“What do you mean?” Jill asked.
“They expect us to search for our driver,” Derek stated. “But that path is obviously a trap. We’re going to find another way out of here.”
Jill’s face fell. “But what about Cecil?”
“And that horrible excruciating death thing?” Mitchell asked. Where there was one horrible excruciating death, there usually were more.
Derek paced the foyer, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the marble.
“Number one. With these psychos, Cecil’s probably already dead. Number two, assuming he is alive, if we try to find him, we’re all dead—guaranteed. My priority is getting the surviving civilians,” Derek jabbed a finger in Jill’s and Mitchell’s direction, “namely, you two—out. Then, I’ll coordinate the locals and storm this damn place. That’s Cecil’s best chance at survival.”
“There’s only one flaw in your plan,” Mitchell pointed out. “There’s no way out of here.”
Derek smiled. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll find one.”
Yes, but would it be guarded by flesh-eating flukes? That was the question Mitchell wanted answered.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 12
Simon climbed the stairs to the projection room, holding the reels out in front of him and careful not to let them soil his suit. With what Amanda paid him, he could barely afford his fifth of the rent, let alone buy a new suit.
How did he get stuck with this damn film, anyway? Amanda looked messed up when she dropped it off. She was a crazy bitch, but tonight … she looked like the Mad Hatter. Her washing-machine hair, her clothes stained with what looked like blood. Paint, my ass.
And what about Jill and Howie? Amanda didn’t like her authority questioned. So Simon knew it was only a matter of time before Jill got axed. But Howie? Howie was an even bigger ass-kisser than Simon was. So if this film got Howie fired, then Simon was screwed.
All Simon wanted to do tonight was sit next to Cameron Diaz. Stalk her at the after-party. And, if he were lucky, get her phone number. But who was he kidding? Simon would be lucky if he got an autograph, especially if he got his suit stained.
Simon pushed open the door to the projection room. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. It smelled like a skunk wearing perfume.
Simon thought Woodstock was over. Someone needed to tell the guy in front of him. Dreads, tie-dye, brown corduroy pants. Yeah, this guy definitely had a solo party going on in here.
“Here’s Terror,” Simon said as he dropped the reels on the counter. This room made Simon grateful for his tiny cubicle back at Temple Studios. The drab, beige walls, metal shelves, lack of exterior windows, and musty smell made his office space look like paradise.
“Jesus, man. What did you do with this thing?” The projectionist, Bob, asked as he lifted the reel cover. “These reels are covered in … I don’t know …” He rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose. “Something warm and oily. What’s up with that?”
“How should I know? Just do your job.”
Simon didn’t get paid to ask questions. And if this went off without a hitch, maybe he would finally get an office. Howie’s would be nice.
“Whatever you say, man,” Bob said with a slight, fake Jamaican accent. The closest this guy had gotten to the Caribbean was a Bob Marley tribute. “It’s your party.”
The projectionist lifted the reel out of the case. Simon approached the small, square window in front of the projector. He scanned the crowd. Will Smith. The Twilight cast. Damn. Simon should be down there schmoozing instead of stuck in this dank room with a stoner.
“Oh, man, that weed I bought last week was too strong. That’s the last time I buy grass from an Amway salesman,” the projectionist mumbled from behind him.
“What did you say?” Simon said, reluctantly turning away from the window and his vacant seat that was now being occupied by Stacey in accounting. How the hell did she get an invite?
“Nothing, man …” the projectionist’s eyes were glazed as they drifted toward the projector. “I just didn’t remember threading the film into the projector.” He dug in his dreadlocks, scratching his head. “You’re ready to rock and roll at the stroke of midnight.”
“Good … good,” Simon murmured. The sooner this was over, the better. Then onward to the free drinks.
The stoner opened the door to exit.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Bob had better not be going out to smoke some more. This guy needed a clear head. Simon couldn’t afford for anything else to go wrong.
“Home, man,” the projectionist gave a lopsided smile as he stepped into the hallway.
“But … but …” Simon stuttered. Running forward, he grabbed the door, tugging it back open.
“Your people wouldn’t go for double time after midnight. Have a blast.”
Simon’s eyes darted around the projection room. Sure, he took film production in college, but that was on VHS. He knew nothing about the projector, with all the knobs and levers towering over him.
“I can’t …”
“Don’t blow a valve. It’s all automated. The timer is set for twelve o’clock, man. All you have to do is sit back and chill.”
Chill. This stoner was telling him to chill? It wasn’t his freakin’ neck on the line. Simon felt his chest tighten.
The projectionist patted Simon on the back. “Don’t have a coronary. Nothing can go wrong.”
Was that supposed to reassure Simon?
The door slammed shut, like the door on a crypt. Simon’s crypt. ’Cause if anything went wrong tonight, Amanda would bury him alive.
Simon approached the projector, his legs heavy with dread. It was like walking toward his own execution. What if the stoner screwed up the timer and set it for noon instead of midnight? Seriously. The guy didn’t even remember threading the film. Simon searched the machine for something, anything, resembling a timer. He reached into the open panel on the side. The film snapped forward.
“Shit!”
Simon looked down at his finger. Blood oozed out of a gash. He searched the room for a towel or tissue. Figures—he wouldn’t find a tissue. Simon jammed his finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding. This is exactly why he had no business in this room.
A soft, rhythmic murmur drifted across the room. Simon paused, listening. It sounded like a Gregorian chant. The kind he heard in church when he was a kid. Was another screening going on?
A low moan came from behind Simon. He turned toward the projector, yanking his finger out of his mouth.
“Who’s there? This room is off-limits.”
* * *
Derek led the way down a darkened hallway, Mitchell’s heavy breathing following close behind. The red glow of a camera shone overhead. Derek hoped these sick bastards were enjoying the show. The next TV they’d be watching would be behind bars.
Jill’s phone beeped. “I still can’t get a signal.” None of them could.
Figures. The Baxter brothers were thorough. Probably jammed the signal.
“It was worth a try,” Mitchell said, sounding a bit halfhearted.
Farther down the hall, Derek stopped, holding up his hand. Ahead, the walls were studded with alcoves. And not just any alcoves, but alcoves filled with life-size replicas of Frankenstein’s monster, The Mummy, The Thing, and The Fly.
Derek kicked at Frankenstein with his foot, and took a step backward. His gun was aimed at Frankenstein’s head.
Mitchell approached the creatures, fascinated. “Look at this collection!” The teen hesitantly smoothed his hand over the mummy’s bandages. “I had wet dreams that weren’t this good.” He stepped up to Frankenstein, poking at its chest. “Of course, if any of them come to life … good-bye ecstasy, hello nightmare.”
Derek glared at Mitchell, raising a finger to his lips. Not because the kid’s yammering would give away their position. Please, the Baxters could probably see, hear, and smell everything that was happening. No, he just needed the
kid to be quiet so he could think.
“I thought we were looking for a way out of here,” Jill whispered, falling into step with Derek. “Where are you taking us?”
“Toward the kitchen.” He hoped it was this way. If not, they’d have to circle around. And waste time that they, and Cecil, didn’t have. “I’d wager these prima donnas don’t take out their own garbage. There must be a servants’ entrance. And my bet is they didn’t spend as much money on security for those quarters.”
“Holy Zonker!!” Mitchell squealed.
Derek swung around. “Didn’t I tell you—?”
Oh, shit. The monster mash that Mitchell had just been admiring had come to life. Their movements jerky as they stalked down the hall. Beams of yellow light shot out of their eyes.
“Oh, my God!” Jill screamed.
Their moans ground into Derek’s marrow. But not for long. Derek aimed at the mummy first, shooting it between the eyes. Its body hit the floor. Okay, one down, and three to … or not. The mummy sat up, its head cocked to the side.
“What now?” Derek asked, looking at Mitchell.
Mitchell’s terrified expression ping-ponged from the approaching monsters to Derek. “Now I think it’s the time in the picture for us to run like hell,” he suggested.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said all day that I understood.”
Derek grabbed Jill’s hand, pulling her along. They turned a corner, Mitchell sliding on his socked feet, bouncing off a wall. Derek stopped, checking the door to their left. Locked. He continued to the next door. They needed to find the kitchen—fast.
Jill’s back was pressed against the wall. Her eyes focused on the end of the hall. The moans and buzzing were getting closer and closer.
Mitchell bent over, hands on his knees, panting. “And don’t even think of saying, ‘Let’s split up.’ ” He pointed from Jill to Derek. “You two are the obvious love interests here, and I’m the expendable comic relief who always gets killed. So, no splitting up!”
The floor popped open, swallowed Mitchell, and snapped shut. His screams faded away.
“Mitchell!” Derek yelled, dropping to the floor. “Mitchell!” Derek’s fists pounded where Mitchell fell through. The hatch wouldn’t budge. He listened for Mitchell’s voice, but the only sounds were the wails approaching from down the hall. Damn it! Derek slammed his fist against the floor. First Cecil, and now Mitchell. Could the kid have even survived the fall?
Jill’s fingers dug into Derek’s arm, yanking him up. “They’re coming, Derek. We have to keep going!”
“It’s my fault that he was here.” Derek felt like heaving.
“We’ll get help, then come back, and find him along with Cecil. That was your plan, right?”
Frankenstein lurched. The mummy dragged its leg. The distance was closing quickly.
Derek might not be able to help Mitchell and Cecil, but Jill was here, and she needed him. Lacing his fingers with Jill’s, he tugged her away from the creatures.
“Like Mitchell said—we stick together.”
* * *
Bob stepped into the deserted alley behind the theater, searching his pockets for his car keys. The street flooded with light. Limos waited bumper to bumper. People stopped, craning their necks to catch glimpses of who occupied them.
“Crap, where’s my pot?” Bob double-checked his pockets.
Oh, yeah. He stuffed it under the counter when the tight-ass came in with the films. Would have sucked if he got all the way home without his stash. With the side streets blocked for the premiere, it would have taken him hours to get back to the theater.
Bob walked back through the door. Flashing his ID to the security guard, he climbed the stairs to the projection room.
Maybe the suit would be distracted by the Hollywoods downstairs and wouldn’t notice Bob slipping in and grabbing his weed. The dude looked like he was going to cry when Bob left. But there was no way he was sticking around without pay. Besides, the snacks ran out hours ago. Right now, a pizza, Pringles, and Zeppelin were waiting at home for him.
The door squeaked as Bob pushed it open. He stuck his head in, no sign of the suit. Bob quietly crossed to the counter and grabbed his weed. Turning, he spotted feet sticking out from under the projector. Shit. Only gone five minutes, and the dude was already jacking up his equipment.
“Hey, man, I told ya it was all set.” Bob crammed his weed into the front pocket of his pants. “There’s no need to go snooping up my skirt.”
“Dude?” Bob cautiously took a step forward. The feet were not moving. “Hey, you been sampling some of my stash?”
“Dude?”
Bob slowly nudged the suit’s foot. The body jerked, screaming as it slammed into the projector.
The suit climbed out from underneath, rubbing his head. “What in the hell are you doing here?” he snapped.
This guy had balls. Acting like he owned the place.
“What in the hell were you doing under there?” Bob demanded, jabbing a finger at the projector.
“There’s something wrong with this machine. It was making weird-ass sounds. Look, it cut me.”
The dude stuck his finger in Bob’s face. Grody! Like Bob really needed to see that. He had told the suit to sit back and chill. Couldn’t he follow a simple command?
“I told you not to touch my baby!” Bob pushed the suit aside, inspecting the projector. “Bertha … what’s he doing to you?”
Everything was as Bob had left it. Served the suit right if he got cut. Bob rubbed the side of the machine, cooing to it. “Guess I can’t leave you alone with this moron …”
“Hey!”
“Come on, dude. Lighten up,” Bob said, laughing as he pulled the bag of weed out of his pocket.
Smiling, the suit walked over to the door, flicking the lock. “Will you quit calling me dude? My name is Simon.”
“All right, Simon. Have a seat. It’s going to be a long night.”
* * *
Mitchell’s high-pitched screams rang in his ears as he careened down the slide. This was so not like the one at Wild Water Safari. He squeezed his eyes shut. Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please, don’t let there be any monsters at the bottom. Please.
As a matter of fact, please let there be an exit from this fun house.
A second later, he shot out of the bottom of the slide, landing with a thud on the damp tile floor. Mitchell groaned as he sat up.
“Oh, great. So much for not getting separated.” The room was muggy, and smelled like mold and dirty laundry. Kinda like Craig’s side of the room. An Olympic-size pool sat in the middle. The water was green, and covered with algae. Gross! Guess the brothers don’t swim much.
Mitchell pushed himself to his feet, peering into the murky water.
“Please don’t let the Swamp Thing be hiding in there.”
The water began to ripple, bubbles rising to the surface.
“Oh crap!”
A head rose out of the water. Gray flesh, torn and rotting, on its face. Clothes shredded, stained red with blood. Another head appeared. A partially severed arm followed, dangling from its side.
“Zombies? Freakin’ zombies?” That’s it! The Baxter brothers were off his Christmas card list. Of all of the horror monsters, they had to stick him with zombies? Classic.
Mitchell’s feet slipped on the slick tile as he careened backward.
Two more zombies lurched toward the steps in the pool.
“Help!” he screamed, but who would answer him?
Mitchell’s eyes darted around the room. He ran to the only door at the opposite side of the room. Gripping the handle with both hands he pulled. The door held tight. Moaning and the splash of water sounded behind him.
Mitchell glanced over his shoulder as two of the zombies staggered out of the pool— arms extended toward him. He stepped away from the door, searching for a weapon.
“This isn’t funny!” he yelled at no one in particular.
&
nbsp; Right about now would be a good time for the hero to come crashing through the door, guns blazing. Any minute now … Crap. Now what?
“Okay, I know you aren’t real zombies …” Mitchell took a step backward. “But you guys look like real zombies, and sound like real zombies.” He sniffed the air. “And smell like real zombies … Of course you do! The twins are perfectionists.”
One of the zombies slipped on the tile, falling to its knees. The other zombie continued forward. Blood dripped from a chunk of missing flesh on its arm.
“Which probably involves eating human flesh …” Mitchell smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “So, think, Mitchell, think! Okay … okay.”
Mitchell spotted a pool skimmer propped against the wall behind the zombie. Obviously, the thing didn’t get used much.
“According to Night of the Living Dead, the only way to kill a zombie is to destroy its brain.”
Mitchell skidded past the zombie just as it lunged for him. Thank God that the Baxters modeled their zombies after the classic Night of the Living Dead ones. Grabbing the pole, he lifted it and swung at the zombie’s head, leaving a large dent in the side. The zombie fell lifeless to the floor.
“Thank you, George A. Romero!” And Wii Super Sluggers. Who says video games aren’t good for anything?
A second zombie staggered forward. Part of its jaw was missing. Teeth yellowed and cracked. Mitchell swung at the zombie’s head. Sparks flew as a piece of skin slid off.
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