Borderlands 6

by Thomas F Monteleone

  On the television, a woman burst into tears after seeing what the designers had done to her family room.

  Marcy laughed. “I know it’s awful of me, but I love it when they cry.”

  Roy smiled as if he were paying attention, but he absentmindedly rubbed his dumb-ass thumb and thought about the package.

  You can always tell when it’s going to rain. The sky gets dark, the wind picks up, mourning doves call out, animals and little children get antsy. There are signs for everything, Roy. Hints and warnings . . . you just have to pay attention, that’s all. Pay attention and you can get inside before it rains. Ignore the signs, and you’ll get drenched.

  He woke with his mother’s words still echoing in his ears. He rolled over and checked the clock radio on the nightstand—4:34. He worked the morning shift at the station, but even so, he didn’t have to get up for another twenty-six minutes. But he was the sort of person who, once he was up, he was up. Unlike Marcy, who could sleep through a nuclear detonation. She was a lump under the covers next to him, still as stone, her breathing soft and slow. He considered reaching over to her, stroking her side, seeing if he could wake her up and convince her to help him make good use of his extra twenty-six minutes. But Marcy didn’t rouse easily, and besides, he still felt out of sorts after last night’s almost argument. So, dressed only in his underwear, he climbed out of bed as quietly as he could and let Marcy sleep while he went into the kitchen to get coffee started.

  As he listened to the burble and hiss of the coffeemaker, he thought about the package in the pocket of his coat, still hanging in the closet. He knew he was going to have to do something about it. He couldn’t very well carry the damn thing around in his pocket for the rest of his life, could he? He thought about going outside to get the paper so he could check his horoscope and get some idea what, if anything, he should do about the box. But the carrier always left the paper at the end of their driveway, and as cold as it was this morning, Roy would have to get dressed if he wanted to go outside to get it.

  He could imagine what Marcy would say if she woke up and saw him consulting his horoscope before checking out the box. And did he really need astrological guidance this morning? Weren’t the dream of his mother’s advice, as well as waking up early, clear enough signs on their own?

  Roy left the kitchen and walked to the foyer. He hesitated only a moment before opening the closet door. The hinges creaked and he winced, hoping the noise wouldn’t wake Marcy. He paused, listened, didn’t hear anything. She was still asleep. Good. He reached into his coat pocket and removed the rectangular white box. He avoided looking at it as he closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

  The coffee was almost finished, and its rich, warm smell filled the air, its familiar comfort making the box seem less sinister. He sat down at the breakfast nook and lay the box on the table in front of him. What was he worried about, really? Just because there was no clear indication of who had sent it, and why, didn’t mean anything. Lots of promotional mail omitted return addresses so people would have to open it to see what it was, and thus be exposed to the pitch contained within. Most likely that’s all this box was: just another sales gimmick. He picked the package up, held it close to his ear, and like an eager kid on Christmas morning, shook it to see if he could get a clue as to its contents.

  He heard a low, angry drone, along with the rustling of dozens of tiny bodies.

  Roy jerked the package away from his ear, nearly dropping it. He set it on the table with a trembling hand, and then scooted his chair back, as if to put as much distance between the box and himself as possible without actually fleeing. The buzzing continued for several moments, slowly growing softer, less agitated, until finally the box—or rather, whatever was inside—fell quiet once more.

  Lines of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck as he stared at the box, and his bandaged thumb throbbed.

  He’d heard that bees were often transported by mail to beekeepers and laboratories, though until now he’d never believed it. Bee-lieved it. He tried to chuckle, but the sound was forced, hollow, desperate. Though why in the world anyone would be sending him bees . . . But it hadn’t sounded like bees, not exactly. More like the ratcheting thrum of cicadas, but even that wasn’t quite right.

  Whatever it was, he wanted nothing to do with it. Pay attention, his mother had always said, but though he’d been warned clearly enough, he hadn’t heeded the signs. Instead he’d listened to a small nagging voice—a voice that sounded more and more like his wife’s—that he shouldn’t let himself be ruled by superstition. But Roy didn’t care about any of that now. Whether it was instinct or neurosis, or some uneasy blend of the two, he knew there was something seriously wrong with the package, and there was no way in hell he was going to open it.

  He heard a toilet flush from down the hallway, and he knew that Marcy was up, drawn out of sleep by the insistence of a full bladder. She might crawl back into bed or, lured by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, she might head for the kitchen.

  Roy’s hand shook as if palsied as he reached for the box. He held his breath as he lifted the package off the table, fully expecting whatever was inside to start buzzing and crawling around again. But nothing happened. He hurried toward the foyer, doing his best to keep his upper body as still as possible. He opened the closet door, grimacing as the hinges protested again. And then, like a reverse pickpocket, he slipped the box back into his coat pocket, and once again closed the door. And this time, did he hear a muffled buzzing accompany the hinges’ creaking? Maybe.

  He was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee, when Marcy walked up, hair mussed from sleep and eyes still half-closed.

  “Morning,” she mumbled.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Roy gave her a peck on the cheek—Marcy didn’t like kissing on the lips until both of them had brushed their teeth—and she shuffled past him, desperate to get at the coffee.

  He stepped aside and waited for her to say, So what were you doing in the front closet, Roy? Trying to hide something from me?

  But she finished pouring her coffee, took a sip though it was still hot enough to scald, and shuffled into the dining room without another word.

  Roy felt relieved, as if he’d gotten away with something, though he couldn’t have said exactly what.

  Roy pulled into the parking lot of the radio station fifteen minutes before he was due to go on the air. He got out of his car and started walking. Normally, he would’ve gone directly into the building and to the studio. But today wasn’t a normal day, was it?

  He took a detour around the side of the building, hoping that none of his colleagues was looking out a window at this exact moment. The sun was still down, but the lot was lit by the sterile glow of fluorescent lights. Roy’s breath drifted out of his mouth in curled wisps of fog, as if the frigid air were sucking the life out of him breath by breath. He continued around the rear of the building and saw what he was looking for: a Dumpster.

  He’d never been so thrilled to see what was essentially nothing more than a giant garbage can. He’d intended to throw away the box at home, but he hadn’t been able to find a way to do so without Marcy knowing. So the box had remained in his pocket when he’d slipped the coat on to go to work, and it had sat there as he drove, shifting about from time to time in ways that Roy knew had nothing to do with the car’s momentum.

  Well, if he couldn’t throw the damn thing away at home, he’d just get rid of it at work. A much better plan, really, since there was no way for Marcy to find out what he’d done.

  The area around the Dumpster had been cleared of snow, but there were mounds shoved up against and packed on either side of it. Roy could see tiny tracks on the mounds—cat pawprints, as well as smaller, more narrow depressions that could only have been made by rats. He stomped his feet as he approached, to scare off any lurking vermin, and then he lifted the Dumpster’s lid
. The plastic was cold and hard to the touch, and Roy’s wounded thumb started to throb. He wished he’d put on his gloves, but one of them was in the same pocket as the box, and he wasn’t about to reach in there until he had to.

  But had to had finally come at last. Slowly, so as to avoid disturbing whatever was inside the box, Roy slipped cold-numbed fingers into his pocket and gently took hold of slick cardboard. He then pulled the box out, moving so slowly, as if he were handling a deadly explosive instead of a plain white package with no return address.

  The box shook and juddered in his hand, and the angry buzzing erupted, as if whatever resided in the box understood what he intended to do and wasn’t happy about it.

  Tough shit, Roy thought. After all the warnings he’d received, he wasn’t about to—

  His gaze was suddenly drawn by white letters of graffiti spray-painted on the brick above the Dumpster.

  WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.

  Roy held the box over the open Dumpster, but he didn’t drop it. Instead, he read the graffiti over and over, hearing the words in his mother’s voice.

  “Goddamnit,” he muttered in disgust. He put the box back in his coat pocket, turned away from the Dumpster, and headed for the front of the building. The box, as if pleased, grew quiet and still.

  “In a change from yesterday’s forecast, the National Weather Service is now predicting that the cold front which brought nearly five inches of snow to the Ohio Valley yesterday will continue to linger for the rest of the week, with the possibility of more snowfall to come. Looks like winter’s not quite done with us yet, folks.”

  As Roy drove home from work that afternoon—the box still in his coat pocket, still quiet, still still—tiny flakes of snow began to drift down from the sky. He drove past a synagogue, read on the message board out front that The Day Is Short; The Task Is Great. A mobile billboard truck passed him going in the opposite direction. On its side was an advertisement, a picture of brown cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly, the ones on top beginning to fall. Written below: Don’t get boxed in! Call Crouch Movers! As he turned onto his street, he saw a Lexus parked in front of a neighbor’s house. The vanity plate read TNGLD UP.

  Roy knew exactly how the car’s owner felt.

  His driveway was already coated with a light dusting of white when he pulled into his garage. He closed the garage door, got out of the car, saw the snow shovel propped in a corner, right where he’d left it.

  “I promise you, this is the last time you’ll have to do that.”

  He looked away from the shovel and went inside. He still had his coat on when he saw the note taped to the microwave.

  Have to run a few errands after work. Can you start dinner?

  Love,

  Me

  He usually got home a couple hours before Marcy, but now this note, this sign, told him he’d have even more time than that. Still wearing his coat, he went out the back door and around to the side of the house, where they kept their trash cans.

  They had two receptacles, both made of brown plastic, so they technically weren’t garbage cans, he supposed. The lid was off the one on the right, and the trash bag inside had been torn open and bits of refuse were strewn about. Roy glanced down, saw animal tracks in the snow. He wasn’t surprised. They’d had trouble with raccoons getting into their trash last year, and now it seemed that, despite the late season snow, they were back.

  It was another sign, of course.

  Snowflakes fell all around him, larger now, heavier.

  The day was TNGLD UP and he was boxed in, but the task was great, and he was supposed to murder his darlings in order to preserve domestic harmony, and what the hell did it all mean?

  He reached into his coat pocket—bandaged thumb throbbing—and took out the box. No sound came from within, and there was no movement.

  Just throw the box away, put the lid back on, go inside, and forget you ever saw the damn thing.

  But he hesitated.

  WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.

  His mother had always said that the signs would tell him what to do, just as long as he paid attention to them. And he had, but he couldn’t decide what they meant. Throw the box away? Keep it? Open it?

  He knew what Marcy would say if she were there. That this was exactly the problem with letting his life be controlled by signs and portents—that in the end they provided no answers. Only more questions.

  “Screw it.”

  He started to open the box.

  He’d managed to pry back a corner when the box shuddered in his hand and a loud droning cut through the air. Small, dark shapes flooded out of the opening and swirled upward, shadowy counterparts to the falling snowflakes.

  Roy yelped and dropped the box. It plopped into the snow, but the black forms continued streaming out. He tried to run, but the small ebon things—not insects, more like bits of darkness come to angry, buzzing life—circled around him, trapping him in a cloud of shadow.

  And then the darkness began to close in on Roy.

  He tried to scream, but when he opened his mouth, shadows rushed forward and poured down his throat, choking him, filling him, absorbing him . . .

  Several moments passed as the dark cloud went about its work. And then it flowed back into the box, and when the last bit of darkness was gone, the opening that Roy had made resealed itself, and the box lay in the snow as flakes continued to fall.

  Roy was gone.

  A couple hours later, a feminine hand reached into the snow, found the box, and carried it back into the house.

  Marcy was shoveling the walk when the small white truck pulled up to the curb. Snow was still falling, but it had begun to taper off.

  The carrier leaned out the open window of his vehicle.

  “Got something for me?”

  Marcy lay the shovel aside and stepped to the end of the walk. She reached into her coat pocket and removed a rectangular cardboard box. There was no address on it this time.

  She handed the box to the carrier. “Thanks a lot.”

  He took it and flashed her a yellow-toothed smile. “No problem. All part of the service.”

  She returned the smile then headed back up the walk to finish shoveling.

  Inside the truck, the carrier held the box to his face, and his smile took on a grim edge.

  “Told you,” he said.

  The carrier then tossed the box into a large gray bag that sat on the backseat—a bag filled with dozens of similar white boxes. Then he pulled away from the curb, whistling an off-key tune. He had other stops to make before he could knock off for the day.

  A lot of them.

  The Palace Garbage Man

  Bradley Michael Zerbe

  We now present you with an intriguing tale that’s little more than a slice of life in a time and place unknown to all but Bradley Zerbe. A new writer, he writes in clear, clean style that immediately captures our attention and tweaks our imagination with some shuddering images we can’t get out of our heads. We’re betting you’ll feel the same way.

  West became the palace garbage man on the day her father died. She kicked her legs, dirty feet dangling into the pit. Above her, heavy droplets fell from a starless heaven, and the rock on which she sat was slick with mud. It would not take much. Lean forward, a slight push with the hips, and gravity would see to the rest.

  “I know ya want me, ya sweet bastard hole,” she said and spit.

  West massaged her temples. Twenty years of living beside the pit and it still left her lusting after the taste of darkness and dirt. A subtle pull on her emotions, dragging down her mind day by rotting day. An evil made of whispers and dust, vibrations from the earth below.

  She stood and frowned into the blackness, listening for their voices amidst the pattering rain. Her leg quivered and rose from the ground, hung in the air. Below her sweaty toes lay a vast darkness where lie
s decomposed beneath rubbish and muck. Her foot lowered.

  “Devil, you won’t get no more food tonight!”

  She paused at the door to her shack and wondered, not for the first time, how it had come to this.

  “Must feed the pit, gal, for yonder pit has many and sharp teeth, and when she grows hungry, she eats at yer mind. Look alive, gal, and help your da feed the rotting bastard,” her father once said.

  West concentrated on the memory of his haggard face as she fought to clear her mind. Hairy grin; anxious eyes, the rock-solid strength behind his fist. Even a bloody memory was better than the gloom of the pit. She wiped her eyes before stepping inside her shack. Behind her, grating moans echoed from the deep as the rubbish churned.

  A new day brought West back to the palace for a fresh load. She rode atop her aged wagon with the high sideboards and ingrained stench. Her sweetest friend in the realm pulled the maggoty contraption. A mule named Sandy.

  The palace loading dock had not changed in the past twenty years. Muddy carts entered with a variety of vegetables and meats, and other more elaborate ones hauled rare and expensive goods in abundance—Queen Agrippa was said to be loose with her gold, a bitter joke among the servants.

  Many of those carts left empty; some headed for home untouched, but the cart driven by West was always the fullest when she pulled from the dock. This time was no exception when the time finally came. West found the delay peculiar and horrendous. The personal servants of the queen had spent two hours sifting through the trash barrels for some lost item before they were allowed to be dumped. Powdered faces like pale marble, tongues long ago sliced and torn from their mouths after the queen coveted their silly songs. Peculiar ladies. West joked with them, but they would not give the slightest hint as to what they were looking for.

  “I’d toss all them louts in the pit, Sandy,” West said after they left. “If your legs could haul ’em, I’d toss ’em.”