The week before, Dani had agreed to be Creepy Balloon Girl in Zombie Ennui, the fourth opus in my series of six-minute horror films. Honestly, it wasn’t much of a script, just something I’d come up with on the fly as an excuse to spend more time with her. Halfway through filming, we got chased out of the cemetery by some kind of tweaker squirrel, and then we couldn’t stop laughing long enough to get back on track. Punch-drunk and sweaty, we’d retreated with a couple of Big Gulps to the town park, taking refuge from the Texas heat under the measly shade of a drab brown live oak.
Dani sucked up helium from one of the drooping balloons. “It is I, your guidance counselor, Titus Androgynous. What are your future plans, Kevin?” she’d asked in her Minnie Mouse voice. Then she pressed the edge of the balloon to my lips, her fingers warm and soft against my face.
I hesitated for as long as I could, greedy for the feel of those fingers. At last, I inhaled. “I will be on my home planet of Totallyfuckedtopia, aka working at the Deadwood Froyo shop.” I was grateful that the helium made it sound funny instead of painful.
Dani wiped at eyes still smudgy with stage makeup. “How come?”
I had wanted to reach for the familiar rip cord of an emergency joke. Instead, I told her the truth. “Money, for one. Unimpressive grades, for two. And three…” I sipped some Dr Pepper. “I gotta look after my mom. She’s got some … health issues.”
“What about your dad? Can’t he help out?”
“My dad’s in Arizona,” I said.
Every Christmas, we got a fancy holiday card featuring a smiling photo of him and his New and Improved Family 2.0 in matching shirts and smiles, hugging it out in front of a big-ass, professionally decorated tree. It was a far cry from the cigarette-stained walls of the crappy apartment that my mom and I shared, where she spent most of her time passed out in her bedroom or hungover on the couch watching daytime TV. The booze had wreaked havoc on her diabetes, and now she was drinking down the disability checks as fast as they came in. In rare sober moments, she’d kiss my forehead and murmur, “I don’t deserve you. You should get out.” But I didn’t want to be a bailer like my dad.
“Well, as your guidance counselor, I feel obligated to remind you that you have options,” Dani had said, and the way she’d looked at me, so full of hope, I wanted to believe her. The only thing I was solid about were my feelings for Dani. When I dared to imagine a future that didn’t totally suck, somehow, it always started with the two of us—her painting and me making indie horror films. But breaking into the film industry would be impossible, stuck here in Deadwood. And there was no way Dani would want to waste her time with a nowhere dude like me, anyway. The truth was, Dani had options, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t one of them.
“Kev?” Dani prompted. “Plans?”
I snatched away Cthulhu Shortcake, avoiding Dani’s gaze. “I hear there’s a future in contract killing.”
“My man Kev’s going to direct the first hipster horror movie,” Dave said, throwing me a bone.
“Totally.” I slurped more soda to ease the ache in my throat. “The thing is, you won’t be able to tell who’s a zombie and who’s not, because who can tell the difference between the terminally ironic and the undead? It will be called—wait for it—The Undudes. It’ll be all ‘Narghhhzzmnnnn,’ and then the other undudes standing in line outside the concert venue in bloodstained, sardonic beer caps will be like ‘Mnnngggggrrrr,’ which translates to ‘That flesh was too mainstream.’”
Dani nodded. “Got it. So, the Undudes plot: what happens?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
Dave grinned. “Which is why it’s the perfect Kevin movie!”
He was kidding. I knew he was. But it lodged in my chest like a piece of truth shrapnel. I shoved Cthulhu Shortcake deep into my pocket. “Not cool, Dave.”
He looked at me, hard, and that was almost worse. “Dani’s right. Not too late to be a part of the future. It’s coming, pal. Ready or not.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And I hear it’s gonna have a Starbucks.”
The lights started doing their taunting flicker-dance. The voices on screen slowed to a drunken crawl, and then the film stopped altogether. We were plunged into darkness. Power surge. A real one this time.
“Shit,” I said to the dark.
A chorus of protests erupted down below in the theater. People were actually screaming. Jesus. Fucking entitled wankers. In that moment, I hated them all.
Dave shook his head. “Dude, I went last time.”
I sighed. “I’m on it.” Maybe I’d just stay down there in the basement for the rest of my shift.
Dani grabbed the flashlight from its perch on a two-by-four beside the door. “I’ll go with you. You know, in case Scratsche keeps his coffin down there and you need backup.”
And, just like that, my hopes for the night came back online.
* * *
We felt our way toward the stairs to the lobby. The small emergency bulbs that lined the sides of the floor had come on, turning the carpet dark as blood. When I got to the photograph, I stopped. Even in the near dark, those eyes taunted: Look at me, Kevin. I see into your heart. I know you. I took the last four steps in a leap, my heart pounding.
Outside, lightning crackled in the dark sky as heavy rain pounded the Cinegore’s nearly empty parking lot. As we followed Dani’s flashlight beam, John-O fell in behind us like a hyperactive puppy. “Hey, what happened to the movie? It was just getting good. It’s weird, but I was actually starting to feel like I was part of it.”
“Wow. Cool story, bro.” I brushed past him, pulled open the door of the theater, and yelled in, “Sorry, folks. There’s been a power surge. We’ll have the movie up and running in just a few minutes. Thanks for your patience.” I readied myself for the usual litany of complaints, but it was mostly strange moaning, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to break up a heavy make-out session in the back row.
“It was kinda spooky,” John-O continued. “I thought I saw—”
“Dude, we gotta fix the lights. Back in five,” I said.
Dani and I opened the door behind the concessions stand and trundled down the steps to the rank, damp basement. There was no AC down there, and the summer heat had baked into the walls, giving the room the high warmth of a kitchen after a full day’s work. It was a sharp contrast to the frigid temps upstairs, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
“Where’s the fuse box?” Dani’s flashlight bounced around the cinder block walls in George Romero circles of light.
“On the right,” I said. “Higher.”
She raised the beam, and I pried open the metal cover. I toggled the master switch until I heard the familiar glurg-kachunk of the generator wheezing back to life, along with the muffled slur of bad movie dialogue as I Walk This Earth got back up to speed. Above our heads, long fluorescent tubes blinked like children startled awake and then, all at once, they caught, and a sickly bluish glare flooded the basement. I knew we should go back up, but I wanted more alone time with Dani.
“Wow.” I walked deeper into the basement. “This is like an episode of Hoarders: Horror Show Edition.”
Metal shelves stuffed with crumbling Fangoria magazines lined one wall. A six-foot-tall swamp monster replica rotted in a forgotten corner behind stacks of busted theater seats. On the floor was a box of dusty promotional giveaways—red-eyed rubber rats and fake-guillotine cigar cutters. Dani leafed through water-stained, foam board–mounted placards for movies in Glorious Technicolor! “Satan’s Nuns. The Diabolical Mr. Lamphrey,” she read. “The Five Fingers of Dr. Killing Time.”