Borderlands 3

by Thomas F. Monteleone (Ed. )

"Mama, I ate something off the road a while back. I just gotta get rid of it, then I'll come up where you can see me."

  She turned her back to him even though it would have been much too dark to see what he was about to do. But after watching him a thousand times when he was little she felt like he was a grown boy now, and deserved some show of respect, and she wasn't sure but maybe this was one way to do it. At the same time she knew her turning away wasn't at all being the good mama, either. She didn't want to see it anymore. She didn't feel like she should have to.

  Back in the darkness there was a sound like damp skin stretching, splitting, some awful coughs and gurglings like her son's throat was turning itself inside out (dear God it's got worse!) and then a loud, mushy thump.

  A few minutes later she could hear him walking up behind her. "I'm sorry, Mama." His voice was hoarse, like he'd been crying. He used to cry all the time when he was little, complaining all the time about being so hungry, and never getting full no matter how much she fed him, how much Ray let her feed him, or how ever much Jimmie Lee ate on his own to try to fill that awful hunger. His nose would run and his eyes would look all raw and scraped and he'd stop trying to keep himself clean. Vivian took a handkerchief out of her front apron pocket now and turned around to give it to him.

  "Thanks, Mama. I'll get good and clean for you, just for you." The young man standing in front of her, saying just what he used to say to her when he was a little boy and had made himself such an awful mess, was taller, surely, and had little scraggly patches of beard here and there where once had been unnaturally pink skin, but other than that he still seemed the pale, skinny little boy who had left her years ago. His chin was covered with thick, soupy slobber which he wiped off with the handkerchief. She didn't mind—that had always been her job, to provide the handkerchiefs, the towels, waiting patiently while he cleaned himself up, directing him now and then to a missed spot or two. Ray had never been able to stand even that little bit of clean up; he'd always just left the room.

  "My goodness!" She made herself sound impressed, although what she was really feeling was relieved, and desperate to hug him to her. "My handsome older son."

  Jimmie Lee grinned then, showing teeth even worse than she remembered. She could see that at least he'd been able to get some dental work done, but it looked like the fillings and braces had been filed, points added here and there to make him look more like a silly machine, some big city kitchen gadget of some kind. She wondered if it really helped him get the food down or if it was all just for some sideshow or movie work he'd been doing. He'd written her once about one of the movies—"Flesh Eaters From Beyond Mars," or some such silliness. He'd said in the letter that the movie people liked him because he saved them money on special effects, but she'd never really understood what any of that was about.

  Other than the metal in his mouth her sweet boy hadn't changed much. Certainly he couldn't weigh much more now than when he'd left her: his body straight up and down like a sleeve with no hips or shoulders to speak of, but his neck about twice as wide as it should be, and faintly ringed, like a snake's belly. Set atop that stout neck was the largest jaw she'd ever seen—it hung out like the bird bath on top the pedestal she had out in the front flower bed. His mouth was wider than normal, she guessed, but had never seemed as big as it should be for that size jaw. His lips were almost blue, and cracked, and there were a bunch more splits in the skin at the corners of his mouth. Because of all the stretching his skin had to do there hair growth had always been spotty. She'd tried to get him to use lotions and oils, but like most children he just forgot all the time. So she'd always rub some into his face every night, being especially careful around the mouth and chin. She wondered if he knew somebody now who cared enough to do that for him.

  His eyes were the wide eyes of a lost child's, but then they always had been. Jimmie Lee now was just a larger version of the poor baby that had been born in a backwoods barn and just left there eighteen years before. No one else had wanted the funny looking child but Vivian had known from the very first moment she saw him that this was her son, and would be forever. Even Ray, for all his puffin' and embarrassment about the boy, had resented it when one of the neighbors suggested that maybe they shouldn't keep him. This was his son, even though sometimes he sorely couldn't stand being around him.

  And then Jimmie Lee had gone out into the world, maybe to find his "real" mother, or maybe to find whatever it was he was hungry for. She didn't know, and was afraid then, and was afraid now, to ask. All she'd had to remember him by was this awful swelling in her throat every time she thought of him, and every time she struggled to eat or drink something. But nobody'd ever told her that life was fair to mothers.

  "Did you ever find her, son?"

  "Who, Mama?"

  "Why, the one who gave birth to you. The one who just left you here all them years ago." She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but the vein went too wide and deep to hide.

  His throat gurgled and a raw smell escaped. She started to turn away, but he held out his hand to stop her. "It's okay, mama. I still got it under control. I'm a lot more careful about how and when I eat now. Something I learned on the road, having to be around other people." He looked at her. She waited. "I never found her, Mama. Guess I didn't try much after the beginning. I guess I was a little afraid of what she'd look like."

  "You stayin' long?"

  "I can't. I finally figured out it's best I be around folks who don't know me so well. But I just had to see you again, and smell you, and listen to you talk. I had to."

  Her throat filled and she had to force it back down so that she could speak again. "You best get inside now, have something to..." She looked away from his nervous, hungry face, to where he'd come from in the dark beyond the fence, now turning gray so fast she could see a little bit of what he'd left there: great big mounds of meat still steaming in the cold, their hides partly dissolved away, large hunks of their manes missing, the meat turned to something like jelly, their teeth protruding from lipless mouths. A couple of Winn Gibson's prize mares, she suspected. Well, she guessed Ray was just going to have to deal with Winnie on that one, like he had all those times before. She sighed. "Guess you'd best just get inside..."

  ▼

  Jimmie Lee held up the brightly-colored, tattered poster beside his face. "It don't look much like me, I reckon, but the owner said they had to exaggerate a little bit to draw a crowd. He said people expected it like that, so that it wasn't lyin' exactly. They called me the Snake Boy." The poster showed a giant snake with her son's lost baby eyes on it, its huge mouth gaped open and an elephant disappearing inside. Lined up into the distance were chickens, bears, and a horse with a huge belly, all with worried looks on their faces.

  "That's very nice, son," Vivian said quietly.

  "But I only stayed there a few months. I didn't much like people lookin' at me like that, you know, mama?"

  "I know, sweetheart."

  "It was like the way people used to stare at me around here, only worse. Worse 'cause they were strangers, I guess. I never did like strangers watchin' me while I was eatin'."

  "It certainly is impolite," she said. "People shouldn't stare at other people while they're eating. You can hardly digest your food that way." She raised her hand to her throat.

  "So that's why I left the show. I did odd jobs after that, until I got to do those movies I wrote you about. And once for a few months I had me a dandy of a job in one of those meat-packing plants. It was late at night, and I had the place all to myself. It was great."

  "I'm sure it was, Jimmie Lee."

  "But the owner of the sideshow, he really could entertain you. That was a good part of it, mama—it weren't all bad. He'd crack all these jokes when he introduced me, and then he'd make more of 'em while I did my 'act,' but all I did was sit up on that stage and eat. But he'd say these things and all the people would laugh and I reckon that's a real good thing. He was real funny, mama, you shoulda seen. You'd a lau
ghed till you cried, I bet."

  "I bet I would that, honey."

  "We had ourselves enough show 'round here to last us a lifetime, I reckon."

  Vivian clutched at her apron. She hadn't heard him come in. She twisted in her chair in time to see Ray throw down his old coat and go stomping off to the bathroom to wash up.

  "I guess daddy still don't want me around here." Jimmy Lee sat still with his legs spread, long nervous hands dangling and twisting between his knees.

  "Your daddy just gets tired, honey. We all get tired now and then."

  She could hear her husband splashing in the water, then hands slapping it onto his face. Jimmie Lee's eyes were large and white in the dimly-lit room. When he was small his eyes always looked like that. Before they discovered the hunger he had, Ray used to joke that Jimmie Lee's eyes were bigger than his mouth. "I get tired, too," Jimmie Lee said. "And, Mama, I still get so hungry."

  Vivian couldn't move. She stared at her son with tears in her eyes. "I love you, honey. I just keep loving you and loving you."

  "I know, Mama. But it's like the love goes inside me and gets lost and then it just isn't there anymore. Like I eat the love, Mama. And then I'm still hungry."

  Ray came back into the room and flopped down into his recliner. He sighed and looked directly at Jimmie Lee. "Well, son, you're lookin'... better. Better than the last time I seen you. That's good to see. You doin' a job now? You find yourself somethin' you can do?"

  Jimmie Lee leaned forward and tried to smile. But the cracks in his lips and around his mouth bent and twisted the smile. Vivian started crying softly to herself and Ray looked at her with what she thought was an unusual sadness on the face of this man she'd known almost all her life. Then Jimmie Lee must have known something was wrong, because it looked as if he were trying to pull the smile back in, and it just made it worse.

  "I left that show, Papa. I know that'll please you. Made a couple of movies. And I did some real work, too, like at a packing plant, and once I spent almost a year at this junkyard outside Charlotte..."

  "Junk yard? You learn the junk business? Now that can be a good trade for a young man. There's always goin' to be junk lyin' around."

  Jimmie Lee looked down at his feet. "Well, papa, there was pieces the man couldn't sell, and they were just sittin' around his yard, takin' up too much space he said, and he couldn't get rid of them..."

  His father interrupted. "You're talkin' about the eatin' now, and I ain't gonna talk about the eatin'."

  "But, Papa, eatin' metal junk, specially cars, why that's become almost like a regular thing in some places. They put it in the papers, and sometimes it even gets on the T.V. Some fella'll eat a big Buick, or an old Ford Mustang..."

  His father leaned forward out of his recliner and stared hard at Jimmie Lee. "We don't talk about the eatin' in this house. Look how you've gone and upset your mother."

  Vivian sat rock-still in her chair, her eyes closed and mouth open, crying without sound.

  "Vivian, why don't you go on out to the hen house and get the boy some fresh eggs? The boy always liked fresh eggs."

  She stared at him, her eyes sharp and red. "Wh-what?"

  "Papa, I don't need eggs..."

  "Sure you do. Vivian, go get the boy some eggs. He used to eat a dozen of 'em at a time, from what I remember. Shell and all. But at least it was real food. Go on now."

  Vivian stood stiffly, and left the room. She went out through the back door and around the side toward the hen house. But when she passed near the open window of the livingroom she stopped, because she could hear her husband and her son talking inside. And she knew what they would be talking about—she knew what Ray would be saying to Jimmie Lee. She crept closer, and stood just under the lilac bush by the window, where she could see their faces, and the feelings painted there.

  Ray started talking low and firm. "Now it's good to see you, I mean that, son. I know I ain't always been as soft as I should of when you were at home, but I been thinkin' about you every day since you left us. You been sorely missed—you sure have—and not just by your Mama." He leaned back and sighed. "But your Mama's sick, boy, real sick, and I just don't know if she can stand watchin' what you go through, havin' it be like it was before."

  "Mama? What's wrong with her? Tell me..."

  "Well, she never did eat all that well, and I reckon we all know the reason for that." Jimmie Lee looked down at his stomach and away. Vivian held her throat and struggled not to make a sound. "But that don't matter so much now. It weakened her, and she's had pneumonia so many times over the years she damn near coughed her lungs out. But she's got the cancer now, and it's clean through her, Doc Jennings says, and she can't have long to go."

  Jimmie Lee's face was sheened with sweat. That's what he did, instead of crying. His body never had let him cry.

  "Even less, I reckon, if you stay around, son."

  Jimmie Lee stood up. "I understand, Papa. I appreciate you levelin' with me."

  "You're a good son, Jimmie Lee."

  Vivian rushed down to the hen house and grabbed what she could, then ran back into the house and into the living room, out of breath, a scarf full of eggs hugged to her bosom. Jimmie Lee was still standing, but had already started for the door. She looked at her husband, then at Jimmie Lee. "You're leavin'," she said flatly. The eggs tumbled out of her arms and splattered across the braided rug.

  "I gotta check some things out down at the pasture," his father said, getting up. He pulled on his sweater, started to leave, then walked over to Jimmie Lee and gave him a quick hug.

  After her husband left the house Vivian still stood there among the broken eggs, looking at Jimmie Lee as if she were memorizing him, or trying to puzzle him out. Jimmie Lee bent over and started picking up the egg shells. "Leave those alone," she said softly. He straightened back up and looked down at her, his thin lips twitching, the scars around his mouth wrinkling like worms moving across his face. "He told you, didn't he?" she said. "He told you all of it."

  Jimmie Lee nodded. "I better go, Mama."

  "You come here, baby." She held out her arms to him and when he wouldn't come any closer she walked over to him and attached her frail body to his. "You're not leavin' me this time."

  "Mama, please. I gotta go."

  "No, sir."

  "Mama, I'm hungry." And he tried to push her body away.

  She pressed closer, and raised her hand to his lips. "I know, baby." And pulled his thin, cracked lips apart with her fingers. And put her fingers inside her baby's mouth, then put her hand inside, then both hands. As if out of his control, his huge jaw dislocated, his pliant facial muscles stretched. He tried to pull back, to make his mouth let go of her, but she wouldn't have any of that. "No, child. Just take it, child." His mouth wouldn't let go, and as her head disappeared inside him he heard her say again, "I'm not leaving you."

  For the first time in his life, what he ate, all that he ate, became nourishment, and remained inside him.

  Horror Story by Whitley Strieber

  The author of books as primal as The Wolfen, horrifically elegant as The Hunger, and as frightening as Communion does not write enough short fiction. Whitley Strieber wrote a story several years ago entitled "Pain" for an anthology called Cutting Edge which will probably remain with me forever—it is one of the most disturbing pieces of fiction I've ever read. Whitley is one of my favorite writers and I am honored to present you with his latest short story. Like "Pain," the tale which follows proffers some of the most grim answers to the question of humankind's very existence I've seen this side of Kafka. I'd like to say "enjoy," but I know that's inappropriate here.

  They were not lovers, not exactly that, but their affection often drifted into physical contact that edged on the erotic. Now they sat together in a studio apartment, listening to the wind whine past the tiny concrete balcony. Inside, the only sound was the occasional turning of a page in the magazine Darin was reading.

  "Bloody amazing," Charlie said. He wa
s vehement.

  Darin acknowledged this with the smallest possible rebuttal. "It's culture. You wouldn't understand."

  Charlie toyed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. He was obviously bored. He probably wouldn't have minded a game of cards. Gin Rummy. Spite and Malice. "You haven't got a boredom threshhold," he said angrily.

  Darin closed his eyes in annoyance, flopped his magazine into his lap. "Look, Charlie, it's an interesting story. Ok. Please."

  "Who ever ever reads the fiction in the New Yorker ? I'd sooner read the back of a cereal box."

  "You read the backs of cereal boxes every fucking morning."

  "Now don't bring fucking in, just because you're black."

  Darin glared at him, then glanced up into the murky haze that formed the ceiling of the room. He waited, passive, for the distant clatter of the old Smith Corona that was being hammered out there. Finally, it came. "I'm not black, Charlie." Again he looked up. "Is that all?" There came more typing: Darin threw the magazine down. He knew that he wasn't going to get to finish his story.

  "You're black," Charlie insisted.

  "Ok, look at me. Do I look black? Do I sound black? Do I act black? I ain't black, man! Sheet!" He covered his mouth, looked down at the backs of his black hands. Then he stood up, raised his fist to the opaque, foggy emptiness above. "Come on, turkey, this isn't even good fiction! You can do better than this!"

  For a long moment, the typewriter was silent. When it started again, Charlie was the character chosen to speak. "You're black now," Charlie said. "I mean, I remember when you weren't. But now you are."

  "I ain't! I mean—oh, shit." Darin stopped. He picked up an ashtray with goldfish frozen in the glass, and hurled it as hard as he could out into the surrounding oblivion. There came a thud, a gasp. Then he regarded Charlie, his arms folded. "Charlie, you never quite understand, do you? It's him. He's out there, causing you to say I'm black. He could turn us into a couple of fucking papooses if he wanted to. But I'm not black and we're not papooses, and that is what is real!"