Wtf

by Greg Krojac

  The second man stared at Arnold’s face.

  “He don’t look well.”

  Roger rolled his eyes.

  “Of course he doesn’t look well. He’s bloody dead. What d’you expect him to look like?”

  “Dunno. A bit more alive, I suppose.”

  Roger felt he really was dealing with a couple of idiots.

  “This is a morgue. This is where the hospital brings dead people. The living ones are upstairs, in wards. The dead ones are down here. In drawers. You want living actors–“

  The first man cut in.

  “Props.”

  Roger sighed.

  “If you want living props, I suggest you go upstairs and find someone else.”

  Arnold really didn’t want to go with these two men.

  There’s been a terrible mistake. I’m not dead you see. It’s all a misunderstanding.

  His protestations didn’t make any difference.

  The taller of the two men took hold of his legs and the shorter hooked his forearms under Arnold’s armpits. Together, they carried Arnold out of the morgue. The taller man called out as he pushed the exterior door open with his foot.

  “Pleasure doing business with you Roger.”

  Roger nodded.

  “Anytime, Pete. Anytime.”

  Arnold had no say in the matter as he was thrown haphazardly into the back of a ten-year-old Ford Transit van. He landed roughly but, surprisingly, didn’t feel the pain of the impact.

  “I guess I’m going with you then.”

  3

  The noisy diesel van rattled along country roads, its suspension being tested every few yards by the numerous potholes it was forced to negotiate. Inside the van, Arnold bounced about and slid around. He wished he could hold on to something or at least put out an arm occasionally to cushion the impact of hitting the side of the van, but his body still wouldn’t do his brain’s bidding. All he could do was watch helplessly as the side panels threw themselves at him.

  Finally, the vehicle stopped and Arnold was able to settle in one place. But he wasn’t left in peace for long; the back doors of the van opened and the morning sun streamed in. Pete and his mate, Barry, looked inside the van. Pete was not happy.

  “I thought I told you to tie him down, Barry. He’s been bouncing around all over the shop.”

  Arnold agreed.

  Not the most comfortable journey I’ve ever taken.

  Barry went on the defensive.

  “I didn’t think it would matter. It’s not like he could get hurt. He’s dead.”

  Pete shook his head.

  “He can’t be damaged. We’re lucky his head didn’t split open or something.”

  “Sorry, Pete.”

  A third figure joined them and peered inside the back of the van.

  “So this is him, yeah?”

  Pete jumped into the van, grabbed Arnold’s arms, and pulled him nearer the opening so that the newcomer could get a better look. The man stared directly into Arnold’s eyes, an experience which Arnold found decidedly unsettling.

  Not so close, mate. Personal space, you know. Personal space.

  The man pointed at Arnold’s eyes.

  “Don’t stiffs usually have their eyes closed?”

  Pete shrugged.

  “I tried shutting his eyes but the lids just didn’t want to stay down.”

  The third man, who liked to be addressed as Monsieur Pierre (whose real name was Bert Muggins, and the closest he’d been to France was the ferry port at Dover), didn’t see it as a problem.

  “Not to worry. It might work even better with his eyes open.”

  Pete could never understand why his boss insisted on being called by a French name but still spoke in a broad East London accent. Perhaps it was down to the film director’s creative temperament. Or perhaps he was just a poser.

  “So where do you want him, boss?”

  Monsieur Pierre thought for a moment.

  “On the slab. Face up.”

  The studio wasn’t so much a studio as a small warehouse that had been difficult to rent out because of its location off the beaten track. Not that that made much difference to Arnold; the only view he got was of whatever his eyes were pointing at. So he was treated to the visual feast of a pile of empty boxes, a lighting rig, a bald fat man with a Steadicam, the rafters of the warehouse, and the surface of a large metal table.

  Monsieur Pierre clapped his hands to attract the attention of his crew.

  “Ok, everyone. This is the dance scene. The mortician –"

  He pointed at a busty blonde woman, who was wearing spectacles, a white lab coat, and very little else; a living breathing trope.

  “– that’s you, love.”

  He returned to his train of thought.

  “The mortician is filing her nails. She’s feeling lonely. The only company she has is a body that’s on the table.”

  The actress, whose working name was Chantelle, had a question.

  “Monsieur Pierre. How can I dance with him if he’s on the table? I don’t think I’ll be able to pick him up.”

  Pete nudged Barry.

  “She’s got a point there. He’s a dead weight.”

  He waited for a reaction that didn’t come.

  “Didn’t you see what I did there? He’s a dead weight. ‘Cos he’s dead, see?”

  Barry did see; he just thought the joke was too corny to acknowledge.

  Arnold was bored with his view of the ceiling.

  Can someone give me something more interesting to look at?

  Monsieur Pierre put his index finger against his chin, trying to look artistically intelligent.

  “Yes, my dear. Good point.”

  He clapped his hands.

  “Pete. Barry. Lean our guest up against the wall, please.”

  Barry muttered under his breath, wondering what the director’s last servant died of, but helped Pete to stand Arnold upright.

  The director was now satisfied.

  “That’s better.”

  Arnold echoed his sentiments, pleased to have something different to look at.

  Much better.

  The makeshift studio was bustling with activity (if it’s possible for seven people to bustle). Pete and Barry doubled as stagehands and prop-men, although they would both have done the jobs for nothing – they’d seen all Chantelle’s movies and watching her perform live was reward in itself. She was a hot property in the field of adult movies, willing to do almost anything to please her loyal fans.

  Monsieur Pierre gave the set one last look and nodded his approval.

  “Ok. Let’s get this scene in the can.”

  He nodded at the cameraman.

  “Lights. Sound. Stop.”

  He composed himself.

  “Lights. Sound. Stop.”

  His film crew was used to his quirks but Chantelle wasn’t. She threw an anxious look at Pete and shrugged her shoulders.

  Pete silently mouthed three letters at her.

  “O. C. D.”

  She mouthed a response.

  “Obsessive-compulsive?”

  Pete nodded.

  Two more attempts were made to get the camera rolling. Monsieur Pierre took a deep breath and whispered to himself.

  “One two three, One two three, One two three, Let’s go…”

  This time he felt he was ready.

  “Lights. Sound –”

  The director didn’t get a chance to falter again as Barry saved the day, shouting the final word.

  “Action.”

  The camera started rolling, and the boom mike swayed above Chantelle’s head. She looked directly into the camera lens.

  “Oh, woe is me. I’m a forgotten woman down here in the mortuary.”

  Arnold didn’t hold out much hope for the film’s success if that was the quality of scriptwriting. But, then again, nobody watched porn movies for their gripping dialogue and intriguing storylines. It probably wouldn’t matter.

  Chantelle c
ontinued to over-act, milking every last drop of drama from a scene that contained none.

  “Every day. Here, all alone. On my own.”

  She walked over and stood in front of Arnold, looking at him wistfully.

  “All I have for company are my guests. And they never stay very long.”

  Arnold wished he could turn his head. Not because Chantelle wasn’t attractive but because he wondered where the other actor was. There had to be someone else in this scene, surely.

  Chantelle ploughed on regardless with her cheesy soliloquy. She took a step closer to Arnold, who was starting to get worried.

  What are you doing? Surely your co-star will arrive in a minute?

  The actress took another step towards Arnold.

  Now, that’s close enough. We don’t want anyone thinking the wrong thing now, do we?

  Chantelle pouted at Arnold.

  “Will you keep me company, Chuck?”

  Chuck? Who’s Chuck?

  Arnold felt he should put a stop to this, now.

  Look, Chantelle or whatever your name is. The fact is, I’m a happily married man. A very happily married man. I’m sure you’re a charming young woman, but I’m taken. And my name’s Arnold. Not Chuck.

  Chantelle let her lab coat fall to the floor, revealing a black lace bra and panties set. She hurled her spectacles across the set.

  “You know you want me, Chuck.”

  Arnold tried unsuccessfully to shake his head. Unable to do anything else, he looked at the woman in front of him, as her bra fought to contain her more than ample breasts.

  Look, miss. You – oh my word!

  Chantelle’s hands had reached behind her and unclasped her bra, allowing her breasts to tumble free.

  Arnold tried to look away.

  But he couldn’t.

  He tried to close his eyes.

  But he couldn’t.

  Chantelle continued to walk towards him until she was within touching distance. She pressed her naked breasts against his chest and Arnold was grateful for the hospital gown he was still wearing.

  That’s close enough now. You can stop now.

  He wished that Gillian could have been there to take him away from this abomination, this assault on his dignity.

  Chantelle swayed in a fashion that she thought was very sexy and alluring, before lifting Arnold’s hospital gown up past his thighs.

  No, no, NO! That’s not how a young lady should behave.

  Chantelle’s right hand reached forward and grasped his genitalia.

  Arnold wasn’t sure whose scream was louder, Chantelle’s or his.

  The film crew knew. They couldn’t hear Arnold’s scream but Chantelle’s was almost loud enough to shatter glass.

  She spun around on her six-inch heels and glared at Monsieur Pierre.

  “You bastard! You let me think Chuck was a prop. But his junk certainly didn’t feel like it was made out of synthetic rubber. What kind of sick bastard are you?”

  She’d been tricked. Arnold watched as she drew her right arm back. That didn’t look good for the director. He was correct. It was very bad for the director. One moment Monsieur Pierre was looking into the face of a very irate actress, and the next he was lying on the floor, unconscious. He’d certainly think twice about hiring a female ex-boxer again. Chantelle’s punch had landed square on his jaw and given him no chance to take evasive action.

  The actress picked up her lab coat and glasses from where they lay, put them on, and stormed out of the building, stopping only to give the director a swift kick in the groin as she passed him.

  A few seconds later, Monsieur Pierre came to. He looked around, trying to focus his eyes. Feeling his jaw he looked at his cameraman.

  “Cut.”

  4

  The transit van was parked in a woodland clearing. Sitting in the passenger seat, Barry was nervous.

  “We’re not burying him here, are we?”

  Pete unbuckled his safety belt and shook his head.

  “You know, sometimes I worry about you. No. Of course we’re not burying him here. It’s too much out in the open. We’ll bury him deeper into the woods.”

  Arnold, having been thrown around in the back of the van again, strained his ears to hear what they were saying. It didn’t sound promising.

  Pete was obviously in charge, barking orders at Barry.

  “Right, fetch the shovel and the large plastic sheet from out of the back. Find a nice spot to dig a grave and then come back here.”

  “Why come back here?”

  “Why do you think? ‘Cos if you don’t, I won’t know where we’re gonna dig the bloody hole, will I?”

  “So why don’t you come with me?”

  Pete was exasperated.

  “Someone’s got to look after Chuck here.”

  Barry seemed satisfied with that answer.

  Five minutes later, he arrived back at the van.

  “I’ve found somewhere, Pete.”

  “Good. Now give me a hand to carry Chuck to his final resting place.”

  Barry’s choice of burial ground was surprisingly good. It was inside a tangle of trees that, to the casual observer, looked impenetrable. However, Barry had found a way inside and there was easily sufficient space to dig a grave away from prying eyes.

  A couple of thorns scratched Arnold’s face as he was passed into the burial area, but they didn’t do much damage.

  Pete looked at his partner.

  “Well?”

  Barry looked back at Pete.

  “Well, what?”

  “The hole won’t dig itself, will it?”

  Barry should have expected this. It had been like this since he and Pete had lived next door to each other as children. Pete had always been bigger than Barry and had taken full advantage of the fact. Barry had done Pete’s homework. Barry had done Pete’s paper round. And now Barry was going to dig a hole for Pete.

  It wasn’t easy work, but he applied himself well to the task. Soon the hole was six feet long and four feet deep. He called to his friend.

  “It’s about four feet, I reckon. That’s deep enough, isn’t it?”

  Pete was sitting on a nearby tree stump and took a bite of one of the sandwiches that he’d brought with him, speaking with his mouth full. Crumbs sputtered out of his mouth as he spoke.

  “Nah. A couple more feet, I reckon. We don’t want to make it too easy for animals to dig him up.”

  Another half an hour, and the grave was completed. Barry wasn’t as daft as he might look and had fashioned a set of steps in the earth so that he could get out again.

  Pete took a sip from a can of Red Bull. It was tiring overseeing Barry’s work.

  “You done yet?”

  “Not quite. I think I’ll dig a bit deeper. I’m not tired. Just another foot or so.”

  Pete didn’t mind, as long as he didn’t have to do any of the digging.

  “Alright. Do what you want. It’s your funeral.”

  Twenty minutes later, Barry had disappeared from view; the sides of the grave were taller than he was. Pete called out again.

  “You done?”

  At first, there was no answer, but then Barry clambered out of the grave. He stood alongside Pete and admired his handiwork.

  “That should do the trick.”

  “It’s a bit deep isn’t it?”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  The two of them rolled Arnold up in the black plastic sheet and tossed him into the grave. His body made a satisfying thump as it landed on the floor of the hole. Pete looked down into the newly occupied grave.

  “You’ve done a good job there, Barry. All you have to do now is fill it in.”

  Pete never felt the spade hitting the back of his head. He didn’t even hear the swoosh as the blade passed through the air before smashing the rear of his skull into several pieces.

  Barry whistled as he shovelled the excavated earth back into the hole. It didn’t occur to him that he was risking somebody h
earing him. All he knew was that Chuck was buried and the bully Pete was dead and buried with him.

  The final sod thrown onto the grave, Barry looked solemn for a moment as if he was going to say a prayer for the recently deceased. But no such thought crossed his mind – he simply smiled.

  “Actually, it’s your funeral, Pete.”

  5

  It was pitch black in the grave. Arnold was aware that he had been buried but didn’t realise at first that he had company in the grave.

  His first thought was to panic, and try to claw his way out of his earthy tomb, but there was no point in even thinking about it – he hadn’t been able to physically move any part of his body for the last three weeks. He did some quick mental calculations and the results did nothing to improve his mood. Above him, there was probably upward of 3,000 lbs. of dirt plus the weight of Pete pressing down on his chest

  Three thousand pounds! That’s a lot of soil. Even if I could move, I don’t know that I could reach the surface.

  He was remarkably calm considering the situation he found himself in. He remembered his father telling him once that if there was nothing he could do himself to remedy a situation, then worrying about it wouldn’t help. So he wasn’t worried – yet.

  It occurred to him that he should be having problems breathing. Surely, all that soil and a dead body weighing down on his chest meant that he shouldn’t be able to breathe. That frightened him.

  When was the last time I took a breath?

  His thoughts ran back to the hospital.

  I was definitely breathing there. But then they turned off a machine. Was I breathing after that?

  He honestly wasn’t sure. Breathing’s not something you think about normally. It just happens. It’s instinctive. Breathing is so automatic that you don’t notice if you’re breathing or not. Maybe he wasn’t breathing.

  Am I dead?

  He couldn’t be dead; he was still aware of things that happened around him. Had he dreamed the episode at the porn movie shoot? Perhaps he was dreaming.

  Yes. That’s it. I must be dreaming. I’ll open my eyes and I’ll wake up from this nightmare.

  But his eyes were already open.

  He heard a gurgling sound.