The Barrens & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

  SHANNA: (her voice soft with wonder) I've never seen anything like this, Jake, or… (she rubs the pelt against her cheek)... or felt anything like it. What kind of fur is it?

  JAKE: I...I'm not sure. I don't even know if Jeb can get any more.

  SHANNA: You own these yet?

  JAKE: Well, not yet. And if I know that Piney gonif, he'll want my first born son in trade. God, I'd almost be willing. But he'll want cash – which ain't in such good supply right now. Maybe if he's not feeling his usual hardheaded self we can work a deal. I know him. He'll want to haggle, bat the prices around a little –

  SHANNA: You got enough here?

  JAKE: Yeah. Enough for one full length coat. But no more.

  SHANNA: (eyes lighting) One of a kind? I want it, Jake.

  Jake says nothing as he watches Shanna drape the pelt over her arm and admire it. His expression becomes calculating.

  SHANNA: Did you hear me, Jake? I want to model this coat.

  Receiving no answer, SHANNA turns and faces him.

  SHANNA: Aren't you listening?

  Sensing that he now has the upper hand, Jake becomes very businesslike.

  JAKE: (clearing his throat) Yes. Well. That's all fine and good, my dear, but as for showing the coat, you're not the only model being considered.

  SHANNA: Forget the rest. Don't you let anyone else near this coat. This is mine. I was born to wear it.

  JAKE: We'll see.

  SHANNA: (losing some of her confidence) Jake, you've got to be kidding.

  JAKE: Shanna, Shanna, Shanna. Surely you realize you're not the only model in New York. This however may turn out to be the only coat of its kind in the world. It's going to put my business on the map in a big way. For something that important, I should let just anybody wear it? The International Fur Show's coming up and I've got to be convinced that you're the right girl before I let you parade that coat before all my snarling competitors…

  SHANNA: (sarcastically) 'Convinced', ay?

  JAKE: Well...yes...so to speak.

  Shanna starts strutting around him, swinging her hips mockingly.

  SHANNA: And just what would it take to convince Jakey the furrier that he's found the right model for the job?

  JAKE: Oh, I don't know. You should use your imagination maybe.

  SHANNA: Use my imagination? Okay. I'll use my imagination. But just so you don't have to use yours–

  Shanna turns toward Jake and pulls open her coat and lifts her skirt, revealing black panties and a garter belt. Jake's jaw drops as he stares at her. His first attempt to speak fails. Then:

  JAKE: (voice cracking) Convincing... very convincing.

  SHANNA: I can be even more convincing in the car. (Starts toward the door) Come on. I'll show you.

  JAKE: The car's too cramped. How about right here?

  SHANNA: (startled) Here? Now? Are you crazy?

  JAKE: It's going to be a fabulous coat.

  SHANNA: (sighing and muttering) Well, I've done worse for less.

  JAKE: What?

  SHANNA: I said, "This place is a mess."

  JAKE: No argument there. Lemme see if I can find a blanket back here.

  Jake moves stage left.

  SHANNA: (with a forced smile) All right... but don't be long.

  Jake EXITS stage left.

  Shanna wanders the stage, toying with the pelts. Occasionally, one RIPPLES while her back is turned.

  SHANNA: (calling over her shoulder) YO, JAKE! I'M WAITING! HURRY UU-UP! (then in a lower voice, to herself) Yeah. Hurry up and get this over with! My God, what a coat these'll make! You're a schlub-and-a-half, Jake, but you do know your fur. And Shanna's going to wear this one. You think this coat's going to put your business on the map? Let me tell you, little man, it's going to put Shanna on the map! She's going to be on the cover of everything from Vogue to Popular Science. (glances over her shoulder toward the doorway) Where is he?

  Shanna walks halfway to the door stage left.

  SHANNA: (calling) JAKE? WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE? DID YOU FORGET ABOUT ME? (mutters) No such luck! You've been trying to jump my bones for two years, Jake, and now's your big chance. No way you're going to miss it. (sighs) Ah, Shanna...won't be the first time. All part of the game. Let him get his jollies a few times and you'll be home free. (calls over her shoulder) JA AKE! I'M WAAAI TING!

  Shanna wanders stage right to the door. She pulls on the handle.

  SHANNA: Maybe there's something in–

  She pulls open the door and JEB'S CORPSE – crushed bloody skull and all – falls on her. Shanna SCREAMS and scrabbles away from it. Jake ENTERS, rushing in from stage left. He sees the body and freezes, then approaches the corpse gingerly, almost tip toeing.

  JAKE: (his voice cracking with fear) Oh shit, oh my God, it's Jeb! Who did this? Who did this! Oh, this is terrible. We gotta get the police, gotta get somebody! What are we gonna do?

  SHANNA: I know what I'm gonna do! I'm gettin' outta here!

  Shanna rushes for the door to the outside, but just as she reaches it, GARY BURSTS IN with a crash, knocking her back. Gary's face is a bloody ruin, his clothes are covered with blood and snow, and a large steel trap is clamped on his ankle. He's half blind and completely mad with pain as the trap chain drags and clanks behind him. He's swinging the bat wildly, smashing it against the walls, the table, narrowly missing Shanna and Jake as they duck and run from him. He stops briefly over JEB'S CORPSE.

  GARY: (through his ruined mouth) Daddy! They found you! GARY begins slamming the bloody Slugger around again.

  GARY: The pain! The pain! Oh, God, stop the pain!

  Finally Jake grabs a KNIFE from the rack and threatens Gary.

  JAKE: Stay back, kid. I'm warning you – stay back!

  GARY: The pain! Oh, God, stop it!

  Gary sees the knife and lunges forward, impaling himself on it. He almost seems relieved as he slumps to the floor, dead. Jake stares in horror at the bloody knife in his hand.

  SHANNA: (hysterical) Get me outta here, Jake! I want outta here right now!

  JAKE: (pulling himself together) Okay, okay. Go out and wait in the car. (hands her his coat) I'll be right out.

  SHANNA: You're not coming?

  JAKE: (calculatingly) I've got to take care of something first. Got to make sure nobody will know we were here. Don't want to leave any evidence. Don't want anyone to get the wrong idea...

  Shanna EXITS

  JAKE: (continuing) ...and I don't want anybody else to get these pelts.

  Jake quickly drags both corpses off stage, then picks up the KNIFE. He reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the blade clean, but when he withdraws it he notices that the swatch of FUR Jeb had sent him is stuck to his right hand. He tries to pull it off but it won't come.

  JAKE: Hey, what is this? What the hell's going...on? (His struggle with the swatch slows, as does his speech) What's... happening?

  Finally, Jake's hands fall to his sides and he just stands there, looking dazed. Then...slowly, fitfully, the hands begin to move. They open his shirt, exposing his chest and abdomen. Then Jake's right hand raises the knife toward his throat. Jake's expression reflects his horror. The knife wavers as he tries to fight it off, but despite his efforts, it draws steadily closer to his throat.

  A CAR HORN starts to blare from outside as the blade finally reaches his throat and PIERCES the flesh at the notch atop the breast bone. From there it makes a deep SLICE down the length of the breast bone, then angles in a gradual rightward curve across the abdomen to the beltline. BLOOD RUNS from the incision.

  Jake switches the knife to his left hand and works the fingers of his right under the flap of skin. When he has a good grip, he begins ripping it away from the underlying flesh. As BLOOD POURS, Jake GROANS and sinks to his knees. To the accompaniment of his own moans of pain and the impatient blaring of the CAR HORN, Jake crawls off stage left and EXITS through the door.

  The CAR HORN blares again, then stops. A moment later, Shanna ENTERS.r />
  SHANNA: (looking around) Jake? What's keeping–? Jake, where are you?

  The DOOR at stage left opens slowly, swinging out creakily. The first things through the doorway are Jake's ARMS, held straight out before him. In his hands he holds a vest made out of human skin – pale and hairy on the outside, blood red on its inner surface.

  The rest of Jake ENTERS now, shirtless, shuffling his feet, staggering a little, holding the vest out before him. Jake's trunk is a bloody ruin where he has cut away the skin in a single vest like piece. Only the skin on his arms, neck and face remains intact; he holds the rest in his hands (the fur swatch is still wrapped around the right).

  JAKE: (hoarsely) Brought... you... something.

  Shanna SCREAMS and backs away.

  SHANNA: Jake! Oh my God, Jake, what's happened to you?

  Jake is obviously weak from the trauma and the blood loss, but he is moving inexorably closer, shuffling around the workbench, holding out his gift.

  JAKE: Made it...for you...

  SHANNA: Get away from me, Jake! My God, get away from me with that!

  Shanna moves around to the other side, keeping the workbench between them. Jake keeps after her.

  SHANNA: (wailing) No! Jake, please! What're you doing?

  JAKE: Shanna... gift... made it for you...

  SHANNA: Oh, God!

  Shanna pushes the workbench over on Jake, knocking him down. She heads for the center door but SLIPS in the blood on the floor and goes down. Jake crawls toward her, holding the vest out to her.

  JAKE: Shanna...

  Shanna scrambles to her feet and lunges toward the door to the outside. She stumbles and her forearm slams against one of the foot restraint traps hanging on the wall by the door. The trap closes on her wrist with a meaty CLANK. Shanna SCREAMS in pain. But Jake is still coming.

  She tries to leave with the trap still clamped on her wrist but the trap's four foot chain is snagged on the doorframe. Mad with pain and desperate to get free, she grabs a knife from the rack on the wall and begins to slash at her wrist. Blood spurts. Jake is up on his feet now, approaching.

  JAKE: Shanna... gift for you...

  Still hacking at her wrist, Shanna lurches out the door and out of sight – but the chain pulls tight, causing her to SCREAM again. Jake reaches the door and looks in the direction Shanna went. A big smile lights his face when he spots her.

  JAKE: Shanna... knew you wouldn't leave me!

  Just then there's another wrenching SCREAM from Shanna and the trap swings back around the doorframe and dangles from the wall. Caught in its teeth is a dripping, bloody, human HAND, sawed off at the wrist. As it swings back and forth, Jake EXITS the doorframe, holding the vest before him.

  JAKE: (fading) Shanna... come back... you'll get cold... here... wear this...

  foreword to "Glim-Glim"

  For years, Tom Allen was a phone friend. I have a number of them. People I see only rarely – or, like Ed Gorman, never see – but with whom I have regular conversations about writing, reading, politics, families, life in general. Tom and I started our phone friendship one Friday night in 1987 when I was working late at my office. Tom was a story editor with Laurel Entertainment, George Romero's company. My previous contacts with Tom had been brief conversations about the annual editor publisher receptions which I had been running for SFWA, when I'd invite the Laurel crew to stop by for a drink.

  Tonight Tom was calling because he'd just read THE TOUCH and wanted to tell me how much he liked it. Here, obviously, was a man of great taste and discrimination.

  During the ensuing months we had many late Friday phone conversations about books and authors we liked and didn't like (although Tom seemed to be able to find something of value in everyone), deciding who was overrated and who was under- appreciated. I was continually and increasingly amazed at the depth and breadth of his knowledge of the sf/fantasy/horror field, and his genuine affection for it. As story editor for Tales From The Darkside, part of his job was combing the old magazines and anthologies for stories with adaptation potential. But this man had read everything.

  In the spring of 1988 he asked me to drop by the Laurel offices on Broadway for a meeting. There I finally met the voice on the phone and found that Tom Allen looked about as he sounded – a big, gentle fellow with an easy smile. The upshot of the meeting was that Tom and the others at Laurel wanted me to do something for Monsters, the new half hour syndicated show Laurel was preparing for the coming fall season. The guidelines were simple but strict: one or two lead characters, one to three supporting characters, one monster; one or two interior locations, no exteriors; three scenes with a 5 8 8 minute breakdown.

  I told Tom I'd try. The challenge of all those restrictions intrigued me. I like to believe that I can write under any circumstances, that no set of preconditions can keep me from telling a story. Trouble was, none of my old stories had a monster in it except for "Faces," and that was much too strong for TV. So I'd have to come up with something new. For years I'd been kicking around an idea for an sf/monster story but never had the impetus to put it down on paper. Now I did. I sat myself down on a Thursday night, wrote out just enough to fill one single spaced sheet, and sent the precis of "Glim-Glim" to Laurel on Friday morning.

  Tom called a week later: they loved it. He had a few suggestions for some logistical and structural changes within the story to make it hew closer to the guidelines – nothing that changed the story itself, nothing I couldn't live with. But on March 7, before we could make the deal official, the Writers Guild of America went on strike.

  I have decidedly mixed feelings about the WGA. It has all the inherent weaknesses and abuses of that most repressive form of union, the closed shop – if you don't belong to WGA, you can't sell a script. But to be fair, it put an end to many of the ugly abuses inflicted by the movie moguls and their underbosses upon writers in the bad old days. I'm a member now (I had to join if I wanted to see "Glim-Glim" produced) but what infuriated me then was that during the strike Tom could not discuss anything about "Glim-Glim" with me. Nothing. I wasn't a member of WGA but somehow I was on strike too. For five months.

  But they couldn't stop me from writing. I didn't have a contract but I knew Laurel wanted the script. To maximize the impact of the story's seasonal hook, "Glim-Glim" had to play in December, yet it was already July. I figured I'd better have it ready to go as soon as the strike was over.

  I started it on a Thursday and had it finished by the following Sunday night. By early August the strike was over. Soon I had a contract and was duking it out with Laurel about a third set. I wanted the penultimate scene to play out on the front steps of the library during a gentle snowfall.

  No exteriors, they told me.

  I explained that all you needed was a brick wall, a pair of doors, a set of steps, and some guy shaking snowflakes from the rafters.

  But that makes three sets, they said. You're only allotted two. The budget won't allow more.

  I felt like I was butting my head against the brick wall I wanted them to build.

  So I moved the scene inside the library.

  But all in all my experience with Laurel was a good one. I might even say excellent. The producers there actually read books and have great respect for writers and the written word. The director checked with me every time he wanted to change a word or two of dialogue or to shift the focus of a scene – light years away from my experience with the filming of The Keep.

  Due to the strike, "Glim-Glim" didn't run in December as originally planned. It first aired the week of January 30, 1989.

  My only regret is that Tom Allen never saw "Glim-Glim." He died suddenly on September 30, 1988. I miss his warmth and wisdom and quiet intelligence. I miss talking to him on Friday nights.

  So here's the script for "Glim-Glim." If scripting this today, I'd give far fewer camera directions, but back then I saw every shot in my head and put it on paper.

  And "Glim-Glim" was, is, and always will be dedicated to the man who
nudged me into writing it.

  This one's for you, Tom.

  GLIM-GLIM

  – CHARACTERS –

  AMY – a precocious nine-year old with braids and big glasses who is also an amateur astronomer.

  ELLIOT – Amy's father; early thirties; a high school math teacher; average build with horn-rimmed glasses; dressed in a white shirt, double knit slacks, and a cardigan sweater; slightly nerdy and skittish, but fiercely protective of his daughter.

  CARL – a young outdoorsman; nineteen, tall, broad- shouldered, dressed in a flannel shirt with a hunting knife strapped to his belt; his machismo is not just a facade – he is a genuinely touch cookie.

  GLIM-GLIM – a seven-foot green telepathic alien, conical with a base four feet across. A ring of four tentacles encircles his body two-thirds the way up. The silent mouth is a vertical slit which we never see open. There are no eyes – at least no human type eyes – but rather a ring a opalescent studs encircling the upper end of the cone. We never get a good look at his base but it is fringed with countless tiny brush-like legs.

  – SETS –

  SET 1 – THE LIBRARY BASEMENT

  This is a drab room with bare cinderblock walls. Mostly a simple storage area lit by naked bulbs hanging from the unfinished ceiling. The concrete floor is cluttered with wooden CRATES, storage BINS, and filing CABINETS. This is where the members of the library staff took their coffee breaks and ate their lunches.

  A rickety TABLE is surrounded by four mismatched CHAIRS. On the table sit PAPER PLATES, a bowl of SUGAR, and a jar of DRY CREAMER. To the left there's a half-REFRIGERATOR on top of which is a MR. COFFEE and some SPOONS. To the right is a battered TV. Surplus LIBRARY POSTERS ("Reading is FUNdamental" and "You've Seen The Movie – Now Read The Book!" and so on) have been taped to the block walls in an attempt to brighten up the place a bit. On one wall there's a CALENDAR that says "December."