We reached Compton. I looked outside the window and decided the z’s would run the place better than their human counterparts ever did. Sure, there was loitering on the streets, in fact the z’s just stood there aimlessly for the most part, but it was an ordered loitering. I felt safer here now than I would have back in the old days. That’s quite a statement considering the z’s outside wanted to rip my head off and suck the very gristle from my spinal column. The new z order would probably make a better job of running the planet than humans were during the final days of decadence, excess and immorality.
Brand new franchise stores were opening up. Stores selling spit roasts were doing a roaring trade. One place was giving a 20% discount on human length spits. There were restaurants of all kinds, specializing in particular human organs. One restaurant claimed to be the best human brain emporium in LA. While the joint down the street was offering two for one on human kidney.
We arrived in South Central Compton and Borgnine, who was taking his Sergeant ‘Fatso’ Judson role a little too seriously, ordered us off the coach.
Our humiliation was about to begin.
After three days of filming, we were all exhausted. Spielberg worked us until we were on the verge of passing out. He didn’t understand that we needed rest, sleep, food, water and even waterproof clothing when it rained. Of course the z’s needed none of those things and expected that we should go without also.
Again, I wondered just how these creatures had come to being, having forfeited all former love, compassion and empathy. They had none of what made people human and during what little time I had to myself, I often found myself wondering just how these freaks used to be us. If when humans died, our spirits went to some alternate world; heaven or whatever you wanted to call it, I toyed with the idea that something real fucked up had happened in the universe causing the good parts of the soul to go to heaven, while the evil parts remained here on earth and continued to inhabit the body. Z’s really were abominations and the more time I spent around them, the more plausible that idea seemed.
Tag especially was having a hard time. “In the old days we’d have our own trailers.” He said numerous times between scenes. The lack of sustenance was beginning to show in his demeanor. His walk often mimicked the z’s, the way he trudged his feet a little too often, like he lacked the strength in his legs to pick them up properly when walking. His eyes often contained that possessed look, almost as if his brain was beginning to shut down his conscious thoughts in order to conserve energy. Although I found myself softening to the guy a tiny bit, because once again, we had both managed to find ourselves together in a surreal situation that nobody else but the two of us could relate to. This was something that I could never have shared or expressed even with Doug – God rest his soul.
There were many times we’d be stood aimlessly between dozens of z extras who had no wants or requirements whatsoever. Well, all apart from our brains. I could tell it was hard for them working in such close proximity to us and being expected to leave us be for the good of this horrific movie we were filming. During the many times my mind wandered, I even found myself sympathizing with their predicament. And even if at this stage they were too stupid to realize it, our z overlords were in perhaps the biggest predicament of everybody.
Food – What would happen once their stocks of human ran out? I was under no illusion that the prospects for myself, Hogan and Tag were extremely grim indeed – Talk about a rare and highly valued commodity.
But filming had its lighter moments too, which considering the circumstances, came as welcome relief. Equipment would break down frequently which played havoc with the filming schedule. When the generator ran out of fuel, I thought Spielberg was on the verge of bursting a gasket. I laughed straight out for a twenty minute period while I watched them trying to turn the lights back on by hitting the powerless cameras with sticks. After several hours one of the z technicians realized what the problem was and demanded that Hogan show him how to syphon gas from an abandoned vehicle. I guess this is the result when a bunch of z’s end up with human inventions to work with and then treat the three remaining humans so bad that we remain tight lipped when our help is needed. But it was during these rare moments when we were actually able to grab a few prized minutes of sleep.
Half way through day two, Spielberg and Scorsese had a row over the script. Scorsese lost the argument, worked himself into a hissy-fit and walked off set. Apparently, this is now an SL Production.
We filmed the Battle of Stirling Bridge scene earlier today; In Compton of all places. I hoped William Wallace would not be too offended by our replacing of trees and fields with concrete, the river with concrete and the bridge with yet more concrete. Of course it should come as no surprise that Hogan, Tag and myself acted as the hated English while an army of righteous z’s were the glorious Scots.
Spielberg called us all into positions and the three of us waited over by the spit shop. Down the street, maybe 100 paces away, there must have been a thousand z’s, all wearing kilts staring back at us. I knew full well this wouldn’t end well. We waited and we waited. We waited some more and I wondered what the delay was about.
Then finally, Mel Gibson arrived and took his position in front of the z’s, blue face paint and kilt. I found out later he’d been in the cafeteria making unreasonable demands and refused to film the scene until he’d had one pancreas, a larynx and a bowl of lymph nodes. From what I hear, the latter is the new caviar.
I looked at them gathered in front and then back to the three of us. I fully expected another bowel movement to take place, yet due to the lack of sustenance the crew had sourced for us, I had little if any fecal matter within myself.
“Action!” Spielberg shouted.
Oh shit.
“Freedom!” Mel Stuttered.
I knew what was coming and braced myself for a sight I never expected to see in my lifetime.
“Freedom!” He stammered once more and then 1000 z’s turned around, bent over and raised their kilts.
I saw it. I saw it all. 1000 sets of z genitalia pointing straight at me.
This would not be the first time Spielberg would have perversely rewritten history for his own ends. In fact he was doing in death exactly what he’d been doing in life, but this really was taking things to the next level. They say history is written by the victors. Well now Spielberg was passing off the Battle of Stirling Bridge as a z victory over humans and I knew the audience would buy into it hook, line and stinker. In life and in death, it’s funny how some things never change.
They ran.
Or, more to the point, they sort of shifted over in our direction. I estimated it would still be around an hour before they made it over no-man’s-land, so I took the time to discuss my feelings with Hogan.
“Hulk, I’ve been extremely disappointed with you man.” He looked scared – He actually looked scared. If Hogan would not stand up for us last remaining humans then who else would? - Me? I almost laughed at the thought.
“What’s that brother?” His words were monosyllabic, his eyes glazed over.
“I once watched you body slam Andre the Giant in front of 90,000 people at the Pontiac Silverdome. What happened to you man?”
“I’m so fucking hungry brother.” Uh oh. I recognized that expression. I had seen it in the eyes of Costner only a few days earlier. However grave I knew our position to be – It had just become ten times worse.
After around an hour and forty five minutes, the glorious Scottish z’s reached our battle lines and then Spielberg yelled “cut!”
Mel had stopped right in front of me. He licked his blue painted lips.
I’d always quite liked Mel.
“You got any liquor?”
“Dude, you know we’re not allowed alcohol in school. It’s like – against the rules dude.”
“Yeah, I know. It would’ve helped, that’s all.” My voice actually came out all quaky, like I’d been drinking anyway. So what difference would it make
if I actually did take just a few sips of the hard stuff? It’d be sure to help considering I was about to ask Wendy out.
I was about to ask Wendy out!
Just thinking those words scared me shitless. It was Wendy for God’s sake. Wendy Buaniconti. Oh Jesus.
The afternoon had come and gone way too fast. While in lessons, I’d done nothing but run through possible scenarios in my head. Many of those scenarios involved being ridiculed and laughed at while being shot down in flames in front of a large crowd of my peers. Inevitably I would spend the rest of my life living as a hermit and resorting to hiding in bushes with a pair of binoculars for my sexual gratification. A few of the scenarios involved my receiving the mother of all ass-whoopings, quite possibly by one of the other guys who had a crush on Wendy but most likely by Brett Dekker himself, captain of the football team.
But during chemistry, I almost dared to allow myself to believe that maybe, just maybe this could be the single greatest day of my life. Maybe, possibly, conceivably she could say yes. There’d be no more stalking her like some creep from Fatal Attraction, which was all I ever wanted in life.
Now, I waited with Doug at the school exit, waiting for Wendy to begin her walk home. The plan was simple – Catch up to her, walk with her and make my move.
“So, you’re absolutely sure you have no whisky, vodka, rye, rum, absinthe or moonshine?” My knee visibly shook, which unnerved me even more.
“Dude, you’re gonna talk yourself out of this if you use my lack of breaking the school rules on your not going through with this.” Doug looked disconcertingly relaxed, leaning against the wall like he did, and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“I guess a man has to do what a man has to do right?”
“Yeah, I guess dude.” He paused, as if thinking, taking his time. “Dude – Wouldn’t it be an idea if you did that thing from that movie. That one with De Niro where he punches the air?”
“What?” This wasn’t the time to be filling my head with his bullshit.
“No I’m serious. He does that thing where he punches the air to psyche himself up.”
“Really? Did it work?”
“Can’t remember dude.” Speaking with Doug was often an exercise in futility.
She strode out, all alone which was rare for her. On the vast majority of occasions she’d be swarmed with the usual entourage and hangers-on. I was fully prepared on making a fool out of myself in front of a large crowd of peers, in fact that was the most likely scenario I’d come up with, I fully expected it to happen. The fact that there she was, walking home all on her lonesome made the whole prospect that much easier. Or perhaps less agonizing would be the more operative word.
As I thought through these useless, redundant thoughts in my head, I realized I was stalling and delaying the inevitable. Was I not a man? It was time to do this thing – Right now. After all, she had now walked way past me and Doug, and out of the school grounds and I’d have to run to catch up.
“Snap out of it and go after her.” Doug pushed me in the general direction I needed to be heading. “Good luck dude.”
I ran until the gap had closed considerably. She was now only a short distance in front and I could simply walk up and alongside her and begin a nice, pleasant conversation, at the end of which I’d ask her out for pizza and a movie.
It was a lovely day, the sun shone bright and so I took off my jacket in preparation. After all, if it became too hot and I began to perspire then that wouldn’t look very attractive at all. I needed to look my best.
As Wendy paced in front, I tried to calculate how far we were from the point at which our routes differentiated, at which time we’d have to go our separate ways. I had to do it before then. Fifteen minutes, which should be plenty of time.
I was about to go. Holy fuck – I was really about to do it. But I figured I’d wait for the pedestrian coming from the opposite direction to pass us first. If I waited for him to pass then that’d be one less person in earshot of our conversation.
The guy walked by, checking Wendy out as he did. That angered me intensely and my hand involuntarily clenched into a fist. Sticky sweat gathered in my armpits, perhaps as a joint consequence of the heat, that jerk checking Wendy out and what I was about to do. “Damn gray shirts.” I muttered, cursing the school uniform policy. Unslinging the jacket from my shoulder, I put it back on and zipped it up. At least now, Wendy wouldn’t see the sweat patches gathering all over my body.
Damn it. But sweat now pricked on my head. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the wetness between my fingers.
That does it. I couldn’t do it now. I’d do it tomorrow. She’ll have her friends with her but I’d put more product in my hair so I looked better. After all, I had no idea at the beginning of the day that she’d be breaking up with Dekker, so I kind of had an excuse. I was ill prepared for today. But tomorrow would be different.
The next day, while rounding the corner by the school gym, I walked right by her. It happened while taking a big mouthful of soda. I cursed my stupid luck. Later on she walked by me as I swapped baseball cards with a kid three years below. I prayed she didn’t see me talking with that scrawny kid. Then the big walk home arrived but the rain which poured from the sky with impeccable timing destroyed the opportunity.
Over the coming weeks, there were many opportunities to finally make my big introduction, but they were never the right kind of opportunities. I promised myself I’d find the balls to do this, just as soon as the opportunity was right. Regardless, each day I followed her home, only paces behind, until our roads split. Then I went home, ate dinner and carried out the usual routine of watching her from the bushes. During this time, I never once saw Dekker or any other guy, which heartened me a great deal. Anyway, there would have been no harm in giving her a short while to get over the effects of her breakup, in fact by doing so would surely improve my chances whenever I finally did find the balls to go through with it - Right?
6
You Do Not Talk About
We were in the basement of an old, abandoned KFC for the Fight Club scene. As per usual, there were long delays between scenes.
I thought about things. I guess now, in a strange sort of way, my dreams were actually coming true. Although Zombie Takeover – A New Beginning made no sense whatsoever, it was an historical abomination and a rip off of a bunch of human films from years ago, I assumed it would nevertheless be the best thing produced by Hollywood in a long time.
I admired the way they worked around the Costner problem. It was sheer genius on Spielberg’s part and I could see why he was the guy in charge round here. As well as playing my own parts, they also made me play the part of Costner too.
That kind of made me indispensable around here. I thought I’d try my luck and use my new found influence to attempt to get some food for myself, Hogan and even Tag. After around thirty minutes Kevin Spacey brought us a platter of what I assumed to be small intestine.
“Action.” Came the command from our esteemed director.
The z’s gathered in a wide circle and a semi-naked Pitt emerged and stood in the center. He spat on the floor and wiped red dribble from his chin. He looked nothing like I remembered, having let himself go somewhat. Doubtless he’d been indulging too much on human flesh and the sculpted physique he’d once had was a thing of the past.
He pointed to Hogan, who hesitated and then stepped forward. Hogan was always a better actor when no words were required of him and so I knew he’d nail this scene. He wore a pink baby bonnet and bib along with a nappy. I felt bad for him because this was his ultimate humiliation and certainly a climb-down from fighting Sly in Rocky III.
Hogan took a swing at Pitt. Well, it was a kind of slow-motion swing. Pitt blocked it and swung back at Hogan. We waited for the fist to connect and when it did, we “ooohed” and “aaaahed.” There was no way Hogan was hurt by Pitt’s punches and once again, I felt a pang of hurt feelings that my boyhood hero was going down l
ike Bobby ‘The Brain’ Heenan.
Pitt pinned Hogan to the floor and connected with several blows to the face. Hogan chewed on his blood capsule and spat out a spray of blood. Then Pitt began to showboat, raising his arms to the air in victory.
I looked to the floor in disgust. It was over.
Then, the crowd went silent and I looked back up.
Hogan stood.
Pitt didn’t know what was happening. Hogan strutted about the circle, shaking his fists, psyching himself up. Pitt slugged Hogan across the jaw but it had no effect. He hit him again and Hogan was immune to the blows. Pitt came in for the powerful right hook but Hogan simply absorbed the blow with his head.
Spielberg flicked furiously through his script. This wasn’t supposed to be in the movie.
It was just like old times. Hogan could have been in the ring against Sergeant Slaughter at Wrestlemania 7.
Pitt hit him again, but this time Hogan blocked it and unleashed an almighty crack against his opponent’s skull. Hogan hit him with several more punches, knocking Pitt to the floor.
I was so happy. Hogan had decided not to go along with Spielberg’s version of events where he was supposed to lose and then be led around by Pitt on a chain for the rest of the movie.
I knew what was coming, I’d seen it a hundred times before. Hogan took a run up and dropped the ‘big leg’ across Pitt’s neck.
Booooooom!
Hogan had inspired me. He would not take this shit anymore. They would not rewrite and manipulate history. They would not take credit for all our achievements and discoveries. Hogan was beginning the fight back. We may have been dangerously outnumbered and we may have been fighting a losing battle, but every revolution has to start somewhere.
Zombie Revolution Page 41