by J. A. Pitts
“You’re sweet,” I said with a smile. “Maybe Carl should give us both a raise for being too cool for his studio.”
“Right … not.”
He was flustered.
“Well, can’t keep them waiting.”
He waved as I opened the doors. Definitely nice to be someplace I was appreciated.
I walked into the studio, letting it wash over me. I had high expectations.
There on soundstage 1, Carl and Jennifer were obviously blocking a scene. Jennifer was on the ground holding a roll of tape, and Carl was taking exaggerated strides across the floor and counting aloud.
“… three … and four.”
Jennifer tore the tape with her teeth and marked where Carl now stood.
“Hello,” I called.
“Hey, Beauhall,” Carl called, stepping toward me, holding his hand out to shake. “Glad to have you back on set.”
I stepped forward and took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Good to be back, boss.”
He swelled a little at this, put his arm around Jennifer, and smiled at me. “My two best girls…”
Jennifer nudged him with her hip, and his smile faltered.
“… err, women. Um … ladies?” He looked at her, unsure where to stop.
I pushed him to the side and hugged Jennifer. I pulled back and gently punched him in the chest. “What’s the new movie?”
The relief on Carl’s face was precious. He really had no clear idea how to handle the situation. Back to the movies, though. That was the trick.
“We have a great script,” he said, rushing over to a speaker stack and grabbing a thick printout. “You’ll love it; it has all your favorite stuff…”
He flipped over a couple of pages and began quoting.
Burned-out cityscape, Jacob walks through a street lined with destroyed cars, swinging a crowbar and calling out.
“Come out, little children, the end of the world has come and gone.”
Several misshapen creatures shuffle out from behind an overturned bread truck, their limbs twisted, their faces covered in weeping sores.
“Come to me, my children. Let me end your suffering.”
The two mutants rush the tall man.
Carl looked up. “Postholocaust, warrior, mutants … and…” he flipped a few pages deeper in. “Survivalist cheerleaders.”
Jennifer laughed out loud, and Carl looked startled.
“Hey, we cut out the orgy scene,” he said, his feelings clearly hurt.
“Thank heavens,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Don’t need too many costumes for orgies.”
Jennifer sighed and took the script from him, handing it to me. “It’s really good,” she said. “We’ll need you to read it, get some ideas together for setting and props.”
I took the manuscript, flipped back to the front, and nearly swallowed my tongue. The names on the cover were Wendy Lawson and James J. Montgomery. “JJ?” I looked at them as if the world were ending. “Are you shitting me?”
“Give it a chance,” Jennifer said, rushing over Carl’s protests. “We had him tone a few scenes down, but the love story is excellent and the ending is very heartwarming.”
I shook my head. Heartwarming and JJ did not go together.
“Who’s Lisa Acres?” I asked.
“Friend of his,” Jennifer said.
“Some sorority girl he’s sleeping with,” Carl said at the same time.
Jennifer was obviously exasperated. “The writing is good,” she said, tapping the pages in my hand. “Just read it and trust me.”
I folded the manuscript and saluted her with it. “I’m on it.”
“Good,” she said, all smiles again. “We have to finish blocking the first scene. You go take inventory.”
I turned on my heel and walked to the back. We’d be doing some outside shooting, needing wrecked cars, maybe even blowing some things up. Carl had a buddy who did explosives, and I knew where we could get a couple of smashed-up choppers. Qindra would know where all the wreckage from this spring was stashed. Although, going back inside that chopper where I’d rescued Katie may take more nerve than I was willing to muster.
The cage where I kept most of the props doubled as my personal domain in the movie world. The sound of the lock opening as I turned the key was homey. The smell of foam rubber, Handi Wipes, and cardboard greeted me like an old friend. I sat at my desk, dropped the script on top of a box of gauze I never used for the last movie, and sat in my duct-taped chair. It squeaked as I leaned back and groaned when I swiveled around to face the desk. It was good to be back.
An hour later I carried my official clipboard over to Carl’s office. He and Jennifer were standing in front of a whiteboard laying out the cast and crew they’d need. Elvis Versus the Goblins had been a great experience, and I was ready for a new challenge.
“We’re pretty thin after EVG,” I said, sitting on the edge of his desk.
He looked at me like I punched his mom, and I stood up waving him down. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” I settled into a chair by the door and tapped my clipboard. No touching Carl’s desk. I wondered if the rule held forth for Jennifer now that they were doing the nasty.
Maybe I didn’t want to know.
Instead I asked, “When do we start shooting?”
Jennifer flipped open her planner and drew her finger down the page. “Casting call goes out tonight; we hope to have everyone in place in two weeks.”
“Pretty sporty.”
Carl shrugged. “We can rely on most of the same cast from EVG, I’d suspect. I know we’ll have JJ and Sandra for the main roles.”
“Who the hell is Sandra?”
Jennifer glanced at Carl, who rushed forward. “You remember, the way we recut the last few scenes, the blonde with the…” He held his hands in front of him, simulating very large breasts.
The dog, he was watching Jennifer’s reaction as he did that, a grin on his face.
“He’s a pig,” she said, shaking her head. “He finally gets laid and he thinks it gives him a right to be vulgar.”
The look on his face was priceless. I think I’d have given up my entire stake in Flight Test, Ltd. to have that on video.
He spluttered as he turned to her, “Aww, come on … I was … Jennn…” he practically whined. “You do the same thing.”
“Jennifer,” I said, in mock shock. “How scandalous.”
“To be fair,” she said, glaring at Carl. “It’s okay if I notice.”
Carl threw his hands up in the air. “She was topless for three weeks, how could I not notice?”
She crossed her arms and turned away from him.
“They aren’t as cute as yours,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder.
That’s it. I couldn’t take it. “Eww…” I said, standing and dropping my clipboard on his desk. “Please, have sex, have a lot of sex, just don’t talk about it in front of me.”
They were both laughing as I walked out of the office. This had the potential to be a very long shoot.
I hoped I’d be around for the end of this one.
Twenty-nine
I called Julie to make sure she knew I was coming home for dinner and got a list of things we needed from the grocery. I loved sharing life with another person—most of the time. It was very cool to have someone remind you when the milk was going to expire so you didn’t slop a chunky mess on your last bowl of cereal when you were already late for work.
Katie could keep an eye on the milk as well as Julie. And the fringe benefits would be a billion times better, but something was holding me back. Fear? Duty? I owed Julie, that’s for sure. She lost everything because of me. Katie had her life together: family, job, a place to call her own.
Julie just had me. How could I deny her that, after all that happened?
Katie understood, mostly.
There was a thrift store in the same plaza as my grocery, so I stopped there first and perused through the joint. Most of my costuming i
deas came from shops like this. And postapocalypse was easy—just patch together old clothes in a very controlled yet haphazard fashion.
I noted several old suits and an old leather briefcase that would add a nice touch to a scene. I was getting fairly handy with a sewing machine, needle, and thread as part of the props-manager gig.
Mom would be proud if she knew. I hesitated a moment. Would she be proud of the life I’d made? I wanted to believe it was possible, but I couldn’t remember the last time she’d shared in my dreams. Did she and Megan have that?
I grabbed the lot for just under fifty dollars. I tucked the receipt in my wallet, dropped the loot in the back of the Taurus, and headed to the grocery.
Didn’t need much—some eggs, carrots, milk, and coffee. I added a six-pack of Belgian ale and headed to the checkout.
I loved this store. They had friendly staff and quick checkers. Everyone knew where those obscure items were that I could never remember and rarely asked for. They were open twenty-four hours and had a wide selection of beer and wine, including several brands of mead. You could only buy the hard stuff from a state-run, which kept very limited hours.
The evening was young still. The sun just beginning to set as I walked across the lot toward my car. It may have been the surreal aspects of the day, or the way the light looked so amazing at this time of twilight … either way, I totally missed the homeless guy squatting down behind the row of shopping carts near my car.
He didn’t lunge at me, just stood up and gave me a little wave. I jumped about three feet into the air and nearly dropped my beer, which would have elicited a beating, then strode a wide path around him.
I used the key fob to open the trunk, pushed the lid upward with my hip far enough to leverage it with my loaded hands, and placed the bags inside.
He hadn’t moved, just stood there, one hand out, like he wanted me to shake it or maybe give him some change. I closed the trunk and stood to face him across the ten or so feet.
“I’m right sorry to have startled you, ma’am,” he said.
No slur, hell, better language than I usually used. “No worries,” I said, giving him a smile. I noticed he had a dog with him, beagle mix, lying with its head and floppy ears resting on the guy’s pack.
“Begging your pardon,” he went on, obviously relieved I hadn’t yelled at him, or dismissed him as most people would. I’d had bizarre experiences with odd homeless men that most people wouldn’t understand.
“I have a message for you,” he said, straightening and pulling a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket.
“Message?”
He cleared his throat. “Blood magic, blood ties,” he looked up, with an odd twitch in his cheek. “The time grows short, Dragon’s Bane. You must wake from this slumber and rally the fearful.”
The runes along my scalp flared, and I grabbed my head in my hands. It was as if my brains were trying to burn their way out of my skull.
“The seas must boil, and vile intent will scorch, the very air burn, if you do not lance the World Tree with blade and cleansing flame.”
His voice echoed in my head, mightier than this little man could muster. There was magic in his phonetical phrasing, power in the intonation and vibration—this mummer, this puppet, this mouthpiece of gods.
“Skies will break and bones shall quake,” he ranted, and thunderclaps echoed across the asphalt. Rain began to pelt down, and lightning flashed above the grocery, now the only point of light in a darkening world.
“The kindred fail, the blood will flow, and an ancient rite renewed.” He squatted down to me. “They must not gain the mead.”
I hadn’t noticed I’d shrunk down, squatting behind my car with my hands tightly wrapped around my head.
“The sword must waken, the blade must sing.”
I looked up at him, my eyes throbbing with the echoes of lightning. His face was huge, the stubble on his chin the rotting posts of some ancient ruins.
“’Ware the bidders,” he whispered. “Their schemes shall ensnare you, bind you with their lust.”
“Who?” I squeaked, my throat thick and my voice raspy.
“Take it, hide it, consume it,” he paused, drawing in a ragged breath. “Deny this to the scaled ones. They must not have this draft, this bloody brew.”
Brew?
“The ancient rites have begun, lifeblood has begun to flow. No time remains to save the skald; you must act now or the madness will be reborn.”
His voice was urgent, panicked.
My heart was bounding in my chest. After everything I’d been through, I knew a message from Odin when I heard it. I felt the compulsion in the channeled voice, the power in the voice of the heavens.
I reached up and grabbed his shoulder with one hand to steady myself. “What must I do?”
His eyes were glazed, and he spoke without knowing his words. The paper in his hand shook, and drool ran down his chin.
“Stop them!” He began to shake, his teeth rattling against one another. The wind rose in a sudden roar and the skies opened like never before. For a moment, I saw a remembered dream: a broken tree and a crucified god.
“Where do I begin?” I asked, but he fell backward. Time slowed in that instant and his falling took a hundred years.
From one breath to the next, the eons flashed, and the world became undone, a blackened orb, diseased and rotten—plague, pestilence, war, and death.
He hit the ground with a thud, his arms flung out to his sides. His beagle barked, three staccato beats at the raging sky, and the bonds that had frozen me shattered.
I scrambled forward, holding his head in one hand, shielding his face from the rain with my body.
He continued to speak, but his voice was raspy and hoarse. “The wheel is broken,” he murmured. “Free it from the shackle, let it turn again, or we are doomed.”
His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he began to shake. Seizures.
I looked up, across the parking lot. An old woman sat in her car across the lane, her fear-ridden face illuminated by the dome light in her car.
“Call an ambulance,” I shouted to her. “Get help.”
She shook her head, terrified, but she had a cell phone in her hand.
Lightning slashed down, lancing into a power pole across the parking lot.
Fire exploded into the sky.
“Help me,” I screamed into the night as the man shuddered beneath me.
After a moment, his shuddering stopped, and as quickly as it had begun, the rain stopped. I sat on my heels, cradling his head. The rain had washed away most of the filth from his face, allowing his youth to show through.
He was my age, maybe a little younger, and so he would remain forever.
People began streaming out of the store, yelling and calling to one another.
Somewhere in time, an ambulance arrived and a nice man wrapped a coat around me, pulling me away from the augur—he who spoke with the voice of a mad god.
I sat against my car, soaked and weeping as the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles filled the lot. I had his message, wadded up in my fist. The paper was soaked, falling apart as I carefully peeled it open. The words inside were lost, the ink running in delicate smears. The only word I could read was blood.
Above the warbling of the sirens and the thrum of the crowd, the beagle began to howl his lament.
Thirty
Somehow I found myself at home, cold, wet, and exhausted. Julie shepherded me into the shower, and afterward pressed a cup of hot cocoa into my hands, smothering me in blankets and concern.
I explained the evening, how the homeless guy had collapsed, keeping the bit about Odin out of the telling. My head throbbed with his echoed words, the runes a dull ache.
Odin warned of the bloody mead. That’s what the dwarves wanted with Ari. That was the connection. Ari had been snatched to be used as part of this blood ritual, and I should have stopped it. Barring that, I now needed to find those who had him, stop
them from killing him, or at the very least stop the ritual they were performing with his blood.
Which meant I had to go back to Vancouver, but I had no idea what to do or where to start.
Only, I did have a clue, and … I glanced at the clock on the wall … in just under two hours, I’d be having a little long-distance séance with someone who had a very good idea where Ari was being kept.
Otherwise, I could just go to Vancouver and wander around until someone took notice of my presence and attacked me. This didn’t feel particularly productive.
I sipped my cocoa and watched the minutes tick by. Julie went to bed at eleven, only after I promised her I’d sleep soon and wake her if I had dreams or anything. Part of me missed the mothering.
Once she was in her room, with the door closed, I got out the mirror and set it against the coffee table. I got a bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels out from under the sink and set about cleaning the lipstick off the mirror.
The day had been exhausting. I let my head nod forward—sleep dancing along the back of my brain—when someone tapped me on my exposed foot.
I started awake. Skella was in the mirror, her hand inside my apartment, pulling back from where she’d touched me.
“How do you do that?” I asked her, pulling away from her. Not really my most pressing question, but her ability to travel through mirrors was damn annoying.
“We just do,” she said. “Look, I’m really sorry about everything.”
She wasn’t in the same place she’d been the last time.
“Where are you?”
“Public bathroom near the bandstand,” she said. “Harder to tell I’ve been here, there’s so many people coming through here every day.”
I looked at her. She was in the same goth getup, with the same shy smile and deep, haunted eyes.
“You can’t have the sword,” I told her. Might as well get down to business.
She nodded. “We had to try. It’s too late now, anyway.”