Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  From the back door of the house, Jessica burst out, quickly tripping over James and Savannah. She was in too much of a hurry to be bothered by it. She got up and ran towards the van.

  After fumbling with the keys, she managed to unlock the door and hopped in the driver's seat. With the key in the ignition, she tried desperately to get the engine to turn over. “Shit shit shit! Please! Come on!”

  In the distance, bright lights bounced. She had no idea what the hell they were, but she said a quick prayer for the police.

  It wasn’t the police, though. Coming toward her was what looked like a film crew, a man in a dark suit, holding a microphone, led the way. Was this some sort of prank?!

  “What the hell…?”

  Distracted by the odd turn of events, she ceased trying to start the car and focused on the action unfolding before her.

  Phil could hardly keep from shooting a load in his pants. His luck was second to none. There, in the distance, was Carl Langer.

  “Sir!” Phil yelled. “Sir, can I just have a minute?”

  He had been planning for a beating but somehow had forgotten to phone an ambulance in advance. No bother, he figured, the longer he laid around in pain, the higher the ratings would be.

  He would stand up to Carl Langer, he would bargain with him for the life of the girl in the van, and then he would take a beating, all on camera. It would air Friday night at 10pm, but it would be news before then. Free publicity. The whole world would tune in for this.

  Never once did he think he wouldn’t survive.

  Just as he was shoving the microphone in Carl’s face, Carl just as quickly took it from his hand and shoved it deep into his eye socket.

  Phil stopped cold in his tracks, stumbled backwards into a screaming Annie, then fell. His final words were, “Did you get that?”

  The crew did, in fact, get it, but it wouldn’t matter.

  Carl grabbed Annie by the hair and slammed her face into the side of the van so hard her face appeared to Jessica like some distorted Jell-O mold.

  He snapped her head out of the van and ripped it right off her spine. Like an over-sized softball, he hurled it at the woman holding the camera. She hit the dirt and Carl pounced, plunging a knife from his belt into her skull.

  One to go. He picked up the camera and swung it at the other crewmember that was just standing there. He came across that a lot… people just standing when they should be running.

  The camera shattered as it connected with the lady’s face. Teeth flew from her mouth. If this were the old days, or a movie staring Schwarzenegger, Carl would have said something along the lines of “Ready for your close-up?”

  But no, this was real life and his boss had told him to shut up and just get the job done. It didn’t stop him from thinking it though, and as the woman choked to death on her own tongue, Carl giggled at his wit.

  Well that was quick and pointless.

  In the distance, the driver was cowering behind some bushes. Carl spotted him clearly by chance, pulled a throwing knife from his belt, and like a friendly game of darts, nonchalantly chucked it, hitting his target right in the throat.

  His gurgles were loud and seemed to go on for a long time.

  What in the hell was a film crew doing here, Carl thought to himself. And the guy with the microphone in his brain, he looked familiar. Was that..? Naw, couldn’t be.

  Oh my god, it was. That was Phil Rivera! That weird, rights-permitted amalgamation of Phil Donahue and Geraldo!

  Carl was briefly star-struck. He’d never had a celebrity here before, and probably, due to his behavior, wouldn’t have one again anytime soon.

  Jessica had snapped to and was trying to start the van again when Carl’s fist smashed through the window, his hand gripping her throat.

  If she could, she would have screamed, but his grip was too tight. She felt massive pressure and quickly figured out she was being pulled out the broken window, the shards of glass cutting her petite body in the process.

  “No no, please, no!” she pleaded.

  Carl raised the machete, ready to strike, when that fatfuck Mort jumped on his back and shoved a kitchen knife into his neck.

  “ARGH!!!!” Carl yelped while dropping his grip on the slut.

  Mort shoved the knife in farther, then released his grip on Carl, dropping to the ground. He reached out for Jessica who quickly grasped his hand. They took off running. Carl making a show of being hurt until Mort and Jessica were out of sight, then he pulled the knife from his neck like it was no bigger than a splinter and tossed it to the ground, cool as a cucumber. He then took off toward the direction Mort and Jessica just headed.

  Jessica was frantic. Mort was trying to remain together despite the fact he was pretty excited to be holding Jessica’s hand.

  He pulled her close and looked into her eyes like he’s the last of a Mohican, and said, “Everyone else is dead...unless Sarah is still taking a shower.”

  “No,” Jessica said through heavy breaths, “She's dead. She's out front.”

  “Then yeah, everyone is dead. Just me and you, kiddo. Gather your weapons and let's kick this motherfucker's ass.” Where he mustered this courage, no one knew. He thought of something and looked down to his relief. He had remembered, in the panic, to pull his pants up.

  Whew. “Let’s go!”

  Mort and Jessica, still hand in hand, ran back around to the main house, looking behind them constantly, not once seeing Carl. Mort wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  Inside, they began grabbing anything they could use as a weapon from the kitchen.

  Carl stood at the window, looking in and watching Mort and Jessica scramble. At his feet, Carl's cat arrived and began purring. He bent down to pick up his BFF and ask him a question.

  “What do you think? That outta keep people away for a few more years, right?”

  The cat purred.

  “Yeah, you’re right. This is fun. Okay... Let's finish this up then. It's getting late. You’ll never guess who I met, either!”

  Carl put the cat back on the ground and walked to the front door. He pulled Sarah down and tossed her aside, then kicked the door in, revealing himself in epic fashion and scaring the shit out of the Mort and Jessica.

  “ARGHHHH!” Carl grunted like he was Frankenstein’s monster or something.

  Mort rushed him with a frying pan and cracked Carl on the side of the head. “FUCK YOU, MAN!!!”

  Carl, faking pain, gargled, “ARGHH GRRRR!”

  Carl reached for Mort's throat and pushed him down. Mort hit the kitchen floor so hard his fatass actually bounced. Jessica rushed their attacker and plunged another kitchen knife deep into Carl's gut. He quickly removed it and backhanded Jessica like a pimp waiting for his money, sending her falling backwards. Mort hopped back to his feet and struck with the frying pan again, this time knocking off Carl's mask. Jessica was repulsed, Mort was not phased. He continued striking with the frying pan, over and over, smashing Carl's face in.

  Carl, obviously annoyed and ready to throw in the towel, reached for the knife he pulled from his gut and jabbed Mort in the belly, slicing upward and spilling his intestines, all while appearing to use the last of his energy. Carl then closed his eyes and fell back. Thud! Jessica stood, screamed and ran out the back door.

  Game over, man! Game over!

  Jessica burst out the cabin door like the Kool-Aid man through some run down project’s walls, tripped over James and Savannah again, then past the van without giving it a second thought. She headed up the road, as fast as her legs would move, her strides wide due to all the practice she had spreading them.

  Carl opened his eyes and flicked Mort’s guts off his hands. He sat up just as his cat came and began rubbing against him. He got to his feet, bent down to grab his mask and the cat, then headed out the door.

  “Phil Rivera! He’s dead now, but still, Phil Rivera!”

  Jessica reached Sawyer’s General Store in about fifteen minutes, which, if s
he was thinking clearly, was about as long as it took to get there by van. The store, however, was currently closed. She banged on the door anyway because it seemed like the thing to do.

  “COME ON! ANYONE!!! HELP!!!”

  With no answer, she picked up a chunk of concrete from the parking lot and smashed the window.

  Jessica carefully climbed through, mindful not to add even more glass cuts to her already cut up body. She felt like one of those emo kids who always pretended to try and commit suicide. Ya know, the ones Jessica and her friends always teased and tormented relentlessly. Once inside, she ran to the counter where they previously bought the beer.

  “Hello! Is anyone here? The lights are still on! Someone! Anyone!”

  She reached for the phone behind the counter but couldn’t grasp it. She walked around and saw the clerk’s body on the floor. He’s been totally fucked up. Jessica screamed on pure impulse then was kinda confused.

  “Why would he kill the clerk?!”

  Earlier, Grant, the poor clerk with the dead-end job, was behind the counter, figuring out which grocery item would be the easiest to slice his wrists with, when the door chimed. He looked up and saw Carl Langer enter.

  “Aw man.”

  Carl shrugged apathetically.

  “Come on, man. We haven’t bothered you! I thought we had a deal, man. Come on.”

  “Sorry,” Carl said, looking bored. “It’ll be the final scare.”

  “Final scare?” the clerk asked, even more confused now. “What the hell are you talking about? Man, come on, dude. Seriously? Like my life doesn’t fucking suck enough, bro? I work in a grocery store, dude. Come on.”

  Carl grabbed the clerk by the throat and shoved his head into the burrito microwave, then set the timer. Carl held the clerk’s head in the microwave while it cooked

  Don’t think too long about how this was possible.

  Carl waited, and waited. The clerk was flailing, screaming. With his free hand, Carl dug a finger into his ear, impressed with what it produced. Then he rubbed it on his pants and grabbed a magazine nearby and checked out the cover. He was just reading shocking news about a country singer being a racist and a homophobe, when the clerk’s head exploded. Carl let the body hit the floor, rolled up the magazine and shoved it in his back pocket, then grabbed the store keys.

  “I’ll lock up.”

  He laughed, but realized how lame it was and quickly stopped.

  Jessica stepped over the fucked up body of the clerk and grabbed the phone, dialing 911.

  Carl and the cat cut through the trees and reached their hidden house. It would be nice to catch a full night’s sleep. It was going to take a while to wind down, though. He hoped the Columbo marathon was still on.

  What a nerve-racking day, but it ought to make his dumb boss happy. Another successful night is just another day closer to retirement, and Carl felt he earned that.

  The sun began to show its face through the tree line. In the distance, sirens were wailing, but Carl was fast asleep, the television detective just about to catch another cocky killer.

  Within fifteen minutes of Jessica’s call, the entire parking lot was filled with police cars and ambulances, voices and mumbles, sobs and gasps.

  After checking the house, several uniformed cops emerged, giving the all-clear sign to the detective in charge. Jessica, wrapped in one of those cheapass blankets airlines give you, followed the detective into the kitchen where Carl should have been.

  Through tears, Jessica said, “He was right here! I swear to God! Right here!!!”

  She grabbed the detective’s arm and was sobbing uncontrollably. She absentmindedly began rubbing his bulging, masculine bicep, sniffed, and then suddenly everything seemed to get better…and wetter.

  The End?

  Naw…

  The Mandatory

  After-Credits

  Scene!

  Carl and his cat were lounging on the sofa watching television. The women from The View were all squawking like annoying buzzards, as usual.

  Carl was obviously annoyed by this, being of the male gender and having an I.Q. above 8.

  One of the women, Carl didn’t know which one, nor cared, said, “Honey, this is Hollywood!”

  Carl eyed his machete. Lot of golf courses in California, he heard. A lot of aspiring actors there, too…and where there are aspiring actors, there are waiters!

  Carl picked up his cat and looked him in his red-disgusting cat eyes, and said, “How long of a walk is it to Hollywood?”

  Professor Puffinpants meowed.

  Carl was neck-deep in a fantasy about killing those annoying twats when a voice from behind startled him.

  “Boyo.”

  Holy shit, Carl thought. It was Satan. Something had to have happened. Something huge. He had never seen Satan appear up top.

  Sensing Carl’s confusion, Satan stepped out of the darkness, his skin glowing like a poker pulled from the fire, and said, “There’s been an incident.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “In California.”

  That perked Carl up.

  “There’s a guy running around with a burlap sack over his face…the police are calling him The Bagman, and he’s not one of ours. He needs to be stopped.”

  “So,” Carl shrugged. “I’ll stop him. What’s the big deal?”

  “I’m afraid it might not be that easy…”

  IDENTICAL

  An inquest without a body is a peculiar thing - deciding if someone is alive or dead based solely on the accounts of other people. We’re all here; her boyfriend, the guys from the jazz band she recently started playing in, and me. Of course me.

  “The purpose of this inquest,” the coroner says, “is to conclude if Morgan Penn is indeed dead, and if she died by her own hand.”

  Morgan Penn, my younger sister by six minutes, who threw her body from the top of Ellington Falls one week ago. Morgan Penn, whose head apparently hit a rock on the edge of the bank before falling into the gushing stream below. Morgan Penn, whose body was washed out to sea.

  Introductions are made all around the table. Russ Spaulding, the boyfriend, is sitting on my left. I can feel his eyes on me. Me being here creeps him out. My very existence creeps him out. I know this because he told me when we met in the lobby just a few moments ago. His excited face when he thought I was Morgan and the utter disappointment when he realized I wasn’t.

  Next to him, three black guys with dark shades, each with hepcat jazz names; Toothless Duke Washington, Fat Bones Dupree, and Jailhouse Gumbo Jackson. I have a sneaking suspicion those names might be made up. Across the table is the coroner and next to him is the officer who came to my house to inform me of what happened. The officer who, probably against all protocol, held me in his arms while I soiled his uniform with my salty tears.

  Next to him are two lawyers in expensive suits, who haven’t moved or said a word since we arrived. Sitting at a smaller table, at the rear of the room, a secretary with fiery red hair, a laptop open in front of her.

  The first to speak on my side of the table is Toothless Duke. He tells the group how Morgan has been moonlighting with his jazz band at the Five Spot, a smoky old music club downtown where these guys would be right at home. He tells them how anyone can get up on stage and jam with them, as long as they have the talent and the nerve, and, apparently, Morgan had the talent and the nerve. She’s been playing the clarinet since she was ten years old. Morgan was the musical one, I had told the officer across the table when I found out. He had asked which one I was. I had smiled through tears and said I was the actress. When he asked if he had ever seen me in anything, I told him I never said I was a successful actress.

  He smiled back.

  The coroner asked the hepcats how well he knew Morgan, and Toothless Duke’s response was that members of a jazz band were like family. He said Morgan came to play five nights a week after her initial awkward phase. He said she was one cool chick, then he looks at me again, as if seeing a gh
ost.

  Behind us, the fiery redhead click click clicks away on her laptop.

  “Jazz is all about the blues,” Toothless Duke says, “and she had them in spades. I’m sorry as hell about that poor girl but she told me she was going to do it. Going to kill herself. She talked about it two, three times a week and every night after, I’d go home with a pit in my stomach, man, but then the next night, there she would be, ready to kill it on the woodwind yet again. I guess that last time she had just had enough. I’ve seen it before and I’m sure I’ll see it again. Still a total drag, ya hear.”

  The coroner thanks him and seems content with his offerings as a group package because he doesn’t ask the other two band members anything, instead opting to move on to Russ. Russ, still catching glimpses of me from the corner of his eye.

  “Russell Spaulding,” the coroner says. “You’ve known Morgan Penn for how long?”

  “Just over a month,” he says quietly. “We actually met after one of her sets at the Five Spot. I go there for a drink and some relaxation after work. I’d never seen her there before, then one day she was a member of the band, apparently. Took me five days for me to get up the nerve to hit on her.” A nervous smile.

  “And how would you describe your relationship?”

  “It was good. I mean, I liked the girl a lot. It was weird though, I only ever saw her at night. She kept herself guarded at all times; I don’t even know where she worked. She would never spend the night, either. At first I thought maybe she was married, but after a week or so, I figured it was unlikely, seeing the hours she kept. But we would talk on the phone, text. It was a good relationship. A little unconventional, but I liked that. Kept things exciting.”

  “And do you believe she threw herself off a cliff, Mr. Spaulding.”