B-Movie Attack

by Alan Spencer

  Ted couldn’t argue. There were a dozen Joes and Johns in the apartment building that’d drop their pants at a moment’s notice for easy sex with hot women.

  The women crowded around a set of reels and locked arms. “I think this is the next one.”

  “We can’t just unleash the monsters on them.”

  “Build it up a bit. The more afraid they are, the more fun it will be to watch them all die.”

  “Yes, yes, prolong their suffering.”

  “We also have to block the city from the military or outside intervention. We blocked them out of Anderson Mills, and it worked.”

  “I can’t believe Andy Ryerson stopped us,” the blonde complained. “Well, that son-of-a-bitch is dead now.”

  Ted doubted his sanity. His movie characters were strategizing an assault on Chicago. If he hadn’t dreamed up the characters and put them to film, none of this would be happening—and he never imagined in his wildest dreams they’d be living and talking in his apartment. He could hear the clicking of another projector and then another. They had three running in the apartment. He couldn't do anything to stop them while he was bound to the bed, so he kept quiet. The vampires being busy meant he had more time to think of a way to get out of his bonds and warn everybody what was coming their way.

  Billy Carton stood beside his father’s bed with tears welling in his eyes. Wayne was in a body cast. His chest was wrapped heavily in bandages. His face was flat, like that of a baby deep in sleep. Billy waited for an explanation as to how this happened. Jessica, his girlfriend, held Billy’s hand to console him.

  “Dr. Mangrove says he’ll be all right.”

  “It’s safe to say it wasn’t a heart attack,” Billy said. “But my God, who did this to him? Did someone break into the building and try to rob someone’s lock box? What kind of a monster would do this?”

  Billy dabbed at his father’s neck and cheeks with a warm wet cloth. “I always worried about an intruder. That place has items stored in it worthy of Fort Knox. It’s a rich dude's closet. Millions and millions of dollars’ worth of stuff is kept in those lock boxes.”

  He turned from Wayne to look Jessica in the eye. Her blonde hair had been recently dyed, so the formerly dirty blonde was now bright blonde. She wore a navy blue skirt, flesh-colored stockings, and a V-neck Croft and Barrow top. She worked as a paralegal for the Crouch and Meadows legal team. They worked on-the-job injuries and unemployment cases. Jessica was saving money, planning to throw herself into law school to become a lawyer herself.

  “I know you have to go, honey,” Billy said, checking his watch. “I don’t deserve you. Thank you for being here.”

  “I can stay,” Jessica insisted. “Really.” She stroked his face. “And you look so pale. You're exhausted.”

  The scene of the exploding man at the curb replayed on his mental screen: a burst of red, a human bomb, had detonated right in front of him. “I’ll talk to you about it later. It’ll probably be on the news.”

  “What are you talking about?” She seized his arm. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I witnessed a man blow himself up about two blocks east of here. He, he killed everyone around him. It was unreal.”

  Jessica was at a loss for words. Finally she said, “We’ve got desperate people living in the world these days. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  He shook his head. “From my vantage point, a handful of people caught the debris. The police and ambulances swarmed the scene, and so did everybody in the general area. I couldn’t see anything, really. I don’t believe it even now. And it’s strange, I thought I recognized the guy who blew himself up. Maybe an old friend or a familiar face on the street, but I just can’t place the guy.”

  “It'll come to you,” Jessica said. “Things like that do in good time, but right now, you need to calm down and try to relax. You've had a long day.”

  “You’re right, honey.” Billy smiled. “I have the day off. Go back to Crouch and Fall.”

  “It’s Crouch and Meadows,” she groaned, playing into his favorite joke. “Are you certain?”

  “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you at home later.”

  Jessica kissed his cheek and hugged him close. “I love you, Billy. I’ll be thinking about you. I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad day. Tell me how Wayne’s doing later.”

  “I will."

  Jessica left the room, and Billy wondered how he was lucky enough to be dating Jessica. When he returned from the Nebraska Police Academy—his scholarship revoked after failing the physical standards test and basically quitting the program—his dad forced him to pay his own way through life. He checked local listings for apartments and decided to buddy-up to split the rent. His buddy turned out to be Jessica, someone he went to high school with but wasn’t friends with currently, and she was hesitant to allow him into the apartment. They agreed on a probation period and three months rent in advance. Their first kiss was over a plate of blueberry pancakes. He’d called one of her friends to find out what breakfast Jessica enjoyed. When Jessica found what lengths he went to to please her, she was impressed enough to pursue him back. He worked the system backward: live together first, and then date.

  Dr. Mangrove, a six-foot-tall doctor, entered the room. He greeted Billy with hopeful words. “Are you family?”

  “Yes, I’m Billy, Wayne's son.”

  Dr. Mangrove scribbled words on his clipboard and eyed the chart hanging at the end of the bed. “I’ll shoot straight with you. He’s received a broken pelvis and three lacerations across the chest. He also shattered three ribs.”

  Billy was in shock. “Do you know how it happened?”

  “That’s a police matter. They don’t let me know anything unless they require my medical opinion. But don’t worry, Billy, he’ll recover fully. He might be out of work for a time.”

  “I’ll figure it out. It’s good to hear he’ll make it. That's all that matters.”

  Dr. Mangrove patted his back. “I can tell when family members care about each other and when they don’t. You’re a good kid. Your father will be out of it when he wakes. He’s on a pretty high dose of morphine, but he probably won’t wake for hours. Why don’t you go out and get lunch? Was that pretty lady leaving the room a moment ago family?”

  “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Then you’ve reeled in a good one. She was here ten minutes after your father was wheeled into the room. She’s a keeper.” Dr. Mangrove headed for the door but then paused. “Go out and get some fresh air. Let us do the work. Everything's going to be okay.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Billy checked the wall clock. It was ten-thirty. He stood by the door a moment and studied his father. He was enjoying a deep, drug-induced sleep.

  His strange morning seemingly had come to a close.

  Chapter Five

  Detective Dwight Vickers from the Iowa State Police Department was on special assignment. His investigation hinged on the speculation surrounding Ted Fuller. Part of him believed the murders at Iowa State University, specifically outside of Denton Hall, were part of an elaborate publicity stunt concocted by Mr. Fuller himself, or by a band of cult followers. The perplexing aspect of the case was that all of the interviewed witnesses, unequivocally, claimed to have seen flying women resembling vampires or demons. The details ranged from flashing red eyes to branching wings, fanged teeth and claws. The images were directly from the movie that was showing, a few had claimed, as if they emerged from the screen. The wounds followed the descriptions in the film: many were lacerated, strangled, necks serrated and chewed through, or bones broken by inhuman strength. But he refused to believe in the fantastic. The eye-witness accounts were too numerous not to be true, though. The people did see flying creatures. They were humans in the guise of monsters. The coincidences were too strong to ignore. Ted Fuller, or somebody connected with him, was behind it.

  Today, Detective Vickers was accompanied by Glenn Baker, a young officer with naturally pink cheeks and
an overall inexperienced novice aura about him. Officer Baker was to serve as a city liaison. Today would be a long day of conducting interviews with Ted Fuller’s closest friends and co-workers at the Chicago Sun-Times. The first interview would've been Gary Pollard, but he was visiting a sick relative out of town. Before they could get a real start on the investigation, a call came over the radio.

  Officer Baker responded. “This is 1405.”

  “This may be of interest to Detective Vickers.” Detective Vickers recognized Chief Burne’s scratchy voice, caused by a lifetime of too many cigars, and shots of sour mash, and yelling at bumbling cops. “Go to the Claims and Lost Possessions Branch of Chicago. There’s a crime scene pertaining to his investigation, and I recommend scooting your asses right to it.”

  Detective Vickers wanted to ask how it applied to his case, but then decided against it. He was in someone else’s jurisdiction. This wasn’t his show. He was lucky enough to receive a backstage pass and a city liaison. He was determined to connect Ted Fuller to the crimes. During the interview, Fuller was telling the truth, but under the surface, there was another truth he couldn’t drudge up from the man. Maybe Fuller was nervous, but it was more complicated than the jitters. Fuller knew something he didn’t. Once Vickers interviewed enough people in town, he could petition for a warrant and search Ted Fuller’s apartment. He was confident by the end of tomorrow the warrant would be written and he could put another successful investigation under his belt.

  Officer Baker changed directions and headed east. “Can you tell me what this investigation is about? Everybody's so secretive down at the station.”

  “I’m following up on over twenty murders that happened at Iowa State University.” The detective figured if he disclosed carefully chosen tidbits of the truth, the man wouldn’t ask him anything else later. “They’re in connection to a movie premiere.”

  “Let me guess,” Baker joked. “A horror movie.”

  “You got it, smart guy. The methods of death resembled what happened in the movie itself, though only ten minutes of the damn thing were shown before chaos broke out. People were butchered, drained of blood, necks were bitten through, you name it.”

  “What was the movie about, zombies or vampires?”

  “Vampires. Plain old vampires.”

  “What did the vampires do?”

  Vickers huffed. He was fresh out of cigarettes, and he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. “Christ, do you want me to let you read a script?”

  “I just want to help. I mean, maybe I can keep my eyes peeled for anything strange—something you might miss. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

  “Sometimes.” Vickers knew it would be a long afternoon of interviews, so why not try and make the best of it, he decided. “Okay, the plot’s pretty outlandish. The title will knock your socks off. Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home.”

  “Is that like one of those soft core horror movies?”

  “It does feature lesbian vampires who are nymphomaniacs.” Detective Vickers laughed. “I guess these vampires have sex with everybody, not just chicks, though, if you read the plot synopsis online. So okay, they have sex with people to gain access to their blood. And they fly around and terrorize people. I read a blip about it on a movie fan website. The film is pretty gory.”

  “So you’re telling me somebody faked flying around and biting people.”

  “Bull’s eye.”

  Officer Baker mulled over the information and turned into the parking garage a block from the Claims and Lost Possessions Branch of Chicago without another word on the subject.

  Detective Vickers bent onto his haunches to duck under the yellow crime scene tape. The coppery smell of blood floated up to him immediately. He froze when he noted the narrow trenches dug into the walls. Talon marks.

  “My God, they were here too.”

  “Who?” Officer Baker asked. “Who was here?”

  “Nothing. Give me a moment.”

  Vickers stopped at the door ripped from its hinges. Ripped wasn’t the proper way to describe it. Decimated. The lock boxes within were untouched except for the corner ones. The steel fronts were twisted into a pathetic version of a peeled-back top of a sardine tin. The break-in was specific. Only one set of lockers had been robbed.

  “What did they steal?”

  A man stormed into the room. He wore a beige business suit and appeared to be in his sixties. His pot belly was so large, the detective could see the shape of his belly button through his shirt. He was bumbling and huffing, his face boiling with contempt. “They broke into my boxes. This is valuable property stolen. Worthless security couldn’t guard their own balls, never mind my reels.”

  “Reels?” Vickers stepped up to the man. He noticed his skin was drying around his eyebrows and scalp with a dusting of dandruff. “What exactly were in those lockers?”

  Three officers bounded into the room to force the man outside the crime scene, but Vickers waved them off. “I want to hear the man out for a moment, if you don’t mind? You won’t touch anything, correct, sir? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Dennis Brauman, head of the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals.”

  “Sounds like a made-up organization,” Baker said. “What gives you the right to bust in here, sir?”

  Vickers urged him aside. “Answer a few questions first.”

  “Where the hell’s my reels?” Dennis demanded, pressing his hands firmly at his hips and pacing in a line. “I can’t let those reach the public. My God, I locked those up for good reason. Immoral trash. All of it. If people see that trash, God knows what it'd inspire in those perverts out there.”

  “What exactly were you storing? What kind of reels?”

  “I don’t want to say. You’ll tell people, and then people will be interested. Film groups will be up my ass. And the fans. We'd have a riot on our hands.”

  “How so?”

  “I seized the property for the benefit of society. I was taking the high road. I was doing the right thing.”

  Vickers was confused. “Are you saying these reels were stolen?”

  “For good reason.” The man's eyes bulged, and he was sweating. He anticipated a negative reaction from the detective. “They’re smut. Nothing better than seedy porno flicks. God awful drivel. It’d turn good people into savages. Rapists. Charles Mansons. Chronic fornicators. Druggies. Hippies. Sickos, you get me? Weirdos.”

  Vickers stumbled for words while stifling an incredulous laugh. “Wait, you said you were from, um, the Private Film Coalition of Public Morals, right? Is that a religious group?”

  “No sir! We’re a group of normal citizens sick and tired of violence and sex in the cinema. We disbanded nearly two decades ago, but we were strong in the seventies and eighties. We did good work.”

  Vickers was already making a new connection, and he hadn’t interviewed a single one of Ted Fuller’s friends. Someone stole Brauman’s reels, and he was venturing to guess they resembled Fuller’s “trash cinema”. The marks on these walls were identical to the marks along the movie theatre walls at the university and the style of wounds on many of the victims in Iowa.

  “Would you happen to own any reels by Ted Fuller?”

  “Ted Fuller!” Dennis’s face turned ugly and the color of a blocked artery. “That bastard tried to steal my daughter from me. I shut down that relationship. He shot pornos with monsters. I swear to the holy lord he did. My daughter deserves better. She was young at the time, and dumb, my princess. Now she’s married a nice marine. He teaches Biology at Ohio University. He's respectable. She can do better, and she did better, than Ted Fuller.”

  “Okay, slow down. So those films were horror movies.”

  “Horror movies, stag films, stories that glorified drugs, rape, incest, anything my group found offensive. We took them and never gave them back.”

  “They were stolen, huh?” The detective played it over in his mind. “Nobody’s tried to prosecute you?”

/>   “Why would they? It’s trash. And if you’re going to book me, the statute of limitations protects me. I’m damn proud to protect the morals of the viewing community. The MPAA stands behind me. Good taste stands behind me. I’ve contacted my lawyers. The reels are public domain. You can’t arrest me.”

  Vickers received a heavy clue to Ted Fuller’s possible motive. A man creates movies, Vickers thought, intends to make a living on them, and then an organization steals the material without warrant or lawful procedure.

  “My safe is destroyed,” Dennis argued. “They were my belongings.”

  You stole them, and now of course you’re mad someone stole them back. “Well, we’ll let one of the officers get a report from you, and we’ll see about getting back your property.”

  Vickers jotted down his name and information. He pointed to a couple of local cops. “Show him out. And thank you for talking with me, sir.”

  This was turning into a new crime altogether: stolen reels. But not just any reels, Ted Fuller’s reels—the same Ted Fuller who’d married Dennis’s daughter a long time ago. Did Ted Fuller perform the reel heist and the killings on campus? If there was a revenge motive, how come Dennis hadn’t been harmed, especially if Ted Fuller knew about the stolen films the man had in his possession? Why wait so long to finally steal them?

  He turned to Officer Baker. “What else is here?”

  “Two security guards were here when the crime occurred,” Baker explained. “One was Wayne Carton. He’s recovering at the hospital from a broken pelvis and shattered ribs and three large lacerations across his chest. And security guard Al Denning didn’t fare so well. His throat was completely torn out. The man's dead.”

  “Damn.” Vickers’ chest clenched. “I need that search warrant. I’m certain Ted Fuller’s involved in this. It’s so obvious. If it weren’t for red tape, I could barge into that sociopath’s apartment and end this. Al Denning didn’t have to die. None of those people had to die.”