Thirty

The director invited the cast to join him for dinner at the local Ski Inn so he could make a significant announcement.

Sally entered the restaurant buzzing.

On top of the world.

The cast and select crew grinned at her arrival. Even the grumpy MacDougal smiled. Sally looked for Max, but he hadn't arrived yet.

The restaurant had a campy visual flavor with its dollar bills plastered all over the walls, but it felt homey in its way, and in fact it was by now something of a home. She'd eaten here often over the past few weeks, as aside from the production's cafeteria-style catering tent there was nowhere else to go, with the next nearest restaurant being a twenty-mile drive. In many ways, Bombay Beach seemed like an isolated outpost on a desert planet far from galactic civilization.

Clare waved Sally to the empty seat she'd saved.

"I can't believe it's almost over."

"You did so great," Sally said. "You should be proud."

The server arrived to take her drink order. Sally skipped the usual Diet Coke and asked for a beer, whatever they had on draft.

Tonight, she felt like celebrating a little.

After four intense weeks of shooting, including eleven days so far in this desert, they all did. Their little low-budget horror flick had something special. Commercial but heavy on real drama and art-house vibes. An underlying integrity, a sense of confidence about being different from the standard fare. A lot of critics would likely hate it because it defied an easy narrative. A lot of viewers would likely hate it as it didn't spoon-feed to satisfy audience expectations.

Honestly, as a horror fan herself, Sally wasn't even sure it was her thing. But she felt mega proud of it. She'd given her best to this role, the kind of breakout performance that built reputations and opened doors to bigger and better things.

Not perfect, but really, really good. For all his flaws, Max had taught her that perfect wasn't an achievable goal. It was an idea that kept you fighting.

The moviemaking marathon had entered its home stretch. All Sally had left to shoot was her death scene, and then she could kick back. Despite Ashlee's roller coaster of sunny and stormy days and Max's erratic behavior, the production had run smoothly, combining the fun atmosphere of Mutant Dawn with the unified efficiency of Razor Lips. No union strikes, no flooding or earthquakes wiping out the sets, no actors booted from the cast, no producers responding to dailies by demanding massive script changes.

The cast had enjoyed the day off while the crew hauled gear and cabling into the ruins. The final scenes would be filmed soon, they'd put the martini shot in the can, and the production would wrap on schedule, knock wood.

"I hate to see the party end," Clare said.

Sally's beer arrived, and she took her first foamy sip. Perfect.

"Me too."

"I love you, you know. No joke. I've learned so much from you."

Sally smiled. "I love you too, Clare. You've taught me a thing or two as well."

"I love all these people, actually. Like, a lot. I'm gonna hella miss all this."

Sally understood that too. Every production ended this way for her. Weeks of intense tribal collaboration and zero-to-sixty intimacy, artificial but oh so real while it lasted, resulting in a lonely sense of hangover when it all finished.

"I know what you mean," she said.

"How do I go back to estate sales after this?"

"Maybe it's time to think about taking that leap of faith."

Clare laughed. "Perhaps it is."

Sally's eyes swept across the rest of the people drinking at the joined tables. Dorothy cackling over MacDougal's dry if sour humor. The key grip and gaffer, leathery crew veterans, playing it cool to let everyone know that even if they all believed this was Oscar material, it was just another movie to them. Ashlee flashing a flirty private smile at Nicholas, suggesting maybe she really did like him. Nicholas wearing his own impish smile that said he liked her too but liked himself more and reserved the right to play with fire just to watch something burn. The very cute Johnny Frampton, as always appearing lost but grateful to be alive and acting. And Bill Farmstead, the hunk exuding a calm confidence, who cast a warm, smiling glance at Sally that seemed to whisper, Hi. I see you.

That look made her tingle.

"Anyway, it's not over yet," she said. "So enjoy it while it lasts."

"What's next for you?" Clare asked.

"Another workshop to detox and level up, probably. Possibly a theater gig. Or maybe I'll jump straight into another film. It depends on what Louise has for me."

"I should get represented."

"You totally should. Is that what's next for you?"

"Yeah." Clare set her jaw in a determined scowl. "Hell, yeah. I will. Maybe change my look a bit to net a wider range of roles, new headshots, the works. But I was thinking, well…" Suddenly flustered, just as surprising.

Sally finished her beer, signaled for another. "What's up?"

"I'm hoping we can stay friends, that's all. Hang out. Tell each other about it when things are good. Have each other's backs when shit gets bad."

Sally grinned. "It's a deal."

A real promise. And not a contact, either, but a real friend.

She shot her own glance at Bill Farmstead.

I see you too. Hi, back.

He didn't react, but she could tell he'd noticed. They'd been playing this game ever since the production moved to the desert. Only looking. A little observing. Allowing the lovely tension to build bit by bit to some delicious future potential. It was all so much like her courtship with Hank, the gentle stuntman from Mutant Dawn she'd taken as her first lover.

Maybe she'd be bringing something home with her besides a new friendship and a solid film credit. She loved this part, where anything was possible.

For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Then the spell broke as the food arrived, and they all tucked into burgers and patty melts. At last, Max showed up gaunt and clad as usual in black, the T-shirt under his suit jacket declaring, I WANT MY MTV.

The production had continued to take a toll on him. His hair appeared even whiter than yesterday. The man looked like a vampire had been visiting him nightly. On set, he acted manic, the very atmosphere around him appearing to vibrate. Sally once caught him having a shouting match with his creepy camera.

Everyone noticed it, though they didn't seem to care. They were all invested in finishing the film. When Sally shared her worries with Clare, her friend shrugged and said Max acted exactly how she expected horror movie directors to be. Her agent, Louise, told her to focus on herself, shut up, and act like a pro. Johnny proved outright defensive, raving how Max gave him a chance and had showed a huge amount of interest in his grandmother. Only Nicholas proved a willing audience, devilishly suggesting she make a tell-all call to the Hollywood Reporter.

Tonight, however, the director appeared a changed man. He seemed to have reached a state of inner peace. Sitting at the table, he bit into his own burger.

"Vampyros Lesbos," Clare called out.

The hubbub faded to silence. Heads swiveled to the head of the table, where Max had seated himself. He chewed, took a sip of his Coke, and swallowed. He raised his napkin to dab his lips. Then he smiled at her challenge.

"Seen it," he said.

Someone had started this game the first night in the desert, and it had gone on ever since. Trying to stump the world's most hardcore horror cineaste by naming a film he hadn't seen.

Soon, everyone called out titles while Max whack-a-moled them.

"Eyes without a Face—"

"Magic—"

"The Brood—"

"Multiple Maniacs!"

"Child's play," said Max. "Is that all you got?"

The group broke into easy laughter. Showing off his encyclopedic knowledge of the genre, for each film, he identified the director, year of release, prominent actors, and a few interesting facts and bits of gossip about the production. Then, of course, he couldn't resist postscripting this information with his own critique.

Despite her worries, Sally couldn't help but smile along. Then she noticed a bit of ketchup on his jacket's lapel. It reminded her oddly of blood. Struck by an unsettling premonition, she shot a look at the door. Somewhere out there in the growing dark, she suddenly remembered, Dan and his cop sidekick kept their silent vigil.

If Dan is right about Max, she thought, it will happen soon.

The only scenes left to film were the death scenes.

Sally gazed again at the director. The red spot had turned back into ketchup. The banality of evil? She didn't think so. Max was a weirdo and leaned into his death fetish, and for weeks he'd appeared to teeter at the precipice of a nervous breakdown, but he hardly struck her as a killer. The bark may have been unsettling enough to keep you awake at night, but there was no bite.

"Now that I have your attention," Max began, and they all laughed again. "Seriously, I've seen every horror picture you could name. So many, it's convinced me there are no new horror pictures. Yup. It's all been done. Until now."

They listened, waiting for him to explain.

"If the dailies are any clue, this film is perfect. You're all perfect. I don't say this very often—and when I do I generally don't mean it—but this time I will and I do: Thank you. I could not have made this picture without you. I'm grateful to you. We aren't just making a motion picture. We're making movie history."

"Aww," said Ashlee.

Lighting a cigarette, Nicholas turned to Bill and murmured, "Call the cops. Somebody kidnapped Max Maurey and replaced him with his happy twin."

Dorothy clapped her hand over her mouth, holding back tears.

"Tonight, I have a challenge for you," Max went on. "A very interesting game we can play. Consider it a creative experiment."

He scanned their faces and appeared to like what he saw. They were up for anything.

"We're going to shoot the death scenes. Dorothy?"

The second assistant director handed out scene cards while Max went on.

"You may have noticed the crew running equipment into the ruins all day. The riggers set up a ton of lights, so many we had to crank up another genny. Now the crew is all leaving." He smiled at his crew leaders. "I struck a deal with these fine gentlemen that for one night, I'll shoot the death scenes handheld myself, with Dorothy holding the sound gear. A neorealist experiment I made time and set aside some film stock for. A shift into a documentarian feel."

MacDougal shook his head ruefully, showing what he thought of directors fooling around. No doubt, he regarded as it an expensive exercise in ego.

"What do you need us to do?" Bill asked.

"You'll all be wired for sound and placed at the bonfire in the ruins. Be on your mark at the appointed time, I'll shoot your death scene, and then you go straight to your trailer. My challenge to you is that you always be in character, even when you're off camera."

The actors chuckled as they pictured it. Sally frowned.

"Follow the scene card, particularly the blocking," he went on. "Stick to the lighted areas and stay in frame. Otherwise, play. Ad-lib as you need and give me your raw, uncensored feelings. This is a chance to immerse yourself in the film as an experience."

"What about me?" Ashlee asked. "I'm not dying."

"You can play too. We'll get some reaction shots at the end of the night."

"Goddamn straight I'm playing, Max. You're not leaving me out of this."

Sally said, "If we're ‘dying' tonight, where is the special effects crew?"

Max replied with a patient smile reflecting his newfound inner peace. She'd never seen this jittery and uncomfortable artist displaying such contentment.

"I'm going to let you all in on a secret. The monster will be animated." While the cast guffawed, he said, "That's right, we're going to paint the monster by hand as shifting gray and black smears straight onto the film. Don't worry, it won't be cartoony. It'll look muddy, like living shadows. At sunup, the crew will return, and Bruce Candy is coming out from LA to do some terrific gruesome effects to polish off the death scenes. I'm sure you know his excellent reputation, how realistic his effects are. We'll do pickups then too, whatever doesn't work out tonight."

MacDougal drained his whiskey. "My prediction is none of it is going to work out. I have to admit, though, I'm curious to see the footage."

"I might just surprise you," Max answered. "Anyway, between reshoots and the effects, I figure we're only two days from wrapping principal photography."

Nicholas nodded. "Cool."

"Cool?" Clare clasped her cheeks in her hands. "This is going to rooooock."

The director gave Sally a knowing look. "The key is to have fun. Don't try to be perfect out there. Don't be afraid to make mistakes. Dig deep. Tonight is a night of artistic freedom and wild creativity. This is your night." He smiled again. "I want you all to act like your lives depended on it."

The cast erupted in whoops and cheers.

"Aww," Ashlee said again, sour this time. "I wish I was dying."

Nicholas patted her hand. "Bad luck, Ash."

Bill cast Sally a wink, suggesting tonight also might be the perfect opportunity to do their own improv scene in the ruins, after the shooting ended.

Something she could look forward to as a woman. As an actor, the whole game sounded like a perfect night of play. Max's vision struck her as ambitious but rational. Still, she balked again, as it didn't quite feel right.

"Max," Sally said in a quiet voice.

His eyebrows lifted.

She asked, "What camera are you planning to use for this?"

The director chuckled.

"I'm glad you asked," he said.