Hollywood Hack Job

by Nathan Allen

  A butane torch was held to the sole of his foot – the one they hadn’t pulverized with a hammer – for a period of several minutes until the skin blackened and the flesh burned. A pair of garden sheers was used to give him a forked tongue. His mouth was superglued shut, and then his nostrils, before a hole was drilled into his trachea to prevent suffocation.

  Both writers found they were much less squeamish this time around. It still wasn’t easy, and they expected their actions would come back to haunt them at some point in the future, but they would deal with those demons if and when they came.

  They also took great care in deciding where the various implements were inserted. They consulted a copy of Gray’s Anatomy to avoid vital organs and major arteries, which ensured the experience lasted a lot longer than their first attempt.

  In between these barbaric acts they went to work on the script, with every scream of agony and plea for mercy giving them a fresh surge of inspiration. They managed to improve the sub plot involving the two police officers investigating the campers’ disappearances, and fleshed out Francine’s character to give her additional depth and greater motivation. The dialogue was polished to make it sound more naturalistic and less like a stage play, while the farmer was provided with a more detailed and compelling backstory and a satisfying narrative arc. Many scenes from the first act were rewritten to give the film a stronger opening and a less-contrived inciting incident.

  Eric finally put Warwick out of his misery after three days of relentless torture, slicing through the carotid artery and creating a blood geyser in his neck.

  By the time the coyotes had stripped the last of the flesh from Warwick Wilson’s bones, Cameron and Eric had reached the eighty page mark.

  WRONG TURN

  by

  Cameron Knight & Eric Haas

  Based on characters created by Alan B. McElroy

  * * *

  INT. CABIN -- NIGHT

  Evan fights the excruciating discomfort as he continues the Sisyphean task of freeing himself. His arms twist like a contortionist’s, trying to loosen the thick rope binding his wrists together.

  He yanks his arm with everything he has. His THUMB DISLOCATES as he attempts to squeeze his hand through an impossibly small gap. Miraculously, it comes free.

  He pulls his other hand out, and the rope falls away.

  Despite the agony of his DEFORMED HAND, he scrambles to untie the rope from around his ankles.

  He gets to his feet, unsteady, punch-drunk from the earlier blow to the head.

  He grits his teeth and twists his dislocated thumb until it SNAPS BACK INTO THE JOINT. He bites down on his tongue to stop from screaming out in pain.

  Freedom now beckons through the FRONT DOOR, a mere fifteen feet away. Only the living room -- and the sadistic cannibal currently occupying it -- stands in his way.

  He creeps forward, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, going to great lengths to be AS QUIET AS POSSIBLE.

  He reaches the living room. Saw Tooth rocks back and forth in his chair, facing away. He GNAWS on Carly’s SEVERED ARM.

  The remainder of Carly’s SUPPLE NAKED BODY lies in the center of the room.

  A beat passes before Evan summons the courage to take another step. As he does, the FLOORBOARDS give off a treacherous CREAK.

  Saw Tooth stops, mid-chew. He spins around. RAW HUMAN FLESH hangs from his mouth.

  No one is there.

  ANGLE ON: Evan -- hidden behind a shelf. Holding his breath. Sucking in his stomach, his back pressed hard against the wall. Doing everything humanly possible to avoid being seen.

  ANGLE ON: A VASE, at the top of the shelf. It WOBBLES PRECARIOUSLY.

  ANGLE ON: Saw Tooth. He watches a moment longer, then returns to his meal ...

  ... as the vase TOPPLES OVER and PLUMMETS TO THE GROUND!

  ... only to land in Evan’s hands, an inch away from SHATTERING ON THE FLOOR!

  Evan swallows, forcing his hypertrophied heart back down from his esophagus. He carefully places the vase on the floor and sneaks out the front door.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. CABIN -- NIGHT

  The SUV sits in the middle of the yard.

  Evan slips away from the cabin. He checks that the coast is clear, then creeps over to the vehicle. He silently opens the door and climbs behind the wheel.

  CUT TO:

  INT. SUV -- NIGHT

  He searches for his cell phone. He checks the backpacks, the glove compartment, the floor. It’s not there.

  He leans forward and runs his hand underneath the front seat. He finds it! He quickly dials 911.

  But the screen goes blank -- THE BATTERY IS DEAD!

  He tosses the phone aside in sheer vexation. He has to decide -- stay in the vehicle or make a run for it. His hand moves to the door handle, but he reconsiders and pulls it away.

  He rips open the panel below the ignition. He pulls out a CLUMP OF WIRES and sets to work on HOTWIRING THE CAR.

  He strips the insulation from TWO WIRES, then presses them together. The engine COUGHS and SPLUTTERS. His foot PUMPS THE GAS. But the car fails to start.

  The sense of escalating PANIC is splashed across Evan’s tortured face. A single bead of PERSPIRATION trickles down his forehead.

  He looks back to the cabin. He expects to see the cannibals coming for him at any moment.

  He tries again and again. There’s further spluttering, but it simply refuses to turn over.

  And then, incredibly, the engine ROARS TO LIFE.

  Evan allows himself a smile at this rare moment of good fortune. He wipes away the sweat, then puts the car into reverse and adjusts the REAR VIEW MIRROR.

  In the mirror’s reflection is the GROTESQUE FACE OF THREE FINGER!

  EXTREME CLOSE UP: We see the WHITES OF EVAN’S EYES ...

  ... as Three Finger pounces forward! A set of SHARPENED YELLOW FANGS clamps down on Evan’s neck.

  CUT TO:

  EXT. CABIN -- NIGHT

  The SUV lurches backwards and SLAMS into the trunk of an old OAK TREE. HOWLS OF TERROR echo throughout the surrounding woods.

  The engine cuts out. A SCARLET GEYSER paints the windscreen from the inside.

  Chapter 24

  “Oh my God!” squealed Kaycee, the helium-voiced bottle-blonde clutching a strawberry daiquiri she looked barely old enough to legally consume. “Do you really know Michael Bay?”

  “Oh, sure,” Cameron said. He took a sip of his scotch and soda, trying to affect a casual pose like it was no big deal. “He’s a good friend of mine. We’ve been collaborating on this script for the past few months. I’ve been on his yacht and everything.”

  “I am such a huge fan.” Kaycee leaned in closer, raising her voice to be heard over the band playing in the background. “His films are the whole reason I decided to become an actress in the first place.”

  “You’re an actress?” Cameron tried to sound genuinely surprised. He could have guessed she was an actress, given they were neither uncommon nor particularly hard to identify. Especially not here, inside the VIP section at the Coachella Music Festival, where pretty much everyone was an aspiring something-or-other, be it an actor, singer, model, artist, fashionista, or some combination of all of the above. “You know, the film we’re working on at the moment, it’s part of this whole series called the Platinum Dunes Cinematic Universe. Another eight or nine movies will be released over the next three years. It’s going to be huge.”

  “Oh, I would do anything to be in one of those!”

  “Hey, I’m sure I could pull a few strings to get you an audition. They’re actually looking to cast unknowns in the lead roles rather than hiring established stars.”

  “Could you really do that for me?” Kaycee’s already high-pitched voice was nearing glass-shattering levels. Being in such close proximity to an alleged Hollywood insider had her on the verge of hyperventilation.

  “Sure,” Cameron shrugged. “I’ll bring it up with Michael the next time I speak with h
im. I’ll even put in a good word.”

  Kaycee’s eyes appeared to double in size. “That would be amazing!”

  He took his phone from his pocket. Kaycee was so eager to punch in her number she almost snatched it from his hands.

  As she did this, Cameron finished his drink and took a moment to soak in his surroundings. Here he was, at one of the world’s biggest music festivals, lounging around in the air conditioned comfort inside the exclusive cordoned-off area, rubbing shoulders with LA’s hippest and most beautiful people. This was definitely the place to be right now. It felt like he was at the center of the universe.

  This short vacation was his reward for finally finishing Wrong Turn. Not only was it done, but they had managed to complete it in record time – twelve days was all it took to knock out the second and third acts, well ahead of their deadline. It was their best work yet; an original, compelling story that pushed the boundaries artistically while still remaining accessible to a mass audience. It had a strong narrative, and it ended with a killer twist. They emailed the first twenty pages to Michael to give him some idea of their progress, and he went nuts for it. He told them it was exactly what he wanted.

  He had tried to convince Eric to come along with him on this trip, saying they both needed time away to blow off some steam after everything they had put themselves through over the past few months. Eric declined, opting to stay back and work on the script some more since they had nearly two weeks before it was due. Cameron tried to tell him it was good enough as it was, but Eric had always been something of a perfectionist. He said it made sense to use up all their allotted time to ensure their work was the absolute best it could be, and that they should no longer be satisfied with simply being “good enough”.

  Cameron thought he was wasting his time, but he didn’t say anything. If Eric wanted to spend the next two weeks tweaking and rewriting and shuffling words around, that was fine with him. But he was done with it. A huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he was determined to take some time out to enjoy himself.

  Kaycee handed back his phone. “Call me,” she said with a flirtatious smile.

  Cameron promised to do just that, before wandering over to the viewing area.

  The band on stage was typical of those on the bill that year – Cameron had never heard of them, and he didn’t really care for their music. He watched them play their mundane brand of miserablist indie rock for a few minutes before returning to the bar and ordering a pina colada.

  Along the way, he spotted one of the general admission peasants sneaking past security into the VIP section. He quickly alerted one of the guards and had the intruder kicked out.

  Almost three weeks had passed since Warwick Wilson was lured to Cameron and Eric’s home under false pretenses before leaving inside six separate garbage bags. There had been several mentions of his unexplained disappearance in the press, but as yet no suspicion had been cast in their direction. They had gone to great lengths to cover their tracks and ensure there was nothing to connect them with Warwick. The same went for Robert Faulkner. When the police looked into the case and began interviewing those who knew him, they would most likely conclude that Warwick Wilson’s shady past had finally caught up with him. It would never occur to them that the disappearance of a casting agent with a dubious reputation was in any way linked to that of an alcoholic wife-beater on trial for murder.

  What they did to reach such a high artistic summit was no doubt unpleasant, but it was also necessary. Great sacrifice was always required to achieve anything worthwhile, and in the end no one was hurt. At least, no one who didn’t deserve it.

  Cameron drove home from the airport eleven days later and pulled into the garage. It was just before midday. As much as he enjoyed his week and a half vacation, he was glad to finally be back.

  His three-day trip to Coachella ended up lasting a little longer than he’d initially planned when he and a group of friends heard about a wild street festival happening in the Bahamas and made a spur-of-the-moment decision to fly out there for a week. He hesitated at first when they asked if he wanted to come along, since it meant he wouldn’t be arriving home until two days before the Wrong Turn deadline. But he ultimately decided to go. He justified the trip by telling himself that writers needed a steady stream of quality input to produce quality output, and they had to expose themselves to new life experiences in order to nurture their craft. Anyway, Eric seemed to have everything under control back home. There was no need to rush back.

  He switched off the engine and heard the faint sounds of drumming. This was hardly unusual, given the Tommy Lee wannabe from next door was known to bash away on his kit at all hours of the day and night. But something about it was off. Even to his untrained, heavy rock-averse ears, it didn’t sound quite right. It was an unfamiliar style, and not the abrasive rhythmic pummeling he had become accustomed to hearing every day for the past three months. It was a more unsophisticated, slightly out of time pounding.

  The noise grew louder as he walked through the front door. That was the other strange thing – it wasn’t actually coming from the neighbor’s house. It was coming from down in the basement.

  He didn’t know why, but the hairs on the back of his neck were sticking up. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on. It was more of a sixth sense or a gut instinct. It was with a great deal of caution and trepidation that he opened the door to the basement and descended the stairs.

  He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he thought he might find when he reached the bottom. But never in a million years did he expect to be confronted by a scene like this.

  There was a man, strapped to a bench. Or about eighty-two percent of a man was strapped to a bench. The other eighteen percent was nowhere to be seen. He was alive, but only just hanging on. His face was battered and bruised, and his left ear was missing. As was his right hand. A blood-soaked bed sheet was wrapped tight around his torso like a tourniquet, covering up untold injuries and abrasions.

  Both legs had been severed at the knee. The cauterized wounds appeared to be fresh.

  In the middle of the room, and oblivious to Cameron’s presence, Eric pounded away on a drum kit. What he lacked in technical proficiency he made up for in sheer enthusiasm. There was blood up to his elbows and covering much of his clothes.

  Scattered around the room were his various instruments of torture: a tomahawk, a hacksaw, two knitting needles, a box of six-inch galvanized nails, a container of sodium hydroxide.

  The man on the bench lifted a stumpy arm when he saw Cameron enter. He let out a groan, a desperate cry for help. It sounded like an animal caught in a trap. Eric stopped his playing and turned around.

  “Oh, hi Cameron,” he said. “When did you get back? I didn’t hear you pull up.”

  “Eric ...” Cameron choked on his words as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “What’s going on here?”

  “Just a touch of poetic justice, that’s all.” Eric twirled the drumsticks around in his fingers. “Our good friend here has spent many months torturing us with his drumming. I figured it was time we returned the favor.”

  Only now did Cameron recognize the unfortunate soul strapped to the bench. It was their disruptive neighbor, the aging tattooed rocker.

  Eric resumed playing. He closed his eyes and attempted a frantic Bonham-esque drum fill. It sounded like a stack of pots and pans tumbling down a staircase. He stopped after about thirty seconds.

  “Hey, you can join in if you like,” he said. “I have some maracas here. You can play those.”

  He picked up the cocktail mixer by his side and gave it a shake. Cameron didn’t need to see inside to know what produced the percussive sound. He only had to look at the neighbor’s swollen face, which was the color and shape of a giant plum, and the bloodied claw hammer on the shelf next to him, to know it could only be filled with freshly-extracted teeth.

  He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  Eric tossed the
shaker over to him, then counted himself back in and slammed his sticks into the snare. He gestured for Cameron to join in, but Cameron could only stand there and watch, doing all he could to make sense of this unfathomable madness.

  “What did you do, Eric?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Well ...” Eric halted his playing. He pushed his shoulders back and stretched out his stiff back muscles. “Let’s see. This all started on Friday morning ...”

  Eric went on to recount the events of the previous few days, filling Cameron in on all that had happened in his absence. He explained how he had been hard at work rewriting the script’s climactic scene, struggling to close a few minor plot holes while at the same time elevating the dramatic stakes, when he was again distracted by the interminable clatter coming from across the fence. He ignored it for as long as he could tolerate, but after several frustrating hours he decided that he’d had enough. He knocked on the neighbor’s door and made another polite request to keep it down, but this was again met with hostility. That was when he saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.