He didn’t go out anymore. He didn’t need to. He could always have his groceries delivered, if he just remembered to do so. He hadn’t had much appetite in a very long time. He supposed it was an age thing. Food just didn’t taste the same.
Lee was headed toward the back door, but he couldn’t remember why. That happened sometimes. He was a man with a lot of things on his mind. He had this huge collection to take care of, and all these memories to protect and organize. All the zombie reflections surrounding him growled their agreement. This made him smile, and he growled back his encouragement, or was he the one who had growled first?
He could hear those young fans at the back of his house trying to get in. Or maybe they were already inside. He wondered how they had gotten in—he had triple locks on the door, or at least he had intended to. And where were they all hiding now? His house was too small for anyone to hide anywhere.
But there were always mysteries in this world. Like what had started the zombie plague in the first place? They almost never explained that bit in the movies, and when they even bothered it was usually the silliest, most unbelievable sort of explanation. Zombies were simply inevitable—that was Lee’s basic theory. Just like solitude. Just like dying.
His best display case was near the back door. He’d planned it that way as a grand reveal, his collection becoming progressively more interesting as you moved toward its end. In this case he had a variety of large latex prosthetic appliances simulating dead skin, deceased skin, burnt flesh, corrupted hands and fingers and chest pieces, all of it finely detailed so as to be suitable for extreme close-ups. These were major pieces the make-up artists guarded closely as each represented an enormous amount of labor. All of these, he was ashamed to remember, he had stolen off the set when his role was done.
The last piece was a full set of faked abdominal viscera, magnificent in its realism, although the colors had been brightened some so they would show up better on film. Lee had heard that a butcher, one of the investors in the original Night of the Living Dead, provided actual animal entrails for the effects in the film. Lee was grateful he’d only had to wear foam or rubber for his roles, and the occasional acrid smelling paint, although sometimes the effects were so realistic he still became nauseated.
A ravaged face leered at him, making him stagger, and his left arm came down so hard it shattered the glass top and his hand became tangled in the nest of latex and silicone organs, tearing several and scattering the rest. He snarled inarticulately, thinking all those young people had come back to steal his treasures, and he did a crazy little zombie ballet, a kind of Zydeco dance, thinking it might scare them away.
But he appeared to have almost no control over his movements. Arthritis had spread through his arms, hands, legs, feet, stiffening some joints and making others swing in the wrong direction. All the shambling and drunken stumbling he’d done through barren, dismal fields and post-apocalyptic wreckage over years and years—how many and how long ago?—must have done considerable damage.
He raised his arm and looked at it. The flesh was torn and ripped all the way to the bone, several inches of which gleamed nakedly through gaps in the meat and the rotted threads of fat and sinew. But oddly—he couldn’t say luckily—there was no blood at all except for some rust-colored powdery debris, as if the pump attached to his special effects arm had run dry.
He turned his head to the glass wall cabinet beside him and stared at his reflection. When he grinned the zombie in the cabinet door grinned back, exposing its receding gums and enormous teeth, its missing lips and ears. The nose had rotted away to a pair of bone cavities. The eyes lay deep in the shadows of its skull, but clearly panicked.
Someone was beating on his front door. Lee dragged his feet through the broken glass, making his way past his precious display cases. He thought maybe he’d damaged his shoulders because one hung lower than the other, putting a labored twist into his ungainly stride. His hands seemed broken, the way they kept slipping off the doorknob, but he felt no pain at all, and was able to wedge them around the stem of the knob, twist, and pull open the door.
Two police officers waited on the porch. He saw the looks on their faces, and wasn’t at all surprised when they raised their weapons.
“Jubst …” Lee knew he had to enunciate as best he could, even though he had no idea how the words would come out. He struggled to contain his excitement for at last he had a speaking role. “Just aim for the head.”
Steve Rasnic Tem is a past winner of the World Fantasy, Bram Stoker, and British Fantasy Awards. He has published over 450 short stories, with some of his best collected in Figures Unseen: Selected Stories (Valancourt). His latest collection is The Night Doctor and Other Tales (Centipede Press).
Vinegar Syndrome
Ben Monroe
Vinegar Syndrome
As Carlos Villanueva locked up the Coronet Theatre after a Friday night screening of the early ’80s Italian zombie schlocker Dead on Arrival, his phone began to chirp. Not an unusual occurrence; the Coronet was on the outskirts of town, and cell phone signals could rarely penetrate the thick walls. A fact which thrilled the film fans who were the Coronet’s lifeblood. No cell signals meant no annoying electronic interruptions during the screenings of the vintage and retro movies for which the Coronet was known. So usually as he was leaving the building, his phone alerted him to a few voicemails or text messages sent earlier.
But this was his incoming call ringtone. Who’d be calling him at midnight? He pulled his phone from his hip pocket and took a peek. Brad Thompson, the little iPhone screen displayed. He thumbed the answer button and raised the handset, trying to remember who that was. Carlos looked up and down the street. Was someone watching him? But no, it was empty; he was alone under the darkened theater marquis, his only company the yellow glow of streetlights glittering off sprinkles of a light rain.
“Hello?” Carlos said, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as he fished in his pocket for his car keys.
“Hey, hi!” the voice on the other end of the line said, enthusiastically. “Is this Carlos?”
“Yeah, speaking,” he said. Brad Thompson? Carlos thought again.
“Hey, Carlos, this is Brad, from ThriftGoods.”
Ah! Carlos thought. One of the thrift store guys.
Brad continued, trampling over Carlos’ train of thought. “You came in hella long ago, and told me if I ever got any old film equipment or reels or whatever, I should call you, right?”
“Sure, I remember,” Carlos said. He’d stopped fishing for his keys. Carlos was always dropping his card off at thrift stores, junk shops, scouring yard sales for good deals on vintage film industry memorabilia. Calls like this were rare, but not unusual.
“Some came in today,” Brad said, excitement in his voice.
“Yeah? Look, Brad, it’s pretty late.”
“I know, I know,” Brad said. “Just that I thought this stuff was interesting and thought you’d want to know. Came in as part of an estate lot today. Like the son or nephew of some guy who used to work in movies or something. Bunch of old scripts, photos, a Movie-Mite projector, a few reels of film. The film stinks though, like someone spilled pickle juice on it.”
“It’s what happens when old film stock decays. Turns pink and starts to smell acidic,” Carlos replied. “That’s called vinegar syndrome.”
“Oh, yeah?” Brad asked, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “Well, maybe the projector or other stuff’s worth some dough? You ever heard of George Bronstein? That’s the name all over this stuff.”
Bronstein? Brad sifted the name through the voluminous archives of his film trivia-saturated brain. He edited for Universal or AIP or someone back in the day. Have to check IMDB later. “Okay, color me curious. When can I come check the stuff out?”
“Groovy,” Brad said. “Yeah, I thought you might be interested. I need to be at the store by noon tomorrow. But I took it all home.”
“Oh, well that’s great, then,” Carlo
s said. “Well, mum’s the word.”
“Right, mum’s the word,” Brad said. “So come by before eleven tomorrow, and you can check it out.”
Carlos was getting tired. It had been a long night, and he was getting the feeling that Brad was about to ask him over for breakfast. Still, a Movie-Mite projector might be worth a couple hundred bucks if it was in decent shape, or he could fix it up. The scripts piqued his curiosity, though. If Bronstein had owned them, they might be autographed, or collectible somehow. “Brad, I’m beat, but I’ll come by in the morning.”
“Okay, sounds great. Come over early enough I’ll make you breakfast.”
There it is, Carlos thought. “Well, we’ll see. Text me your address and I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”
“Groovy,” Brad replied. “Okay, man. I’ll see you in a few hours. Bring your checkbook!” and he laughed.
Carlos chuckled, but that’s what all this was about, anyway. The whole reason he hit up the junk shops was to make connections and get the good stuff before anyone else did. Maybe this time his leg work had actually panned out.
Carlos slid into the driver’s seat of his car, a dusty, green ’90s Chevy hatchback that was held together with duct tape and prayers. He turned on the heater, let it idle for a moment, warming up the interior. “George Bronstein,” he said to the night. “Hell, might be worth a buck to the right collector.”
But while the haul sounded interesting, all he wanted right now was a decent night’s sleep. He pulled away from the curb, leaving the Coronet silent, still, and dark behind him.
Carlos pulled up in front of the address that Brad had texted him the night before. A dingy multi-unit apartment building on the other side of town from the Coronet and Carlos’ apartment. The building’s brick facade had been painted over with a thick mustard yellow now caked with dust and grunge. The light rain had continued into the morning and had thickened the dirt into a grimy caul. Carlos pulled into a visitor spot in a covered part of the parking lot. When he approached the building, he saw an aluminum sign, metal bent into cursive script stating that this was the “McKay Arms” building.
Outside the lobby, Carlos had to buzz up to Brad’s apartment for entry. He punched the apartment number—3011—into a metal keypad below a speaker. He had to push the 0 button three times though, as it stuck and wouldn’t depress easily. Carlos waited a moment, watching cars speed by on Cox Road across the parking lot. A click and a tinny male voice asked “Yes, hello?”
Carlos turned back to the speaker. It took him a second to find the “Talk” button, as the paint had worn off from many finger presses over the years. He stabbed at it with his finger, holding it down and saying, “Hey, Brad, it’s Carlos.” He let the button go, but Brad was already talking.
“… wait for you by the elevator.” And then a loud electric buzz, and a click as the front door unlocked.
Carlos stepped into the lobby of the McKay Arms. Instantly the smell hit him, a must of tobacco smoke and cleaning chemicals. Not overpowering, but an unpleasant smell. The lobby walls were floor-to-ceiling mirrors with an abstract pattern of gold paint splattered across them. He watched his reflection broken into jigsaw shapes as he crossed the lobby and pushed the glowing button to call the elevator.
The elevator doors slid open almost immediately, as if the car had been waiting for him. Carlos stepped inside and punched the “3rd Floor” button. The elevator doors closed slowly, and it began its ascent. The interior light flickered a few times as the car rose, and for a moment Carlos wondered if he would get stuck in the elevator, but then it slowed, a “ping” rang out, and the doors opened again.
He stepped into a dimly lit hall and looked around for Brad. The hall was empty aside from him and a dusty potted plastic ficus tree in the hallway's corner across from the elevator doors. Two of the six overhead lights were out, but enough morning light shone through the dusty windows at the far ends of the hall that he could see well enough. The door ahead of him was 3001, so Carlos walked down to the opposite end. There were twelve units in all on this floor, Brad’s being at the farthest end away from the elevator.
Carlos was almost all the way down the hall when Brad’s door opened slowly, and someone stepped out. It took Carlos a moment to recognize Brad. He’d only met him the one time at the thrift store, and that was six months or more ago. Brad was tall and unnaturally thin. Probably in his early 50s, he still wore a long ponytail at the base of his skull, but the dome of his head was bald.
“Oh, hey, Carlos!” Brad said upon seeing him. “Sorry man, nature called.” He held out his hand.
Carlos nodded and put out his hand to shake Brad’s. It was clammy, chill and moist. Hope he washed, Carlos thought. “No worries, Brad. How’s things?”
“Good, man, good,” he said, pumping Carlos’ hand. “Hey, come in, look at this stuff, will you?”
Carlos practically had to pull his hand away from Brad’s. “Can’t wait,” Carlos said. “Can’t stay long, though. Gotta get to the Coronet and start setting up for tonight’s show,” he lied.
Brad stepped to the side of the door, sweeping his hand in a wide-open gesture and beckoning Carlos inside. “Groovy, man. Yeah, come on in.”
Carlos walked into the small apartment and subtly looked around. Pale gray light came in through the dirty windows, and Carlos could see storm clouds thickening outside in the distance. Typical bachelor stuff filled the room, a TV sat atop a behemoth of a DVD/VCR combo on a small table against one wall, a recliner across from it. Carlos was amused to see a cinderblock and waist-high pine plank bookshelf against another wall, something he hadn’t seen since college. It was littered with magazines, books, DVDs, and even a few VHS tapes. A kitchen across the room contained a table with a small, gray 16mm film projector on it, and a pair of metal and pleather chairs next to it. Dirty dishes filled the sink, and the window above the sink showed nothing more than a view of the road beyond. Next to the table were two cardboard file boxes, and he saw the familiar steely gray cylindrical shapes of film cans peeking over the edge of one. They were big ones, too. Carlos guessed they were 10” reels, meaning they’d hold about 45 minutes or more of film on each one.
“Sorry, man, I had breakfast before you got here. If you’re hungry, I could whip up some eggs.”
Carlos also noted the smell of the place. Not the musty odor from the lobby, but the sweet skunky funk of marijuana. The place was steeped in it. And underneath that just the faintest sour hint of lemon, or vinegar. “I’m good, thanks,” he said. He pointed to the projector in the kitchen. “Is that the Movie-Mite?” He walked toward it.
“That it is, my man,” Brad said. “What do you think?”
Carlos moved toward the objects on the table, noting that the vinegar smell was stronger as he approached the film cans. A musty, sour smell. Not as bad as some old film stock he’d come across, but still pretty foul. He leaned over the projector, getting a closer look. It was small, barely bigger than a large shoebox. Clean, though, hardly any dust on it at all. The base of brown dyed leather had an alligator-hide print to it. Brownish-gray powdered enamel coated the body of the machine and it was in altogether great shape.
“It’s in decent shape, I guess,” Carlos said. He was tapping his finger on his lip trying to act nonchalant but thinking a Movie-Mite in this good condition might fetch two hundred bucks if he could find the right collector. But if it really belonged to George Bronstein, it could be worth more.
Brad nodded enthusiastically. “I plugged it in last night, and the motor or whatever still works. Bulb’s shot, though.”
Carlos moved over to the cardboard boxes. “Bulbs are fragile and don’t last forever, anyway. I’d have to look around, but it’s probably not too hard to find a replacement.” He lifted the first box onto the kitchen table and carefully sorted through it. A few old screenplays, a few boxes of magnetic tape reels, and some faded old black-and-white photographs. Carlos recognized Bronstein in all of them. A hefty fellow in a tw
eed suit, his eyes overly large from the thick glasses perched on his nose. He had an intense, angry look to him. Carlos recognized a few semi-famous faces from the ’50s B-Movie film industry alongside Bronstein. “This is your guy Bronstein,” he said, pointing him out to Brad.
“Yeah? What was his deal?”
“He was a film editor back in the day,” Carlos said. “Worked for some big studios, lots of workhorse stuff. The war movies, Westerns, and beach party movies that were their bread and butter in the ’50s.”
“Wonder if I’ve ever seen any of his movies?” Brad said, suddenly regaining interest in the collection.
“Oh, probably,” Carlos said. “It was the stuff they used to fill time with on local TV stations on Saturday mornings when I was a kid.”
“Whatever happened to him?” Brad asked. “Did he ever make it big or anything?”
Carlos picked up a gray metal film can. “No, nothing so fortunate,” he said, opening up the can. The smell of vinegar hit him like a wave. “Woah!”
Brad crossed over to the sink and opened the window over it. “Yeah, man, that’s the smell I was telling you about.”
Carlos waved the lid of the can over the film stock to disperse the stink. “It happens to old film stock. The chemicals used in the emulsion break down, and it gives off this smell.”
“So what happened to Bronstein?”
“Nervous breakdown,” Carlos said. “He was working on this film for … crap, I can’t remember. Some rinky-dink studio on the fringes of Hollywood. He’d fallen far from the glitz by then.” Carlos put the film can down. He was in his element, and his excitement was palpable. “He was working on this monster movie. The Dead of Night. Ghosts or vampires, something like that. Nobody’s really sure.”
Monsters, Movies & Mayhem Page 24