It was another two days before they saw Marcus again. Marcus wearing Shawn's sneakers, lounging against a streetlight pole.

"You got somethin' to say to me?" he snarled at Shawn.

Shawn and Rufus walked by, heads down.

"Maybe you gonna tell your crazy old lady, huh? Have her work some roots on me?" Marcus collapsed into laughter, his boys joining in.

Shawn and Rufus separated at the Projects door.

"I know where I can get a piece," Rufus whispered.

"No."

"No? We don't do somethin', we don't have nothin', right? Whatever we got, Marcus gonna take sooner or later."

"It'll be okay."

"You sure?"

"Sure."

"How you know?"

"I just know, Rufe."

Friday night there was a dance in the rec room. Shawn took a long time to dress…Chanel had told Rufus that Taineesha told her she was coming and she hoped Shawn would be there.

Everybody was there, even Mr. Bart, standing in a corner, his mountainous body moving to the music. Shawn danced with Taineesha and he didn't really miss his sneakers.

It was late when Marcus walked in with his boys. Wearing his life–taker's jacket and Shawn's sneakers. Everyone stepped aside to give him room. Shawn prayed he wouldn't try to grab at Taineesha–he knew he couldn't keep his promise to Granny then.

The DJ was taking a break. The floor was cleared. People walked in a wide circle around the perimeter, visiting. Marcus made the circle too. Everyone he approached turned away from him. Nobody gave him back his smile, nobody responded to his challenges.

It was midnight when Marcus sauntered over to where Mr. Bart was standing. With a cobra–quick move, Marcus snatched the monster's leather bag and stepped away. He upended the bag, coins spilling out onto the floor. Nobody moved.

Mr. Bart picked up his walker, shifted it forward, slammed it down, advancing on Marcus.

Marcus grinned.

Another lift, another slam, another few inches.

"I ain't got all night for this lame to make his move. Let's book." Marcus signaled to his boys and stepped to make his exit. His foot came slowly, agonizingly off the floor, like he was pulling it from quicksand.

Another thump as Mr. Bart slammed his walker forward. Marcus pulled out his pistol and leaped forward. Heavy, ropy roots sprang from the soles of his sneakers into the floor itself. The gun went sailing into the distance as somebody in the crowd screamed.

Marcus fell to his knees, grasping for a claw hold on the floor.

Another thump, and the giant's shadow fell closer.

The rec room emptied, people walking out quietly, steadily. Nobody looked back.

The last thing Shawn heard was Marcus screaming…and the thump of Mr. Bart's walker.

About the Book

From a writer whose novels have been acclaimed for their unflinching exploration of evil comes a brilliant collection of short stories—some never before published—that distill dread back down to its essence—and inject it straight into the reader’s back brain. Andrew Vachss might have scissored his characters from today’s headlines: a stalker prowling around an anonymous high-rise; a serial killer whose transgressions reflect a childhood of hideous abuse; an inner-city gunman who is willing to take out a blockful of victims in order to win a moment of acceptance.

Tautly written and endowed with murderous ironic spin, Born Bad plunges us into the hell that lies just outside our bedroom windows.