“Picture is up!” the Assistant Director called out. “Quiet.”
A nervous hush fell over the set. The Assistant Director’s eyes slowly panned across the room. Everyone stared back like frightened deer. The boom operator’s arms tensed and he swallowed in fear, willing the microphone not to pick up any unwanted sound. The Third Assistant Director gripped her clipboard and held it over her mouth. Jane clasped her hands into fists, trying to suck all of the sweat and tension in the room into her own body. She stared at the ramp that she was about to run up and rehearsed the scene in fast forward in her mind. Run to the cockpit. There are alarms sounding. Flick the three switches above the pilot. Then realize that the enemy is already inside the ship.
“Roll Sound,” the Assistant Director called. The Production Sound Mixer signaled his crew and crouched intently over a laptop monitoring the set’s recording instruments. The whirring of a spaceship’s engines hummed to life.
“Sound speed,” the production sound mixer called out, giving a thumbs up to the assistant director.
With closed eyes and a pinched forehead, the assistant director said, “Roll camera,” in a low and desperate tone.
“Speed,” the camera operator replied in barely a whisper.
Then all eyes turned to a skinny boy holding a clapperboard in front of the camera. “Marker,” he said in a hopeful tone, and slapped the clapper down on the slate. He scurried out of the way with a relieved look on his face. Long seconds ticked by. The camera operator gripped the handles of his Steadicam even tighter. Nobody moved. One by one the members of the crew turned to look at the director.
After a long, terrible silence, Jack Lee stepped forward and shouted, “Action!”
Jane opened her eyes and sprang forward as Captain Blake, shaking and sweaty as she rushed toward the cockpit. Her skin had a pale glow and her eyes looked wild and fearful. She ran down the spaceship’s corridor, gripping her assault rifle and rushing as close as possible past the camera without jostling it.
“Jonsey!” she cried out, slowing a touch as she reached the top of the ramp to allow the camera operator to pull a swift 180, his crouched legs taking the short, impossibly smooth steps of a great Steadicam operator. The boom operator scooted noiselessly behind him. Jane leaned forward over the teenager in the pilot’s seat, who was gripping the shaking helm while frantically trying to monitor half a dozen alarms lighting up on his control panel. “What have we got?” she asked, frightened but under control.
“I’ve got alarms going off in cargo bays six, nine, and thirty-seven,” the pilot responded, pointing to flashing alarms. “And outer hull airlock two is–”
But then the lights inside the spacecraft suddenly went out. Jane hesitated. This was not in the script, but after seven takes she felt compelled to just go with it. This was the first time they’d actually managed to make it to “Action” without something going wrong. In the first take, a few light bulbs fell from the upper catwalk as the assistant director called for the camera to roll, although no one had been standing up there. In the second, a catering table had inexplicably fallen over immediately after the call for quiet. Each time it was something different, and each time it was a setback that stalled production by a precious few more minutes. But this error could work. Jane continued.
“What was that?” Jonsey asked, genuinely confused.
“Put her on autopilot,” Captain Blake ordered. “Come with me. We need to close the outer hull breach or we’ll lose heat and air.”
“Sure thing, Cap,” Jonsey replied, reaching out to flick a switch. But instead of touching a lever, the boy’s hand fumbled in the darkness and gripped a loose wire on the control panel poking right up between the lights and switches. He went rigid, shaking violently and crying out in an unearthly moan. Jane smelled the horrid odor of burning hair. She looked over at her castmate, saw the wire, and used her rubber prop assault rifle to push him free from the wire.
“Charlie, are you okay?” she cried out, crouching down. The kid was groaning and gripping his hand.
“What’s happening?” Jane heard the director cry out.
“We have to stop,” she roared back at him.
“No, no, keep going,” Jack complained. “That was good stuff. We’ll fix the lights on the panel in post.”
Jane pulled down the boom mic, gripped the lens of the Steadicam, and shouted into them both so Jack would see her clearly on the monitors. “We’re not going to keep going. Charlie got electrocuted.” Together Jane and the boom operator helped Charlie to his feet, and they limped down to ground level from the set pieces. Jane heard the entire cast and crew in an uproar, with Jack throwing a tantrum in the director’s chair.
“That’s lunch, everybody,” the assistant director called out nervously, glancing over at Jack, who was now screaming at the set dresser. “Then we’ll try it again.”
“How about the medic?” Jane bellowed, growing more annoyed by the second. The assistant director started, then waved furiously at the set medic, who hurriedly dropped the cheese pastry he was munching and rushed to find his bag. Most of the cast and crew shuffled out, eager to get away from the director and have some lunch.
“Your first day with your first big part, and we try to kill you, huh, kiddo?” Jane joked with Charlie, who was still shaking. The boom operator helped them both to a few folding chairs at the edge of the set. Members of the crew gathered around and asked how the boy felt.
“It’s not so bad,” Charlie muttered, shrugging.
“We’re going to have continuity problems with that hair,” Jane joked dryly, rumpling Charlie’s frizzed hair as the medic reached them. The crew laughed, and Charlie ran a finger through his now fuzzy mop of hair. “I’ll tell makeup to get some sleeking goo ready after the doc clears you.”
Charlie laughed haltingly. “At least my mom wasn’t here today. She would have freaked out,” he said as his agent pushed through the crowd to sit at his side. “I totally got electrocuted,” he told her.
“Electric shock,” the doctor corrected him, opening his bag. “If you’d been electrocuted you’d be dead.”
“Your mom is going to have to find out, Charlie,” the boy’s agent warned him. “I’m only your guardian on set. But don’t worry. I’ll talk her out of pulling you from the production.”
“How is your breathing?” the doctor asked, pulling out a stethoscope.
“Fine. It totally sucks that I’m the only one who has to have a babysitter,” Charlie complained as the doctor pressed a stethoscope to his heart and listened intently.
“You’re the only one who’s–” Charlie’s agent began, but the boy cut him off finishing, “– a minor in need of supervision by a parent or guardian.”
Jane laughed to herself. “Been there, done that,” she said sympathetically. “Don’t worry. Once you turn eighteen your parents stop following around and the paparazzi does it instead. What do we have, doc?”
“Heart sounds good,” the set medic said, sounding relieved. He retrieved a flashlight and checked the boy’s pupils. “If he were in respiratory arrest he wouldn’t be able to chit-chat. There’s no burns, but I need to find out from the electrician how many volts he got.”
“Why?” Charlie asked, concerned.
“So you can brag about it,” the doctor answered. “You got lucky, but pay close attention to how you feel for the next day or two and tell me right away if you have dizziness, tingling, blurry vision, or if your skin gets redder than it is now. I’d like to check you again in a few minutes, but you should be just fine. I think it’s going to be up to you whether or not you want to keep shooting or go home.”
“It’s up to me,” Charlie’s agent corrected him.
“I’m not a baby,” Charlie grumbled. “I’m fine to keep going, but I want some rubber gloves for the next take.”
“Rubber gloves. I’ll tell Wardrobe,” his agent said loudly, trotting off in a hurry.
“It was a joke,” Charlie shouted after her, shaking his head. Jane patted the boy on the shoulder as the doctor helped him to his feet and led him off the set. The circle of people around her castmate followed them out toward the catering tent. Jane sighed as she recalled that she wasn’t allowed to have lunch today. She was following her shooting diet of skipping every fourth meal. To distract herself during the break, she pulled her mobile phone from her pocket. It wasn’t supposed to be with her while she was in costume, but as long as she remembered to switch it off she’d never get caught. The phone buzzed as she turned it on, and she began furiously typing away. She strode toward a far corner of the sound stage, where she found Edmund passed out on an overstuffed red couch that seemed to be in that particular spot for the use of exhausted crew members. She flopped down onto the couch and continued typing.
Edmund roused, sitting bolt upright. “Whazgonon?” he mumbled.
“Nothing, just we should maybe consider retitling the film Gag Reel. All we’ve got so far are bloopers,” Jane muttered.
“Whatimezit?”
Jane checked her mobile. “Twelve thirty.”
Edmund yawned and tapped her mobile with his fingertip. “You’re not meant to have that on the set.”
“Whatever you say, Sir Edmund,” Jane muttered, yanking it away from him.
Edmund glowered at her. Stupid bloggers. He watched Jane finish a message and tap the send button on the screen with satisfaction. “What are you doing anyway? Saying hi to your mum on Facebook?”
“No,” Jane sighed, pleased that he finally asked the question she’d hoped for. “I’ve just finished posting the photos from last night.”
“What?” he cried, then lowered his voice to a hissing whisper. “You can’t put those online. They’re evidence we were trespassing.”
She answered him with a stony glare. “I didn’t put my name on it. I created brand new accounts for everything and spoofed the IP address so nobody can see I was on the backlot when they went live. I created a fake Twitter account and tweeted the pics to myself, you and TMZ. In a few minutes I’ll retweet it, and the whole world will see them.”
“How’d you learn to do that?” Edmund asked, incredulous. “Can you even do that?”
“Didn’t you ever see Network Alarm?” Jane looked at Edmund, who shook his head. “It was that one where I spent three months preparing by working at a tech support company.”
Edmund nodded, recollecting. “I never saw that one. That’s the one where you were the tech support representative who stopped the terrorists by using their cell phones to remotely rewire their bombs so they didn’t go off on the airplanes?”
“Yeah,” Jane said, returning to her mobile. She was flicking rapidly through search results on her browser.
“I heard that one was crap.” Edmund said callously.
“Can’t win ‘em all,” Jane answered with a shrug, annoyed at Edmund’s bluntness, even if he had been right. “But check this out.” She handed him the mobile. “I haven’t even retweeted it but it’s already getting picked up. I think it’s time for me to respond.” She typed away on the tiny screen. “Proof . . . that . . . Karma . . . exists . . .” she muttered. “Now . . . the paparazzi . . . have . . . paparazzi.” Jane snapped her mobile shut, sighed, and leaned back on the couch.
“You’re scary and evil,” Edmund said, feeling sleepy again. “We had better not get caught,” he warned her. “The out of court settlement will be astronomical.”
“Not if we threaten to countersue over the bugs placed in the house,” Jane pointed out.
“We can’t prove he did that,” Edmund reminded her, rubbing his eyes. “Could have been anyone.”
Jane shrugged indifferently. “We have scary lawyers.”
“Not as scary as the alien costumes that Wardrobe cooked up,” he replied, sitting up with sudden energy. “Look at that.”
Jane turned her head and looked where her husband was pointing. “Whoa,” she said involuntarily. A tall figure was striding purposefully toward them, moving behind the darkened set. Its skin was a light charcoal color, and writhing tentacles cascaded down its back. At first it moved on four legs, then reared up on two and began to move faster. It front legs — or were they hands? — reached for a cylinder of copper-colored metal in a holster strapped to its torso.
“That looks incredible!” Jane called out. “Who is that? Jimmy? Elena?” The figure did not respond. It began moving faster. “Seriously, that’s amazing latex work,” she said, her voice beginning to waver. Jane looked around. No one was close by. Even if she shouted for help, it would not get to her before the alien did. The creature raised the weapon it was holding. Jane shrieked and grabbed Edmund by the arm.
“Run!” she shouted.
“Wait!” Edmund said back, pushing her away. “It’s just the guys having a laugh. Look–”
But as he turned, his eyes grew wide. An ominous yellow light was growing in the depths of the copper cylinder. In a panic, he turned to run, though he had no idea where to run to. He smashed into Jane and they tumbled to the floor. They heard a terrible rush of air and a thundering boom. A wave of light washed over them both, and Jane felt an impossibly strong hand grip her and throw her aside. Her ears could perceive no sound, and she felt rubble hit her. She looked around, and saw that herself and Edmund were being held fast by Barb, who had pinned herself over them both. They had skidded fifteen feet away from where they had fallen, which was now a smoking black crater eight feet deep.
The alien turned and roared at them, purplish phlegm whizzing past its four rows of serrated teeth. It began quickly reloading its weapon, pumping a canister from its vest into the rear chamber. Barb rose to her feet and aimed an enormous, heavy-looking pistol at the attacker. She pumped seven white-hot rounds into the enemy’s torso, each one leaving the chamber with a quiet, muffled thump. The alien stumbled backward as the glowing bullets hit him. Deep magenta goo sprayed from the wounds.
The alien was angry, not injured. It reared back on its hind legs and then charged, running like a horse. Barb braced herself for impact. But just before it reached them, a massive figure flew horizontally through the air and slammed into the creature. Ozzy and the alien rolled back for twenty feet, grappling at one another until they crunched heavily against the back wall. Ozzy’s massive hand closed on the alien’s throat, and he lifted it bodily from the ground, knocking the weapon from its hand. He slammed it three times against the wall. But the creature howled angrily, arched its back, and used its tentacles to shove back with remarkable force. Ozzy stumbled backwards and the alien rolled down to the floor.
Barb dashed forward, recovering the enemy’s weapon. In a flash, she was back in front of Jane and Edmund, crouched and ready to defend. The alien snarled at her, spitting goo and blood from its wide mouth.
Ozzy reached over his shoulder and pulled a titanium cylinder from a pocket on the back of his vest that looked as if it were meant to hold a Bowie knife. He twisted it sharply in his hand. With a whirring sound, the cylinder expanded and grew taller. From the top of the shaft sprung two shining axe blades, and a spike formed at the top. Ozzy twirled the battle axe once in his hand, gripped it firmly, and charged.
The alien, weaponless but by no means helpless, snarled and ran at Ozzy. Before they collided, Ozzy slipped deftly to one side and sliced off the tips of three of the alien’s tentacles. Deep purple liqid poured from the wounds, and the howl let out by the creature shook the walls. It spun quickly and clobbered Ozzy with its front legs, sending him to the floor. It dove on top of its prey, and for a few moments the two grappled on the floor. Ozzy was pinned on his back, and as the wide mouth opened in a slimy grin, the bodyguard gave a mighty kick with both feet that sent the alien flying. It slammed into the wall with an oozing crunch, then fell onto the red couch in a heap. Ozzy rose quickly, took three steps, leaped into the air, and brought his axe down on his foe, cleaving its head in two.
Ozzy stood and surveyed his vanquished enemy. Barb pulled Jane to her feet. The actress stood with her mouth hanging open. Edmund lay flat on the floor, and after a moment’s silence, let out a terrified scream.
“We should get out –” Barb began saying to Jane, but the assistant and the bodyguard both suddenly turned and looked ominously at the dead alien’s corpse.
“What?” Jane asked, unable to see what attracted their attention.
“Go!” Ozzy shouted. Barb tossed him the alien’s weapon and the bodyguard barreled ahead of them. He pointed the alien gun at the wall, still running at full tilt, and blasted a hole in it. Barb lifted Jane and Edmund in each arm and ran after Ozzy. They picked up speed as they ran out of the sound stage onto the backlot. Barb spotted an enormous blue dumpster ahead, and she and Ozzy sprinted toward it. Barb tossed the Hollywood royals ten feet in the air, and they landed roughly on the cardboard piled inside. The bodyguard and the assistant leaped after them into the dumpster.
“Cover your ears and open your mouth!” Ozzy shouted at them, pulling cardboard over their bodies. In shock, Jane and Edmund obeyed. Within a split second, a massive explosion roared around them. A wave of hot air, smoke, and fire washed over the top of the dumpster, and Jane and Edmund gasped for breath. Plaster and metal rained down on top of them.
“Are we clear?” Ozzy asked Barb, who poked her head above the dumpster.
“Go now,” Barb orderd. Ozzy tossed Jane and Edmund, who were now limp, sweaty, and filthy, down to the assistant, who caught them and placed them lightly on their feet. Ozzy jumped down after them, landing with a heavy thud.
Edmund put his hands on his head and gaped at the massive black cloud of smoke that hovered over what remained of the sound stage. “What?” he whispered, turning to Ozzy and pointing. “What happ –”
But he trailed off and stared, blank-faced, at the bodyguard. Two long, deep laceration from the alien’s claws stretched across his right cheek, revealing the unmistakable gleam of metal underneath. Jane looked up and saw the same thing. She recoiled, and Barb reached out and took her arm to keep her from stumbling onto a pile of burning wood and re-bar.
“What are you?” Jane gasped.
“No questions,” Barb snapped, examining her pistol for damage. She removed the magazine, pushed it back in, pulled back the slide and turned off the safety. “Let’s go.”
© 2009 Stella Quinn
