Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  Emily already had the Cruiser’s top up and locked. The same with the doors. She was at least four miles from the Century Boulevard overpass where the SUV accident had occurred. Still, that was little consolation. For her, no amount of distance between herself and a reanimate was enough to feel safe. Not truly safe, the way she used to feel back before the whole problem started.

  Reanimates. People had even managed to come up with a politically correct term to refer to them. Unbelievable. They were zombies, for chrissakes, why did anybody feel the need to sugarcoat that? And neutralizing? What a joke. Neutralizing was nothing more than a euphemism for putting a bullet in their head. Was it really necessary to try and make neutralization seem like it was anything else? She had little doubt that if enough of them spoke a foreign language and were willing to work for minimum wage, the ACLU would try to secure them voting rights and access to government benefits.

  Emily fumed. The idea that there were actually people out there who wanted to find an alternative to neutralization shocked her. Ever since the phenomenon had begun, the only solution had been neutralization. But now, as more people dealt with friends and relatives who’d been turned into reanimates, there was a small, but vocal opposition to neutralization. Emily couldn't understand it. Why would anybody want to prolong a loved one’s nightmarish existence as a reanimate?

  So far, while scientists and researchers hadn’t been able to determine what was causing reanimation, they had learned one thing—the process didn’t stop natural decay. A reanimate was only dangerous as long as its body held up. Usually, that meant only a few days. It didn't matter what the reanimate ingested, nothing appeared capable of prolonging its non-lifespan. Eventually, the creature's organs and tissue would rot, and that would be the end of it. That was the case for the recent dead, at least. Those who’d been embalmed, however, seemed to be able to last almost indefinitely.

  Those were the dangerous ones, Emily knew. The ones who weren’t just going to fall apart on their own. Still, they were few and far between. The government had placed a temporary ban on all embalming, even though the removal and destruction of brain tissue was a routine practice now. The worldwide panic had dictated it, and no government was willing to take any chances.

  Knowing there were reanimates up ahead made Emily want to turn the Cruiser around. To race the wrong way back up the entrance ramp and get as far away as possible. She knew that was unnecessary. That it was borderline irrational, in fact. But she didn't care. Just like the government with the embalming ban, why take any chances? The reanimates weren’t rational. They were carnivorous, and aggressively sought out flesh, be it human or animal. So long as it was living flesh. It didn’t matter that they had no need for it. They couldn’t digest anything; they couldn’t process what they took in. The flesh they consumed didn’t pass, it simply began to decay inside them, spurring on a chain-reaction of self-destructive rotting. It made no sense, but why should it? There was no rule that said things had to make sense. Emily's father had taught her that at a very young age. She'd always remembered the lesson. Years later, it had come in handy. When she tried to explain to herself why he'd walked out on them, leaving her and her mother alone.

  When the reanimate phenomenon first began, everybody and their brother had a theory concerning its cause. The religious nuts saw it as a punishment from God. The tree-huggers wanted to blame it on toxic waste, greenhouse gases, the nation’s landfills, or Styrofoam coffee cups. Take your pick. But with none of those having any foundation in reality, the theorists started to try and address some of the other issues. Like why former members of the human race would suddenly turn into cannibals, and why they would only consume living flesh.

  A guest Emily had seen on The O'Reilly Factor had presented the most plausible explanation she’d heard thus far. He was an anthropologist, and his theory seemed to sit as well with O'Reilly as it did with her. He believed that the reanimates marked a return to primitivism. It was well known that throughout history, primitive peoples had engaged in the eating of their adversaries. Not for survival, but for power. Many cultures shared, at least in part, a belief that one person's strength could be absorbed by eating their flesh. By ingesting your foe, you made their power your own. The anthropologist had summed it up with a question. What are the living, other than the enemy of the dead?

  It made sense to Emily. She hoped O'Reilly had the anthropologist on again. The longer this lasted, the more she wanted answers she felt she could put some stock in.

  The blare of a car horn brought Emily back to the present. She looked out the windshield, expecting to see a gap between her car and the one ahead of her.

  No such luck. The car in front of her had not only stayed exactly where it was, its driver had killed the engine. He was now standing outside his vehicle, leaning on the open driver's side door, smoking a cigarette. He seemed oblivious to the bleating of the car horn. Emily looked around, trying to pinpoint the source.

  It only took a moment, the honking beginning again as soon as the driver realized that he'd caught her attention. The car was one lane over, and just slightly ahead of the Cruiser. The man behind the wheel looked to be in his early twenties. He wasn’t just honking his horn, though. He was waving frantically, gesturing for her to lower her window.

  Emily looked around. The only thing she saw in her mirrors were frustrated drivers, either sitting shut in, or standing beside their cars. No sign of imminent danger. What the hell was this guy's problem? Was one of her tires flat?

  Emily powered her window down half-way. The mad honker was sliding into his passenger seat. Emily could see now that he was talking animatedly on his cell phone.

  "I knew it!" he yelled into the phone. "Dude, it is! Yeah, right here on the 405!" He shifted his attention from the phone and leaned out the passenger window.

  "You're Sextasy Chase! Girl, I love you! You're the finest lady in the business—there ain't nobody who can suck dick like you!"

  Emily winced, then managed a weak smile. It wasn't the first time she'd been recognized, or embarrassed, by one of her many fans. It came with the territory. You don't ascend to the rank of World's Number One Porn Star without having people recognize you whenever you went to the mall or the supermarket. If you couldn't handle it, you shopped online and had groceries delivered. Emily had come to rely on both conveniences.

  “Hey baby, when are you doing your next movie?” The mad honker continued. “ I know a newcomer who'd work on you all night long, girl! How about it?"

  Emily flashed her warmest, phoniest smile, and shut the Cruiser's window. The fan continued to plead his case.

  "Hey, don’t be like that! Give me a chance! I got the goods, c'mon over here and give me an audition."

  “Dumb ass,” Emily sighed, watching the guy return to his call. She'd run into a thousand others just like him. Ten to one, even if he had anything more than a Tootsie Roll in his pants, it'd lay there limp as a noodle when the lights went on and there were people on set watching. Emily had long ago graduated from having to work with untested stunt cocks. If a guy wasn't a proven performer, the odds of him getting near her, much less inside her, were longer than a double-headed dildo. The only thing worse than having to endure a scene with a cherry was the occasional end of the day shoot with a horse who was on his third or fourth wad and couldn't finish. Wrapping up with an unnecessarily sore jaw, pussy or asshole made Emily furious. It was one of the biggest reasons why she wanted out, and why she had lightened her workload the previous year.

  "You know, you really don't want to back off too much," Vince Voyeur had told her recently at the Erotica Convention in New Orleans. "Jenna didn't slow up when she hit number one," he pointed out. "It’s tough to climb back on top once you let somebody get past you."

  Emily had appreciated his advice. She respected Vince, who was now doing as much work behind the camera as he did in front of it. She'd worked with him a few times and they'd become decent industry friends. She would have taken his advic
e to heart—he was one hundred percent right, of course— but he had no clue, speaking to the recently crowned Queen of Porn, that the queen was looking to abdicate the throne.

  Emily went back to the radio. The station was now reporting what she felt sure every EMT's wife or girlfriend feared. There had been only two reanimates as a result of the Montero crash. The third was the paramedic who’d been bitten. The only good news was that a police spokesperson was confirming the neutralization was complete. At least those three were out of their misery, she decided, and she'd be moving again soon.

  She was hunting around for the Radio Factor when her cell phone rang. Kevin, she assumed, checking to make sure she was going to keep their appointment. She glanced at the caller ID. Pleasant surprise. Dave Rosen, over at Sextreme Sinema. She breathed a sigh of relief. Dave was a former magazine editor and newspaper guy who ran one of the newer, more professional companies. He'd only been in L.A. a few years, but he'd put Sextreme on the map with a string of successful gonzo tapes. She'd done about a dozen titles for Dave, and appreciated his no-nonsense approach to making movies. Ass Humpin' Angels had been the first project she'd worked on for him, and although he wasn't as mercenary about the fucking as Max Hardcore, she'd needed several weeks off and a tube of Preparation H before she was willing to do another movie for him. Still, Dave had been honest up front. The shoot hadn't really offered any surprises, just some real work and a little discomfort. Dave paid her well for it, though, and as long as she knew what was expected of her, she liked working for him. He had some idiosyncrasies, to be sure, but who in the business didn't? Nobody she’d ever worked with, that’s for sure.

  "Hey Dave, what's up?"

  "Hi sexy, what are you up to?"

  "Ugh. I'm tied up on the 405, which is probably going to kill a meeting I have this afternoon. How about you?"

  "You north of that crazy zombie shit going on on TV?" Dave asked. He was probably watching on the big screen in his office.

  "Yeah, you watching?"

  "Everybody is. It's like C.O.P.S. meets Night of the Living Dead. Probably gone national by now. So, who you meeting with? Anybody I know?"

  "Kevin over at Metro. He's got a project he wants me for. How's it look on TV? Any chance a poor little porn star is gonna get out of this mess before the real traffic starts?"

  "Actually, it looks like they're reopening the southbound side, but only the two left lanes. So get over if you can. What's Kevin pitching?"

  "Another one of his bullshit projects,” she told him. “But he says he’s going to franchise it for a year. Wants me to be the face on it. Why?"

  "What's the rate?"

  Usually, Emily wouldn't discuss what one studio was paying with another, but Dave was one of the few people on the inside she trusted. Besides, Dave knew most of the players anyway. If he really wanted to, he could find out by making a few phone calls.

  "Twelve for the launch, eight more for the intros for the rest," she confided.

  "Wanna blow it off?"

  "Wanna give me a reason besides your charming personality and a copy of Facial Onslaught 14?" she shot back.

  "No franchise, but a much better payday," he offered.

  "How many midgets have to cum on my face?" she asked. "I know you're not offering better than that for a single. What kind of money you talking about?"

  "Enough to get you out, if that's what you really want."

  His response startled her. She hadn't even hinted at quitting. Not to anyone. Sure, she had discussed retirement in passing with Lauren, better known to the public as Cynful Passions, but everybody talked about what they planned to do when they got out of porno. That was nothing new. Had she been a little too candid with Lauren? Had her friend seen through Emily's talk of someday and, when I retire, and simply figured it out? Emily made a mental note for the next time she and Lauren got together: smoke less pot and try to keep her mouth shut as much as her legs. Outside of a shoot, she hadn't fucked a guy in more than a month. She was beginning to feel like a full-fledged dyke.

  "What makes you say that?" she asked, regretting it instantly. It had come out sounding too harsh. Too defensive.

  "No reason," Dave lied, knowing she didn’t believe him. "All I can tell you right now is that I have something huge in the works and I got two investment partners who agree with me. I want the biggest name in the business attached to the biggest flick since Deep Throat. And, all of us know that if we're going to do it, we have to pay accordingly. tell you this, sexy, What Kevin’s offering? That's not nest egg money, hon. This is."

  There it was again. Nest egg. Another reference to her retirement. He knew, or at least suspected. The question was how? And with this project he was pitching, how much?

  "Tell you what," she said, finally seeing the traffic starting to move. "Let me make a few calls and I'll swing by the office. We can talk then."

  "Sounds great, sexy. While I have you on, let me ask you something. Could you work on short notice? Say, like, tomorrow?"

  "That depends," she said.

  "On?"

  "On just how nice this offer you're gonna make actually is."

  Dave laughed. "I'll see you at three-thirty then. Oh, and Emily?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Say hello to Kevin for me."

  Dave punched off. Emily put the Cruiser in gear, thinking about the call and how things might play out. Especially in terms of money, which was what it was all about now, and had been for some time. That, inevitably, got her to thinking about the past.

  Emily Chassen had hit Los Angeles ten months removed from an unsuccessful sophomore year at Penn State, with the intention of taking acting lessons and breaking into film. She’d managed to scrape by, making ends meet doing a few commercials, while partying like she was still in the dorms. When her roommate decided to go back East and re-enroll at school, Emily’s financial situation hit critical mass. She was broke, overextended on her credit cards, and on the verge of being evicted. A friend she’d made partying—the only thing she'd really succeeded at—suggested she give amateur porno a try. Her friend was using that, along with working two nights a week at a topless bar, to rake in pretty good cash. Good enough to keep herself in weed and cocaine, while maintaining a roof over her head. Without needing a roomie, either.

  The girl had gotten Emily an audition, and given her a few tips. From there, Emily was on her own. She didn't doubt that Monica would have continued to help her out, but an overdose had made that impossible.

  Emily hadn’t been dissuaded. A name change and some on-the-job training was all it took to get herself started in the biz. As Melony Chase, she had stumbled through three abominable films. Her debut had come in Slutty Sorority Sisters, in which she had one scene and got paid two hundred dollars. That had been followed by Co-Ed Bukkake, where she and three other newbies each jacked and sucked off thirty different guys, taking each guy’s load on their faces. It was the most revolting thing she'd ever experienced, but she’d been wired on the director's coke, and the four hundred dollar payday helped her stave off eviction for another month. Her willingness to do both an interracial and anal shoot got her two scenes in Between the Cheeks #2, the first flick that actually had a decent distributor behind it. By then, Emily was more Melony Chase than Emily Chassen, but there was always enough coke around to keep her from caring about the distinction.

  The double-dip on Between the Cheeks wasn't enough to pay for the work that the director said she needed, but he made her an offer. He'd front the money for a two cup breast augmentation and some collagen work on her lips, in exchange for two scenes in each of his next three videos. Needing the money, and feeling the cosmetic enhancements would help get her more work, she had agreed. Melony Chase disappeared under the surgeon's blade, and Sextasy Chase was born.

  By the time her third video under the new moniker was released, Sextasy Chase was fast becoming a hot commodity. With Jenna Jameson long retired, the industry had been looking for its next bona fide superstar. With
a torrid schedule shooting for Vivid, Metro, Extreme and some of the other heavyweights, in less than a year, Emily had become the hottest actress in the business. She made the cover of Adult Video News twice, a rare feat. Adding to that, she’d been the centerfold and cover girl for both CHERI Magazine and High Society in back to back months—something even Jenna hadn't accomplished. That had sealed it. CHERI's Rob Errera had been one of the first to recognize Jenna's superstar potential, and nobody in the industry could ignore the significance of Sextasy's unprecedented sweep of the two powerhouse skin mags. She was the industry's undisputed number one draw.

  Now, less than two years later, she was looking for a way out. A near miss with her own drug overdose had shaken her up. That, coupled with her mother's failing health, made her departure imminent. She woke up miserable, on too many mornings, asking her reflection, "When did it go from teenage stupidity to being a completely fucked-out whore?"

  Her relationship with Lauren had helped. In the perky brunette she saw the girl she'd once been, but with one notable difference—Lauren wasn't interested in getting out. Nothing she saw or endured in the business seemed to change her outlook. Emily thought it was because of Lauren's background. Lauren disagreed, but one didn't get dropped off at a Catholic boarding school at age twelve, only to have your mother disappear and never come back, without it messing with your head in some way. Lauren denied it, but some things she said, or occasionally cried out in her restless sleep, made Emily suspect that the nuns at St. Barbara's had done far worse things with a ruler than just smack Lauren's knuckles. Outside the business, Lauren was frail and scared. Inside, she was powerful and successful. She refused to test herself beyond the industry. She didn't see any reason to leave, and didn't have the courage to look for one.

  Emily refused to feel guilty about making the call. Lauren finally answered on the fifth ring, her voice thick with sleep. Emily could only imagine what Lauren had been up to the night before if it was approaching two in the afternoon and she still hadn't found her way out of bed.