When the smoke cleared, Ling knelt in the center of the room, stabbing the lifeless corpses of her husband’s murderers, inflicting curses on them that Diaz wouldn’t translate even if he spoke the language.
In the end, Ling Chew decided to go back to her homeland and fight beside her brother and father in the coming war. She promised she would bring the curse of Drowned Horse with her when she did. At least … in spirit.
Before collecting his equipment, Muybridge agreed to accompany her to California and make sure she got on her ship safely.
“I want to leave my small zoopraxiscope with you,” he told Owner. Muybridge had debuted the images of Turk dealing cards to a packed house. “A gift, for giving me the adventure of a lifetime. Plus, I still have all the pictures I took of the fight with the Shinobi on my undeveloped plates. Not sure how that’s going to look as a moving picture, but it will be interesting to see.”
Diaz agreed. “To think that maybe you captured enough of the battle to show it all over again. It is magic.”
Turk patted his partner on the shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. The idea of recreating a gunfight in moving pictures? Well, that’s even more magic than this town could handle.”
Diaz sighed. “Sí. You are probably right, Señor Turk.”
Turk noticed that Diaz had lost the “Señor Hunter” thing, as if the town wasn’t just about curses, but also cures.
As Muybridge and Ling left by coach, Patrick and Owner stood on either side of Hal Turk, former bounty hunter and would-be casino boss.
“So, you gonna stay now that you’ve had a taste of the curse?” Owner asked.
“They weren’t no real demons, were they? Does it still count as the curse?”
Patrick reached into a pocket on his belt and drew out a freshly rolled cigarette. Turk obliged him by lighting it. “Maybe not this time. But a good man died by strange and unusual circumstances, and that means evil won another hand.”
Diaz finished waving at the departing carriage and asked, “So it will get worse, Señor Patrick, sir?”
The lawman nodded. “There’s a storm coming, gentlemen. That’s why I asked Owner here to find me a warrior tougher than the darkest night. And he did what he always does. He found me someone.” Patrick took in Turk with a steel gaze. “Did he find the right man?”
Turk thought about it. He spat on the ground and answered the question he’d been asking himself for going on three years.
“Yeah, he did. I think I could grow to like it here. Feels like there’s a job to do, and I just might enjoy doing it.”
And with that, Hal Turk finally found someplace to call home.
David Boop is an author, screenwriter, and award-winning essayist. He has worked as a DJ, film critic, journalist, and actor. His debut novel, sci-fi/noir She Murdered Me with Science, was published by WordFire Press. David edited the bestselling weird western anthology, Straight Outta Tombstone (Baen Books), followed by Straight Outta Deadwood and Straight Outta Dodge City.
David’s many short stories include his weird western series The Drowned Horse Chronicle (of which this anthology story is part). He also writes a flash fiction mystery series, The Trace Walker Temporary Mysteries on Gumshoereview.com. He has gotten to play in the worlds of Predator, The Green Hornet, Flash Gordon, and Veronica Mars. His hobbies include film noir, animé, and Mayan history. Davidboop.com.
When the Shift Hits the Fan
Julie Frost
When the Shift Hits the Fan
You want me to do what now?”
I planted my fists on my hips and stared up at the director in consternation. He’d invited me into his trailer for a private meeting before the day’s filming, but I hadn’t expected, well, this. We hadn’t even sat down yet when he sprung the suggestion on me.
“Shift on camera,” Munroe said.
Nope nope nope. Hit the brakes, flip a one-eighty, and get off the road to Crazytown.
He raised a conciliatory hand. “Please, Janni, have a seat and hear me out. Drink?”
“Sounds like I’ll need one for this conversation.” I pushed a drift of scribbled-on script aside and sank onto the couch, which was softer than it had a right to be. My heart beat a trapped-bird tattoo against my ribcage, and I glanced at the clock. Early, but werewolf constitution meant alcohol meant the rules of gentility were more like guidelines. “Comfort and Coke, if you have it?”
“Coming right up.” He mixed a generous one from a well-stocked bar, and I wasn’t sure if that put me more or less at ease. After pouring himself a scotch, he sat across from me in a chair and tilted his head earnestly, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward. “Look, Janni, the accidents on set have wreaked havoc on our budget. If I can shave a few bucks off by saving on CGI in post, that’s all to the good. Plus it’ll look more authentic.”
I sipped my drink, when I actually wanted to gulp it down. “And that will out me as a werewolf to literally everyone present. I told you, and you alone, because of moon scheduling, Kev, and I hope to God you didn’t tell anyone else. But this isn’t something we do in public unless, you’ll pardon me, a situation has gone completely to shit.”
Half his scotch disappeared down his throat. “Well, it hasn’t gone completely to shit. But I’m in a tight spot right now, and it’s getting tighter. These accidents are killing us.”
The movie’s plot was “rookie werewolf cop whose training officer doesn’t know she’s a werewolf.” The lead actor—who was a household name—was carrying the thing nearly singlehanded. He was a renowned action star and a genuinely nice guy, signing on because Munroe was an up-and-coming friend.
But the production was getting a reputation as a bad-luck show. The accidents had started small: Munroe’s chair breaking under him the first time he sat in it, a mix-up in on the call sheet that meant necessary cast and crew for a scene were nowhere to be found because they thought they had the day off, a distinctive classic car—a cherry-red 1970 Boss Mustang that the star’s character drove—that wouldn’t start, sending us scrambling for a spare while the mechanics hired suddenly by the Unit Production Manager scratched their heads. Minor events, so far, but movie people were a superstitious bunch, and we were all waiting for something truly awful to happen.
I wasn’t sure if the definition of “something truly awful” included shifting on camera, but it was on a list of things I’d never expected to be asked to do. It was almost like a nude scene—something spelled out in the contract beforehand, not sprung on me in the middle of shooting.
“I’m gonna have to run it by some people, Kev, and think about it on my own account even if they say it’ll be okay. My husband, my alpha, and the Protectorate will all have input. This isn’t a trivial thing you’ve asked of me. Even if I say yes, it’ll have to be a closed set with minimal crew.”
“Let me know soon. We’re shooting that scene in less than a week.”
I drained my drink.
It wasn’t like me to show up on set with booze on my breath, and the lead looked down at me with worry creasing his brow. “Everything all right?” he asked. He was over a foot taller than me, and nearly three decades older—though like most leading men, he wore it well, with a full head of floppy dark hair and a distinctive salt-and-pepper scruff. Brown eyes under bushy brows regarded me kindly. We’d taken to calling him “Temp” as a good-natured joke, since someone had suggested early in his career that he change his name, and “Templeton” was one he suggested. It was roundly rejected, and now no one could imagine him with another name.
“Munroe threw me for a loop this morning is all. He offered me a drink and I took it after he asked me to—” I paused, considering how to phrase it. “Do something I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with.”
Temp’s brow creased further. “Do I need to have a talk with him?” He’d do it, too. “It’s not that scene we axed when we decided to keep it PG-13, is it?”
“Oh, no, not that, at all.” I smiled at him. “I’
m gonna run the notion past a few people and sleep on it.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “But I’ll talk to him if you want.”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks for being a gentleman, Temp. We don’t always get that in this business.”
“Go to one, everybody!” Munroe had shown up. Today’s scene was an extensive foot chase in which my character outran her training officer and tackled the perp on her own, much to the training officer’s surprise and consternation, filmed with drones so we could do it in one continuous shot.
The initial confrontation with our perp worked as scripted, and Taylor, the actor, bolted down an alleyway after leaving Temp pretend-wheezing on the street. My rookie character froze for a bare second, and then took off after him, with the training officer shouting after her uselessly. But I knew this reaction down in my bones—prey ran away, and I wasn’t really acting, except inasmuch as I held back my native speed for the sake of the scene.
Taylor used a conveniently placed dumpster to propel himself onto a fire escape, leaping it with the agility of a monkey. But I was hot on his heels, and he improvised a kick that grazed my cheekbone and snapped my head back. Eyes wide with shock, Taylor stopped dead. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Run, sugar,” I answered, all business. They’d fix it in post.
“Keep rolling!” Munroe shouted, and we resumed.
My character caught the perp on the roof and subdued him after a brief fight that he surprised himself by losing. But he hadn’t taken werewolf strength, speed, and agility into consideration, and the rookie had him down and cuffed before he quite knew what hit him. “How the hell are you so strong?” he protested. “You’re tiny!”
“I work out.” As my character, I hollered into my cop shoulder mic for my training officer, who showed up a few moments later, panting and pissed off.
We reset the scene to get everyone in place. Munroe pulled me aside to ask if I was all right, and I brushed him off. “Wolf healing. It’s realistic, leave it.”
“It’s your face. Roll,” Munroe said.
The training officer got down into the rookie’s face. “That was rash as hell, Diggs. You could have been killed.”
“I caught him, didn’t I?” she shot back.
“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out, which wasn’t in the script, and sure enough, there was a trickle from the already-healing scrape the perp’s boot had left on my cheek.
“So is he.” Taylor wasn’t, but a few well-placed squibs had done their job. We were off the reservation, but it was good, natural dialogue and probably wouldn’t end up on the cutting room floor.
“We’ll discuss it further back at the station.” And now we were on script again as he jerked the perp to his feet.
“Cut,” Munroe called. “Great work, guys. Meet back downstairs.”
Someone uncuffed Taylor, and he came over to me. “Janni, I am so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to connect with your face like that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Make-up wouldn’t even need to put the scrape back on my cheek for subsequent scenes—I’d wear a band-aid, on set and off, and that would cover it. Maybe we could write it into the script as a clue that my character healed fast. Yet another accident. We were racking them up pretty good.
“You should have the nurse look at that,” Temp said. “It’s pretty nasty.”
“My husband’s a private eye. He says face wounds bleed a lot. It looks worse than it is.” I shrugged. “But I’ll go see her right now if it’ll make you feel better.”
“You’re a trooper, Janni.” Temp gave me that famous smile. I’d thought I was immune to it, but … not so much. My stomach did a funny little flip-flop. However, I was a married werewolf who mated for life, and he was still broken by a relationship that had ended in the worst possible way, so I smiled back at him and headed toward the medical trailer.
… Until I was out of his sight, and then I turned toward my own trailer instead. I scowled at my face in the mirror, wet a washcloth, and cleaned the blood away. The cut was already healed, leaving a livid pink scar against my dark skin that would disappear in less than half an hour. What a pain in my ass. I stuck a band-aid over it as a nod to appearances, fluffed a hand through my wild mop of curly black hair, and decided to hunt down some lunch.
Upon exiting the trailer, I nearly crashed into the new gaffer, who had replaced the old one when he quit “over these bad-luck shenanigans.” Jay Barnson stood at the bottom of the steps, left hand upraised to knock, right hand in his pocket, with an expression that was anything but pleasant.
I took an abrupt step backward, nostrils flaring. He smelled of wild that was all human—along with silver and wolfsbane.
Hunter.
I kept claws from sprouting by an act of sheer will, but my vision sharpened, telling me that my eyes had gone amber. Crap.
“Something I can help you with?” My voice came out in a strangled growl.
The look on his face changed from hostility to puzzlement like a switch had been thrown. “Miz Lockwood?” He had a soft southern accent. I didn’t expect that.
“That’s what it says on the door,” I said tartly, forcing my eyes back to their normal brown.
“Oh, I—hell, I didn’t even look at that,” he confessed. “Tunnel vision, I reckon.”
I crossed my arms. “What in the world are you on about, sugar?”
“I tracked a werewolf here,” he said, like that explained any-damn-thing.
“Clearly, you found one.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Now what.” It wasn’t inflected like a question. “Because I’m not advertising, and you’ll excuse me if ‘tracked’ sounds more like ‘hunted down to put a hurt on.’ I can smell what you are.”
His lips compressed. “Is there another wolf on the set?”
“Probably,” I admitted. I didn’t know for sure, but the chances were good. “Like hell am I gonna aim you at any of them.”
“You should. This string of accidents you’re bein’ plagued with isn’t accidental.”
“Oh, honey, please. You and I both know Taylor didn’t kick me in the face on purpose.”
“Maybe not that one. Nice band-aid, by the way. But there’s a wolf on this set playin’ merry hell, and I aim to hunt him down and put a stop to his bush-wah.” Barnson’s eyes narrowed at me. “Unless it’s a ‘her’ I’m looking for.”
I snorted. “This is a breakout role for me. Sabotaging this show would be stupid. Do I look stupid to you, sugar?”
“No, ma’am, I suppose you don’t,” he allowed.
“Good. Glad we got that straightened out.” I took a breath. “That being said, if you’ve got evidence that some wolf’s wrecking stuff on purpose, bring it to me and I’ll help you find him. Meanwhile—” I locked the trailer door behind me and stepped down the stairs, and he moved out of my way, for a wonder. “I need to feed myself and make a phone call, and I’m sure you have lighting to arrange for the next scene.”
“You’re not wrong.” He fell into step beside me. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep in touch.”
“I suppose. Sabotage isn’t good for anyone, and now I’m interested. The producers know what you’re doing?”
“They hired me,” he said.
Official sanction. That made me sit up and take more notice. He wasn’t haring off on his own—someone high up thought there was something to it.
“Well, then. I’ll see you around, and let you know if I notice anything or anyone suspicious.”
We separated at a junction, him heading off to do gaffer stuff and me looking for craft services. I pulled out my phone and called Megan while I walked.
She sounded harried, but that was a given, considering who she was married to. “Hi, Janni, what’s up?”
“Munroe wants me to shift on camera.”
A pause. “What.”
“Yeah, that was kind of my reaction. I told him I’d have to run it past a few people, and you were first on my list.”
&n
bsp; “This isn’t something we should talk about over the phone. And I’m thinking maybe Claire Wellington should be there too. Have you asked Ben what he thinks?”
“Not yet. Like I say, you were first on my list. You know he’d just say ‘whatever makes you happy, honey,’ leave it up to me, and back my play if he needed to.” My husband was awesome that way. Claire Wellington, on the other hand, was an agent with the Protectorate—supernatural law enforcement—and might get stuffy about it. They’d surely want input, and would probably fall on the side of “absolutely not.” But I wasn’t sure they were the boss of me, so I’d take their advice and warnings into consideration before I decided—and then maybe do it anyway. It depended on the consequences.
“Text me your schedule, and I’ll work around it in the next day or so.” Megan was the personal assistant to our own private mad scientist, who worked a manic schedule and played harder than he worked. It kept her on the jump, but she apparently thrived on it, since she’d married him not long ago.
“Sooner is better. That scene is coming up in less than a week. Tonight would be ideal, honestly.”
“I’ll get with Claire and let you know.”
“Super. Thanks, Megan.” I texted her the information and signed off.
Craft services had laid out a sumptuous lunch spread. Huge meaty sandwiches and fresh green salad greeted me as I followed my nose to the table and filled up a plate. After finding a seat, I settled in for some serious snarfing.
Munroe sat down next to me with his own laden dish. “Sorry about Barnson. They just told me. How’s your face?”
“Already healed. Make-up can have fun with it, if they even have to,” I said after swallowing a mouthful of turkey and roast beef. “I don’t like getting accused of sabotaging the production, Kev. But Barnson and I came to an understanding, and I’ve got wheels turning for a meeting that’ll help me decide if I’m gonna do that thing for you.”
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