Tribesmen
Page 10
Umberto grunted, the camera still running in his hands.
Cynthia took hold of the solid piece of equipment. She’d never held one before. It was heavier than she imagined it would be. Either that, or her arms were that weak.
With one eye open, Umberto studied her, blood pooling in his ear and spilling over onto his cheek.
Without a word, she lifted the camera above her head and brought the back-end down on the side of his face. There was a crunch, and the veins in Umberto’s arms and chest jumped as if electrified.
Before she knew that she had lifted it a second time, she brought the still-running camera down again on the place where his ear used to be.
The sun had risen overhead. She tried to imagine the picture that was burning its way onto the film right now. She was sure that there would be flashes of overexposure and lens flares as she raised the camera up and it caught the glint of the sun.
But as she brought the machine down again and again on Umberto’s ruined skull, would the viewer catch a glimpse of her face? What would she look like? Would she be made beautiful by her ferocity, an Amazonian Goddess of war and vengeance?
Or would she just be that halfie girl from Queens, only with a swollen nose and broken teeth so she didn’t look as pretty as she used to on the stage?
Would she ever let anyone see the film, so they would be able to answer those questions?
Chapter 26
Jacque
The sand was warm.
Jacque could tell that it was too warm for Cynthia, who shifted uncomfortably on top of it, finally unbuttoning her blouse and using it as a beach towel. For him, it was just right. It was getting more difficult to feel anything, so the warmth was a welcome sensation.
“It’s going to be dark soon,” she said, tilting her head up to the setting sun and then swiveling to look at the runway behind them. She had packed what little they were taking back with them in one of the empty crates, and walked it to the landing strip while he dozed on the beach during the afternoon.
Maybe ‘dozed’ was not the best way of describing it. ‘Shivered until he lost consciousness’ might have been more apt.
“The plane will hopefully be here in the morning,” she said.
When she had helped him back to the beach, he could not stop saying “thank you,” but now he was quiet. He had not been able to gather the strength to speak to her for a few hours now, but she kept calm and continued talking to him anyway.
“Although the way this trip has been going, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were late,” she continued, smiling down at him, resting her hand over his heart.
He wanted to feel it, but he couldn’t.
After watching the sunset with her, he dipped back into sleep. He had more of those same dreams he had had while he was tied to the stake, but he was sure that they were beyond dreams this time.
There was no tunnel of white light. His grandparents and old pets weren’t calling down to him from heaven. There was simply the feeling that he was somewhere else.
All around him, the people of the island waited. Some of them stood. Some of them paced up and down the beach. But the little old woman just crossed her backwards feet and sat next to him on the sand.
She placed her old gnarled hand on the other side of his chest.
He felt it.
“I’m truly sorry about this,” she said. Through her touch, he saw it all: the curse, the massacre, the mass grave that they had uncovered in the jungle. All of it.
“It’s all right,” Jacque said, not sure if he was talking aloud in his sleep or just talking in the dream. “I’m going to have to stay here, on the island, aren’t I?” he asked.
The old woman did not answer him. She just turned her head to look out over the ocean, up into the bluish-black sky, and watched as the stars began to blink themselves into existence.
EPILOGUE
THE CITY
The black girl would have intimidated Roland—there was such intensity in her eyes—but there was something pitiful about them, too. She was covered in bandages and scars, limping into his office and looking like she hurt all over.
“Here’s your fucking movie,” she said, setting down a heavy package on Pressberg’s desk. “The director says it is pure cinema. Whatever. I’m not even sure what that means. All I know is that now I get a percentage of the profits. I earned them.”
Taking up the letter opener from his desk, Pressberg slit the tape on the package and lifted the flaps.
“Clothes?” he asked, lifting up a pair of floral patterned sundresses.
The girl snatched them out of his hands.
“I buried it deep, in case I got caught by customs.” Under the bandages, she was a very pretty girl. But that voice: pure Queens, possibly the westernmost limits of Long Island.
“I was wondering when I’d be receiving this,” he said to her, lifting up the first canister and reading the label. “Tito usually delivers these things himself. How did you say you got a hold of it?”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m the star,” she said. “When can I be expecting a check?”
“Tribesmen…that’s kind of generic. People won’t even know it’s a horror picture. The Tribe from Cannibal Hell,” Pressberg said, inspecting the title of the film and trying to avoid talking money with this girl. “Where is Tito? I haven’t heard from the little toad in a week, which is unusual.”
“Dead,” the girl said, stone-faced. “He died making that movie. So did a lot of other people.”
Pressberg put the top canister back in the box and stared back at the girl. After an uncomfortable moment, he smiled and began to laugh.
“You had me going there for a second,” he said, reaching into his middle drawer for his checkbook. “Tell Tito I think that the gag is a wonderful idea: pretending to be dead to drum up some free publicity. Who should I be making this out to, Tito or yourself?”
“Make it to cash,” she said.
“Oh, I get you. You’re trying to limit the paper trail. A dead man shouldn’t be cashing checks.”
He started scribbling out an advance, plus a bonus for the stunt, but hesitated before handing it over. “Before you take this, one thing: make sure that you keep a low profile for a little while, too. Nobody will believe the trick if you show up in twenty of these kind of pictures over the next year. It will ruin the illusion.”
“Don’t worry,” she said grabbing the check and tucking it into her handbag.
“I’m quitting the business.”
The End
Introducing Ravenous Shadows!
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When Ruth’s empty-nest depression hits perilous depths, her pastor husband suggests Windfall Lodge: a lovely rustic estate/ house of rest, where she and other emotionally troubled wives and mothers might find the treatment they need, the peace and purpose they crave.
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Claire is a first-rate paramedic, with a heroic devotion to saving lives. She is also a survivor of unspeakable abuse, who has rebuilt herself entirely, as far from home as she could get.
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About the Author
Adam Cesare is a New Yorker who lives in Massachusetts. After studying English and film at Boston University, he decided to stay in the area to work and write. His nonfiction has appeared in Paracinema, Fangoria and other venues.
Copyright Information
A Ravenous Shadows Original Publication
Copyright © 2012 by Adam Cesare
Ravenous Shadows™
100 Cummings Center
Suite 123A
Beverly, MA 01915
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-486-0
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Start Reading
About the Author
Introducing Ravenous Shadows
Copyright Information