DARKEST MINDS
STORIES FROM THE BORDERLINES
DARK MINDS PRESS
DARKEST MINDS
STORIES FROM THE BORDERLINES
Published by
Dark Minds Press
31 Gristmill Close
Cheltenham
Glos.
GL51 0PZ
www.darkmindspress.com
[email protected]
First Kindle Edition - May 2015
Cover Image © Mark West
The copyright of each story featured within
remains the property of the individual author.
Edited by Ross Warren and Anthony Watson
All stories are original to this collection except for “Vacation” by Glen Krish which originally appeared in The Dream Zone #13, 2002.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
VACATION
REFUGEES
THE GREAT DIVIDE
THE 18
TIME WAITS…
THE CATALYST
UNDER OCCUPATION
GOING SOUTH TO MEET THE DEVIL
BOTHERSOME
THE SEA IN DARKNESS CALLS
WALKING THE BORDERLINES
IT CAME FROM THE GROUND
Introduction
Ross Warren & Anthony Watson
Anyone with enough (i.e. too much) time on their hands to visit the Wikipedia page which lists the gestation periods for different animals will, once they’ve gotten over the shock of the Alpaca (a year? Really?), see that the longest of all pregnancies belongs to the African Elephant which even manages to beat all species of Whale. Elephants carry their developing young for the best part of two years.
It’s no mean achievement to outdo the world’s biggest land animal in any regard but here at Dark Minds Press we can claim a victory over the mighty beast, having taken the best part of three years to bring out our third volume of dark fiction.
Such is life in the world of small press publishing – the real world has a habit of getting in the way of the really interesting stuff like reading, editing and actually publishing and whilst the available time is often taken up with other more mundane activities (visiting Wikipedia and such like), the enthusiasm never wanes. Hopefully, the wait will have been worth it.
The stories collected in Darkest Minds are themed around the concept of crossing a border. It was an open submission and – with only one or two exceptions – the stories we received showcased some amazing interpretations of that theme and it was difficult to make the decision to reject in many cases. The twelve stories which make up this volume were the ones we thought best met the criteria as well as being brilliant in their own right and within these pages you’ll find a variety of styles and approaches to the whole concept of “crossing over”. You’ll find physical and geographical borders, psychological and metaphorical ones too. You’ll be taken across the line between life and death…
It’s been a privilege to work with the authors whose stories appear in Darkest Minds. Such was the case with our two previous books as well, Dark Minds and Darker Minds. It’s been amazing, and extremely gratifying, that writers for whom we have the utmost regard and respect have submitted stories to us for consideration and it’s an honour to be in the position of actually publishing them.
We hope you enjoy the stories which follow. If you’re ready, then we’ll begin. The border is approaching. Dare you cross it..?
Vacation
Glen Krisch
I knew there was no turning back when I was signing the last waiver forms while I stood naked at the secretary’s desk. She had probably seen countless people in the buff during the years of her employment, so I tried to act natural. She was one of those people who never unclenched her jaw and always, no matter if she was sitting down while you were standing naked before her, found a way of looking down at you over the thick rim of her glasses.
“Mr. Callahan, are you finished yet?”
“Uh... almost.” I lifted my head and did my best not to look at her. I flipped through the pages and acted like I was making sure I had everything in order, trying to make sure I didn’t make eye contact with that pent-up old hag.
The wide oak door finally opened.
I had met Webster in the subway on the way home from work the week before. When he had approached so openly, my first impression was that he would hit on me. When I saw him judging my expensive clothes, but not necessarily how I looked in them, right then I knew he was some sort of salesman. That was only a week ago, and now I was standing naked in his office signing papers that say things like, In case of accidental death... and, Not liable in any form for the following... Darn good salesman.
“Mr. Callahan, nice to see you again.” Webster wore a suit even more expensive than the one I was wearing the day we met.
As he greeted me, Webster’s strong salesman’s hand engulfed my own. His hand was sweaty. I desperately wanted, more than anything, to wipe my hand on something but I settled for swaying it loosely at my side.
“Now, is everything crossed, dotted and in triplicate?” Though Webster chuckled he still checked all the appropriate areas on the forms. “Okay, Mr. Callahan, you can follow me, and we’ll get you started on your vacation. How does that sound?”
I simply nodded and smiled the appropriate smile.
I followed the rotund Mr. Webster down a hall with carpeting so thick it felt overgrown between my bare toes. I stared at the back of his head, wondering about the expression on his face on the other side. Was he laughing to himself over the fortune I’d just turned over to him, a risk free, non-refundable fortune? Was he smiling, happy to have served someone, happy to have even possibly saved someone’s life by a chance encounter in the subway? I couldn’t tell through the back of his shining bald dome.
The room we entered was extremely small and a three by three foot section of the floor had been cut out. That was half the room; there wasn’t even a chair on which to sit. I could hear thick waves splashing from the hole.
“Just remember what you saw in the video presentation. And if anything unexpected happens, try to rely on instinct. It’ll come back to you.”
That’s all he said. He closed the door then double locked it, leaving me in the dark. It was so dark my eyes started to create little bobbing effervescent shapes that fell in on themselves.
My eyes finally adjusted when it became evident that I was in complete darkness and that no light would be forthcoming. With the descent into complete darkness, I felt the limits of the room fall by the wayside. There were no walls or ceiling. I was nowhere, nonexistent. I inched my foot along the floor and found the lip of the hole. Humid warmth wafted from the black water below. I held my breath the way a person does when they’re going to try the chicken soup directly from a boiling pot, then I grazed my big toe over the surface of unending wetness below. It felt like watered down gelatin warmed to body temperature.
As I gingerly eased my body into the water, the first doubts began to surface in my mind. Was it true, could I breathe in that sightless murk? Webster could have been lying. He could have been emptying all of my accounts at that exact moment. But the water was so inviting. It was deep heating and massaged the soul. I was in up to my waist. That was my last chance. My arms were getting heavy from supporting the growing pudge around my middle. I caved in and let the rest of my body flow into the dark fluid. I sucked in a deep ragged breath before conceding my head to the water.
I began to panic as the torpid water crept up my face. Webste
r had warned me of this reaction. It was natural, a self-preservation mechanism; he had said I didn’t have to worry. The water was heavy with condense oxygen; my lungs would be able to glean the necessary oxygen to function normally.
When I was fully submerged I inhaled the water quickly, as Webster had instructed. My lungs tried to lurch up my throat, trying to expel the foreign element. I remained submerged and continued to try to breathe normally. Soon enough, my lungs adjusted to their new buoyancy. Breathing came in long, sluggish inhales, yet the process seemed entirely natural. It wasn’t at all frightening, actually it was somewhat exhilarating. As I became more used to my surroundings, a feeling of immortality swept through me. After all, I was a living, breathing human able to venture into this watery chamber without artificial assistance.
Take back life. Remember what we’re put on this planet for. And remember the three R’s: ReLease, ReCharge, ReNew. Webster’s words rattled on in the back of my mind. Even after Webster explained his proposition to me, the concept still seemed an illusion never to be realized. Now I felt completely liberated, or at least on the path heading in that direction.
Time became mythical; something barely remembered let alone understood. I had always been a slave to a clock but now I had no way of keeping track. Floating several feet below the surface in a position somewhat reminiscent of a drowning victim, I wondered how my stock portfolio was doing. The market would be closing soon, and I had turned over almost unlimited power to my financial advisors. True, they were the ones who went to college to get their fancy degrees that said they could manage money, but I had the gut instinct to pull off or kill any deal. The Perkins merger was supposed to be finalized next week, but the doctor had told me to back down. The blockage in my heart eloquently pointed out the fact that the stress of getting the right signatures in the right places just might kill me. I wondered how much money I made today.
Janine left me three weeks ago. Approximately. Give or take, with the circumstances it’s hard to remember. I had been busy listening in on a conference call with my board of directors. While I focused on business, she slipped out our apartment’s front door. She took two suitcases, one full of clothing, the other stuffed with cash. I was supposed to buy a primo stud horse with that cash. I didn’t care about the money. What bothered me most was that I hadn’t noticed she was gone until the conference call ended. That told me something about my life.
Now, floating like a dead man in this black murk, I worked at forgetting anything that came before. Even with my eyes closed, Janine would be there like some type of submerged apparition. I wondered if she was haunting me.
Janine left me again, this time leaving my mind. I would close my eyes but she wasn’t there. I would try to see her crystal blue eyes, her long brown hair. Nothing. Just an echo of the emotions I once had for her. In a way it made it much easier. I didn’t take this vacation to feel stress. I assumed her name would soon disappear, too.
Feel the calming warmth of the black water. Webster’s voice would find a way to penetrate my mindlessness, to keep me anchored for at least one more fleeting moment in the real world. He didn’t lie about that one, he might have down played it, but he sure didn’t lie. Feel the warmth. Feel the security. I tucked into a ball and flipped in stationary summersaults. Nothing could bother me.
My mind was gone, my memories. Now, I was losing me; a little bit at a time. Sometime ago, who knows when exactly, my hair sloughed off. Not just on my head. All my hair. Discarded like some kind of old luggage. Unwanted. It was hard to tell at first because I think my muscles had atrophied. I couldn’t move my arms to allow my hands to reach my head, but I could feel that there was no more flowing hair in the warm black water. No more lashes on my eyelids. Now that’s a weird feeling at first. Blinking without lashes.
As my muscles further atrophied, my arms scrunched in tight to my sides, elbows to ribs, my hands bent to the form of praying. I had never put much stock in prayer; somehow I felt I was beyond that madness. Maybe I should have reconsidered because something had changed. I still had no sense of size really; no true idea of the dimensions of my little vacation room. Yet the room now felt closer, smaller, petite, undeniably truncated. Either I was growing, or the room was falling in on itself. This was not a bad alternative, not that I was uncomfortable with a shrinking room. No sense of claustrophobia in my person. Besides, it made it seem more like a home.
And the way my mind. It worked, but not in order. Fragmenting. Or maybe more randomly focused? Split second annunciations of thoughts or images. Like slides from a vacation jumbled; backwards, inverted images melding together. And somehow it’s even worse than it was when I thought this.
And my flesh. Dissolving. Make that dissolved. Past tense. So far past tense, like it never happened. I never had the skin I had... things like that. Melted right off me. No callous, scar or freckle left. Just soft, wet, barely-there skin. Permeable, translucent maybe, like those mutated frogs I saw once on PBS. They had arms on their backs. Like they had some bad water. And three eyes on their head. But the added arms didn’t work. Just like stumps. Like they were deformed. Malfigured, or some sort. Maybe they knew Webster. Maybe he changed them like he changed me.
Webster was a man once. I think I knew him. Or maybe I just knew of him. Like a rumor. Anyway, he was a bad man and I think I knew his intentions, but I didn’t let myself believe it. A man, a bad man in a very nice suit. And I do believe his words to this very instant, Just remember the three R’s... ReBuke, ReNege, ReMorse. Webster. Hmm. That name...?
That was all the past. Like it happened before now. But now is now. Now my story is up to the minute. Almost complete. So I’m on the inside. Losing all. I’m no longer a man, something close in proximity, an indefinable gray enigma, but not really a man. Speaking now with my mind’s voice in an ever-shrinking confinement. Like I have a choice in this situation or the direction of my next thought or recollection. But it is all so far beyond my control. All I control are the tenses, because it’s right now; no more was, were or wouldn’t.
I think myself is bleeding. The whole thing, not one area. Just myself as a whole. Or maybe, myself has a hole. And that’s why I’m bleeding. Yes, that must be it. I have a hole and I’m bleeding. Because myself. Because myself, my skin can’t hold blood no more. I’m like a spaghetti strainer. And it’s been so long since I’ve eaten. Spaghetti and meatballs. Eating would just about kill me right now but I’m not even hungry. But I think it used to be my favorite. Spaghetti. Like blue was my favorite. Or... chocolate cake was my very best favorite. But I’m still bleeding now. Like I have no more scabs. Yeah. I ran out of scabs, they must have fallen out the hole of my body.
Is this how it happens? It meaning me; how meaning life? Is this how it happens? Or maybe happened. Maybe a memory again. Like a ghost of something. A ghost of when I once was.
This is how I happened:
I took a vacation, I melted, I forgot living, I grew small. My fingers webbed, I grew a tail. My fingers separated, my tail fell off. My belly swelled, my eyes sealed from the hope of light.
And now, flesh warm walls getting closer. Flesh warm water warming my flesh. Like a blanket. And I’m happy. I can’t reach the walls to push them away. Not that I want to ward off the inevitable. The evitable is happening, and it’s like I can’t stop it.
I think my vacation is draining from all around me, the torpid waters gushing away from my head. It would all be okay. Downright fine with me. The flesh warm walls close enough now to touch with my shrunk arms, to kick with my thick stump legs. I’m not afraid of that nonsense, the water of warmth seeping from the around me. Leaving me. That’s okay that it’s leaving, because I’m still warm. Warm is the only thing I can think of anymore. All else is gone. Nothing is more important than warm. And staying here with warm.
The thing changes it all. The thing is the shrieking. Like a whale. Or is it wail? Like a wail in my ear. Everything is my ear now. My see-through skin is my ear. And my eyes are my e
ar. Because it’s all around me. This shrieking. I feel sorry for this wail. Like it’s hurt and I want to hold and hug this wail. Because it is so close. All around, inside me, this wail. My arms are useless. I can twitch now, that’s about the limits of me within the size of my confinement. I’m really good at twitching. I bet I’ll never scratch my back again. I can’t reach my back with a twitch.
I’m being eased down. A little at a time, my head leading the way. Squeezed by those flesh warm walls. Shoved out like I’m a cancer. I’m the shrieking, maybe? I make the wail shriek? I’m sorry wail. I’ll hurry up now so I don’t hurt nobody no more. I twitch to where I’m pulled. The wail squeezes my head with its warm walls, and I’m hugged by it and I’m happy, but now it hurts. Hurt is not warm, so I don’t like it. How can I like anything but warm? There is not room enough in my heart for anything but warm.
Cold hard pressure on my head; a steel vice that tightens across my temples. My shoulders turn, I’m being pulled like a festering thorn from an infected hand, and I’m so mad. I’m pulled free of the flesh walls and there’s nothing but blinding white. Warm is gone and nothing is how it was. The flesh walls are gone for good and my anger turns to fear. I can’t barely see nothing. Just shaking, fluttering images. Maybe people. Or God. Sifting the images from the blinding white. And the blood. I still have some left I guess. It’s in my head. All of it. Must be upside down. The blood it hurts my head. My ears throb. It hurts, all of it, but at least the wail is gone. I’m turned over in hands until I’m dizzy. Something is on me now, engulfing. Soothing soft, like some kind of anesthetic fabric covering my naked skin. And I’m not scared. Not when this engulfing brings back warm.
Somehow I’m held in warm. Being passed from one person/God to another. Finally coming to rest in the enfolding arms of a giant. I look up and I see these brown eyes in a face that’s bigger than all of me, and they’re pink, like from crying. But for some reason this giant’s laughing, too. But it’s okay. I’m not scared. I’ve never felt more warm than from these brown eyes that stare at me. And I’m happy. Because as long as I have warm, that’s all that matters.
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