Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(45)

It’s a dead end. We have to get out of here.




Suddenly, they hear a GROWLING MOAN. They turn around to see a horde of humanzees shuffling into the back alley, blocking their escape.


JACK



Try all the doors. Maybe one of them is open.




The humanzees shuffle toward them as Jack and Stacy try all the doorknobs.


STACY



They’re all locked! What are we going to do?




Jack slams his shoulder into one of the doors but it’s not budging. He tries again and again, but the humanzees are rapidly closing in on them.


STACY



Hurry! They’re almost here!




All morning long, I’ve been pounding energy drinks — I think I’ve had six cans by now — as I make Nessa’s changes to the script and try to write some new scenes.

Nessa keeps saying I have to build the tension. Build the tension before we see the monsters. Build the tension before someone gets killed. And so I’ve been trying to keep the screws turning on our main characters. I’ll know if I’m doing what she wants when I meet with her later today.

In the meantime, I’m trying to get through as much of the script as I can before I have to head over to Uncle Doug’s store and make good on his final condition of the loan. I drain the last drops of my Berry Beast and look over at the clock. Oh, crap! It’s eleven forty. Where the hell did the last forty minutes go? Damn it damn it damn it!

I slam my laptop closed, grab my keys and phone, and bolt for the door. I have no idea what he’s going to make me do at his shop — stocking, cleaning, or something equally unpleasant, I’m sure — but I’ve only got twenty minutes to get there and I know he’s not going to be too pleased if I’m late.


“This costume is itchy,” I say, looking down through a brown spandex mask at the life-size Persian rug I’m wearing.

“I told you you weren’t going to like it,” Uncle Doug says.

“And it smells like rotten eggs.”

He laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Why —?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” He cackles as he raises a spliff to his chapped lips and takes a drag. “Suffice it to say, it’s one of the reasons the last guy quit. Not the only reason. But one of the reasons.”

“I don’t blame him.” I try to stick my Lycra-covered face farther out of the tiny oval cutout in the rug suit. “It’s disgusting.”

“Aaaa.” Uncle Doug releases a big plume of pot smoke and swats my comment away with the back of his hand. “Don’t be such a *. You’ll be fine once you’re out in the fresh air.” He starts walking toward the two-tone green Doug’s Rugs van parked by the garage doors. “Besides, what you really need to worry about are the wind currents.”

“The what?” I shuffle-turn my carpet-clad body to look at him. “What wind currents?”

“The wind currents. The gales out of the east.” He waves his joint in the air as he steps up to the driver’s-side door. “It gets pretty damn blustery up there on Newport Road. And that costume can act like a goddamn kite if it catches the breeze. That was the reason the guy before the last guy quit. A heavy gust blew him right into the street. Poor bastard was nearly plowed down by a semi. You think you can’t move so well in that thing, but you’d be surprised how agile you get when you have to play dodge the traffic.” Uncle Doug laughs as he scoots from left to right to left in a little sidestepping dance. “Come on,” he says, checking his watch. “Let’s get a move on. Time is money.” He opens the van door and climbs inside.

I start to waddle over to the passenger side as fast as I can, my steps seriously hindered by the constraints of this stupid outfit. It’s like I’ve been stuffed down a single pant leg of a fat man’s jeans. I pump my unitard-sheathed arms as hard as I can to try and propel myself forward, the gold tassels at the top of the carpet costume slapping away off rhythm.

I finally get to the van, yank the door open, and struggle to clamber into the seat. It’s a real battle against physics because as soon as I pull myself partially onto the seat I have to straighten out my legs, which then causes me to slide back down again.

By the time I manage to inchworm myself into the front seat I am completely exhausted.

“That was some show, Seanie boy.” Uncle Doug chuckles. “I feel like I’m really starting to get my money’s worth out of this investment.”

“If I’d known this is what you meant”— I wheeze —“by helping you out at the store . . . I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

“Oh, sure you would, Seanie. It’s a means to an end. A means to an end.” He turns the key, and the van coughs to life. “Besides, you haven’t lived until you’ve dressed up like a carpet and waved signs at passing cars. It’s how I started out thirty years ago. Now look at me. I own the place.” One more puff on his joint, then he throws the car into reverse. “All right, here we go.”

We back out of the warehouse garage, the tires crunching through the hardened snow. A moment later, we’re driving along an industrial street headed toward the main road.