1. Selene

1

SELENE

T he shambling mass of rotting flesh stalks the terrified blonde as she runs, screaming, through the junkyard. Ignoring the numerous paths to safety, she continues to run in a straight line.

My eyes narrow behind my aviator shades. No, no, no, this isn’t right.

“Damn it, Samir,” I mutter very softly under my breath. “You’re going to get me killed. I told you to keep the camera off the left side of your face.”

But he just keeps right on shambling, leading with his left leg. The camera zooms right in on the tiny, inch wide piece of prosthetic nose that just won’t stay down, thanks to Samir’s excessively oily skin.

“Ah well, they can fix it in editing,” I sigh.

This was the big leagues. After years of slogging away on microbudget independent films, I’d finally worked my way into a temp job on the set of Shambling Dead 6: Breaking New Ground .

The hit streaming series is big on gore, and short on plot. At least, a coherent plot. I’m not sure of a lot of things about the story to be honest. Like, who’s cutting the grass during the zombie apocalypse? And how come the guy who was the bad guy last season is the good guy this season?

It’s all confusing, but the great part about my job is I don’t have to understand what’s going on. The producers tell me they want a zombie with a putrid eye and maggots crawling around in it, I deliver that.

I’m not here for armchair critiques of the narrative, or to ruffle feathers by pointing out the obvious plot holes. I’m here to make magnificent looking zombies, bullet wounds, and the occasional severed limb.

I’m hoping my temp job will turn into a full-time gig. It would be nice to have a steady paycheck, and this franchise has legs for at least another season or three. Who knows, I might run into the right person working on this set and catapult my career to where I want it to be: big studio films.

Sure, computer generated graphics have taken the place of a lot of prosthetics and practical effects…but not all. Even the big budget movies still call people like me in for our expertise.

It’s a pretty great gig. Most people are happy for me. Not so much my brother, who thinks I should be working as a makeup artist in a fancy Hollywood salon.

The pay would be better, but I wouldn’t be able to stretch myself creatively. That’s why I heave a sigh of relief when the director yells cut and doesn’t mention Samir’s nose.

When I go to collect my pay at the end of the day, they hand me two paychecks. Frowning, I look up at the tired, elderly secretary before she can walk away from me.

“Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake. I have two checks here.”

“Yes,” she says, lips twisted into a dry prune. “You started as liquid manpower at the beginning of the week, but they converted you to full-time special effects assistant on Thursday.”

“Wait, does that mean I have a job? Like a real job? Why didn’t anyone tell me? ”

She shrugs. “I’m telling ya now, ain’t I? Do you mind? My feet are killing me and I’ve only got like a zillion of these left to hand out.”

I let go of her sleeve and stare down at the dual checks. Holy shit, a full-time gig? On a hit show? I must be living right. I can buy actual groceries instead of instant ramen and canned ravioli. Time to celebrate!

My puttering, reasonably priced Honda Accord feels positively dwarfed by some of the SUVs on the freeway during my drive home. I can envision myself being run over by one of them, and the driver not even noticing.

At least the sun is gorgeous as it splashes its brilliance over LA. I remind myself that this is the big time. If you live and work in Hollywood, you have to accept the bad traffic, the crime, and the lack of non-cringe men in the dating pool.

To amuse myself through the traffic jam, I scrutinize the other drivers to try and guess what kind of products they use.

Like the Karen in the Cadillac sitting beside me. I can tell she uses a bronzer and some kind of heavy foundation under her chin, but she doesn’t do anything for her crow’s feet. I could do a better job applying makeup with one hand tied behind my back in the dark.

I’m not judging. Lord knows I’m not perfect. I’m recording information for use in my job later. I might have to do makeup on a Karen, or a washed up frat boy trying to relive his past glory. It’s important to have an internal library of these things.

Now, the man sitting on my right side is trying to look natural, but his guy-liner betrays him. As does the way his lips don’t quite match the rest of his face in color. This is a man in his forties trying desperately to look younger. And who can blame him? This is LA. The only thing people fear more than gluten is getting older.

My heart swells with sympathy for this man, an aging actor who never has quite made it but hasn’t given up on his dream yet.

I record his exact look in my mind, the way he’s trying to project strength and youth while hiding a middle-aged droop. I can’t do much for him specifically, but I can use him as a template to create a character for a future movie. It’s immortality of a sort .

When I finally make it back to my neighborhood in Eagle Rock, the sun is a fat, blurry, red marble on the horizon. Soon it will sink below the waves and LA will be bathed in darkness, only to explode into a galaxy of light.

The cityscape is impressive when viewed from afar. When you’re in the middle of it, it never seems quite as magical. I park my Honda in the garage and snag my mail on the way up to my town house.

Ostensibly, the other half is for rent, but the landlord lists it as his residence for tax purposes. I’ve been neighbor free for several years, which suits me fine.

As I fiddle with my keys, trying to find the one for my deadbolt, I catch a whiff of thick cologne.

“Ugh, English Leather. Either someone’s grandpa is here, or my brother has been by for a visit.”

Or maybe, he is still here. I check the door, and find the deadbolt wasn’t locked in the first place. I run through my memories, trying not to panic. I have a clear recollection of locking the deadbolt. I’m certain of it, in fact.

Now it’s unlocked, and I smell my brother's favorite cologne. He will probably be sitting in the living room, feet propped up on my good coffee table, with a bottle of my chardonnay in one hand and a joint in the other.

Probably. Unless he is in some kind of trouble. The odds are about even on that.

I push my way inside and spot my brother sitting on the sofa, sans champagne or joint. Trouble it is. He looks up at me sheepishly, his face drawn in a nervous smile.

“Well, Justin, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Have you found my rainy day money yet, or should I get it out for you?”

“Um, hey, sis,” he says, swallowing hard.

I fold my arms over my chest and glare like Medusa herself.

“Don’t you hey, Sis, me. What do I tell you every time you come to me to bail you out of trouble? What do I tell you, Justin?”

“Um, that this is the last time?”

“Right. Well, last time I really meant it. No more favors, no more help. I’ve done all that I can for you, and quite frankly, way more than I ever should have been expected to. It’s up to you what you do with your life at this point.”

Justin hangs his head and stares at his lap.

“Um, Selene, please calm down.”

“Telling a woman to calm down is like throwing water on a cat.”

“I know, I know, but I just, um, I think you’re making them nervous.”

Them? What the hell does he mean, them? Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slowly turn around to look at the rest of the room.

The two large men flanking either side of the doorway naturally draw my attention at first. They have the eyes of hunting animals, and look ready and willing to tear me limb from limb if so ordered.

But it’s the man sitting casually in a straight backed reading chair, holding a copy of Fangoria open in his lap, that really scares me. His blazing white, tailored suit and fedora should make him look dated, but his eyes are like black hole portals to the pits of hell. His presence washes over me and makes me shiver, even if he wears a smile on his face.

“Is this your sister, Justin? You never said she was so charming.”

He pushes the brim of his hat back, and the light falls fully over his face. A jagged scar traces up from his collar, past his neck, and over his cheek. I know this man. I did a guest spot on my friend Mindy’s true-crime podcast to talk about monster movie magic. She talked about this man for almost the entire hour.

Salvatore Moreno. On paper, a simple shipping magnate. But he’s rumored to be in control of a vast and intricate criminal empire. They say that everything illegal, from gambling to prostitution to drugs, to even more deplorable things like human trafficking, run through Moreno first before they get the green light.

And of course, he takes his cut.

This is not the same as Justin falling in with a couple of two-bit thugs, or reprobates. Moreno is the head of the snake, the crème de la crème of the criminal underground. Whatever Justin did to get on his bad side, it must have been serious .

I almost can’t stand to look at Justin right now. I’m sick to my stomach. How could he get involved with slime like Moreno?

“Judging from the way you stopped breathing and turned white as a sheet, I take it you’ve heard of me?” Moreno chuckles and crosses his legs, sitting back in the chair. “Don’t worry, Se?orita, right now, I can envision a future where everybody makes it out of here in one piece.”

I almost collapsed in relief. Moreno’s eyes narrow.

“But here’s the thing. In order for this grand future to come to fruition, I’m going to need something to happen. My business runs on reputation. You understand?”

I nod, trying not to lose control of my bodily functions. This is the kind of man who could, and would, order my death without a second thought. The last thing I want to do is make him angry.

“Good. So, can you imagine what it does to my reputation, when some weasel shit bag borrows a bunch of dough and then skips town when it comes due? Can you imagine it?”

I nod again, my heart in my throat. It takes a couple of tries to swallow it back down. I’ve never been so terrified in all of my life.

“You understand that I can’t just let this slight go. It would be bad for business. Pretty soon, everyone will think it’s okay to borrow money from me and skip town instead of paying. There are a couple ways we can handle it.”

As if on cue, the two big men stride over and grab hold of Justin.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

One man holds Justin in a full nelson, while the other sits on his legs, pinning him to the couch. He draws a small claw hammer from inside of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing to him? Stop!”

“Usually,” Moreno says as if I hadn’t pleaded at all, “we would just break his legs. Nothing too bad for the first time, you understand, and we do it so he won’t be crippled for life afterward.”

His face turns into a mask of rage.

“But your brother made me look like an ass. That means we shatter the kneecaps instead. Oh, so much more painful, and takes a longer time to recover. And you never really do get back to normal. You’ll walk with a limp and a cane for the rest of your life.”

“Stop! Don’t cripple him, please, just tell me what you want.”

Moreno regards me for a long moment, then nods. The men let go of Justin and return to their posts. Justin glares at them. They smirk back. The one with the hammer doesn’t put it away. He keeps it out, fiddling with it, and buffing imaginary spots of dirt off its gleaming metal surface. Not too subtle, but if he wants to terrify Justin, it’s working.

“Now, the other option we have is that Justin can somehow supply us a good or service of equal or greater monetary value to his debt. He’s a waste of skin, but you, you might be able to help us.”

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m willing to pay his debt, if that's what it takes, but I’m not going to do anything illegal for you.”

Moreno’s eyes narrow to dangerous, dark slits. The scar on his face twists the scowl, making his eyes seem demonically uneven.

“I never said you’d go uncompensated for your trouble. We’ll forgive your brother’s debt, in full, and pay you twenty-five K for your troubles. I know you can use that kind of cash, I’ve seen where you live.”

I look from him to my brother and back again. I’m shaking so bad it gives my voice vibrato when I speak.

“Not interested.”

I reach for the landline phone to call the police. The goon with the hammer smashes it down on the receiver before I can grasp it. I recoil with a shriek, but he missed my hand. He wasn’t aiming for it anyway.

My cell phone is still in my car. I have to try and make a break for it. But the gigantic man with the hammer cuts off my route of escape. I can see the murder in his eyes. He really wants to use his toy, and he doesn’t care who suffers as long as someone does.

He’s practically begging me to try and get past him. A flash to my right makes me start. Justin flies past me and tackles the man around the waist. They both go down in an ungainly heap.

“Run!” Justin shouts .

My legs move as of their own accord, propelling me outside. As I run like crazy toward my car, a loud bang makes me scream and dive for cover. An agonized cry gets me up and moving again. I can't tell if it was Justin’s voice I heard, or someone else’s.

I almost stop, turn back. The urge to help Justin is so powerful it overcomes my fear for a moment. But only for a moment. There’s nothing I can do here by myself.

Blinking away stinging tears, I burn rubber out of there. I have to get help. I have to help Justin.

I’ll never forgive myself if I lose him.