Horror Business (9 page)

RAIMI

Sure, anything.

CRONENBURG

You get that sonofabitch. (Pulls him close) For me!

CRONENBURG dies an agonizing death.

RAIMI composes himself and stands up. He looks at the blood on his hands and then at himself in one of the mirrors. He brings the gun up and checks the ammunition in it, then clicks it closed.

RAIMI

(Insert one-liner here)

END SCENE

The return address on the package is some unpronounceable town in Germany. It takes a couple tries to decipher it. I try to pronounce it phonetically, but it feels thick with all the husky throat sounds. I give up. Whoever sent the box got my first name right at least: Jason Nachtshade. I remember what’s in the package and rip the cardboard open.

The inside is a layer of Styrofoam peanuts, concealing something secret and dangerous. I plunge my hand deep and feel my prize.

After Brian disappeared, it became very easy to borrow my parents’ credit card. Obviously, their attention was elsewhere.

I pull the gun out of the Styrofoam, letting peanuts fall off onto the table and floor. The barrel is chrome and slick. The weight feels good, heavy, and powerful. I turn it over in my inexperienced hands. The gun becomes welcome, as if it belongs there. A pamphlet of instructions emerges with the gun, but they’re also in German. Useless. I point the gun at objects and put imaginary holes in them: the flower vase, the refrigerator, a piece of boring art. I find the release and let the magazine out. It pops out into my other hand. So smooth. I immediately snap it back in. I pull the slide toward me and let go, loading the invisible bullet. I smile. This could be the best purchase of my life. I set the gun down and dig deeper in the box to find the ammunition: a box of blanks. Prop bullets. I call Steve and it’s almost hard to talk because I’m so excited to try the thing out.

***

“C’mon man, what are you hiding?”

On the phone, I had decided not to tell Steve about the gun, just that I had a surprise to show him. I feel the gun needs that kind of dramatic introduction.

We’re down by the creek since the drainage pipe will provide enough noise that we don’t alarm any neighbors. The steady stream is loud enough that Steve has to yell when he repeats the question.

“
So what did you want to show me?
”

The gun is tucked in the back of my pants and covered with my sweatshirt. I reach around my back—slow and deliberate. When I touch the textured handle, the excitement is electric and runs through my arm.

I bring the gun out and point it at Steve.

“Oh shit!” He drops to his knees, covering his head with his hands.

For a second, it’s funny to see him cower, but then I feel self-conscious. I feel like the monster in
Frankenstein
, unaware of his terrible power. I lower the barrel. “Don’t worry, it’s a fake.”

“What?” Steve stands up. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a prop gun,” I say, pulling the box of blanks out of my pocket. “I bought it for the movie. There are gun scenes and I wanted them to look real.”

His fear turns into deep interest as he crowds around me, looking behind for people watching us. I let him hold the gun, feel the weight. He handles the magazine and cocks the hammer back with the same reverence. Every moment is littered with “holy shit” or a “goddamn,” and soon we’re fighting to hold the gun.

“Here, give it to me.” I shake the box of blanks in front of him.

Steve relinquishes the gun and I fumble the box open. Suddenly, I’m very nervous with the toy, letting thoughts enter my mind like
what if it’s not fake?

“How did that dude from
The Crow
die?” Steve asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Was it a blank gun?” He stops to consider the question. “Yeah, Brandon Lee. He was killed on-set. A fake gun was loaded with real bullets. Something like that.”

“I don’t think you can do that,” I say, looking down at the magazine in one hand and a blank in the other. “Fake guns can’t shoot real bullets.”
I hope
.

“Remember that guy who died on
The Twilight Zone Movie
?” Steve continues. “That was fucked up.”

“Yeah, but that was a helicopter. Chopped the guy’s head clean off.” I emphasize this point by striking an invisible line through my neck. “Killed two kids too. People say John Landis has never been the same.”

I snap one of the blanks into the magazine. It seems too easy, which makes
me
uneasy. I snap two more in.

“John who?” Steve asks.

“John Landis. That guy who did
American Werewolf in London.
He was the guy directing when the helicopter went down.”

“Who says that he hasn’t been the same?”

“You know. People.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I slide the loaded magazine into the handle. Steve goes on about the nature of people dying on film.

“Shut up,” I say. “I’m loaded.”

He stops talking and fear returns to his face. Again, I’m uncomfortable with the gun in my hands.

“Is it going to be loud?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know.” My heart races. I pull the slide back and see the blank pop into place. “You ready?”

I aim the gun off in the other direction, just in case the bullets are real. Gun phrases from movies rush through my mind, but “
don’t pull the trigger, squeeze
” is the one that sticks. I can’t remember what movie it’s from.

I squeeze the trigger. Thunder.

The shell flies out and lands, smoking, at my feet. I’m short of breath and sweaty, but I also feel immensely light. Behind me, Steve stands, mouth agape, still covering his ears.

“Holy shit,” Steve says. “That was awesome.”

“That’s right,” I say, giddy with power. “Don’t fuck with me.” I squeeze off the other two blanks. Before we retreat back to our houses, I throw the blank cases into the drainage pipe.

I walk home in the afternoon haze, and I try to think of a better ending to the movie. So far, nothing I’ve come up with is very good. It’s either too predictable or not gory enough. The leaves on the street crunch nicely under my feet, and I make squishing sounds with my mouth every time I step down. I imagine the leaves as little bodies breaking underneath me. I turn down the music in my headphones so I can hear the crunching better.

A flock of kids run past me. Their maniacal screaming echoes in my head. I pass a telephone pole with a fluorescent-colored
MISSING CHILD
poster. Greg Mackie. His badly photocopied face longs for discovery.

I turn on to my street and notice the plainness of the neighborhood—how all the houses look the same. It’s something that you don’t notice until horrible things begin to happen in your community. I’m too busy thinking of the contrast to notice Colt Stribal sitting on my lawn.

My first inclination is to turn around and run, despite how childish that would appear to Ally if she happened to be watching from her window.

He looks at me and then turns away with passing indifference. He cradles his arm and talks to himself, slightly rocking back and forth. I remain frozen. Fear weighs down my feet.
Oh shit,
I think,
you haven’t come up with a part for him in your movie yet.

Then I notice the blood.

The hand that he’s cradling is deep red, too much like the corn-syrup mixture I use. The blood drips from his palm, down his arm and collects in a little puddle at his elbow. I can smell it. Over the greasy smell, there is a faint scent of copper. Not corn syrup. I take a step closer to get a better look. The blood pours out little holes in Colt’s hand.

That dumbass must’ve been cutting himself again
…
poking himself with a knife.

The skin around the holes is sunken. Jagged and black. They’re bite marks. A faint growling gives away the culprit: Brock.

I don’t know where my dog came from or if he’d been there the whole time. His sudden presence makes the hair on my neck rise.

Brock looks bad—flies buzz around his confused face and his hair is matted and missing in some parts. His wounds have turned black, and it looks like something has chewed the tip of his tail off. I don’t want to consider that he probably did it himself. A thick foam covers his lips, tinted red. He looks hot and tired, but he bares his teeth. His hair stands on end.

I turn back to Colt. Despite Brock’s terrible appearance, it’s been a long time since I’ve been so happy to see him. Once again, he is my savior. My best friend.

I feel my lips curl into a smile. Every color but red seeps out of my vision. I watch the scene with a Hellish camera filter. It feels good to be possessed. I let out a deep breath and walk past Colt. I want to run up and kick him when he’s down. Maybe slash him with a knife. But later. I put my hand out for my dog to come, ready to shower him with all the treats his heart could desire. He just stares at it. Even when he notices that it’s me, he doesn’t lower his lips. His teeth remain bared.

I pat my lap. Brock still doesn’t move.

From behind me, Colt says something. I turn around and see that he’s reaching out to me. He’s asking for help. I notice the tears on his face. I want to point and laugh. I want to hold him by the collar and scream “
BOO HOO!
”
into his face so he feels the heat of my demonic breath. Briefly, he seems to recognize me.

(You can’t be in our movie)

The moment passes and he’s back to the smelly, greasy psycho who almost killed my brother. And the asshole wants me to help him because my dog, a dog he was planning to slaughter, bit him. Every cell in my body fills with tangible hatred. With my headphones in, I pretend that I don’t hear his pleas, and, without helping him, I walk up the stairs and slam the door behind me.

I leave him alone with Brock.

I wake up this morning to find an envelope on my windowsill. It is made of black paper with my name written in white. It’s covered with drawings of skulls and bones and headstones. Inside, the letter is simple and written in jagged cursive.

It’s Brian’s handwriting.

I can’t bring myself to open it immediately, so I watch it from my closet while getting dressed. Watch it from my bowl of cereal. The areas between the white become eyes. Black eyes have overtaken my dreams lately.

I turn it over in my hands a couple of times, making fingerprints in the dust left by the windowsill. I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. All my fears come true: on the sheet of paper are the five worst words imaginable, followed by a horrible frowning face.

I know about the videotape.

I reread the line and put it away. The waning sun filters into my room, but instead of warming me, it only serves as a reminder of my brother’s new omnipotence. I close the blinds, shutting out whatever ghoulish world Brian has become a part of.

I wake up in Brian’s room. Not sure when I fell asleep. Can’t even remember how I ended up here. Still, better than my own room. No closet monsters in Brian’s room. Red digits from his clock read 10:14 pm. It tastes like I’ve been eating trash in my sleep. My throat’s dry, and my stomach aches. Heavy bass pounds the ceiling. I push the blankets off and climb the stairs to see what dad’s watching.

Dad flips through the channels as fast as it takes to blink a piece of dust out of your eye. There’s no way he could even know what program each channel holds. The sound system shouts audio like a robot trying to break into a conversation. The flickering light reflects off the wetness on his cheeks: tears released to prevent his eyes from drying out. He holds a beer bottle in one hand and there’s another, empty, at his feet. He’s got a leg up on one of the footrests; he’s using the other as a table. There’s a bowl of gray milk on it. A few multi-colored, soggy Os float in the milk, bloated from saturation.

He nods at me and holds his fist in the air, index and pinky extended into devil horns:
rock on.

There’s nothing in the fridge except milk, more beer, a block of cheese, carrots, and lettuce. The freezer’s full of vanilla ice cream, the only request I put on his list, but now I have no appetite for it.

“Ugh. Nothing to eat.” I say.

“There’s cereal.” He points to his bowl of gray milk. “That’s what I had.” His dialogue slows the tempo of the channels changing.

I grimace. “Not in the mood for cereal.” I feel ravenous, like I need meat. Something that was once alive.

The phone rings. It’s Steve. “Do you want to see the midnight movie?” he asks.

“Is it Friday?” I didn’t go to school yesterday or today. It’s hard to keep track of days.

“It’s
Texas Chainsaw Massacre,
” he says. “I’m thinking of going.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one.”

“See you there?”

“Sounds good.”

I sit on the other side of the couch and watch the channels flip through. Dad chugs the last of his beer and belches. He puts the bottle at his feet, next to the other one. It topples and clinks on the hardwood.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Going to the midnight movie with Steve. Can I borrow some money?”

“What time will you be home?”

“Don’t know.”

“I suppose you’ll go whether I give you permission or not.” He pulls out a worn leather wallet and takes a couple bills out. He doesn’t even look at the total when he hands them to me and the value is more than all of last month’s allowance combined. When I reach out for them, he holds tight. We remain frozen, clutching the money at both ends. A sobriety returns to his face that I haven’t seen since mom left.”Be safe. Don’t get caught.” He adds, quickly: “By the po-po.”

“I won’t.”

What’s playing tonight?”

“
Texas Chainsaw.
”

“Oh. Bloody.”

“Not really,” I say.

On screen, there’s another old man being questioned about the missing children. The old guy laughs at the ridiculousness of the questions. His teeth are stained brown.