B-Movie Reels

by Alan Spencer

  Andy pushed through to the living room, where he saw the film screen. On it was a room of demons in a castle. Each hideous figure was six-armed, blue-skinned and massive in size. They were giants with deer horns and long scraggly black hair over their heads and down their backs. Their elongated faces were those of werewolves. The eight demons surrounded a pit of dismembered bodies, speaking in grunts and pounding their fists against the ground like apes. Soon, the creatures lunged into the pit and feasted on the corpses, the sounds of their feasting driving Andy to keep fighting.

  But then he was surrounded by everything in the room, the locusts tearing into his neck and back with dozens of punctures. Termites worked at his legs, tearing pin-prick sized wounds. He fought against the assault to reach the projector. He would not give up. Then an axe was driven into his shoulder from behind, blinding him with white-hot pain.

  Andy dropped to the ground, helpless.

  Every creature in the house was upon him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1

  Ned swatted at the locusts that latched onto him, retreating to the kitchen as he screeched in agony. He stared at the flesh along his arms. The skin was shredded and slick with blood. It was too late to save his life; he’d be dead in moments. Then several hands latched onto his head through a kitchen window and yanked him forward. Ned bit into the hands until they released their clutches. Clumps of his hair were wrenched from the scalp in the process.

  The flashes of green in the room were a strobe light, stealing his attention. The clash of voices and the swarming of insects were disorienting.

  You have to destroy the house.

  There’s not a chance you’ll make it to the living room.

  Let the projector burn!

  He gasped as many of the straight-jacketed and armed elderly approached him. He acted on an impulse, dropping his rifle and dragging the oven from it slot against the wall. He then picked up the rifle and aimed at the gas line. The blade of a chainsaw came into his line of vision and missed his throat by a fraction of an inch. Then an old man in a robe emptied a 9mm into his chest.

  Falling back off his feet from the shot, Ned squeezed the rifle’s trigger on his way down, dead.

  2

  A great ball of fire erupted from the kitchen. It kicked up dozens of bodies that were engulfed in blue flames, literally thrown up in the air, and when landing, were left smoldering piles. The termites and locusts bumbled into each other confused by the sudden flames, cut down mid-flight.

  Andy fought to get closer to the projector and caught sight of the dead corpse standing guard. It turned to Andy when the projection screen caught fire. The dead man’s hands were already choking him, it moved so fast. Its teeth clamped down on the wound where the axe had been driven, reaping strings of pink flesh into its rotten black teeth. He smelled of soil and the fetid scent of decaying flesh.

  Andy head-butted the zombie and sent it reeling to the ground, not knowing what else to do. He collected enough momentum to take four steps. He gripped the film projector, yanked the plug from the wall, and flung it onto the ground, smashing, stamping, and pounding it into many pieces.

  He gasped when every figure in the room vanished.

  Then the roaring fire replaced his concerns.

  He collapsed, too weak to escape. The blood loss and physical exertion caught up with him. Heat and smoke billowed and blinded every exit. Rafters from upstairs collapsed, the house on the verge of becoming a deathtrap. He couldn’t breathe, choked by the smoke.

  Helpless, he closed his eyes.

  3

  Something picked him up, carrying him up over the flames. “Hold on, Andy. I’ll save you.”

  Soot blinded his eyes. He thought it was Ned, but by the way he’d been attacked, there was no way the man could still be alive. Perhaps help had finally arrived, albeit too late, he thought with a twinge of bitterness.

  The whir of a fire truck’s siren blared from a mile away. He still wondered who was carrying him from the house. “Who…who are you?”

  The figure didn’t reply.

  Outside, the air struck him with relief. It was cold and clean. The person carrying him placed him in the grass carefully. Andy was able to open his eyes and could finally see. He reeled at Ned’s face, although it was blackened and ravaged by fire, his skin puckering and melting.

  “Andy,” Ned began, “you can’t tell anyone about what happened tonight. The truth, I mean. No one will believe you. You’ve destroyed the spirits’ access into this world. The authorities are coming, but you must explain that you know nothing about how these people died. There’s nothing you can do for anybody. What’s been done has been done.”

  “How did you save me? You’re falling apart!”

  “I’m not Ned,” he said, the burned face smiling. “It’s Uncle James. I’ve crossed over to save you. I wish you well, Andy. I’m very sorry for everything that’s happened because of me. Regardless of everything that’s occurred, this must remain our secret. I hope you understand.”

  After hearing those words, Andy passed out from exhaustion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  1

  Redding and Garrison watched side-by-side as the firefighters worked to put out the fire. Crews ducked into the danger zone in full gear, scavenging for any inhabitants inside. The fire truck was parked at the edge of the yard, the sirens flashing blue and red. A local hydrant was stationed near a power line down the dirt road, and the crews doused the house. Flames billowed from every window and door. The roof suddenly caved in with a dull crash. Black smoke plumed in a massive cloud and choked the air. The crew scrambled to prevent trees from catching fire. After forty-five minutes of frantic work, the blaze tapered.

  The ambulance carted off the dead body of Ned Ryerson and the only survivor in the entire town of Anderson Mills, Andy Ryerson. Police milled about the scene posting crime tape and combing for evidence. More were on patrol cleaning up the residential area closer to town. Hundreds of bodies had been discovered, many more had yet to be located, and Redding watched in astonishment and shock as the night’s bizarre patrol was coming to an end.

  Many disturbing things had happened tonight. First, the victims in Walter Smalls’ mechanic shop. Deputy Stafford’s body was scattered in hundreds of melting pieces on the floor. The dock at Silver Lake was stacked with nineteen bodies with ravaged necks and drained of blood. The worst of it was the residential area. The houses were broken into, every window smashed, the doors riddled with holes, and many victims torn to pieces—if not eviscerated and disemboweled as well. Redding combed the houses for fingerprints, shoe tracks, gunpowder resin, or hairs, and he came up with nothing.

  “If it weren’t for every bridge and road access into Anderson Mills being frozen over,” Garrison lamented, “we’d know what caused this shit. And the fog, it was so thick we couldn’t land choppers or ground troops. The phone lines were down too. This was a planned attack. Terrorists, you think?”

  “No terrorist could do this,” Redding scoffed. “Those bodies were torn into pieces, and there’s no sign of weapons of mass destruction being used. That’s what confuses me so much. Many of them were ravaged, simply mutilated. Terrorists would’ve blown up an important building and left a message, but this is a Podunk town that nobody gives a shit about. No terrorist would waste their time here. All it would do is slow people down from fishing for a few days.”

  “Then it has to be something else,” Garrison argued. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “And neither do the roads being frozen over in the summer or there being a fog so thick you can’t see anything at all.” Redding rubbed his eyes, exhausted. “That butcher’s body was the key. It didn’t have the proper organs or functions of a living man. And remember what happened at the cemetery? The caretaker was found eviscerated and partially eaten and bodies were missing from their caskets. I can’t believe this shit. It doesn’t add up. So far, we have no explanation as to why this really happened. There’s
no trace of the attackers…just the victims. Maybe a cult thing, who knows? And the bridge suddenly melting, I’m still shivering from being wet.”

  “The air’s back to normal, though. I’m damp, but I’m not freezing my nuts off. I guess the only witness will have to catalog the night’s events for us.”

  “Yeah, we’ll talk to Andy when he finally wakes up.”

  “He was messed up pretty good. Let’s pray he survives.”

  2

  Andy reached for the pitcher of water on the cart next to the hospital bed and poured himself another glass. He placed the cup to his chapped lips and relished the feel of ice on his tongue. He’d been cooped up in the ICU for five days—most of which he was unconscious or blinking in and out of wakefulness—and then yesterday, Dr. Higgins gave the approval for him to be bumped up to the recovery unit on the fifth floor to a room by himself. The television played a morning show, Mike and Maddy’s Morning Brew. He ignored it. He barely kept his eyes open thanks to the morphine drip. The corner air-conditioner droned and spat cool air. The drugs and the mechanical whir were an invitation to fall asleep again, but a visitor convinced him otherwise. Hank Ryerson, his father, was half-asleep in the chair next to his bed.

  Hank, a short burly man at two-hundred and thirty pounds, stirred after Andy yawned. His morning newspaper crinkled to the floor, and the man placed his glasses in his overalls front pocket. “Ah, you’re awake, buddy. How do you feel?”

  “I’m on morphine. If I’m doing bad, I’d have no clue.”

  “That’s my boy. You sound better. You’ve barely made sense the few times I’ve talked to you lately. Every time you could understand me when you weren’t asleep, you’d nod off mid-sentence. Oh, your momma’s at Aunt Shirley’s in Scranton. She stayed the night. The doctors let me stay. I wanted to make sure those bastards are giving you drugs when you need them. Our insurance is paying for it, so you’re getting only the best.”

  Hank ambled to the bathroom, splashed cold water into his face, and used a paper towel to dry off. He stood next to the bed with a vexed expression on his face. “You’ve been through a lot, Andy. I thank God you’re alive. You’re all bandaged up like a mummy, though.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Andy observed his arms. They were embedded in gauze. His shoulder was sheltered by a cast. That’s when he remembered the axe being driven into his collarbone. The spark of the memory spurned a painful heat in his chest. He drank another mouthful of water and closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah, I’m a mess. It’ll be a while before I’m back to normal.”

  Hank’s bushy eyebrows flattened, and his eyes honed in on him. “Who did this to you? You’re safe now, Andy. No one can hurt you. I’ll protect you, and the police are very interested in what you have to tell them. Tell me what you remember. I want the truth before the newspapers embellish everything. I’ve already had a few assholes stick microphones in my face and ask me my life story, and yours.”

  You can’t tell anyone about this.

  No one will believe you.

  Ned’s crispy black face spoke that night, but the words were from Uncle James. It was a warning not to tell anybody the truth. Even if he wasn’t afraid of telling the truth, nobody would believe him—as Uncle James predicted—and on top of that, he didn’t understand it himself completely. Uncle James and his magic were somehow linked with spirits escaping into their world and taking over objects, namely James’s magic props, and later, the film projector. Death and ghosts were a concept he refused to delve into and study. He was alive, and nobody else would have to die. Why not leave it at that, he thought.

  As his dad’s stare burned into him, he knew the police, the community, the media and his own family wouldn’t quit bothering him until a feasible explanation was served up.

  When in doubt, Andy decided, it was best to play dumb.

  “I can’t say what happened, Dad.” His throat was still sore from the yelling and screaming he’d done that horrible night. “A fire broke out while I was watching one of Professor Maxwell’s movies, and then I wake up in the yard next to Ned’s body.”

  The mention of Ned was enough for Hank. “So you don’t know what happened? You’re as clueless as the police?”

  “What do you know so far?” Andy asked, curious to hear if there were any other survivors from Anderson Mills. “Did Mary-Sue Jennings survive? She visited me a few times before the incident.”

  Hank turned his eyes down. “No, I’m sorry. She was found dead. Nobody in Anderson Mills is alive. You’re the only survivor.”

  He already suspected the truth, but to hear it from someone else was astonishing. “Everybody’s dead?”

  Hank rested in the chair beside the bed. “I’ll give it to you straight. You’re with it enough, and since your mother’s gone at the moment, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. A crime scene investigator, Kyle Redding, gave me confidential information in exchange for letting him talk to you later alone. I said yes if it was just him. He seems to be after the truth more than anything, and he’s frustrated. The man explained houses in the residential area were wrecked, shot full of holes, everyone dragged into the streets. He said it was quite gruesome what happened.”

  He clutched Andy’s hand. “Thank God you’ve only suffered this much. Many got it much worse.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a straight-shooter, son. A lot of people were,” he cleared his throat, “mutilated. He painted a bleak picture like human limbs in trees and bodies strewn upon rooftops. It was the work of many madmen. That’s all he explained to me. They have no leads as to who or what group of individuals could accomplish such a thing and why.”

  Andy swallowed hard. Nobody would understand what happened that night, and even if they did piece it together, how could anyone accept it as the truth? “Did they find anything other than people?”

  Hank’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, still playing dumb. “I mean, did anyone find weapons or anything strange like evidence of foul play besides the damage you already told me about?”

  “He didn’t say so. Are you sure you didn’t encounter anything funny? Maybe it’s still fuzzy. You’ve been in a drugged state-of-mind for the whole week. My God, Dr. Higgins told me someone stabbed you with an axe.” He pointed at his shoulder. “They’re going to replace the broken collarbone with aluminum. You can’t say what did that to you?”

  Andy turned to his shoulder. Both his parents had signed the shoulder cast. Dorks, he thought with a soft laugh.

  “I blacked out. I woke up in the lawn and wished I was dead. The pain was terrible, and seeing Uncle Ned burned, it was too much.”

  Hank petted Andy’s hair. “Do you feel up to talking to Kyle Redding later? If not, I’ll tell him to scram.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  I won’t be able to tell him much of anything.

  Nothing near the truth.

  Epilogue

  During the last year, he’d moved back in with his parents to recuperate. His collarbone was intact where the axe had severed it. A pink scar—a mean looking one—traveled down six inches along his deltoid and over to his chest. His skin had healed after two skin graft surgeries; the final product resembled severely acne-scarred skin. For now, he took on various film jobs. One involved a Kentucky Fried Chicken commercial, and the other, he captured a Civil War reenactment for a History Channel premiere. They paid so generously that he was saving up money to move into an apartment, but his folks weren’t in any hurry. They clung tightly to their son, who survived “The Anderson Mills Massacre” as the Lawrence Gazette labeled it. The Green County investigators were made fools of in the papers because a viable explanation or a list of suspects weren’t produced. Hundreds were dead, and the investigation was ice cold.

  Speculation was hurled from every news show—local and national—from government testing on nuclear weapons to a band of killers rampaging through town and causing devastation. That didn’t make sense because nothing in town
was stolen, and those that were killed were done in a fashion that no human being could accomplish. It also didn’t explain the way the creeks and Silver Lake flooded and the fact the bridges and every access to Anderson Mills was frozen over and impassable—never mind the fog that prevented choppers from touching down and saving lives. Indictments were pressed against lead investigators and detectives since no results were being produced.

  News programs begged interviews with him, but he declined. His parents had to move from their hometown to a new location to avoid the rogue paparazzi who swung into windows and wire-tapped their house. The issue declined after many months of unanswered questions and the fact nobody had secured an interview with him.

  Andy Ryerson finally returned to being a nobody again.

  Today, though, was a special day. Professor Maxwell’s office hadn’t changed since the last time he had visited a year ago to take the steel bin of film reels to Anderson Mills. He knocked on the door in the basement wing of the film school at Iowa University labeled Professor Maxwell—Film Department Director. An invitation arrived in his mailbox from the professor to visit today. A special event was taking place on campus, and he wanted Andy to attend.

  He knocked on the professor’s door. A jovial faced middle-sixties man in a gray wool sweater and black khakis pants met him. His hair had turned a lighter shade of gray since he last talked with him. Two movie posters adorned his wall: Citizen Kane and The Abominable Dr. Phibes. “Andy, how’ve you been? I hear you’ve been keeping busy with film jobs. Way to persevere. Nobody passes my class without the entrepreneurial spirit.”

  The professor shook his hand vigorously, kindly pretending not to notice the scarring along Andy’s face, neck and hands.