Borderlands 2

by Unknown

  Wendy frowned. “What’s that?”

  He almost laughed. “Never mind, little miss. You just tell him what I said.”

  She puckered her lips in determination, set her chin, and started off. And stopped and looked around. “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Oh, he will,” Rusty promised, and watched her break into a run, shrieking her brother’s name as she swept around the corner, dropped her bag, snatched it up, and disappeared. He watched the space she left behind for several long seconds, imagining himself as she had seen him—a cowboy having a shoot-out with his porch, with no gun, and no horse at the fence.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, and pulled up his collar when the wind found his neck, found the run of his spine, and curled around him like a belt.

  He decided then that he wasn’t too old at all, he was just not old enough. Born too late to ride the range, be the hero, herd the cattle, play cards and drink raw whiskey and take the painted women upstairs for a slap and a tickle and a release for a dollar; too late to ride shotgun, to ride the Pony Express, to ride the Conestogas across the prairie to the mountains in the always better west.

  Just an old man dreaming young man’s notions of what it was like to be a god.

  He looked up at the sky, at the moon, and wondered what the hell had gotten into him tonight.

  His hand jumped on the gate.

  Astonishment made him frown.

  Afraid?

  Good Lord, was he afraid? After all this time, was he scared?

  He snorted in disgust, at himself and the idea, and turned back to the porch. Whatever the reason he was moody tonight, he would have to think about it later.

  And as he took the steps, cracking heels, sounding spurs, he felt a change in the autumn air—a vague dampness on the wind, a faint smell, a spectral touch on his cheek that made him stop with one hand on the post, one foot still on a step. A sideways look without turning his head, and he saw white shapes and dark shapes hurrying under the trees, veering like schools of startled fish into front yards, onto walks, up on porches where they gathered in ragged crescents, a demon choir.

  They were here.

  “Hey, anything for Halloween?”

  In force at last, they were here.

  “Trick or treat,” it seemed, had died.

  By the way they were moving, and stopping on the pavement to compare prizes and duds, he gave the first bunch fifteen minutes before they reached him. Unless they stopped at Grandy’s first, where they’d be invited inside for apple cider or hot chocolate. Usually they went. No one in the Station feared razors in candy and poison in gum; not anymore. And only those in the towns farther east locked their doors at night and had alarms wired to the windows.

  “You should go over there and talk to them,” Bill Paretti had once suggested. “Maybe they don’t know. I mean, we’re kind of isolated out here, you know what I mean?”

  “They know,” he had answered softly, and Paretti never spoke of it again.

  He stood on the porch, always alone, and heard the furnace that gave him no warmth, glancing up at the sky and closing his eyes before filling his lungs with air and letting it out slowly.

  Too old.

  You’re going to die.

  At last reaching down to pick up the bag, resting it on the railing, dipping in a hand and pulling out a belt he strapped around his waist.

  Old man. Stupid old man playing stupid children’s games.

  Reaching in again and pulling out the gun with the carved ivory grip and the long polished barrel.

  He opened the chamber and filled each position, leaving one empty for the hammer to rest on when he closed it and spun it and dropped it into his holster.

  Under the black oak, something heavy moved.

  Despite the watch of the moon, light snow began to fall, and the silence that followed was ringed by the keening wind. On Grandy’s porch a devil saw him and told the others in a whisper; Paretti was on the corner, holding the ghost to his chest; and Wendy was at the fence, her brother behind her.

  She was crying.

  Her broken glasses clutched in one hand.

  And they watched him as he stepped off the porch and took the walk, heels and spurs, opened the gate, patted her on the head, and stepped into the street.

  The snow and the silence.

  The moon, and the rising wind.

  “Mr. Long?” Wendy said, sniffing. “He thinks you’re a jerk.”

  He smiled without mirth and turned toward the sidewalk, watching, not staring, until the hobo moved away and the boy standing beside her arrogantly straightened the bandanna at his throat.

  “Old man” the kid said, with more a smirk than a smile. “You don’t scare nobody, you know that? You’re too damn old.”

  Not that old,” said Rusty, drew and fired in a single motion, the gun back in its holster before the boy finished dying.

  The devil or Grandy’s porch cheered; Mr. Paretti clapped his hands.

  Wendy looked at her brother lying on his back and shook her head. “He didn’t listen,” she said. “He never listened at all, you know what I mean?” Then she walked into the street and opened her bag of candy. “You want some gum or something?”

  He winked at her. “No thanks, little miss.”

  Then he walked into the shadow of the oak by the gate, took hold of the reins, and walked his black to the street. And once in the saddle, he looked around and nodded to the voices that sang his name.

  “Mr. Long?”

  He looked down.

  It was Paretti.

  “The window. You know, he never even said he was sorry!”

  The black began walking, hooves with no echoes.

  “Mr. Long?”

  “Next year,” Rusty told him. “Next year we’ll talk.” Into the darklight, the color of blood.

  STRESS TEST HR51, CASE #041068

  Transcribed by Stanley Wiater

  Stanley Wiater is probably best-known as the compiler of some truly wonderful books of interviews he’s conducted with just about all of the best directors and writers of dark fantasy and horror. (In fact I think he’s talked to just about everybody but me, right Stan?) He is editing an anthology, After The Darkness, which combines his interview skills with the fictional offerings of his contributors, and he is also writing his own fiction—the story enclosed herewith being his latest. His conversation is punctuated by a wry sense of humor and a clever wit. He lives in western Massachusetts with his wife, Iris, where he is hard at work on several large projects for Tundra Publishing, and looking forward to the day he might look as good as me in a tuxedo.

  INTERVIEWER RAYMOND T. JACOBS: You understand that this—test HR5 1—is the final psychological test to be completed before any application for a staff position is ultimately approved.

  APPLICANT GINA A. GARCIA: I understand.

  JACOBS: You understand that you are expected, as in previous tests, to give completely honest responses. Honesty is crucial to the satisfactory completion of this test. Less than truthful and spontaneous answers will be detected in the specially designed polygraph chair you’ve agreed to sit in. You understand that this procedure is being recorded, and the level of stress in your voice will later be measured and graded. You are strongly advised to answer any and all questions within five seconds.

  GARCIA: I understand. [chuckles] This can’t be any more nerve-wracking than the previous ones.

  JACOBS: Personal opinions are not required. The test now begins. [sound of buttons being pressed] Your name?

  GARCIA; Gina Anita Garcia.

  JACOBS: Age?

  GARCIA: Twenty-eight.

  JACOBS: Marital status?

  GARCIA: Divorced.

  JACOBS: You are fully aware that this is a long-term, psychiatric facility for career officers and operatives associated with the Company. Many, if not at all, of the patients you will be dealing with may not readily obey a woman who appears to be in a position of authority. Can you deal with that?

>   Garcia: Certainly.

  JACOBS: Explain. How will you deal with that?

  GARCIA: As I’ve stated before, having been a policewoman before becoming a nurse for the Veterans Administration, I can protect myself physically. From what I’ve already been told, I am fully aware of the risks involved in working in a severe trauma facility like this. In any case, I realize how special many of the patients are, why they had to come here.

  JACOBS: Physical danger can manifest itself in many ways. Are you prone to debilitating mood-swings when having your period?

  GARCIA: [startled] Excuse me?

  JACOBS: You have five seconds to answer or the test will be terminated.

  GARCIA: No.

  JACOBS: No what?

  GARCIA: No. No mood swings when I’m having my period.

  JACOBS: Remember, these patients will ask you many embarrassing questions. Can you deal with even that minor form of harassment without being so easily shocked?

  GARCIA: Yes. Of course. I don’t like to be insulted, but yes, I fully realize most of these men may not really know what they’re saying. They’re sick, that’s why they’re here. That’s why I’m here. Or wish to be. To try and help.

  JACOBS: Regardless of their reasons for being here, nearly all of them will still know you’re a female. The question is: do you know what most career military men think of women?

  GARCIA: I know what they should think. But you’re asking about military personnel who are here because of major psychological disorders, right?

  JACOBS: That is not a reply to the question. Tell me exactly what you’re thinking the correct response should be.

  GARCIA: I imagine they think we’re just sex objects to be found, fondled, fucked, and forgotten. Honest enough?

  JACOBS: What is your height?

  GARCIA: Five feet, six inches.

  JACOBS: Weight?

  GARCIA: One hundred and twenty-two pounds.

  JACOBS: Do you intend to wear a brassiere when you’re on duty?

  GARCIA: I … of course.

  JACOBS: Are you wearing a brassiere now?

  GARCIA: Yes … of course. I just don’t see how—

  JACOBS: Personal opinions are not part of this test. What size do you wear?

  GARCIA: I don’t really—I wear a size 42, D cup.

  JACOBS: Ever wear a minimizer?

  GARCIA: [slightly angry] No.

  JACOBS: What type of brassiere do you usually wear?

  GARCIA: An underwire, for whatever the hell that’s worth.

  JACOBS: It’s worth something it a patient was able to remove the garment to try, and physically restrain or harm you in some way.

  GARCIA: Oh. Well, that’s … different. I guess.

  JACOBS: Just answer the questions. Do you buy underwear so that the panties match the brassiere?

  GARCIA: Sometimes. I … I usually can’t find garments that match because of my … bust size.

  JACOBS: Are you wearing matching underwear now?

  GARCIA: I don’t know. [pauses] That was the last thing on my mind this morning. Jesus.

  JACOBS: Do you ever wear edible underwear on the job?

  GARCIA: Fuck, no! [pauses] Excuse me. No, I don’t.

  JACOBS: If a patient asked you to check or face the threat of possible physical violence, what would be your response?

  GARCIA: I would immediately signal for assistance from another caretaker.

  JACOBS: What if one wasn’t near, and it appeared that a major incident would occur if you didn’t respond accordingly to immediately defuse the situation?

  GARCIA: Then I would make up a stalling response and do my best to placate that patient until assistance had arrived. [pauses] I realize that physical force is to be avoided whenever possible, though I seriously doubt if they’re all that obsessed with sex when a woman is on the wards.

  JACOBS: I will not remind you again that only satisfactory answers are required to pass this test, not personal opinions. The question remains, would you disrobe if it would possibly prevent a patient from going out of control?

  GARCIA: With all due respect, if I took off any of my clothes before a patient, then I don’t see how they wouldn’t go out of control. Your scenario just doesn’t make any sense.

  JACOBS: Logic is not always a matter of concern in a test such as this. It’s a hypothetical situation. Please answer the question as it would pertain to you personally.

  GARCIA: No, I would not disrobe. I’d take my chances, right or wrong an answer as that may be.

  JACOBS: Next question: if patients discussed their sexual fantasies openly with you, could you deal with such discussions?

  GARCIA: I can listen to anybody talk about anything. Obviously.

  JACOBS: What if a patient had a fantasy that he was able to impersonate a doctor, and wished to have sex with you as a patient?

  GARCIA: I’m sure it’s not uncommon for disturbed patients to believe they’re doctors and project themselves into that role. And I could deal with that since, from what I’ve seen, this is a very secure institution, even though the only difference in dress between the staff and the patients are the photo-ID badges.

  JACOBS: Would you take off your clothes then for one of the staff?

  GARCIA: No. Of course not.

  JACOBS: Would you dispense sexual favors if it were to ensure your obtaining this position? Well? Your responses are being recorded and evaluated, for speed and directness of reply.

  GARCIA: [shaking her head] No way. I’ve been propositioned by experts, remember? Even when I was a cop, there were always assholes who thought they could do a number on me, in or out of uniform.

  JACOBS: So you can take direct verbal chance, even if it is openly lewd and sexual in nature?

  GARCIA: When it goes with the territory, yes, I can. And I think I understand this test a little more clearly now.

  JACOBS: Question: if a patient was to tell you that he had been able to appropriate the photo-ID of a staff member, and then pass himself off as that staff member to a person who had never seen him before as a patient, should you have sex with him then to prevent a major crisis in security?

  GARCIA: Look, I don’t do anything with anybody I don’t know or like. I’m neither crazy nor stupid. Unlike these questions.

  JACOBS: Question: would you at least get down on your knees and perform an oral sex act upon a man who has in fact succeeded at such a brilliant masquerade, and has also been able to steal a knife from the main kitchen and smuggle it past the present staff of caretakers? And who was ready to use that knife to have his demands met?

  GARCIA: [pauses] I can take verbal threats all day. I’ve got a very long fuse, though I respond better to actions. Like the saying goes, bullshit stinks, but the smell can’t hurt you. So keep it coming, if that’s the point of all this.

  JACOBS: Very good. Now, tell me what this is.

  GARCIA: Jesus! What the hell—

  JACOBS: You have five seconds to respond or the test will be terminated.

  GARCIA: Hey, I’m not blind. It’s a knife. It looks like a butter knife … but somehow it’s been sharpened on the edge. [pauses] How … how very interesting.

  JACOBS: Just honest answers, please. If you know what’s good for you. If you really want this goddamn mind-flick of a job.

  GARCIA: Right! [laughs nervously] I bet some people get pretty stressed out by this point.

  JACOBS: [angrily] Just answer the questions. You’re well aware that some of our patients can become quite violent in their delusions. That they would go to any lengths to find an outlet for their fantasies. This is a place where not everyone knows the difference.

  GARCIA: Excuse me, but what’s the question? I just said that I appreciate the point you’re trying to make. Everything’s cool.

  JACOBS: Question: would you agree to be royally fucked by a staff member who might threaten you with this knife if you didn’t immediately respond to his advances? Would you let him stick his cock inside every hole in your body i
f it meant saving your life?

  GARCIA: [angrily] Look, this is one hell of a stress test, but I can’t see the point of it, not when I know what you’re really try—

  JACOBS: This is a crucial test, Miss Garcia. So please answer the questions until it’s completed. You will not be hired if you fail to complete this test. I repeat, not hired.

  GARCIA: [long pause] I won’t lay down for anybody. Understand? Nobody had better even consider such an idea. My ex-husband learned that, so did the assholes on the force when they thought of me as just boobs and legs. [sighs] With all due respect, this is—

  JACOBS: Question: do you know which symbolic metaphor should be employed when a big long knife is jammed up inside a dripping wet pussy?

  GARCIA: Look, test or no test, this is complete bullshit!

  JACOBS: That is not an acceptable response. Like another old saying goes, the patients here may be crazy, but they’re not dumb. Or without balls. They get laid, you get paid.

  GARCIA: Look, Mr. Jacobs, this has gone far enough. Put down that knife. This isn’t funny. [pushes back chair along floor] I mean. Christ! Let me out of this room; this can’t be acceptable—

  JACOBS: Do you know what this is?

  GARCIA: Oh, my God …

  JACOBS: You have less than five seconds. Answer now!

  GARCIA: it’s your dick, you goddamn pervert. Jesus.

  JACOBS: Actually, it’s my secret weapon. And it’s going to split you in two if you don’t start giving the right answers, you stupid little ball-busting bitch. Do you know how long it’s been?

  GARCIA: [shouting] Put down that knife. I don’t care if its part of some crazy test, you don’t know who you’re fucking with—

  JACOBS: That’s the real test, see? To be able to instinctively realize who is crazy and who is not. [chuckles] So where are your instincts now? What will happen next if you don’t do as I ask? You have less than five seconds. Answer!

  GARCIA: The same thing that got me knocked off the force when I found my old man cheating on me. [laughs] So use it or lose it!

  JACOBS: What are you looking for in your purse? How’d you get that in here! My God, you are the crazy one! I’ll call—