Tommy could have had no idea that within just a few short hours of arriving at the WWI set for the night shoot he would be fighting for his very life.
He was busy carrying bowls of fake shit in Ward 2 when the attack came.
The First AD was struggling to restrain his temper; although to be fair to him, it was a complicated shoot, and a couple of the supporting artists were not helping matters. Lickie for one: a great bumbling oaf of forty-five who was continually moaning about his back when called upon to carry one end of a stretcher containing a wounded soldier. The SA on the other end kept quiet, even when Lickie decided he knew better than the AD about how far across the room they should carry their charge. His ad libs were kind of anachronistic as well. But when Tommy added one of his own—the director had called for improvised vocalisation—it was Tommy who received a dragon glare from Hetty, the frosty bitch who had a co-starring role along with Rona, albeit in the less glamorous role of Matron. She put her finger to her lips pointedly as she glared. Tommy carried his shit and shut up. Hetty was defiantly Old School: extras should know their place and speak when spoken to. A real contrast to the natural warmth of Rona.
The First AD finally twigged that the scene would be a whole lot easier if he got rid of the useless fuck who was doing all the moaning, despite the fact Lickie had signed a medical fitness form like everyone else before joining the production.
Lickie stood down, still muttering. Tommy barged past Hetty a little too forcefully, (nearly knocking one of the period oil lamps over as he did so and earning another icy glare) and took his mark for the next shot, not realizing that at that very moment the two constables guarding the main entrance were having their very own little bit of drama, of a decidedly more violent kind.
They had seen the headlights approaching up the country lane and paid the vehicle no inordinate amount of interest. Even when it pulled in through the open gate, the glare of the lights obscuring the occupants behind the windshield, they simply sauntered over to check, not expecting the back door to burst open and a veritable giant to leap out, coming at them in a run.
He topped seven foot, and was dressed in a dirty, stained and curiously seventies-style suit with big lapels and flairs. But it was the face that brought the two constables to a halt, momentarily freezing all rational thought, all professional decision.
The face was peeling and horrifically pockmarked, flaps of skin hanging loose to reveal weeping wounds beneath. Bloody eyes glared wildly, promising nothing but violent death. The teeth were bared like a rabid dog’s.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, the huge right hand clutched an axe. The axe swung out at the nearest constable—his name was Steven Keill, and he had a sweet wife and two-month old baby waiting for him at his little semi in Gloucester—and took him under the chin, lifting him off the ground. The giant held him up in the air for a moment, inspecting the wriggling copper like he was a pike swinging on a fishing hook, then shook him free and lunged at the second officer who was scrabbling belatedly for his walkie talkie.
The giant’s left arm swiped the officer’s helmet from his head contemptuously while his right followed through with the axe, smashing the blade deep into the exposed head. The skull parted around the weapon and the brittle crunch was loud in the clear spring evening. The cameraman behind the giant caught all the action, his features disguised under the latex mask of a bland, middle aged man, which only made it all the more surreal and disturbing. Two more grotesque figures lumbered forward from the back of the Transit.
The giant stooped to retrieve the axe, placing one size fifteen boot on the dead officer’s chest. This copper’s name was Jeff Barnes, a lonely bachelor with children from a previous marriage who wouldn’t be missed as much as Steven, although his mother would certainly grieve for him. The killer had no time for such considerations however as he tugged the blade from its socket. The axe pulled free with a soggy belch of blood and brain that pitter-pattered on the giant’s work boot.
The four intruders proceeded through the open gateway towards the production base two hundred yards beyond.
DC Nandu first became aware that all was not right in this peaceful country park in Wiltshire when she approached the Subaru containing the production security guard. The man inside appeared asleep, his head slumped forward. She noticed the bloody gash of his throat a second before huge hands clamped over her face from behind.
She was lifted into the air as easily as if she were six years old again, being bounced in her father’s loving grip as he pretended to toss her. This grip was not so loving, and the toss was not pretend. She flew into the night sky, the country mansion half a mile away upending as she came down again, smashing into the chicken wire perimeter fence. She rolled on the grass stunned, and the creature that had thrown her was shambling slowly (no hurry, it seemed) towards her.
She groped for her HT, but the giant took it calmly off her, like her father used to take away her favourite doll when it was time to carry her up to bed. She stared up at the awful face, and recognized him. She had done enough research after all. This was a proper bogeyman, alright. The real deal, thank you very much. His face adorned the scariest cover on the whole DPP 39 list—and there certainly was a generous damn choice of scary covers to pick from, Nancy Nandu, Detective Constable, one month into the job and already showing definite signs of promise.
She reached out ineffectually to ward off those huge hands, but they batted aside her attempts while the giant emitted a guttural growl that was as Video Nasty as his face.
She saw the cameraman with the hideous Mr. Bland mask holding out his Red One camera at her, and for a moment clung to the fragile belief that this might just be a publicity hoax, a stunt, just some student filmmakers screwing around—and oh, that would be fine with her. Oh God yes. Oh God!
She saw the other two figures lumber out of the shadows, big yes, but not quite in the same league as the Anthropophagous—because that’s what he was, the bastard. He was the Beast from the second title on the official nasties list, (alphabetically speaking) and her research had really paid off, hadn’t it? All that downloading was coming up with pay dirt. She could die in the knowledge that she knew the identity of her killer. But that was absurd wasn’t it? (No, no! Absurd was the title of the first nasty on the Banned List.) She managed to stop the insane giggle before it escaped. The Anthropophagous Beast was played by a seven foot two Italian actor whose name DC Nandu couldn’t remember right now, and frankly, it didn’t really make a whole lot of difference, did it? She was going to die, that was the real deal. Like the security man in the Subaru. Like the student axed in the bath tub, the prop wrangler drilled in the TV studio, the Geordie speared wearing a Bear Trap as a headgear fashion accessory.
So what is my video nasty death going to be?
DC Nandu had never been a screamer. In school, when the racists in her class called her a black bitch, trapping her in the toilet stall and telling her they would paint her white, she had not screamed. When they scratched her face, and ripped her hair, she had not screamed.
She would not scream now.
Her mind frantically replayed everything she knew about Anthropophagous the Beast, not for research purposes this time, but to calculate exactly how her death might come to her. Calculate. She would stay cold, speculative, she would prepare for her death and when it came she would not scream.
The Anthropophagous Bastard held both her wrists up above her head in one hand, began ripping her jacket open with the other, a huge knee holding her legs down all the while. Buttons flew from her expensive leather jacket (hand crafted in Covent Garden). Her mind, so agile, continued to race even while her body was immobilised. The brutal hand ripped at her blouse next. Another crazy thought. He’ll be disappointed by my breasts. They’re small. He won’t rape me. He won’t kill me.
Axe. There had been an axe killing at the start of the movie. Or was it a machete? She couldn’t remember. She recalled a man on a beach and a weapon splitting his head. But she wasn’t on a beach! There was no beach for miles. So this wasn’t consistent with the MO! Other deaths, Nancy: think! If you’re prepared you can defend, isn’t that what her training officer had told her in rookie class?
But all she could think of was a greatest hits package of kills, a frenzied montage of throat-tearing, axing and gouting blood. And the foetus eating scene, of course. How could she forget that? Anthro had ripped open a pregnant woman’s belly—or actually just reached under her sweater by the looks of the parsimonious effects sequence—and pulled out an unborn baby, commencing to scarf it down with vile relish. Her research had uncovered the startling fact this scene had even had a few seconds of footage broadcast on the nine o’clock news back in the early nineties amidst a second wave of “nasty” hysteria. The anchorman had referred to it as belonging to a snuff film. She reflected ironically, and with mounting hysteria, that their research just wasn’t on the same fucking par as hers. But at least she would be spared that horrific fate. She certainly was not pregnant.
Her blouse was ripped down to her navel now. The Anthropophagous dribbled and growled. Those filthy red eyes roved over her little black bra cupping her little black breasts, and if he was disappointed he didn’t show it. The eyes rose to hers. She wanted to shout at that made-up face, that understudy of an actor, “You’re not real. You’re just some sick fuck playing a part. A copycat psycho. Take off the make-up, fucker!”
The Anthropophagous Beast ripped away her bra, and the growls became lower, more guttural still, blood chilling. She looked up at the three figures behind him, all staring down at her patiently. There was the burned one, with the face like a torqued walnut. She’d seen his film, too, but the title skipped her mind just now. He held the biggest pair of gardening shears she’d ever seen in his melted hands. Next to him, his companion from hell was an atavistic throwback, naked but for rags round his groin like the most hideous Tarzan she had ever seen. Shaggy fur appeared to grow from his back and arms—it looked cheap, like wardrobe could only afford to sling an animal rug over his shoulders, but she knew no wardrobe girl had dressed this monster. His face was Morlock-wild, eyes maddened, sharing the same appetite for destruction as his buddy the Anthropophagous. Plastic-faced Mr. Bland with the camera stood proud in his smart suit, sharing the terror. And with the exception of Cameraman and his terrifyingly normal mask, she suddenly knew none of them were faking it. This was no make-up masterwork showcase. This was…oh yes, this was alllll real, baby. She remembered how her Daddy would stroke her hair when it was plastered against her forehead with nightmare dew. Don’t worry, honey, he had crooned at her. It’s not real, baby. Nancy of course knew different. She knew them. She could name them.
She opened her mouth to do just that.
But screams were all that emerged.
The scene in Ward 2 was in the can. The gate was good, and now they were resetting outside for an exterior shot. Rona was smoking a ciggie and chatting to Hetty. Rona had asked Tommy for a light, and he’d proudly used the authentic WWI replica lighter the props guy had entrusted him with for an earlier smoking scene. Hetty was responding to her with disapproving nods and grimaces. Tommy looked away before he got too irritated, and Lana flounced up, all bosom and winks. He groaned inwardly, wishing Jasmine had been in this scene to keep him company instead of cooped up in the Green Room tent waiting to be called for the next one. His tongue still felt stiff from licking her body in every inventive way he could think of, and his lips tingled at the memory of her taste. That brought out a smile, which Lana took as meant for her.
“I saw you staring at Rona again,” she mocked. “They’ll be bringing out a restraining order against you if you don’t watch your cute little ass.”
Tommy opened his mouth to reply—and everything changed forever.
Four figures were stalking towards the film unit. Spotlights raised on cranes picked them out, glinted from the axe in the giant’s hand, the shears of the Burned Man, the hand-held Red carried by Mr. Bland. They were walking slowly, stepping over guy ropes and tent pegs, no hurry. And Tommy knew them of course. Anthropophagous the Beast, the ugliest of the nasties; Cropsy the summer camp caretaker in The Burning, horribly disfigured in a prank gone wrong; the homicidal Bigfoot from Night of the Demon, the most violent entry in that maligned subgenre. And…
Tommy squinted to take in the details of the latex mask worn by the cameraman,—and Mark’s words came back to him: conservative, middle class Daily Telegraph Reader—but distance obscured it. “We need to get out of here…” he half croaked, half whispered to Lana, who was just starting to notice the figures.
The Irish director was swearing at the First AD as delays continued to plague the camera set up, far too involved to take notice of four clowns in elaborate costumes narrowing the gap between them. Jen did though, and Tommy saw her step away from the huddle round the monitor to intercept them.
“Jen, no!” Tommy croaked again. Then louder: “Jen WAIT!” He was running now, not sure what he was doing, but aware that he was the only one here—apart from Mark, thanks to his involvement in his latest project—who could recognise the implications of the bizarre costumes and make-up worn by the four intruders.
Fast as he was, his reactions were way too slow to save Jen.
Cropsy took her out.
The shears extended, opened to embrace the cheerful runner’s neck, closed again. Cropsy stepped over the body, red shears opening for more deadheading.
Some of the make-up and wardrobe girls started to scream. The director looked up at last. He hadn’t seen Jen die, and was annoyed at this potential further delay to his schedule. “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on this site?”
The video nasty killers ignored him. They kept coming. The First AD stepped forward to intercept them, likewise unaware of Jen’s fate. He was a big chap with a shaven head, slightly camp. Anthro lunged at him, pounding him to the grass, sawing at his neck with the axe, growling, slobbering.
That was it. The tide broke. Make-up and wardrobe girls were scattering into the night, sturdy prop guys joining them. The Irish director ran towards Tommy, smashed him aside, and disappeared into the night. Tommy nearly fell, but Lana held him up. Her face was ghost white, but set, calculating. “Into the Ward!” she yelled at everyone. “Quick! We can lock them out…” Tommy wasn’t sure what good that would do them, but guessed it might be worth a try.
The sound guy had jumped up from his control seat next to the director’s monitor, moving faster than Tommy had ever seen him. He heard Lana’s suggestion and clearly decided it was a good one, because he was the first to launch himself inside the wooden cabin. He would have shut the door there and then too, if Tommy hadn’t been close behind him, forcing it back. The night was alive with screams. Where the fuck were the police? He’d seen them all evening, prowling the perimeters, but now, when they were sorely needed—not a blue uniform or plainclothes in sight.
There was Hetty, stumbling grimly towards the ward, hitching up her matron’s dress as she ran. Behind her, Rona, beautiful eyes wide and scared, her mouth open, catching up on Hetty fast.
Tommy stood back against the open door, scanning the knot of screaming crew members, actors and extras as they streamed lemming-like towards the ward, now that someone had imposed a course of action on their brains. He was searching for Jasmine, and praying that she had heard the commotion from her tent and somehow got away.
There had been about fifteen people involved in the night shoot. Jasmine and two others had been sent to the Green Tent. Six or seven were already in the ward, the rest either running towards the door or scattered into the night. There were a dozen places to hide, Tommy conceded, and probably a lot of them better than concentrating themselves into this one location. Sitting ducks, anyone?
Almost everyone who was coming was in the ward now. Mark slowed as he trotted forward, his eyes wild, confused. As if all this might be a dream—certainly not part of his smug schedule. He entered the ward without looking at Tommy. Rona was last. She glanced at Tommy as she squeezed past, but his eyes were fixed on the Anthropophagous Man who had peeled off towards a huddle of huts and tents at the west side of the set—towards the Green Room tent. Towards Jasmine.
Somebody was yelling at him to close the door, and he snapped out of his inertia, starting to do just that. But somehow, over the hubbub of screams, sobs, shouts, scraping of period bedsteads and chairs inside the ward, Tommy heard a more distant scream, and this one was definitely female. Jasmine? He couldn’t tell. He froze in the doorway, his self-survival instincts urging him to stay, his passion spurring him to run after Jasmine. It might not be her. Knowing he was selfish and not caring right then: Please God, let it be someone else!
“Shut the fucking door!” The sound engineer’s white beard flecked with spittle as he shouted.
Bigfoot was mutilating the First AD’s body, worrying it like a dog. A wet squelch and the creature tugged something free. The AD’s head bounded off the wooden wall of Ward 2, just above Tommy, leaving a red smear. Bigfoot lumbered forward, face feral, hands open wide.
Tommy closed the door then.
They couldn’t lock it, as there was no key; this was a period set, it didn’t need that much verisimilitude. The designer hadn’t anticipated the ward might need to withstand a siege.
Lana snapped into action. “We need to barricade the door! Use beds, chairs, anything!” That galvanised the stunned group of TV folk somewhat. While the make-up and wardrobe girls huddled in the middle of the room with Hetty, looking ab-so-lutely traumatised (and Tommy certainly couldn’t blame them for that), Tim, the Third AD, and a stocky grip whose name Tommy didn’t know seized a bed and brought it over to the doorway. Tommy helped them angle it across the door—which luckily opened inwards.
“What the fuck is going on?” The sound engineer again, his eyes bugging with terror as he turned from one frightened face to another. Tommy stepped back, not confident at all the barrier would hold. He performed a rapid check of the room. “More beds!” He and Tim proceeded to position another bed on top of the first. Lana helped stack chairs and a period bedside table behind them. It was flimsy, but it would have to do. His breathing coming in heavy gasps from the effort and adrenaline, Tommy glanced around at his fellow siege victims. Besides himself, there was Rona, Lana, Tim, Mark, Hetty, Juliette the make-up girl, Sally from wardrobe, the sound engineer and the grip. The rest had fled or died. Tommy watched Juliette helplessly thumbing her cell.
They could hear a snarling from outside.
“Who are they…?” Rona was looking for answers as well. Nobody had any. “What the fuck do they want?”
Tommy crossed to the window.
Anthropophagous was back, and he had a companion.
Jasmine was tucked under one arm, screaming and wriggling, looking like a petulant five-year-old in its monstrous Daddy’s grip.