Yep, this shit is getting old.
William Wood lives with his wife and children in the mountains of Virginia in an old farmhouse turned backwards to the road. His work has appeared, or is scheduled to appear soon, in titles from M-Brane SF/Hadley Rille Books, Sword and Saga Press, Library of the Living Dead, Black Matrix Publishing, Severed Press, Northern Frights Publishing, and Pill Hill Press, among others. He sometimes sleeps instead of writing.
under as undead numbers grow *EWZN* Killer whale seen walking
Childish ThingsReported By William Wood
Hello, America. This is Mason Grimes and I’m coming to you live from behind the scenes, and on the set of the number-one-rated, live-action kid’s show on television today. Where exactly am I? Yes, you guessed it! I’m backstage at Orky the Orca’s Undersea Playground …number one? Yeah, right…pause for music…a little canned applause and that screeching whale noise…pan the camera to show Orky…
Like a dumbass I tried to swing the handheld digicam around to show my face, the face of the friendliest damned killer whale in the sea. The camera picked that moment to slip from my grip and land with a crack on the tile floor.
“Crap.”
The lighting in the room was poor, but a glint from a few yards away caught my eye. The large flat screen displayed the muted feed from the network. Some reporter, haggard and terrified, was talking and pointing toward a set of burning houses. People in the background lurched left and right, obviously stunned by whatever had happened. I couldn’t read the captions on the screen through the suit, but I recognized the reporter as one of the network talking heads. I couldn’t tell where he was exactly. He got to fly all over the country, sometimes even internationally, so he could be in Topeka or Thailand.
That should be me, I almost said aloud. Instead, here I am with a busted digicam and stuck in a goddamned whale suit.
I turned away from the monitor and stared at where the camera rested on the floor. The white mesh that made up a good portion of the front panel of the top-heavy Orky costume was sheer enough that I could see through, even if the window was only twelve-by-twelve-inches square. From outside though, especially beneath the stage lights of the studio, the window was a perfectly camouflaged section of Orky’s huge white belly.
I waddled toward the fallen camera, trying to bend at the knees and lean forward. The costume’s tailfin split at the base in a Velcro seam that allowed me to walk in short strides when open. The seam was sealed while we actually shot the show, which made it impossible to walk except short hops and baby steps needed for the dance portion of the show. This helped maintain the illusion for the kiddies. Nothing creepier than a foam and fabric killer whale that walked around on human legs.
I couldn’t bend, so I tried to kneel. As I did, the weight of the head above me began shifting forward. The upper portion of the suit was supported on a frame of wire and plastic struts, all lightweight materials, but still awkward as hell. I felt the weight tugging forward, threatening to topple me, so I backpedaled to regain my balance. All I needed was to fall and have Brad and Heather return and find me flopping on the floor like some pathetic, live-action Charlie the Tuna from those old commercials.
Yeah. I could just hear Brad—Mister Perfect-Hair-and-Brand-New-Nose—and his squeaky laugh when they got back. Hey, look, Heather! Look at the beached whale!
Heather was a hottie. Not the silicone, Botox type, either. She was thin and athletic with short, brown hair, and a beautiful smile. She’d always been nice to me. I’d never heard her say a harsh word to anyone, but she was far from innocent. I hated the thought of what she and Brad were really doing out back, and I was sure it wasn’t having a smoke. Hell, Brad even had a family. Why couldn’t he leave the cute girls alone so a guy like me could at least have a shot? What an asshole.
I slid my hands through the flaps sewn into the costume’s flippers. The cool air against my skin sure felt good.
What was taking them so damned long? But I knew.
I should have taken the hint when Brad tried to convince me that he and Heather didn’t need me for the unscheduled, night-time rehearsal. Brad did Orky’s voice and Heather was Orky’s bikini-clad human friend with the magic belt that helped her breathe underwater. Lame pretext for a show, but children have a remarkable capacity for accepting the absurd if there are music and games…and at least one poor sap in a huge, clumsy suit.
But no, I’d been stupid. I’d shown up and they’d helped me into the suit. A few minutes later, they excused themselves to the alley out behind the studio. Now everything was quiet except for my own breathing in the suit. It’s weird how quiet a building can be at night with no one else around. The only other soul in the whole place was the janitor, and he was probably peeking out a window into the alley for the evening’s real show.
A squeal of pleasure came from outside.
“I’m glad someone is having a good time,” I mumbled. But that wasn’t true.
I half-hopped, half-skipped to the edge of the room and leaned my shoulder against the cinderblock wall, careful not to crush Orky’s long, curved dorsal fin. Size doesn’t matter, my ass.
As soon as the lovebirds got back, I was going to ask Heather to help me out of this foam rubber prison and I was going the hell home.
Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning, I thought. In fact, maybe I’ll call in sick and spend the day looking for another job. This one certainly hadn’t worked out the way I’d hoped.
Six months ago, I’d been a stagehand for the local news guys. It was a small operation, so I was getting experience doing all sorts of things. The field correspondent ate some bad sushi at the new Japanese steakhouse, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a job interview with the network guys. When they got back to me the next day with the job offer, it wasn’t for field reporter. It was for the other job opening.
Orky the Orca.
Not even a speaking part. I just wore the suit and matched Orky’s movements to whatever Orky said, his voice provided by Brad off-stage. Hopping, jumping, dancing, holding out the flippers whenever Brad told the show’s preschool audience that their favorite sea-friend needed a hug.
Yeah, I was really living the good life. I was thirty-two, already balding, and living in a house left to me by my parents because I was so successful on my own I couldn’t afford to buy one myself. I flapped Orky’s fins against my legs in the damned whale’s signature gesture of complete and utter giddiness. The only thing missing was the clicking whale-song screech. At least the money was better.
Another squeal came from outside. I fought down the empty feeling inside, keeping my jealousy at bay and sighed. I looked up, shaking my head slowly.
God, why do you hate me?
A minute later, in walked Heather tugging black bra straps onto her shoulders through the thin white fabric of her blouse. Yeah, I should’ve known just what was being rehearsed when Brad insisted I get into costume while he and Heather stayed in their regular clothes.
She shot me a sheepish smile, unable to see my face through the white fabric of my suit, and uncertain if I was looking at her. “Hi, Mason.”
“Whatever.” My problem with relationships certainly wasn’t her fault, but I was irritated. Why do jerks always get the girls? “Look, would you help me out of this suit? I’m just gonna go home.”
“I’m sorry we were gone so—”
“Seriously. I don’t care. Just help me out, would ya?”
“Sure.” She stepped toward me and she must have kicked the digicam because I heard plastic skittering across the floor. She immediately dropped from sight and came back into view a few seconds later. She had my camera in her hand. She fiddled with it a moment and I heard the battery snap into its slot. She stepped close, took Orky’s right fin in her hand, and guided my exposed hand toward her so she could place the camera squarely in it. I couldn’t help but smile even though she couldn’t see me.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I was lucky she couldn’t see me because I’m sure I blushed. Then, with her so much closer, I could see better. A glob of white clung to the collar of her blouse. I gagged.
“Look, Mason, you don’t have to go. We can run through the show—”
“No, I j-just want to get home.” I took a deep breath. “Help—”
A man’s scream pierced the air and Heather jumped, turning toward the thick, sound-proof door she’d come through a moment before.
“Brad?”
She dashed across the room before I could stop her—before I could have her free me from this blasted suit.
I angled the camera at my face and pressed the record key. The light above the lens blinked red, then turned solid green. The camera wasn’t trashed, after all.
At last, a break. Great.
Mason Grimes here with real news. My co-worker, Brad Bainbridge, the much loved voice of Orky the Orca, has just screamed out from somewhere outside the relative safety of this sound stage…
I sighed and shook my head. My conscience got the better of me. Brad probably just got something caught in his zipper and that would serve him right. But what if he fell down the stairs, or stumbled into the old breaker panel? I’d never forgive myself if, by not being there, I was responsible for him being serious injured.
I waddled toward the door taking short strides, careful to keep my feet wide to prevent the strips of Velcro from brushing against one another and locking my legs together into Orky’s solid tailfin.
The flat screen caught my eye again. The image was jumping around like the cameraman was running. The network field reporter slid in and out of the frame. He was running, too. He wasn’t even trying to maintain a commentary on whatever he was reporting. He was just running like hell. What was going on?
Once I caught up with Heather and I got out of the suit, maybe I’d drop back in the studio, turn up the sound, and see just what Mister Network Golden Boy was covering. Didn’t matter, really. I could always catch the recap on the morning news shows; by then there would be more of the story to hear about. Watching something live could be exciting, but mostly it was just slow and boring. If the story didn’t last until morning, it probably wasn’t worth spending time on tonight anyway.
Looks like my associate on the network feed and his crew are having quite a time out there. We’ll go to him live in just a moment to see what all the commotion is about.
Like that guy would ever give me the time of day. He was national and I was just some local flunky in a whale suit.
I continued toward the door. You never realize just how big rooms are until you can’t bend your legs at the knees. What a pain. Not ten feet from the entrance to the studio, the door clicked and swung open. Heather staggered in. I couldn’t be sure looking through my sheer, covered window, but that jerk must have spilled something on her clothes. The whole front of her blouse was drenched in red.
Red? What was red that he could have—
“Hey, Heather, are you okay?” my voice cracked.
She didn’t answer, but stumbled a few more feet into the room, each step threatening to send her falling flat onto her face. Her head lolled back and forth like she was having trouble looking at me.
She made a wet gurgling noise and held an arm out in my direction. Then she pitched forward and hit the floor with a smack.
Holy shit!
I moved to her as fast as I could and dropped to my knees, throwing out the huge fins covering my arms to prevent myself from sprawling on top of her.
“Heather, are you okay?” Yeah, I knew it was a dumb question, but you say dumb things when you’re scared, right?
A sound like the undersea bubbling effect we used on the show came from beneath her. A faint coppery smell tickled my nose, even through the suit. I managed to balance myself and work my hands out through the openings in the fins and grab her shoulders, rolling her onto her back.
I gagged and was suddenly glad I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Vomiting inside the suit would not have been a good thing. The smell of my own dry heaves was bad enough.
The splash on her blouse hadn’t been a spill from Lover Boy. She was covered in blood. Her whole throat was scooped out, torn and shredded into strips at the edges of the wound like she’d been mauled by an animal. A damned hungry one.
The wound was seeping but not actually bleeding, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. She might only have minutes, even seconds, to live. I heard myself asking if she was okay at the same time my mind was yelling at me to shut up and get some help. I couldn’t yell for Brad. Whatever had taken a bite out of Heather might be outside the door. Hell, maybe it got Brad, too, and that’s why he screamed.
I had to call for help. My cell phone was in my car, but I’d seen Heather holding hers when she walked out with Brad. Maybe she still had it on her. I reached out for her, hesitating for a half-second. Afternoons of sexual harassment training played in my head. All the neat little dos and don’ts of working together in a modern, politically correct environment.
To hell with it.
I placed the camera on the floor beside me, flipping out the little bipod so it would point slightly upward and capture what I was doing. A record like this might be worth something and, if nothing else, might protect me if anyone ever claimed I was inappropriate. People could be like that.
The object here is to check for her phone. I know she had one earlier and I’ve got to get help. Heather is a nice young woman—a friend of mine, actually—and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t do everything I could to help her.
I patted down her hips. Nothing. Her pants were the skin-tight, stretchy kind, and there was nothing to feel except…well, her. Her blouse pockets bulged, but I couldn’t tell if she had something in them or if the bulges were her breasts. I touched her pockets tentatively. Something flat and hard in both.
I patted her more firmly, receiving similar resistance. Then, I full-on felt her up. From one pocket I produced a hard-pack of Virginia Slims, from the other a Nokia flip-phone.
Holding the phone as close to my face as possible, so I could make out the numbers, I dialed 911. The tiny speaker rang and rang but there was no answer. After ten rings, I redialed thinking I’d hit a wrong key.
I felt sick to my stomach and tears welled in my eyes. This was all insane.
I looked back down at her. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the ceiling and her chest was perfectly still.
I scooted back on the tile, letting the Nokia drop, desperately trying to reach around my back to the Velcro holding the seam together, but the suit wasn’t designed for the wearer to get anywhere near the closure. I wrenched my hands through the sewn slots and into the suit. From the waist down Orky fit snugly to my legs but from the waist up, a framework held the body of the suit away from me like I was wearing a barrel with a couple of arm slits. I forced my hands through the web of straps and tent poles that held Orky’s towering head, trying not to get tangled in the puppeteering strings that operated the killer whale’s mouth, eyes and bushy eyebrows. My hand snagged one of the lines and, at some level, I imagined how that would look if anyone were around to see. A dead woman lying on the floor and a cartoon-proportioned killer whale standing over her arching his eyebrows. Whales didn’t even have eyebrows for God’s sake.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get enough grip to open the suit. The Velcro popped and cracked and sounded like it was tearing, but there was no telltale rush of cool air. The seam would not open.
For a second I lost it. I screamed in rage and tore at the inside of the suit until my fingertips hurt, but as near as I could tell from the little bit of light coming through the fabric window, I hadn’t done a bit of damage to the inside of Orky’s belly.
This must be how Jonah felt in that old Bible story from my childhood Sunday school classes. Or Pinocchio in one of those Disney remakes.
Yeah. God hates me.
I looked down at Heather. She wasn’t moving. Not even a twitch. She was gone, and
I couldn’t have given her CPR even if I knew how. If she had a drop of blood left in her, shoving on her chest would squeeze it right out through her neck.
I studied the floor around her and leading to the doorway. Shouldn’t there be more blood? A trail, anyway? Her throat was missing, carved away, and I swear I could see her freaking spine showing through.
Her neck wasn’t even red anymore. The whole wound looked brown and slimy, like the blood had thickened and…
More dry heaves. Great.
A muffled yell came from the corridor, followed by scuffling and a loud crack like a baseball bat striking the concrete.
I had to get out of here. I had to find someone to get me out of this freaking costume so I could call the cops.
I stumbled toward the door, the Velcro catching a little and snagging my legs together. I forced my legs apart just in time to stay on my feet. Luckily, the Velcro hadn’t gotten a good bite.
Th-that was a close one, folks. Can’t afford to be falling all over the place right now. Heather Cortez is down, injured by some unknown assailant or…force. I’ve got to find help. Brad Bainbridge is out there somewhere…I hope. Stay close and we’ll see what we can see.
The hallway outside the studio to the left was dark except for where it turned ninety degrees and headed to the janitor closets and front offices. I could make out someone in uniform lying flat on their back on the floor. The janitor. A puddle of dark liquid spread around his head.
Another figure slumped over him. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt and jeans. That could only be Brad. He tugged and shoved at the janitor violently, his back turned to me so I couldn’t see if he was trying to help the fallen man or mug him.
I opened my mouth to call out, but over the swish of my own footsteps I heard a muted growl and the sound of slurping and chewing.
What in the hell?
“Brad?”
Eye Witness: Zombie Page 5
