Tribesmen (8 page)

“What is he doing!” Tito said. His voice equally dismayed by their star’s appearance.

Jacque turned to look at the golden haired Italian. Denny wondered when he had time to get into makeup and costume, before realizing that Umberto wasn’t supposed to be playing a savage.

Denny had heard stories of crazy actors, but Umberto’s stunt was less Klaus Kinski, more Charlie Manson.
What the fuck is he wearing?

As the actor stepped into focus, he got his answer.

He was wearing nothing but the pig.

Umberto’s entire body was slippery and red. He wore a dripping fur loincloth around his waist, held the machete in one hand. The crazy bastard had severed the top of the boar’s skull at the mouth and wore it over his blonde hair like a hat, letting the rest of the pelt flow behind him like a gore-strewn cape.

“Bellisimo,” Tito yelled. “Such production value.”

Daria was the only one among them who had not seen him yet. Umberto stepped over the fire, not flinching as he passed through the flames.

“What are you doing?” Jacque asked. In response, Umberto shouldered him out of the way and grabbed a clump of Daria’s hair.

“Remember. Whatever you do: don’t cut the camera,” the old woman’s voice whispered to Denny.

He didn’t.

He caught it all.

Chapter 12

Daria

Daria felt a single tear trickle down her cheek. She hated that she was crying for these bastards. These were pigs that would hire a girl under false pretenses. They brought her thousands of miles away from home to brutalize her for their shitty movie.

This was probably what Bronze had in mind from the second she stepped into his office, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her tits. The black one seemed nice, but in the end he was just the same as the others.

More tears came as her head was jerked back.

The smell of Umberto hit her before the sight of him did. He smelled sweet and salty, like candied meat.

His face was not nearly as ambiguous. Veins pulsed in his neck and forehead; rivulets of partially congealed blood dripped from the snout of the pig at the top of his head. His maniac smile was framed at the top by his blonde mustache, now dyed red with pig blood and matted at the corners with whitish-pink froth.

She tore her eyes away from his and they landed on the blade in his hand. It was no prop. They had not brought that with them off the plane.

“This has gone too far,” she screamed, thinking that at least Umberto would be able to understand her. He didn’t react, and her attention remained glued to the long, blood-flecked knife.

On her second official makeup assignment for school, back when she could afford school, Daria was working with a woman who told her that she used to be an actress. The woman was only a few years older than Daria herself, so Daria had asked why she’d chosen to retire so early.

The woman gave her a warm smile and laughed. “I didn’t choose to retire,” she said. As Daria curled her lashes and experimented with different shades of eyes shadow, the woman told her the story.

“When I was first starting out,” the woman told her. “I would take any jobs that were offered to me. Anything to keep my name out there and keep bread on the table, you know? So on maybe my fifth or sixth film—a horror movie—I figured that I was an old pro.” She rolled her eyes, causing Daria to smudge her work. “The thing that you start believing when you’re on movie sets so often, is that everything around you is complete make-believe. So on the last night of shooting this film, it’s my character’s best moment. She has been cornered by the killer and must fight his weapon away from him or be killed.”

By this point, Daria had forgotten all about the assignment, putting down her materials and listening to the woman’s story. The cinema was the business she was destined for, and she relished first-hand accounts any chance she got.

“So in this scene,” the woman continued. “I am wrestling with this actor. I was giving it my all. I always used to give it my all. So as an improvisation, because I was getting
so into it
, I grabbed on to the knife as he tried to stab at me with it. No big deal, right? Because it’s got to be a fake knife: everything is make-believe. Right?

“Well, it would have been, if the jokers responsible for making this movie had any idea what they were doing. The knife was real.”

Daria held her hand to her mouth.

“It wasn’t a prop, and it hadn’t even been dulled before the scene. Fifteen stitches. It cut through tendons and veins. I’ve never seen so much blood, and unless there’s another war, I don’t think I ever will.” The woman held up her hand to Daria’s face. There were two long white scars running across her palm. “So much blood that I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t. The production hadn’t even been insured, so I didn’t even get medical compensation. Now I have to write with my left hand because I can’t even hold a pen.”

The woman told the story with a steely detachment, but that didn’t stop Daria from crying.

“Don’t cry. I didn’t tell you that to make you sad,” the ex-actress had said. “I told you that to let you know that this business will fuck you up if you let it.”

That was the last thought that went through Daria’s mind.

And then the machete blade went halfway through her neck.

Chapter 13

Jacque

The girl’s head didn’t come off with the first swipe. But after the third swift chop, it hit the ground and rolled into the fire.

Umberto scrambled after it, picking it up and hugging it close to his chest to extinguish the flames. The result for Jacque was a splash of warm arterial spray, accompanied closely by the odor of burnt hair.

Jacque watched the rest of Daria’s body waver on its knees, nerves twitching. He vomited before it could slump down to the dirt at his feet. Barely able to rip the mask off in time, his throat stung as his stomach rolled and voided.

His gagging wrested Umberto’s attention away from the smoldering face he held wedged under his arm like a football.

Before he could stop himself, Jacque locked eyes with Umberto. That’s exactly what you’re
not
supposed to do, when dealing with a wild animal.

That’s what Umberto was: a crazed animal. He wasn’t a lunatic or a method actor too deep in character; he was a snarling beast, bent on mayhem, and he wasn’t through yet.

“Cut! Cut
now
,” Tito screamed, sounding like he was trying to will reality back into existence the only way he knew how.

Tito Bronze had directed nearly fifty films. The murders had always ended whenever he yelled cut. He was now unable to restore sanity to the situation with a simple word.

Umberto gripped Daria’s scalp and tossed the head at Jacque with a quick underhand lob. Without even meaning to, as if it were some precious object that could be saved, maybe even re-attached, Jacque reached out and grabbed the head before it could hit the ground. He dropped it as soon as he felt the clammy warmth of the dead flesh.

Down in Umberto’s chest, a deep rolling laugh began and he raised the machete high again. Jacque could see in his eyes that the novelty of the first murder was already beginning to wane. Umberto was ready for another.

Jacque took one look out at the rest of the crew. Cynthia was frozen in terror and disbelief. Tito had taken a step backward and was clawing at his thinning hair in frustration, still muttering ‘cut.’

Denny was the only one who’d moved closer to the action, and it wasn’t to help. Denny’s hands were white, one clenched over the camera and the other steady on the focus ring. The eye that Jacque could see was jammed shut and the other was pressed against the viewfinder so hard that there were broken blood vessels speckling the bridge of Denny’s nose.

None of them was going to be very much help.

Umberto reared back to swing and Jacque dropped out of his way, diving towards the maniac instead of away. Jacque felt the burn of the connection graze his hip before he could take the legs out from under Umberto and tackle him to the ground.

They both fell, Jacque sending his hands out in front of him. It was reflex meant to protect, but both hands landed in the dying fire. Daria’s blood had mixed with the ash and dirt, forming a boiling paste that clung to Jacque’s hands even after he pulled them from the flames.

Behind him, Umberto grunted and tripped over his boar fur cape in a clumsy attempt to find his footing. Umberto steadied the pig skull on top of his head before trying again. Jacque flipped himself onto his back and whipped both hands at Umberto, flinging some of the boiling sludge at his face and blinding him.

“We’re going to run out,” Denny said, his voice measured, calm and professional. The young cameraman was only a few feet away from them now, and warned the crew that they better wrap this fight scene before he had no more unexposed film left in the camera. This meant that Denny had lost it as well. Given the events of the last few minutes, Jacque could hardly blame him.

Umberto dropped the blade, screeching as he clawed at his eyes. If the wild animal comparisons were in doubt before, they were 100% accurate now.

Jacque pounced for the weapon, tearing his already blistering hands as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He stood, keeping the edge of the blade over Umberto’s head, ready to bring it down if the crazed Italian tried anything.

Umberto looked up at Jacque, and he could see how badly the man was hurt. His right eye was red and enflamed, but still open. His left was swelled shut, tears of blood streaming from the corners. Umberto bared his teeth, lifting himself to his feet and causing Jacque to take a step back.

“Easy,” Jacque said, forgetting that Umberto couldn’t speak English. Regardless, the man seemed to get the message as Jacque lifted the weapon higher, his grip loose around layers of dead skin and jellied blood. If Umberto sprang, Jacque intended on slicing through the boar snout and splitting his head down the middle.

“Damn, we’re out,” Denny said and hoisted the camera to the ground. He cradled the large piece of equipment like a child and the viewfinder left a ring over his right eye that made him look like the dog from the
Our Gang
shorts. “Everyone take five while I reload.”

The shock was beginning to fade, and Jacque could feel the pain radiating from his burnt hands. He sucked in air, trying to catch his breath and wondered how long he would be able to wield the machete. Jacque took a step away from Umberto and towards the rest of the group. Umberto matched it.

Jacque took another look at Tito and almost sobbed with relief. The old man had the pistol drawn and was walking towards them now. Denny picked up the camera and carried it over to the crate at the edge of town, no doubt about to use the film bag to switch in a fresh spool of 35mm.

“Oh thank God,” Jacque said as Tito approached him and leveled the gun.

Umberto took another step before the gun was on him.

“Don’t you move,” Tito said as he pointed the gun at the maniac.

Jacque let his arms drop dead to his sides.

“Did I say you could move either, Jacque?” Inexplicably, the gun was on him now. “Nobody does anything until the boy gets more film in the camera.”

Chapter 14

Cynthia

Tito pointed the gun at Jacque’s gut and raised it level with his face as he spoke. Cynthia was too far away to make out the words, but the action was loud and clear. Before she could cry out in response, she saw Jacque’s eyes move from the barrel of the gun to her and then back again.

He was trying to tell her something. “Run!” was the message he was trying to send her with the glance; at least she thought that’s what the look meant. She hoped she had interpreted it correctly, because she dove to the ground, not needing to be told twice.

She dipped low to the dirt and ran between the two nearest huts.

“Hey, where you going?” she heard Denny call from somewhere behind her. The D.P.’s voice was despondent: he had lost it as well, but in a less violent way than the others. Always a professional, Denny was just doing his job. She ignored him and dove into the tall grass.

There was a thunderclap, and the patch of grass a foot from her face exploded as a bullet zinged by her ear. Cynthia caught a quick whiff of cordite and lawn clippings.

“That was warning shot,” Tito yelled out to her. “Come back or the next one is going to be in you.”

She hesitated for a moment before crouching deeper into the cover of the grass and diving into the jungle at the other side. In the distance, she could hear curse words rendered in a myriad of languages. She ran deeper into the jungle.

Then Tito said the words she was most afraid of:

“Avanti! Go get after her!”

There were footfalls and whooping in the distance. She didn’t know which direction she was running, her course altered by both her own frenzy and the twisting impediments of the jungle that she had to hop over and crawl under.