Greatest Zombie Movie Ever

by Jeff Strand

  “Not enough butter on my Pop-Tart,” said Bobby, not waking up. He resumed his snoring.

  “Roll over, Bobby.”

  “That cow doesn’t really have hair. It’s a toupee.”

  Gabe sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Is he dreaming?”

  “I hope so.”

  Bobby let out a snore so otherworldly that no sound designer could recreate it for a motion picture. Then he rolled back over on his side.

  Gabe got out of his sleeping bag and looked over Justin’s shoulder. “I see that you’ve started our no-budget film with a helicopter crash.”

  “Yes.”

  Gabe shrugged. “All right. We’ll figure it out.”

  A few minutes later, Justin’s mom peeked into his room to ask if they were ready for breakfast. Justin decided that food was probably a good idea if he wanted to keep himself alive during the writing process, so he and Gabe headed downstairs, letting Bobby sleep.

  They sat at the dining room table, where his mom had set out scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, pancakes, and toast. “Where’s Bobby?” she asked.

  “Still asleep.”

  “But blueberry pancakes are his favorite.”

  His mom really liked Bobby and Gabe, calling them her “bonus sons.” Justin’s dad liked them too, although Justin suspected that he kept an invoice of food costs that he wanted to present to their parents. Bobby lived with his mom, three little sisters (Becky, Bonnie, and Betty), and five dogs (Bongo, Boink, Bleeper, Booga, and Bippity). Since Justin was allergic to dogs, he never went over there. Gabe, like Justin, was an only child, but his mom and dad were strong believers in a clothing-optional lifestyle, so Justin’s parents didn’t really like him to go over there. Neither did Gabe.

  “So what are your plans for today?” Mom asked.

  “We’re writing the script for a zombie movie. Our first feature.”

  “Is it going to be R-rated?”

  Justin chuckled. “At least.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t watch R-rated movies.”

  “We’re not watching one. We’re making one.”

  Justin’s mom was an overprotective parent in a lot of ways, but she didn’t restrict his movie watching as long as he continued to demonstrate that he could tell the difference between fantasy and reality. Though she was not a fan of his enthusiasm for horror movies, she knew there were much worse things he could be doing with his friends, like vandalism or treason.

  “Keep those grades up, and you can watch as many eyeballs getting poked out as you want,” Dad often told him, when the subject came up. “The first time those grades drop, no more severed heads for you.”

  “What’s it about?” Mom asked.

  “A survivor in a postapocalyptic landscape. The whole city is overrun by the living dead. To stay alive, she has to rely on her wits and her machine guns.”

  “Well, it’s nice that you have a female lead. Hopefully she’ll be a good role model. But why don’t you try making a nice movie sometime?”

  “We might. Someday.”

  “People like nice movies. You could make a movie that makes people feel better about the world around them. Why don’t you make a movie about an immigrant who overcomes adversity?”

  “Zombies are adversity.”

  “Or make a movie about a kid with a disease who ends up not dying from it. Something that inspires people. What’s that one movie? The one that makes everybody happy. The one with that one girl. Ron, you know which one I mean, right?”

  “The Wizard of Oz?”

  “No.”

  “Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2?”

  “No.”

  “The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies?”

  “No.”

  “The Exorcist?” asked Justin.

  “Don’t be a wise guy. You both know which movie I’m talking about.”

  “We really don’t.”

  “It’ll come to me in the middle of the night. Anyway, you should consider making something that critics will call the feel-good movie of the year.”

  Justin grinned. “I could film ninety minutes of two people making out.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I could cast myself as the lead.”

  “If you don’t want to use my suggestions, that’s fine. I just think people enjoy movies where they leave with a song in their heart.” Mom’s eyes lit up. “You could do a musical!”

  “A zombie musical?”

  “No, a real musical! Like that one movie.”

  “The Exorcist?”

  “Stop it. Would you like some more bacon, Gabe?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Justin’s mom put two more slices of bacon on Gabe’s plate. “Think about what I’ve said. The world loves movies that aren’t rated R.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Justin. “I’ll do a G-rated version just for you.” A thirty-five-second version, he thought.

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, Dad, can I borrow twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “On a serious note though, if you really are looking for financing, you should consider talking to Grandma.”

  “Really?”

  Dad nodded. “She’s not going to give you twenty grand, but if you need money for supplies, I bet she’d be willing to pitch in.”

  This was surprising news to Justin. Grandma always included a ten-dollar bill in her birthday cards, but she’d reacted to his three short films by informing him that they were “cute, dear.” He’d never considered her as a source of funding.

  “Maybe I should call her,” he said.

  “If I were you, I’d go over there this afternoon. She’s always in a good mood right after Sunday brunch, and her mood gets worse the longer it is since she’s eaten Sunday brunch.”

  “We will.” Today was supposed to be an all-writing extravaganza, but he’d happily adjust the schedule to accommodate potential investors.

  “Tell Grandma it’s a feel-good musical,” said Mom.

  5

  Grandma lived a half an hour away by bicycle in a nice gated community. Justin, Gabe, and Bobby sat on her couch, eating Grandma’s special chocolate-chip cookies, which tasted delicious but had the texture of saltwater taffy. Her lemonade was so sour that it made your mouth twist into a vortex. Almost everything in her house was light blue, and Justin had purposely changed into a light-blue shirt to go better with the décor and perhaps make her more inclined to part with her cash.

  Grandma sat across from them on her piano bench. She was a plump, gray-haired woman who’d moved to Florida after Grandpa died last year. She took a bite of cookie and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.

  “How much do you need?” she asked.

  “Pretty much whatever you’re willing to give us.”

  “That’s kind of vague. Don’t Hollywood movies cost two hundred million dollars these days?”

  Justin nodded. “That’s why we’re going the independent route.”

  “How much would it cost me to get Daniel Day-Lewis in your movie?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. A lot, I think.”

  Grandma took another bite of her cookie and then flicked the rest at Justin, hitting him in the forehead. “Daniel Day-Lewis isn’t going to be in your zombie movie. Don’t be ridiculous. If you think that an acclaimed actor like him is going to show up and star in a movie made by a fifteen-year-old, then you don’t understand the film business.”

  “I didn’t actually think that he was going to be in my movie,” said Justin. “I was just sort of…you know—”

  “Humoring me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Humoring an old lady. Making her think that she can meet Daniel
Day-Lewis. You’ve gone Hollywood already, kid. You’ll say anything to anybody, even your own grandmother, to get what you want.”

  Justin glanced nervously at Gabe, who avoided his glance.

  Grandma laughed. “Relax! I’m just kidding. Jeez, you’re uptight. What has your dad been feeding you? Poodle food?” She took a long swig of her lemonade and licked her lips. “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm. Tangy. So you have a completed script, right?”

  “We’re working on it today,” said Justin.

  “How many other investors have you lined up?”

  “None. Just you.”

  “So that means I get final script approval, right?”

  Justin stiffened, then forced himself to shrug. “Sure, I guess.”

  Grandma laughed. “Chillax, Justin. Chillax! I’m not really seeking final script approval. You don’t give up script approval to anybody who waves a couple of bucks in your face. I don’t even want to read it. That zombie stuff gives me nightmares. As far as I’m concerned, when you die, you should stay dead. All of that rising from the grave and walking around and biting nice people on the arm…it’s rude is what it is. Flat-out inconsiderate.”

  “We should call our movie Night of the Impolite Dead,” said Bobby.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do,” said Grandma. “I believe in you, so I’m going to take out a second mortgage on my home, sell my wedding ring, and empty my savings.”

  Justin’s eyes widened. “What? No. Don’t do that.”

  Grandma’s whole body shook as she cackled with laughter. “I was just seeing if you were the kind of grandson who would let his Grandma risk losing her home.”

  “Did you think I might be?”

  “Nah. I just liked seeing your face. It’s a good face. Okay, enough fun and games. You’re here for a business transaction, and I won’t torture you any longer. I’m not a rich woman, but I’ve socked away a little over the years. And I’m prepared to give you five thousand dollars.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Grandma, that’s…that’s fantastic! We can buy hundreds of gallons of fake blood with that!” Justin couldn’t believe it. Five thousand dollars! It wasn’t enough to pay for the hummus budget on a big summer blockbuster, but he, Gabe, and Bobby could get an incredible amount of production value for that much money.

  “Now I’m looking at this as an investment. I’m going to see a return on my investment, right?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, sure, absolutely.”

  Grandma’s eyes went cold, and she was no longer smiling. “I said…I’m going to see a return on my investment, right?”

  Justin couldn’t tell if she was kidding again.

  “Well, yeah, I mean, these things are never guaranteed, but—”

  “I’ve been joking around a lot during our meeting today,” said Grandma. “It’s what I do. I like to be the jolly old grandmother. ‘Oh, she’s a hoot!’ people say. But I’m not being a hoot right now. Right now I am being deeply serious. If I give you this money, it is not a birthday gift. It is not money for you to go out for ice cream with your friends. When I write you this check for five thousand dollars, I expect you to write me a check for more than five thousand dollars after this movie is released. I expect at least a twelve percent return on my investment. Do you feel that you can deliver a twelve percent return on investment?”

  She was kidding, right? She had to still be kidding. Any moment now she was going to laugh and throw another piece of cookie at his head.

  “Yeah,” said Justin. “Twelve percent. I mean, that’s a fair request, I think.”

  There was no mirth in Grandma’s eyes. “And you’re willing to sign paperwork to that effect?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gabe cleared his throat. “I think we should discuss this first.”

  Grandma nodded. “Very well. I’ll go make more lemonade. You have five minutes.”

  Grandma stood up and walked out of the room. Gabe checked to make sure she was truly gone and then lowered his voice. “I don’t want to owe your grandmother anything if the project falls apart.”

  “It’s not going to fall apart.”

  “Movies fall apart all the time! We had a movie fall apart two days ago! A third of five thousand dollars is one thousand, six hundred, sixty-six dollars, and sixty-seven cents. I can’t pay that back.”

  “Plus the twelve percent,” said Bobby.

  “Right. Plus the twelve percent.”

  “How much is that?”

  “One thousand, eight hundred, sixty-six dollars, and sixty-seven cents.”

  “How’d you do that in your head?”

  Gabe ignored him. “Justin, I want to help you make the movie, and I’m willing to do what it takes to raise the money. But I don’t want to be in debt to anybody. I don’t think it’s even legal for us to promise her a return on her investment, and I don’t think it’s legal of her to demand one, so it’s not like it would hold up in a court of law, especially since we’re minors and this is a grandson-grandmother agreement. But still, my parents will shred me if I do something like this.”

  “I totally understand,” said Justin.

  “We can still do a bake sale,” said Bobby.

  “Oh, we will. But I’m going to accept the five thousand dollars, and I’ll take the full responsibility for paying it back.”

  “What if the movie doesn’t get finished?” asked Gabe.

  “It will.”

  “Okay, but for the sake of argument, what if it doesn’t?”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “It’s not an option after your grandmother hires goons to break your legs, but right now we do have options, so let’s discuss them.”

  “No safety net, remember? I’m making this movie. And it’s going to be amazing. And if we can’t earn back fifty-two hundred dollars, I deserve Grandma’s wrath.”

  “Fifty-six hundred dollars.”

  “I thought you said your share would be one thousand, eight hundred, sixty-six dollars, and sixty-seven cents? That’s two hundred dollars more than… Oh, right, it’s times three. Fifty-six hundred dollars is right. I’m still taking the money.”

  “Should I be knocking you unconscious and dragging you out of here for your own good?”

  “Nah.”

  Gabe turned to Bobby. “Any thoughts?”

  “I wish my grandmother would give me five grand.”

  “All right,” said Gabe. “I’ve expressed my objections. You’ve officially ignored them, and we can move forward.”

  Grandma walked back into the living room with a fresh pitcher of lemonade. She refilled their glasses and then sat down on the piano bench. “So what did you boys decide?”

  “We’d love to have you invest in our movie,” said Justin. “I really appreciate this. I can’t tell you how much it means to us.”

  “Oh, goody,” said Grandma. “This is going to be so much fun.” Again her eyes went ice-cold.

  The eyes of a hardened killer.

  The eyes of doom.

  Suddenly Justin came up with the greatest movie idea ever. It would be a terrifying film about a grandmother who—

  No, no. Focus. One project at a time.

  6

  Justin, Gabe, and Bobby sat in Justin’s room, each typing away on their laptops.

  Grandma’s check was safely tucked away in Justin’s wallet. For a split second, he’d thought that Grandma drew a skull underneath her signature, but it had just been his imagination.

  Bobby snickered.

  “Did you write a funny part?” asked Justin.

  Bobby hesitated for a moment. “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “It needs another draft or two before I’m ready to share it.”

  Justin stood up and walked ove
r so he could see Bobby’s computer. Bobby switched screens, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop Justin from seeing that he wasn’t working on the script. And the screen he switched to wasn’t the script either. Bobby realized this and flipped to a third screen that also wasn’t the script before he flipped back to the script.

  “We’re supposed to be working.”

  “I am working.”

  “You were watching a giraffe video.”

  “Research.”

  “Research for what?”

  “A giraffe scene.”

  “C’mon, Bobby. We need to take this seriously.”

  “I am taking it seriously. Look how much I’ve written already.”

  “Two lines!” shouted Justin.

  “Two great lines.”

  “We can’t afford a giraffe,” said Gabe.

  “He wasn’t writing a giraffe part. He was just watching a video.”

  “Not everyone can just turn on their inspiration like a light switch,” said Bobby. “Some of us need to ease ourselves into creativity. Maybe you have your own little quirks. Do you hear me judging them? No. If I want to watch a giraffe steal a lady’s jar of peanut butter to get in the mood to write, who are you to tell me it’s wrong?”

  “Does the giraffe really steal her peanut butter?” asked Gabe.

  “Yeah. You want to watch?”

  Three minutes and eighteen seconds later, Justin said, “Okay, yeah, that was a pretty funny video. But we’re on a super-tight schedule, and we can’t mess around.”

  “I think that video was faked,” said Gabe. “Why would that lady be carrying around a whole jar of peanut butter at the zoo? Nobody does that.”

  “No more videos,” said Justin. “No social media. Nothing but zombies, zombies, zombies until we’re done.”

  “Can we watch zombie videos for inspiration?” asked Bobby.

  “No,” said Justin, but then he considered it. “Actually, maybe that’s not a bad idea. We’ll watch part of a movie just to get ourselves into the right mind-set.”

  “I vote the original Dawn of the Dead,” said Gabe.

  “I vote the remake,” said Bobby.

  Four hours later their double feature was over. Justin had only planned to watch the first ten minutes of each, but you couldn’t just pop in the original Dawn of the Dead and not watch the whole thing. It was a good idea in theory but didn’t actually work in the real world. And once they’d finished the original, they had to respect Bobby’s wishes and watch just the first ten minutes of the remake, which then became just the first twenty minutes, which then became just the first thirty minutes, which would have become just the first forty minutes except that they completely lost track of time until the movie was over.