Darlings of Decay Page 19

  "Do you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of this material?" snapped the wardrobe girl who'd stitched Derrick's mouth shut. Darren hoped she'd become eligible for the extras pen. She wasn't that good of a seamstress either.

  The medic, meanwhile, frantically tried to treat those who'd been bitten or scratched by the zombies, but the antibiotics didn't seem to be working.

  On the upside, the dry ice was working well enough to prevent Mara and Derrick from degenerating too quickly. The hot lights were a bit of a problem, but that was what stand-ins were for.

  Darren was coming to the reluctant conclusion that the zombie plague could be the best thing that had ever happened to his career.

  At the end of the day Darren eagerly ran the dailies to see if they lived up to his expectations. Even Phil and Melissa were impressed with the improved quality of the stars' performances.

  "Mara really looks horrified," Melissa commented during one scene.

  "I think she was really hungry, " Phil said. "That was the scene we shot before lunch."

  Darren felt a warm glow suffuse his entire being as the certainty that this, the end result, really was worth all of the … unpleasant things he'd had to do; the compromises he'd been forced to make. Sometimes true art could only be born out of the womb of horror.

  Ignoring the pretentious tone of that last thought, Darren continued to watch the screen.

  When they'd finished watching the dailies, Phil and Melissa headed off to get some supper while Darren resound the reel to view his masterpiece again in private. He'd only gotten through five minutes of footage, however, when the door opened and the light switched on.

  Darren turned around in annoyance. "Didn't you see the red light?" he snapped before his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He put a lid on his temper as soon as he registered who'd entered the room.

  It was Gerald Fife, dressed in his usual relaxed-fit jeans and silk shirt that did nothing to hide his middle-aged paunch or create the desired effect of borrowed youth.

  "Gerald," Darren said expansively, confident that he at last had something of quality to show his executive producer. Have a seat and check out the dailies."

  "Sorry, ain't got the time." Gerald sat down despite his words. "I'm just here to give you the news in person. Didn't want you to hear it through Phil." He pulled out a cigar and lit it.

  Darren's heart plunged down into his stomach. "What news?" he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

  "I'm pulling the plug." Gerald took a long pull on his cigar, exhaling with obvious relish.

  "What? Why?"

  "This whole dead thing, Darren. It's depressing. The investors aren't going to want a movie about the plague when the viewing public is already down about the zombies. No percentage in it."

  "Jesus Christ, Gerald, you've got to take a look at these dailies!" Darren gestured toward the screen. "We've really got something here!"

  Gerald shook his head with finality. "Sorry, Darren. No go. We're in this business to make money. No one's going to want to see a movie with a bunch of rotting bodies when they can look out their window and see the same thing for free."

  "But—"

  Gerald held up one hand, sending a plume of cigar smoke wafting in Darren's face. "But me no buts, kid, I ain't got the time. I wanna get out of here while I still can. Traffic's a bitch out there." He took a puff of his cigar." Sorry, kid. But you know what they say; when the going gets tough, the tough get going. And I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge." Gerald stood up. "Now where's Mara? I wanna give her the news myself."

  Staring bleakly at the screen, Darren said, "She's locked in her trailer."

  "Locked in?" Gerald's voice rose in outrage. "What the hell are you talking about, locked in?"

  Darren started fumbling for an explanation. Suddenly his train of thought jumped to another track as something irrevocably snapped in his brain. He wasn't sure if it was his conscience or his sanity—maybe it was both—but it no longer mattered. Only the film mattered.

  He stood up. "Sorry, Gerald. I meant she's locked herself in her trailer. Maybe you can help out."

  "Jesus!" Gerald stubbed out his cigar. "What the hell did you do to her?"

  "She's unhappy with the quality of the food we've had lately," Darren explained as he followed Gerald out of the screening room bungalow towards Mara's trailer. "It's been hard to get Cristal these days."

  "On your budget it should be impossible, " Gerald snapped. "Damn good thing I'm shutting this down. The investors would have my balls for breakfast if they saw shit like that on the budget sheets. Jesus, what the hell is that smell?"

  They were passing the warehouse housing the extras. Despite the heavy steel walls, the smell and the noise of the rotting extras gave the area a distinctly charnel atmosphere.

  "Some meat gone bad," Darren said vaguely.

  "What the hell are they doing in there?"

  "Rehearsing one of the big crowd scenes."

  "What a reek! How can anyone eat around here?" Gerald stepped up his pace. Darren matched it.

  Mara's trailer sat before them, a steady unsatisfied moan emanating from inside.

  "Jesus!" Gerald exclaimed. "She sounds like she's starving!"

  Darren bounded up the steps before Gerald could see the industrial strength padlock on the trailer door. As he inserted the key, he tapped on the door and called, "Mara, Gerald's here to talk to you about a few things. You're going to have to unlock the door and let him in."

  A rising moan answered him, along with the sound of Mara lurching through the trailer towards the sound of fresh meat.

  "Let me up there, you asshole." Gerald pushed his way up the stairs just as Darren managed to remove the padlock. Slipping it into his pocket, he retreated to the ground and out of Gerald's way.

  "Mara, baby, it's Gerald. Open the door, sweetheart! Uncle Gerald will take care of you."

  Mara scrabbled at the door from the inside, moaning pitifully.

  "Chris, she can't even talk!" Gerald said in horrified tones. He grabbed the door handle and turned it. "Don't worry, baby, I'll feed you."

  "I bet you will," Darren said cheerfully as Gerald opened the door. He watched as Mara grabbed hold of the executive producer's arms and pulled him inside. Darren helped with a well-placed push on Gerald backside, then quickly slammed the door shut and replaced the padlock with a decisive snap.

  "You know what they say," Darren called out as Gerald began screaming. "When the going gets tough, the tough get eaten!"

  Darren smiled to himself. His first film, and it looked like he'd even get final cut.

  THE END

  Belinda Frisch

  PAYBACK

  ZOMBIE ANTHOLOGY EDITION

  By Belinda Frisch

  Copyright © 2012 by Belinda Frisch

  All rights reserved. This e-book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by A.J. Brown

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.

  When those closest to you break your trust, the only option is payback.

  Six months before an outbreak of viral plague turned the residents of Strandville into a mob of flesh-hungry undead, Max Reid was a new father struggling to overcome a gambling addiction for the sake of his family.

  Desperate to keep his secret, out of work, and on the losing end of a debt large enough to get him kil
led, Max turned to Mitch, a Nixon Center guard and the closest thing he had to a friend, to make the money he needed to break-even. What he didn't know was why Mitch was so eager to help him or how far he'd have to go for the cash.

  Max Reid is about to find out a terrible secret that will change his life and push him to destroy others'.

  Payback

  A Strandville Series Short

  Six months earlier…

  Max Reid parked behind Devil’s Ink, Strandville’s only tattoo shop, and avoided eye-contact with Mitch who scowled at him from the passenger’s seat.

  Situated on a six store strip which was the closest thing Strandville had to downtown, Devil’s Ink was the black eye on the small town’s otherwise simple, country façade. Strandville was a rural, blue collar working town and those that lived there either worked hard for low pay, or compromised their morality to work at the Nixon Healing and Research Center, one of the few decent paying jobs within a fifty mile radius. Max had worked for Bill Jenks, the town mechanic, up until he was fired a week before. He’d yet to tell Jess, the mother of his newborn son, but knew that sooner or later, he’d have to come clean. He hoped the race would buy him time.

  He turned off the engine, grabbed the betting slip from on top of his visor, and sighed. Jacob’s Revenge wasn’t a favorite to win, but he needed a long-shot’s payoff and there was no better bet than a horse with his son’s name.

  Mitch hadn’t said a word since the stop at the bookie, but it was clear he didn’t approve of the bet. “When do you plan on telling Jess you were fired?” He adjusted his lanyard to sit under the blue collar of his Nixon Center uniform shirt. A photo ID badge marked him as a member of security. “She finds out everything eventually, believe me.”

  Mitch and Jess had dated through high school, a fact Max considered moot now that they had Jacob. Mitch had cheated on her and she had ended things. Mitch didn’t have to say that he never got over her. He came around often and stayed too long.

  Max took his keys from the ignition. “Come on, I’m late.”

  “You’re going to get evicted.”

  “Anyone else, you’d be cracking homeless jokes. I can take care of my own family.” The assertion made Max feel more normal about things at home that, while he’d never admit it to Mitch, were falling apart. “This race will fix things. You’ll see.”

  But the long-shot bet was double the losing one before it. Max was five hundred dollars down from a thousand dollar paycheck, his last from the garage, and it was less than ten minutes to post time.

  He hurried inside and flopped down in the chair.

  Mitch sat in the waiting area, massaging his furrowed brow. He picked up a water-stained Playboy off the milk crate table and flipped the well-worn pages, bouncing his leg to the thrash core beat coming through the speakers.

  “Reid, man. I didn’t think you were gonna show.” Doug, the shop’s owner, crushed out his cigarette in a coffee mug on the side of his work station and opened a fresh set of needles. He was a tall man, thin and fair-skinned with tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his scruffy-bearded face. The black ink shapes bled together into a single, congested piece and other than the pair of praying hands on the right side of his neck, nothing stood out at quick glance.

  “Had an errand to run.” Max crumpled an empty paper cup and threw it across the room at Mitch. “Hey, put on channel twenty-seven, would you?”

  Mitch muttered something under his breath and continued pretending to read.

  “Come on,” Max said.

  Doug pulled his thinning hair into a low ponytail and set the stencil of a cross on Max’s forearm. He sprayed down the paper to transfer the ink outline and held Max’s arm when he wouldn’t hold still.

  “You’re so fucking childish.” Max gripped the chair’s movable arm and prepared to stand up.

  Doug, possibly sensing the tension, headed off the scuffle. “I got it,” he said, turning on the television with the remote he took out of his drawer. “What number we rooting for this time?” He squeezed his large hands into a pair of black, latex gloves and poured several capfuls of ink.

  “Lucky seven,” said Max.

  Doug lifted the stencil. “Good?”

  “Good.” Max didn’t even look at the placement.

  The Call to the Post sounded and the race was off. Max kept his eyes glued to the screen and didn’t flinch when the needle broke skin.

  Doug held Max’s arm still and started the black outline.

  The dull pain, hot like bee stings, soothed Max’s frayed nerves as he watched for the green and white stripes of Jacob’s jockey to move up the pack. Everything was riding on this race.

  “And here comes Jacob’s Revenge.”

  “Yes!” Max’s hands trembled with excitement.

  “And Jacob’s Revenge is in the lead.”

  Mitch set down the magazine and leaned forward on the sagging futon, the wooden frame creaking under his weight.

  Max couldn’t tear his eyes away. The worries of being behind three months in rent and of having lost half of his final paycheck disappeared.

  “Wait, what’s this?” The announcer’s voice lowered. “Lucky Louie is neck and neck with Jacob’s Revenge. It’s a photo finish.”

  Mitch snickered.

  “Dammit!” Max slammed his hand down.

  Mitch set down his magazine and pulled up a stool next to him. He rested his elbows on his knees, tee-peed his fingers, and held them to his lips. “Photo finish, Max, feeling lucky?”

  Doug turned up the volume to hear the results.

  “And the winner is Lucky Louie by a nose.”

  Doug shook his head. “Tough break, man.”

  Max clenched his jaw and balled up his fist. The mounting debt just got bigger, too big for there not to be consequences.

  Doug excused himself for a convenient trip to the bathroom.

  Mitch didn’t move. “Another bust, tough guy.” He smirked. “You ready to take that job now?”

  As much as Max wanted to, he couldn’t say no.

  * * * * *

  Five o’clock in the morning came faster than Max expected and he was exhausted, having been up most of the night with the baby. He rolled out of bed, careful not to disturb Jess, and checked on Jacob, sleeping in the bassinette. His tiny, pink mouth curled around his thumb. He was sound asleep on his stomach, his back rising and falling with each breath. Max wanted to lift him up and rock him. To pretend he wasn’t relying on old habits to keep their family together.

  He grabbed his cell phone and contemplated calling Mitch to back out. The money was just too good. It was either do this or tell Jess about his mountainous debt and that they were losing their apartment. The thought of her taking Jacob to her mother’s in Tennessee was unbearable. He stumbled into the dark kitchen with his pants and shirt in one hand and his boots in the other. His eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness and he felt along the wall with his elbow for the light switch. There wasn’t time to make fresh coffee so he poured the last of yesterday’s pot into a mug and sucked it down, black and cold.

  “Why are you up so early?” Jess stood in the bedroom doorway with a blue, striped burp cloth draped over her shoulder.

  He hadn’t heard her get up.

  “I tried to be quiet.” Max stepped into his well-worn jeans, faded in the knees and stained from crawling around at the garage.

  “The shop doesn’t open until seven. What’s going on?” Her eyes were half-closed and she had the gentle, sleepy look on her face that he loved; the dazed calm that said she wasn’t awake enough to pick a fight.

  “I’m doing a side job, rebuilding a transmission,” he said. “Everything’s fine. Go back to bed.” The weight of the lie kept him from looking her in the eyes. His cell phone vibrated and if Jess noticed, she didn’t say. He let the call go to voicemail but when the buzzing started again, he knew he’d better get out of the house. “I’ll be home at the regular time.” He kissed her on the cheek
and rushed out the door to meet Mitch who waited two doors down in a white van with a phony power company logo on the side.

  Mitch wore dark jeans and a button-down work shirt with the name “Bob” embroidered on the pocket. He leaned over and fed a training treat to a Doberman puppy sitting on a blanket in a cardboard box between the seats.

  Max looked down at his own shirt--the uniform for the garage that any local would recognize—and shook his head. “What’s with the dog?”

  “He’s Amy’s.” Mitch reached back and tossed a shirt that matched his to Max. “She let me borrow him.”

  Amy Porter was the niece of Strandville’s local convenience store and gas station owner. Her parents died when she and her brother, Billy, were kids. While Max never found Amy to be even remotely attractive with her stringy hair and acne-scarred skin, it was clear why Mitch liked her. The girl knew how to party and she’d do anything for attention. The week before, Mitch got into a fist fight with one of the locals after Amy overdid it on Tequila and began stripping on the bar. Mitch wouldn’t admit it because Max often teased him for her looks, but he knew that Mitch loved her.

  Max squeezed into the shirt, which stretched tight across his broad chest, and fought to button it. Several threads snapped under the strain. The long sleeves rode a good two inches up his forearms and irritated his new tattoo. He rolled them up to his elbows and flexed until the shirt’s fit became bearable. He looked down at the puppy and after a long silence asked, “Borrow him for what?” His phone vibrated, and again, he put the call to voicemail.

  Mitch kept his eyes on the road and refused to answer.

  A sinking feeling set in as the bright orange sun peeked over the horizon. Max didn’t press, figuring Mitch was screwing with him. He thought, instead, about the non-stop calls from his bookie and feared it wouldn’t be long until he sent someone to make the house call that, given their strained relationship, would end things with Jess. The mental math to calculate his total debt had become too hard, but people had their legs broken over less.