by Jenn Hughes
She stared at his contact info for about ten minutes before pressing the call button. Then she held the phone to her ear and listened for the—
“We’re sorry, the number you are calling has been disconnected . . . ”
Lillian looked at the screen again. No mistake. She’d called Sam’s number. But, since technology could sometimes be a little fickle, she tried again. And again. And again. Twenty times and all she heard was the same message telling her Sam’s number was no longer in service. She felt sick. Nauseated.
He’s done. Completely done with me . . . But it’s only been three fucking days!
And then her noonish meeting kicked off in Old Henry’s Tavern at thirty-seven minutes after twelve. Ravi Ganesh strolled in and, without a word, took a seat across from Lillian in the booth. Then he proceeded to drink all of his cherry soda. Guzzled it.
Lillian waited patiently. They stared at one another as Ravi finished his drink. He finally slurped up the last drops of soda from the bottom of the glass. But when Ravi reached over to grab a fry from the basket, Lillian yanked it out of his reach.
“No,” she said calmly.
Ravi pouted, lips out and brow furrowed. “But—”
“No. What’s the first rule of fry club?”
“Um . . . Don’t talk about fry club?”
“No. The first rule of fry club is that you don’t get what you want without putting forth a little effort. So, for every progressive step we make, you get a cold fry. I’m not here to be your assistant or your friend. If you want this gaming division to be successful, it’s time to get serious. No more playing . . . games.”
Damn it. That sounded so good until the end.
Ravi Ganesh turned out to be reasonably easy to read. He had a stern but faraway look as he weighed his options, his computer brain zooming at light speed. It only took a second before Ravi smiled. Then Lillian softened her glare.
“Okay,” he agreed.
As they worked, Ravi surprised her. Mostly in a good way.
He had no grasp of how to draft a legitimate business proposal. He also had no concept of how to appropriately acquire and allocate the funding he needed. Lillian decided Ravi was the type of person who would have invested in the RMS Titanic—after it sank.
But he had an infectious enthusiasm for what he wanted, something as important in business as the numbers. And he made Lillian smile more than once.
After four hard-fought hours spent wading through all the reports and figures and projections, they finally did it. They drafted a tight, well-planned, legitimately doable proposal for starting an offshoot gaming division. Lillian beamed with pride. She’d managed to focus Ravi’s infinitesimal attention span. But she was also pretty proud of Ravi himself. He soaked up information like a sponge when he wanted. She saw why Sam thought the world of him . . .
Everything came back to Sam. A cold case of worry slammed into Lillian. Nerves made her skin electric, sensitive to the occasional breeze blowing over as someone passed by the table. She agonized over him. Over them—
“I ship you guys now,” Ravi said, out of the blue.
“What?”
“Shipping. Fandom. It means I’m invested in seeing you two kids stick together. So I heart your relationship. Sam’s attitude sucked for so long, but since meeting you, he’s really coming around. That’s why I want to move forward with this gaming division now. He’s like a newborn. Soft and big-eyed and completely vulnerable.”
“There isn’t a relationship at the moment. It’s kind of a work-in-progress.”
“Everything’s a work-in-progress. If it weren’t, nothing would improve. Sam’s improved a lot.”
Lillian sighed. “That’s true. But this time, the problem isn’t Sam. It’s me.” Suddenly embarrassed, she groaned and shielded her eyes with her hands to avoid Ravi’s intense gaze. “Ignore me. Please.”
“You don’t know me well enough yet to make me shut up so, no. Not going to ignore you, and I’m going to tell you what I think. You’re running bad code.”
Her eyes darted up from beneath her palm shield. “I don’t consider myself an idiot but, what?”
“Okay, coding is all about input and output. To input tense code . . . I mean, inputting good code produces the desired output. If my code is bad, I get a demented program. You only get what you put in, so if you’re only giving Sam part of your code, or only bad code, then he can’t give you what you want because he can’t debug your issues. He has to see all of it to understand.”
She held up her phone. “I don’t think Sam has any interest in seeing my code at this point. His number’s been disconnected.”
Ravi smiled. “Disconnected . . . or upgraded?”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll see.”
Lillian sighed, fully aware she’d get nowhere with Ravi unless he wanted her to do so. “Fine. Keep your secret then. But back to your earlier statement regarding my code, Sam has it. He knows why I am the way I am. That isn’t the issue.”
Ravi propped his elbows on the table and then interlocked his fingers like a criminal mastermind. “Gooood. You’re giving me output. I love it. So what’s the issue? Where’s your error?”
“I’m the error. I know that, and I planned to find Sam and tell him . . . But he’s changed his number and you won’t give it to me and then even if I did find him, I’m afraid nonsense might erupt from my mouth and confuse the situation even more.”
“Hmmm . . . So this is about search operators.”
“You’ve lost me. Again.”
“Boolean operators? Query strings? Dorking? Make sense?”
“God, my head hurts . . . ” Lillian said quietly, rubbing her forehead. “Not even slightly.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll simplify. Search engines. They’re all different. Different bots and indexes. The results of a search string in one will be different in another—so you’ve got to be specific to get what you want. That’s where operators come in. I want this and this but not that or that. It’s like with my pet python, Abom. He had a lot of mucus a few weeks ago, so I searched for big wet snake, and . . . Well. The results were disturbing. So I searched again for albino python and mucus and medical treatments or home remedies, and found exactly what I needed. See what I mean? Sam is just a big wet snake until you run an advanced search operator on him.”
As frightening as it was to admit she did understand Ravi’s advice, Lillian admitted it. To herself. Ravi was arrogant enough without thinking he’d solved her dating issues.
She’d told Sam she didn’t want to be the mistress in his marriage to Origin, but she’d never taken into consideration the steps he had to take to make it happen. What felt like a betrayal had instead been Sam operating without her input. And if Lillian wanted a future with him, she had to tell him exactly how she felt and what she wanted . . .
And forget the fear of what might happen afterward.
“Yes. Thank you, Ravi. You’ve been . . . surreal.”
“I know. You’re the third person who’s said that to me today.”
Before Ravi could stuff another round of fries into his mouth, Lillian scooted out of her seat, hurried around to his side of the booth, and gave him a big hug. She squeezed him hard, but when he complained she’d broken something, she let go and stepped back to see his smiling face.
“Now give me Sam’s new number, or I’ll hug you again,” she threatened.
“You don’t need it.”
“How am I supposed to enter my new string into his search engine if I can’t talk to him?”
Ravi shrugged. “Don’t know. But I do know he’s been super busy, and he’s going to be at The Electric tonight. There’s a, uh, special showing. You should go.”
Intrigued, Lillian smiled and hurriedly started g
athering up her things, sliding all of it back into her portfolio in a messy pile. She dropped it into her messenger bag and started to leave, but one burning question popped into her head.
“Ravi, what kind of a name is Abom?”
“Short for Abominable. Because he’s big and white. And he can be a real dick sometimes.”
Chapter 37
The Show Starts When the Star Arrives
The dashboard clock read nine forty-five when Lillian pulled into a parking space down the street from The Electric. A late-night round of snow had started coating Port Bristol, and fluffy snowflakes quickly formed a white blanket on her car. She left the wipers running, and stared at theater. Aside from the pterodactyl-like flapping of butterflies in her stomach, something seemed a little . . . off.
At least half of the parking spaces on the street were unfilled. On a busy movie night, finding a free space equated to being handed a pot of gold by a leprechaun riding a unicorn. Lillian usually walked to the theater to avoid the hassle, but that night there was no hassle. No line at The Electric’s main entrance. No one entered or left. She shook her head, switched off the engine, and then stepped out into the night.
The Electric’s neon sign glowed in the darkness, blurred by a haze of snowflakes and fog. The city had gone quiet, and only the lonely sounds of cars in the distance and her boots crunching against the fallen snow kept Lillian company as she walked down the street toward the theater. She fixed her gaze on the main doors, expecting to see something. Someone.
But The Electric appeared closed for business. No lights on inside. And the only thing lit up outside, other than the blood-red neon sign, were the brilliant gold lights of the marquee.
“‘One night only. On Love . . . and Zombies.’ Wait, what? That’s not right.” Lillian squinted at the line below the movie title. “‘Starring Sam Owens and’ . . . Holy shit.”
Lillian Walker?
In big black letters, her name appeared next to Sam’s. Lillian gaped at the marquee, her face numb. Mostly numb from shock, but also the freezing night air. Ravi had said Sam had been busy . . . but making-a-movie busy?
When she reached the doors of the theater—without sliding on the ice and busting her ass along the way, so bonus points—she heard several clicks and then a rough, scraping sound. One of the doors suddenly opened, and a young man wearing a classic red velvet usher’s uniform materialized out of the darkness.
“Are you Lillian Walker?”
“Um . . . Yes.”
Before she could ask what was going on, the man handed her a small black box. A jewelry box. She took it, opened the lid, and then shook her head in disbelief.
Inside was a golden movie ticket emblazoned with the words Admit One: Lillian Walker.
She stared at it for a moment, rubbing the bumps of the gold lettering. A rush of heat swept over her. Happiness. An absolute flood of it.
The usher held the door for her and Lillian walked into the lobby. The usual hum of congregated moviegoers had vanished. No other patrons were around. No one stood at the ticket or snack counters. More importantly, no Sam in sight. She had expected him to be waiting inside, and a pang of disappointment hit when she didn’t find him. Dimly lit and silent, The Electric sat empty. Ready for her.
“Ms. Walker, may I take your coat?”
Lillian spun around. She’d almost forgotten the young man standing behind her. “What exactly is going on here?” she asked, slipping off her coat and then handing it to him.
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he replied in a pubescent voice. “New management took over this morning and said to shut everything down but the one movie for tonight.”
“New management?” Lillian’s heart sank . . . until a hopeful thought sent it skyrocketing back up again. “Is the new management Sam Owens? The CEO of Origin?”
“No clue. All I know is that I was in advanced algebra and I got a text asking if I’d work tonight for double overtime. I said heck yeah. Then I got another text telling me to give you the ticket, serve you all the food and drinks you want, and then escort you to the main theater.”
Sneaky Sam was definitely up to something. Something amazing. Lillian had a feeling she was about to embark on the most romantic and yet creepiest night of her life.
Empty theater. Dorky young usher waiting to take her inside. She silently stared at him.
Awww. He’s the type that’s usually the first to die . . .
It reminded her of the beginning of a horror film where the heroine is taken to some ostensibly average place only to end up chopped to bits. But the fear was fun. Intriguing. Exciting. And Lillian couldn’t wait to see what Sam had up his sleeve next.
Although tempted to swallow a few glasses of wine to render her stomach pterodactyls soused, Lillian refused any drinks or snacks. She followed the young man into the auditorium, and found it no different than usual. The same low lights and red velvet drapes along the walls, and comfortable leather armchairs scattered throughout the room.
But, unlike every other night, no one waited for the movie with her. Silence replaced the elevator-style music typically playing in the background. Lillian took her seat and then glanced over at the seat next to her. Sam’s seat. She wished he’d hurry up and join her.
A noise at the back of the room drew her attention. When she craned her neck to see, she realized her mystery usher had disappeared. Probably dead. A glance down at her wristwatch made her heart skip a beat. One minute till ten o’clock. One minute till showtime.
Her very own horror movie. Lillian found the concept incredibly romantic and entertaining . . . But then it occurred to her that heroines in horror movies sometimes ended up mincemeat. She looked down at her high-heeled leather boots and frowned.
“I really am going to be the screaming bimbo who takes three steps and then trips over a twig.”
Chapter 38
On Love . . . and Zombies
Sam waited outside the auditorium doors for the usher to return from seating Lillian. He tipped the kid well, sent him on his way, and then locked the theater doors. Then he hustled back upstairs to the projector room to prepare for showtime.
Once there, he couldn’t resist stealing a peek at Lillian through the narrow space next to the projector. Big mistake. She had craned her neck to look up in his direction. He ducked down and hurried out of her line of sight, then dimmed the auditorium to darkness. After a quick glance at his watch, Sam nervously stared at the projector.
The giant old thing could have been an extra robot in a fifties sci-fi movie. Very cool, but very out of date. It drove home the fact that The Electric was in serious need of some updating, so much so he’d duct-taped a small digital projector to the top of the old one. Not exactly high-tech, but desperate times required a little MacGuyvering.
At ten o’clock on the dot, Sam’s finger hovered over the LCD screen of the digital projector. Stage fright held him back but after several heart-thumping seconds, he finally worked up a little courage and pressed the start button. A beam of light flashed from the digital projector through the opening and hit the massive screen at the front of the auditorium.
Cinematic masterpieces weren’t created in a couple of days, so Sam had prepared himself for the probability that the final product of his brilliant idea might be a little lacking—mainly dialogue. Scriptwriting took more time than he’d realized or had available. So, since seeing the story was a bigger deal than saying it, Sam skipped the dialogue and opted for a more classic silent-film approach.
Twenty straight hours had gone into corralling Origin employees to serve as cast and crew. Sam had them lined up in hallways. On the receiving dock at the back of the building. In front of Ravi’s green screen. New Year’s bonuses helped motivate everyone, and his arthouse film quickly turned into a big-budget thriller.
Ten more hours
went toward editing, special effects, and creating the intertitles explaining the scenes in the film. For the forty hours of work Sam and Ravi had put in, only fifteen minutes of cinema came out of it. Pretty shocking to see the final run time. But it didn’t matter. He’d crammed as much heart as possible into those fifteen minutes.
And he knew every second of that movie, front to back. The title grew from a pinpoint across the screen, gleaming red neon in a sort of eighties throwback. Ravi’s idea. Sam whispered the summary of each black-and-white scene as they appeared on screen, a helping hand to will them into existence.
“Sam prepares for a day of work, miserable at the loss of his beloved Lillian, who has left him as a result of his shady past.”
Sam watched himself on the screen.
He ties his shoes and then puts on his coat before rushing out the door of his apartment and into the hallway. Movie Sam turns and locks the door behind him, but lifts his head suddenly. Something down the hall fills his eyes with fear.
“A strange sound, like something dragging, startles Sam.”
The scene had been shot in a very long corridor on one of Origin’s lower floors. Harsh fluorescent lighting, plain white walls, and chrome handles on countless doors.
Movie Sam looks one way, but sees nothing. He glances in the opposite direction. Nothing, until . . .
“Something approaches with a slow and ominous gait.”
A hand grips the corner of the wall at the end of the corridor. A dirty hand covered in bright red blood.
Again, Ravi’s idea. The colorized blood in the midst of the black-and-white gave a terrific effect. Very graphic novel-type stuff.
Cynthia from Accounting’s hand slides down the wall, and then her zombie body shuffles around the corner. Dark eyes and the latex wounds on her face gleam. She points at Movie Sam and opens her mouth for a silent scream.