by Neil Gaiman
The final bell rang. The playground was empty.
Jonathan watched the small boy struggle to breathe. There were tears on the kid’s cheeks. His body flopped and twitched. There was a smell of poop and pee.
Jonathan threw up then. He couldn’t help it. The puke dripped through the spaces in the platform of the play structure. He could see chunks of his sandwich and potato chips. The puke got in his nose and made his eyes water. He threw up until there was only bitter spit left. He spat and spat, and pukey tears ran down his cheeks.
When his belly had stopped heaving, he looked at Freddy. The little kid had stopped moving. Jonathan felt all sorts of feelings, both really good and really scared. This was the best and the worst moment of his life. He had not killed the boy himself, not exactly, but he believed the boy was dead. Jonathan knew that he could have done something to help this kid, and he hadn’t, because he hadn’t wanted to, and he felt good about that. Powerful.
He thought about how everyone would panic and then be sad. He felt how important a person’s life was. A person’s life, even a little kid’s, was so much bigger than an animal’s. So much better.
He worked to get enough breath inside himself so that he could think about what to do next.
Then he understood what his body had done for him. Whoever saw his puke would understand that he got scared and didn’t know what to do. He could tell the adults that he wasn’t sure whether to run for help or to try and help the kid himself, that he couldn’t decide and got overwhelmed. Then they wouldn’t think he’d done anything wrong.
He decided he would run into the school and find an adult and scream that Freddy had had an accident and got hurt and needed help. He would tell the truth about seeing it happen and not knowing what to do. He was sure that they would understand. After everything that he had done to animals, no one had ever said anything or even suspected anything. People just couldn’t think like that about anyone they knew.
As he ran he thought about how wonderful he felt, and when he might be able to feel this good again. He was twelve years old, and he knew what he was meant to do with his life.
Damaged Goods
BY ELIZABETH MASSIE
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Elizabeth Massie is one of the hardest-punching women in the history of horror fiction. Behind that sweet-faced, grade-school teacher demeanor lies a fist so fierce it’ll knock your teeth out the back of your skull, often so swiftly you won’t even know what hit you.
I first encountered “Damaged Goods” when Beth and I did a joint reading at the Horrorfind Convention in 2004, right outside Baltimore. Because she is genuinely one of the nicest people you’d ever hope to meet, even those of us who knew how dangerous she is were disarmed as she cheerfully took center stage.
Then she started reading, and our jaws hit the floor, only coming up to jitter in the kind of panicked laughter usually reserved for Bentley Little, or early John Waters at his transgressive craziest.
Needless to say, when this book came about, that story she’d read was one of the first I sought out. I couldn’t remember the name, but I’ll never forget the feeling.
And neither will you.
“You put your penis here,” Darla said.
Paul, sitting in the tall grass next to her, rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “You hear me?” Darla repeated. She had her yellow cotton skirt up over her knees, and although she retained her pink panties, she poked her index finger with firm direction at the space between her thighs. “I’m the lamb, and it goes here. God, you’re dumb.”
Paul pulled out the nub of wild mint he had been chewing and turned on his butt, moving so Darla was no longer in his sight. He stared, instead, at the pasture in which they sat and at the shallow river running nearby. He wasn’t certain where the pasture was; he and Darla had been rightfully blindfolded in the van until they were placed in the grass. The sun was behind the two of them, setting in the warm, late spring sky just over the woods to their backs. The men with the sunglasses were in those woods, hiding and silent.
Waiting. “You’re so fucking dumb,” Darla continued. “Don’t care about nothing except yourself.”
Paul closed his eyes and tucked his head. She was right. He was afraid of responsibility. He wasn’t good at it and he was afraid of it. Several years ago when he had been living at home, his mother had asked him to watch his baby brother. A simple request. “I got to get this down to the bank. Just let Timmy stay in the crib. I know you can do it. Just twenty minutes, you hear?”
Paul had heard. And Mom had left. But what a mistake she had made, giving him a chore. Silly old Mom. Paul loved Tim, and he liked to play with the little boy. Paul had forgotten that his brother could not eat peanuts, that baby Tim had no teeth and couldn’t chew. Paul thought a nut-eating contest would be fun. For each peanut Paul had eaten, he had put one in the baby’s mouth. He sang as they played.
“Old MacDonald had a farm, ee-ii-ee-ii-oh. And on his farm he had a cow, ee-ii-ee-ii-oh.”
Almost the whole can of Mr. Peanuts was gone after three verses. Paul got to giggling, and he thought that Tim was giggling, too—his face was all shiny and tight and he made funny noises in his throat. But, as Paul found out, the baby wasn’t laughing. And Mom didn’t laugh, either, when she came back from the bank to find the baby was dead.
But here was responsibility again. And Darla with her dress hiked up and her ass raised to the soft blue sky.
“I can’t,” Paul said without looking back. “Hell you can’t. All mens can do it. You got a dick, don’t cha? It squirts, don’t it?” Paul cringed. Darla wasn’t supposed to know about what men’s things did. She wasn’t yet eighteen. But she knew, all right. She had had a couple babies and a couple operations, too. She lived in the special church home where Paul lived. She did sex things with any man that could walk: residents, orderlies, old drunks from the street that she called to from her third-floor window.
Paul, on the other hand, two full years older than Darla, had never done what she had done. He thought about it, although he tried not to. He watched Darla during dinner or activity time, and he got a knot in his pants. Sometimes he even pretended his fingers were hers, late at night when the lights were low and the sheets were up over his head. Sometimes he sweated like a horse, he wanted it so bad. But this was daylight, and this was out in the open, and there were men with sunglasses in the trees. This was not pretend.
“Some lion you is,” said Darla. She passed air through her lips in a noisy declaration of contempt, and Paul could hear rustling as she pulled her skirt down. He looked back. Her eyebrows were a thick, angry tangle.
Darla wasn’t ugly, but she was scarred. Her nose was crooked where some man broke it one time, and the puckered remnants of a long knife wound cut across her throat. Black hair cupped the curve of her cheek in a thin cap. She squinted, because her eyes were bad, but she wouldn’t wear glasses. Paul wanted to do what had been asked of him, but he wasn’t sure he knew how. He was nervous, even if it was for God.
In his nervousness, he began to sing. He couldn’t help himself. He sang on key, soft and trembling. “With a baa-baa here and a baa-baa there, old McDonald had a lamb, ee-ii-ee-ii-oh.”
Darla laughed at him, and he wasn’t sure why. “Old MacDonald had a farm, ee-ii-ee-ii-oh. And on his farm he had a lion, ee-ii-ee-ii-oh. With a—”
Then Darla grabbed Paul sharply by the shoulders. Her face squinted up like her eyes. “You might be stupid, but I ain’t. I know what’s going on here. And I ain’t going to let you ruin it. It’s for the world, goddamnit, do you hear what I’m saying? We’ll be famous, you fucker, not to mention going to heaven for sure. It ain’t long to go now, and you better be ready or I’ll chew off your nose and send you to hell myself.”
Paul watched her face. He felt tears pushing at his eyes, but he worked them back down. She was right, and he knew it.
A new preacher had come to the church home last week. He had walked around for a long
time, and Paul had seen him go up and down the halls, all serious and stately in his black suit and white shirt, a big Bible with a tasseled bookmark streaming from the middle pages. He had short brown hair and his ears were sunburned. Paul watched when he thought the preacher didn’t know he was watching. But then the preacher had come right up to Paul as he sat looking at cartoons in the rec room. Without even asking, the man turned off the television set, took Paul out to the backyard, and read to him from the Bible.
“The lion shall lie down with the lamb,” the preacher had begun, and Paul nodded because a preacher was a man of God and knew what he was talking about, even if it made no sense to Paul. “Do you know, son, that that line is the prophecy of the end of war and the beginning of true peace?”
Paul nodded again, and out of the corner of his eye he watched as a squirrel with a torn, bloodied back pawed an acorn from the ground.
“I have had a sign, and I have shared it with others who understand. They sent me here, to find you.”
Paul suddenly thought he was going to the electric chair for killing his baby brother, after all this time, and the preacher was to give him his last meal and pray with him. Paul started to cry.
“Weep not,” said the preacher. “For blessed are the pure in heart. They shall see God.”
Paul’s lips twitched, and the tears continued. “Blessed are the damaged ones, for they will bring perfection to our world.” The preacher told Paul of the Holy Plan and kissed him before he left.
Now they were here. This was the day. It was secret, of course, because the masses, so the preacher said, would not understand the seriousness of what was going to take place. There was only one audience, and they were in the trees now, waiting patiently. Only One was missing, and He would arrive very soon.
Paul and Darla, the chosen ones, the damaged ones, were here to be the lion and the lamb. At their union, all the evils of the world would be bound and thrown to the pit of fire and onto Satan’s head.
Paul reached under his shirt and scratched his chest nervously, leaving long fingernail lines. He looked past Darla’s shoulder. Soon He would come. Then it would be time to act. Paul would either get over his embarrassment and do to Darla what he’d always wanted to do in the late-night hours, or he would let the world continue to fight and kill and torture and tear itself into a million pieces.
Darla said, “Hey.”
Paul blinked but said nothing.
Darla said, “Hey.”
He looked at her. “What?” “I’ll rub you. It’ll help.”
Paul shuddered at the thought. But he became instantly hard. “I’ll rub you and it’ll be easier. Big shit, you can think of somebody else if you want, I don’t care. Damaged goods is what they wanted, but you can think of someone else, okay?”
Paul said, “Okay.”
Darla smiled then, the first time since the blindfolds had been removed. With the sun behind her head, she almost looked like an angel.
And then there was a shadowy sparkling from the trees, and Paul knew that He had arrived. The long car with its secret windows pulled up behind the outer edge of trees and stopped. Men in sunglasses became briefly visible as they shifted and stamped in silent respect.
“He’s here,” whispered Darla.
Paul reached under his shirt and scratched frantically.
Out of the woods came the preacher, and behind the preacher He came. Darla and Paul sat motionless. Paul felt his muscles kick into spastic idle; he shook uncontrollably.
The preacher wore his black suit and white shirt. He smiled a beautiful smile.
The Man with him was tall and white-haired and wore a gray suit and sunglasses. He said nothing but stood in command of them all.
The preacher said, “The lion will lie down with the lamb. In this will be the beginning of peace, and all nations will lose their love of war.”
Darla’s eyes were turned up in an expression of near-worship. Paul scratched his chest, making it burn.
“Thus it is said,” continued the preacher. “When she who is the lamb and he who is the lion lie together, and become as one, the veil of hate will be rent.”
The Man with the preacher crossed his arms. His hands were soft and strong. His fingernails trimmed and clean.
“Blessed be the lion and the lamb.”
Darla whispered, “Amen.” “Please,” said the preacher. “Make the prophecy come true.” With that, the preacher fell silent.
Darla looked at Paul. “I’ll rub you,” she said.
Paul’s fingers became still on his chest. He watched as Darla moved her hand to the snap on his pants and popped it open. The zipper was undone, exposing Paul’s white briefs. Darla’s touch and the cool spring air on the cotton stirred Paul’s organ again. It tingled in anticipation and pushed at the cloth. Paul wanted to cover himself. He wanted Darla to suck him and make him explode.
“Come on, lion,” said Darla. “Lie with me.”
Ee-ii-ee-ii-oh, thought Paul.
Darla slipped her hands beneath Paul’s hips, and he instinctively rose up so she could pull his jeans down to his knees. Then she loosened his shoes and tossed them aside. His socks followed, and then the jeans, one leg at a time. Paul sat back on the prickly grass. He wondered if little Tim would have been proud of his big brother now, the new savior of the world.
The yellow skirt with its elasticized waist came up over Darla’s head. Her pink panties appeared to be damp. Darla touched her thighs, her belly button, the damp pink panties.
Paul realized that she was not going to remove her own blouse, nor his shirt. Not that it mattered: The business ends were already exposed. He wanted to touch his penis but was afraid. He would let Darla take charge. She knew what to do. Blessed be the lamb who sucks the dick of the lion.
Darla caught Paul’s hand in her own. She moved it to the panties and worked his fingers down inside. Paul gasped at the feel of coarse hair. “Oh,” he moaned.
He thought he heard the Man echo, “Oh.” “Come on,” Darla said, her breath hot on Paul’s face. “I’ll rub you and you rub me.” Paul’s fingers began stroking the thick hair below the elastic. No longer could he feel the burning scratches on his chest; his own breath came in horrified, ecstatic jolts. Darla found his erection with the palm of her hand. Paul arched his back, pressing into her touch.
The Man with the preacher opened his own pants, and from the corner of his eye, Paul saw him reach in to stroke himself.
But Darla took his attention back with a firm squeeze. “Lie with me.” Her voice was barely audible. “Stop wars. Bring peace.” She slipped her hand inside his briefs and brought his organ out into the sun. Passion, embarrassment, anticipation, and fear cut his heart. Paul groaned.
The Man and the preacher groaned, too.
Somewhere beyond the holy union, sunglasses, moving to the edge of the woods, winked in unison.
Darla tore the seams of her panties and tossed them out with Paul’s socks. She ripped away Paul’s briefs with sharp nails. She folded, and her mouth took Paul’s penis in a wet caress.
“Ee-ii-ee-ii-oh!” Paul shrieked. He felt the swelling pressure, the urgent demand as her tongue studied him. He wanted to stop for a moment, he was rushing ahead too fast, he could not think of what was happening and he wanted to, he wanted to have memories of this and think of it again and again, but it was too fast. Too fast.
“Wait!” he screamed.
Darla dove backward, dragging Paul with her. She threw her legs apart and shoved Paul into the wet place beneath the dark hair. Paul bucked instinctively, furiously. He was so swollen he knew he would rip her open, but that was fine. That was good. The lion tearing the lamb for the peace of the world.
And then the divine, glorious explosion. “Oh, my God!” shouted Paul. “Oh, God!” shouted Darla. “Oh, God,” grunted the Man near them.
Paul fell, face into the sharp grass, arm crumpled up under him, folded against Darla’s breast. His groin and stomach continued to shudder with
aftershocks. He could hear Darla’s pants. He could feel the sweat of her body. It was warm, like a beautiful, peaceful bath.
“Yes,” said Darla in his ear. “We laid down together. Lion and the lamb. We done it.” It sounded as if she were weeping with joy.
Paul began to laugh for the same reason. “We saved the world,” he sang. “Ee-ii-ee-ii-oh, we saved the world from war!”
He heard the preacher laughing, too.
Then the preacher said, “Well, sir, that do the trick?”
Paul used his untrapped hand to wipe a gnat out of his eye. He squinted up at the men near them in the pasture.
The Man had his penis out of his pants, and it was erect. His mouth was a straight, tight line across his face. His eyes were still invisible behind the glasses. There were sweat droplets on his cheeks and hands.
For the first time, the Man spoke: “Not quite. Almost.” “Shit,” said the preacher, and Paul flinched. Preachers didn’t talk like that, not at the church home, anyway. “We got another go-round,” the preacher went on. “If you’d like.”
Paul worked himself up off of Darla. He sat and brushed dead grass from his legs. Darla lay still, basking in the glory of her success.
The Man wiped his mouth, gazed out past the river, then back to the preacher. He said, “Why couldn’t I go for golfing?”
“Different strokes,” said the preacher, and he laughed again, once.
Darla opened her eyes and looked at them all.
Then the preacher swung his foot and caught Paul in the ribs. “Get up, morons,” he said. He kicked Paul again.
Darla sat up immediately. Her mouth hung open, bad teeth showing. “What the hell are you doing?” she said. “What is the matter with you?” Paul began to shake. He stood and looked over at his torn underwear in the weeds. He glanced down at his exposed penis. With a surge of supreme humiliation, he covered himself with his hands.
“Thanks for saving the world,” said the preacher.
Darla jumped to her feet. “What the fuck’s going on?” she screamed. She raised her hand to strike the preacher, but he caught it and twisted it. Darla dropped to her knees.