"The Walk," by Dennis Etchison, is a neat little horror story about the dog eat dog world of Hollywood in which a director and writer have very different ideas of how their collaboration should proceed.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
"The Walk," by Dennis Etchison, is a neat little horror story about the dog eat dog world of Hollywood in which a director and writer have very different ideas of how their collaboration should proceed.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
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Overview
"The Walk," by Dennis Etchison, is a neat little horror story about the dog eat dog world of Hollywood in which a director and writer have very different ideas of how their collaboration should proceed.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466884144 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 11/12/2014 |
| Series: | Tor.Com Original Series |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 32 |
| File size: | 666 KB |
About the Author
Dennis Etchison has been called “the most original living horror writer in America.” His writing has won both the World Fantasy Award and the British Fantasy Award. He is also the editor of The Museum of Horrors, which won the World Fantasy Award. He has written screenplays for John Carpenter and Dario Argento, and served as a staff writer for HBO’s original series, The Hitchhiker. He lives in Los Angeles.
Read an Excerpt
The Walk
By Dennis Etchison, Jeffrey Alan Love
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2014 Dennis EtchisonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8414-4
CHAPTER 1
The bridge was not very long, but after a few steps the boards began to jerk unsteadily. The writer stopped.
"Told you not to look down," he joked without turning around. It was all of six feet to the shallow creek bed. "Hold on and we'll make it. Promise."
"We can do this, Chaz!" said his wife in her best cheerleader voice.
He resumed walking, very deliberately. The ropes of the suspension bridge grew taut as the three people behind him followed. Then the boards began to sway and buck again, as if a wind had come up, though not even a breeze strafed the surface of the water.
"Everything okay back there?"
"Damn heels," the director muttered.
The writer moved to one side. "Amber, why don't you take the lead? So I can help our friends."
The writer's wife, who was wearing tennis shoes, slipped easily around him, rolling her eyes as she passed.
"Sorry," said the director's wife, embarrassed. "They keep getting stuck."
The writer reached back, waving her forward. What was her name? "Chanel. Put your hand on my arm. Can you do that?"
"Not her heels," said the director miserably.
Now the writer glanced over his shoulder. Chanel was wearing sensible flats, but he hadn't noticed the director's cowboy boots. One tapered heel was wedged in the gap between two planks. Well, he thought, what do you expect? Chanel lowered her cell phone and smiled patiently at her husband.
"Give it a little jerk, Gerry," she told him.
"Lean on me." The writer grasped the padded shoulder of the director's sport coat while the man freed himself. "There. You got it."
Amber stepped onto solid ground and turned to the others with an exaggerated smile. "We did it! Now who's ready for a drink?"
"Me!" said Chanel. "I mean, if everybody else ..."
"Hey, no sweat." The writer led Chanel and Gerry off the end of the short bridge. "I've got some cold ones in my office."
Chanel looked around. "Where?"
"You'll see," said Amber, winking privately at her husband.
Chanel scrolled through the images in her phone, stopped on the last one, and compared it to the landscape ahead. The writer caught a glimpse of the frame, a long shot of the path as it entered the dense foliage behind his house. From here it might have been the wildly overgrown fairway of an abandoned golf course; either that or the longest backyard in the world. The ridge was only a few narrow acres, but from this angle, the trees on both sides overhung with a shroud of vines, it resembled an unlighted tunnel. In the distance, at the end of the leafy canopy, the newly painted top of a mansard roof flashed in the setting sun.
"Is that it?" asked Chanel.
"Ah," said her husband. "I should have known."
The writer sighed. "It was supposed to be a surprise."
Chanel squinted at the hillside and a crinkle appeared on her smooth forehead for what might have been the first time. "What is it?"
"Come on," the writer said. "I'll show you."
They followed him carefully into the maze of damp vegetation. Too carefully, he realized. As if they were afraid of stepping on quicksand. There was still a half mile to go, with so many twists and turns it would be easy to lose your bearings if you didn't know the way. Amber could walk it in her sleep, of course; she had helped with the landscaping, which he had designed to double for a forest, even a jungle, depending on the script; that was his plan. But he hadn't considered the night scenes. It could be dangerous then. What if somebody from the crew went exploring and broke a leg? Lawsuit city, that's what. During the shoot he would close off the footpath and put up some tiki lights just to be safe.
"Ger?" he heard Chanel say to her husband. "What's wrong, babe?"
The writer saw that Gerry had paused beneath a transplanted palm tree, his snakeskin boots sinking into the freshly irrigated mulch. The director curved his fingers to form a tube, as if sighting through an imaginary viewfinder. Between the drooping fronds was a brief glimpse of the hillside ahead, where shadows collected below the truncated gables of an old-fashioned house. It was hard not to imagine a square-shouldered young man standing on the porch, about to descend the rickety steps.
"Not too shabby," the director said admiringly.
"I know, right?" said Amber. "Chaz built it himself!"
Chaz chuckled. "Well, not with my bare hands. After our house was finished, there was a pallet of wood left over. So I had to do something with it."
Amber beamed. "Isn't it amazing?"
"You know how much it would cost to build a set like that?" the director said.
"How much?" said Chanel.
"Half the budget of this whole picture," Gerry told her.
"Is it a copy?" she asked.
Amber was puzzled. "Of what?"
"The one at Universal."
"That one's a copy, too," Chaz said to the director's wife. "They reconstructed it for the tour. The original was just a facade."
"Perfect for the frat house," the director said. "I see why Freddie wants to shoot here."
"Four-fifths scale, I'm afraid. And only two functional rooms—my office and a bathroom. I rigged a water tank and a pipe to the main line."
"No problem. The interiors can be on a stage. Is there a graveyard yet?"
"Right behind it."
"Chaz thinks of everything," said Amber.
"Like the one in Baltimore?" asked the director.
"Who knows?" Chaz said. "Those are all night shots, anyway."
"What's in Baltimore?" said Chanel.
"The real one," Gerry told his wife.
"The real what?"
"You're supposed to know these things."
Why? Chaz wondered. What did it matter what she knew about the film? Unless he had gotten her a job as his personal assistant. Well, of course he had. What do you expect?
The director kept his fingers curled and made a short pan between the trees: a patch of dry sage, ready to blow away in the tropical heat, on a hillside wide enough to carve faces, and the top floor of a Gothic folly where shadows grew like goatees under a waning sun.
"We'll shoot exteriors during the Magic Hour," he announced.
"Magic?" said Amber.
"The last hour before sunset. Everything looks fantastic, with the right lens. Technovision's the best."
"Don't get your hopes up," said Chaz. "Freddie likes to use his own equipment."
"We'll see about that," said Gerry. He glanced at Chanel. "Are you getting all this?"
"Sure, babe."
With what? thought Chaz. Her phone? If she's going to be his assistant she should carry a notebook. A thin one might fit in the back pocket of those skinny jeans. Barely.
Chanel clicked off several more exposures, then balanced gracefully against a tree trunk, slipped off one of her designer flats and knocked out a gob of moist, leafy earth. "What time is it?"
"I know, right?" said Amber. "It gets dark so fast now!" Tiny goose bumps rose like lines of Braille on her perfectly-tanned legs. The writer had picked this outfit for her, white shorts and a loose, scoop-neck blouse over a neon green bikini top. A perfect image for the one-sheet. He hoped the director was paying attention.
"If Gerry doesn't get a meal every three hours," said Chanel, "he's not himself."
"Four," said the director. "Don't worry about it. I brought my meds."
"We can go back to the real house," Amber suggested. "I could whip something up. Plus there's some wine left. Robert Mondavi. It's awesome."
"No worries," the writer told his wife, reaching for the phone in his pocket. "I'll make reservations at Ernie's."
"I can do it," said Amber quickly, opening her phone. "Ooh, you're gonna love Ernie's," she said to Chanel. "The chicken molé is crazy!"
But Chanel already held a clear-coated fingernail over her own phone's key pad. "What's the number?"
"Not yet," Gerry said to her.
"Why?"
"You have work to do."
"Oh."
The director turned to Chaz. "I was thinking."
"Oh?"
"After she leaves the party. Cuts through the woods to her car, trips and falls in a hole, blah blah. Starts to claw her way up. Then a sound, crunch crunch. Before she can climb out, someone steps on her fingers. She screams ..."
The writer nodded. "Scene fifty-eight."
"Yeah, well," the director said, "I don't think so."
"No?"
"We've seen all that before."
The writer managed to control himself. "How do you mean?"
"Try this. She hears something, I don't know, twigs, crack crack. Keeps walking, follow-shot, handheld, till she's in the clear. She thinks she's safe ..."
"That's not in the script," said Chanel.
The writer was surprised. She actually read it? Why?
The director shrugged. "So? We change it. She makes it to the cars. Music cue. Peaceful, calm. Starts to call her boyfriend. Then cut to her car. The door's already open! Her eyes bug out, she backs away—and there he is, right behind her!"
"Who is?" asked Chanel.
"Our boy Eddie. Who else?"
Amber tried a grin. "That'd be cool. I mean—d'you think so, Chaz?"
"I don't know," Chaz said in a low voice. Now he's a writer, too. Sure he is. "It's a classic set piece. I did a lot of research ..."
"I have a question," said Chanel.
"Yes?" said the director impatiently.
"Well, what's her motivation?"
What's it to you? the writer wondered.
"To get away," Amber told her.
"Oh." Chanel considered. "Then why doesn't she run? Instead of walking, I mean."
"She never runs," the director said with disdain.
"But it's a horror movie, isn't it?"
"Trust me."
"Either way," said Amber cheerfully. "I can handle it. Can't I, Chaz."
"Where are the cars, exactly?" The director tipped his chin at the thick copse to his left. It trapped what was left of the daylight as the sun winked its last. "What's beyond those trees?"
"Not much."
"That can be where she parked."
"It drops off. Plus there's a fence."
"So? She climbs over."
"Too tall."
"Then she opens the gate."
"There isn't one."
"How about the other side?" The director turned to his right.
The writer shook his head. "The same. Galvanized chain-link. Another ravine."
"This used to be a farm," said Amber proudly. "It was his uncle's."
"Really?" said Chanel. "I love farms. What did he grow?"
The director wasn't listening. He waved a hand, cutting them off. "So we shoot an insert. Some empty lot with a sign that says Parking. We don't have to see her come out of the trees. As long as it matches."
"That'll work," said Amber.
The director ignored her.
The writer noted this. A nearly subaudible whispering began, as a buried irrigation system released a controlled flow of water through the enclosure. The automatic timer had come on. It was later than he thought.
"Maybe we should call it a day," he said. "It's almost dark."
"Okay by me." Chanel rubbed her arms, turned up the collar of her silk blouse and started back along a winding path she could no longer see. She hesitated uncertainly. "Babe? Are you coming?"
"You're not finished yet," the director said sharply.
"I'm not?"
"I told you. You need to walk the walk."
"Oh."
Chaz felt a pulse at his temple as his blood pressure rose. His wife didn't get it yet. But everything was adding up. He turned to her.
"Amber?" he said with calculated calmness. "Why don't you give her the grand tour?"
Amber was confused. "Wait. What?"
"Did you bring your key?"
"My—?"
"Here. Use mine."
The writer stepped over to his wife, whispered something in her ear, reached into his pocket, took her hand and closed her fingers firmly against her empty palm. "You two go ahead, while I walk Gerry back. We have some business to talk about."
"Yes," the director said.
"Meet you at Ernie's. Say seven-thirty? Take the Escalade."
Amber stared wide-eyed at her husband.
"I know you can handle it," he told her.
Now there was another sound, a deep, throbbing undercurrent beyond the trees.
"What's that?" said Gerry.
"The hills."
"What about them?"
"They're—settling," said the writer. "Happens every night, when the sun goes down."
"Then we can't shoot live sound."
"No worries. We can cover it in post."
Amber's eyes moved between the two men, trying to understand.
Chaz nodded at her solemnly, moving his head only an inch or two at a time, until she finally blinked.
She turned away.
"Let's go," she said to Chanel without expression. "I'll show you the way."
"Wait," said the director. He took off his sport coat and tossed it to his wife. "Here."
Chanel slipped it on, rolled the ends of the sleeves and took a deep breath. "Okay," she said gamely. "Well, don't you boys worry about us. We'll see you at, um—Ernie's. I guess."
Then she raised her phone, clicking off another exposure, and followed Amber along the only path through the rest of the forest.
* * *
The table wasn't ready so Chaz led the director to the bar, where a soccer match was in progress on a big-screen TV. Gerry made a quick call to his wife.
"So how is it?"
"Kinda spooky," said Chanel, "actually."
"Good," the director said.
"Babe, you should be here. It's got a big old staircase and everything."
"Great. I can get some high shots. What else do you see?"
"Not much," Chanel said. "We have to find the light switch. You go ahead and order."
"I can wait."
"Seriously?"
"I told you, I'm fine."
"How's she doing?" said Chaz as they settled into a booth.
Gerry closed his phone. "She doesn't know how to turn the lights on."
"No sweat. Amber does."
The director leaned back against the leather upholstery. "Some spread you've got out there. Your uncle did pretty well, huh?"
"He was lucky."
"I was wondering where got your money." Not from writing Corman remakes for the Syfy Channel, the director thought. "What kind of crops was it again?"
"Not crops. Oil."
"No shit."
"Not that kind."
"What other kind is there?"
"Polyunsaturated."
"As in ...?"
A waiter appeared, carrying menus from the dining room.
"How are you, Señor Charles?"
"The usual, Pedro."
"One Patrón Gold, with a Coke back. And your friend?"
The director saw a laminated page behind the granite salsa bowl. It pictured a selection of tequila cocktails, all made with 100 percent blue agave. Whatever that meant. Welcome to California, he thought.
"You have a house red?"
"Of course." Pedro turned to the writer. "Where is the señora tonight?"
"On her way."
"Muy bien," the waiter said, backing off.
Chaz sat forward and steepled his fingers. "When did you talk to Freddie?"
"This morning," said the director.
"Me, too."
"What did he tell you?"
"He wants it wrapped by the end of the month."
"Ah. For the EuroSales Mart." The director squinted as the windows darkened. "Anything else?"
"He said I should talk to you."
Thanks a lot, Freddie, thought the director. He wants me to deliver the horse's head for him. Either that or Chaz is playing dumb.
"So," Gerry began, clearing his throat. "Freddie's come up with a few changes."
"What kind of changes?" said the writer, staring him down.
He really is dumb, the director thought. Who else would write a script called Animal House of Edgar Allan Poe? And who but Freddie would buy a piece of old-school shit like that?
"Well, for starters ..." The phone in the director's shirt pocket vibrated. He took it out and looked at the screen. His wife again. He pressed the talk button. "Listen, I'll call you back. Chaz and I are in a meeting."
"But Ger—"
"Something wrong?"
"It's getting so-o-o cold. And ..."
"And what?"
"This place is creeping me out."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure."
"Did you get the lights on?"
"Yeah, no. Amber says the fuse box is toast."
"Then ..." Screw it, he thought. It was a bad idea, leaving her there. "You know what? We can come back next week, with the trucks. For now, just get over here to Ernie's."
"I don't even know the way."
"Stay with Amber. She'll walk you through it."
"She's looking for a flashlight. It's dark out."
"Remember your chakra exercise?"
"I think so."
"Well, call me if you need me. Remember, I'm here for you."
He tapped the off button.
"Trouble?" said Chaz.
"Not at all," said the director. "Now, about the picture. I was saying—"
"It matters a lot to you, doesn't it? Even a B movie like this."
Gerry felt his blood sugar dropping as he thought, I've been waiting to direct since I was ten, when my dad gave me his Bolex. And what are you, an MBA?
"I mean, it's a start."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Walk by Dennis Etchison, Jeffrey Alan Love. Copyright © 2014 Dennis Etchison. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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