by Jeff Strand
“No, this is great,” said Justin, skimming it. “This is really great. This is…” He trailed off.
“What?”
“This is Dawn of the Dead.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is. It’s the Dawn of the Dead remake.”
“It is not. Dawn of the Dead doesn’t have a character named Veronica Chaos.”
“I’m not saying that you did a cut-and-paste, but look at this.” Justin held up one of the pages. “It’s right out of Dawn of the Dead.”
Bobby looked over the page and then frowned. “Hmm. I guess I was more inspired than I thought.”
“I take back my apology,” said Justin.
“Sorry, guys,” said Bobby. “No wonder it went so smoothly.”
“I wish you were smarter,” said Justin.
Gabe took the pages from Bobby. “Knock it off. We all messed up. Instead of focusing on what we didn’t get done, let’s focus on what we did. We still have almost thirty pages of script, so that’s half an hour of the movie, and we know enough about the characters to start the rest of the casting. I’ll put up signs around the drama department to let them know that we’re holding auditions tomorrow right after school.”
“What we need to do is find people with really strong improv skills,” said Justin. “We wanted actors who were going to elevate the material beyond the printed page anyway.”
“So you’re suggesting making the movie without a completed script?”
“No, I’m suggesting letting the cast write the rest of the script. On the set. While we’re filming.”
“But you said—”
“Stop quoting me back to me,” said Justin. “I say stuff, and then I say stuff later that contradicts it. I’m aware of that personality trait, and I accept it.”
“I just feel like maybe we’re cutting corners.”
“We’re not cutting corners. We’re embracing innovation. Remember how you wanted to have eighteen different actors play the vampire? I shot that down because it was a stupid idea. But it was a creative idea, and I know that if we’d kept brainstorming, you would have come up with an idea that wasn’t stupid. Let’s play to our strengths.”
“We’re cutting corners.”
“We’re being flexible.”
“Flexible would be letting the actors change lines in a script that are already written.”
“You’re being inflexible by insisting that we’re cutting corners.”
“But we are, and you know it.”
“Don’t tell me what I know.”
“Guys, calm down,” said Bobby. “Cutting corners is part of the filmmaking process. There’s a long, proud history of cutting corners to get a movie made. Everyone does it except Pixar. All in favor of letting the actors improvise, raise your hand.”
Justin and Bobby raised their hands.
“So we’re a democracy?” asked Gabe.
“Yes,” said Justin.
“Even though you were the one who was always in charge? Because that means you’re giving up power.”
“Stop trying to hurt my brain,” said Justin.
“All right,” said Gabe with a shrug. “If I’m outvoted, I’m outvoted.”
“No, wait,” said Justin. “I changed my mind. I’m the director, so I should have the power. We’ll finish the script tonight.”
“Okay. And we need permission to film in school after hours.”
“I’ve got it covered,” said Justin.
Gabe looked over at Bobby. “Find out if your uncle Clyde can do special effects.”
“You’re not going to do them?” Bobby asked.
“I won’t have time. And I can really only do basic stuff. We need somebody like Uncle Clyde if we’re going to have professional-looking zombies.”
“Isn’t he still in jail?” Justin asked.
“Nah,” said Bobby. “He got out a couple of months ago.”
“I’m not sure we should have an ex-con working on our movie.”
“Relax,” said Gabe. “It was a white-collar crime. We just need to keep him away from our parents’ taxes.”
That seemed reasonable to Justin.
They made a list of everybody’s additional jobs for the evening, which took the rest of lunch period to compile. Once again Justin considered that perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
But would a zombie worry that it had bitten off more than it could chew? No. A zombie would take the biggest bite possible, even if it didn’t fit in its mouth, even if the zombie would choke if it tried to swallow the bite.
That was not a very good line of logic. No more energy drinks for the remainder of the project.
8
Justin sat outside the principal’s office. He felt nervous even though he wasn’t in any trouble. A couple of other students made witty comments as they saw him sitting there, and he explained that he was seeking a filming permit. But the witty students didn’t seem to believe him.
“You can go in now,” said Mr. Clark, who was Ms. Weager’s administrative assistant. He had a ponytail and a goatee. He always tried to strike up conversations about video games and act like he was your best buddy. This was a stark contrast to Ms. Weager herself, who did not act like she was your best buddy, an average buddy, a casual acquaintance, or even somebody who didn’t resent your existence on this planet. Her expression and body language said, We both know that I’m not allowed to break a ruler over your head, but if legislation ever gets through congress allowing me to do such a thing, I’d advise you to invest in a helmet because I will beat you within an inch of your darn life. And the only reason I’m saying “darn” is because I’m the principal and I’m supposed to be setting a good example, but you can bet your bottom that I’m thinking a different word.
Justin walked into Ms. Weager’s office, which seemed to have been designed with an optical illusion that the walls were closing in. Unless the walls really were closing in, perhaps to discourage loitering.
Ms. Weager was all sharp angles. If you patted her on the shoulder, you would probably cut your hand. Justin had never seen a single strand of her hair move. Not only could it remain perfectly still in hurricane-force winds, but Justin suspected that you could bounce a roaring chainsaw off it and cause no damage.
“Please have a seat,” she said.
Justin sat down in front of her black iron desk. Well, it wasn’t really a black iron desk, but the way she sat made it look like something made out of black iron adorned with spikes and skulls.
The chair was not comfortable.
“What can I do for you?”
“My friends and I are going to make a feature film,” said Justin. “And I wanted to get permission to film in the school.”
“Won’t that be disruptive to the learning process?”
“I meant at night. Not during school hours.”
“What sort of movie?”
Justin had expected this question, and he knew that offering the full truth wasn’t the way to go. But neither was it a good idea to lie to one’s principal. So he said, “It’s a social commentary.”
“What sort of social commentary?”
Zombie movies often had the subtext of everybody acting the same and refusing to think for themselves. Ms. Weager didn’t seem to be opposed to that concept. “It’s about rule breakers,” said Justin. “It deals with people who violate societal norms.”
“In what way?”
By eating human flesh was not the correct answer here. “By violating taboos.”
“If you’re making a movie about taboos on school property, I need to know specifics.”
“It’s about people being given a second chance.”
“Name the taboo.”
“Poor nutritional choices.”
“Is this a zombie movie?”
Suddenly Justin wondered if he’d misjudged Ms. Weager. Maybe she was a huge zombie movie fan. Maybe she came home after a long day of yelling at kids, plopped down on the couch, and put in her special edition Blu-ray of Evil Dead 2. And maybe she was geeky enough to know that the zombies in that movie weren’t technically zombies but rather people who were possessed by the spirits of the dead.
“Yes,” he said.
“Will there be blood?”
“A drop or two here and there, when it’s relevant to the social commentary.”
“I’m sorry. You won’t be making a zombie movie on school grounds.”
“But the zombies are a metaphor. Shouldn’t we be learning about metaphors?”
Ms. Weager removed her glasses, which looked like they could double as a tool for gutting fish. “I appreciate your creativity,” she said, sounding insincere. “But this is not appropriate material, and your request is denied.”
Justin wanted to protest, but at the same time he didn’t want her to push a button and open a trapdoor beneath him.
“Are you sure?” Justin asked. “I could write up a list of themes and stuff.”
“I’m sorry. Let me know when you make a movie that’s not about zombies.”
Justin thanked her for her time and left the principal’s office. A couple of other kids were seated outside, awaiting their grim fate. One of them was Patrick, who probably had his own “Reserved for Patrick Sartin” seat in detention. Usually he ended up in detention for mouthing off to teachers and for light vandalism, but he’d been suspended once for stealing somebody’s jacket out of their locker. (He didn’t even want it.) And there were rumors—though they were never confirmed—that he liked to start the occasional fire.
Mr. Clark told a pretty blond girl that she could go in to see the principal. She wiped a tear from her eye, went into Ms. Weager’s office, and shut the door behind her.
Justin sat down next to Patrick. They’d shared a couple of classes and knew each other’s names, but they weren’t friendly enough that it was typical for Justin to sit down next to him and start talking.
“How’s it going?” Justin asked.
“The usual.”
“Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. Either he wasn’t comfortable with hypothetical questions, or he didn’t know what “hypothetical” meant.
“Purely imaginary,” Justin assured him. “One hundred percent. This is only to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Ask it.”
Justin lowered his voice to a whisper. “Let’s say that somebody wanted to in this completely made-up scenario…be inside the school during certain hours.”
“You want to break into the school after dark?”
“No. Definitely not. I just want to know if such a thing is possible. It’s research.”
“Yeah, it’s possible. When are we doing it?”
“We’re not.”
“How about tonight at ten? Can you sneak out?”
“Seriously. I’m just gathering information.”
“I’ve got new spray paint. Eight different colors. I’ve got this turquoise shade that would go perfectly with the door to the chemistry lab.”
“I wasn’t looking for spray paint activities.”
“I’ve got this realistic-looking plastic finger that we could drop into Mr. Schmidt’s aquarium. It’ll make people think the fish bit off somebody’s finger. It’s a great prank because it causes no harm to the fish.”
“What if Mr. Schmidt thinks they’re too vicious to live?”
Patrick thought about that. “Well, he’d figure out that it was a fake finger pretty quick. It’s not squishy or anything. I don’t think there’s any real chance that anybody would seek revenge on the fish.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Justin. “I don’t have any plans to use what you just told me, but it’s good to know. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“I hope you don’t get into too much trouble for whatever you did.”
“I taped a tuna sandwich underneath my desk on Friday.”
“Why?”
Patrick shrugged. “Attention, I guess.”
“Good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
Justin walked down the hallway. If he were a superhero, he’d be Frustrated Man. (This was why he worked in the horror genre instead of making up superheroes.) Most of their amazing production value was supposed to come from filming in the school. And it was essential to the plot. What were they going to do without it?
He would never, ever consider breaking into the school, but it was nice to know that the option was available, even if he would never, ever consider following through on it. Still, having options was good.
When he reached his locker, Alicia was waiting there for him.
“Hi,” he said, playing it cool. Cool people said hi without following it up with ninety seconds of babbling.
“Hi,” she said. “How’s the script going?”
“Amazeballs,” said Justin, even though cool people probably didn’t say amazeballs.
“I can’t wait to read it!”
“I think you’ll like it. You get to kill a lot of zombies. I mean, a lot. Record-setting. You’ll be a question on Jeopardy! someday.”
She grinned. Justin had now set his own record for most consecutive words spoken to Alicia in person. If they spoke any longer, he’d have said so many words to her that he couldn’t even keep an accurate count of them. And he hadn’t passed out! Last week he never would have believed that he could carry on a conversation with Alicia and not at least get a little dizzy.
“May I make a request about my character?”
“Sure, anything.”
“Can she have purple hair?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. That’s how I pictured her anyway.”
“And what about a Mohawk?”
“A Mohawk?”
Alicia ran her fingers through her long blond hair. “I’ve always wanted a purple Mohawk, but my mom won’t let me get one. If it’s required for the part though, she’ll have to let me do it.”
“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t make you get a Mohawk just for the movie—”
“Put it in the script so I can show her. And make sure there are some parts where the other characters talk about it. She needs to see that it’s essential to the role. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, if that’s what you really want. I’ll make it a crucial plot element.”
“While you’re at it, could you put in that her nose and eyebrow are pierced?”
“I guess I could do that too.”
“Thanks!”
“But you can do fake piercings.”
“That’s no good. Put in a scene where somebody tugs on them.”
“Won’t that hurt?”
“Not a scene where somebody tugs on them hard. Just enough so my mom can see that we can’t fake it.”
“I’m not sure your mom will buy that,” said Justin. “I don’t think a director would ask an actress to really pierce her nose. If he did, she’d have a hole in her nose, and her next role could be, you know, a nun or something.”
“My mom doesn’t know how movies work. I really want to get my nose and eyebrow pierced. Don’t ruin this for me.”
“I won’t. I’ll make sure the movie can’t get done without the piercings.”
“Thank you!”
“I’ll have the script for you tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait!”
9
When Justin got home, he knew there was no way he could get through the evening without a nap. So he went upstairs, took off his left shoe, decided that his right shoe was fine where it was, and flopped down on his bed. Fourteen and three-quarters of a sec
ond later, he was asleep.
A zombie with a tire iron lodged in its skull stood next to his bed, staring at him. But Justin was dreaming, so that was okay.
“G’day,” said the zombie, speaking in an Australian accent. “I’m your subconscious mind. While you lie ’ere, sleepin’ peacefully, I’m gonna finish writin’ your script for ya, mate.”
“Really?” asked Justin. “Gee whiz! That would be swell!”
The zombie pulled a typewriter out of its ear and began to quickly tap on the keys. “Writing, writing, writing. Oh, that was a good part. Writing, writing, writing.”
“I love you, Mr. Zombie Personification of My Subconscious Mind!”
“Psych!” The typewriter disappeared into a cloud of pink glitter. “Write your own script! Don’t make your brain do all the work!”
A dozen zombie arms burst through Justin’s mattress. They grabbed him by the hands, feet, head, and tailbone and dragged him down into the darkness.
Good thing this is a dream, thought Justin. It would be really unpleasant to be dragged down into a dark, zombie-filled pit if it weren’t part of a dream.
There wasn’t a lot of room, what with all of the zombies squeezed down there. The pit underneath his bed had been designed to hold maybe twenty zombies, twenty-two at the most, but there were at least thirty down here, so it was a tight fit. Justin couldn’t remember ever having had less elbow room.
“Hey, guys, we need to make space,” said Justin.
“There’s space in our stomachs!” said one of the zombies.
Justin felt kind of silly. He should have known that suggesting that they needed to make space would quickly lead to one of the zombies mentioning that there was available space in their tummies. The next part was not going to be fun.
“Nom nom nom!” said the zombies.
Justin woke up.
Or had he?
Well, he wasn’t in a zombie pit being devoured, so presumably he’d woken up. He sat up, feeling surprisingly refreshed considering that he’d only been asleep for a couple of minutes.
He sat at his desk, feeling strangely inspired, and began to type.
