by Chris Vola
DAVIS’S EYES – THE pupils twitching, darting so crazily they look like they might pop – are the glaring reminders of someone I barely remember, an epitaph to a soul that no longer exists. The rest – fully African skin, thick Brillo-Pad eyebrows, plump cheeks, gnarly threads of a sparse but improbable beard, a red cap that looks like an oversized yarmulke, a full-length white linen robe – is something different.
He’s sweating under the floodlights, standing on the edge of a red and purple rug embellished with intersecting patterns of gold flowers and Arabic script. Kane’s next to him, his face and skin molded by the same makeup artist. They, and three other identically robed men, form a semi-circle around the rug. Harry and I are off to the side, waiting for Titus’ cue. The French-Canadians fiddle with a camcorder and a jumble of audio equipment. Men in ski masks move along the walls on all sides, noiseless ghosts on the twilit fringe of a muddy dreamscape.
Harry, a junkie-thin man, and I are attached together by our wrists with industrial rubber ties. Davis and Kane read silently from their scripts. A low moan echoes across the set. A digital buzzer sounds. Places. Davis and Kane stiffen, tuck their scripts under their robes. Philippe, sunglasses perched, presses RECORD.
“Al hamdu lilah shukru lillah…” Kane chants, his deep voice increasing in volume and speed, “…audhu billahi min ash Shaytan ar rajim!”
Titus the director stays fixated on his scene, unblinking, chewing his lip. One of the Canadians holds cue cards.
“Bring the infidels!” Davis screeches in a well-rehearsed Middle Eastern accent. He pulls out a long curved sword, points it at Harry. A man in a ski mask emerges from the shadows, pulls the three of us onto the rug. According to the script, we have to seem frightened, but not desperate…yet. He slashes our ties. The men in robes force us to our knees, screaming. A pair of fists connect with the back of my head. I feel spit running down my neck. That wasn’t in the script.
Kane clears his throat. “Bismallah ar rahman ar rahim…” his voice lowers to a whisper. A tiny girl I didn’t notice before, maybe four or five years old, is led from the shadows onto the set. Blue party dress, white stockings, red slippers. Her blonde hair is pulled back into pigtails joined by an oversized red ribbon. Unafraid, vacant eyes, a nightmare from Wonderland. There’s something familiar. Her face – My mother in a black-and-white grade school photograph. I’ve seen her before. The girl in the meth-head lock-up down the hall, the skeleton child. She squats down between Harry and me without being told, like she’s rehearsed it hundreds of times. She glares at Titus, through Titus, who flashes back a pearly grin, gives a thumbs up. Our anonymous soldier comrade shudders.
“Identify yourselves,” Davis snarls.
Remember the line, remember the line, stop shaking, stop…
“Command Sergeant George T. Anderson, 15th Queen’s Company, Left Flank, Division C, Norhampshire, Northumberland,” Harry says.
“Specialist Tyler Blackburn, Echo Company, 12th Infantry Regiment, Bethesda, Maryland,” the soldier says.
I state my name and rank without screwing up.
“Is this your child?” Davis asks, pointing at the girl.
“Yes,” Harry says.
“You are aware,” Davis continues, “of the crimes of unprovoked theft, murder, assault, rape, and blasphemy committed by you against the pious, upright children of the true, almighty prophet?”
The three of us: “Yes.”
“How do you plead?” All together: “Guilty.”
“All of you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware of the swift and righteous punishment for these transgressions?”
“Yes.”
Davis steps between Harry and the camera. “She will die first.” He hands Harry the sword, backs away.
“Tabarakallah!” Kane screams. The ski masks echo him, shrill and guttural. The sword hangs limply between Harry’s fingers. He’s frozen, a sad statue, waiting for his cue. The Canadian with the cue card claps silently.
“Choose!” Davis screams. A rifle butt snakes out of the fringe, delivers a direct hit to Harry’s kidney. That wasn’t in the script, either. The girl flinches. Harry gets up, re-grips the sword. The men in robes shout, some laugh. Harry focuses on the girl. The cat-calls stop. The camera pans across the stage. Harry is the star. He raises the sword over the girl’s head, but the downward swoop is cut short by another rifle butt, this one to the knee.
“Sadistic beast!” Davis shrieks. “You would murder your own child?” The sword hits the rug. Harry crumples.
While the men in ski masks pounce on Harry and smear him into the floor, there’s the metal scrape of another sword being unsheathed. Two of the men in robes hold down Private Blackburn. They ignore me, like the script said they would.
Kane is standing in front of Blackburn now, holding a dictionary-sized book covered in gold Arabic script in front of Blackburn’s face. One of the men in robes straightens Blackburn’s right arm and places it on top of the book.
Nearly everyone is grunting in psychotic subhuman tones, what could hardly pass as words in any language.
“La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!”
“Allahu akbar!”
Kane forces Blackburn’s palm open against the center of the book’s cover. Blackburn pauses for a second, realizes something and flips out, bucks like a pinned-down mutt, yelping.
Titus gives a signal. The camera focuses on Kane, who’s screaming into Blackburn’s convulsing face. “Allah inhalak!”
They all repeat it.
Allah inhalak!
Allah inhalak!
During the chanting, Davis has been raising the sword, calm and slow. In perfect synchronicity with the last inhalak! it comes down, slices through Blackburn’s wrist with trained precision, severing tendons and arteries, splattering blood, connective tissue, and bone chips on the girl and me. The blade isn’t as sharp as it looks. Not a clean cut. The hand is still connected to the body by a slab of pale skin, a few shiny layers of shredded muscle tissue. Blackburn, nearly paralyzed by the shock of contact, lifts his arm and the hand collapses, folds backwards over itself. It slides down the arm, peeling back bundles of tendons, meat. Davis pounces, goes to work sawing through what’s left.
Allah inhalak!
Someone tosses Blackburn a towel. He presses it against the stump, kneeling, in too much shock. The taste of iron seeps down my throat.
Davis holds up the hand up to the camera for a close-up shot. Kane lifts the book over his head.
Allah inhalak!
The girl hasn’t moved, this bloodstained toddler Carrie, still cross-legged, Harry’s limp thigh resting against the folds of her party dress. After Titus gives the ‘cut’ signal, and before the floodlights go out, he winks at her and she smiles back.
IN BED, WAIT for the lights to come on, listen to Billy and Harry’s groans. Harry’s screams when he accidentally rolls onto his left side. When will I be re-broken? Tomorrow?
When they led us back to the room after the shoot, Billy was as alert as I’ve seen him – a weak grin, a weaker “Josh,” while I spooned lukewarm chicken broth from the tray into his mouth. Not much, but it was something. He looked at me, recognized.
THE DOOR SCRAPES open, the lights are still off.
“Josh.” It’s Philippe. “Titus is wanting to see you now.”
“BRAVO, MAN,” TITUS says, standing over a pile of what look like blueprints. Davis, the real Davis – clean-shaven, baby blue polo shirt, Movado watch – sits at one end of the table, playing Scrabble on his iPhone. Kane’s poking Blackburn’s severed hand – spread on a dinner plate in a puddle of congealed brown crust – with a pencil. Blackburn leans against a bookshelf, sipping a beer.
Kane pokes his finger into the syrup-colored puddle, scoops up a gob, slurps it off. “Mmmh, mmh,” he says, “finger-lickin' good!” He elbows Davis. Davis slugs him in the arm, hard. Kane rubs his shoulder, scowls.
“Save that there ironic humor for them ed-ja-c
ated Yankee tourists your momma traps with that dee-licious fried chicken,” Titus mimics Kane’s drawl, laughs, starts folding up the blueprints.
“Good to see you, Josh,” Davis says. Palm sweat, muscles tense. Try to ignore him.
“That was pretty realistic,” I say. “I almost thought it was real.”
“What was?” Titus glances up.
I nod at the rubber hand. “The script said it would be –”
“Oh yes,” Titus chuckles, “we always need to, um, keep it real. And we wouldn’t want anything to happen to our theatrical personnel, would we?”
Blackburn rolls his eyes, finishes his beer and pretends to saw his hand off with the bottle. He croaks out a laugh that could easily pass for choking.
“Harry got beat up pretty good,” I say. Don’t press too hard…
“Harry?” Titus folds his shoulders. “Oh, Blunderthal. If it’s any consolation, Harry knew what he was in for.” He folds up the blueprints.
Knew what he was in for? “Why did you make the video?” I ask.
“Harry almost screwed everything in New York,” Davis jumps in, raises his voice, “we came this close to being compromised, couldn’t just sit here while he –”
“Easy, Simba,” Titus cuts him off. Davis glares at his iPhone. “The simplest way to say it is that what we do is that we provide a service to a unique set of clients. Existentially, well, there is no existentially. We get off on money, the power of misdirection. Public relations on a global scale. We give the mongoloids in the desert just enough firepower to create some welcome chaos. Not enough to completely upset any flimsy perceived order, mind you. But I can see that this isn’t what you expected. Too low-budget or something? I’d be real sorry if you think that.”
Blackburn spits a thick loogie into the empty beer bottle. Billy’s brutalized face flashes in front of my vision, snot-caked drool expanding on the carpet. Then Harry’s crumpled body, asleep now a few yards down the hallway. Why am I here? Davis.
He chimes in, on cue. “Come on, Josh, you have to understand that –” I stare openly at him for the first time. He shuts up. Go fuck yourself.
“What about the girl?” I ask.
“Alaska?” Titus’ eyes brighten. I stare, blankly. He laughs, absentmindedly stacks some of the papers in front of him. “Alaska is her name,” he says, “and she is by far the best little thespian I’ve got. More than comfortable with the various theatrical components of our work.”
“Theatrical?” When did blood splatter and spending twenty-three hours a day living in a cell with a couple dozen drugged out freaks not count as a traumatic early childhood experience?
“She likes the blood.”
“Fake blood,” Kane licks his lips.
“Is it worse?” Davis asks me in the same whiny half-shout. “Is it worse than having to eat garbage for days because there’s no money for food, than watching her addict mother suck a couple scumbags’ dicks for one more fix, just one more, watching her grind her teeth to nada when three or more of them take turns plugging her in every hole while she’s too high to care, having to wipe the come and sweat out of her eyes when they finally leave? Is it worse here?”
Davis the Righteous. Davis the Omniscient. Davis the Anti-Drug. Davis the Child Advocate. Davis the Lying Motherfucker.
“She has her own room,” Titus says, offhandedly, ignoring Davis, looking down at the table. “She can go wherever she wants…”
I turn to Davis. “Why did you bring me here?” I ask, softly.
“Listen,” he says, “you’ve been confronted with some challenges recently, but you have to see that it’s ultimately for your own good.”
“My own good?”
“Are you really going to tell me you’ve felt more energy, more adrenaline, more life, at any point during the past three years than you did today at the shoot? Than you did since we left all your weak-ass shit behind?”
“No,” I whisper. Then he does it. The coffee-colored lips come together, the cocky Cheshire-Cat smirk, Super-Ego sending Id anthrax in an envelope. Davis the Dead.
Before his lips finish curling, I’m on top of him, pummeling his head and neck, crushing his groin with my knees. I reach for one of the splintered legs from the shattered chair he’d been sitting on, raise it over my head, sharp end facing down. Three sets of hands wrangle me off, wrestle the chair leg out of my grip.
Titus chuckles. “Bravo, dude,” he says. He flicks the excess liquid out of the needle of a syringe he’s been holding.
Davis gets up, spits, groans and stumbles out of the room. His watch lies shattered on the hardwood.
“I like this kid,” Titus says as he taps my right forearm to find a big enough vein.
17
Vola
BILLY’S LADLING SOUP into Harry’s bloated cheeks, using his other to steady the old man’s head, keeping it propped against the pillows. The tray – piled high, steaming. I pass by the food without saying anything, slump onto the bed. Since Harry got his ass kicked, Billy’s made a formidable recovery. Still has difficulty speaking, but he can limp to the bathroom, feed himself and Harry, their roles reversed. At first I was elated – I’ve got my friend back! – but the elation has turned into resentment, into flat-out anger. Billy must have known what was going down from the beginning, knew what Davis was trying to do, regardless of what happened when we got here. He senses it, doesn’t try to apologize. We barely acknowledge each other. I’m fine with that. I just want to sink into my bed and prepare for whatever. Wake me up when this is over.
Harry burps, closes his eyes, lets his head collapse. I roll over, splay my fingers onto the off-white concrete wall. Listen to Billy scraping.
“You want some of this?” he asks.
I roll over. The scraping resumes.
“Eat something, Josh,” Harry mumbles. I shift around. It’s the first time he’s said anything to me since getting pounded. He struggles to lift his head up. “What happened after the shoot?” he asks, his bruised eye slits struggling to open. “Did you make any more movies?” Billy sits on the corner of the bed, silent, staring at the soup bowl in his hand.
“I guess I biffed the audition.”
“What?”
“I tried to impale Davis with a broken chair leg.”
Harry croaks out a laugh. “I see. And which is Davis?”
“The black one,” Billy says.
“Ahh,” Harry murmurs. His lips twist into what would be a smile if his face looked more human than oatmeal. Billy scoops another pile of food onto his plate. He’s super skinny, a sickly gray tint to his skin, black raccoon-circles and splotched-over pigment.
“Listen,” I whisper, “I’m pretty sure Titus…I think they’re going to –”
“Kill me?”
I stare, confused.
“What did you think,” he asks, “he was going to cut the padlock, slip off the collar, slap on a homing tag and release us into the wilderness?” He laughs again, chokes on phlegm. “Maybe you. But there’s only one option for a disorderly snitch like myself.”
Billy snickers.
“Was that what he told you?” Harry asks. “A five-minute head-start, through the woods, straight to the nearest police station?”
“I have my BlackBerry,” I whisper.
Billy stiffens. “The whole fucking time?” he whispers. “You didn’t think it would be a good idea to –”
“There’s no service here,” I snap. “Obviously I tried.”
Harry coughs, tries to sit up, mumbles something. Billy props his head up. “Huh?”
“I said,” he repeats, “how many times did you try to use it?”
“Twice,” I say. “Once when I first got here and again last night.”
Harry sinks into the fluff. “You’re going to try it again,” he says. “Stop pissing around and give it another shot. Until you get through to someone or the battery dies. I assume the phone is under your bed. When the lights go off, go into the bathroom, tell the police
that we’re about thirty miles southeast of –”
The door opens. Jean-Paul to retrieve the food tray. Harry pretends to be asleep. Jean-Paul wheels the tray out, never making eye contact.
I POWER UP. A thin strip of battery power left. Rapid blinks. SEARCHING FOR NETWORK. I wave the phone around, stand in the shower, press it up to the wall. Nothing. I balance on the toilet, crouch under the sink. SEARCHING FOR NETWORK. Circle the bathroom five more times, strain to reach the highest corners…nothing. I sit down, cross-legged on the freezing tiles. The phone blinks out another message. NO ASSISTANCE AVAILABLE IN YOUR AREA.
AWAKE, NO BLANKET, sweating, staring into the black ceiling’s pit. Billy’s not sleeping either. I’ve spent enough nights in close proximity to him – a few at the cottage in particular – to know that whatever switch gets flicked in his brain when he loses consciousness has the tendency to kickstart his snore mechanism instantly. Silent now; I can’t hear him breathe.
“You knew about what was happening before we even left,” I whisper. No response. “You knew about it the night I left Kenyon’s shoot, the night Lauren came over and –”
“Kenyon’s dead,” Billy says.
“Dead.”
“We killed him. Waited until all those kids left the shoot. Davis told Keyon how good the video was, gave him these pills, straight-up tranq, told him it was E or something… He hit the floor a couple minutes later. We made a movie with the Canadians, some real disgusting shit…I…” He inhales. “Davis or Philippe took…I don’t remember who…we wrapped Keyon up in the greenscreen from the video. Took all five of us to lift that fat ass. Never carried anything that heavy before. On the way up the basement steps I tripped on a plastic toy or something, dropped the body, fucked my clothes up in the dirt. You should have seen the goddamn Canadians. Didn’t flinch. Started rolling him back up like we’d dropped a Christmas tree on the way to the dump.” He sighs, swallows. My fingers trace the cold wall. What else? “So we threw him in the back of this SUV they had waiting,” he says, “drove to the marina in Madison, loaded him onto my boat. They, we…chopped Keyon up, diced him into smaller and smaller chunks, these guys were like surgeons, didn’t make a mess.
