B-Movie Attack

by Alan Spencer

  “Then call it in,” Baker suggested. “This is an emergency. It sounds like we’ve got a psychopath, maybe a whole group of movie fanatics.”

  It was the first solid idea from the young man all day.

  The detective smiled. “Then let’s get to it.”

  Chapter Six

  Ted Fuller suffered the longest afternoon of his life. His attempts to break his wrists free of the rope restraints didn’t go unnoticed. The five graveyard tramps occupied the bed once again, draining his sex and stretching his libido to unreal limits. They dug welts in his thighs, like they were dogs demonstrating dominance on a weaker species. His shoulder blades were lanced with needle-sized cuts and dark purple bruises. The vampires were sucking blood from his neck and arms intermittently. The draining was excruciating to the point his nerves were no longer able to feel the agony. He was numb through and through. The loss of blood and their saliva in his bloodstream had a strange paralyzing effect on him. His vision was fading in and out. A drawn-out whaaaaaah sound in his ears made it difficult to listen.

  He was helpless to stop them.

  While he was in this state, they turned out the bedroom’s lights and played another film.

  Chicago’s a chopping block, he thought. Everyone will die. And it’s because of me.

  Ted couldn’t focus on one thought at a time, so he stuck to executing an escape. But all he could do was think, for he sank into the bed deeper and deeper. Every muscle was mush. A feverish heat blanket covered him. He sweated and stank of sickness. And the vampire women stank too. They smelled of unkempt sex. The twang of iron and spilled blood wafted on their breath and radiated out their undead flesh. Their flesh was ice cold the last time they made love to him. The harrowing realization he was having sex with corpses—and that they could mimic life and death at their will—chilled him.

  It’s not your fault.

  They're fucking movie characters.

  He eyed the shotgun that was feet from the bed. That was his safety net. They’d overtaken him before he even knew he was in trouble. Thinking back on what couldn't be changed, he was helpless to watch the images playing out on the wall. He caught random pieces of conversation as well, mostly of the vampires strategizing their attack.

  “How can we secure the city?”

  “This isn’t Anderson Mills. It won't be as easy. Fog won’t obscure an entire city. The military will intervene. We need more time. Something better to keep the authorities busy.”

  “You can’t block an entire city.”

  “Yes, you can! Don’t give up so easily, you infernal slut!”

  He heard the clanging of reel tins. They were shuffling and trying to locate the correct film to meet their goals. “This one’s a good start. Ease into it.”

  “Mr. Baker’s Delights.”

  If I could only break free, I could unplug that device, and this would all be over!

  Ted was soaked in sweat, the sheets sodden. The room spun at all angles. He couldn’t affix his eyes onto one object, he was so dizzy.

  He broke the spell and caught the movie that was playing on the wall. A pasty-faced man was peeking at a glass display of baked goods with a wild expression on his face, his wide eyes and his mouth even wider, gawking. The store sign appeared in the background: “Ferguson’s Bakery”.

  The man said exuberantly, “I can’t get enough mince-Molly. I'll order your freshest.”

  A middle-aged woman behind a counter of cookies, cakes, pies and pastries replied with a vexed expression on her face, “Sir, we don’t carry mince-Molly, whatever that is.”

  “You carry mincemeat pies, correct?”

  “Sir, I’m going to call the police.”

  “And your name is Molly, right?” The voice hardened. “Surely you can whip up some fresh mince-Molly. I'm starving, and I can't stand to wait for good food when I'm so hungry.”

  A scream followed the shattering of glass, but Ted’s eyes suddenly dried and he had to close them to re-hydrate them.

  He'd missed the brief killing scene.

  The vampires piped up after searching through more reel bins. “Yes, this is the film. I’ve found it. It’s perfect. Play it after this one. We'll entrap the city. Then after Chicago, we move on to another city, another town, until everyone’s dead.”

  “I knew this would go well after Andy Ryerson perished.”

  Ted attempted to plead for mercy for the city and for himself, but he soon slipped into a exhausted sleep.

  A middle-aged gentleman was reading the flyer posted on the inside of the door before entering Peggy Sue’s Bakery Creations, a Chicago favorite. The flyer was for the annual contest for the best pie or pastry. The winner received a one thousand-dollar prize and an official place on Peggy Fulbright’s menu. The gentleman tore the flyer from the wall, tucked it into his pocket and muttered, “Ah yes…yes. My pies are swell. Surely, I'd win.”

  Peggy Fulbright watched the strange man enter. The customer resembled Gene Wilder, except he was bald on top with carrot red hair bulging from both sides. He was five feet tall, no more than one-hundred and thirty pounds. His eyes were constantly wide as though excited, though his lips were relatively void of expression. The contradiction was inhuman. What troubled her even more was the fact he was wearing a black apron covered in powdered sugar and a baker’s hat was wadded up in his left pocket.

  Peggy channeled her nervous energy into a conversation. “May I help you, sir? Are you interested in our annual contest?”

  “Ah yes,” he said, clicking his tongue. “I love baking pies, pastries, delicious creamy cakes, strudels, cookies—always a baker’s dozen. No more, no less. Oh, and mmmmm, lemon tarts—lemon squares—bricks of fudge, donuts, bear claws, Danishes. Every good bakery bakes those fresh daily.”

  The man gawked at the other side of the counter. “What, no soda fountain? Oh, the kiddies love it.” He leaned in close over the glass display and gave her a wink. “And the adults do too.”

  “Um.” Peggy was confused. “How can I help you?” She noticed his nametag. “Mr. Baker”.

  He eyed her with a hint of disappointment. “Are you pie-eyed today?”

  Peggy was offended. “No, I haven’t been drinking.”

  “Do you run into the same problems I do being a baker?”

  She didn't mean to sigh. “And what would those problems be?”

  “I always run out of filling for mincemeat pie.”

  “Nope. I keep plenty on order.”

  The man’s face twisted into incredulity. “What do you mean you don’t run out? Then you’re not making it right. It’s not fresh if you don't run out. You get it out of a can, is that your game?” His expression of delight changed into psychotic malice. “No, you’re one of those bakers who don’t care about quality or their customers’ bellies. I care about their bellies very much. And you should too.”

  Peggy pointed at the door. “Please leave if you’re not going to buy anything.”

  “Have you ever tried mince-Harriet pie?”

  Her instincts kicked in and every inch of her body told her to bolt out of the store and scream for help. But she stood in place, afraid to give the man a reason to pursue her. If he stayed on his side of the counter, she’d be okay, she decided. “M-mince-Harriet pie?” She played dumb. “Is that your mother’s recipe?”

  “Actually, it is. She's the main ingredient!”

  Peggy had failed to notice the knife handle jutting from his forearm. He pulled the blade from his flesh, the exit creating a cough of blood. “But mince-Peggy, I’ll have to try next. My new recipe! Oh, I can’t wait to fill my pies with you.”

  Peggy turned to sprint to the back room when the large bladed knife was shoved through one temple and out the other. Both eyes were popped by the speeding tip of the knife. A wall of steel occupied her sockets.

  The woman flopped to the floor dead.

  Mr. Baker smelled more workers in back. Soft hints of perfume. Powdered sugar. Condensed milk. Aftershave. Apple fi
lling. Cinnamon sugar. Raw dough. Perspiration. Hair spray.

  Enticed by his olfactory senses, Mr. Baker thought the next victims would create many wonderful steaming-hot pies.

  Chapter Seven

  Billy Carton returned to his father’s room in the recovery unit. Wayne was in a deep sleep. The morphine did the trick. The nurses checked his vitals every hour on the hour. Each nurse reassured him Wayne would make a full recovery. Sitting in the room, Billy read an issue of Reader’s Digest, specifically an article about the increasing shortage of competent teachers in the high school system and how America was falling behind in Math. Yeah, what’s new?

  It was difficult reading anything too intelligent, so he tried Mad magazine, but even that proved troublesome. He closed his eyes. He’d consumed four Advil to ease his headache, the headache that had arrived the moment he'd witnessed the man blow himself up. The image of a ball of blood erupting on the crosswalk refused to leave his mind. The problem: in his memory, he didn’t remember seeing the man carry a detonator or anything resembling an explosive device. Another thing, where were the man’s remains? His guts should’ve been dangling from the streetlight, he thought.

  I swear he’s familiar. Yes, I saw it in a movie! The way the man looked, it was accurate down to the smallest detail. I can’t remember the plot. What movie was it?

  “You can’t be serious,” he laughed at himself. “I can’t believe I’m seriously considering this is from a movie. I need sleep. I need something I’m obviously not getting.”

  He stood next to his father’s bed and placed his hand on his arm. “Whoever did this to you is the scum of the earth. You’re going to pull through. I know you will. I’ll see you through it.” Billy smiled. “I love you, Dad.”

  Nurse Sherry Miller entered the room. Billy assumed she was the incoming night shift nurse. “Visiting hours are almost over,” she said politely. “I’ll be honest, he’ll be out the entire night. We’ll take care of him. What you need is to relax. Get your mind off things for a time. Go out to eat or rest. He’s in good hands. I promise.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded in approval. “I understand. Every nurse and doctor in this building has been outstanding. I guess I should call it a night.”

  Billy returned to his apartment, but not after glancing back at his dad one more time.

  The superintendent of East End Commons apartment complex had allowed Billy to sit out on the roof many months ago. Being a meter man, Billy had freed the man, Jack Hinkley, out of half a dozen parking violations. On the roof tonight, he enjoyed the view of Navy Pier and the harbor itself. The skyscrapers were spread out, every business tower in the city sector. Black, red and yellow pinpricks of light dominated the night. Billy relaxed on the lawn chair and closed his eyes. He sipped from a soda and ate a bag of onion-flavored chips. The din of traffic ruined what otherwise would’ve been a quiet sojourn up high. He was waiting for Derrick Nelson to arrive, to bring over the movie he couldn’t stop thinking about. Derrick was a movie buff and had a large collection of pirated and rare films.

  The conversation over the phone earlier had been short. “Do you remember that movie about the guy who can blow himself up and can put himself back together again?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s Death Reject. Why are you bringing that up?”

  “Don’t ask. Bring it over. We’ll talk.”

  Billy finished his drink and chips. He napped briefly before the stairwell door shot open. He expected Nelson, but it was Jessica. His girlfriend knelt down to his kiss his lips, but she was repelled by the onion smell on his breath. “Gross, you’re eating those chips again.”

  “I’m hungry for comfort food.”

  “That’s shocking,” she joked. “Is there ever a time when somebody says, ‘I’m hungry for uncomfortable food. Hey, I’ll have a salad.’”

  “Very funny. I’ve had a real shit of a day. I needed it.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  “They say he’ll be sleeping the whole night, but otherwise, he’ll recover. It’s safe to say he’ll be all right. The hard part is figuring out how to keep him afloat. He’ll be out of work.”

  “You do whatever it takes, you know that? I support you in that decision. If he has to live with us for a time, then so be it.”

  Jessica had been close to her own father before he died five years ago of throat cancer. She was especially close to him because of the man's eight-years-running lawsuit with Coleson’s Construction. Her father suffered a double foot injury when a wrecking ball snapped from its chain and landed on his feet shattering every bone. The lawyer worked their case pro bono and finally won. Billy knew that’s where she got her inspiration to become a lawyer. Her father's lawyer was a strong female figure, a real ball-breaker, from what he'd heard.

  “Do you mean it? Him moving in would be a challenging step in our relationship.”

  Jessica hugged him. “It's fine, onion breath.”

  The stairwell door opened again and Nelson approached them. He was a six-foot-tall three-hundred-pound titan. They could hear him breathe during his slow approach. He carried a 64-ounce soda from the local gas station in one hand and a black leather DVD case in the other. He wore a black T-shirt with an Xbox logo across the chest. “Hey guys, I’m not interrupting anything? You guys weren’t working towards the money shot? If you were, hey, I might stick around.”

  Jessica waved hello despite the comment. “Yeah, but you have to pay like everybody else.”

  “Your man and I have a date,” Nelson said. “A movie date.”

  Jessica huffed, knowing their repertoire of movies. “You’re not watching something stupid again are you?”

  Billy explained the outlandish event today to Nelson, and after reiterating how crazy the idea was, they returned to their apartment to watch the movie.

  Nelson popped in a burned DVD. The quality of Death Reject was washed out and re-recorded—the equivalent of a rented VHS copy copied from another rented VHS copy. What some would call a movie purchased on the “gray market”. The opening played a dramatic violin solo. The first shot panned to a young man in his mid-twenties sleeping soundly in bed. Then the camera jumped to a woman aiming a Smith & Wesson .30 automatic at the man’s chest.

  “I’m sorry, son, but I must. You’re an abomination.”

  She wept, and after a split-second to think, she pulled the trigger.

  The mother called the police, crying, “My son is dead.”

  Billy laughed. “Wow, she sounds totally devastated.”

  Nelson sucked up more soda through the neon pink straw. “The dialogue in this movie is hilarious. The timing’s off every time. Stilted as hell.”

  Billy stared at the television. The answer to the strange question tucked in the back of his head was in this movie. “Hey, could you fast forward to a part where he explodes?”

  “You really think somebody watched this movie and replicated it?”

  Jessica was reading a corporate law textbook on the orange bean bag chair in the corner and interjected, “You said yourself you thought it could’ve been a terrorist.”

  “Okay, I said that. But I can’t remember seeing an explosive device on his body. But I do recall vividly what the guy looked like. I swear it looks like the guy from the movie.”

  “And so what?” Jessica challenged. “It’s a movie. Movies aren’t real. People might act out what they watch, but that’s mostly kids. Are you going to the police with this startling evidence?”

  She’d been concerned with the connection he created between the suicide bomber and Death Reject. Billy looked into her eyes and could decipher the doubt behind them. Jessica would call his reaction a dose of post-traumatic stress syndrome. The attack on his father and witnessing half a dozen people injured or killed was affecting his judgment, he admitted, but he wouldn’t put the question to rest until he viewed the movie. Maybe after that, he could relax and remove the ridiculous notion from his mind.

  “You’re right,” Billy conceded. �
�Curiosity is killing me. That's the problem. Nelson doesn’t mind. He loves watching this shit.”

  Nelson stared intently at the movie screen and mumbled, “One person’s shit is another’s gold.”

  Billy watched the morgue scene when the death reject’s hand disconnects from the wrist and shoves itself down his mother’s throat. “Fast forward it to when he blows up,” he demanded. “I’ll watch the rest of it with you, I don’t care. I just have to see that part.”

  Jessica joined them. She touched his arm. “You can’t be serious about this. Please say you're not.”

  “I’m not crazy.” He knew he sounded crazy. He couldn’t remove the panic from his tone. “My dad went to the hospital, and I witnessed a guy blow up—yes, I’m in a weird state of mind, but just let me do this. I can let it go after this. I’m wrong, but I have to see it. Once it’s over, I’ll let it go.”

  Nelson paused the movie. “Should I go on? I don’t want to fuel your madness, Billy. I didn’t realize we were in court presenting exhibit A.”

  “Oh shut up, Nelson. You’re not helping. You probably want your movies to come to life, you big dork!” Jessica was on the verge of tears. “I'm worried about you. You shouldn't be doing this.”

  He did his best to defend himself. “Don’t make this personal. When I’m wrong and this is over, it’s over, okay? I’ll let it go.”

  She retrieved her purse. “Fine, then I’m going to Star Coffee.”

  Nelson joked. “Pick me up a biscotti and a steaming cup of bullshit.”

  “After you quit being a dick.” She slammed the door shut. “I’ll be back…maybe.”

  “I was only joking with her,” Nelson insisted. “I had a cousin who worked at Star Coffee, and she lived with me for almost a year. Sarah had stories about that place. Bad ones. Do you know what some workers do with the coffee beans before brewing them? They shove ‘em up in places and pull them back out to get a special caffeine high. Then they use the beans anyway. The joke wasn’t personal. She's pissed at me, isn't she?”