Husk
Page 9
I forced my head back, clamping my hands over my mouth. Wiping at the spittle with the back of my hand, I became acutely aware that I was encased in a tin can and surrounded by walking sundries.
Jesus fuck, I cursed to myself. Instinctively, indifferently, I had almost turned the bus into a public transit slaughterhouse. I slid over into the empty area and put my forehead against the window, barely registering the cold against my skin. Another passenger made for the space I had vacated; a businessman in full regalia of the middle class, leading into the space with his ass. I barked an order his way: “Saved, buddy.” He shot up to a standing position and clutched at the overhead rail, his eyes closed and his skin drained. He opened his eyes and looked at me: I directed my lips to curl upward at their ends and gave the gent a toothy grin of friendship. He passed out, slumping back into the seat. I left him there, unconscious, ignoring the stares of the other riders, satisfied that I had some privacy now.
I wasn’t even hungry, that’s what bothered me. I felt revitalized after Fisher, energetic almost, and fully satiated. I might have looked a little healthier — the mirror attested that I was as pale and saggy as before, but just maybe a bit pinker, skin tighter, hair more lush — but my thinking patterns were clear. Plainly, eating again so soon was unnecessary to my successful functioning. But the gluttonous gourmand portion of my undead brain wanted more. I’d have to watch that. The morgue doctor was bad enough, and what happened with Fisher was really bad, but both were containable if handled correctly.
A public feeding frenzy, however, would not be in my best interests. There’d be police, and bullets, and torches held aloft by angry villagers. If I were caught or contained, black op helicopters would fill the sky, men in hazmat suits would drop on bungee cords. The city would be sterilized. I’d be encased in a bubble, followed by a period of forced confinement and medical probing, followed by likely dissection.
No, I couldn’t let that happen. Perhaps I was a menace, maybe I was the beginning of the end of life itself, but until I had figured out a course of action that didn’t involve my becoming a Mary Kay makeup test bunny, I would do my damnedest to remain free. I would have to keep my feeding habits more on the downlow. Fisher would probably be enough to last me a while, if I rationed him out over a few weeks. And after I had sucked out his marrow and gnawed his bones to dust, then what? Kill again? Who? A neighbor? Who could I kill out in the suburbs that wouldn’t arouse suspicion and panic? I wasn’t going to move, I needed a base of operations.
No wonder there were likely so few zombies out there; it was exhausting figuring out how to cope in a world of the living while maintaining a surreptitious feeding schedule of fresh manmeat.
I closed my eyes to shut out the hunger, feeling the skin and hairs scrape across my now-dry lenses. I’d have to pick up some eye drops afterward.
2010/10/27
TRANSCRIPT: Audition file – “Lester Ulysses”
Gary Jackson “GJ”
Director “D”
Casting Agent “CA”
D:
Who’s next?
CA:
Um . . . Jackson, Gary Jackson.
D:
Who?
CA:
Exactly. Rowan recommended him, Rowan O’Shea from Masters? I owe her a favor. She says this guy is one of her best, but then, she says that about everyone in her stable. We could do worse.
D:
I don’t know, let me see the shots. Interesting. Good hair. Not exactly a looker, is he? Then again, I do like his eyes, they’re very dark.
CA:
Hooded.
D:
Yeah, sunken. Gives him some menace, some character. We could work with him. Be nice to maybe have someone with talent on this thing. Might be too old, though. Alright, let’s see this guy.
CA:
Send in Mr. Jackson, please.
D:
Jesus . . . Jesus wept.
CA:
Mr., um, Mr. Jackson, are you feeling all right?
GJ:
. . . Never better.
D:
Oh fuck! I mean . . . no, I mean fuck! Man, are you kidding me?
GJ:
. . . Pardon?
CA:
I think I’m . . . excuse me.
D:
Fern?
CA:
I’m going to be sick.
D:
Wow. Gary, I mean, wow. I know you guys are sometimes method, but jumping fuck, man.
GJ:
I haven’t been—
D:
Do not apologize, I totally get it. Your agent, she tells you, go for the second lead, but you know, you just know that the hero, it’s boring stuff. So you get all gussied up and come to read for the bad guy. Spectacular. Hat’s off to you, you know? I’ve seen commitment, right, I was second unit on I Am Sam. Penn, man. Commitment, right? That guy was focused. But you, right now, blow away anything I’ve seen. You hear the part is that of a batshit loony murderer, and you just go for it. Bravo, man, bravo.
GJ:
. . . Thank you.
D:
Chills! I’m gonna have fuckin’ nightmares, you are brilliant! Already I have goosebumps.
GJ:
Is there. A script?
D:
Script, yes, right. Fern! Fern, get back in here!
CA:
I’m sorry, I guess I . . . caught that thing that’s going around.
D:
Give the man the script, the details.
CA:
Oh. Yes, of course, Mr. Jackson, I apologize.
GJ:
. . . That’s fine.
CA:
Jesu— No, I’m okay. Here’s the pages.
D:
No, give him Lester’s piece.
CA:
Lester? No, you mean—
D:
I mean Lester. This guy comes in here like this, the least we can do to let him read Lester.
CA:
Oh. Uh, okay. Has Rowan given you any details?
GJ:
. . . Basics.
CA:
Uh . . . oh boy here it comes again . . . no, no, I’m fine.
D:
Have some water. Here.
CA:
Thanks. The part you’re reading now, Gary, is Les, Lester Ulysses. He’s a, a, when he was twelve, his father was torn to pieces right in front of him by an angry mob who thought he was a rapist who had been terrorizing the neighborhood.
D:
Yeah, it turns out that the rapist was actually, get this, he was the guy le
ading the mob, right? Pillar of the community, alderman, loving family man, churchgoer, and kiddie rapist. Total mindfuck on the audience, and the kid’s completely traumatized as a result. Turns out that Dad was a traveling salesman, the kid tagging along, and the police can’t find any other family for poor little Lester. So they ship him off to an institution. For twenty years, because they want to cover up the town’s dirty little secret. The real rapist, he killed himself out of guilt, so there’s no loose ends. Les’s been holed up in this hospital, practically catatonic because of what he saw, but get this, the daughter of the real rapist, Alyssa, who never knew of her father’s crimes, she’s working at the hospital as a volunteer. She meets Lester, and gets him to come out of his shell, and they strike up a friendship. Lester even develops a bit of a crush on her. But, and this is where the movie really goes all out: Lester figures out who she is, and it brings everything back. He goes bonkers, breaks out, and starts killing the children of the people who killed dear old Dad.
GJ:
Sounds . . . convoluted.
D:
Believe me, it’ll work. Look, I know the plot’s a joke, but they all are when you think about it. What I want to do is bring the audience back from their safe little torture porns and shove the dread down their throat. It’ll be old school menace, like Hitchock and Lynch, but with more gore — you gotta have at least some, am I right? It’s not about plot, it’s all about atmosphere, and if we can milk the tension enough people won’t give a flying fuck about who’s killing who for why. And it’s a terrific part. I mean, the guy’s a whack, no question, but there’s a pathos to his rage, misdirected though it may be. This is a real Norman Bates type, but even creepier. The audience is going to go nuts for him, they’ll feel bad even while they root for his death. Killer!
CA:
So, in this scene, Lester, that’s you, has got Alyssa tied up in her parents’ basement. You’ve just killed her best friend, and you’re busy decorating the room in her skin. Alyssa is understandably upset, and you’re going to explain your rationale to her. I’ll read Alyssa, and you just start on your own time.
D:
Okay, Gary. Take us there.
GJ:
. . . You don’t understand, Alyssa . . . There’s a . . . a gnawing at the . . . root of my brain . . . It’s an insect . . . an army of them . . . and they . . . have been chewing . . . away . . . for two decades . . . I have to . . . stop it.
D:
Jesus he’s good.
CA:
But why, Lester, why? Why did you have to kill Colby?
GJ:
Her mother . . . took away the . . . only thing in my life . . . She murdered my . . . father, she raped . . . my childhood . . . she has to under . . . stand what that feels like.
CA:
You’re a monster. Colby never did anything to you, and you’re using her intestines as crêpe paper.
GJ:
You . . . said at the hospital, you . . . liked my art . . . It keeps me sane.
CA:
You’re insane, Lester. Please let me go.
GJ:
Not . . . until you . . . know the truth, the truth . . . of who you . . . really are.
D:
Cut!
CA:
I’m sorry, I have to—
[sound of retching]
D:
Fern, come on!
GJ:
. . . Was that all right?
D:
Alright, he asks. Fucking yes, it was all right! Holy Buddha, you, you own the screen! The intonation, the weird pacing, my God, you’re the next Chris Walken!
GJ:
. . . Thank you.
CA:
We’ve got your, your number, and we’ll call you next—
D:
No, fuck that, I want him.
CA:
Zed, we have to talk about this.
D:
What’s to talk about, the guy is perfect. I mean, look at him! Gary, my man, you are in.
CA:
Zed, it’s not that simple, we still haven’t heard from all interested parties.
D:
Linda, who’s director here? Don’t answer, I am, and this is who I want. The backers want someone else, we’ll show them this tape, they will fucking flip for him.
CA:
Zed, I’m sorry Gary, but Zed, we can’t cast him, he’s . . . hideous. The producers won’t stand for it, they want Hollywood horror, not, not horror horror. No offense, Gary.
GJ:
None. Taken.
CA:
Oh—
[sound of retching]
D:
Man it’s getting ripe in here. You just answered yourself, Fern. This guy could be the new standard. This could be our Saw or Hostel! Gary, you are ground zero for the next generation of horror, man, you are Faces of Death Thirteen. And if you can just dial it back by ten percent or so, we’ll have people terrified almost to the point of vomiting, but almost, right?
GJ:
I . . . appreciate . . . your support.
[sound of retching]
D:
Jeez, I’m sorry, that one got even me. Holy shit, dude, you’ve got the part.
GJ:
Terrific . . . That’s great . . . news.
D:
Please stop man, you’ve got it, you’re killing me here.
GJ:
I’ll have Rowan call . . . you.
D:
Goosebumps!
[sound of retching]
Guilt
“Who is that?”
I inhaled slowly. “It’s me, Mom. Sheldon.”
I sat still in the darkness, not daring to turn on the light.
I loathed this place.
Ubiquitous off-white walls that defied the laws of physics, absorbing light rather than reflecting, plunging the rooms into impenetrable gloom. Hanging sheets surrounding each bed, provided to furnish patients with the barest illusion of privacy. Twenty-year-old television down the hall, always on, always tuned to the weather channel, informing sorrowful visitors that while their personal realities were slowly cancering away from the inside out, there was a warm front preparing to hit Edmonton and Puerto Rico was absolutely lovely that time of year. Plastered sincerity of the nursing staff, repeating the same words to family members since the beginning of recorded RN time. There is nothing we can do anymore. She’s slipping. The best we can do is to keep her comfortable and safe. You could smell the lamentations for the dead that permeated the wood and brick, no matter how many layers of fresh paint were applied, how much bleach sprayed about to combat germs that were going to kill us all anyway. The perfume of
misery wafted throughout the ward, clinging to all who walked through with the tenacity of a sad-sack relative who needed money, bequeathing visitors formless nightmares when they returned to the safety of their homes. Misery and desolation, layered with a patina of forgetfulness.
Mom’s breathing was harsh, ragged and moist, like an old quilt damp with mildew being slowly ripped apart. Her body, never big to begin with, looked smaller, like it had begun wasting away, melding itself with the mattress and sheets through osmosis. She rarely left the bed anymore, and the nurses had just about given up trying to convince her to walk even to the washroom. Her complexion, once her best feature, as unblemished as polished ivory, now a companion to the room, pallid and uninspired. Her dentures floated in a glass beside her bed, her toothless mouth a cavernous gouge in her face.
We looked more alike now than we ever had in life.
She stared at me from her bed, squinting. “Is that you, Sheldon?”