WidowMaker (18 page)
Authors: Carolyn McCray,Elena Gray
“Crap, where’s my pot?” Bob double-checked his pockets.
Oh, yeah. He stuffed it under the counter when the tight-ass came in with the films. Would have sucked if he got all the way home without his stash. With the side streets blocked for the premiere, it would have taken him hours to get back to the theater.
Bob walked back through the door. Flashing his ID to the security guard, he climbed the stairs to the projection room.
Maybe the suit would be distracted by the Hollywoods downstairs and wouldn’t notice Bob slipping in and grabbing his weed. The dude looked like he was going to cry when Bob left. But there was no way he was sticking around without pay. Besides, the snacks ran out hours ago. Right now, a pizza, Pringles, and Zeppelin were waiting at home for him.
The door squeaked as Bob pushed it open. He stuck his head in, no sign of the suit. Bob quietly crossed to the counter and grabbed his weed. Turning, he spotted feet sticking out from under the projector. Shit. Only gone five minutes, and the dude was already jacking up his equipment.
“Hey, man, I told ya it was all set.” Bob crammed his weed into the front pocket of his pants. “There’s no need to go snooping up my skirt.”
“Dude?” Bob cautiously took a step forward. The feet were not moving. “Hey, you been sampling some of my stash?”
“Dude?”
Bob slowly nudged the suit’s foot. The body jerked, screaming as it slammed into the projector.
The suit climbed out from underneath, rubbing his head. “What in the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.
This guy had balls. Acting like he owned the place.
“What in the hell were you doing under there?” Bob demanded, jabbing a finger at the projector.
“There’s something wrong with this machine. It was making weird-ass sounds. Look, it cut me.”
The dude stuck his finger in Bob’s face. Grody! Like Bob really needed to see that. He had told the suit to sit back and chill. Couldn’t he follow a simple command?
“I told you not to touch my baby!” Bob pushed the suit aside, inspecting the projector. “Bertha … what’s he doing to you?”
Everything was as Bob had left it. Served the suit right if he got cut. Bob rubbed the side of the machine, cooing to it. “Guess I can’t leave you alone with this moron …”
“Hey!”
“Come on, dude. Lighten up,” Bob said, laughing as he pulled the bag of weed out of his pocket.
Smiling, the suit walked over to the door, flicking the lock. “Will you quit calling me dude? My name is Simon.”
“All right, Simon. Have a seat. It’s going to be a long night.”
* * *
Mitchell’s high-pitched screams rang in his ears as he careened down the slide. This was so not like the one at Wild Water Safari. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please.
As a matter of fact, please let there be an exit from this fun house.
A second later, he shot out of the bottom of the slide, landing with a thud on the damp tile floor. Mitchell groaned as he sat up.
“Oh, great. So much for not getting separated.” The room was muggy, and smelled like mold and dirty laundry. Kinda like Craig’s side of the room. An Olympic-size pool sat in the middle. The water was green, and covered with algae. Gross! Guess the brothers don’t swim much.
Mitchell pushed himself to his feet, peering into the murky water.
“Please don’t let the Swamp Thing be hiding in there.”
The water began to ripple, bubbles rising to the surface.
“Oh crap!”
A head rose out of the water. Gray flesh, torn and rotting, on its face. Clothes shredded, stained red with blood. Another head appeared. A partially severed arm followed, dangling from its side.
“Zombies? Freakin’ zombies?” That’s it! The Baxter brothers were off his Christmas card list. Of all of the horror monsters, they had to stick him with zombies? Classic.
Mitchell’s feet slipped on the slick tile as he careened backward.
Two more zombies lurched toward the steps in the pool.
“Help!” he screamed, but who would answer him?
Mitchell’s eyes darted around the room. He ran to the only door at the opposite side of the room. Gripping the handle with both hands he pulled. The door held tight. Moaning and the splash of water sounded behind him.
Mitchell glanced over his shoulder as two of the zombies staggered out of the pool— arms extended toward him. He stepped away from the door, searching for a weapon.
“This isn’t funny!” he yelled at no one in particular.
Right about now would be a good time for the hero to come crashing through the door, guns blazing. Any minute now … Crap. Now what?
“Okay, I know you aren’t real zombies …” Mitchell took a step backward. “But you guys look like real zombies, and sound like real zombies.” He sniffed the air. “And smell like real zombies … Of course you do! The twins are perfectionists.”
One of the zombies slipped on the tile, falling to its knees. The other zombie continued forward. Blood dripped from a chunk of missing flesh on its arm.
“Which probably involves eating human flesh …” Mitchell smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “So, think, Mitchell, think! Okay … okay.”
Mitchell spotted a pool skimmer propped against the wall behind the zombie. Obviously, the thing didn’t get used much.
“According to
Night of the Living Dead
, the only way to kill a zombie is to destroy its brain.”
Mitchell skidded past the zombie just as it lunged for him. Thank God that the Baxters modeled their zombies after the classic
Night of the Living Dead
ones. Grabbing the pole, he lifted it and swung at the zombie’s head, leaving a large dent in the side. The zombie fell lifeless to the floor.
“Thank you, George A. Romero!” And Wii Super Sluggers. Who says video games aren’t good for anything?
A second zombie staggered forward. Part of its jaw was missing. Teeth yellowed and cracked. Mitchell swung at the zombie’s head. Sparks flew as a piece of skin slid off.
Uh oh. Mitchell held up the pole in his hand. Three quarters missing. Mitchell looked up as the other two zombies approached from opposite sides of the pool. He was cornered.
Screaming, Mitchell raced at the zombie, jamming the severed pole in its eye. The zombie fell straight back, its head giving a wet thud as it slammed into the floor. Mitchell placed his foot on the zombie’s head and tried to pull the pole out. The pole stuck.
“Great. This just gets better and better.”
Mitchell spun around. The last zombie groaned as it clutched Mitchell by the throat, lifting him off the floor. Air wheezed out of Mitchell’s lungs as his legs kicked in the air. Clawing at the zombie’s face, Mitchell gagged as pieces of flesh and muscle crammed under his nails. Pinpoints of light shot in front of Mitchell’s eyes. He dug in his pants pocket, pulling out a pen. Mitchell jammed the point into the zombie’s ear. He felt a
squish
as it pierced the brain.
The zombie dropped to the floor, and Mitchell sprawled across it. He pushed himself off, giving the zombie a kick in the head. So much for getting an autograph. At least the pen came in handy for something.
Mitchell surveyed the dead, well, dead again, bodies lying around the pool. Not bad for a movie geek, huh?
“Now to get out of Zombie Central.”
The door was still the only other way out. Unless he was Spider-Man and could climb his way back up the slide. Mitchell braced a foot on the door, grunting as he tried to pull the door open. How the hell was he going to get out of here if the damn door was locked? Mitchell gave it his best karate kick. Hinges creaked as it pushed open.
“Crap! It was open all the time.” Mitchell stuck his head out into the hallway, looking left, and then right, before stepping out. “If this were a movie, I’d deserve to be killed.”
Mitchell paused, looking toward the ceiling for cameras.
“Of course, if anyone’s listening, I didn’t mean that literally.”
* * *
Jill stopped as Derek squeezed her hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
Her heart raced. Maybe Mitchell had escaped and found them.
But Derek frowned. “I heard a clicking sound.”
That could not be good. Clicking did not sound like something they wanted to hear.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Now she heard it, too. A creature, seven feet long, scurried up the wall and across the ceiling. A black shell covered its back, long antennae extending from its head.
“Run!” Derek released her hand and shoved her forward. She heard him shoot twice, but the bullets ricocheted off the creature’s shell.
He hauled ass after her. “What kills overgrown cockroaches?”
“I don’t know!” she said, running as fast as she could. “I never watched monster movies!”
And yes, she did realize how ironic that was, given how they got into this mess.
“Where’s that damn kid when you need him?” Derek asked.
“This way!” Jill shouted, pointing to a door at the end of the hall. “Maybe this one’s unlocked.”
“Go!” Derek fired another round at the creature’s head. It hissed, but kept crawling toward them. Jill pushed open the door. Derek dove through, and Jill slammed it shut behind him.
She jumped back as the creature rammed into the door, its squeals muffled. Derek jumped up and twisted the lock closed. He patted the metal door.
“I’m beginning to like this idea of a steel house.”
“What do we do now?” Jill asked struggling against tears. “There’s no other way out of here.” She indicated the windowless kitchen. Sure, there were plenty of steel countertops and cabinets, and even a pig roasting on a skewer over a gas fire, but not a single other door.
Derek squeezed her shoulder. “We may not need a door.”
She shot him a questioning look, but Derek walked over to the fire pit.
“Derek, what are you …?”
Scraping and pounding continued at the door. Louder. Moaning and shrieking accompanied the clicking. Great. The cockroach brought friends.
“Help me find the turn-off valve for the gas,” Derek said as he checked the other side.
Jill bent down and felt around the lip of the pit. “Got it!” She turned to the right. The flames lowered, and then popped out.
Derek grunted as he lifted the pig and the skewer off the hook, tossing them on the floor.
“Um … what are you …?”
Then Derek climbed up into the fire pit, sticking his head under the exhaust flue, tugging on the grate covering the opening, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Grab me a knife or something, would you?”
She could hear the scrape of claws on the metal door as she yanked the drawers open. Utensils pinged as they crashed to the floor.
Jill found what she was looking for. She hurried over and handed Derek a knife. But before he got back to work on the grate, his eyebrow cocked.
“Trying out for the next Jamie Lee Curtis role?”
She looked down at the butcher knife in her hand. “A girl can never be too careful. But what’s the plan?”
Derek wedged the knife under the lip of the grate. “Look, this baby has got to vent to the outside. I bet they didn’t think to guard the opening at the top. We’re going up and out.”
“Derek …” Jill warned.
“Just give me a sec.”
A hissing filled the room. The air throbbed with it. Jill pointed her butcher knife out in front of her as a figure emerged from the broom closet. Derek dropped down off the stool beside her as Dracula stepped into the light. His fangs bared as his eyes pulsed red.
So red. She felt heavy. Too heavy. The butcher knife in her hand seemed to weigh a ton. She let it fall out of her hands, and it clanged to the floor.
“Goddamn it! Jill! Get back!”
But Jill stood frozen. Transfixed by those eyes.
“I … I can’t … move …” she managed to whisper. “Don’t look into its eyes.”
* * *
“Wasn’t planning on it, darlin,” Derek said as he spun her around to face him. “Look at me, Jill. Focus on me.”
She blinked a few times, and then shook her head. “I think they used some kind of hypnotism.”
“Of course they did,” Derek said urging her up onto the stool. “Now, once I get you up there, you climb. Got it?”
Jill nodded, although she still seemed sluggish as he grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up. Derek shoved her through the opening, her feet disappearing through the hole.
A scream came from the vent. Jill’s legs pushed back through the opening. Derek caught her as she tumbled out.
“What the—”
“They have lasers up there.” Jill held her hand, lanced with a burn. “I touched it before I could see them.”
“Those bastards!” Not just one step, but three steps ahead.
