ever.
The walls were dry, and the floor wet. There was a drain hole in the middle of the small room. Puddles of water stood in low places on the concrete. The concrete was coarse, laced with chunks of oyster and clam shells. Sand in the concrete sparkled in the dull light of the string of bulbs above Catherine's head. It had taken her more than an hour to find out this much about the cell. It had taken her that long to loosen her bruised arms from about her face to look around.
The welt on the side of her head rocked a terrible rhythm, driven on by the screams in the cells beyond her own. The blood on her wound had dried. She could smell her own sharp sweat. Her stomach cramped, bloated with fear. This is a washing room, she thought. A washing cell. They wash away signs of their crime
s.
Catherine put her fist to her mouth. A wave of anguish and pain took her and spun her violently. Tears cut her eyes.
God, help me.
She drew up against a dry wall. Her body shook. A spider on the ceiling found a burned-out bulb between the bright ones, and began its determined web-making. Ceiling to floor, floor to ceiling, touching the wet concrete surface just barely before climbing up again.
Be rational, she forced herself to think. Take it rationally. You're alive. You still have your clothes. Appeal to the law. You know the law.
She had been taken in a jeep, in the very early morning. Quietly hanging out the mission linens alone, Catherine had watched the orange spot of the sun as it pushed itself into the sky. Dogs had growled at the groan of the engine but Catherine had thought nothing of it. When it stopped beside the mission garden, she had turned then, too late. There were dark men with rifles. In their swift purpose, she could not register faces, only shadows. Then a rifle came down on the side of her head and shattered the morning.
The law requires me to see a judge, she thought. I've not been charged. She looked at the spider, intent on its instinctive task. She remembered the grinning face of the captain of the fuerza as he had watched her in the village and near the mission. An ugly old man, he had winked at her and licked his lips. A sob caught Catherine's throat.
"No," she whispered. "There is law to be followed here."
But they disdain the law. Remember dear Pablo. Holy Christ, Remember Maria. The captain had taken notice of Maria as well.
Catherine dropped her aching head into her knees and gave her prayers and her consciousness to God. The peasants saw Blessed Visions, and heard miracles of holy voices. Catherine prayed for one. Nothing came but sleep. It was filled with fever. Someone awakened her with a gentle shaking of the shoulder. She blinked, then shuddered. She pressed the heel of her hand to her temple to catch the pain, and looked up. The man above her wore black, similar to the garb of the mission's priest. She did not know this man. He nodded to her. "You are all right?" he asked.
Catherine looked beyond him. The spider had made quite a web. To be a spider now. To be mindless and overlooked by men. This man in black would take her to the captain. God help her.
There was no saliva in her mouth. Her words were strained through cactus thorns. "What time is it, senor?" she asked. She squinted; the throbbing of her eyes made it difficult to focus.
"It is morning, sister."
"What time is it?"
"I do not wear a watch. I do not know."
Screams from nearby cells made the backs of Catherine's arms go cold. "I hear the others," she said. "Campesinos, aren't they? The Fuerza de Seguridad Publica has taken me."
"The security force has brought you here, yes," said the man. "No harm intended to you, sister. They let me come to talk with you, to help you not be afraid. The campesinos, the peasants, you hear, are criminals. You need not worry for them."
"The captain has asked for my arrest?"
"The captain? I don't know what you mean."
A woman, not far away, separated only by the walls, cried, "Jesus!" Her voice spiraled upward, an animal shriek. "What crime is that woman guilty of?" Catherine whispered.
"Campesinos want what is not theirs. You work with them, you know they are often greedy beyond their station." The man smiled and patted Catherine's arm. His hand was soft and the nails of his fingers trimmed and clean. Padre Felipe, back at the mission, had broken nails and dark grooves in the skin of his hands. Padre Felipe's hands were beautiful and worn.
Catherine swallowed but the motion was worthless. Thirst made her cough. "Senor," she said. "I know the laws of this country. I'm an American but I've chosen this place in which to serve my God and brothers. I learned a lot before I came, and have learned a lot since being here."
The man smiled, nodding his head. His teeth were fine and even.
"The law says I must be brought before a judge before twenty four hours is up."
"I understand what you say," said the man. "I, too, know the law. We are good people, with good laws. Do not be afraid. Trust me. The policia have their job. It is a difficult one, you can imagine."
"Have I been here twenty four hours?"
The man stood, still smiling, and opened the door. "I tell you I do not wear a watch. But what is time to the faithful? Rest, sister. I will come visit again."
Catherine tried to count her breaths to steady them. It did not work. "The captain..." she murmured.
"I do not know what you mean," said the man.
He went outside. The door closed behind him.
Catherine rose onto her knees and prayed the prayer of her mission.
"Father, still the hand of the tormentor. Open the hearts of the oppressor. Bring understanding and peace to those in danger."
A child from another cell, a boy or girl, she could not tell, cried out in exquisite pain. "Yatagan, no, no!" Catherine spun about on her knees and threw her face against the door. "God stop them, don't let the torturing go on." Her teeth ground against each other. "Please," she said. "Don't let them torture me."
It was a number of hours before anyone came again to her cell. The activity beyond her room quieted, and although the bulbs above her head burned in unflickering, yellowed consistency, and shadows were the same as when she had arrived, not a one traveling across from corner to corner as would happen in a windowed room, Catherine guessed it to be a meal time. Even the fuerza would stop to eat.
The door rattled and unlocked, and the man in black entered, carrying a scratched aluminum tray with food. He set the tray before Catherine on the floor. His eyebrows jumped as if in apology for the lack of a proper table.
"You are feeling better?" he asked as he took a paper napkin from the top of a bowl of rice and corn. A small loaf of bread lay beside the bowl along with a mug of coffee.
Catherine's head pounded, but she did not say so.
"May we talk, then?"
Catherine looked at the bread, and wished the man would leave her alone so she could perform the Lord's supper. 'This is my body, broken for you...'
"May we talk?"
Catherine said, "Yes." She took the coffee, and sipped tentatively.
"You come from America. What state is that?"
"Kentucky."
"What is Kentucky like?"
"Hills. Mountains. Trees."
"Like our country in some ways?"
"In some ways."
"You have problems in your state in America?"
"Of course."
"Campesinos, wanting land that does not belong to them? Building huts where they should not be, ignoring the capataz who tells them to leave?"
"No, not like that. Every place has problems. We have poverty, yes. But our problems are different in other ways. Ours are not the same as the ones here."
"Why do you not stay in Kentucky and stop the problems there? Why do you feel you need to come here?"
Catherine hesitated. Her bowels were full and she shifted uncomfortably. She wiped at the salty grit in the corner of her eyes. She put the cup of coffee back onto the tray. She knew the answer. How would it sound, out on the air of this cell of terror? "The church sent me."
"But why? Why does the church send you? It seems presumptuous to me, can you see why?"
"Missions takes us beyond our own backyard. We are to take the word into the world."
"Most of our people are Christians. They have the word."
"They're suffering," said Catherine. She winced at the pain in her head, and at what she had said. People the world over suffered. People in her own Kentucky suffered. There was no right answer here. It was a labyrinth. What would Padre Felipe do? Would he remain silent?
"Hmmmmm," said the man. "And you would do what you could to reduce suffering?"
Catherine said, "Yes."
"Anything you could?"
Catherine looked the man in the eyes. They were black eyes, possibly kind eyes, possibly
cruel eyes. She could not tell. He was here, he knew the security force and believed them to be right, therefore the eyes must disguise cruelty. But he had not abused her, he had not been the one who had arrested her, he had not beaten her nor raped her. So the eyes might be kind. They might be the eyes of a friend in an insane world. Perhaps, the eyes of the Savior would be found here, a miraculous vision of hope. "I pray so, yes," she said.
"You are a Christian," said the man. "God must love you very much. Enjoy your meal. Forgive its simplicity." He rose and left the cell.
Catherine uttered a trembling grace, then tasted the beans and rice. The flavor was bland, without hot spices. She ate a small bit. Minutes later, the screaming began again, and she threw the meal up over the wet drain hole.
Catherine slept then awoke. Her neck throbbed from the angle her head had rested in as she lay on the floor. Surely it had been twenty four hours. She knew the chances of being brought before a judge for an official charge were slim. The fuerza rarely followed the laws of its country. This was one reason she had come to this place. Innocent, illiterate people were losing their land and their property to military leaders who forged legal documents and drove the campesinos away with threats, arrests, and murders. Those arrested were usually tortured, sometimes to death. Many others joined the ranks of the "disappeared". Surely Christ wept over the inhumanity of his children. And therefore, those who served Him should not look away, should not count the dangers.
Her clothes, simple jeans and work shirt, were now not only dirty from her work on the school repairs, but stinking from her hours in the prison. She needed to use a restroom, but was afraid to bang on the door to ask for help. Maybe it would be better to be alone and perhaps forgotten.
Cautiously, and with humiliation, she emptied her bladder and bowels over the drain hole in the center of the cell.
Kentucky, your problems should have been mine, she thought with shame. The screams of your starving, your ignorant, your cruel, I didn't hear. I didn't follow.
She paced around the cell walls. She looked at the spider's web, praying to see a divine message, but there was nothing, only the mass of white, tangled threads.
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