Changing the Script

by Lee Winter

  “Oh my God! It’s…it’s internal bleeding!” Alex cried out. Isn’t that what they say on TV? “What is the damned emergency number around here? Or the number for the cops—they’ll know what to do.”

  “I wouldn’t bother trying the police.” The woman dragged herself unsteadily to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand. “They’re not working today.” Gingerly, she tested her weight on her leg and grimaced.

  “What?” Alex looked up. Lord. She was so tall. Maybe five-ten or eleven? Strong shoulders, straight posture, almost a military bearing, and she didn’t seem to be carrying an ounce of excess weight.

  The woman took off her helmet and ran a hand through her collar-length dark-blonde hair. The sleek cut suited her chiseled face and its strong jaw and high cheekbones. She was about Alex’s age, in her late thirties. Drawing her sunglasses up to sit on the top of her head revealed probing blue eyes. That intense gaze stared right into Alex, then stared some more, as though deconstructing her at the cellular level.

  Alex couldn’t decide exactly how intimidated to be.

  The woman staggered forward with another pained wince.

  Alex rushed over to put a steadying arm around her waist. “Hey, let me help. And why aren’t the cops on duty?”

  “The closest station is shut today.” She gave Alex an impatient look and elbowed her hand away. “Don’t touch. I’m all right. I just need a second to catch my breath.”

  “You were in an accident. You vomited!”

  “And?” She drew in a deeper breath and rubbed the side of her thigh. After a moment, she looked a little stronger. Okay, maybe she really was “all right,” if her definition was merely being vertical.

  “Vomiting’s a bad sign,” Alex persisted.

  “My stomach just cramped and I drank too much water at my last break. That’s all. You watch too much TV.”

  True. Her guilty pleasure was Summer and Bess’s former hospital drama, Choosing Hope. Addictively bad, it definitely shouldn’t be forming the basis of Alex’s medical conclusions. She cast around for a topic change. “It’s terrible your local police station’s shut.”

  “Is it?”

  “Of course!” Was this woman nuts? “How incompetent is this place?”

  “Let me guess, there are 24-7 police stations where you’re from?” The woman cocked an eyebrow.

  “Well, of course.” Did she think criminals took the day off because the police weren’t around?

  “Lucky you, having all your whims fully catered to.”

  Whims? Alex scowled. “Being safe from criminals is hardly a whim.”

  “I guess it depends on the crimes.” The woman placed her helmet on the ground and dusted down her leather pants.

  “If there are no cops, shall I call an ambulance?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  Alex glanced back to the road, her gaze coming to rest on the downed bike. “Will that be okay, too?”

  “I don’t know.” Agitation crossed her face. She walked carefully back to her bike, this time without the unsteadiness of earlier, and studied the damage. Annoyance replaced the fear in her expression as she lifted it gently upright and wheeled it back to the side of the road. “Do you know how long I saved up to buy this?” She shook her head. “Three years. This is a Triumph Tiger XCX. It’s my…” She stopped, and her face closed over. “It’s important to me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Alex said again. “Truly.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “I can’t help it. Apologizing is an English pastime.” She offered a grin but was met with an even stare. Alex’s gaze flicked over the bike. Nothing seemed to be hanging off it, and the wheels didn’t seem wonky as far as she could tell, but the scrapes and chips in that sleek black paint were an eyesore. “I’ll pay, of course. For repairs. I mean, I should have looked before reversing across your path.”

  “Damn straight you’re paying.” The woman’s fingers shifted restlessly over the machine, cataloguing its flaws, pausing over each scratch and dent. “I’d say you’re very lucky the police station’s shut today. You’re a textbook case of dangerous and reckless driving. That could mean a fine of thousands or up to three months jail.”

  The hell? “How was I to know a tiny side road in the middle of nowhere would have motorcycles spitting out of a hole like some Bat Cave!”

  “Ignorance is no excuse.” The woman walked around to the front of Alex’s car and studied the license plate. “A rental. So who are you and where do I send the bill… Ms…?”

  “Alex Levitin.” Alex pulled out her ID to prove it.

  The woman peered at it, as though memorizing the details, then nodded.

  “And you are?”

  She cocked her head. “Sam Keegan.”

  “Okay, Sam Keegan, you can send the bill or the insurance details to my film set. It’s a bunch of trailers—what you’d call luxury caravans—parked on location at a farm, near…” She dragged her paperwork out of her pocket and had a stab at the name, Ika Whenu. “Ike-a When-oo.”

  “It’s pronounced Icka Fenoo.” Sam squinted at her. “It’s disrespectful if you can’t even get the name right. Locals won’t be kind if you screw that up.”

  Alex gritted her teeth. Lovely. “Do you need the full address for the set?”

  “No, I know where it is. Everyone does. You movie people aren’t exactly subtle. And a lot of locals are starstruck that Hollywood has landed.” Her tone dripped with disdain.

  “Not you? What have you got against movies?”

  “Nothing, usually. But this one? What could I possibly have against an exploitative flick that puts our local women in costumes that make them look cheap and feel embarrassed, and has some of our less evolved young males calling them degrading names? I have seen more pub fights start in the past three months over that demeaning movie than all other topics put together.”

  Oh crap. Alex squared her jaw. “Sounds like they’re spending a bundle around town. Can’t be all bad.”

  “Money isn’t everything, though. Although I’m sure the entitled bastard running this show thinks it is. Would explain a lot.”

  Right. So…now was probably not the time mention the she was the entitled bastard running Shezan. “Look, can you just tell me where the set is from here? That’s why I was pulling over—to check my map. I got so turned around. I’ve been trying to get there for ages.”

  “How long have you been trying?” Sam walked stiffly over to Alex’s rental and cupped her hands against the glass, looking inside.

  “Two hours. Or maybe, um, three.”

  Sam turned back to her with an incredulous look. “That’s ridiculous. It’s only a ninety-minute trip from the airport all the way to your set. And you have a GPS in there.” She tapped the car window. “Come on”—she eyed her suspiciously—“no one’s that navigationally challenged.”

  No kidding. “Yeah, well, I’m apparently the exception to that rule. See, I was aiming to get to Mangatarata first, which I know is a forest from all the green splotches on the map, and from there find the road to Ika Whenu. But I’m following all the local signs yet keep ending up here.”

  “Tourists.” Sam barked out a laugh.

  Alex glared and waited.

  “You want to get to Mangatarata. But you’ve probably been going left at the sign to Maramarua. They’re not the same names. So, at the next T-intersection, go right at the sign, not left. Left is one long loop road.”

  Some eye for detail she had. “The names are a mouthful,” Alex tried. “Thanks. I’d be stuck here in the middle of nowhere forever if you hadn’t come along.”

  The other woman’s expression turned wintry. “You know, ‘middle of nowhere’ is still someone’s home. Like mine, for instance.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Sure y
ou didn’t. We’re not living in Middle Earth out here. If that’s what you want to see, do the Hobbiton tour at Matamata. Yes, another M-A-name. However will you find it?” Her lips tugged up at her own joke. Sam’s hand suddenly reached for her hip as she winced.

  “You are hurt! Let me drive you to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing. I’m more worried about Tiger.”

  Alex frowned. “Who?”

  “My bike.” She picked her helmet up from the ground, slid onto the motorcycle’s seat, and settled.

  “Oh. Of course. There are no tigers anywhere here. I knew that, obviously. You’d need CGI if you wanted them.” Oh shit. I’m rambling.

  Sam slid her helmet back on. “Good luck with your movie.” She did up her chin strap. “A word of warning? That Variety story’s all anyone’s talking about. And to save you asking, yes, we do get the internet out here, too.”

  That didn’t bode well.

  “Apparently your film is ‘toxic sludge.’” Sam eyed her curiously. “You must really want the money. Is it worth it?”

  Alex shot her a lethal stare, the one that made extras squeak and drop things. “Maybe I happen to think it can be turned into something good. You know, if the right people were committed to it.”

  “Committed’s the word, all right.” Sam laughed. “Actually, I bet it’ll be as good as your driving.”

  “For the last time, that was a damned accident!” Alex shoved her hands onto her hips.

  “Much like your film.” Sam turned the ignition on her bike. After a sick sputter or two, it turned over. When she gave it a testing rev, it didn’t sound half bad for what it had been through. It was clear by Sam’s expression she thought the same. “I’d probably respect you if you turned around right now and headed back to the airport instead of working on that steaming pile of pekapeka droppings. That’s a bat, by the way,” she added in an over-bright, helpful tone. “For people who don’t care about learning local names.”

  Right, that was it. “I’m sorry you and your bike got hurt, but you can just…get nicked now!” Alex inhaled in fury.

  Sam choked out a laugh. “You know, that’s the only thing you’ve said so far that I completely agree with.” She sized Alex up, slid her sunglasses back on, then smirked. “You look so outraged. Look, tell your boss to look out for my bill. I’m sure he’ll love that—how long have you been in New Zealand? Quite a record laying out a local in three seconds.” She revved the bike again, waved like the fucking Queen, and roared away.

  Alex was left, quite literally, eating dust.

  She wished she could be completely consumed with rage. That would be so much easier if she wasn’t transfixed by the sight of Batgirl flying up the road. Sexy as hell.

  She scowled.

  CHAPTER 3

  Setting the Scene(ry)

  Shezan’s Executive Producer Quincy Blackman greeted Alex like a long-lost relative. He was at least fifty, and his disappearing hairline and expanding waistline had seen better days. His ruddy skin was beaten and crinkled from sun exposure, although she doubted he got much of that around here. She caught the look of desperation in Quincy’s eye as he gave her a greeting hug. Yep, he was definitely going stir crazy out here.

  The set was a short but muddy trek from the car park, past an enormous Maori security guard.

  “The first director, Mitchell Finch, was here ten weeks before he took off over script issues,” Quincy said. “The second, Bud Mackay, lasted a month and then slunk off in the middle of the night before sending me a good-bye email from his stopover in Denpasar. That was fun to wake up to. Hope the last-minute flight fees fucked him over.” He shook his head. “And here we are.”

  A dozen trailers for crew, cast, and production facilities were parked on the farmer’s property, only a few miles from the magnificent Wairere Falls, their film’s main backdrop. She’d looked up the falls while she’d been waiting to board her flight; if nothing else, their scenery would be breathtaking.

  “We have the influence of both former directors on our three current permanent sets—the poacher’s tent, Amazons’ base, and Shezan’s tree hut. When Mitch was in charge, he insisted on the hero’s set being built right next to Wairere Falls, which makes dealing with straying tourists and the elements tricky. Not to mention the twenty-minute hike to get there with all our lighting gear, which involves wading through mud on bad-weather days. Don’t start me on how often it rains down here. We’ve had to invest in a ton of wet-weather gear and umbrellas.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Alex peered at him. “You haven’t built a duplicate set on a nice, dry sound stage in Auckland to shoot our close-ups in a controlled environment?”

  He shrugged. “Well, we have the editing team already set up in Auckland, but Mitch was adamant about needing realism for shooting his art.”

  “I’m all for the natural look, but how did he keep down the wildlife sounds? The noise of the waterfall and drizzling rain? Not to mention the issue of shooting drenched actresses, which makes Wardrobe and the talent miserable?”

  “Yes, well, we didn’t really solve those issues before Mitch or Bud left. Anyway, I’ll take you to our more distant sets tomorrow. It’s too late today. Gets dark early out here.”

  She nodded and glanced around. The grass paddocks the production team had taken over had obviously once been used for farm animals of some sort, if all the manure she kept dodging was any indication.

  “Sorry no one was able to meet you at the airport,” Quincy was saying as he led her to a giant tent in the middle of a paddock. “I was interviewing some locals. And the production assistants are out, buying up all the plywood. Don’t ask. Let’s just say, one gale and our wildlife ranger’s office set ended up halfway to Hawaii. So I couldn’t spare a driver.”

  “That’s a shame. I had a run-in with a biker on the way here.” The fiery flash of a certain blond’s eyes darted into her brain. “My fault. Car meets motorcycle.”

  Quincy stopped dead. “Tell me you didn’t kill a local in your first hour in New Zealand?”

  “Not kill. She’s still breathing…and riding. She knows where I work and said she’d send my boss her bill. So look out for it, okay?”

  “How bad was it?” He sounded worried.

  “Bike and rider got a scraping and she only just avoided hitting me. She had to lay her bike down to prevent impact. I promised we’d pay all her damages. I tried repeatedly to get her on-scene medical attention. She wasn’t interested.”

  “I…see.” He gave a weary sigh. “So before my third director even sets foot on location, it’s already a shit-show. Lord, I am being punished.”

  “Won’t insurance cover everything?”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll make this all go away. You just focus on finishing this god-awful movie so I can go home to dry ground and sunshine and have a nervous breakdown in peace.”

  “Was that your welcoming motivational speech?

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re really bad at them,” Alex said dryly.

  Quincy snorted in amusement.

  They reached a tent with rigging along one side. The rustic construct was done up to look like it’d been made from leather. Not bad. Solid. A little too shiny, though.

  “Poacher’s tent,” Quincy said. “Come in. Set Design and Props have just finished with it. They’re quite proud of it.”

  Alex gave it a critical eye. “How long has the poacher been living here?”

  “Six months or so. Maybe a little longer.”

  “Seems a long time for a poacher, or any kind of hunter. He’s killing, moving on.”

  “Love makes people do illogical things?” Quincy suggested with a rueful look. “Hell if I know. I didn’t write the script.”

  Right. “So, six months then… Might want to scuff it up a bit more. Especially the tent pegs and
flap. They should have mud and dust on them.”

  “Mmm.” Quincy called over a young woman who’d been trailing them. “Your production assistant. Give her any notes. Alex, meet Alice.” He laughed. “Ah hell, that won’t ever get confusing.”

  “Hi,” Alex said and regarded the diminutive woman. She was like a tiny blonde mouse in sneakers. Only shorter. “We’ve met, I think.”

  “Yeah,” she nodded. “On one of your earlier films? Tarnished Sunshine. It’s an honor to work with you again, Ms Levitin.”

  “Thanks. You, too. Call me Alex.”

  “Right.” Quincy gave them an impatient look, ushering them into the tent. “Shall we?”

  Stepping inside, Alex slowly turned her head, taking it all in. A neutral blue palette had been used. Rifles leaned against packing boxes. She stepped around an old brown leather chair in front of the tent flap which faced some strung-up photos from hunts. A pair of small beds sat on opposite sides of the tent; one for the poacher, one for his nineteen-year-old daughter. A faded privacy partition was next to her bed.

  “Well?” Quincy gave her a hopeful look.

  “No.” She inhaled. “Look, the color? It should be deep red or brown. Power. Blood. He lives on it. That chair? Shouldn’t be facing that way. He’s a hunter. It’s innate for him, never having his back to an entrance where he could be pounced on. And those photos? Don’t start me.”

  She pointed to one picture of the actor who played the poacher with his arm around a bright-eyed blonde woman. They wore affectionate smiles.

  “Definitely not,” Alex said. “He’s all about trophies. He’s dragged his reluctant daughter along to watch him slaughter animals so he feels powerful. You’ve read the script; you know the way he talks to her. She’s his trophy, too. Any photo of her would be him in a dominant position, and her subordinate.”

  Alice scribbled furiously.

  Quincy regarded her thoughtfully. “Anything else?”

  “The obvious is tent size. How do you plan to get three actors, two camera guys, one hair, one make-up person, a boom op, a dolly grip, and me in one room? Why isn’t one wall detachable so we can get crane cameras in and so on? Isn’t that standard?”