Plan 9- Official Movie Novelization

by Matthew Warner

  Jeff rummaged through the pantry. “We have any potato chips?”

  Incredulous, Paula looked from him to the eggs she was cooking. “Potato chips? With this?”

  Jeff laughed as he picked up his car keys and stepped into a pair of tennis shoes. “I’m gonna run down to Sammy’s and grab some goodies. Be back in twenty minutes.” He kissed her neck and headed for the door.

  She didn’t want him gone for even that long. She’d just gotten him back after two months and didn’t want him away for an instant.

  Stop it. You have him for a whole month this time. Relax.

  Jeff twirled the key ring around his finger. “Have I told you I love you yet?”

  “No.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t think I can’t hit you with these eggs from here.”

  They were both laughing as he disappeared through the door.

  ***

  For the second time that day, Jeff didn’t come home when promised. Twenty minutes stretched into thirty.

  Paula sighed and put her dirty plate and fork into the dishwasher. She returned to the bedroom. She considered detouring on the way to scoop up her copy of How to Save Your Marriage and again scolded herself for being insecure. Two months was a long time to be apart. It was going to take a few days to get used to being together again.

  She flopped down on the bed and buried her face in Jeff’s pillow. She could still smell him there.

  That’s when she heard somebody scream outside. A grown man’s voice.

  It wasn’t a scream of happiness, like when trick-or-treaters passed by earlier that evening. It didn’t sound happy at all.

  She got up and peeked through the slats of the venetian blinds.

  She had a prime view of Pinewood Gardens Cemetery. She’d always liked the place, with its mature pine and hickory trees. A century ago, folks used to eat their Sunday picnics out there, gathered around family graves on low stone benches. She treasured being close to her parents, and if it weren’t for one particular tree in the way, she would’ve been able to see their graves from here.

  The scream came again.

  It was dark, but not so dark that she didn’t see the person lurching along the graveyard path. She relaxed when she saw it wasn’t Jeff. Probably the old gravedigger, in his cups again. He limped and carried his shoulders at a strange angle.

  But that was it. She watched a moment longer and decided he wasn’t in distress. Maybe just really depressed. Paul Kelton used to get like that when he’d had four or five too many. He was a weepy, sloppy drunk whose insecurity issues made her own seem no more serious than split ends.

  Strange. Should she call the police anyway? This wasn’t normal.

  Paula withdrew from the window. She wrapped her silk robe tighter around herself and returned to bed.

  She’d be glad once Jeff came back home.

  Chapter 6

  JEFF

  It wasn’t until Jeff left their street that he worried he’d pissed off Paula by going to the grocery store. He looked in the rearview mirror in time to see the cemetery near the house disappear around the corner.

  The house. Not Paula’s house, not their house together. Just the house. He was still having trouble with married parts of speech like our and we.

  Was she pissed at him? It seemed she was, just for a moment there in the kitchen. During the last two months he’d been away, had he lost the ability to read her moods?

  I’ve been away too long.

  Still, he needed a breather, and that was why he left on this errand. Needed it more than potato chips, actually, and chips were just an excuse to get away.

  The truth was that he was still rattled by the near-miss with the meteor or whatever the hell it was. Death had never brushed so closely in his whole career. Danny hadn’t seemed phased by it, but Jeff knew it was a sign from On High. And he didn’t like what it told him about himself.

  Adrenaline dumps were no joke. After tossing his cookies on the runway and dealing with Officer Small-Town-Shit Kelton, he’d spent the next twenty minutes in the john, arms wrapped around himself, perspiring, teeth chattering. He worried he was losing his edge, that he wasn’t cut out for this anymore. But he also knew this type of reaction was normal. Police officers and soldiers who lived through gun fights experienced it all the time. If he and Kelton ever mended fences, perhaps he would ask him about it.

  Then there was Paula. God, he was happy to see her, and God, did he have a hard time immediately shifting gears into sex mode because of the near-death experience. But he still did it because she expected it and his mind wanted it. His spirit wanted it, too; he loved her passionately, and sometimes making love was the only way he knew to express it. He guessed that made him a typical male in some respects. Paula hadn’t seemed disappointed, but still. And then finally, as that car passed by, shining its headlights through the house, he’d suddenly felt a surge of energy and completed the act.

  Now, he just needed to feel in control again. Flying usually gave him that feeling—the hard clarity of a flight yoke in his hands. That wasn’t an option right now, so he would settle for his Jeep’s steering wheel.

  He passed two traffic accidents during the short trip to Sammy’s Grocery. Folks were probably partying a bit too hard on this Halloween night, it being the start of the weekend and all. The drivers stood around their wrecked cars—not an Officer Kelton in sight, of course—stumbling in a daze through fields of broken glass. He saw some blood on a woman’s face and hoped an ambulance arrived soon.

  Despite the detours, the trip to Sammy’s was over all too quickly.

  He was amused and not all surprised to find his first officer and the airport manager in the parking lot, sitting on a pickup truck’s tailgate. Between Danny and Mac sat the cardboard box for a Coors Light twelve-pack. They’d pretty much obliterated it, judging by the bottles strewn around them in the truck’s bed.

  Danny raised his hands as Jeff got out of his car. “The night can finally begin, for you have arrived!”

  “Hey there. I thought you two were headed to a bar.”

  Mac sprayed out a mouthful of beer like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “A bar? Jesus H. Motherfucking Criminy Christ on a graham cracker biscuit. A bar.” He knocked Danny with his elbow as if to say get a load of this guy.

  “What, too high-falutin’ for you?”

  “Exacta-munda-fuckin-mundo.”

  Danny scooted off the truck and stumbled a few steps. “What he’s trying to say, oh my liege, is that we’re observing what you would call a budget. Our financial planner is presently in her hotel, changing out of her pee-soaked panties.”

  Danny still hadn’t caught his balance, so Jeff steadied him with a hand on the shoulder. “I told you, don’t worry. We’ll get our money from Edith Holman. She’s just rattled right now. You didn’t exactly make things easy on her.”

  “Nay, nay, good sir. I treated her like the princess she was. A special flower of the fields.”

  Mac laughed so hard that he seemed in danger of vomiting. “A flower! A flower watered with…”

  He couldn’t finish his sentence. He settled for turning his grease-stained baseball cap from back to front.

  Jeff shook his head and continued into the store. He had to step around disorderly piles of propane tanks, shrubbery for sale, and lumber. Ole Sammy Morrison wasn’t exactly known for his regard for the Americans with Disabilities Act.

  “How was your victory romp?” Mac called from behind him.

  Jeff pretended not to hear him as he yanked open the store’s warped front door.

  Danny giggled. “I believe he is between rounds.”

  I sure hope so, Jeff thought as he went in.

  ***

  The inside of Sammy’s Grocery was as much of a mishmash as the outside. One step to the left, a rotating rack of paperbacks loomed over the visitor like a monster ready to pounce. The cover of every book was ripped off, and a handwritten sign priced them at t
wo dollars.

  A step to the right stood a Virginia Lottery kiosk, with its Scantron forms and pencils. Wooden crucifixes hung on the wall over it. Luck cost a dollar; redemption was fifty cents.

  Aisle One sold greeting cards, car parts, and toner cartridges. Aisle Two sold diapers, candles, and swimsuit calendars. And in the back, live bait and ice cream shared the same refrigerator.

  Wine, beer, raw hamburger, and condoms enjoyed an honored spot at the far end of the store, while at the other end, cookies, cigarettes, porno magazines, and Matchbox cars stood in formation by the cash register. From there, Sammy himself kept watch, his massive shoulders like two mountains.

  On the overhead speakers, Randy Travis finished crooning that he’d love you forever and ever, amen, and was followed by the theme song to Gilligan’s Island. Sammy often bragged about making his own mix tapes—“better’n the fuckin’ radio,” he said—but that didn’t stop him from sometimes cranking up the Boss Man Mike Show.

  Home sweet fucked-up-in-the-head home.

  Antifreeze jugs and bottled water lined the same top shelf on Aisle Three. It looked like Sammy was cruising for yet another shutdown by the Health Department.

  Jeff searched for potato chips. Didn’t really want them.

  I should’ve eaten those eggs.

  A man’s voice floated over the antifreeze from the next aisle: “Remakes are overdone in general. Ninety-nine percent of them all suck. I mean, who would want to remake this movie anyway?”

  Maybe he should buy Paula some flowers. God knew where Sammy kept them: next to the leftover Fourth of July sparklers? Beside the display of hand-painted chopsticks?

  “Let me tell you something, you spineless little fluff monkey. I have fallen. My current surroundings and present company prove that.”

  Jeff chuckled as he continued toward the alcohol in back. Just some asshole on a cell phone. He overheard conversations like this all the time in Atlanta.

  Now, where was the champagne? Paula would like that.

  “Okay, I’m sorry for calling you a monkey, Edith. You’re much prettier than that. But listen, it’s this face you’re banking your career on. Stop pissing it off.”

  Jeff stopped to listen. Edith? Movie? Wait a minute.

  He stepped around an endcap display of cigarette lighters and school supplies to look down Aisle Four. The cell phone talker was a man he’d never seen before. Big. Hawaiian-looking. He wore a cheap black suit, eyeglasses that covered half his face, and Elvis sideburns.

  “Yes, we might have a chance to become a phoenix, but that’ll never happen if your director keeps me on a thousand takes. Let’s put something in the can, and then see what needs to be redone on the dailies.”

  Director. Dailies. In the can. Could this be the guy Edith Holman had mentioned, the troublesome actor she was flying in to see?

  “Stop calling me that, Edith. My name is not Criswell. That’s just my role.”

  The big man’s jaw dropped in outrage as he listened to the person on the other end, Jeff’s erstwhile passenger.

  “Yes. My contract. Listen to me for a moment.”

  Edith wasn’t listening. In fact, Jeff could hear her shouting, her voice a tinny clang, and he was a good four feet away.

  The man playing Criswell on the remake of Grave Robbers From Outer Space glanced up to see Jeff watching. Embarrassed, Jeff turned away…but he kept listening. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Well then, fine. Maybe I should walk, and you can find another Criswell to carry your shit.” There was a pause. “What? Hello? Dammit.”

  Criswell jammed the phone into his pocket. He picked up the six-pack of Corona near his foot and stalked away. Jeff felt like suggesting he call Edith Holman back to demand she pay for her charter flight here. But that probably wouldn’t go over so well.

  He continued to the back. Champagne bottles were in the refrigerator next to soft drinks and frozen vegetables. A mother and daughter stood in his way, holding open the glass refrigerator door.

  “Just pick one, sweetie. Please.”

  Jeff was about to excuse himself and reach past them, but he froze when he noticed the mother was crying. He hung a couple paces back and took in the sight of her: Caucasian, dressed in a threadbare black-and-white dress, tattooed arms. Pretty. Long, red hair.

  The girl, aged six or seven, stood there almost invisibly next to her mother and gazed up into the drink cooler. Malnourished looking.

  They were probably typical Nilbogians, surviving on welfare.

  “I wanna go back to Daddy and Grandpa.”

  “Told you. Your daddy don’t want you there no more.”

  The girl pulled away from her mother’s hand.

  The mother grabbed a can of Red Bull before seizing the girl’s wrist. “Come on, Emily.”

  Their course took them directly into Jeff. The mother stopped short so they wouldn’t collide with him. She looked up in surprise.

  Jeff noted the cigarette burn on her lapel before backing out of the way. “Excuse me.”

  The mother stared a moment longer. Was that anger in her eyes? Desperation? She wiped away a tear and headed on to the cash register. Jeff watched them go, feeling a deep pity for the little girl. The mom called her Emily. He wanted to adopt Emily and take her home. Paula probably would’ve liked to hear him say so.

  I need to get back home. Pronto.

  Except there was a line at the cash register. The mother and daughter followed angry Criswell.

  Jeff saw how Sammy stood there, with his arms crossed and staring down at the movie actor, and he immediately knew he wasn’t getting out of here in the next couple minutes.

  Oh, Sammy. Not now. Please.

  The actor pounded a fist on the countertop, making the desktop bell ding softly. He pointed at the beer he’d placed beside the cash register. “Come on! I need something to fall asleep and try to forget I ever existed.”

  “I can’t sell alcohol this late. I’m sorry.”

  Jeff hid the champagne bottle behind his back. That rule was, of course, complete bullshit. But the movie star was an outsider, and his loud, fuck-you telephone conversation had obviously crossed the fabled Sammy Threshold Of Control.

  “You pompous fuck bucket!”

  Sammy narrowed his eyes. “I will shoot you.”

  The funny part was, Sammy wasn’t bluffing. He’d served more than a few stints of involuntary commitment at the mental hospital.

  Jeff had absolutely no idea how he stayed in business. That was especially true in light of the Sammy Threshold Of Control, or, as Danny called it, the S-TOC. Tick tock, tick tock. Who’s gonna blow up the S-TOC?

  In other words, Sammy Morrison was the self-appointed moral judge and guardian of Nilbog—or at least of those who darkened his door. Were you too fat? Then you could forget about buying those Twinkies. Did your car burn oil as it idled outside? Then you could forget about buying a quart here.

  Or maybe you were some shitwad actor, a volcano of anger. And worse, you looked like a foreigner.

  Criswell pointed a finger at him. “I’ll complain about you to the Better Business Bureau.”

  Sammy, in turn, pointed at the sign on the wall behind him.

  WE RESERVE THE RIGHT

  TO REFUSE SERVICE

  TO ANYONE

  FOR ANY REASON.

  —PROPRIETOR

  “Did you hire someone to write that, or did you punctuate it all by yourself?”

  It helped the proprietor that he was also a beefy person, a white mound of a man, with an unmovable presence all his own. Jeff believed Sammy could stand there all night if he had to, refusing service, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it.

  One corner of Sammy’s mouth curled upward. “Anything else I can get you that’s not alcohol?”

  “A gun or twenty years of my life back.”

  Defusing hostile situations was a skill Jeff learned long ago as an airline captain. He didn’t have to call on it much anymore, now th
at cockpit doors were sealed, but he thought he might be of some help here.

  “Hey, buddy,” he began. “Sammy’s just trying to—”

  “And who the hell are you, the redneck ambassador? I didn’t know they grew those in Virginia.”

  The little girl, Emily, suddenly doubled over like she was about to throw up.

  Her mother tried to hold her. “What is it?”

  “They’re coming. They’re coming right now.”

  Criswell turned on her. “Who’s coming? You didn’t call the cops on me, did you? Jesus Christ, just one time I’d like to—”

  His words caught in his throat as a blue wave of light surged through the room. It knocked the power out. The little girl screamed as the store plunged into darkness.

  ***

  The blue light moved through Jeff’s body, affecting him like a bolt of electricity. It felt stronger than before, speeding up his heart. Since he wasn’t in bed this time, he knew it wasn’t a surge of sexual energy. It was just…

  Energy.

  His hair stood up on his skin. The strength left his legs, and he fell to his knees. Sparks of static electricity crinkled in his flannel shirt as he managed to put the champagne bottle down without breaking it.

  The store lights came back on a second later. Instead of resuming Sammy’s mix tape, the stereo on the shelf coughed into radio mode. The Boss Man Mike was in mid-sentence: “. . . has gotten some folks in a craze this night, and it’s best to leave them alone. So head back home, and lock your doors. I spoke to our local heroes in the police department, and—”

  A crash of static interrupted the broadcast and stayed there. The Boss Man was off the air.

  From behind the cash register, Sammy reached up to switch the radio off. He looked wide-eyed at his customers arrayed around him. Jeff remained crouched on the floor. The movie actor and the mother and daughter all clung to shelves and countertops like they were the railings of sinking ships.

  The door to a back storage room opened, and Sammy’s business partner, Toby, came running out. Toby Harlan swept a hand through his long, curly hair before tearing off his apron. “What did you do this time, Sammy?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do? Nothin’!”