by Brett McBean
By order of the man at the desk, the camera turned and found an old man running up the aisle, hands waving in the air. Tears fell from his eyes. “Doris! Leave her alo…”
His cries were cut off when a gun was fired and the man fell to the theatre floor. From the shaking camera it was revealed that the man had been shot in the back, and as he gasped for life, the camera panned back to the front and showed a smiling bald man and a hysterical woman.
“Alfred!” she cried. “Al…freeeed.”
“How do you want to die!” the man shouted above the racket.
The woman continued to weep violently. The man looked over at the two bald men and nodded his head.
Raising their guns, two bullets were fired into the back of the woman’s head. Her face exploded and she plunged forward onto the floor.
Pam McGregor screamed and covered her eyes. “Why aren’t they stopping this?” After a quick hitched breath: “Why can’t they turn the cameras off?”
Luke leaned over and gave her a large hug. “I don’t know honey. I don’t know.”
“I think there’s about twenty or so in there,” Stewart said. “And they all have guns.”
“Probably holding the audience hostage,” Luke said. “Using them as a sort of shield so the cops can’t break in.”
“That’s what I figured,” Stewart said. “I mean, it’s better to kill a dozen people than two hundred. Right?”
His father nodded.
The McGregor family was drawn back to the screen when they heard the unmistakable voice of the leader of the cult.
“Come on. Any volunteers?”
The audience remained silent.
“How about you?” the man said, pointing towards the audience.
The camera swung around and showed a large man. He was sitting in the second row and was trying to look tough despite the obvious fear in his eyes.
“That was the guy that called out earlier,” Stewart informed his parents. “Wanting to know what was going on and what the man wanted.”
“Brave man,” Luke huffed.
“Or stupid,” Stewart said, looking over at his father. They both grinned quickly, then turned back to the television.
“Yeah you,” the man said. “You had a lot to say earlier. Come on up.”
The large man stood up and looked around sheepishly. The camera showed the horde of bald followers cradling guns and grinning. They were standing at two meter intervals around the perimeter of the theatre.
The large man walked out of his row and started up the aisle.
“Give the man a round of applause,” the man at the desk shouted. He started clapping, but, not surprisingly, the audience remained still and left the man to perform a solo.
“Dave, how about some music?” he called out. “Something jazzy.”
As the camera tracked the large man, a feeble rendition of “One” from A Chorus Line filled the theatre with sickening travesty. The man walked on to the stage and sat down in the chair that hadn’t been used by Doris.
The man at the desk motioned his hand for the music to stop.
“Well, what’s your name, big boy?”
The immense figure gazed at the bloody corpse of Doris. He closed his eyes, his face pale. “John,” he said.
“John! Welcome to my show. You know how the game works. I bet you have watched a lot of game shows in your time, being the mindless zombie that you are. You are programmed by the rich pigs on what to like, what to watch, and they send secret messages through the T.V shows that fuck with your brain. I know how they work, and so does my family!”
The man stood up and raised his arms as if joining in on a chorus of “Praise the Lord!” in his local church.
“This is the evil that must be destroyed! It was put on this earth as a test of our faith and conviction of our souls!”
The man closed his eyes and listened to his followers sing out his testimony. The camera remained on the sweating man. Finally he sat down and took a deep breath.
“We will convert you all and reveal the true evil.”
He opened his eyes and grinned at the large man. “Music please, Dave.”
Again the arpeggio piece was heard in the background.
“First question, Little John. What is the evil which we are trying to dispel?”
The large man looked to the audience, then back at the little bald madman.
“Ah, television,” he said.
“That is correct!” the man proclaimed. “There is hope for humanity yet!”
He wiped a stream of sweat from his brow and sighed. “Next question, Little John. Who won at the end of the first Rocky movie, and how?”
John frowned. It was a frown that could’ve suggested he was confused as to why this man had asked him a relatively simple question. He cleared his throat.
“Ah, Apollo Creed won. By, the, ah, he had the most points?”
“Very good.” The man clapped. “You must be a Rocky fan?”
“Yes.”
“Me too. Brilliantly made films. You’re doing very well, Little John. Isn’t he, Dave?”
The camera swung around.
“If you say so,” Dave said, his fingers moving rapidly up and down the keyboard.
Panning back to the man, he sat smirking, nodding his head. “That’s right, Dave. If I say so. Next question. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo kill?”
John gazed down at the lifeless body of Doris and began to sob.
“Do you know?” Luke asked his son.
“Fifty-three. I’m pretty sure he has the record.”
“I don’t think John knows,” Luke sighed.
“I can’t watch,” Pam McGregor cried and stood up. “This is horrible.”
She stormed out of the lounge. A moment later she popped her weeping head around the corner of the doorway. “But let me know if he gets the question right, okay?”
3: (from the dorm room of Mike Barry and Lou Montgomery)
“Hurry up, Little John. Time’s running out. How many people did Andrei Chikatilo brutally murder?”
Lou Montgomery threw a handful of potato chips at the television screen. “Come on, John! Take a guess for Christ’s sake!”
“Do you know?” Phillip Adams said, kicking Lou in the back.
Lou turned his head and stuck up his finger. “No. Do you?”
The other guys in the room laughed.
“Face it, both of you are morons,” Jay Waterhouse said. “If either of you were up there, you would be killed. He killed fifty-three. You see, he was allowed to murder so many and remain undetected for so long because of the bullshit Russian totalitarian system…”
“Shut the fuck up,” James Gardiner said. “John’s time’s up.”
With the room falling to complete silence, all men gazed at the television screen.
“…but I’ll give you a guess,” the bald man said. “Because I’m such a nice guy.”
The blubbering man wiped his eyes. “Please don’t kill me,” he bawled. “Please!”
The man behind the desk sighed. “Take a guess.”
“Thirty-five,” John cried.
The man shook his head deliberately. “Uh-uh. Soooryyyy,” he sung. “Guess you should’ve been paying more attention to world issues instead of watching the evil brainwashing machine. Now, how will you like to die?” He turned and looked directly down the camera.
“Fucking creepy guy,” Phillip Adams muttered.
The men in the room murmured in agreement.
“I hope you are all enjoying my show at home. I bet most homes in the country are switched on to me tonight.”
He turned to the hysterical man. “John! Choose your fate!”
Into the frame walked the two bald henchmen. They grabbed John’s arms and pulled them away from his face.
“Answer our leader!” one of them cried. “Answer or we’ll choose it for you!”
The door of the dorm room opened and Mike Barry walked in. He glanced over at the grou
p of friends sitting on the floor and on the bed, his bed, and closed the door.
“Hey, Mike,” Lou called over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe what the fuck is going on.”
“Yeah, I heard,” he said, throwing his bag onto the floor. “Some guy came rushing into the library and told us that some psycho cult had broken into the Marty Laffin show and was killing people. I though it was a joke at first, but…”
“Choose to be shot!” Phillip Adams yelled.
“Really,” Jay Waterhouse huffed. “I would choose to be stabbed in my groin until I died of blood loss.”
All but Mike laughed.
“You all are sick,” he said. “How can you get enjoyment from watching people get killed?”
An uncomfortable hush blanketed the room.
“We’re not enjoying it,” Lou finally said. “It is horrible. You’re right. But it’s real. This is really happening, right now.”
“Yeah, it’s reality,” Jay added. “Like watching the news, or one of them reality shows. Only this ain’t censored. Hey Lou, can you pass me the chips.”
A gunshot, loud and authentic, blasted through the small dorm room.
“Holy shit,” Phillip muttered.
“Damn, I missed it,” Jay sighed. “What happened?”
“John chose to be shot. In the back of the head.”
“Best way to go,” Jay said, nodding.
“This is fucking unbelievable,” Mike groaned.
“Take a seat,” Lou called. “Come on, Mikey. We’re not making fun of the situation. It’s all just so… unbelievably horrible.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna take a shower,” Mike said.
Phillip shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Mike glanced over at the screen. What he saw mortified him. The camera was lingering on the dead body of the man. The way he had fallen to the floor, right next to some woman, his face, or what was left of it, was staring straight at the camera.
“Disgusting,” James Gardiner said.
The camera panned back to the host. The bald man with the long beard was grinning. He looked across at Dave Morrison. “How do you think the show’s going so far?”
The camera swung to a very pale and puffy eyed Dave. “You’re sick,” he breathed. “Killing innocent people.”
The camera remained on a tearful but angry Dave. There was a murmur from off to the side, presumably where the bald man was.
“Why do you people listen to this psycho?” Dave cried, looking towards the audience. “He’s talking about television brainwashing people, but that’s what he’s doing to you! He’s using you people! He’s preying on your vulnerability and brainwashing you all!”
One of the man’s followers rushed across the stage, into the view of the camera.
Dave remained behind the large array of keyboards. “Fuck you! I’m not afraid of you sick people. You’re nobodies, insignificant los…”
The audience gasped with fright as the bald man rammed a large kitchen knife into the top of Dave Morrison’s head.
Gasps turned to screams and the clamorous stomping of feet swarmed the soundtrack. The camera suddenly pivoted upwards, showing the rafters of the ceiling, gunshots ringing out in droves, before the screen turned to static.
“Jesus, what happened?” Jay Waterhouse said.
“Did ya see the way the knife…?” James Gardiner sighed and shook his head.
“I’d say the cameraman fainted.”
They all flinched at the sound of Mike Barry’s voice.
“I thought you’d gone to have a shower?” Lou asked. He turned and looked at his roommate. He sat on the far bed with a glazed stare.
Mike Barry shrugged. “The shower can wait.”
4: (From the house of the Layford family)
Julie wandered back into the lounge where her fifteen-year-old daughter was staring into the white snow of the television static.
“Finally got a hold of him,” Julie said. She slumped into the chair with a sigh.
Thalia Layford turned her head. “Is Dad at the police station?”
“Yeah. He stayed behind with a handful of other officers.”
Thank God, she thought.
Thalia glanced back at the screen, saw the show hadn’t come back on, then stood up and sat down in the chair beside her mom. “Does he know what’s going on? What did he say?”
Julie grabbed the packet of cigarettes from off the coffee table, yanked one out and dangled it from her lips. “Apparently it’s a madhouse in the city. FBI, cops from all over New York. Dad said that one of the men from the cult rang FBI headquarters just as the show started, and told them they had taken over the Marty Laffin show. He told the Feds they have thirty members and they all have guns and have locked all the doors.”
Julie stopped to take a breath. She fired up the cigarette.
“It’s okay, Mum. Dad’s not over there. He’s back at the station, safe.”
“I know,” Julie said and gave her daughter a quick smile. She puffed harshly. “But he still might be called in. These guys are absolute maniacs. They’re a cult. Do you know what that means?”
Thalia rolled her eyes. “Of course I know what a cult is. I’m not an idiot Mum.”
“No,” Julie chuckled. “I mean, do you know how cults usually work?”
“What do you mean?”
Julie inhaled deeply before continuing. “Cults often commit mass suicide. They would rather die by their own hands than be captured by the police. Well, in truth, it’s the leader who doesn’t want to be captured, and he orders for his ardent followers to join him in the kingdom of heaven, or some bullshit like that.”
“Wow,” Thalia muttered.
“Exactly.” She took two quick puffs. “And they don’t care who they take with them. In this case, I wouldn’t be surprised if they set fire to the place.”
“Really? Wouldn’t they just, I dunno, shoot themselves or something?”
Julie shrugged while blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Perhaps. But they have a whole audience, plus…police, to kill.”
Thalia gazed down at the floor. She now understood fully why her mother was so scared. “You know, you should really stop smoking.”
“I know,” Julie huffed.
“What else did Dad say?”
“Well, apparently, if anyone fu…messes with them in any way, like turning off the power, they’d kill as many people as possible. Their orders were that they were to remain on the air, until they were finished with the show. Whatever the hell that means. Then they’d let the survivors go. They said they are going to…sacrifice, a few people, but…” She stopped to stub out the cigarette. “They basically said it’s either half a dozen people dead or two hundred. It’s the FBI’s choice.”
“They blackmailed them?”
“In a way, I suppose.”
“Did Dad say what the cops are going to do?”
“He had to go before we got to that. He said he’ll ring back soon, though.”
They were both as surprised as each other when the familiar sounds of the show came back on. They turned their eyes to the screen.
“How you holding up?” Julie asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to watch this, you know. This isn’t a movie…”
Thalia gave her mother a fleeting frown. It told her she knew all that, so be quiet.
The camera showed the bald man sitting behind the desk, his face flushed and dripping with perspiration. There was something slightly different, however. It soon became apparent that they were shooting the show at a slightly different camera angle.
“Welcome back,” the man said down the camera. “We had a little technical difficulty.”
There was a lot more crying than usual coming from the audience.
“We had quite a wild time in here,” the man chuckled. “It’s a shame you all at home missed it.” He leaned over the desk. “Well, let me show you the aftermath,” he whispered.
Th
e camera panned around. It showed bodies slumped where they fell, some with their heads blown away, some with gory holes in their chest and stomach. Lots were sprawled on the theatre floor and a fine mist of smoke was still present in the air. It was pretty evident what had happened. A few of the bald cult members were still busy re-loading their guns.
There was still a good hundred audience members left, and they were all either weeping or staring at nothing, possibly on the brink of madness.
The camera left the carnage and settled back on the man. “We told them not to try and escape,” he said. “We warned them. Ah well, sorry for the inconvenience, folks. The cameraman fainted, and in the process pulled out a cord or something. But we have another one – Shaun, on camera, two? Yes, camera two.”
He turned and looked past the view of the camera. “How are my boys doing upstairs? We still on the air?”
There was a faint murmur of talking and the man nodded.
“Good,” the man said and turned back to the camera. “That was Bill, the floor manager. He’s still alive,” the man said and chortled. “Give us another look at Bill, will ya Shaun?”
The camera swung around to the plump floor manager. The pale man glanced fleetingly at the camera then cast his head to the floor.
“Give Bill a round of applause,” the bald man shouted and clapped his hands. His followers joined in, but nobody else.
“Thanks Bill, you’ve been a great help tonight.”
The camera was turned back to the man.
“You see, I’m afraid my boys are all alone up in the control room, now. Seems the director and his pals decided to make a run for it during all of the commotion. They got as far as the control room door.” He shook his head. It was obvious he was beginning to lose a bit of self-control. He was scratching his scalp continuously and stumbling over his words.
“What shall we do now?” he asked one of his followers.
The camera swung around to the bald cult member. He shrugged and shook his head.
“Dunno, Sam. Sacrifice more people for the evil ways of television?”
“Nah, fuck that,” the man said.
A quick pan back to the leader.
“I know!” he proclaimed. “Let’s destroy the house of the devil!” He stood up and raised his arms. He wore a vicious grin.