B-Movie War

by Alan Spencer

  Mr. Ratchet stood over the headless corpse. Out the neck, blood mushroomed in heavy red gouts. Mr. Ratchet tsk-tsked. “Don’t eat so fast, boy. Our hotdogs are good to the last bite.”

  The Meat Man retrieved Chad’s head and tossed it into the grinder. Then the chef went about cutting his body into grind-able pieces. When the work was done, Mr. Ratchet patted the chef’s back. “He was one fat boy. He’ll make plenty of juicy red hots.”

  Much work was still ahead of them. Mr. Ratchet rallied his troops to promote the showing of the film The Final Flesh. New Jersey was a big city. He knew others were promoting The Final Flesh in theatres in every city and town across the world. Promoters like Baron Von Cinema, Rusty Barbs, Hostess Inga, Jenny Abyss, Captain Curses, Bloody Betty, Groucho Ooze, and hundreds of others were working around the clock. This main event would come to fruition. This war would be something to behold.

  Right now, Mr. Ratchet currently oversaw zombies who wore cardboard signs over themselves as they limped up and down highway overpasses and major thoroughfares. The signs were slathered in paint boasting: “Free Showing at Odyssey Theater.” “Free Concessions.” “Free Admission.” “One Night Only.” Scantily clad vampire tramps were adorned in skimpy bikinis handing out free tickets for The Final Flesh. The green rubber suited aliens from Probe Goons in Suits were parading at the Mega Mall downtown giving out free laser guns (which really fired deadly lasers; let the kids and parents find out the hard way!) and movie tickets. The mailman killer from Postage Due was sneaking tickets into mail boxes in-between cramming hacked up remains of his victims into those same slots. Mr. Baker from Mr. Baker’s Delights was baking into his pies severed hands clutching onto plastic wrapped movie tickets. The monster from Gutter Mouth was living in the city’s sewer spewing tickets out of every manhole and gutter like confetti. Maggots were eating the paper off billboards across the city. Once the billboards were blank, a mix of characters like The Clothesline Killer, Maggot Molly, Jorg: The Hungry Butcher, and Sally Sadism were painting new billboard ads to promote The Odyssey Theatre.

  But now Mr. Ratchet had an extra special errand to complete. He didn’t have to travel far to reach his destination. He imagined the place, and poof, there he was, his body a flitting image until it became solid again in front of the Cinehall 30 movie theatre. The huge theatre was open for business and doing well, and that only meant competition for The Final Flesh.

  There was only one way to deal with competition.

  Mr. Ratchet swung open the main doors and received a blast of air conditioning in the face. The lobby was expansive. He could barely see from one end of the place to the other. Advertisements for the current movies surrounded him. Movies without heart, spleen, gallbladders, or real blood. It put Mr. Ratchet off of his stomach just thinking about the injustice of it. Something had to be done, and he would be the one to take action.

  What incensed him more was the buffet-style concession stand. Popcorn bags already popped were sitting under hot lights. Drinks and candy were up for grabs. The popcorn wasn’t fresh, and you had to butter and salt it yourself. How it infuriated him! There was no artistry, only commerce. No heart, no soul, no spleen!

  A bored teenager stood behind a register ready to ring people up. Mr. Ratchet rushed the concession stand to talk to the girl operating the station. Her nametag read “Reyna”. She was sixteen with braces and glistening acne on her cheeks. “How many I help you, sir?”

  “I demand to see the owner. Not the manager, but the owner of this building.”

  She was nervous from his biting tone. It got her on the phone asking for Mr. Frankfurt in a hurry. Reyna hung up and said, “You’re in luck. The owner’s hardly ever here. He’s in the middle of one of his audits. If you’d like to make an appointment to talk to him—”

  Poof.

  Mr. Ratchet was gone.

  Flickering out and flickering back on seconds later, Mr. Ratchet startled the fat man in a tight black suit whose bald head was running with sweat. He was hunched over a computer looking up lesbian porn. The office was cramped, so Mr. Ratchet was right behind the man. He had startled Mr. Frankfurt to the point the man had trouble zipping back up his hard-on in his pants.

  “Catch you at a bad time?”

  Mr. Frankfurt babbled, trying to get out more than a syllable.

  “Don’t talk. It’d only be excuses. Why aren’t you showing any quality movies at this theatre? Like Blood Suckers or Cinder Block Rock?”

  Mr. Frankfurt was stuck on Mr. Ratchet’s entrance. “You, you just APPEARED. The door didn’t open, or close, or anything. H-how did you do that?”

  “Calm down, please, Mr. Frankfurt. Shall we step outside and have a smoke? Then we can talk like two businessmen.”

  “Yeah, great. I mean yes. Of course we can. Sounds good, pal. Whatever you want. Just don’t sneak up on me like that again. Whoever you are.”

  Mr. Ratchet guided him to the back exit. They were outside. Before Mr. Frankfurt could fish out a pack of cigarettes, a man in a brown trench coat with a rough stubble beard, red rimmed eyes like he just drank a jar of bad hooch, and dirty pants approached them. He was also holding an orange balloon by a long string in his right hand.

  The bum asked Mr. Frankfurt, “Do you like balloons?”

  “Damn homeless people, they either sneak into the theatre or they camp out in the bathrooms. They stink up my fine theatre and scare off the clean, paying customers. Be off, or I’ll call the police.”

  The bum was at arm’s length with Mr. Frankfurt. “Do you like balloons? I like balloons.”

  “Get off the property, you freeloading bum. I’ll call the police. You can spend the night in a cozy cell. Maybe you’d like that? Free room and board on the taxpayers’ dime? You filthy ingrate. You’d love it.”

  Mr. Ratchet was edgy. “The man asked you a question. Answer it.”

  “What?” Mr. Frankfurt eyed Mr. Ratchet angrily. “Both of you have issues. You’re both whackos. I’m going to call the police if you don’t get off my property. I don’t care if you caught me watching porn. Get out of here!”

  The bum asked again, “Do you like balloons?”

  Mr. Ratchet, “Well, do you?”

  “Who doesn’t like balloons, that’s a silly quest—”

  The bum tied the string around Mr. Frankfurt’s wrist in four precise moves. Up the fat man floated. Mr. Frankfurt was speeding toward the sky. Mr. Ratchet and the bum arched their necks to watch the diminishing spec be carried higher and higher. The bum removed a Beretta pistol from his trench coat and clasped it in both arms to take aim.

  “Hey, can I do the honors?”

  The bum handed over the gun to him.

  Mr. Ratchet’s shot missed.

  “Damn.”

  Another shot.

  It hit Mr. Frankfurt’s toe.

  The bum just kept watching the man float up higher and higher. Soon, he would be out of range of the bullet, not that it mattered. The bum wasn’t real. The gun wasn’t real. As long as the reels were playing in “Blood-O-Vision” in some corner of the world, the rules of reality didn’t apply. Only horror rules.

  Mr. Ratchet didn’t aim. He shot blindly. And POP! The balloon exploded and down plummeted Mr. Frankfurt. He was higher than the skyscrapers. Fluttering, spinning and screaming, Mr. Frankfurt landed headfirst into the Main Street intersection. Mr. Ratchet could hear the splatter/crunch from here.

  The bum took his gun back and already had another balloon in his hand. Moving on, he was already searching for the next person to ask if they liked balloons.

  Alone, Mr. Ratchet noticed rats the size of show ponies were rooting through the trash, crunching on trash bags full of stale popcorn. Seeing him, the dozen rodent monsters with gray fur and red eyes followed Mr. Ratchet out to the front of the building.

  The real show was about to begin.

  Sha
mbling through the parking lot from all corners arrived the undead in tattered clothes and flesh. Mr. Ratchet summoned them all to the theatre. The dead corpses clutched flaming jars in their hands. The fifty zombies tossed them at the theatre, some even going inside to light up the lobby that much faster. The commotion delivered the patrons and workers out into the parking lot crying out for their lives. The rats were lying in wait, rising up between vehicles to chomp them into halves, and fourths, and less. The zombies were there to eat what remained. As police and ambulance sirens carried on in pockets of the city, Mr. Ratchet flitted and disappeared.

  The rats and zombies stayed behind, moving on to wreak new havoc on the police who soon arrived at the scene.

  Chapter Five

  Penny slept hard in the hotel room. She didn’t mean to drink so hard from the bottle of vodka. Add to that, she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in forever. Waking up and seeing that it was still light outside, she had slept for nearly six hours. It was five in the afternoon. Groggy, but unable to go back to sleep, she showered, downed a soda and perked up. She didn’t worry about leaving Chad to his own devices. Her uncle was another story. She owed Jules a chance to tell his side of things. She would try to have an honest conversation with her uncle about the business one more time. Jules was having a nervous breakdown. Of course he wasn’t going to be nice to her. He needed serious help. She had to be more persistent.

  Before she would do anything else, Penny needed a cigarette, and her pack was empty. She left the hotel room and walked across the street to the all-night grocery store. Bright white lights glowed from the window panes. She passed the floral department. Nobody was working there. If Penny would’ve looked behind the counter, she would’ve found “Florence” sprawled out behind the floral department desk with her throat deeply cut and many roses jammed into her mouth and eyes. The Slitter was sitting in the dining area in a chair sharpening the blades of his shears with a carving stone, minding his own business.

  Penny was too focused on reaching the counter with cigarettes to pay attention to anybody else. The grocery was mostly empty. Elevator music hummed from the ceilings. She passed the meat department and caught a burly man hunched over a meat slicer. It seemed the man knew she was watching him. He leered at her. The guy had a piggish fat face and his skin was shiny with a layer of sweat. All he said to her in a deep grunt was “My cuts are the finest,” and stomped toward the back room.

  She didn’t look close enough at the meat display.

  A man’s corpse was laid out on a bed of lettuce and garnishes.

  Penny walked up to the cigarette counter behind the row of main registers. Nobody was at the counter. The registers were unmanned. She scanned the entire store. No people, only aisles of merchandise.

  “Okay,” Penny said out loud. “I’m going to take a pack of cigarettes and leave the money on the counter. I’m not stealing.”

  She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and placed five dollars on the counter. “That’s with tax and a ten cent tip, since nobody’s here to break my change. Okay, I’m leaving now.”

  Penny headed towards the exit and stopped at the placard sign in the aisle.

  Manager’s Special

  Hands and Feet Only

  99cents a Pound

  Some joke.

  She didn’t like being here anymore. Taking the cigarettes, even though she’d paid, made her feel like everybody was watching her. If anybody was here to watch her.

  Near the exit, Penny was grabbed by the arm. A man in a red sweater, khakis, and blue bags under his eyes shook her by both arms. He spoke with staggering conviction. “The grocery store is where it ends and begins. You need food, you come here. You need supplies, you come here. You want safety, these bright lights give it to you. When the end comes, we’ll eventually run out of food. So many mouths to feed. So many needs. It’s my job to see everybody gets what they need. I’ll feed the town no matter what it takes. Any means necessary. It’s justified. I’m the manager, and what I did is justified. You understand, don’t you? You’ll be the last to go, ma’am. You think like me. I know you do. You think like a survivor. Stay with me. Stay here where it’s safe. Don’t go out there. Bad things are out there.”

  She didn’t scream. She didn’t resist his hold. She didn’t ask questions.

  Penny pumped her knee and pounded him in the nuts.

  The scary grocery manger guy toppled front first onto the ground cupping his balls.

  Penny sprinted as fast as she could out of the store.

  What was that about? That guy sounds like he is gearing up for an apocalypse.

  Penny could still feel the store manager’s hands seize her arms. They might bruise, she thought. The psycho had given her the vice clamp grips. A kick to the nuts was all it took to bring him down. Best rule of thumb ever, she thought, in self-defense.

  Returning to the hotel, Penny once again decided to give Jules one last chance to talk to her. The man needed serious help. If she couldn’t talk him out of his office, she’d axe the damn door down.

  On her way now to the theatre in her truck, a big yellow van sped right past her at eighty miles an hour, at least. The funny thing, it was an ice cream truck. Creepy toy box music was playing. It sounded like the speaker was melting, how it droned on with disharmonious notes. She only caught one decal on the back door that showed a cartoon kid biting into a bomb pop that had red explosion marks drawn around the kid’s face. FREE BOMB POPS FOR KIDS ONLY. Barbed wire was wrapped around the entire vehicle. Pieces of clothing hung from the barbs, wildly flapping in the wind. The roof had a creepy lit up clown face that looked like a wino with powdered sugar for make-up and runny blue mascara at its eyes. Penny saw the profile of the driver in passing. He had green puffy clown hair. The visual stopped her from flipping the clown the bird.

  “I hate clowns,” she whispered to herself, afraid the driver would somehow hear her. “You drive as fast as you want as long as it’s away from me.”

  Penny decided it was some guy who was out late having some fun. There were some very weird people who lived in this part of New Jersey.

  The drive to The Odyssey Theatre was short. The spectacle could be seen from miles out. The rundown theatre was busy with activity. Bright dome lights signaled the theatre was open. Crowds of people were filing into the place. The parking lot was packed with cars. On the streets that led to the theatre, Penny noticed the various wood signs with paint slathered on advertising: FREE ADMISSION. FREE CONCESSIONS. ALL NIGHT HORROR FEST. NON-STOP PULSE POUNDING TERROR. GORY BLOODY HORROR. THE WORLD PREMIERE OF THE FINAL FLESH IS HERE. Whatever publicity stunt her uncle had pulled out of his ass was working. But free admission meant no money to help his financial situation. He’d totally lost his mind.

  Penny didn’t drive to the main entrance to catch the festivities. Instead, she drove around the back way near the rear exit. She didn’t want to deal with hordes of customers who were probably tearing up the place in the wake of free concessions and free tickets.

  The nervous feeling in Penny kept building. Why was she so nervous? Something just didn’t feel right. She really had to talk to Jules.

  Unlocking the door, she noticed the backroom area was a dumping ground for junk. Old placards for movies that had been shown in the past that Jules didn’t want to trash. Wizard of Oz, A Christmas Carol, Tora! Tora! Tora! displays were mixed in with Axe to Grind Part II, Jorg: The Hungry Butcher, Blood Boulevard and The Pickler. Old theatre seats were stacked up high, discarded. The ones whose fabric were too torn for public use. A busted popcorn machine collected dust in the corner. The glass was frosted black from when it caught on fire. A newbie worker had left the machine on overnight and nearly burned the place down. Her nose turned at the awful smell.

  What is going on back here?

  Soaking in what could’ve been hundreds of large plastic tubs were strips of film reels. The reels were st
eeped in blood and human organs. There was no mistaking it; the smell cut her sinuses. Drying reels caked in blood, and hunks of clotted flesh hung from clotheslines. The room was filled with the reels. Reels projected various horror films. Dozens. She had to read the empty reel casings to identify them: Mutant Crabs Attack Manhattan, Hitler Drinks Vampire Blood, Lightening of the Dead, Surgery Buffet 4: Dr. Scalpel’s Revenge, Viper Rampage, You Will Bleed and Autopsy Sisters. Sounds of various horror movies layered over each other, dialogue over screams, disharmonious music mixed with synthesizers, and creepy organ music each caused Penny to break out in a fearful sweat.

  One projector especially caught her attention.

  It wasn’t playing film reels.

  The projector rolled with human intestines. The pink coils fed into the projector unending from a giant heap of viscera, sickening her even more. Penny held back her gorge to understand what her eyes were telling her. The projector cast an image on the wall of living human autopsies. The screams, the terror on the faces of those being opened up on a metal slab, caused Penny to recoil from the sight.

  Impossible, Penny kept thinking. She wanted to emphatically believe her uncle wasn’t involved with the hideous things in this room. The problem, there was too much room for doubt. But could the guts and blood possibly be fake? No way, she told herself. There was no lying to herself about this. The answer was in the heavy air. The organs stank of ripeness. This was very much the real thing. What her uncle was up to in this theatre mystified and sickened her. Not wasting another second in this terrible room, Penny turned to the exit door to get the hell out of there when the exit doorknob turned from the other side.

  Somebody was coming in.

  Chapter Six

  Two lines of people extended from The Odyssey Theatre building’s entrance. Tony Rinaldi was in one of those long lines, among those waiting to get their free tickets from the main booth. He was on his way home from work when he caught the guy dressed up in a black trash bag and carrying an axe holding up the sign FREE CONCESSIONS and FREE TICKETS for the ALL NIGHT HORROR-THON. The price of popcorn and snacks at the CineHall would cost him his left nut, and add his wife and two kids in the mix, they might as well take his right nut too. Being a bachelor for a night, while his wife and kids were staying at their grandma’s, he decided a late night movie wouldn’t hurt, plus free popcorn and a drink, consider his butt already in the seat.