by Alan Spencer
“Quick, Nelson—the coffee table!”
Billy lifted one end, Nelson the other.
Jessica opened the Novocain and heaved it in the man’s direction. “Stay back!”
The Intestinator cowered. It bought them seconds, Billy realized. They both lifted the table. “Charge him!” Billy shouted.
They advanced, taking fast strides. The Intestinator caught onto their tactics too late. A coil of intestine exploded from his belly, but Billy and Nelson used the table as a shield. The intestine was deflected back into his belly. The table slammed into the standing bulk. Feet from the window, they forced him through the glass. The body careened toward the street outside, his form growing smaller. The Intestinator crashed onto the top of a parked Voyager Minivan. With a solid crunch of steel and spraying of glass, the top of the minivan buckled inwards, spitting shards from all sides.
The Intestinator lay motionless.
“AND STAY OUT!” Nelson shouted in victory. “Asshole.”
Billy urged him from the window. “Shut up! Who knows what else is out there?”
Nelson moved back to the sitting room. Out of breath, they stared at the broken window and the glittering fragments on the carpet. “There’s not much time,” Billy suggested. “Let’s find your office, honey, and get to the bottom of this.”
Jessica guided them through two hallways and a labyrinth of cubicles and offices with gold nameplates. Paralegal offices occupied the last hallway. Finding an open office, Billy let the other two file ahead of him, and then he shut the door and locked it. He then drew the blinds over the glass front. He wasn’t sure if he should leave them that way. Nobody could see them from outside, but they wouldn’t know if an enemy was lurking on the other end or not.
Fuck it. I can put my ear to the door if it comes down to it.
Jessica sat at the computer in the back of the office. Billy and Nelson were huddled at both sides of her. Jessica raised her arms up in celebration. “Thank God, the Internet is working. What should I search?”
“Go to Instant Search,” Billy suggested. “Type in ‘Chicago Emergency’.”
Jessica typed in the words. She clicked on the number one site. A web page showed a combination of pictures, essays and directions of escape for those trapped in Chicago. Billy had forgotten it was near morning by now. He checked his watch and it was five-thirty. They looked at pictures of the dome from the other side of the skull. In the sun, it glinted like the enamel of a tooth.
“It really is a giant skull,” Nelson gasped. “You see the cranial ridges. It’s cut off where the eye sockets would begin. So weird. Now you know this is something supernatural.”
“My terrorist theory is out the window,” Billy said. “But damn it, what does this mean?”
They read the text below the skull pictures.
Spectators claimed to have witnessed a large dome-shaped object hover from the sky. Many claim to have seen airplanes carrying the dome, but others insist it was hovering by itself. Charles Zuckerman, local Chicago PD, made this statement, “I was writing a traffic ticket when a shadow crossed the interstate. This thing was enormous. It was hovering. I looked for what was carrying it, but I couldn’t see a thing. It doesn’t mean there wasn’t something there, but I sure didn’t see it, and I had a perfect view of it. And it looked like, well, it was bone.” The article went on to say, The object in the sky has blocked inner-city Chicago. Attempts to break through the dome to the other side have failed.
New pictures accompanied the article. A construction crew was attempting to cut through the enamel wall with a concrete saw. Pictures of a wrecking ball crew, jackhammer crew and strapping dynamite to the skull were presented in different pictures and in varying stages of sunlight and darkness.
“Attempts to break the skull have failed across the board,” says city councilman Ralph Quinley. Quinley assures the citizens inside of the dome are perfectly safe and will be rescued as soon as possible. Explanations for the dome and its origin are unknown. The city councilman has no further comment on the subject.
“Perfectly safe, my bleeding ass,” Nelson scoffed. “Tell that to the dead people out there.”
Jessica elbowed him square in the stomach. “Shhh! Something out there could hear us.”
The next paragraph was as ghastly as the one before:
Emails from those trapped in Chicago and phone calls have poured in to relatives and loved ones that disagree with Quinley’s theory of public safety. “Hundreds have been slain by unknown assailants,” claims one citizen, Gary Jones, a local freelance photographer. “I have the pictures to prove the atrocities that have taken place here are real. Something unholy has occurred. It's pure evil.”
The next set of pictures was of a man in the street. His arms were ejecting themselves from the sockets. The next pictures showed a fist jammed through a man’s torso. A woman had a jawbone buried in the side of her head. Severed fingers were crammed into a police officer's eyes.
“That, that man,” Billy insisted. “That’s the guy from Death Reject.”
“I’ll be damned,” Nelson agreed. “It really is the guy. A perfect duplicate.”
“No way.” Jessica gawked at the picture. “I still don’t believe it. Movies aren’t real. Monsters aren't real. This isn't what you're thinking. It's real, yes, but it can't be from a fucking movie. Get your head on straight.”
A leg the size of a telephone pole covered in pink fishnets was in another snapshot. A series of ten pictures followed the same photo: a stiletto heel with four men spiked on it like a shish kabob. Then a photo of a broken wall inside a skyscraper with a human face staring into it, a woman's face gnarled with rage. A wider shot showed the tall woman in a g-string and tube top mashing the strip club “TITTIES!” into the ground. People were splayed on the street in pools of blood, flattened into the asphalt by the dozens. It appeared the giant woman had crossed into the scummier parts of town to do her killing.
Nelson said seriously, “Looks like a feminist who's pissed.”
Jessica said, “Let me guess, she’s from a movie too?”
“Keep scrolling down,” Billy said, pointing at the screen. “We’ll figure this out. We have no other options if we want to live through this.”
A picture showed a preacher in a black robe wielding a magnet taller than the man’s body. The preacher’s face was glowing with pleasure. But behind the preacher, stacks of human bones and bloody skeletons were piled high.
Billy shuddered at the next set of pictures. A street was congested with men and women with split faces. Fifty to a hundred, Billy counted. Their brains gleamed within the cracks of their skulls, and sharp teeth shined as if polished.
“Those are the flytrap heads,” Nelson said. “Looking at them now, they’re even scarier than before. They almost got us when the elevated train crashed.”
Jessica’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
Billy motioned for her to calm down. “We took the train to reach you, remember? That huge woman shoved us from the track, and we crashed. But before we crashed, the flytrap heads came to life on the train. They tried to, well, eat us. We saw them eat other people’s brains…and, er, the brains were basically eating other people's brains.”
Jessica studied the bandage by his eye. “It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”
Billy pointed at the screen again. The pictures had run out, but the article continued:
Many discount the pictures as a hoax, but emails to families on the outside of the dome contradict that statement. Until the police or the military make a press statement, we can do nothing but speculate about this bizarre situation. Elaborate hoax or reality defied, we can only pray whoever is in the dome is safe.
The author was signed “Anonymous.” The site had the appearance of an amateur. Nothing else was posted.
Then suddenly the server went blank.
PAGE CANNOT BE DISPLAYED.
“What the fuck?” Jessica pounded the desk. “Somebody’s ta
ken it down!”
Nelson lamented, “We’re lucky to have seen it at all.”
“Why are they covering this up?” Jessica was panicked. “They’re going to help us, right? They won't leave us here to die, right?”
“Judging by the pictures, they’re doing what they can.” Billy couldn’t ignore his better judgment. “No matter what the explanation is for these things being out there, the police can’t save us. Only we can save ourselves. If they can’t break through that dome, then we’re stuck here for now.”
“But our air supply,” Jessica pleaded. Perspiration formed in thick beads at her brow. “We’ll be suffocated.”
Nelson stared at Billy; he too was losing hope.
Then Nelson hunched over the console and typed in the “Internet Movie Database” and performed a search for 500 Foot Hooker. The movie poster came up with a woman identical in dress and looks, though she was an artist’s rendering, towering over a city. “500 Feet and only 50 Dollars!” was the correct tagline.
“You were serious,” Jessica said in resignation. “I mean, it's uncanny. That tall bitch looks like that woman on the poster.”
The movie stills were dead-on images of the woman in Gary Jones’s photos on the website.
“How it’s real is the question,” Billy insisted. “The man from Death Reject, I saw him explode. His parts impaled people. It happened. Now you finally see what I'm saying.”
Nelson met his eyes. “I believe you, man. What we’re going to do about it is the problem.”
Jessica hung her head in defeat. She had nothing to add. Billy believed she was nearing her breaking point. She'd believe in the monsters soon enough, he thought.
“Let’s give up on a plausible explanation for now,” Nelson suggested. “How the hell are we going to survive?”
“We hole up in this office,” Billy answered. “Keep cool. Wait it out. They’ll get through the dome eventually. They have to eventually, right?”
Jessica’s voice sharpened. “And what if they don’t? Those pictures showed crews slamming wrecking balls and using jackhammers and dynamite—and if dynamite couldn’t blow through the wall, what can? We’re trapped. The air supply will diminish, and we’ll be dead. Dead like everybody else!”
Billy clung onto her, stifling the words in an embrace. He whispered words of love and encouragement in her ear. The only words that rang true to him were, “At least we’re not separated. We have that, no matter what. I love you.”
“Is there any food or water here?” Nelson asked. “If we’re going to be here awhile…”
Jessica pointed at the opposite hall. “The break room has a fridge. There might be sodas, and bottled water, and random food. I know there’s leftover deep-dish pizza.”
“Great,” Nelson said, ticking off a mental list with his fingers. “We have weapons. Internet. Phone. Food. Then we’re safe for now. We hole up here."
“Should we take shifts sleeping?” Billy was thinking aloud. “It’s almost dawn. We’re exhausted. I’ll take the first shift. You two sleep.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep.” Jessica's eyes were on the verge of closing. Each of them kept yawning. “But we should try. This problem isn’t going away anytime soon.”
Nelson leaned his back against the wall without further argument. “I like your idea, Billy. Wake me up when you can’t stay awake any longer.”
Nelson closed his eyes. Whether he was asleep or pretending to be to give them a moment to themselves, Billy acted on it. He kissed Jessica tenderly. “You should rest. I’m fine for another few hours.”
Jessica leaned her head against his chest. “I can hear your heart beating. It’s soothing.”
“I’ll record it for you when it’s over. We’ll need all the soothing we can get then.”
Jessica smiled. “You’re always so funny. That’s what I love about you. The world is falling apart, and you haven’t jumped out of your skin or lost your shit.” She scratched his Superman logo. “I feel safe with you.”
“It’s only my duty to protect you,” he said in a cheesy machismo caricature. “Be safe, ma’am. Be well. Off I go into the night.”
“Oh shut up, you dork.”
Jessica rubbed the back of his head; he could fall asleep the way the massage relaxed him. It was his favorite thing she did to him on the casual nights they sat together on the couch and watched reality television. Those were the only programs they both enjoyed when Jessica took breaks in between studying.
“Get some sleep,” he said again. “I’ll keep an ear out. I promise.”
Jessica hugged him one more time. “Okay. I love you.”
She lay on the floor across from Nelson. Billy stepped out to the break room and scoured the contents of the fridge. “Score,” he muttered, and chose a can of cherry-flavored cola. He popped the tab and chugged the fizzy drink for the much-needed caffeine and sugar rush.
He then stood in the hallway opposite the window they shoved the Intestinator through. Air whispered through the opening, the breeze calling out muted screams and moans in the distance. People were out there in danger, he realized. Nobody was safe anywhere.
Billy dragged a chair from the waiting room and set it outside Jessica’s office door. He drank another soda and thumbed through a recent issue of People. It wasn’t long before a human voice called to him from only yards away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ted clutched the flaming bottle of cooking sherry. Doubts nagged him as he jogged up the street toward his apartment building. The exterior was menacing in itself. Every floor was cast in pure darkness, the window shades drawn, but in his room, flickers of light flashed. The reels were still playing. This is all because of me. An entire city murdered, and for what, to get my stupid films back? Nobody cares about them. I’d rather give everybody back their lives than see another graveyard tramp or a flesh-eating baker.
He was still astonished to see his characters come to life. He’d never live to see anything as miraculous—or insane—in his lifetime. The vampires were just as they were in the films; each of them resembled the actresses to every freckle, breast size and hair color. He’d had an affair with the blonde during the filmmaking. He admitted it was fucked up, but they had sex in character. He'd been the victim, she the vampire. Her name was Molly Greene in real life, and she had been paying her way through nursing school by taking random acting jobs—topless or not, Molly didn’t care. After the movie was finished, like every fling in Hollywood—or sub-Hollywood—the affair was terminated.
Maybe Dennis Brauman was right. Ted wasn’t good enough to marry his daughter, Katie. He deserved to be divorced by her. He was young, and horny, and stupid, and ambitious all at the same time. But his flaws didn’t give Dennis the right to steal his movies and send him into financial ruin.
“This is for you, you rotten bastard! May my film career finally rest in peace!”
Vickers turned to him horrified that he was making so much noise. “Quiet! What are you blathering about?”
“Personal vendettas, man. I’m sure you’ve got a few of them too.”
“Let’s focus on saving our asses before settling some old scores. I’m risking my ass because of you.”
“Hey, I didn’t know they’d come back. Who would? You see—”
“Can it. Throw the cocktail and let’s find shelter. Bitch to me about it later.”
“You got it. Let’s send these sluts to the cutting room floor for the last time.”
Vickers charged ahead of him.
Ted halted.
Shooting from the entrance of the apartment building, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five schoolgirls formed a wall outside the apartment. Vickers stopped, utterly dumbfounded. “Ted, is this from another one of your goddamn movies?”
The breath was sucked from his lungs. Ted couldn’t move. The sight captivated him. He finally whispered, “Slasher Girls.”
“Slasher what?”
“They’re from a movie called Slasher Girls
. I wrote it when I lived in an apartment above a strip club and dated an ex-women’s rights activist. It’s a looong story.”
Vickers didn’t have time to respond. A hatchet was flung from fifteen yards out. It struck him dead-center in the skull. Another axe spun from handle to blade, handle to blade, with an alarming and final whoosh, and Vickers’ head was shucked from the neck. The cluster of schoolgirls raised scythes and swords and chopped him into so many pieces before the corpse could even drop. Then they carried his pieces into the apartment building. A few stayed as sentries at the entrance, unmoving.
Ted was alone in this fight. A vampire’s bitter laughter echoed from his apartment. They had won again, he realized. He didn’t stand a chance against them. All he could do was buy enough time to run. He chucked the flaming bottle into the air. It crashed down on the skirted sentries, the alcohol fire blanketing them in flames. They screamed and burned. The horde charged him, braving the flames, as new women stormed out of the building after him. Ted sprinted, mustering the courage and ability to outrun them for two blocks. The burnt shells of cars and random corpses were spread out on the streets. Ted darted around each obstacle. The laughter and chatter of schoolgirls were far behind him. They were busied by the male corpses in the street. They chopped them up like they did Vickers, and danced, and cheered, and raised the butchered remains in the air until they found yet more male bodies to defile.
A corner bar named Side Pockets appeared ahead of him, so Ted dived for cover inside. A quick search revealed there was only a back and front entrance to guard. Ted rushed to create a chair barricade at the front and locked the back steel door. It wasn’t until he downed three shots of rye whiskey at the bar that the truth sank in.
He’d failed to save the city.
Billy wasn’t quick to locate the voice talking to him. He edged down the hallway, wildly scanning in front and behind him. He feared someone like the Intestinator would pounce on him. He stopped at Jim Lyndsey’s office. This time he heard the words, “In here, Billy. I’m not one of them. I’m Andy Ryerson.”