B-Movie Reels (35 page)

Hank, a short burly man at two-hundred and thirty pounds, stirred after Andy yawned. His morning newspaper crinkled to the floor, and the man placed his glasses in his overalls front pocket. “Ah, you’re awake, buddy. How do you feel?”

“I’m on morphine. If I’m doing bad, I’d have no clue.”

“That’s my boy. You sound better. You’ve barely made sense the few times I’ve talked to you lately. Every time you could understand me when you weren’t asleep, you’d nod off mid-sentence. Oh, your momma’s at Aunt Shirley’s in Scranton. She stayed the night. The doctors let me stay. I wanted to make sure those bastards are giving you drugs when you need them. Our insurance is paying for it, so you’re getting only the best.”

Hank ambled to the bathroom, splashed cold water into his face, and used a paper towel to dry off. He stood next to the bed with a vexed expression on his face. “You’ve been through a lot, Andy. I thank God you’re alive. You’re all bandaged up like a mummy, though.”

Now that he mentioned it, Andy observed his arms. They were embedded in gauze. His shoulder was sheltered by a cast. That’s when he remembered the axe being driven into his collarbone. The spark of the memory spurned a painful heat in his chest. He drank another mouthful of water and closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah, I’m a mess. It’ll be a while before I’m back to normal.”

Hank’s bushy eyebrows flattened, and his eyes honed in on him. “Who did this to you? You’re safe now, Andy. No one can hurt you. I’ll protect you, and the police are very interested in what you have to tell them. Tell me what you remember. I want the truth before the newspapers embellish everything. I’ve already had a few assholes stick microphones in my face and ask me my life story, and yours.”

You can’t tell anyone about this.
 

No one will believe you.

Ned’s crispy black face spoke that night, but the words were from Uncle James. It was a warning not to tell anybody the truth. Even if he wasn’t afraid of telling the truth, nobody would believe him—as Uncle James predicted—and on top of that, he didn’t understand it himself completely. Uncle James and his magic were somehow linked with spirits escaping into their world and taking over objects, namely James’s magic props, and later, the film projector. Death and ghosts were a concept he refused to delve into and study. He was alive, and nobody else would have to die. Why not leave it at that, he thought.
 

As his dad’s stare burned into him, he knew the police, the community, the media and his own family wouldn’t quit bothering him until a feasible explanation was served up.
 

When in doubt, Andy decided, it was best to play dumb.
 

“I can’t say what happened, Dad.” His throat was still sore from the yelling and screaming he’d done that horrible night. “A fire broke out while I was watching one of Professor Maxwell’s movies, and then I wake up in the yard next to Ned’s body.”

The mention of Ned was enough for Hank. “So you don’t know what happened? You’re as clueless as the police?”

“What do you know so far?” Andy asked, curious to hear if there were any other survivors from Anderson Mills. “Did Mary-Sue Jennings survive? She visited me a few times before the incident.”

Hank turned his eyes down. “No, I’m sorry. She was found dead. Nobody in Anderson Mills is alive. You’re the only survivor.”

He already suspected the truth, but to hear it from someone else was astonishing. “Everybody’s dead?”

Hank rested in the chair beside the bed. “I’ll give it to you straight. You’re with it enough, and since your mother’s gone at the moment, I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. A crime scene investigator, Kyle Redding, gave me confidential information in exchange for letting him talk to you later alone. I said yes if it was just him. He seems to be after the truth more than anything, and he’s frustrated. The man explained houses in the residential area were wrecked, shot full of holes, everyone dragged into the streets. He said it was quite gruesome what happened.”
 

He clutched Andy’s hand. “Thank God you’ve only suffered this much. Many got it much worse.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a straight-shooter, son. A lot of people were,” he cleared his throat, “mutilated. He painted a bleak picture like human limbs in trees and bodies strewn upon rooftops. It was the work of many madmen. That’s all he explained to me. They have no leads as to who or what group of individuals could accomplish such a thing and why.”

Andy swallowed hard. Nobody would understand what happened that night, and even if they did piece it together, how could anyone accept it as the truth? “Did they find anything other than people?”

Hank’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said, still playing dumb. “I mean, did anyone find weapons or anything strange like evidence of foul play besides the damage you already told me about?”

“He didn’t say so. Are you sure you didn’t encounter anything funny? Maybe it’s still fuzzy. You’ve been in a drugged state-of-mind for the whole week. My God, Dr. Higgins told me someone stabbed you with an axe.” He pointed at his shoulder. “They’re going to replace the broken collarbone with aluminum. You can’t say what did that to you?”

Andy turned to his shoulder. Both his parents had signed the shoulder cast.
Dorks
, he thought with a soft laugh.
 

“I blacked out. I woke up in the lawn and wished I was dead. The pain was terrible, and seeing Uncle Ned burned, it was too much.”

Hank petted Andy’s hair. “Do you feel up to talking to Kyle Redding later? If not, I’ll tell him to scram.”

“No, it’s fine.”

I won’t be able to tell him much of anything.
 

Nothing near the truth.
 

Epilogue

During the last year, he’d moved back in with his parents to recuperate. His collarbone was intact where the axe had severed it. A pink scar—a mean looking one—traveled down six inches along his deltoid and over to his chest. His skin had healed after two skin graft surgeries; the final product resembled severely acne-scarred skin. For now, he took on various film jobs. One involved a Kentucky Fried Chicken commercial, and the other, he captured a Civil War reenactment for a History Channel premiere. They paid so generously that he was saving up money to move into an apartment, but his folks weren’t in any hurry. They clung tightly to their son, who survived “The Anderson Mills Massacre” as the
Lawrence
Gazette
labeled it. The Green County investigators were made fools of in the papers because a viable explanation or a list of suspects weren’t produced. Hundreds were dead, and the investigation was ice cold.
 

Speculation was hurled from every news show—local and national—from government testing on nuclear weapons to a band of killers rampaging through town and causing devastation. That didn’t make sense because nothing in town was stolen, and those that were killed were done in a fashion that no human being could accomplish. It also didn’t explain the way the creeks and Silver Lake flooded and the fact the bridges and every access to Anderson Mills was frozen over and impassable—never mind the fog that prevented choppers from touching down and saving lives. Indictments were pressed against lead investigators and detectives since no results were being produced.
 

News programs begged interviews with him, but he declined. His parents had to move from their hometown to a new location to avoid the rogue paparazzi who swung into windows and wire-tapped their house. The issue declined after many months of unanswered questions and the fact nobody had secured an interview with him.
 

Andy Ryerson finally returned to being a nobody again.
 

Today, though, was a special day. Professor Maxwell’s office hadn’t changed since the last time he had visited a year ago to take the steel bin of film reels to Anderson Mills. He knocked on the door in the basement wing of the film school at Iowa University labeled Professor Maxwell—Film Department Director. An invitation arrived in his mailbox from the professor to visit today. A special event was taking place on campus, and he wanted Andy to attend.
 

He knocked on the professor’s door. A jovial faced middle-sixties man in a gray wool sweater and black khakis pants met him. His hair had turned a lighter shade of gray since he last talked with him. Two movie posters adorned his wall:
Citizen Kane
and
The Abominable Dr. Phibes.
“Andy, how’ve you been? I hear you’ve been keeping busy with film jobs. Way to persevere. Nobody passes my class without the entrepreneurial spirit.”

The professor shook his hand vigorously, kindly pretending not to notice the scarring along Andy’s face, neck and hands.
 

“I’ve been good,” Andy said. “My left arm still feels numb sometimes, but other than that, I’m okay.”

“I heard about Anderson Mills,” the professor said, shaking his head. “I’m glad you survived. You’re a good kid. I asked you to visit because I have a surprise. I just learned about this a month ago, and I arranged it in just two weeks. It’s very popular on campus.” He paused, lowering his voice. “I’d hate to say why.”

“How come? Just hit me with it.”

“I’d hate to say it,” he repeated, “but in a way, I’m exploiting you. Now don’t worry, nobody knows you’re here.”

He instantly grew concerned. “What do you mean?”

“The reels that burned up that night, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“I’m so sorry those reels were lost. I know they were worth a lot of money, and they were full of sentimental value. It was a complete loss.”

“No,” Professor Maxwell said. “Not a complete loss, Andy—not at all. God, nostalgia is as potent as an orgasm. Those movies were the glory days of the double feature, none of this crap plaguing the big screen these days. I could watch
The Gore Gore Girls
and catch
Beach Babes Versus the Swamp Monster
in one sitting or
Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things
and
Night of the Living Dead.
Now you have to pay outrageous prices for a single inflated movie, and most of the time, it sucks.”

Andy was confused. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

His professor understood his puzzlement. “Okay, here goes. A friend of mine is a firefighter in Green County. He knew about the project I assigned you. We talked about it in passing because he’s a fellow schlock movie fan. This man was one of the men at your uncle’s house who helped put out the fire.” The man’s smile spread and his face lit up. “We salvaged a set of reels. I’ve advertised it on campus as the only surviving movie from the Ryerson house. Oh, and it’s so popular that Schlock-Shock-Cinema is sending me offers for the rights through the mail and calling me five times a week.”

The wind was knocked from Andy, and his blood turned to ice. He shook his head with throbbing, stabbing pains. “
No, no, no
, what are you saying?”

“I thought you’d be happy. Oh, maybe you weren’t ready to think about the accident again. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t, I wasn’t taking that into consideration.”

“It’s not that.” Andy leaned against the wall, almost falling to the floor by the weight of the anxiety. “Your friend saved the reels of one film,
which one?
”

“Why, what’s wrong?” Professor Maxwell was flabbergasted. “You look sickly, Andy. Have a seat. You need a drink of water?”

Coming alive, Andy seized him by the collar, and Professor Maxwell yipped, startled.
 

Andy asked through gritted teeth, “What movie was saved?”

The professor politely brushed his hands off despite his frightened expression. “You’re having a bad reaction. Perhaps it’s my fault. I should’ve been more sensitive.”

He gulped in a breath of air and resisted the urge to vomit. His ears rang and his stomach lurched in his throat. “Tell me what movie.”

“
Morgue Vampire Tramps Find Temptation at the Funeral Home
,” he finally answered. “It was banned by the Dean, but his decision was overturned by a petition signed by over half of the campus’s students. It was wonderful. The film school is really making headway. Our funding will probably increase next year.”

Andy searched the office for the reels. “Where are the reels? You must tell me! YOU MUST DESTROY THEM!”

Professor Maxwell was so shocked he walked behind the desk to distance himself from Andy. “Destroy them, are you kidding? No offense, but I lost over twenty movies—lost gems, they’re irreplaceable. I’m sorry you’re disturbed by it. I thought a year was long enough to let you recover. I didn’t think you’d be this upset about the movie. I thought you’d be more excited for me.”

He lowered his voice into a soft growl, trying to calm himself despite the horrible situation that could unfold. “Think about it.
 
If those are the same reels that I played on my uncle's projector, there's a strong chance that movie could come to life.
 
The reels themselves could be controlled by the spirits of the dead.
 
Who knows what the spirits possessed and didn't possess when that town was slaughtered?
 
I don't fully know what they're capable of, and either way, it's not a risk I'm willing to take."

The man checked his watch, trying to ignore Andy's speech. “I was going to take you to the matinee feature. They’re going to show it on campus two times today.”