WidowMaker (17 page)

Before Mitchell could commend Derek on his quick thinking, the wolf man leapt onto the sofa in front of them, digging its long claws into the leather.

Mitchell had to hand it to the agent, because, man, he reacted with nearly cybernetic speed, twisting his body around, bringing the poker to bear. So, by the time the werewolf came at Derek, the poker was in place. The beast tried to compensate, but couldn’t in time. A sickly, wet sound announced that the werewolf had impaled itself on the poker.

“Are you okay?” Jill knelt by Derek’s side as Mitchell checked out the wolf man. It even smelled like wet dog. Unless anyone knew better, about the whole electrical fire in its chest and all, no one would ever know that it wasn’t real.

“I’m really beginning to hate these guys,” Derek stated as he retrieved his gun.

“What now?” Mitchell asked.

Derek aimed his gun at the glass door. “Screw these bastards,” the agent said as he fired. The bullet pinged off the door. Not so much as a scratch left behind.

The bullet whizzed by Mitchell’s head. “Hey! Watch it!”

“It’s bulletproof, remember?” Jill said, her face pale. “This place is a fortress.”

Mitchell hugged himself, shaking. “So we’re gonna have to play their version of
Death Race 2000,”
he whispered.

“They expect us to search for our driver,” Derek stated. “But that path is obviously a trap. We’re going to find another way out of here.”

Jill’s face fell. “But what about Cecil?”

“And that horrible excruciating death thing?” Mitchell asked. Where there was one horrible excruciating death, there usually were more.

Derek paced the foyer, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the marble.

“Number one. With these psychos, Cecil’s probably already dead. Number two, assuming he is alive, if we try to find him, we’re all dead—guaranteed. My priority is getting the surviving civilians,” Derek jabbed a finger in Jill’s and Mitchell’s direction, “namely, you two—out. Then, I’ll coordinate the locals and storm this damn place. That’s Cecil’s best chance at survival.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER 12

Simon climbed the stairs to the projection room, holding the reels out in front of him and careful not to let them soil his suit. With what Amanda paid him, he could barely afford his fifth of the rent, let alone buy a new suit.

How did he get stuck with this damn film, anyway? Amanda looked messed up when she dropped it off. She was a crazy bitch, but tonight … she looked like the Mad Hatter. Her washing-machine hair, her clothes stained with what looked like blood. Paint, my ass.

And what about Jill and Howie? Amanda didn’t like her authority questioned. So Simon knew it was only a matter of time before Jill got axed. But Howie? Howie was an even bigger ass-kisser than Simon was. So if this film got Howie fired, then Simon was screwed.

All Simon wanted to do tonight was sit next to Cameron Diaz. Stalk her at the after-party. And, if he were lucky, get her phone number. But who was he kidding? Simon would be lucky if he got an autograph, especially if he got his suit stained.

Simon pushed open the door to the projection room. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. It smelled like a skunk wearing perfume.

Simon thought Woodstock was over. Someone needed to tell the guy in front of him. Dreads, tie-dye, brown corduroy pants. Yeah, this guy definitely had a solo party going on in here.

“Here’s
Terror
,” Simon said as he dropped the reels on the counter. This room made Simon grateful for his tiny cubicle back at Temple Studios. The drab, beige walls, metal shelves, lack of exterior windows, and musty smell made his office space look like paradise.

“Jesus, man. What did you do with this thing?” The projectionist, Bob, asked as he lifted the reel cover. “These reels are covered in … I don’t know …” He rubbed his fingers together and held them to his nose. “Something warm and oily. What’s up with that?”

“How should I know? Just do your job.”

Simon didn’t get paid to ask questions. And if this went off without a hitch, maybe he would finally get an office. Howie’s would be nice.

“Whatever you say, man,” Bob said with a slight, fake Jamaican accent. The closest this guy had gotten to the Caribbean was a Bob Marley tribute. “It’s your party.”

The projectionist lifted the reel out of the case. Simon approached the small, square window in front of the projector. He scanned the crowd. Will Smith. The
Twilight
cast. Damn. Simon should be down there schmoozing instead of stuck in this dank room with a stoner.

“Oh, man, that weed I bought last week was too strong. That’s the last time I buy grass from an Amway salesman,” the projectionist mumbled from behind him.

“What did you say?” Simon said, reluctantly turning away from the window and his vacant seat that was now being occupied by Stacey in accounting. How the hell did she get an invite?

“Nothing, man …” the projectionist’s eyes were glazed as they drifted toward the projector. “I just didn’t remember threading the film into the projector.” He dug in his dreadlocks, scratching his head. “You’re ready to rock and roll at the stroke of midnight.”

Bob had better not be going out to smoke some more. This guy needed a clear head. Simon couldn’t afford for anything else to go wrong.

Simon’s eyes darted around the projection room. Sure, he took film production in college, but that was on VHS. He knew nothing about the projector, with all the knobs and levers towering over him.

The door slammed shut, like the door on a crypt. Simon’s crypt. ’Cause if anything went wrong tonight, Amanda would bury him alive.

Simon approached the projector, his legs heavy with dread. It was like walking toward his own execution. What if the stoner screwed up the timer and set it for noon instead of midnight? Seriously. The guy didn’t even remember threading the film. Simon searched the machine for something, anything, resembling a timer. He reached into the open panel on the side. The film snapped forward.

“Shit!”

Simon looked down at his finger. Blood oozed out of a gash. He searched the room for a towel or tissue. Figures—he wouldn’t find a tissue. Simon jammed his finger in his mouth to stop the bleeding. This is exactly why he had no business in this room.

A soft, rhythmic murmur drifted across the room. Simon paused, listening. It sounded like a Gregorian chant. The kind he heard in church when he was a kid. Was another screening going on?

A low moan came from behind Simon. He turned toward the projector, yanking his finger out of his mouth.

“Who’s there? This room is off-limits.”

* * *

Derek led the way down a darkened hallway, Mitchell’s heavy breathing following close behind. The red glow of a camera shone overhead. Derek hoped these sick bastards were enjoying the show. The next TV they’d be watching would be behind bars.

Farther down the hall, Derek stopped, holding up his hand. Ahead, the walls were studded with alcoves. And not just any alcoves, but alcoves filled with life-size replicas of Frankenstein’s monster, The Mummy, The Thing, and The Fly.

Derek kicked at Frankenstein with his foot, and took a step backward. His gun was aimed at Frankenstein’s head.

Mitchell approached the creatures, fascinated. “Look at this collection!” The teen hesitantly smoothed his hand over the mummy’s bandages. “I had wet dreams that weren’t this good.” He stepped up to Frankenstein, poking at its chest. “Of course, if any of them come to life … good-bye ecstasy, hello nightmare.”

Derek glared at Mitchell, raising a finger to his lips. Not because the kid’s yammering would give away their position. Please, the Baxters could probably see, hear, and smell everything that was happening. No, he just needed the kid to be quiet so he could think.

“I thought we were looking for a way out of here,” Jill whispered, falling into step with Derek. “Where are you taking us?”

“Toward the kitchen.” He
hoped
it was this way. If not, they’d have to circle around. And waste time that they, and Cecil, didn’t have. “I’d wager these prima donnas don’t take out their own garbage. There must be a servants’ entrance. And my bet is they didn’t spend as much money on security for those quarters.”

“Holy Zonker!!” Mitchell squealed.

Derek swung around. “Didn’t I tell you—?”

Oh, shit. The monster mash that Mitchell had just been admiring had come to life. Their movements jerky as they stalked down the hall. Beams of yellow light shot out of their eyes.

“Oh, my God!” Jill screamed.

Their moans ground into Derek’s marrow. But not for long. Derek aimed at the mummy first, shooting it between the eyes. Its body hit the floor. Okay, one down, and three to … or not. The mummy sat up, its head cocked to the side.

“What now?” Derek asked, looking at Mitchell.

Mitchell’s terrified expression ping-ponged from the approaching monsters to Derek. “Now I think it’s the time in the picture for us to run like hell,” he suggested.

“That’s the first thing you’ve said all day that I understood.”

Derek grabbed Jill’s hand, pulling her along. They turned a corner, Mitchell sliding on his socked feet, bouncing off a wall. Derek stopped, checking the door to their left. Locked. He continued to the next door. They needed to find the kitchen—fast.

Jill’s back was pressed against the wall. Her eyes focused on the end of the hall. The moans and buzzing were getting closer and closer.

Mitchell bent over, hands on his knees, panting. “And don’t even think of saying, ‘Let’s split up.’ ” He pointed from Jill to Derek. “You two are the obvious love interests here, and I’m the expendable comic relief who always gets killed. So, no splitting up!”

The floor popped open, swallowed Mitchell, and snapped shut. His screams faded away.

“Mitchell!” Derek yelled, dropping to the floor. “Mitchell!” Derek’s fists pounded where Mitchell fell through. The hatch wouldn’t budge. He listened for Mitchell’s voice, but the only sounds were the wails approaching from down the hall. Damn it! Derek slammed his fist against the floor. First Cecil, and now Mitchell. Could the kid have even survived the fall?

Derek might not be able to help Mitchell and Cecil, but Jill was here, and she needed him. Lacing his fingers with Jill’s, he tugged her away from the creatures.

“Like Mitchell said—we stick together.”

* * *

Bob stepped into the deserted alley behind the theater, searching his pockets for his car keys. The street flooded with light. Limos waited bumper to bumper. People stopped, craning their necks to catch glimpses of who occupied them.