Husk

by Corey Redekop

  There was a sheer Plexiglas sheet six feet in front of me, invisible to the camera under the right lighting. One extra took it upon himself to be brave and rap on its surface, waving up at me when he caught my eye. Look at the monkey. He pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and held it up to his eye. Before he could snap a picture, Iris was beside him, his neck cocooned within the musculature of her inner elbow. She had passed through the throng like a shark through chum and taken the would-be photographer down in a crushing chokehold, forcing him to the ground and dragging him off set for a summary beatdown/firing. They were all warned ahead of time, do not approach the glass, do not taunt the monster, so I didn’t feel too bad.

  Shaken, the rest of the extras looked up at me now, more afraid for their jobs than of me. I gave them a conciliatory smile and wink. All part of the show.

  Funny. They didn’t relax at my good humor.

  “Extras,” Samantha mused, walking up and taking her place at my side. “There’s one in every crowd. Once, in Minority Report, an extra ran up in the middle of a scene, pushed Tommy out of the way, and proposed marriage to me.”

  “Aw, did it happen again?” asked Duane, taking his mark next to her. I nodded. The three of us looked over the crowd. Past them, I could see Iris dislocating the man’s shoulder as she threw him against a trailer wall and patted him down. She crushed his camera underfoot, and did the same to his toes when he complained.

  “Well, at least he’ll have. A story to tell his friends.” Iris launched a virtuoso haymaker up beneath his chin. Samantha and Duane winced involuntarily. “Once his jaw resets, that is.”

  Samantha giggled, primping at her hairpiece. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk, Sheldon. Johnny and I are meeting up later, just for drinks, you and Duane want in? No lines, no acting, just staying sane, right?”

  I mulled it over, thinking about the freezer of meat I had in the trailer. It should be safe, if I glutted myself first. I looked over at Duane. He smiled. “If you’re sure you’re all right with it.”

  “Oh, psh.” She waved a hand in affected nonchalance. “I’ve watched you, and you don’t strike me as a danger. I once met Queen Elizabeth, now that was frightening.” She trembled at the memory. “Couldn’t remember which foot to curtsey with, almost fell on her.”

  “Well, you should have. No problem with me, then.” She smiled and punched me lightly on the arm. Duane breathed in an obscenity. Brie and tomatoes, I thought. That’s what she would taste like. I gave Duane a low-key wave of my fingers, I’m fine.

  “All in place then?” Tim yelled out. I pulled myself up to my full height, straightening my collar while Samantha fluffed her hands over her dress and Duane ran a hand lightly over his slicked-back coiffure. To my far left, past Tim’s crew, I could see Johnny climbing aboard a horse-drawn carriage, joining a small film crew that would get his reaction shots. As the script had it, Doctor Thompson was to drive slowly through the square, sticking his head out the window and watching as I orated to the massed citizenry, my faithful progeny at my side. Samantha and Johnny would exchange innocent glances while I ranted about the evils that would beset our humble burg should Satan get his talons into us. The people would hang on my every word, attentive and obedient, little realizing that in Act Three I was to be unmasked as a cult leader of the undead, who raised the bodies of the recently deceased back to semi-life through black voodoo magic. The role called for a serious amount of wicked chortling on my part, and I intended to throw myself into it whole ham. If the doc was right, if this was to be my swan song, I was going to go out in a blaze of acting that would stand the test of time.

  Tim pointed to our trio, arching his eyebrows, you ready?

  We nodded.

  “And . . . action!”

  The driver snapped at the reins and the horses moved calmly forward. I could see Johnny preparing to poke his head out.

  I took in a breath and began to sermonize.

  “Good citizens, we are at a crossroads.” I let my voice play with the tones, putting in a deep tremor that caused every face before me to whiten. Beside me, Samantha gasped, putting a hand up to her chest in shock. Duane, better prepped for it, fought a grin even as his intestines twisted. “Today, another head of cattle was found. Dead in this square, its head removed, its innards. Draped over this very podium.” I played the pauses, feeling the crowd follow me, waiting for my next words. Feeding off their attention. The carriage pulled slowly around them. Johnny stared at me, transfixed. “My friends, I fear the dark one is in our midst. In this community. Lurking. He is afraid, you see. He is afraid of us, of what we represent. Goodness. Purity.” I gazed heavenward. “God-fearing. And because of this, we must be vigilant in our watch. Both over our neighbors and ourselves. We must amputate this corruption from our township as we. Would lop off a gangrenous limb. Painful, yes. But necessary.”

  The carriage was halfway across its arcing path. Johnny had now opened the door and leaned himself out, standing straight, noble, and proud in his character’s bemusement of the scene before him.

  Past the carriage, out of camera range, a wardrobe mistress collapsed in a heap, tossing an armful of shirts into the air as her hands jerked up and backward. Two techies watched her fall, took steps toward her, and folded quickly into the dirt, one, two.

  It was so goddamned quick.

  There was a sput sound, the noise of a moist spitball hitting a wall, followed by a crystalline tinkle.

  The aroma of copper hit my nostrils. My teeth began to ache.

  Samantha inhaled a quick gasp. Sudden scarlet freckling dotted the bare ivory of her forearm. A small hole had appeared in the Plexiglas, cracks webbing outward from the center.

  A blossom grew in the middle of Samantha’s white blouse. She wavered, mouth agape. Her breath whistled thinly as she began to teeter, her hands clawing at Duane’s shoulder for support.

  “What?” Duane asked. I looked at her, then him. He gave me a grin as he propped her up, a weirded-out smile, not understanding what had occurred, are you kidding me, what’s the joke here? A small dot of red jigged over his face. “You okay, Sam? Tim, can we get a cut here, Sam has—”

  A commotion from behind the extras, Iris charging, shoving people to the earth, reaching for her holster.

  Another spit, tinkle, thump. A small moist rose bloomed prettily in the center of Duane’s forehead. He shuddered casually at the intrusion. The dais beyond his head was abruptly painted with gore.

  His left eye swiveled loosely in its socket. The right remained fixed on me. His lips still bore a smile of uncertainty. “I don—” he said, and the top half of skull exploded forward, drenching me in the substance of his soul, bullets shearing through the bones of his face and erasing his consciousness from the margins of life.

  Iris was closer, just behind the screen, making to dive at me through the suddenly pierced divider. Her body jerked mid-stride as another hushed hail of bullets impacted her side, sliding through her thorax and embedding themselves in nearby extras. Iris collided with the Plexiglas, splitting her temple, spattering the retreating crowd with gore. She spat up a lump of blackish sludge and lay still.

  I dropped to my knees and scrabbled at Duane’s still-twitching remains, ignoring Samantha’s dying whines, shutting out the screams of people caught unaware that a war had spontaneously erupted around us. The screen peppered red as more slugs found their marks, thrusting their merry ways through bone and brain and sinew. From my vantage point on the floor, trying to scoop Duane back into his head, I spied several jackbooted men stride to the middle of the set and begin pumping shotgun shells into the chests and faces of anyone moving.

  My hands were gore-soaked, bits of Duane’s brain sticking to the tips of my fingers. His blood smeared my face. My tongue twitched, stomach heaved.

  I surrendered, and became lost in the red.

  Without a thought I dove my
face into Duane’s neck and feasted, his heart beating its last, blood flow slowed to a trickle that languidly escaped his arteries and filled my mouth. All was fireworks. Galvanized, I rolled over and sunk my teeth into Samantha’s shoulder, my teeth scraping against her clavicle. She moaned, a single lonely note, and breathed her last.

  There was a scream behind me, more shots. Turning, more fully aware than I had been in months, I watched Tim’s upper torso part from its lower as a pair of men dressed in black fired full clips into the camera crew. Tim somehow still stood despite holding his own intestines in his hands. He held them up, looking at me before he bisected completely, both halves thumping to the ground, his eyes wide with wonder, asking me, How do you deal with this every day?

  I left the remains of my only friend on the ground and stood up. A brutally strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around my neck from behind. “I’ve got him!” their owner shouted, directly behind my ear. I reached up over my shoulder and clawed at him, pulling off the plastic guard that covered his face and sinking my fingers into his eye sockets, gripping his suddenly shrieking skull like a bowling ball. I swiveled around in his loosened grip and chewed into his face, the rush of life energizing me, pulling us both to the ground as I ripped his jaw free from its anchors and shoved my left hand up through the soft palate of the roof of his mouth and tore away at whatever I could grasp. The jawbone had snagged on my frills and danced from my arm as I dug into the man’s wits, the world’s grisliest charm bracelet. Another pair of gloved hands grabbed at me, two, three, pulling at me, not before my fingers immersed themselves in brain matter and wrenched the entire wad out of the open maw. The man’s head flopped back, evacuated, and I bit and snarled into the damp sponge even while the hands lifted me from the floor and threw me back off the platform.

  I climbed to my feet, my body ferocious, savoring the rush of hot bright blood as I gnawed at the brain stem. Teams of soldiers were making their way through the carnage, adding to it, slaying anyone still expecting that there might be a way out of this. This was a special effect gone wrong, this wasn’t the movie they signed up for. A sharp whinny pierced through the shrieks as two soldiers laid waste to the carriage horses and then went to work on the riders. I saw Johnny scrambling upward, clawing to reach the top of the carriage before one of the men stepped forward and planted a bayonet blade in his backside, using gravity to increase the damage as Johnny curved his back and fell away, the blade slicing him up and through from hip to shoulder, his wetness pouring forth, his lifeline over before he hit the ground.

  I turned away, facing a group of attackers as I finished my snack. Six men, all clad in black, rifles and machine guns aimed at me, laser lights glinting off smoke and red mist. One stepped closer and lifted his arm, displaying a strange boxy handtool. I rushed toward him, knocking the instrument away with my left arm, my right fist raised. I recalled a long-forgotten piece of boxing knowledge from years of movie watching; don’t hit the target, hit six inches behind it. My hand shot forward, pushing from the shoulder, fingers curled and tight, and I thrust my fist into the surprised face, shattering the visor and going in deeper, exploding the nose, into the sinus cavity and beyond, his face caving in around my wrist as I pushed through to the other side, his helmet hanging loosely at the end of my arm, the whole of his head now enveloping my forearm, his body twitching as I raised my arm higher to show my attackers what they were dealing with.

  The five men stood there, arms slack, weapons pointed to the ground. “Jesus,” one whispered.

  I inhaled, the carnage now a physical part of the atmosphere, tickling my lungs, and began to bellow, a sound to raise the dead from their slumber, to summon death gods and Valkyries and the hell hounds Cerberus and Garm and Syama from their depths and to my side, to start a battle that would make Ragnarök appear a slap-fight between first-graders — when I was cut off mid-screech, ending my primal rage with an embarrassing ubpf!

  The taser was state-of-the-art; Iris’ was a peashooter in comparison. My limbs clenched and seized inward upon themselves as the wires embedded themselves in my chest and voltage coursed through me. My body buckled and fell, curling into a fetal comma. My lungs were deflated balloons, refusing my commands. A large rubber ball was knowledgably inserted into my mouth, keeping my jaw forced open to its maximum size, and a belt wrapped around my head to keep it in place. A leather satchel was fitted snugly over my skull, but not before I caught a glimpse of one of my assaulters talking to Doctor Rhodes. My arms were handcuffed behind me and linked to thick chains that surrounded my legs and feet. Finally, as my muscles started to uncramp themselves, I was rolled up in what felt like vinyl sheeting, and then the whole of me was slid into what felt like a body bag and zipped up tight. I tried to scream over the ballgag but could only manage a loud hum.

  I was lifted, carried, and thrown into a container. Men climbed in after me, jostling me with their steel toes as they took their seats and the truck started up.

  Somewhere in the dark, I could hear Sofa howling in anger.

  Depression

  Blackness.

  Again with the blackness.

  But not eternity blackness, not this time; just good old-fashioned North American boredom blackness from having a sack tied around your head and then being left alone and ignored for hours. My hands were cuffed to the arms of my chair, my ankles chained to the floor. Never had I been so happy to have lost the ability to itch.

  Although itching would have alleviated the tedium.

  After a lengthy wait — I kept myself focused by replaying the reel of the last day’s events over and over; the last exhalations of Samantha, the shrieks of the faceless extras, the sight of Johnny’s innermost contents, the sloppy chunks of Duane’s personality exiting through the back of his head and caroming off the background props, my involuntary salivation at the sight — there was the familiar sound of a lock clicking open, and a door opened a mile or so behind me. Then, footsteps, faint, gradually getting louder, honing in on my location. And a heavy buzzing, something mechanical, speeding closer. I remained slumped in my seat until the footsteps arrived and stopped, presumably to give me the once-over.

  “Can he hear me?” The voice gouged into the quiet. The words were guttural, falling to the ground like beetles shaken from a log and scuttling away. It was a voice of advanced years, but there was an undercurrent of stress beyond the normal ravages age inflicted on the voicebox. A vigorous voice, but riddled with torture.

  “I’m not sure, sir. He hasn’t moved in hours.” This speaker a woman, slightly unsure of herself, nervous but eager to impress the other voice’s owner. Cowardice fringed her consonants.

  Had I hackles to raise, they would have risen. I knew that voice. I would kill the owner of that voice. Puzzle pieces began to slide into place.

  “He’s so quiet, he doesn’t even breathe.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “Well, um, he is a zombie, sir.” A nervous laugh from the woman, forced out, flattened by the weight of tension floating about us. “I really don’t think that’s possible.”

  “You don’t think,” said the aged voice. “That’s absolutely one hundred percent correct. You don’t think. So let me do the thinking or you’ll find yourself out and searching the gutters for loose change.”

  “Yes, sir. My apologies.” So cowed. I grinned under my hood, enjoying her obsequiousness. I had always wondered what that would sound like.

  “So, is he all right?” the older voice asked again.

  “I thi— . . . I believe so, sir.”

  “So wake him up then.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “This is your show, isn’t it? Aren’t you the expert here?”

  “Well technically, he is.”

  “Ja, dat’s correct, zir, I zuppoze I am zee true egzpert in zeeze matterz.”

  It figured.

  “You suppose. Lord
save us all. Do me a favor, son; grow a sack, fill it with something approaching balls, and let’s get this over with.”

  A foot cautiously nudged my leg, then again, harder. “Sheldon?”

  I chose to snub the query.

  Another push, longer. “Sheldon? Time to get up.”

  I ignored him.

  “Nothing, zir.”

  “Nothing.” The woman’s voice was soaked in contempt. “Fat load you are. Take his hood off.”

  Rhodes coughed nervously. “Ach. I . . . vell, I’m not . . .”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Just rip it off him!”

  A pause, then fingers at my neck, hastily fumbling at the knots. I gave it a few seconds, judged the distance in my mind, and snapped my jaws forward through the cloth, sinking my teeth deep into his fingermeat. He screamed, but it was a yelp of panic, not pain, and it soon stopped, even while I continued to crush his knuckles tight between my teeth.

  “Are you all right?” the man asked.

  “He iz biting me, zir! Sheldon, let go!”

  “Hm. A zombie playing dead. Very clever.”

  I bit down deeper, grinding, straining to taste blood. My teeth severed the canvas threads of the hood and my tongue snaked out and tasted his skin. A metal mesh was my reward, pressing back against my tastebuds. Disgusted, I spat the steel out and struggled against my bindings, growling and thrashing and generally making an ass of myself. Getting nowhere, I relaxed and patiently waited while the bag was slipped off my head. All was still hazy; my contacts had not been moistened in ages and had dried directly to my lenses. I blinked wildly until they both popped out into my lap. Not much better; the light now flashed against the pockmarks on my corneas. Beyond the scratches I could discern three blurred figures, one tall and close, the other two at the edges of the light, lurking in the dim. “Could I have my goggles, please?” I croaked to the nearer blur with the bag in its hand.

  “You have his goggles, Doctor?” the female blur asked the tallest haze.