by Alan Spencer
Andy Ryerson.
Am I supposed to recognize that name?
Billy braced himself for anything. He glanced back at Jessica’s office. Nobody else was roused by the voice except for him. He snuck into the office and unleashed a small yelp. A man was face-down on his desk. Blood soaked the carpet beneath the desk; the man had slit his wrists. Billy couldn’t locate the weapon. The method of death became irrelevant when the corpse lifted his head from the desk. He was blue faced and quite dead.
The corpse's movements were slow, as if his limbs were made of concrete. He reached out and begged, “Don’t run from me! I’m not going to hurt you.”
Billy backed out of the office and slammed the door. “It’s another monster. Damn it, I’m so stupid!”
The voice continued to beckon him, and then it deteriorated. He heard the sound of splattering. The collapse of bones.
He was confused, standing there. If it was a monster, why didn’t it come after him? The man was a zombie, it seemed, but how did it know his name? Why did it plead with him?
Curiosity wouldn’t allow him to leave the hall. If the zombie was alive, he’d come out at any moment and attack. Billy couldn’t ignore that fact, and he wouldn’t put anybody else on night watch without taking care of the intruder first.
Billy opened the door again, ready to close it immediately if he was assaulted. The zombie was gone, to his astonishment. A liquid pile of skin, tissue, blood and disintegrating bone faced him. The sludge didn’t move. The zombie was dead. Again.
A hand closed over his mouth. His feet were swept from beneath him. Two different pairs of hands clutched onto him, one carrying him by his upper body, the other holding his legs. He thrashed and attempted to call for help, but the hand stayed in place even after he bit it three times—and tasted pieces of dead skin sloughing off into his mouth.
“If you want Jessica and your best friend to be safe, you’ll stay quiet. We’re not here to hurt you. We want to help you. Let us help you. But we have to take you to a special room first.”
Yeah sure, a special killing room. Away from help, right? Why should I trust walking dead men?
He was carried through two hallways and three doors, the final door leading to a stairwell. Taking a side door, they entered Allied Health Insurance Company. Cubicles and corpses filled what used to be a workplace. The zombies at both sides of him began to drip onto the ground, and they released him. The skin was loosening from their hands like hot putty. Accompanied by the slither of flesh, the sharp crack and give of bones, his capturers dismantled before his eyes. The swirl of greens, reds and blacks dripped onto the tiles.
“Nasty.” He dodged the incoming fleshy puddles. “That’s what you get for trying to capture me. I'm getting the fuck out of here.”
“No, wait!” a constricted voice shouted behind him. “Billy, please, listen to us. We’re only trying to help you. Listen to me. It’s your only chance to save Chicago.”
Billy was frozen in place. The words were coming from a cubicle down the way. He ran to it. A woman met him wearing a blue top and gray skirt. Her neck was snapped, tilted flimsily to one side. Her face was even bluer than the last corpse. Very much dead. “I’m a ghost, Billy. My name is Andy Ryerson. I'm talking through this body to reach you. An attack happened one year ago in the town of Anderson Mills, Kansas. Monsters from movies came to life. You have to destroy the projector. It’s the only way to stop them.”
The corpse’s eyes rolled into the back of its head and then exploded as if a firecracker went off under each eyelid. The rest of the woman's flesh melted in waxy thick trails until the skeleton was bare. The body kept talking until the final moment when the head snapped off. The last words it spoke were: “My spirit entering these bodies causes the corpses to melt and break. I only have so many chances to talk to you. Please, just listen to me. I won’t harm you. I know you’re scared. So was I when it happened to me.”
The woman crashed front first onto the carpet. A suited corpse, this one with yellow-blue-purple bruises around his throat, limped up to him. The man’s mouth dribbled black blood between words. “My uncle was named James Ryerson. He was a magician. He moved into a house that was haunted by a ghost who happened to be a preacher. This preacher was an oracle. He spoke to the dead before and after he died. His name was Edgar Hutchinson. Edgar made contact with my uncle while he lived in that house. The dead man haunted my uncle for favors. In fact, Edgar wouldn’t leave him alone ever. Other ghosts joined in too with favors to ask of my uncle. They kept him up at all hours of the night. He couldn’t escape them. The ghosts wanted him to terrorize the living from beyond. They were driving him crazy, but the ghosts offered him something he couldn’t refuse. Fame and fortune. To improve his magic act, the ghosts inhabited his magic items, and James’ shows became world famous. But the ghosts inhabited other items in his house, including an Orion projector…”
The cuffs of the man’s suit began to stream out steaming globules of caramel-consistency flesh. Another corpse, an older woman, an assistant with a headset on, ambled up to him next from a nearby cubicle. Her neck had been snapped as well.
She said, “James burned the magic items after a vicious attack killed fifty people during one of his acts. But the ghosts remained in the Orion projector. After my uncle vanished without a trace, I inherited his house. I just graduated film school, and my professor asked me to watch a collection of rediscovered horror movies. I ended up using the projector in the attic, the haunted projector, and the monsters in the films were projected in real life. The ghosts used them as a vessel to live again. I destroyed the projector but one of the films survived. They possessed that instead, and when the film was shown they came to life and found another projector to inhabit. Their only goal is to cause chaos and death. They’re bitter, vengeful spirits who hate the living for being alive. They’re using old horror movie reels to enact their revenge.
“If they can’t be human, then nobody can. They want us to be wandering spirits in limbo like them, permanent residents in hell. They won’t stop until everybody in the city is dead. Then they’ll plunder the next big metropolis and then small towns until earth is one big graveyard. The thing I’ve learned since death is that the ghosts are further tainted by the horror movie character they become. They take on the movie villain’s persona and their aspirations. They truly become the movies. A movie character by the name of Jorg: The Hungry Butcher rampaged through Anderson Mills, chopping people into choice cuts when I was still alive. Even though a ghost was trapped inside the reel’s image of Jorg, the ghost was using Jorg’s movie lines, acting out Jorg’s actions from the movie all the same. More films are being shown this time around, and now the ghost’s identities are even more lost in the characters. But if you destroy the projector and all the films, you end their outlet into the world. You can stop this, Billy. They’re playing possessed reels in an apartment building. I’ve written down the address on this piece of paper. You must do what I say, or else city after city will suffer the same horrifying deaths. It will never end. It will only grow worse.
“Not all spirits are evil, Billy. Many good people await their loved ones in the afterlife when their time finally comes. I created an insurance policy in case you don’t trust me. He’ll be waiting for you in the hallway when you return to the fourth floor. He’s watching over your friends. End this, Billy, before it’s too late. I'm begging you to take what I say to heart. You don’t have much time. The air is growing thin. Save yourselves and everybody else.”
The woman disintegrated. Billy turned his head in disgust as her remains splashed onto the carpet. He waited for another corpse to rise and speak again. After three minutes, he quit waiting. Billy was about to leave for the fourth floor when he recalled the address the old woman’s corpse told him about.
He stepped over the woman’s liquefied remains and into the cubicle. On a piece of paper, an address was scrawled in blue ink. He picked it up and turned over in his mind what had happened
in the past five minutes.
I should’ve asked more questions. Who the hell is Andy Ryerson? Movies coming to life can’t be for real. But it makes sense. I was right from the beginning.
“Yeah, and Jessica and Nelson are going to believe me. Sure. Fuck it, I don't care. We’ll drive across town to this guy Ted Fuller’s apartment and destroy the projector. It's the best I've got.”
The words repeated in his head: I created an insurance policy in case you don’t trust me.
He rushed through the cubicles, out of the insurance company's offices, climbed down a flight of stairs and returned to Jessica’s office. He struggled for breath. The air was getting thinner, and he was coughing in fits.
I’m too fucking fat to save the world!
Billy slowed when he heard laughter. Yards from Jessica’s office, the door wide open, he overheard Nelson talking boisterously. Jessica was standing up and was immediately drawn to him when he arrived. “I don’t know who the hell this guy is, but Nelson seems to know him.”
“I’m Dr. Aorta,” the stranger in the room announced, greeting Billy. “Now you know me, and we can get to work. I’m not getting much of a hero’s welcome, but real heroes don't need them, now do they?”
Dr. Aorta was six feet tall, athletic and muscular. His head was shaved and formed a point at the top. He wore a brown leisure suit and sucked on the end of an unlit cigar. The man kept a monocle in his right eye with a sterling silver chain hanging from the side. A pin of the Russian flag was stuck to his left breast pocket. The man had a slight Russian accent, though it was tempered with a New Jersey accent on and off. Billy couldn’t wrap his mind around why this man was here until he finally understood.
This was yet another creation based on a B-movie.
Billy asked, “Where did you come from?”
“Andy Ryerson sent me. You just talked to him, didn’t you?”
Billy was awestruck. Jessica tugged on his arm. “You were gone. I woke up to a knock on the door, and there he was. I didn’t know what to do. Thank God Nelson recognized him. I about shit my pants.”
“You guys haven’t seen many old horror movies, have you?” Nelson patted Dr. Aorta’s shoulder as if they'd won a rugby game, and Dr. Aorta had scored the winning point. “Haven’t you seen Frankenstein Lives at Your Dormitory? Swamp Creatures Attack San Diego? How about Chronicle of the Grim Reaper? You almost died in that one. The grim reaper about cut you down. And what about Undead Cheerleader Squad? Beneath the Quicksand? Reef Monsters of Coral Island? Beach Volleyball Communists? Come on, you haven’t seen any of his films? He’s a Russian biochemist and mercenary hired by the Soviets to infiltrate vampires, zombies and, well, undead cheerleaders. Their pom-poms, you see, were created with cheap plastic. It caused a radioactive reaction through the plastic, which channeled through their wrists, into their bloodstreams and into their brains.
“The Americans can’t keep up with his physical and intellectual abilities. Teams of slayers have died fighting what this guy picks off like nothing. Dr. Aorta has survived two decades of monsters. He was trained at birth. He probably had a pair of boxing gloves already strapped on in the womb. He was staking vamps, blowing away werewolves with silver bullets and bashing zombies’ heads in since he was a tyke. His parents were slaughtered by ghost-inhabited scarecrows, you see. He was born in Russia, but then moved to America, where he was raised on democratic ideals and valor and all that shit, and he was trained by mixed martial arts instructors, learning Taekwondo, Karate and Druid self-defense, and then—”
Dr. Aorta was gracious. “You’re too kind, Nelson, too kind.”
“He’s the James Bond of monster slaying,” Nelson gushed. “He creates the best weapons. He infiltrates evil. He’s an engineer. A weapons specialist to boot. And he’s pulled a lot of ass in his day. That pep squad lady you bagged in the locker room, she was aching for you. They call him Dr. Aorta because he’s a man of valor, courage and he has the biggest heart of any human being—literally, he was born with an enlarged heart.”
Billy scoffed. “Then why didn’t they call him ‘Dr. Heart’?”
Nelson shook his head. “N-no, he’s Dr. Aorta. ‘Dr. Heart’ sounds stupid, you jackass.”
Dr. Aorta had the bearing of a militant man. “Yes, perhaps another time I can school you in the art of courtship, Nelson. I’m grateful for my fans. For now, you have an address in your hands, son.” He held out his hand to Billy. “Do you mind showing me that paper?”
Billy handed him the address. “Here you go, doctor.”
“Oh yes.” His eye behind the monocle went small. “Then we don’t have any time to lose. The projector is on the fourth floor of Ted Fuller's apartment building, Andy has told me. All we have to do is go across town and destroy it.”
“Wait,” Jessica said. “I’m not going out there. Have you seen what’s out there? It's dangerous.”
Nelson shook his head. “This guy will protect us. He’s the best. He always has an ace up one sleeve and a stick of dynamite in the other. We’re saved. Wake up, guys. Everything’s going to be okay. It’s Dr. Aorta!”
Billy recalled what Andy’s spirit said about ghosts. “So how did you come to life, Dr. Aorta?”
“I was in one of the reels the vampires are playing in Ted Fuller’s apartment. Andy allowed me to come to life. He’s gathering the spirits of good on his side. It’ll take time before more good spirits can save us. That’s why we have to save ourselves first. The city’s almost all dead, Billy. We’re one of the few left alive. Once the final body hits the ground, that dome will be released, and you can kiss the next city goodbye.”
Jessica clutched onto Billy. She was quivering. “Is this real, Billy?”
“I’m afraid so. When I was on watch duty, voices called out to me. I was dragged up to the fifth floor by living corpses. They were your co-workers, Jessica, but they were temporarily inhabited by ghosts, including Andy’s. Andy told me a haunted movie projector is playing horror movies. It's the simplest explanation I can give you. That’s why there are the strange creatures out there. The crazier it sounds, the more it makes sense. Andy said Dr. Aorta was his insurance policy. I guess that proves the movies do come to life.”
Nelson said, “You were right, Billy, about Death Reject. And the 500 Foot Hooker, I was right about that too. The Internet site with the pictures, it’s real.”
Jessica hid her face in her hands. She still didn't want to believe the far-fetched truth.
Dr. Aorta brought them back to the current situation. “Let’s get a move on. I know how to get to Ted’s apartment building. My vehicle is parked outside.”
“Let’s use the emergency exit,” Billy suggested. “If we’re going to do this, let’s be safe.”
Jessica raised her voice. “Hey, I’m not going anywhere! This creep, I barely know him. He’s not real. He’s a fucking B-movie character. You say he’s Russian, but I hear the New Jersey accent. He’s a fake.”
Nelson refused her argument. “He’s an A-1, first class, man of valor.”
“Shut the fuck up, you…you,” Jessica stammered, “dork! You’re getting off on this guy. Why don't you go jerk each other off after a double feature, or something.”
Dr. Aorta stepped out of the office without further talk. He faced the end of the hall and removed a ray-gun from his shoulder holster. The ray gun was made of reflective steel. It had the handle of a small handgun, but the sides of the device had glue stick tubes around the circumference. “Stand back, evil, or I’ll blast you to hell!”
Billy joined the man but doubled back at the sight of the enemy.
The man from Death Reject.
“If you blow up,” Dr. Aorta warned, “you’ll kill us, but when you come back together, you’ll be stuck. This is a super-chemical adhesive. You’ll never explode again.”
The death reject, his corpse face shiftless and unaffected, simply looked at Dr. Aorta. He pointed his finger straight out. His fingernail grew to a sharp lance. He sliced bo
th wrists and cackled, throwing his head back, salivating and foaming with pleasure at his move.
Dr. Aorta shouted, “Run like hell for the fire exits! The bastard’s going to flood us out of the building!”
The warning was useless. Billy expected the man’s wrists to gush blood, but this was like the breaking of a dam. The flesh burst open from his wrist up to the forearm. Ssssssssssssst! The death reject’s body was hidden behind the torrent of blood that erupted form him. The spray elevated to a wall of crimson, the tide ripping doors from the hinges, the wave barreling down upon them. Each of them was pounded down onto their backs. Jessica had wrenched open the fire exit the moment it happened. The liquid push delivered them down three sets of stairs, their bodies gliding on blood, spinning, flipping, hurled forward as if body surfing in red. Nelson went under, pushed by the rushing tide. An ocean of blood raised them many feet above the actual stairs. They were paddling to survive.
Billy paddled harder, swimming along with the current. He couldn’t see anybody else in the red waves. They finally arrived in the ground-floor lobby, spread out like beached fish. Blood flooded the lobby, washing up the furniture and filling up the space. Jessica, Nelson and Dr. Aorta had landed farther out than him, so Billy regained his composure, waded through knee-deep blood, and lifted each of them to their feet.
Dr. Aorta removed his suit jacket, angrily heaving it into the blood. “That’s a huge dry cleaning bill!” He pointed at the exit. “Move it, people. Death Reject will be right behind us.”
They followed Dr. Aorta, the B-movie character they had no choice but to trust.
“Listen to the man,” Billy demanded. “I don’t know any other plan that’s as good as following this guy.”
He clutched Jessica’s arm and helped her along as they waded through the blood. Nelson was side-by-side with Dr. Aorta.
That prick is loving every second of this.
Dr. Aorta picked up a chair and heaved it into the window. The shatter allowed the draining of blood onto the street. It gurgled down the gutter and painted the sidewalks. As they stepped into the Chicago night, the thinning air still carried a chill. Jessica was repulsed, being slathered in red.
