The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  “I see.”

  “So if you’re thinking this would be a great excuse to add a three-story jump by one of your characters, that probably won’t work for me—not at this time. A few months from now? Maybe. But not quite yet.”

  He laughed. “There’s none in the script, and none are planned. Most of the stunts involved in Pale Dreamer take place in close-quarters. Our leading lady can’t do a realistic punch to save her life, and we have a pretty intense knife fight. She also happens to be violently afraid of heights, and doesn’t even like to stand near the edge of a ten-foot drop. So even if we did decide to add any such stunt, we’d most likely use a green screen and CGI.”

  That was a double-edged sword, so to speak. On one hand, special effects have the potential of putting a lot of stunt players out of business. After all, why pay union wages when you can fake it with CGI?

  On the other hand, there are certain stunts that are just crazy-ass dangerous, and it would be better to do them in the FX department, than see someone lose their life trying to do the impossible. There’s always someone crazy enough to try, though, and they’re not always supes.

  “So,” he said. “Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”

  Speaking of which…

  “This is a little awkward, but I guess I’d like to know if you’re looking for a supe for this job. I realize it’s a little unusual, since I’m with MTA, but I’m actually a hundred percent human.”

  “Miss Striga,” he replied seriously, “if I hire you, it’ll be for the same reason I’ve hired everyone else on any of my productions, and that’s for the skills and talent you’ll bring—not for your genetic heritage. As it happens, most of the cast and crew on Pale Dreamer aren’t supernatural. Not by intent—it’s just how it played out this time. I’ve got no prejudices one way or the other, and hope you don’t have any either.”

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Awesome.”

  He smiled. “So… any other questions?”

  “Who would I be doubling? Faustina didn’t have time to tell me much.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, wrapping both hands around his coffee cup, a heavy white ceramic mug that reminded me of old-time diners. He inhaled the steam rising from the dark brew before continuing.

  “First of all, let me apologize for the short notice. This was a last-minute thing. We’ve had the cast and crew filled out for the last couple months while the set was being built. When I realized we had to replace Gracie, I didn’t want to waste any time.”

  “If I can ask, was it an issue with her work?”

  “More like an issue with our lead,” Dobell said. “She can be a bit temperamental.”

  “I see,” I said.

  Oh, shit, I thought. “Rather temperamental” is generally a polite way of saying “total bitch.”

  “You might’ve heard of her,” Herman continued. “Portia Lambert.”

  Oh, crap. I’d heard of Portia Lambert. Most people involved in show business had heard of her. Hell, anyone who read the tabloids was familiar with her. Portia was a former child star who’d made it big in the nineties in Brentwood High, one of those shows about the oh-so-dramatic problems of privileged teenagers living in an expensive ZIP code.

  Ms. Lambert had started with the reputation of a diva, and when she’d hit eighteen she’d taken the attitude to new heights. She’d been canned from Brentwood High after three seasons because of her inability to get along with any of her costars, even though her character Molly was one of the most popular with viewers.

  Supposedly she’d mellowed out after a few years of little or no work and had landed Enchanted Pages, a series about a bookstore owner who’s an amateur sleuth and a witch. The series ran for a few seasons, but Portia was released from her contract after season two because of rumored substance abuse. The writers brought in her character’s cousin to take over the bookstore, the sleuthing, and the witchy business.

  “Let me ask you this.” I set my mug down and leaned forward. “Did Gracie quit or was she fired? Because if I have to worry about walking on eggshells around Portia, I’m not interested.”

  Did I just say that?

  Lord, don’t let Faustina find out I just said that.

  Herman Dobell looked at me. I couldn’t read his expression so I plunged ahead.

  “I’m all about playing nice,” I continued, “and I don’t mind catering to fragile egos, because that’s part of the game and I don’t have an ego stake in my work, other than doing a good job. But getting fired on a whim doesn’t appeal. On the other hand, if my predecessor quit because she couldn’t deal with a little heat, that’s her problem, not mine.”

  “You don’t pull punches, do you?”

  Maybe I should apologize, I thought. Instead I said, “I don’t see the point. You said yourself you don’t have a lot of time to find a replacement. The quicker we figure out if this is a good fit for both of us, the better for your production and the faster I can look for another job, if I need to.”

  I didn’t seem to have any control over what came out of my mouth.

  Dobell steepled his fingers and stared at me thoughtfully, as if coming to a decision. This was it. He was going to say “thanks but no thanks.” Faustina would never send me out on another audition. I’d live at the Ranch until I died, reduced to doing beer runs for all the cool kids.

  “Okay, fair enough,” he said.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Gracie quit,” he continued. “She and Portia were at odds pretty much from day one. Physically Gracie was a decent match for Portia.” He paused, then added, “Back when she was in her teens.”

  “Ah. I think I see where this is heading.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Gracie is nineteen. She’s gorgeous, talented, but not that mature.”

  I hadn’t been that mature at nineteen either. Hell, I wasn’t all that sure I was particularly mature at twenty-seven.

  “Needless to say, that didn’t help the situation. She knew she was younger and better-looking than Portia, and there was definitely some flaunting going on.”

  Oh man, I hoped he wasn’t going to dump all the blame on Gracie. If so, that would tell me everything I needed to know about the guy.

  “That being said,” he continued, “Portia piled on the attitude pretty thick as soon as she saw what was essentially a younger, fitter version of herself, standing there in front of her.”

  “Like seeing herself in a mirror,” I said, “but knowing she’d never look like that again.”

  “Exactly that.” He stared at me intently. “I’ll tell you something, Ms. Striga. You’re still younger than she is by at least a decade, probably a little more. Overall you’re a better match for Portia physically. Even more important, you’re more emotionally mature than Gracie. I think Portia might be more comfortable with you and therefore less likely to act out. If she does, though, can you deal with it?”

  I nodded. “I’ve worked with a lot of difficult people over the years—including my cousin, who’s one of the most temperamental people you’d ever hope not to meet. We haven’t killed each other yet, so yeah, I can put up with a little bit of attitude.”

  “Good.” He sounded pleased.

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I said, “maybe you could tell me a little about the production.”

  His eyes lit up. “Indeed. We’ve got a small crew. I find that fewer people actually do a more efficient job on a smaller-budget film, and we stand a chance of the audience actually sitting through the credits.”

  I smiled at that, and he continued.

  “The shooting schedule is tight but manageable. It’s a small cast, as well. Six main characters, a couple of extras in a flashback scene. Small, contained sets. Most of the story takes place on a small spacecraft. “

  “Faustina said it was a horror film?”

  “Horror with some sci-fi elements. Some humor, too.”

  Hum
or is good, I thought. As long as it’s intentional.

  “It’s about a deep space satellite repair crew who run into a derelict ship, and bad things happen.”

  “Tell me nothing bursts out of someone’s chest.”

  Dobell laughed. “Nope. No exploding eggs, either, and no humans used as incubation chambers. The writers are a husband-and-wife team. Dan and Breanna Tymon. They’ve done a few low-budget films and the scripts are always good. The dialogue crackles, and they’ve always delivered something unique, even when they’ve had to recycle derivative crap.”

  Sounded good to me. “Where are you filming?”

  “Here.”

  “In Los Angeles?”

  He waved a hand in the air.

  “I mean here. A lot of the buildings on this stretch of Jefferson are converted warehouses, many of which used to be small soundstages. This one still is. I lucked out and snapped it up when it came on the market.” He smiled at me. “Next question?”

  “Who else is in the cast?”

  “Our lead actor is Ben Farrell. He did some low-budget horror films in the late eighties and then got out of the business.”

  “I’ve seen Dead Maze a few times,” I said.

  Dead Maze was one of the first zombie movies to catch on with George Romero fans. Low budget, nihilistic, and gory, it had rapidly achieved cult status. Farrell enjoyed the same kind of low-grade stardom that Bruce Campbell achieved after the Evil Dead movies. I’d watched it at least twice during my convalescence. Sean and I were both suckers for horror movies.

  Dobell nodded approvingly. “Farrell started hitting the convention circuit a few years ago, and now he’s looking to get back into film. The writers pretty much wrote this part with him in mind.”

  Nice for him.

  “And our two villains are played by Joe Scout and Angel Cortez.”

  I recognized those names as well. Both had been working steadily for the last twenty years and—like Farrell—had achieved a degree of low-budget cult stardom. Angel was a well-known B-movie scream queen, past her prime only in the eyes of Hollywood ageism. Still beautiful and—unlike some of the other scream queens—a damn fine actress.

  Joe Scout, a character actor, was likewise very good at his craft. Notorious for taking a script and running off the reservation with improvised dialogue. Since his improv tended to be better than a lot of the scripts, he continued to get work.

  “We were about to sign Imogene Lee as the ingénue,” Dobell continued, “but she got a better offer.”

  “Ah.”

  Imogene’s reputation was about as bad as Portia’s. She was touted as the next Megan Fox, but without the brains.

  “We pay SAG minimum,” he said. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

  “Totally fine.” There was no need to reveal the sad state of my bank account, or my last pathetic paycheck.

  “Excellent.” He steepled his fingers and looked at me. “So… any more questions?”

  I thought about it. “Not that I can think of at the moment.”

  “I asked our stunt coordinator to meet with us here at ten thirty.” He glanced at his expensive watch. “That gives us a half hour, so how about I show you around the set? I’d like you to see the layout so you’ll have an idea of the kind of space you’ll be working in.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I followed Herman Dobell out of his office to closed double doors at the furthest end of the hallway, ones with push handles. He pushed one side open and gestured gallantly with his free hand.

  “After you.”

  The doorway led into another hallway, this one substantially wider. There were a couple of closed doors to the left.

  “Costumes and Makeup departments,” he said.

  “Nice.”

  There was another set of double doors at the other end. Above those doors was a carefully hand-lettered sign.

  Red light means we’re filming. You should know

  what that means if you’re working here.

  I laughed. “Does anyone make that rookie mistake anymore?”

  “Oh, sure. You’d be surprised—even when the light’s lit. Usually a PA, someone new to the business. I cut them some slack… the first time.”

  Grinning, I shook my head.

  “Oh, man. When I was six, Sean was working on some new pilot on the Warner Bros.’ lot. They were filming inside one of the soundstages. The gal looking after me, some poor production assistant, kept trying to tell me I had to wait until they were finished filming before I could go see him.” I gave a rueful laugh. “You try telling any six-year-old that she has to wait.”

  “I see where this is going.”

  “Oh, yeah. I ignored my handler and ran into the middle of what was evidently a very expensive scene to shoot. Let’s just say the director didn’t give me a pass for my age or the first time mistake.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Ouch indeed. On the upside, I haven’t made that particular mistake again.” The sounds of hammering and power tools filtered faintly through the door. The red light was currently off. “Still working on the sets?”

  “Just some last-minute touchups and adjustments. We’re pretty much on schedule to start filming next week.” He pushed the doors open and we walked onto the soundstage, dimly lit with overhead bulbs so high up that they barely cut through the shadows. The space stretched back at least a hundred yards, and about half that in width—about the size of a football field. The ceilings had to be at least forty feet high, maybe more. The word “cavernous” came to mind. A few bats would have fit right in.

  “Any reason it’s so dark in here?” I asked.

  “You asked about supernaturals? Rafaella—the production designer—and her crew are light sensitive.”

  “Ah.” I didn’t ask what they were, but gnomes or dwarves seemed a fair guess. I heard hammering, sawing, power tools, but didn’t see anyone beyond a glimpse or two of dim figures moving in and out of the shadows.

  The closest third of the soundstage belonged to part of a spacecraft. A large portion of the hull had been built, looking as though it floated in the shadows. There were ladders and stairs leading up to interior platforms. The exterior appeared to have lived a hard, rough life.

  “This looks great.”

  Dobell looked pleased. “Well, the set for the hero ship was actually constructed over fifteen years ago for another film. The building’s former owner kept it in decent condition and rented it out to low-budget and student projects. When I bought the soundstage and facilities, it was still here. We put some work into it over the last month or so, updated it so now it doesn’t look quite so much like it belongs in a Crazy Casa production.”

  I snickered. Movies involving mutant mash-ups of various reptiles, sea creatures, insects, and mammals were Crazy Casa’s stock-in-trade. Lots of bad CGI and a high body count for countless bikini-clad starlets and their hunky male counterparts.

  It’s been speculated that their development team had a big hat filled with pieces of paper, each one bearing the name of some critter. Whenever they needed a new movie idea, someone pulled two slips out of the hat and they ended up with classics like Crocsnake, Arachnogator, and Spider Chimp.

  The exterior of the spacecraft was painted a medium gray. About ten feet above our heads there were letters stenciled along the side in white. Bootes.

  “Boots?”

  “According to the writers, it’s pronounced ‘booties.’ Or ‘bootey,’ depending on which character is speaking.”

  “Okay, that’ll probably make sense once I read the script.”

  “Well, it’s an inside joke between the writers, so maybe not. But it’s a good script. Funny, creepy, scary. Trust me, it hits all the right notes.”

  We walked around the curved front of the spacecraft. The other side exposed the interior sets, all cross-sections like one of those books about how things work. Some of the sections had partial ceilings, while in others the walls stretched up, merging into the s
hadows of the open soundstage.

  A ship’s ladder led up to the interiors. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all. Do you need a hand up?”

  “Is that a trick question?” I flashed a smile over one shoulder. Scrambling up the ladder, I found myself on what looked like the bridge of the Bootes. Simple, but realistic. Two swivel chairs with instrument panels directly in front, sitting below the forward windows. More screens and panels covered the walls on either side. A lot of care had been put into the details. Closer examination revealed things like old car window cranks and a coffee grinder, built in and made to look like something that belonged here.

  “Very creative,” I commented to Dobell as he joined me up on the set.

  “Rafaella is amazing,” he agreed. “So is her crew. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who can do so much with so little and consistently stay under budget.”

  We did a walk-through of the rest of the interiors. There was a cabin with an Israeli flag plastered to the wall, a Blu-ray player, and DVDs of movies like Alien and Terminator.

  “No Netflix, huh?”

  He laughed. “No. We’re aiming for low-tech here. Most horror, fantasy, or science fiction requires some sort of suspension of disbelief. Hopefully the audience won’t overthink it too much.”

  We walked down a long stretch of corridor, about twenty feet of it, to another half-open room with a bunch of random parts lying on the floor and a table, as well as stacked on shelving units.

  “This is the repair bay,” he explained, then he pointed across the way and down. “And that is the cargo area. The original set designer installed heavy steel racks used for storing auto salvage parts,” Dobell continued, pointing out some examples. “Great idea, so we built on it. A lot of the sets are modular, too, so we can expand the shooting space a little bit and create new rooms as we need them, with minimal time and effort.”

  “We’ll be filming fights on the actual sets, right?”

  “That’s right. Very little green screen, I think. Do you see any problem with that?”