Borderlands 5
Page 13
Soon, he thought. Soon, he must get free.
The sun shone even brighter the next day and Jakob sweltered in the confines of his tiny cell. A shimmering haze boiled up out of the ground in front of Jakob’s cell door. The air inside his cell felt sticky; it was almost too painful to breathe.
His mind and body couldn’t take much more.
Back at the slit, he saw 53 shuffling around the yard. Without a care in the world, Jakob thought.
53 stopped and looked at Jakob again. His mouth moved.
What had he said?
A clap of thunder broke over the prison and Jakob saw the dark clouds coming from the east.
From the sea the sweet ocean that would be Jakob’s path to salvation. A whistle sounded in the yard. Prisoners filed past Jakob’s door, hurrying to get inside before the rain fell.
Then 53 drew close. Closer.
And Jakob heard him. “I can help you.”
Surprise clogged Jakob’s mind. He couldn’t find his own voice.
53’s cut him off before he could try.
“The rainy season is coming. When it storms, I’ll be here at nightfall. And together we will leave this place.”
Then he vanished inside. Jakob rocked back.
Stunned.
But strangely … hopeful.
Had it worked? Had Jakob’s plan to somehow control 53’s mind succeeded? Or had 53 simply been waiting for the right time to get out of here? Perhaps 53’s plan required something he didn’t have.
A friend. Jakob smiled.
Let the rains come.
He dreaded the night. Despite the light from the overhead oil lamps, a heavy darkness enveloped his mind. He floated through their faces. He tasted their coppery blood. He swam through a sea of intestines, livers, and kidneys, all slick and run together like melted ice cream.
He vomited and ejaculated almost simultaneously; he woke covered in his own filth and semen.
“392!”
He looked up, knowing he had undigested bits of dinner stuck to his face. The guard frowned and directed a water hose down on him. “Wash yourself. And be quick about it.”
Jakob scrubbed himself clean. The water vanished. The vomit, feces, and spurted seed disappeared as well.
But when he closed his eyes, the darkness returned. And with it, the demons.
Another cracked scalding day dawned outside Jakob’s cell. This heat!
Jakob wanted to claw his way through the iron door. He wanted to tunnel down into the depths of the cool, dark earth. He wanted to hide under his bed. If he could just get away from this damned heat!
But he could go nowhere.
The stagnant water in the clay pitcher tasted like dirt. Grit swam in his mouth with each gulp.
He paced in his cell. Two steps.
Turn.
Two steps. Turn.
It was too hot to stand. Jakob squatted in his cell, thinking a layer of cooler air might be close to the ground.
Maybe lower.
He lay on the floor. It was still hot.
And he could go no further.
Jakob went back to the door. He wanted to shout. He wanted to call out to 53, “Hey! When will the storms come? When can we escape? Friend?”
But 53 only glanced his way once.
The smile he gave Jakob didn’t make the heat or his tiny cell any easier to endure.
Jakob spent the rest of the day peering through the slit at the lifeless brown exercise yard. He stared at the hard-packed earth, longing to feel it beneath his feet. He listened to the birds chirping beyond the walls, safe in their trees. And he watched the sun’s rays fade as evening came on.
He tried to sleep. But closing his eyes for even a minute brought the demons. They shrieked louder. They bullied. Poked. Prodded. Slapped. Smacked.
Are you crying?
Oh, you poor little boy.
You poor little baby.
Jakob screamed. Just go away!
He shot up.
Had he screamed? Or only imagined it? He looked up.
Waiting.
But the guards never came over. He leaned back.
I must get out of here!
Sometime later, after exhaustion had finally dragged Jakob down into the depths of a dreamless purgatory, the rains fell.
Soft at first, the showers soon turned to sheets. Lightning flashed.
Thunder cracked. And Jakob woke. Was it time?
Was this the moment? Would it be tonight?
He swung his legs over the side of his cement bed and crept to his door. He huddled against the iron, longing to feel the cool rain touch his skin. He could taste the moisture staining the humid air. He could inhale its clean scent.
But still, he couldn’t touch it.
And he didn’t dare risk sticking his hand through the slit. The burs would have sliced his hand open.
Then he heard it. A slight sound out of harmony with the rest of nature’s discordant symphony.
53?
Is that you?
A set of eyes appeared at the slit.
A whisper tickled Jakob’s ear. “392. It’s time.”
Jakob heard the key slide into the lock, fit the tumblers, and then turn. A dull thunk and the door swung open.
53 stood there. “Be quick!”
Jakob looked up at the top of his cell one last time. The guards weren’t around.
Now!
He followed 53 into the downpour. The cold rain stung his skin as it washed the sweat off his body and out of a thousands little nicks and cuts that Jakob hadn’t even had time to catalog.
They ducked beside a wall. 53 put his mouth close to Jakob’s ear. “Follow me. There’s a section of the wall that we can break through.”
Break through? But the walls were made of cement. Surely 53 couldn’t be serious.
But the little man sped them along the exercise yard toward a place Jakob hadn’t been able to see from his hot box. And as they approached, Jakob spotted little flecks of concrete on the muddy ground. Was the wall crumbling?
53 pointed at the wall and then looked overhead. Lightning flashed.
And then as the thunder boomed, 53 kicked the wall. Chunks of cement broke off.
But 53 wasn’t a strong man. His legs hadn’t been conditioned by squatting in front of the slit all day long.
Jakob pushed him away and waited. Flash.
Boom. Crumble.
A two-foot section of concrete fell out of the wall. Jakob grinned. Then he let all the anger well up within him. The heat. The cell. The warden. The demons. All of it.
Flash.
Boom. Jakob’s kick exploded into the wall. The final piece of wall crumbled. A hole three feet in diameter beckoned.
Go.
53 slid through the gap. Jakob took a final look at the prison yard, thankful that the hurricane-like wind and rain had kept the guards inside, and then sank into the mud and clawed his way through the squishy goo.
He emerged on the other side of the wall.
53 looked at him, his mouth a runny mess of rain, spit, and smile.
He wiped his glasses. “We’re free!”
Jakob nodded. “How did you get the key to my cell?”
“A hobby of mine, actually. I was the best safecracker around. That’s why I’m here.” He grinned. “Or was here. It’s simple enough to fashion a key out of the spare metal laying around the prison. General population prisoners actually enjoyed a few more privileges than you.”
“But why help me?”
“The rest of these fools are destined to rot. Let them. I saw you the first day. Something different about you, mate. You had the look.”
“The look.”
“A gleam in the eye. I knew you were the one.”
Jakob smiled and held out his hand. “To my new friend.” 53 grasped Jakob’s slippery skin.
Jakob squeezed 53’s hand and pumped it. On the second pump. He jerked 53 toward him, hit him in the nose with a left backfist, then looped his le
ft arm around 53’s neck, squeezed, and jerked up.
The wind drowned out the sound of 53’s neck breaking.
Jakob let the little man’s body slide into the oozing ground and stared at him for a moment.
“If only I had more time to properly seal our friendship.” He spat a mouthful of water. “But I’m in a bit of a rush.”
Jakob turned toward the main road. How much of the night did he have left? He had to reach the town and board a ship while it was still dark if he was to make good on his escape.
More wind assailed him. Walking grew difficult. Rain pounded his face and his back. The ground sucked at his feet.
But still Jakob trudged on. Only two miles, after all. He could see the lights of the town.
And then he reached the outskirts—how long had it taken him to slog through the mud and grime? Exhaustion overwhelmed him. But joy lifted his spirits—to be free and to have killed on the same night! Perhaps a drink to celebrate … But how could he in his prison rags?
No. Time for celebrating later. He had to be smart. Find a ship.
One leaving as soon as the storm abated.
He skirted the docks. But only one ship lolled in the harbor surf: a tramp steamer with a huge cargo hold.
Perfect.
The bell tolled, knocked about in the howling winds.
No gangplank led to the ship. Jakob had to shimmy up one of the ropes and slink over the side. He felt his feet touch the deck and he celebrated another big step.
Further away from the prison.
He opened the closest bulkhead and peered into the darkness. There didn’t appear to be anyone on board. Probably they were all drinking in the bars. And later on they’d squander their money on cheap thrills with painted ladies.
Good for them.
Jakob slid down the steep steps into the bowels of the ship. He finally found the entrance to the cargo hold and entered.
He’d expected it to be cool down here, but the ship must have baked in the sun all day. The cargo hold felt hot and sticky.
He tucked himself in among splintery wooden crates. They contained nothing. Jakob frowned. He’d hoped to find some fruit. Perhaps they’d load some before the ship weighed anchor.
Jakob smiled.
He’d done it. What they claimed couldn’t be done. And thanks to his recently-departed accomplice, Jakob was a free man. Soon, he’d be back in Europe. Soon, he’d be back living in luxury.
“Would you care for another fig, sir?”
Jakob tasted the fruit and chewed slowly. He nodded. “Please.”
“Are you comfortable, sir? We can bring more pillows.”
Jakob nodded. “One can never have enough pillows.”
“And is the fanning to your liking, sir?”
“A little bit faster, please. The heat in here is quite bothersome.”
He woke up drenched in sweat. How long had he been out for? He had no way of knowing. No way of penetrating the darkness down here. Was the sun up? Were they already at sea? He hadn’t heard any shouts or yells that would have announced a prison search party.
The heat.
Jakob’s mouth felt dry. Sticky. His throat felt thick. Sweat ran down his body.
He needed air. Just a bit. Sea air was supposed to be good for the constitution, wasn’t it? Maybe just a quick peek topside to ascertain what time it was. Perhaps even a quick forage for some water and food. Then he’d come right back down and not show himself until they were well out to sea.
Perhaps there’d even be time for Jakob to indulge himself on a few of the crew. He smiled. He’d enjoy that.
Oh, yes.
He crawled toward the door.
Stretched his right hand out to the handle. And screamed as something lanced his flesh. Sudden light.
Sunlight. Heat.
Sticky.
Jakob looked at his arm. Blood trickled down it in jagged lines. What—?
His hand. Stuck on the rusted bur teeth of … The slit.
In his door. In his cell.
Jakob screamed.
And didn’t care much who heard him.
The Food Processor
MICHAEL CANFIELD
This is one of the strangest stories we encountered. It qualifies as a fitting tale for Borderlands because it has that quality we love—when you read it, you will not forget it. Regarding what it might be, or not be about … well, let’s just say we saw it as kind of a creation-myth for the 21st Century.
Though the boys’ birthdays occurred weeks apart, Mother combined their gift to please Father.
“You may choose your present this year, boys,” said she. “Something to fulfill your destiny, perhaps.” The boys were born to change the world.
“A cement mixer,” said the oldest, James.
“A hammer and nails, and wood,” said Charles, two years and two weeks younger. “We want to make things.”
Mother pushed her tongue against the inside of her mouth. “You could choose a gift that would make Father happy.”
The boys lowered their eyes.
They lived in a basement, down below the kitchen where Father made soups, casseroles and souffles much demanded by hungry people in the city. Every year Father bought the latest blenders, electric mixers and grinders. He ordered the best ingredients in the world. Father wanted the boys to join him in the big kitchen one day, when ready, but they feared that day. The kitchen boiled, and steam leaked out the vents cut in the door above the basement stairs. Blenders and mixers raged and whined into the night.
“I think Father would be pleased if you asked for an industrial food processor,” said Mother.
James knew Mother could not hear their birthday wishes. Love and allegiance to Father overwhelmed her senses. Charles bounced in place. He dreamed of things to build with.
James said, “If a food processor is what you think we should have, Mother, that is what we want.”
Charles’ puffy cheeks reddened; his lips trembled. James caught his eyes and encouraged him to be brave.
The birthday party came and Mother dressed the boys in party hats. Cooks from Father’s kitchen brought down special dishes, in stainless steel mixing bowls, for the meal. Poultries, and young calf and foal so tender the meats fell off the bones to liquefy in their own juices. Pastas so drenched in butters and unclarified oils the brothers could not discern the noodles’ shapes. The brothers had eaten so many rich, creamy, dishes in their lives they could no longer tell foods apart.
They emptied each bowl tasting nothing.
When they finished one, the white-coated cook who’d brought it took it back and climbed the left side of the stairway back to the kitchen. More cooks brought fresh dishes down the right side. The meal could not end until dishes stopped coming and the boys had finished everything.
From her rocker in the corner, Mother looked on, pleased. Next to her rested the tall box containing the boys’ gift.
After many courses, the boys lagged in their eating, forcing the cooks to wait for empty bowls to return. A voice blasted from within the steam-filled kitchen above.
“Where are my cooks!” cried Father.
The cooks hunched and shook. Mother called up in her gentle voice. “The boys relish the dishes so much, Husband, they are not emptying each bowl as it is brought, but savoring their meal,” she said.
Even though no one could withstand Father’s will, she protected them as best she could.
“Never mind the bowls,” cried Father. “I have dishes for my sons to eat. How can they ever join me in the kitchen if they do not eat what I make?”
The cooks left the bowls on the floor, and the table, and scrambled back up the stairs to carry more.
After the party, the boys lay on the woven rug amid empty bowls.
James’s belly rose and fell.
Bowls lay stacked in mountains. The cooks had not returned for them; Father would need his cooks later to prepare the next day’s orders and he’d sent them to bed for a few hours.
James struggled to sit up. His pants button popped off, which eased discomfort. Charles leaned up. He looked at James with hope in his eyes. Perhaps Mother had relented and given them something to build with after all.
Mother stood up. She heaved. She pushed the present, which was bigger than they three combined, toward the middle of the room. She hid a smile, pulling down the corners of her mouth.
Charles tried to rush forward, but managed only to lumber. The box equaled his height. He tugged at the ribbon around it.
James helped him, lifting one side of the box lid, letting Charles try the other. When his young brother stood tip-toe, arms outstretched, James removed the lid.
Charles peeked over the edge. Stainless steel, the food processor shone in the room’s dim light. They pulled the box apart to see the gift. Charles made little fists, without crying or showing Mother any sign of disappointment.
He made James proud.
The food processor consisted of a large spout that led into a steel tank that would hold many gallons. Circular blades of different widths and angles fitted the tank. Mother told them they’d received the largest, most powerful, food processor in the world. Besides the electrical power cord, the machine sported an oil-burning motor Father had attached. Father did not like electricity, which was not organic. Not earthy. He insisted his appliances be powered by the grease from his oven traps, or the extractions from his ingredients. Mother said she and Father had decided to give the boys the first one ever made, because they loved them so much and expected them to change the world as Father had. Even Father did not have this machine yet.
She leaned down for a peck on the cheek from each boy. Together the boys lifted the food processor, and carried it to a corner. Mother told them to clear away the bowls from the party and set them at the top of the stairs for the cooks to take in the morning.
She went to bed.
Too tired to work, Charles yawned. “I wish we could blink our eyes and make this mess disappear.”
James thought a bit. “Maybe we can,” he said. “Let’s see what happens if we put a bowl in the food processor.”