Dead Meat

by Joseph M. Monks

  Soon, they had a handle on it, using pliers to rip out some of the kid’s teeth in order to make the drilling easier. Dave said they were fortunate—Danny didn't have any wisdom teeth.

  The thing that made the initial extractions more difficult was the fact that Danny had still been alive, although neither TJ nor Dave knew it at the time. It had been almost fifteen minutes since Danny’s last convulsion, and it looked like he’d stopped breathing. Two teeth in, though, the kid’s eyes shot open, and he started screaming. TJ knew he'd never be able to smoke that image away, no matter how good the weed. No, that was one he was going to be stuck with for the long haul. There were plenty of things he’d done in his life that he wasn’t proud of, but at least he wasn't going to have the additional burden Dave was saddled with.

  Sextreme’s president had hightailed it into the prop room when Danny's ear-splitting shrieks had gotten too intense to bear. He’d come back with a length of pipe left over from some plumbing work done for the rap studio. The hip-hop hotshots had installed a Jacuzzi to entertain their pampered, second tier artists. Now, the remnants were occasionally put to use weighing down lighting equipment.

  It took four shots to the head to do the job. TJ had always believed that one good swing with a bat or pipe would crack open anybody’s skull, but Danny's held up surprisingly well against the first three blows. It was the fourth two-hander that finally did the trick, caving the top of the kid’s head in. TJ had never been so happy that the studio had a slop sink and bucket. There had been a lot for the two of them to mop up. Danny was one leaky motherfucker.

  The studio fell silent when Sextasy emerged from the office. Lucy, the stylist, had dressed her in a slinky red mini dress, no bra or panties. Her tits looked outstanding. The dress was sized for a 34C, and Sextasy was a full 36D, verging on double-D. The extra tit pulled the ass of the dress up so that it barely covered her cheeks. It was Lucy's hope that when Sextasy got into position and spread ‘em, no matter how uncoordinated her co-star, not wearing anything underneath would enable him to plow right in. Lucy had already swabbed Sextasy's snatch with a generous amount of Astroglide. She knew Sextasy wasn't going to lubricate naturally for this. At least, she hoped not. Lucy found the whole thing an abomination, but she was getting a thousand bucks for it. So long as she didn’t have to style the stiff, it was just another gig.

  "Places, everyone!" TJ yelled, scrambling the team into action. It was a good, tight crew. They knew about getting things right, especially on the first take. A lot of times that was all you got, especially if you were trying to capture a good facial.

  Nobody liked having to wait around for a guy to reload, and no one wanted a dribbler for the money shot. TJ had told the whole crew to be on top of their shit. This was definitely a one-take scene. The bonus was that all they had to worry about was the action. There weren't going to be any crazy close-ups for DVD, no stop-and-go to switch camera angles, and the talent wouldn’t be changing positions. Plus, there wouldn’t be any worrying about a money shot. Not tonight.

  Dave was still buttering Sextasy up when she strode onto the set. Eric V, who was running Camera 1, did a color balance on both of the DV cams and snapped his fingers for sound. Sean, his partner, tapped his headphones and nodded that they were good. He gave Dave the A-OK.

  Dave walked Sextasy to her mark, offering her a flood of nonstop encouragement.

  "This is gonna go perfect, honey. You just play this like any other scene, okay? Just pretend it's any other guy and it'll be over before you know it."

  The best she could do was nod. Not a good sign, he thought, concerned. He was counting on her to provide some audio fireworks to go along with the visuals. Not only was she the hottest cocksucker and ass-fuck in the biz, she was a dynamite screamer. Dave expected her silence would be short-lived once the cameras were rolling. If not, he was confident that Danny would provide all the incentive necessary to get his superstar going.

  For the scene, they'd kept everything simple. They’d dragged their kitchen backdrop and props alongside a living room flat. Jack had strategically tapped in a few nails, and the whole thing looked seamless. The idea was to shoot Sextasy playing with herself in the kitchen, waiting for her boyfriend to get home. When she was on the verge of orgasm, a knock would come from off camera and she'd rush to the door, expecting her beau to come in and finish what she’d started. The surprise would come when Danny came through the door, and not one of the rent-a-studs every outfit used.

  Jack already had Danny in place. He'd slapped together some boards, penning the reanimate in like a bull at a rodeo. The plan was for the horny fuck to follow Sextasy through the phony kitchen and into the living room. There, Sextasy would back away from him until she was trapped between the zombie and the couch, giving Danny the chance he’d missed with Jette Black the night before.

  "Settle!” shouted TJ, alerting everyone that they were ready.

  “Rolling...” Eric announced. He and Sean each began recording.

  “Take one,” said TJ, working the slate. He and Dave hadn’t come up with a title yet, and neither thought calling out, ‘Fuck of the Dead, take one!’ would go over well with Sextasy. It didn’t matter. They’d shot for movies that didn’t have titles before. They’d come up with something later, when there was more time. Right now, the only important thing was getting the footage in the can.

  “Action!" called Dave, excited to be behind a camera again. He’d started out as a co-producer on fetish videos, cutting his teeth on titles meant for extremely niche audiences. He’d eventually worked his way up to directing, and was good at it. His series made other companies a lot of money. Wanting to carve himself a bigger piece of the pie, he’d convinced the same money-men who’d bankrolled this shoot to help him open Sextreme. The result was, he didn’t direct much anymore. But he ran the company, and he made good bank. His investors, silent partners, were pleased with the arrangement. Dave considered the chance to get behind the camera again an added bonus.

  Like a true professional, Sextasy found the zone, the place where she sent part of herself to hide during every shoot, and let her body take over. She had all the mechanics down, this wasn't anything she hadn't done a thousand times before.

  "Where the hell can he be?" she heard herself ad libbing. "I can't believe he's not here yet, and my pussy is so fucking wet!” Without thinking, she started to caress her breasts. Reaching into the dress to tease a nipple hard. Dave and TJ watched the monitor approvingly. So far, it was vintage Sextasy. Even with only lipstick and a little rouge, she looked absolutely incredible.

  Sextasy started upping the ante. She fondled her breasts, pressing them together so they looked even larger, practically squeezing them up out of her dress. She tugged down the fabric just enough to expose the tops of her nipples. With the set being so cold, they jutted out like miniature thimbles, taut and swollen. One hand slipped down to the hemline of the dress, lifting it far enough to reveal a hint of pussy fuzz.

  “She’s on,” TJ murmured, low enough so as not to be picked up by the mics. Dave nodded his agreement.

  Sextasy was really getting into it. She pulled the top of the dress down, freeing one magnificent tit. Eric zoomed in as she brought it to her mouth, suckling the erect, pink gumdrop between those full, painted lips. A strand of saliva—Sextasy could drool like no other bitch in the business—glistened as it trickled down the arc of her breast.

  Guys will be jacking off just to this, thought Dave. TJ looked up, and tapped a spot on the monitor.

  Sextasy had one finger buried inside herself, thrusting her hips against her hand. Both of her well-formed tits were out, heaving as she finger-fucked herself. As her moaning grew louder, Dave leaned in to see what TJ was pointing at. It was obvious, once he peeled his eyes away from his star. TJ cupped a hand over Dave's ear.

  "He's fucking watching her. You can see him through the kitchen door, staring at her. How cool is that?"

  Dave didn't need to answer. It appeared neither
of his actors required any direction. Sean picked up on the same thing TJ had, and focused his camera on Danny.

  "Oh, I wish he'd hurry up and get here already," whined Sextasy, sticking her pussy-prodding fingers into her mouth and sucking them noisily. "I need it so bad!"

  TJ gave the signal. Jack rapped his knuckles on the outer wall of the set. Sextasy took the cue and made a convincing show of being reluctant to stop what she was doing. She pulled her dress up slowly, struggling to get her tits back into it, working it for the camera. She grabbed an empty purse from the countertop and headed to the door. Nobody noticed that she was walking on wobbly legs.

  Danny lunged for her as soon as she opened the door. He had one hand wrapped around his cock, which was now so discolored it looked purple-black. Another six hours, thought TJ, and he'd be able to do his own interracial scene.

  Dave was astounded to see how bad Danny looked. The freezer might have kept pieces of him from falling off prematurely, but his skin was already mottled and gray. His nose looked a little lopsided. The hollows under his eyes had gone dark, too.

  As Danny approached a genuinely terrified Sextasy, Dave patted himself on the back for sending TJ back to the Lexus to retrieve part of the steering column. Dave had banged the jagged assembly into Danny's chest with a mallet. The kid truly looked like a car crash victim. Dave felt certain that anybody who saw this would believe Danny had been killed in an accident. It looked flawless.

  Danny took a shaky step forward, his damaged erection pointing towards Sextasy's crotch. She backed away, holding her hands up as if to ward the reanimate off.

  The dead kid found his legs, and moved in on Sextasy much more quickly than she would have thought possible. He let go of his boner, and seized her wrists.

  The coke wore off the second Emily felt the reanimate's hands on her. She dropped out of the trance-like state she'd struggled to put herself in during the masturbation part of the scene. Now that she was face to face with the zombie, able to feel his hardness pressing into her, all bets were off.

  Sextasy cried out, but it sounded like a whimper. She wrenched herself free, the zombie’s clammy hands unable to hold her. She stumbled back, out of reach of the advancing corpse.

  Danny lurched after her, Sextasy barely staying a step ahead. She hurtled into the living room set and plowed into the couch, doubling over. She shot back to her feet, but it was already too late. The walking dead man was upon her.

  Sextasy stood toe-to-toe with the reanimate. She fought to get away, but his fingers, fully thawed now, clamped down on her wrists like a vise. Would he actually try to kiss her? She wasn’t willing to find out. She threw herself backwards, over the arm of the couch, feeling the seams of the flimsy red dress tear loose.

  Exposed now, her legs parted around the reanimate's hips, she began thrashing wildly, kicking and clawing, frantically trying to break free.

  Danny pawed at her breasts, his nails leaving shallow furrows in her smooth, unblemished skin.

  Until the friction peeled off his fingertips. Sextasy tried to throw herself off the couch, but he was too strong. She was trapped beneath him, his distended tongue sticking out between cracked, shrunken lips.

  Then, she felt it. A cold knob of pressure. Forcing her open. Invading her.

  She screamed.

  His thrusts were jerky and erratic. His crooked member grated uncomfortably against her dry, inner walls. When he finally seemed as if he were going to complete the act, Sextasy felt the deformed tip of his penis stab painfully into her cervix. He was losing his balance, toppling over onto her.

  Sextasy was howling at the top of her lungs, trying to push the monster off of her. Her screams were real. Bloodcurdling shrieks of terror, not the phony wails of mock ecstasy she was famous for. She could see the crew watching, mesmerized. They just stood there, filming, like it was just another shoot.

  They have no idea, she thought. No clue whatsoever.

  Couldn't they tell that her screams were real?

  Or worse, did they know, and simply not care?

  Emily groaned, trying to get her bearings. She put her hands over her ears, hoping that the ringing would subside. When it only dulled, she realized that it wasn't her head that was ringing, but her phone.

  Seven-thirty? Who the hell was calling her this early, especially on Sunday? Probably a motherfucking telemarketer, she guessed, her anger rising.

  "Emmie honey? It's me. Are you there? Well, I just wanted to call because I haven't heard from you in a couple of days, and I wanted to make sure that everything is all right,” came her mother’s voice, tinny through the answering machine speaker. Emily smiled, reaching for the phone.

  “Oh, and I also wanted to know… You haven't been spreading your legs for reanimates, have you, you stinking whore?"

  Emily jerked upright, a searing bolt of pain stabbing her behind the eyes. She swallowed air, struggling to overcome a wave of nausea.

  She failed, leaning over the side of the bed and retching onto the carpet. After a few shaky moments, she got a hold of herself and managed to sit up.

  The phone wasn't ringing, it wasn't even on the charger. Of course, her mother hadn't left any messages, either. Even if she was capable of using the phone, it was four-thirty in the morning in Pennsylvania. The aide wouldn’t have even let her dial.

  The nightmare sent shivers up her spine, though the apartment felt abnormally warm. Her stomach was roiling, and her tongue felt like someone had squirted glue on it and covered it in cotton balls.

  What day was it? Emily had no idea. What night had they shot? Wednesday? Thursday? It was all hazy now, like a bad dream. She knew that Saturday had come, because Lauren had called and called, ringing both the land line and cell phone until Emily finally picked up.

  "Sorry, bad flu," she’d lied, then hung up. If memory served, she’d been deep into a bottle of Cuervo Gold, waiting on a home delivery from Rory, her dealer. She thought she remembered seeing him more than once, which undoubtedly meant she had. If she thought she remembered two visits, how many had he made that she didn't remember?

  She decided to wait a minute before moving to the kitchen. As much as she wanted to wash away the taste of vomit, she was wary of walking past the open blinds and into the kitchen, which was bathed in bright sunlight. Any other morning, she would have welcomed that, but right now, the comfort of absolute darkness wrapped her like a security blanket.

  Emily checked the caller ID. Five more calls from Lauren, one from Rory, and one from Vivid. She had a meeting with them on Tuesday, it was probably one of the guys calling to confirm. She tapped the PLAY button.

  "Hi there baby, it's me, I was just cal—" Lauren. "Message deleted. New message, Sunday, three-forty-seven PM. Hello, Sunshine! It's you-know-who." Rory, in full-flame. "Anyhoo, thanks for thinking of moi to cater your little get-together the other night. Just one thing, darling, please, please give me a little advance warning next time. That sort of order ain't won tons and fried rice, you know? Anyway, thanks again, and hey, am I going to be invited to the next little party you're throwing?”

  Get together? Party? That certainly didn’t sound good. She tapped ERASE.

  "Message Deleted. New Message. Monday, one-forty PM. Em, it's me. How are you fee— " Lauren again. "Message deleted. "… New message. Monday, five-fifty-three PM. Emmie? You there, it's— Message deleted. New message, Monday, eight-forty-eight PM. Em, I'm getting wor—“

  Emily was getting frustrated. “Message deleted. New message, Wednesday, eleven-oh-three AM. Sextasy? Lou, just wanted to know what happened yesterday. We waited at Sushi on Sunset until four and tried your cell all afternoon. I really need to hear back from you about Bitches Gone Bareback, if not, we're going to have to go with somebody else, okay? Just let me know, you’ve got my number. Bye. End of messages."

  Wednesday? Emily's brain, which had seemed about to start gaining traction, spun out again. Had she lost an entire week? It didn't seem possible, but that was the way it was s
tarting to look. She searched the clutter by her nightstand for her cell phone. She found it on the floor, next to a crushed plastic tumbler and an empty bottle of Cuervo 1800.

  Dead. Not good. She marched over to her computer table. She had left the monitor on, but the computer had gone into sleep mode. She hit the space bar and the screen came to life. The AOL screen was up, but she wasn’t logged in. She typed her password and hit ENTER.

  “Welcome! You’ve got mail!”

  "I'll bet," she said. The main window appeared. Emily gasped.

  Friday. It wasn't Wednesday already, it was Friday. The sour taste in her mouth grew stronger.

  She clicked the arrow next to the Internet address bar. The URL was a series of numbers, nothing she recognized. Where had she been last? What had she been doing?

  She got her answer when the page loaded. The Pennsylvania First National Bank Web site. She typed in her access code and navigated to the link she wanted. When the info flashed on screen, she came dangerously close to throwing up again.

  Eight withdrawals, all from cash machines. Roughly eleven thousand dollars, four of it on Saturday. That explained Rory's cryptic message. She'd catered a party all right, she just hadn't bothered to invite any guests.

  She dropped her head into her hands and stood there, shaking. This was the way it had been the week of the overdose. Her memory nonexistent, her behavior totally out of control. When she’d managed to pull herself together, she checked one last figure before signing off.

  Relief flooded over her. The six figure deposit had been made, she hadn't imagined it. The eleven grand she’d withdrawn was shocking, but only represented a small dent in her bottom line, nothing that would jeopardize her plans.

  Not yet. But it would. If she stuck around, she wouldn't be able to prevent that., If she didn’t pull the trigger, she was going to wind up in the same rut. Treading water until she stopped accumulating cash, and started blowing it. She'd gone down that road before, with tragic consequences. She wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.