by Tobe Hooper
And if it didn’t go away, what better place was there to be than in bed? If we were going to die, at least we’d die comfortably … which is more than I can say for my sister.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
From the outside, the Regal Arbor Cinema looked like any other multiplex: a ticket taker, a marquee, and a couple of posters on the wall. Nothing special. The inside wasn’t much to write home about, either: It was slightly dilapidated, the floors were sticky with months-old soda spills, the bathrooms were in need of some serious updating, and most of the seats creaked when you sat down. Probably the ideal place to show our little flick.
We didn’t advertise it or anything. We frankly didn’t want anybody to see it. We didn’t want to see it ourselves.
Oh. Right. I suppose I should mention that we hadn’t seen it yet.
TOBE HOOPER:
Let’s do a checklist here: We’ve got the goddamn zombies, and we’ve got the goddamn Blue Spew, and we’ve got goddamn cities burning, and we’ve got goddamn psychotics beating the crap out of whoever they want to beat the crap out of, and we’ve got hundreds of people killing themselves in some pretty goddamn imaginative ways. Pretty goddamn weird, right? Right.
But believe it or not, for me, for yours truly, for Tobe Hooper, for the dude who might’ve started this mess, that wasn’t the weirdest.
No, the weirdest was waking up on the morning of August 31 with a film sitting on my nightstand. Right there on the canister, in my own handwriting: Destiny Express Redux.
See, I didn’t remember finishing it.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
Naturally we’d planned to show the flick at midnight. We had to.
At noon, my cell phone rang. Unknown number. I screened it. Whoever it was didn’t leave a message, so I figured it was a wrong number. Then they called again two minutes later, and the same deal. Then, two minutes later, again. I couldn’t turn my phone off, because I needed to be accessible to Janine, so finally, after the sixth call, I picked it up and yelled, “What?!”
It was a guy. He said, “Is this Erick?”
I said, “Yeah. Who’s this?”
The guy said, “Erick Laughlin? Erick Laughing Boy? Erick the Half a Bee? Erick the Earache?”
Fuck. Dude McGee. I said, “How did you get my number, McGee?”
He said, “You’re not hard to find, Laughing Boy. You’re not that important. It’s not like anybody’s protecting your whereabouts.”
I said, “So somebody at the newspaper gave it to you.”
Dude said, “Oh. No. They wouldn’t. Bastards. I have other means. Don’t worry about it. So how’d the movie turn out? Better than the first one, I’d hope.”
I said, “I’m in a bit of a rush. What do you want?”
He said, “I’d like to see To-beeeeee Hoopster.”
I said, “Hooper.”
He said, “Right. Hoopster.”
What a dick. I said, “He’s incommunicado. Can I help you with something?”
He said, “I’d like to come to the screening.”
I thought, What the fuck? We hadn’t told a single person about it. Our plan was to show it to the empty theater and hope for the best. I said, “How did you find out about it?”
Dude said, “A mutual friend told me. Darren. Darren Allen. Darren Baron Allen. Darren Gallon Allen. Baron Gallon.”
I desperately wanted to get off the phone, but I had to ask: “How do you know Darren Allen?”
Dude said, “Oh, I’ve known about Darren Allen Baron Gallon for a while. He’s huge in Houston. Do you want to hear something funny about Darren Allen Baron Gallon? Do you want to know why Darren Allen Baron Gallon is kind of … off?”
Tobe had insisted that back in the day, Darren was considerably less weird than he was when he was shuffling around our sets, seemingly barely able to hold the camera, so I actually was a little bit curious. I said, “Sure, Dude. Tell me why Darren is kind of off.”
He said, “The poor man was in a terrible car accident a few years back. It almost crushed his head. He doesn’t like to discuss it.”
I said, “I can imagine.”
Dude said, “No. You can’t. You can’t imagine. It was awful.”
I said, “How would you know?”
He said, “Why would you care?”
I said, “I don’t.”
He said, “I didn’t think so. But you should. I did. I helped him. I helped make him feel better. Or at least feel different. See, nobody cared about Darren Allen Baron Gallon. But I did. I helped him, and he helped me. Would you like to know how?”
I didn’t have the time or the energy for this, so I said, “Frankly, Dude, I wouldn’t.”
He said, “None of this would’ve happened without Darren Allen Baron Gallon. He was the catalyst.”
I said, “That’s great, Dude.”
He said, “His preservation skills are simply marvelous.”
Again, I said, “That’s great, Dude.”
He said, “He’s a magician with that camera. Did you like the way he shot your little movie, Earache Laughing Boy?”
I said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet.”
He said, “I thought you might say that. So. Will your Mr. Hoopster see me after the show, or what?”
I didn’t bother correcting him on the name. He was either being his usual moronic self or being willfully douchebaggy, so why waste my breath? I said, “You know what, McGee? Fuck it. If this works, you get some credit. It was kind of your idea to get the band back together, so come on down. I can’t guarantee Tobe will want to talk to you, though. That’s up to him.”
He said, “He’ll talk to me. Oh yes he will, Earache, Ache Ear, Ache Ache.”
Christ, what a moron.
JANINE DALTREY:
The argument lasted for, I don’t know, ninety minutes or so, and it was the kind of argument that a stubborn boyfriend has with his stubborn girlfriend: Each party makes the same point over and over, just restating it in a million different ways. The winner is usually the one who outlasts the other.
My position: I’m coming to the goddamn screening.
Erick’s position: No goddamn way. It might not be safe.
My position: If it’s not safe, then you shouldn’t go.
His position: I have to go.
Long story short, he didn’t want me anywhere near the place, because he didn’t know what was going to happen, and I didn’t want him anywhere near the place for the exact same reason, but if something was going to happen to him, then I thought it may as well happen to me.
I thought it was romantic, in an insane way. But at that point, I was a little insane. Wouldn’t you be? I mean, practically everybody else was.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I wore her down, pure and simple. That’s the only way I ever win any argument with her, because she’s considerably smarter than me.
JANINE DALTREY:
When Erick told me that Dude McGee was going to be there, I didn’t feel so bad about staying home.
TOBE HOOPER:
I told Erick that I was going to get to the theater at around eleven o’clock, and I didn’t want him there until right before midnight. I didn’t want anybody there until right before midnight. Hell, I didn’t want anybody there at all, but I had a gut feeling that for this thing to work, somebody had to check out the damn thing, and if that somebody had to be me, so be it.
The front door was open when I showed, and the lights were off, and there was nobody to be seen. I wandered around the lobby calling, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” I felt like a goddamn horror flick cliché, like Wes Craven or Guillermo del Toro was directing the story of my life. Wes would’ve had some dude in a mask and gown tackle me from behind and jam a scythe in my back, and Guillermo would’ve had some sort of vampire materialize out of nowhere. Me, I would’ve cut right to the chase and had a naked woman chop my head off with an axe. But that’s neither here nor there.
I eventually found the light switch and walked i
n a few circles until I tracked down the stairway up to the projection booth. The booth was just like any other booth, and the projector was just like any other projector. I looked out the projector hole, and the theater looked like it did the last time I was there: just like any other theater. There wasn’t anything mystical or magical. It was just a big, dark room where people congregated to share the experience of watching a film together. I suppose that’s mystical and magical in a way, but I doubted it was mystical and magical enough to cure a virus.
But fuck it. We made the movie. I figured we may as well show it. I took the film out of the canister, threaded up the projector, sat down on the floor, and stared at the wall.
Then there was a knock at the door.
FROM THE PAPERS OF MARCUS AURELIUS FROST-McGEE
TOBE HOOPER:
I opened the door, and it was Dude McGee, the man who got both Destiny Express and Destiny Express Redux rolling.
I said, “Why, Mr. McGee, this is a surprise.” He was a large, odiferous man, and his attitude was terrible, and the name-mispronouncing thing got old, but for some reason, I was glad to see him. If this worked, if Redux reversed the curse, McGee would get an assist.
Then again, I probably would’ve been glad to see anybody. See, in retrospect, I realized I’d made a mistake by coming alone to the theater. That was some creepy shit, man, being alone in a dark movie theater, but what with the hazmat brigade and the tumbleweeded streets, all of Austin was creepy.
Dude said, “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, To-beeeeee. So how did it come out? How’s the redux? How’s the restoration?”
I said, “You know what, McGee? I have no fucking idea.”
He said, “I thought you might say that.”
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I showed up to the theater at quarter to midnight, and who’s waiting for me at the front entrance, looking like the fattest ticket taker in the world? That’s right, the man, the myth, the legend, Dude McGee.
I tried to walk through the door without engaging him, but he wasn’t having it. He said, “Earache Laughing Boy, a pleasure as always. You’re the first person here. Wait, no, you’re the second person here. To-beeeeee is upstairs getting ready for the show. He likes his Maker’s Mark, that Mr. Hoover does.”
I said, “I have to find him.” Again, I tried to get past McGee, but he grabbed my bicep. He was surprisingly strong.
He said, “I have a piece of advice for you, Eerie Laugh Man. Leave before the ending. Leave before the last scene. Beat the traffic.”
I pointed to the empty street and said, “What traffic?”
He said, “I was making a funny. I do that once in a while.”
I said, “Whatever,” then took a peek over his shoulder to see if anybody was inside. “Quite a crowd we have here.”
Dude looked at his watch and said, “Oh, your crowd is right on time.”
I said, “There isn’t going to be a crowd.”
McGee said, “Sure there is.”
He pointed over my shoulder. I turned around, and walking almost in lockstep were three dozen zombies.
He said, “That Marcus Frost sure managed to get the word out to the right people, didn’t he?”
TOBE HOOPER:
Before he split to go grab a seat, Dude asked me to do him a favor. I wasn’t really in a favor-giving headspace but figured that since he was the one who jumpstarted this campaign to save the world, I’d at least hear him out.
He said, “Leave before the movie ends.”
I said, “No way, man. I have to see if the guy gets the girl in the end.”
Dude said, “He doesn’t. Just go. Go home to California. You’ve done enough. The world has suffered enough. The Game is over.”
I said, “I’m staying, brother. I might be the only one.”
He shrugged, then said, “Okay, Tobe Hooper. I tried.”
I think that was the first time that motherfucker got my name right.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I hadn’t seen any of the Game zombies up close and personal, only on television and from a far distance. Now, you’d think that since Tobe gave me such an in-depth description of his encounter with Gary Church, I’d have been prepared.
Listen, man, nothing can prepare you for that. Nothing.
On the plus side, they weren’t being the least bit violent. They were shuffling to the theater with a purpose, as if they’d been summoned. When they got to the theater, they walked right past me and Dude as if we weren’t even there.
On the minus side—and this is a very large fucking minus side—their stench was ghastly. Take the roadkill alligator, cover it with skunk spray, then vomit on it, and multiply that times fifty, and you’ve got it. You could see the smell, too. It was like they were all Pigpen from the Peanuts.
And their skin, Jesus Christ. It was green—olive drab, to be precise. And they all had these sores that were about an inch or so in diameter. Some of them were oozing white shit, and some of them were oozing blue shit, and all of them were bubbling and steaming.
I can’t even bring myself to discuss the leprosy.
TOBE HOOPER:
The theater filled up. Erick told me it was going to be an empty theater. Guess he was wrong.
I tried to get a gander at what kind of crowd we were looking at, but it was dark, and the lights were off, and I couldn’t see shit from the projection booth.
My only hope was that these people would leave the theater in the same state they’d arrived in.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
And then, midnight. Roll film.
TOBE HOOPER:
My God, Destiny Express Redux was one majorly fucked-up piece of celluloid.
But it was still better than the first one.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I stood against the back, right by the exit. No way I was sitting next to any of those undead fuckers.
The zombies stopped their moaning the second the movie started. That made the theater smell slightly less rancid. Slightly.
The first thing we saw was Claire holding the cue cards. And the first cue card said, “DIE.” Now, I wrote those cards out myself, and I sure as hell don’t remember writing “DIE.” But then again, I don’t remember much of anything.
The second card: “TOBE.”
The third card: “HOOPER.”
The fourth card: “A PAINFUL.”
The fifth card: “DEATH.”
The next five cards: “DIE.” “DIE.” “DIE.” “DIE.” “DIE.”
The last card: “BURN IN HELL.”
Jesus. You’d think that an executive producer would remember such a deviation from the script.
TOBE HOOPER:
That was, without a doubt, the biggest what-the-fuck moment of my entire life. Yeah, I didn’t remember shit about the shoot, but you’d think that a pile of cue cards wishing me eternal damnation would ring a bell.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
And then Theo roared into the screen and cuts off Claire’s arm. And that shit looked realer than real. Especially when Claire stared at her gushing shoulder, then passed out face-first on the concrete.
And then we saw Tobe, looking handsome and vibrant. He went into his spiel about being a liar and a thief, and then Theo came in and bit off both of his arms, then sucked on the stump as if he was giving Tobe’s shoulder a blow job. Tobe then started chewing his own lips until they began bleeding. And then he screamed. And then Theo pulled down Tobe’s pants and gave him a karate chop to the balls. Tobe passed out face-first, just like Claire.
Again, not in the original script. Again, not in the original movie.
It was at this point that the repulsive creatures populating our little movie theater came to life. They stayed calm and quiet, however, which made it that much worse to see them pulling off their own legs.
I threw up on my shoes when they started beating themselves on their own heads with their dismembered limbs.
TOBE HOOPER:
I knew Cla
ire wasn’t my biggest fan, but did she really have to tell me to die a painful death? And to go off script without telling anybody? Christ.
I have to give credit to Billy Marron. The dude spends thirty years dicking around with computers, and he manages to come up with better effects than Industrial Light and Magic, at one-ten-thousandth of the price.
The rest of Redux was as disjointed as the original but considerably more gruesome. Like, the alligator scene was unreal. I mean, the fucker bit a chunk out of Helen’s neck, and you could see gristle.
And then there was Theo. Theo, Theo, Theo, holy mother of God, did he look revolting. What with the roiling warts, and the pointy teeth, and the festering scratches running up and down his face and arms, he made poor Gary Church seem like the picture of health.
I even covered my eyes when he castrated himself with a hammer and a chisel.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
The smoke started coming from the screen about forty-five minutes in, and if Redux was true to the original, we only had fifteen minutes left until the movie was over. I hoped nobody asphyxiated before then. Hell, I hoped I didn’t asphyxiate before then.
Somebody—or something—tapped me on the shoulder, and, without thinking, purely on reflex, I slugged him. Not that slugging a zombie would’ve done a damn bit of good—from what I’d gathered, they could be killed only with something potent like a gun or a knife—but I was on a hair trigger.
Turned out I’d cracked Dude McGee.
He rubbed his jaw, then said, “Get out of here, Erick. Leave. Seriously. Go. It’s done. You’re done. I’ve had enough. My point is made. I’m putting an end to this.”
I thought, Weird, he called me by my actual name, then I said, “What point?”
He said, “Don’t worry about it. Just go.”
I said, “I have to see how this damn thing turns out.”