CHAPTER 3
Five minutes past six on Thursday evening, Wynne entered the film set on foot after having parked her Silverado in the narrow alley next to Moira's Bar & Grill. Her eyes were wide and shining as she took in all the sights. Although there was still plenty of hectic activity, the mass confusion from the previous day had vanished - now, everyone worked toward a single goal.
The set decorator had done a sterling job preparing the filming site itself by building a firepit and placing several props around it for the actors to sit on: a hollow prop that resembled a large piece of deadwood would be on the camera's left while several slabs of real desert rock had been dragged over to appear on the camera's right - they were all designed to be at the same height so the faces of the actor and stuntmen involved in the scene would be level to obtain the best possible shot.
To control the flames between the takes and to ensure they would get the required coverage, the location construction workers had concealed a gas burner within the authentic-looking firepit. A man wearing flame-retardant gloves ignited it to test the strength and size of the flames; he appeared satisfied and put it out to keep enough liquid gas in the small, hidden canister for the actual filming.
While that was going on, the camera and sound crews performed final checks of their equipment. A man who lowered the boom microphone toward the firepit set kept looking at another fellow who monitored the sound level on a computer; several thumbs-up and a single thumbs-down were displayed to show where the best altitude would be for the mic.
Wynne found it tough going to tear her eyes away from the excitement surrounding her, but the costume fitting beckoned and she didn't want to be late - thus, she set off for the cluster of white trailers in the hope of finding the right one without too much hassle.
---
A short half hour later, the door to the makeup trailer - adjacent to the one that kept the costumes - opened to reveal a proper cowpoke: a tall figure in brown, long-legged cowboy boots, faded blue-jeans, a dark-blue double-breasted shirt, brown sheepskin gloves, a brown denim jacket and finally a low-crowned cowboy hat that featured a braided leather belt in a Native American design circling the crown.
The impressive figure carried a Winchester rifle and wore a fully-stocked leather gun belt around the hips; the holster sat low on the right thigh and held a Colt Peacemaker like those preferred by the real gunslingers of yesteryear. A leather sheath containing a ten-inch hunting knife - made of rubber - was attached to the gun belt on the left side and reached down onto the left thigh.
Wynne broke out in a wide, cheesy grin of Olympian proportions when she clapped eyes on herself in a row of mirrors. "Lawwwwwwwwr-die! Wouldya lookie there… whoindahell that supah-sexeh gal be?" she said before she broke out in a string of snickers.
The makeup trailer was utilitarian in nature and consisted of four lawn chairs that had been lined up in a row. A three-foot-tall mirror that featured integrated LED lights ran the entire length of the wall. A wide shelf had been attached to the foot of the mirror to provide space for the countless scissors, combs, aerosol cans, jars of makeup, lipsticks and other items used there.
Strip lights installed in the ceiling ensured the light levels would be equal throughout the trailer to ease the work of the two female makeup artists working there - one looked to be in her mid-twenties while the other was closer to her fortieth birthday. Both wore white smocks to protect their own clothes from the inevitable spillages of the various substances used in the trailer.
Two of the four chairs were occupied by burly men in their early thirties who both wore costumes typical of the era and setting. Unable to turn their heads to the side as they both wore bibs to keep their costumes clean while the makeup session was underway, they settled for glancing to their left at the latest arrival.
The older of the two makeup artists was busy wet-combing the hair of the man occupying the chair the furthest from the door, but she had time to look up and offer the new person a quick nod.
The younger makeup artist stirred a bowl of an unidentifiable yellowish-brown substance using a wooden popsicle stick. Looking up from the task, she let out a humorous wolf call and motioned at the nearest available chair. "Yeah, you're looking good. Hiya, I'm Brittney. Please, have a seat. I'll be with you in a jiffy."
"Okeh-dokeh, Brittneh…" Wynne said and shuffled over to the chair next to the guys. "Howdy, fellas. I be Wynne Donnah-hew, dontchaknow… I be guessin' all y'all gonn' be in this he' scene as well, huh?" she continued as she leaned the prop rifle against the edge of the shelf that ran at the foot of the mirrors.
"Yup. I'm Brad… this is James," the man nearest to her said while the makeup artist applied glue to his face so a full beard would stick. "We're the stunt team-"
"Don't move your jaw!" Brittney said in a stern voice.
Wynne snickered again as she pulled out the lawn chair and sat down. "Merceh Sakes, son, we bettah lissen ta what Brittneh he' be tellin' us, yuh? Or mebbe she gonn' give us a giganto zit on da forehead, yuh?"
Brittney let out an "Ohhhhhh!" followed by merry laughter.
The smile soon faded from Wynne's face as she dug into her jacket's right-hand side pocket to retrieve the page from the script she had been given. The fellow handing it to her had introduced himself as the script supervisor and dialogue coach. Although he had been professional enough toward her, his face revealed he had little patience for dealing with rank amateurs - in short, she had to deliver the goods when it came to the two lines she was meant to say in the firepit scene.
She read the first line numerous times before she looked at herself in the mirror and tried to assume a proper Hollywood-like expression. An oafish grin didn't work with her gunslinger costume, and neither did a holier-than-thou stare that she copied from Tiffany Worth, the Virgin Tower missionary that she'd had several run-ins with. A clenched jaw and a dark scowl looked more Western-like, so she tried to hold that mask while she spoke her first line: "Y'all wan'some mo' coah-ffee? Y'all wan'some mo' coahhhh-ffee? Y'all wan'some mo-ahhh coah-ffee? Y'all-"
As the door to the makeup trailer opened with squeaking hinges, Wynne glanced to her left in case it was someone important from the film crew - or better still, Mandy.
A six-foot-eight ghoul with dark skin, a chiseled chin and movie-star features burst into the trailer dressed in black from his boots to the cloak he wore over his shoulders. The horrific creature spread his arms out wide and let out a bassy, booming "Rahhhhhhhhhhh! I am za Got Of Bloot and you are my veec-teems!" in an accent supposed to be reminiscent of Eastern European as spoken in certain classic horror and monster movies.
"Hooooooooooooooo-leh shittt!" Wynne cried as she clapped eyes on the frightening intruder. She was already in the process of reaching for her prop-Peacemaker, her prop-Winchester or even her rubber hunting knife when the supposed ghoul lowered his long arms and broke out in a fit of laughter.
Wynne needed to take several deep breaths in the hope of restarting her heart while the makeup artists and the two stunt guys to her right just laughed with the ghoul. Once she had regained enough of her equilibrium to breathe, she let out a couple of croaks that were supposed to be chuckles. "How- how- howdy there, Mistah…"
The African-American fellow in his mid-thirties who played the ghoul continued to have a broad grin gracing his striking features. "Hello, I'm Rob Steele. Are you new?" he said as he put out his hand.
Wynne shook the gloved hand; relief flowed through her when the hand was human to the touch. "Y- yuh… Wynne Donnah-hew 's mah nah-me. I been he' thirteh minnits an' all. Well, I live he', but I onleh been he' at the set fer thirteh minnits…"
"Oh… wow. Welcome to the movie industry, Wynne," Rob said as he sat down on the last available chair. His large frame dwarfed the lawn chair and made it send out distressed creaks and groans, but he shuffled around a little to even out the burden. Reaching into his costume, he produced a cheap, dog-eared paperback that he flipped open so he could read on while waiting for one of the makeup artists to get to him.
"Much obliged, Rob… well, this he' gonn' be mah first an' onleh mo-shun pic-chure, but anyhows. Lawrdie, y'all bein' a tall fella, aintcha?"
Rob used an index finger to act as a bookmark, but he had time to offer the raw rookie next to him a friendly smile that looked out of place given the sinister nature of his costume. "Yeah, I guess. I've played nasty monsters or creatures in all kinds of cheapo movies. Mind Murders, Freakazoids… Cannibal Dawn. Virgin Massacre just wrapped last week. This week, I'm one of the undead vampire ghouls and next Tuesday, I'll be a caveman in a dinosaur flick. Silly, perhaps, but it puts food on my table."
Wynne scratched her chin. "Yuh, well, beg' pardon an' all, but I ain't nevah heard o' none o' them there mooh-vies or nuttin'… but them horrah mooh-vies jus' don't do nuttin' fer me anyhows, so… evah been in aneh Westuhrns befo'?"
"No, this is my first," Rob said with a smile before he turned to his book.
Brad and James, the other two stuntmen, got up and left the makeup trailer after having their beards glued on, so Brittney moved over to Wynne to start the process over. She held up a small plastic box that contained something resembling a furry slug. "Well… I think we'll forget about the beard this time. I'll just bronze you and apply some filth here and there to give you a rougher edge. That'll make your gorgeous eyes pop, too."
"Haw?! Lawrdie, Ah ain't too sure Ah be likin' that! I kinda got a thing fer havin' mah eyes right where they is an'-"
Brittney briefly narrowed her own eyes to see if Wynne was trying to mess with her, but soon found that it wasn't the case. "I meant it'll make them stand out a lot better on camera."
"Oh… yuh. Okeh… that's a load off. Uh… okeh. Yuh. Jus' askin'," Wynne said as she settled down on the chair. Soon, the familiar bib was wrapped around her neck so the makeup process could get underway.
-*-*-*-
When the call of 'Actors on set! Actors on set!' was delivered by Alison Gardner through her electronic bullhorn ten minutes later, Brittney stood back to admire her work on Rob Steele's face. His natural dark-brown complexion now featured several pale-blue stripes akin to zig-zagging lightning bolts; he had been issued with creepy contact lenses and a set of monster dentures for his close-ups later on, but he would use neither for the wide shots since they bothered him too much.
Wynne remained in her chair while the gray makeup Brittney had applied to her cheeks and chin dried. Looking at herself in the mirror, she had to admit the illusion of having a filthy face worked a treat. "Haw, wouldya look at us now… Lawrdie. Y'all wan'some mo' coah-ffee? Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind. Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind. Y'all wan'some mo' coah-ffee? Haw…"
Rob chuckled at his colleague's enthusiasm. Getting up from the chair - that seemed to let out a sigh of relief - the tall fellow put out his gloved hand. "Break a leg, Wynne."
"Whah, Ah sure be thankin' ya, Mista Ghoul. Right back atcha," Wynne said with a grin as she bumped fists with the tall man.
---
Stepping out of the makeup trailer, Wynne spotted a very familiar figure a short distance away. The compact, athletic shape could belong to no one else but Mandy Jalinski, so Wynne upped her tempo and made a beeline for the sheriff to at least show off the costume before she was needed on set.
"Howdy, Sheriff Mandeh!" Wynne cried, waving her prop-Winchester high in the air. Once she was close enough, she turned around to flaunt her brand new, classic looks. "Lookie he', darlin'! Ain't this coo'? Yessirree, I be a real dog-gone dain-gah-russ gunslingah tanite!"
Mandy grinned and pulled out her handcuffs that she wore in a pouch on her utility belt - she was soon twirling the metal cuffs around her index finger. "Ya just watch yaself, ya hear? I don't want no trouble in my town," she drawled in an approximation of her partner's Texan dialect.
"Merceh Sakes, I be a kitten fer ya, Sheriff… can't say nuttin' 'bout whut Mista Rob iz gonn' do, tho'!" Wynne continued, pointing at the makeup trailer where Rob Steele stepped outside in full costume and makeup - the tall, powerful stunt performer checked his smartphone but soon looked up to wave and offer Wynne and the sheriff a big thumbs-up.
A chuckle escaped Mandy's lips. "I suspect he could pose a problem…"
"Naw, he be friendleh enuff. Anyhows, I bettah hurreh ovah yondah ta that there real set there so I ain't gonn' get mah bee-hind fiah'ed on mah first nite. Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind. Y'all wan'some mo' coah-ffee?"
"Pardon?"
"Aw, them be mah lih-nes! Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind. Y'all wan'some mo' coah-ffee? Not in that ordah, tho'. The othah way 'round. Anyhows, once I done said 'em, that be when Mista Rob gonn' pounce, yes Ma'am!"
"I see," Mandy said with a grin. "Here's a little something to get you on your way." A kiss was duly exchanged before Mandy stepped back and tried to recapture Wynne's dialect: "Give 'em hell, Cowpoke. Yuh?"
"Yuh!"
---
Wynne was guided onto the set and into the proper spot by one of the assistants of the short-tempered production manager Alison Gardner. Once she had planted her rear on the hollow log a couple of feet away from the dormant firepit, she glanced to her right to check out the camera's position and the people who were working behind the scenes in the literal sense. Another quick glance to her left proved there was nothing there but the sweeping desert for as long as the eye - or the lens - could see.
She was soon joined by the two stuntmen she had met in the makeup trailer. They sat down on the slabs of flat rock opposite from where she had been placed; one grinned at her while the other received final word from yet another of the assistants. Rob Steele waited a short distance behind the two men to be out of the camera's line of sight. One of the people from the wardrobe trailer climbed a stepladder to add the finishing touches to the black cloak - it needed a nudge here and a tuck there to sit right across his broad shoulders.
Wynne mouthed her lines over and over again, but she needed to push it out of her mind when she and the stuntmen were joined by a pot-bellied, balding fellow in maroon slacks and a striped shirt. "Psst, fellas… who dat?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
"Well," Brad Hutchins said, " 'dat' is the movie's second unit director Domenico Rossini."
"Lawrdie. Okeh. Bettah be on mah best behaviah, then… awright. I can do dat, yessir," Wynne mumbled as she shuffled around on the hollow log to find a comfortable spot to sit on while looking as authentic and tough as possible.
The director put his hands in the air to show he needed to be listened to. When Rossini had everyone's attention, he said: "All right, we'll do a hand-held first of each of you guys doing cowboy stuff for a montage. Just regular stuff… anything. Then we'll reset and do a wide with dialogue that ends with Rob jumping in on camera-right. Once we're there, we'll do close-ups of your reaction… then it's onto the actual fight. Any questions? Good. Alison, take it away!"
Wynne's eyes bugged out on stalks at the amounts of information she needed to parse not to mention the breakneck speed it had been delivered in. "Buh… mista directah, Sir!" she said and waved a hand at Domenico Rossini who had already moved behind the camera. "Ah ain't got no clue whaddindahell y'all jus' done tole us… an' close-ups an' all? Ain't nobodda ever done tole me 'bout no close-ups… Ah mean, Ah ain't got nuttin'- y'all gotta considah Ah ain't no real actah or nobodda! Ah jus' signed this he' li'l note thing yestuhrdy an'-"
"Quiet on set!" Alison Gardner roared loud enough to wake the dead.
"But… but… naw, lissen… this he' jus' ain't gonn- Ah dunno whaddindahell Ah' be doin' he'!"
"Light the fire!" Alison roared; a moment later, the member of the on-set special effects team who wore the flame-retardant glove ran forward and ignited the gas burner inside the dormant firepit. It took a couple of adjustments of the feeder valve to make the flames look the best through the lens, but it was all old hat for the experienced crew member and the task was soon accomplished.
Tension mounted on the set as everyone waited for the director's command.
An assistant holding a clapboard ran in front of the camera and said something that might as well have been Ancient Greek. Wynne was on the brink of a panic attack and couldn't stop staring wide-eyed and gap-mouthed at the whole thing. Her heart thumped so hard in her chest that she was concerned it was trying to break free from the restraint of her rib cage.
The camera crew had already moved the hand-held GyroCam forward to get close to the first of the stuntmen sitting opposite from Wynne - Brad. The experienced player looked the part with a deep scowl etched onto his swarthy, scarred face; his outfit was dirty and shabby and his teeth had been made black and disgusting.
"And action!" the director barked.
The veteran stuntman drew a hunting knife from his belt and began to cut chunks out of something meant to resemble jerky. Once enough footage had been recorded to cover all eventualities in the editing phase, the camera operator panned to the second stuntman, James Ferguson, who pretended to warm his hands near the flickering fire.
Unlike his companion, James wore a cleaner outfit like he had stolen it from someone's clothesline within the past couple of days. His Boss Of The Plains hat was of a far better quality as well, but the elegant headwear could not offset the danger that rolled off his snake-like features, blond hair and piercing, ice-blue eyes.
Before Wynne could as much as gulp, squeak or breathe, the crew moved the GyroCam over to film her from a distance of five feet. Disconnecting her brain, she set her autopilot on 'do something Western-like' which made her draw her prop-Peacemaker. She released the lock and spun the drum a couple of times like she was checking the ammunition. The camera remained on her, so she pulled out one casing and replaced it with one from her gun belt - her moment in the spotlight ended when she spun the drum again and clicked it shut.
"And… cut!" Domenico Rossini yelled from beyond the camera. "All right, that's in the can. Alison?"
The electronic bullhorn was soon pressed into action by Alison Gardner who used it to bark "Reset for the wide shot! Sound department! S.C., get your man ready! Wardrobe! Makeup!" though her own voice - that had the quality of an angle grinder - would have sufficed.
'Yes, boss! Rob! Showtime!' someone said in the background.
Wynne allowed herself to take a deep breath and release it as a sigh of relief. Her mouth was as dry as the sand surrounding them as she re-holstered the prop gun, so she looked around for a bottle of water or, even better, a can of beer.
A moment later, Brittney - the makeup artist - fell over her with a powder puff to see if she needed to freshen up the bronze and the filthiness. The young woman carried a tray-like box around her neck that contained all kinds of remedies like sponges, powder in several different shades, tweezers, aerosols, nail polish, various jars of makeup as well as fake beards, scars and the glue required to make them stick.
"Whaddindawohhhhh-rld? Whoa-whoa-whoa there, misseh!" Wynne croaked as she found herself with a faceful of powder. She slammed her eyelids shut by instinct but soon opened them once more to stare wide-eyed at the woman whose face was only a few inches away from her own in a super-close-up.
"Sit still, this'll only take a… there, done!" Brittney said with a grin as she continued to powder Wynne's nose, cheeks and forehead to remove the shine.
"Yuh… okeh… haw. Anyhows, ya woudden happen ta know where Ah could get som'tin ta drink or som'tin, wouldya?" Wynne said as she fought an urge to sneeze.
Brittney shook her head as she put the powder puff onto the tray she carried around her neck. "There's no time for that now."
"Awwww-shoot. Typical," Wynne said and rolled her eyes. "Jus' when Ah'm saposed ta say mah lih-nes, them folks leave me with a drah throat. Haw. Mebbe it gonn' make mah voice huskiah…"
A handful of seconds went by before Alison Gardner roared: "Quiet on set!" into the electronic bullhorn she carried around at all times.
In the background and well out of sight of the firepit set, someone coughed. Then the person coughed louder. Then the person broke out in an all-singing, all-dancing coughing fit that featured plenty of hacking, spluttering and moaning.
"Lawwwwwwr-die, that sure sounds lack ol' Barreh," Wynne said in a mumble. When the coughing continued and in fact grew stronger, there was little doubt it was Deputy Sheriff Barry Simms doing his worst to cough up his lungs.
One of the stuntmen sitting opposite Wynne - Brad, the swarthy bandit - let out a quiet laugh and leaned forward so he could speak at a reduced volume: "I think he's about to croak. Friend of yours? Boyfriend?"
"Naw… well, I know ol' Barreh perdeh good, but naw, he ain't realleh no friend or nuttin'. He be one o' them de-per-ties he' in Goldsborah… I call 'im Mista Sixteh-Cigs 'cos he done smokes so much, so… yuh."
" 'Nuff said," Brad Hutchins said and laughed a little harder.
Meanwhile, the coughing fit continued though it did die down somewhat.
The promise of a respite from the onslaught proved insufficient to appease Alison Gardner's fiery disposition: "Are you deaf back there?! I said quiet on set!" she cried at a volume that would have made even the fifty-foot Desert Dweller jump a foot in the air, squirt on the proverbial carpet and sprint back to his cave in Maynard Canyon - as an unfortunate fact for all involved, the coughing returned after a brief lull. "What part of quiet on set don't you understand?!" she roared in an even louder fashion.
Several seconds' worth of coughing later, Alison cried: "That's it! Consider yourself expelled from the set! If you don't get your ass out of here in two seconds flat, we'll call the sheriff!"
The coughing died down at long last; Wynne got to her feet though she didn't know if she was allowed to. In the fading light, she could just about make out Mandy helping Barry back to the Durango while slapping his back. "Awww… that's mah sweet, li'l Mandeh in a dang nutshell. Always tryin' ta help them poah souls… or mebbe she be slappin' ol' Barreh upside his noggin, I dunno!" she mumbled before she broke out in a cheesy grin.
She sat down in a hurry when the camera operator and the director came closer to the firepit so she wouldn't suffer the Wrath Of Alison as well.
"All right," the second-unit director said, "this is the wide shot with dialogue. Rob will use the last line of dialogue as his cue to enter. He'll come straight for you-" - he pointed at Brad who sat the closest to Rob's position off-camera - "and grab you from behind. Cry out when he grabs you. Fall backwards off the rock you're sitting on like he's dragging you away… nothing major, just fall back. We'll save the big reaction for the fight. Then I'll call cut and we'll reset to get the reaction close-ups and then the actual fight. We might have to turn the lights on for that, but your S.C. will brief you on that later. Everyone on the same page?"
"Wait a minnit… Ah onleh got this he' one page, Mista directah, Sir…" Wynne said, but clammed up when she realized the director hadn't meant the actual page of the script she had been given.
'Let's try again! Quiet on set!' Alison barked from somewhere out of sight.
Domenico Rossini moved back behind the GyroCam that had been removed from the harness and attached to a fixed tripod for the scene. After checking the setup in a viewfinder he carried around his neck on a key chain, he put his hand in the air.
A call of 'Sound!' rang out from somewhere out of sight. A moment later, the person holding the clapboard ran into frame and did their job.
The director kept the tension going until he was satisfied with what he saw and called: "Action!"
Wynne tried to recall the sequence of the scene while her heart once again did its worst to thump its way out of her chest. According to the script, the stuntman to her left - Brad - would begin by saying "It's been a helluva long day. I reckon I'll hit the sack." After that, the other stuntman - James - would say "Okay. I got the first watch." A few beats later, Wynne would say "Do you want some more coffee?" to which James would only grunt and shake his head. Another few beats would go by before Brad would say "Did you hear that?" Wynne had the honor of finishing the scene with "Relax, fellas… was nothing but the wind." Rob 'The Undead Vampyre Ghoul' Steele would use that as his cue and jump into the frame.
The first take played out in perfect accordance with the script. The lines of dialogue were clear, precise and delivered with great gusto by Wynne, Brad and James - that the two stuntmen appeared to have a hard time holding back the chuckles when they heard Wynne's true dialect was less important.
Wynne had just said "Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind," when things transpired to make her experience her very first live blooper: Rob-the-Ghoul approached the firepit like he was supposed to when the lower hem of his cloak became a little too intimate with the sole of his size-seventeen boot.
An "Ooofff!" was soon followed by a rrrrip, a thump, a hard bump and a "Sonova- Goddamned motherhumper!" that came from down on the desert floor where Rob had ended up after tripping over his costume.
The director had only just called 'Cut!' when Alison Gardner strode onto the set and let out a roaring: "Reset! Wardrobe! Makeup! Stunt coordinator, get your man back up!" into her electronic bullhorn.
"Aw-shoot… jus' when them lih-nes wus so fih-ne an' all, too," Wynne said as she craned her neck to take in the details of the unfortunate mishap. "Hope ol' Rob didden hurt hisself or nuttin'. He got that there othah caveman mooh-vie next week-"
"Oh, don't worry 'bout him," Brad said. "Rob's a tough S.O.B. James and me worked with him on Cannibal Dawn earlier this year. You should have seen him in that… he was the high priest of the cannibal cult or whatever. His entire costume was a loincloth over a jockstrap that he had to wear for twelve days straight. And most of that time, he was covered in fake blood and guts from top to toe."
"Haw… nuh… ain't sure I wanna be exposin' mahself ta that there mooh-vie, ta be purr-fect-leh honest," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Wotcha say it wus called? Cannibal whut…?"
"Cannibal Dawn. It's available on demand if you change your mind."
"Yuh, much obliged, there, Brad… but I be perdeh dog-gone sure that ain't gonn' happen, nosirree."
Once the makeup artists and the wardrobe people had given the unfortunate Rob a touch-up and a new cloak, respectively, he moved back to the mark that had been laid out for him on the desert floor. The director surveyed the setup before he moved back behind the camera and pointed at Alison who let out a booming "Quiet on set!"
After the person holding the clapboard had come and gone, a call of "Action!" was given and the whole thing started over.
The three cowboys who sat around the flickering firepit did all the usual, little things that cowboys would do in such a situation. After a handful of beats, the first of the two guys said: "It's been a helluva long day. I reckon I'll hit the sack."
A flashing light that tore across the darkening sky high above the desert floor caught Wynne's eye right in the middle of the scene. Unlike the beacons on the military cargo transports or the regular Huey helicopters that often took off from the Air Force Base further south, the light flashed in a strange, arrhythmic pattern almost like it was transmitting a signal of some sort. She could hear neither propellers, rotors nor jet engines, so chances were that somebody would soon get an eyeful of something weird.
Another beat went by before the second cowboy drew a breath and said: "Okay. I got-"
A river of ice ran down Wynne's spine when she realized that tracking the light in the sky had caused her to zone out. As her mind raced to catch back up to the present, she did what she thought was most prudent at that specific point in time: she spoke her first line. "Y'all wan'some mo' coahhhh-ffee?"
The puzzled expressions of her fellow cowboys sitting beyond the firepit made Wynne realize she had stepped in it. The confirmation came a second later when a loud "Cut! Goddammit!" burst out of the director.
"Lawrdie… mah bad," Wynne mumbled as a strong blush rolled over her cheeks. She glanced up at the evening sky to seek the offending light that had caused her to lose track of her surroundings. As her legendary rotten luck would have it, the light and the craft it had no doubt been attached to were long gone.
Brittney, the makeup artist, soon hurried over to see if she was needed. While Wynne's nose and forehead were coated in fresh powder, she let out a mumbled "Ah sure be sorreh, fellas…" that was responded to with grunts and shrugs.
Alison Gardner and the director had a quick conflab where they pointed at Wynne, up at the sun that was almost at the horizon, and over at the tall scaffolds that carried the artificial lighting. They continued to have their heads together a couple of moments longer before the director went back behind the camera to have a look-see in his viewfinder. When he gave the production manager a thumbs-up, Alison put the electronic bullhorn to her mouth and roared: "We're losing the light! Quick reset!"
Wynne reached up intending to rub her brow when she remembered she wore a thick layer of stage makeup - if she smeared it, matters would only get worse. A groan escaped her as she glanced around the set. The assistants ran to and fro to follow Alison's instructions. Just out of sight of the camera, Rob Steele spoke to the stunt-coordinator while rolling his shoulders to stay sharp. Brad stretched his legs while looking bored. James picked his teeth and looked even more bored.
When Alison roared "On your marks!" into her bullhorn, everyone snapped to attention and got ready for the third take. The clapboard came and went; the call of "Action!" soon followed.
Once again, the three desert desperados did typical cowboy things like cutting the jerky, warming his hands and checking the Colt. After a moment, the swarthy bandit on the left said: "It's been a helluva long day. I reckon I'll hit the sack."
Four beats went by before the second bandit said: "Okay. I got the first watch."
Wynne held her breath and clenched her jaw to make double-sure she didn't speak out of line. She made a slow one-two-three count in her mind before she said: "Y'all wan'some mo-ahhh coah-ffee?"
The second bandit grunted and shook his head. Four additional beats went by before the first one jerked his head around and said "Did you hear that?"
The three desperados glanced into the desert surrounding them - ignoring the fact that Rob-the-Ghoul waited in the wings not fifteen feet from their spot - before Wynne said "Relax, fellas… wus nuttin' butta wind."
For once, everything went according to plan. The line of dialogue had only just left Wynne's lips when the tall, frightening, undead vampyre ghoul burst out of the mounting darkness. It let out a terrifying, bassy roar and slammed its hands onto the back of the first bandit's filthy jacket. The fellow stood no chance but was jerked backwards off the slab of rock like he was supposed to - he was soon out of the camera's field of view.
Wynne breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn't messed up for a second time, but stayed in-character in case she was still in the shot.
"Cut! One more for coverage! Hustle before we lose the light!" Domenico Rossini yelled.
Alison soon entered the scene with her bullhorn and took charge of the situation with a barked: "Reset! Wardrobe! Makeup!"
"Whut? We gonn' do it ag'in? Wussen nuttin' wrong with that one… whaddindahell that there directah fella wanna do it ag'in fer?" Wynne said out loud. When Brad and James could only shrug and grunt, she scratched her neck and stared at the hectic activity surrounding her.
After Brittney had done a quick touch-up of Wynne's facial filthiness, she moved onto the two stuntmen and Rob Steele. The person from wardrobe inspected the jacket worn by Brad to see if Rob's grip had caused any damage - several stitches had in fact been ripped on the left sleeve, so a replacement jacket was soon sourced from a mobile costume rack, brought to the firepit and put on. Before long, Brad sat on the slab once more while talking to the stunt-coordinator to prepare for the big fight that was scheduled to come up after the final take.
Wynne scratched her neck again. "Haw… yuh, okeh… this he' actin' bizz sure ain't fer me… all this waitin' around fer nuttin' much at all. I guess I bettah be a good gal an' accept mah fate without bitchin' too hard 'bout it. Lawrdie, I wondah how much longah this he' gig gonn' take, anyhows. I need a beah real bad…" she said in a mumble.
"What's that?" Brad said.
"Aw, nuttin'. Jus' a li'l ramblin' on mah part 's all. I need a beah."
Brad let out a chuckle. "You didn't read the fine print. All types of beer and alcoholic beverages are banned from the set. Craft services only offer bottled water and various types of juice."
"Shoot… I didden read the fih-ne print 'cos I didden see the fih-ne print! Or I don't reckon I did, anyhows… mebbe I did an' I didden know it. Dang, I shoulda stuck ta mah plan an' turned this he' gig down. Dag-nabbit, now I ain't gonn' be havin' no beah or nuttin' fer Gawd knows how maneh hours… Lawrdie!"
Alison soon barked: "Quiet on set! On your marks!"
Sighing, Wynne shuffled around on the hollow log that wasn't as comfortable as it had looked. A mumbled "Aw-hell, he' we go ag'in…" escaped her before the person holding the clapboard ran into position.
-*-*-*-
Once the final take of the wide perspective had been completed, the director stood back and let the GyroCam operator move autonomously. While filming, the camera crew ran over to James to get a reaction shot - the first one he came up with wasn't strong enough, but the second try earned him a thumbs-up from the director.
Then it was Wynne's turn to react to the ghoulish attack. She gulped hard as the GyroCam came at her like the shark in Jaws, but she used that as a point of inspiration: once the director signaled her that she was up, she bared her teeth and stared in wide-eyed shock and horror at the spot where her bandit pal had just been. She didn't want to fall into the stereotypical trap by gasping like a girl, but she did draw a sharp breath that made her filthy nostrils flare out.
The pensive grunt uttered by Domenico Rossini made it obvious that he wasn't pleased with the reaction. He spent the next few moments pondering what else could be done before he instructed the camera operator to move back six feet from their original position. "Okay," he said to Wynne, "we need to see more of you, so jump up and draw your gun. Wave it around a little, but not too exaggerated. All right?"
"Yessir."
"We're still filming. Go whenever you're ready."
Happy to oblige to get it over with, Wynne waited a couple of beats before she jerked upright and drew the Colt in one, fluid motion.
She cocked the hammer with her thumb before she put her finger on the trigger. The prop revolver was lighter than regular six-shooters because it had none of the internal workings needed for an actual discharge, but she was still able to trust the silver gun ahead in a convincing fashion. Hunched over, she moved the gun left-to-right like she was searching for someone or something to pump full of lead in true desperado-style.
The camera remained in front of Wynne for a few seconds longer before the director yelled "Cut! Brilliant! S.C., get your men ready. We'll do the stunt fight next," to signal it was all over.
As the crew moved away, Wynne let out a deep sigh and holstered the prop revolver. She whipped off her cowboy hat to fan her face while she took in the hectic activity around her. "Lawrdie, facin' them zoh-mbie cannibals wussen nuttin' compared ta this… good flip almighteh, this he' deal wus un-bah-lievable… an' now I realleh, realleh need a beah…" she said in a croak.
Alison Gardner soon ran around yelling various orders into the electronic bullhorn that seemed to have been attached to her lips by a master surgeon. The short-tempered woman waved her free arm like a windmill run amuck as she orchestrated everything needed to pull off the stunt fight between Rob and Brad.
The wardrobe and makeup people were already on the scene preparing the torn clothes and the fake blood and guts needed to make the ghoulish attack seem believable in the close-ups after the fight. Parts of Brad's beard had come undone when he fell backwards off the rock, so Brittney stirred the bowl of glue with the popsicle stick to add a little more adhesive to his face.
Wynne took it all in in a wide-eyed stupor. She had been left alone with her costume and her prop firearms but had no idea if she could leave the set or not.
James Ferguson soon came over to her and put out his hand for a shake. The ice cold, snake-like demeanor he had carried all through the scene at the firepit was gone as if it had never been there at all - now, he was all grins and his voice had gained half an octave as he spoke: "It's been interesting working with you tonight. Love your voice and diction. How long did it take you to get that dialect so seamless?"
"Haw… 's jus' how Ah be speakin' an' all," Wynne said as she shook James's hand. "Ah ain't no actah or nuttin'. Or actress, or whutevah. I be Wynne Donnah-hew, occa-shu-nal shit-shovelah, windah-cleanah, street-sweepah, dic-shu-nareh salesperson… hell, I used ta be a whole buncha stuff. Now I jus' be me."
James nodded like he didn't really believe what he had been told. "Right. Method?"
"Naw. Shallow Pond, Texas."
"Right. Will you be at the Silver Creek location tomorrow?"
Wynne scratched her neck at the odd direction the conversation had taken. She blinked a couple of times to get back on track before she said: "Yuh. That be the plan, anyhows. I'mma-gonn' be joined bah a buncha people from Goldsborah, too. Good folks all. Y'know, as background an' them things. But I be guessin' ya ain't gonn' be on camera tamorrah?"
"Oh, I will."
"But… I ain't gettin' dat… wussen ya saposed ta be mauled bah Mista Ghoul ovah yondah aftah ol' Brad done got hisself creamed?"
"Yes, and I will be when the big fight's over. But tomorrow, my hair will be dyed brown and I'll jump into another costume. I'll show up as a townsperson. The camera is more easily confused than you may think, Wynne."
"Aw… this he' mooh-vie gig 's perdeh dog-gone con-few-sin' fer the likes o' me, I be tellin' ya… so I deffa-nete-leh bah-lieve it done be con-few-sin' fer that there camera…"
When a call of 'Wynne?' cut through the din, the cowpoke in question lit up in a beaming smile. "Haw, it been nih-ce tawkin' ta y'all, but that there be mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh, so I gotta be gittin'. Yuh? See ya tamorrah, James."
With that, Wynne spun around and went on a quest to find the woman who just happened to be the number one person in the whole, wide world that she wanted to see the most.
The tall, heavily-armed outlaw and the compact, athletic sheriff hooked up not too far from where Rob Steele and Brad Hutchins were rehearsing their fight. Instead of a typical Wild West standoff between the fierce bandit and the long arm of the law, the encounter was altogether more intimate: after a fair-sized hug, a couple of big, ol' kisses were planted on each other's lips.
"Howdy, darlin'," Wynne said for Mandy's ears only.
Mandy grinned as she took a short step back to get a good look at her partner's rugged - but cool - appearance. "Howdy! I have to tell you, you were born to play a cowpoke."
"But o' course, darlin'!"
"Are you done for tonight?"
Wynne shrugged. "I reckon I am 'cept fer the costume an' these he' prop guhns… but I ain't too sure 'bout nuttin' he' at the mo'. I bettah stick around in case that there directah needs me fer som'tin. Lawrdie, I done hadda close-up jus' now! It wus terrifyin' but kinda excitin' at the same tih-me, know what I mean? I jumped up an' drew mah revolvah an' all. Didden shoot no blanks or nuttin' 'cos that there Colt them folks gave me ain't got nuttin' inside, but I done drew mah smoke wagon, yes Ma'am!"
"I'm happy for you," Mandy said and wrapped an arm around Wynne's waist. They turned around and strolled along the desert floor to achieve even the briefest respite from the frantic chaos that surrounded them.
Though it took a while, they were able to obtain some privacy in the middle of the serene desert - the sounds from the film set died down at long last save for Alison Gardner's high-strung roaring into her bullhorn. With the big sky above and the vast, wide-open spaces surrounding them, it was easy to believe they were the only people left on Earth. "Did you hear Barry before?" Mandy continued a minute or so later.
"Lawrdie, I sure did! That poah fella… did he cough up a lung or som'tin?"
"Almost. He coughed so hard he vomited on the way back to the Durango."
"Awww-yuck. Shoot, ol' Barreh didden desuhr-ve that… even if he still insists on smokin' them stinkeh-cigs o' his. I don't get it, but anyhows. That be his choice, yes Ma'am. Say… speakin' o' choices… ya woudden happen ta have a beah on ya, wouldya? I be plentah thirsteh…"
"I'm afraid not," Mandy said and let out a brief chuckle.
"Yuh, I wus 'fraid y'all wus gonn' say som'tin lack that. Wouldya bah-lieve, them mooh-vie folks done declared the entiah set a no-alcohol zoah-ne! I mean, realleh? What 'r them folks thinkin'?"
"I know. That was one of the terms required by the Goldsboro Town Council in order to issue the filming permits."
"Whu- whaddindahell? Missus Skinnah done made it so I ain't gonn' be havin' no beah tanite? That does it, I ain't gonn' be votin' fer her no mo'!" Wynne said as she took off her low-crowned cowboy hat and smacked it against her thigh.
"You never have, Wynne. The Town Council is decided by-"
'Base to Mobile Unit One. Base to Mobile Unit One, over,' Rodolfo's voice said over the radio attached to Mandy's utility belt - in the background, Blackie could be heard barking in a most excited fashion.
Mandy unclipped the radio at once and pressed the transmit key. "Mobile Unit One receiving, over."
'Sheriff, there's been an attempted assault and battery on Main Street not thirty feet from Grant Lafferty's. I've already dispatched Deputy Reilly to the scene, over.' - The statement was accompanied by several more barks of the excited kind.
"Lawwwwwwwr-die! Assault an'… a muggin'?! In li'l, ol' Goldsborah?!" Wynne cried and threw her hands in the air. "An' wouldya lissen ta ou-ah darlin' Blackie! Yessirree, she be racin' 'round in a dizzeh circle right 'bout now, lemme tell ya!"
The report made Mandy lose the smile; a dark mask fell over her face to show the world the sheriff had shown up. "Ten-four, base. Responding at once. Mobile Unit One out." After the radio had been re-attached to the utility belt, she turned back to Wynne and offered her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Wynne… I need to go. I'll catch you later."
"Yuh! Go kick some bad boy bee-hind, Sheriff Mandeh! I be rootin' fer y'all an' Blackie!" Wynne said with a grin and a brief wave. The grin only grew broader as she watched the sheriff stride off toward the waiting Durango to get to the scene of the crime. "Yeee-haw! That be mah sweet, li'l Sheriff Mandeh awright! Them baddies ain't gonn' know what hit 'em!"
Not a second later, Alison Gardner's electronic bullhorn let out a booming 'I said, quiet on set! Whoever's yapping, shut the hell up right this minute or I'll make you regret it for the rest of the week!'
"Lawrdie," Wynne mumbled as she shuffled back to the film set. "That ladeh gonn' get a coronareh befo' this he' gig's ovah… Jeebus! She oughttah lighten up with one o' them there chill-pills. Hell, she be needin' a whole jar of 'em… good grief…"
*
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