The Night is Long and Cold and Deep

by Terry M. West

  “What about creative control?” Gary asked, not above asking a monster gangster for a playhouse free of rules.

  Stücke considered it. “Well, I am going to need to have some input in this arrangement. I trust you, but it’s my money. I am sure there are certain sensibilities that I will want reflected in a Johnny Stücke production. But you have to expect that, Gary Hack. You creative folks would float off into the ether without us business types to ground you.”

  “So, we’re talking collaboration,” Gary said, sitting up on the edge of the couch.

  Stücke grinned around the burning cigar in his mouth and pointed at Gary. “Yes. I got a million ideas, Gary Hack. I got a bunch of places to go with this arrangement.”

  “And what were you thinking about as far as compensation?” Gary asked.

  “Ten thousand a gig,” Stücke said, blowing smoke into the air between them. “It will be a standard director-for-hire contract. But I will throw you points. And you will want them.”

  Gary nodded softly, trying not to show his excitement. “That sounds agreeable. And that’s just my pay, correct? Not a budget for the whole production?”

  “That’s just your salary,” Stücke assured him. “You submit a budget for the rest. I know you have people. Bring them aboard. I’ll need socials for the W9’s, but otherwise, it’s your show, Gary Hack.”

  “And what did you have in mind for our maiden voyage?” Gary said. “Do you want me to pitch some stuff?”

  Stücke’s gray face lit up. “Like I said, I have a million ideas.”

  “Let’s hear one,” Gary encouraged him.

  “Zombie gangbang,” Stücke said, holding up his mismatched hands in the air to fatten the proclamation.

  Gary digested it, and it wasn’t an easy task to keep his face straight and free of negative reflection. He was on the tail-end of his buzz, but even wasted he would have recognized this as a bad idea. “There are… complications with that,” Gary said carefully.

  “How so?” Stücke asked, but Gary could tell from the monster’s tone that Stücke was probably aware of them. “Tell me about these complications.”

  Gary felt like he was being played with, but he carried on, regardless. “There is the horde law. We can’t have more than three assembled together in one place.”

  “I will have a small army on hand for crowd control. And we will keep them segregated to smaller groups,” Stücke suggested, and Gary realized the monster had thought this out. “We don’t have to have a hundred of them on screen at once. We just need to keep a line flowing. I want this to be epic.”

  “So you want a hundred of them?” Gary said, uneasily. He had figured a dozen at most, and that number made him very nervous. A gathering of a hundred zombies was enough to ignite an apocalypse. And there were stiff laws for assembling so many. It was considered a terrorist act. There was even an international law pending at the U.N. that wanted to classify a gathered horde as a weapon of mass destruction. This was serious shit.

  “I will have at least twenty-five guys on hand with semi-automatic weapons and flame-throwers,” Stücke assured the director. “If things get tense, we’ll put them down but quickly.”

  “But the penalties…” Gary said. His dread was now visible.

  “You let me worry about them,” Stücke said. “You’re there to make a movie. I will handle the other details. You spread enough money around this city, and you would be surprised at what you can get away with.”

  “There are other considerations, though,” Gary continued. “When these zombies get sexually excited, they want to eat. It is how they… cum.”

  “So let them cum,” Stücke said.

  “What do you mean?” Gary asked.

  “There are a lot of people out there serving no purpose,” Stücke explained, crushing out his cigar on his gray palm. “Surely you know someone who won’t be missed; maybe a total raging cunt, who you wouldn’t mind this fate befalling?”

  “You want to murder someone in the movie?” Gary said, a little heated despite the dangerous creature in the room. “Why would you think I would be okay with that?”

  Stücke shrugged and lit another cigar. “You murdered a vamp and furry in your last film. What are you a racist or something?”

  “That was… different,” Gary said, realizing immediately that he had just confessed to it. “They weren’t human. Killing a night thing isn’t a crime. You kill a human on film, even one who won’t be missed, and you’ll have people investigating you.”

  “We can credit it all to effects,” Stücke insisted. “We’ll run a disclaimer. No animals hurt bullshit. They won’t be able to prove jack shit unless they show up on set.”

  “It’s too big a risk,” Gary maintained.

  “What’s your suggestion, then?” Stücke asked, and Gary could tell impatience was beginning to simmer in the man.

  “Okay, two things,” Gary said, deciding to take this bull by the horns and twist it to the ground. “Number one, we get a vamp or furry or other night thing that could pass as human. We doll her up, and let the zombies tear her apart. No legal repercussions that way.”

  Gary hated the thought of feeding another night thing to the cinematic Gods. But it was easier to live with than a human sacrifice.

  Stücke considered it, pushing his black lips up. “Okay, that’s sounds like a plan. What’s the other thing?”

  “For this particular movie I want a higher salary,” Gary declared. “Twenty grand.”

  Stücke smiled and sucked on his cigar. “Double, huh? You got balls asking for that.”

  “It’s a dangerous gig, even with your assurances,” Gary said. “You want me to whole-heartedly embrace this thing, you bump my pay.”

  “Done,” Stücke agreed.

  Gary nodded, realizing he would now have to convince his crew to participate.

  “I’ll have the location locked by the end of the week,” Stücke said. “I want to start shooting in two. Get me a budget within forty-eight hours.”

  Gary nodded and then cleared his throat. He was thirsty, all of a sudden. “Can I ask you a question about this?”

  “Sure,” Stücke said, summoning the hunchback.

  Gary accepted another martini. “There aren’t many people who are into zombie porn. It’s pretty sickening, actually. It doesn’t have the erotic flavor of vampire porn. It’s grungy, even for the heavy fetish crowd. Most people don’t care for it.”

  Stücke flashed a devilish smirk at Gary. “Who said I was making it for people?”

  “You’re making it for the zombies?” Gary asked, trying to figure how that would work.

  “They are on their way up the financial food chain, Gary Hack,” Stücke said, shifting up in his seat and making his pitch. “I got news for you; the zombies are going to end up with most of the menial work out there. They may not be cut out for the food industry or anything that requires a sterile environment, but they will damn sure mow your lawn or clean your pool. Americans may not like it at first, but let’s be honest; zombies can do the work for half of what immigrants will do it for, you know? Even the Mexicans and you don’t get much cheaper than that. Oh, we may despise them now, but in a short time, we’ll be depending on them and advertising to them.

  “They are going to save American businesses billions on benefits alone. And those rotting bastards will be looking for some recreational activities, just like the rest of us. They have appetites, and they will be willing to spend their money to feed them. It will make them feel alive. This movie is for them, Gary Hack. And I want it to be the fucking Gone with the Wind of zombie porn, my friend.”

  “It makes sense,” Gary had to admit. “Okay, we’re good.”

  “There’s just one more issue to address,” Stücke said, standing. He walked over slowly to the director. “I understand you have some appetites, yourself.”

  “What do you mean?” Gary said, sinking back into the couch as the big man approached. Gary grew cold and frightened. He
had to remind himself that he was dealing with a fiend.

  Stücke stopped, standing close to Gary. The monster eyed the man. “I need you sober on set, Gary Hack; especially on something of this magnitude.”

  Gary raised his hands, defensively. “The only thing I indulge in on a movie set is work. My personal life or appetites have never screwed things up. I am a professional. You can trust me on this, Mr. Stücke. You are not a man I would want to disappoint.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Stücke said, smiling. “Because once I make an investment, I don’t write it off. If it turns out to be a bad one, I simply salvage what I can from it.”

  Stücke flashed his brown hand in front of Gary’s face. “Nothing goes to waste, Gary Hack.”

  “I understand,” Gary said, as calmly as he could.

  Stücke backed off, only slightly, and then he noticed the gris-gris bag around Gary’s neck. He gripped it with two large fingers and held it up. Gary followed the gray hand. “You are wearing a talisman, Gary Hack?”

  Stücke released the leather pouch and Gary settled back against the couch. “It’s a gris-gris bag,” he explained. “A street vendor sold it to me.”

  “Which vendor?” Stücke asked.

  “A black guy over on fourteenth,” Gary informed him. Gary tried to hold a tranquil expression, even with the Stücke standing over him. “He has a whole set-up. He sells trinkets and elixirs, as well as items to ward off the night things.”

  “What’s his nationality?” Stücke inquired further.

  “I haven’t been able to peg him,” Gary replied. “He doesn’t have a heavy foreign accent or anything, but there is a definite exotic flavor to him.”

  Stücke nodded and considered that information. “This is African voodoo, most likely.”

  Stücke returned his attention to the gris-gris bag. “But that doesn’t stop us all, Gary Hack. It’ll keep a furry, zombie or a vamp at a distance, but the higher forms of spooks will shove it up your ass. Here, I got something for you.”

  The man-monster walked over to his large desk and pulled a 9mm from a drawer. He brought it over to Gary. He pulled the clip from it and snapped a bullet out. He held it to Gary’s face.

  “Silver bullets,” Stücke announced. “They’ll kill a furry, paralyze a vamp and slow a zombie down. All of the bumps in the night are affected by silver. And getting hit with one of these sleek bastards stings like a mother fucker, at the very least. This is more effective than a smelly necklace.”

  Stücke reloaded the weapon and handed it to Gary. “A gift,” he said, with a smile.

  Gary took it and nodded gratefully. The elevator doors opened and Gary’s silent escorts stared at him from inside.

  “Your ride is here,” Stücke said. “We’ll talk soon.”

  ***

  “A zombie gangbang video?” Ella Howes whispered, incredulously. “Jesus, Gary. You are just determined to get us killed.”

  Gary and Ella sat at a booth in the Greek diner around the corner from Gary’s apartment. His place was too messy for business meetings, so they occurred here, where the food was mediocre but the coffee was fantastic.

  “I am putting in for three times your rate,” Gary said, tapping the spiral notebook that rested on the table.

  Ella took a sip of coffee and frowned as considerations bounced around in her head. She ran a hand through her long auburn hair and scrunched up her face, as if she suddenly smelled something foul.

  “I want more than that, Gary,” Ella announced, arching up in the booth.

  She was a good four inches taller than Gary. He had known Ella when she had still been a miserable man named Edwin Howes. Squeezing the stone this hard was a sign that Edwin was still there inside somewhere. Ella seldom negotiated.

  “I’ll get you more,” Gary assured her. “I need you for this, Ella.”

  “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, my dear,” Ella said.

  Mike Cooke, Gary’s best friend and producer, walked into the diner and he marched solemnly toward the booth that Gary and Ella owned at the moment. Mike had a dark expression on his face. He wore his sunglasses, as always, and Gary could sense uneasiness in his friend. Mike stripped the tie from his neck and folded it into his expensive jacket pocket as he sat silently next to Ella.

  “Christ, who shot your dog?” Ella asked Mike.

  Mike looked to Ella and then over at Gary. “You didn’t hear about the Bloody Carnivores?”

  Gary shook his head in dark anticipation. “What happened, Mike?”

  “They’re dead,” Mike reported. He took a glass of water from the table and drank from it. He put it aside and dried his black mustache.

  “Dead?” Ella said, her concerned eyes darting between Gary and Mike.

  “They had a gig near Lake Texoma,” Mike reported. “They were playing all over Texas. Seems they had developed somewhat of a bubba following since we shot that video. The band’s local handlers went to their hotel and found what was left inside.”

  “So, all of them?” Ella broke in. “Shawn, Billy, Eric…”

  “Dead, dead, dead,” Mike said, pointing at imaginary corpses. “Torn apart and sucked down to the bone.”

  “What about Bruce Von Stiers?” Gary asked.

  “They found traces of his blood, but no body,” Mike revealed. “So he is probably worse than dead.”

  “Did they catch the killers?” Gary asked.

  Mike shook his head and motioned to a waitress for a cup of coffee.

  “Who do they think is responsible?” Gary quizzed his producer further.

  “Come on, Gary, you know who is responsible,” Mike said thickly. “Bruce Von Stiers has waged a public war with the night things for years. That fucking video we shot was the last straw, man. The fangs got their revenge. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they converted Bruce as an ultimate fuck you.”

  “If they turned Bruce, he knows us,” Ella said frantically. “Fuck, Mike, he knows all of us.”

  “This association with Johnny Stücke couldn’t have happened at a better time,” Mike concluded. “I have been doing my homework on him. The man inspires fear, even among the night things. He can keep us safe.”

  “Or he could just as easily kill us and repurpose our parts,” Gary speculated, gloomily. “Don’t ever tell the man you’d give your right nut to work for him. That’s for sure.”

  “He’s a businessman,” Mike said. “And we’re a good investment.”

  “How did I arrive in this fresh hell?” Ella said, digging her cigarettes from her purse. “I am going for a smoke.”

  “Stay near a window where we can see you,” Gary advised.

  Ella’s face sunk. “Fuck, guys, is it that dire?”

  “No,” Mike said. “When word gets out that we work for Stücke, nothing is going to touch us. But you shouldn’t smoke, Ella. It’s a nasty fucking habit.”

  “That’s rich,” Ella shot back, motioning to Gary. “Give him the sermon.”

  Ella left the diner.

  Mike took the notebook from the table and he pulled an expensive pen from his jacket. “Now, let me start finessing this budget of yours. We have to get it to Stücke tomorrow. You want me to work in my little redneck brigade?”

  Gary grimaced. “Hell no. Those bastards will start shit just to have an excuse to shoot something. Stücke is supplying us with defense. What you need to figure out is how we are going to feed a hundred zombies. Maybe we should get them some feeder rats.”

  Mike made a notation. “That’s one thing we can be grateful to the zombies for. I bet they have put one hell of a dent in the city vermin population. Do you know they even have a kid’s cartoon now about a rat-eating zombie? Poor fucking rodents; they just never catch a break.”

  “Budget a lot of rats, man. I don’t want those dead fuckers starving on the set and tuning in to the horde frequency,” Gary said.

  Mike nodded. “That’s going to be one nasty-ass green room.”

  ***

  G
ary’s cell rang and it shook him awake.

  The phone vibrated on his coffee table. He reached for it as he shifted to a sitting position on his couch. His neck hurt and his head pounded. His mouth was dry and tasted like shit. He knew the caller could only be one of four people. Besides Sergio, he really wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone.

  But the shoot was coming up in, what, three, four days? He needed to make himself available.