October 15, 6 p.m., Year of the Curtain+5
Los Angeles, California
When Max was in high school, his locker had been covered with pictures of monsters: Bela Lugosi as Dracula, Lon Cheney Jr. as the Wolfman, Romero zombies and guys in rubber suits knocking down buildings… all glorious. And especially now, two weeks before Halloween, he remembered the place being decked out with cobwebs, pumpkins, Frankenstein’s monster terrorizing Abbott and Costello… all the greats. The school he was walking through now, though, had nary a trace of the macabre. The few Halloween decorations he could see were mostly along the likes of cartoon characters wearing benign princess or superhero costumes, sweet-faced cherubs asking for “A”s at the teachers’ doors, or even (and god, this killed him) Jack-O-Lanterns molded out of neon pink and blue plastic, with big smooth smiley faces molded into them instead of the traditional snaggletooth pumpkin grin. Stupid, PC attempts to sanitize the holiday, now that the Curtain was pulled back.
There were maybe a dozen other people in the art classroom with them, most sipping a cup of coffee or nibbling a free cake donut. He’d never been to one of these things before, and part of him was certain his friend Brice was right, it was a total waste of time. But after everything he had been through he had to try something. He couldn’t just sit around and wait for it to happen again.
The group leader – a slender, gray bearded man who identified himself as Jonathan, called the meeting to order. “Thank you all for joining us today for our Curtain Survivor Group. I see we have a new face tonight. Would you introduce yourself, sir?”
Max stood up, surprised at how nervous he actually felt about this. He’d faced down a legion of the undead, why should a dozen donut-eating suburbanites be a big deal? “My name is Max Quinn, and–”
“First names only please, Max.”
“Oh. My name is Max.” This was already getting off to a pointless start. “About a year ago, I was stuntman for Climax Pictures. I was making a movie – a zombie movie, in fact – when the studio got attacked by that zombie horde. I’m sure you all heard about it on the news.”
“Wait, Max Quinn?” A middle-aged black woman in a red sweater opened her purse and began to sift through it.
“Remember, Loretta, no last names,” Jonathan said.
“No, wait, this is important.” She pulled a slim paperback book from her purse and turned it over to the picture on the back. “This Max Quinn?”
On the back of the book, Zompocalypse Now, Max glared out at the reader with his co-writer, Brie Sanders. Both of them, Max with his two days of stubble (grown especially for the photo shoot) and Brie with her streak of purple hair surrounded by raven black, looked deep and serious as they glared at the reader. Max looked down at the floor, feeling the blood gather in his cheeks. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“This guy is a hero!” Loretta said. “If it wasn’t for him and his friends, those things may have killed everyone in Los Angeles!”
“We just did what we had to do.”
“You were so brave, Mr. Quinn.”
“Was I? I sure didn’t feel brave when it was happening. Brie must have written those parts.” His smile was weak, but sincere.
“Don’t worry, Max,” Jonathan said, putting a hand on Max’s bicep. The massive stuntman raised an eyebrow, and Jonathan pulled it slowly away. “Everyone here has had an encounter with a zombie, or a werewolf, or a vampire – some sort of undead–”
“Werewolves aren’t undead,” said a young woman in glasses.
“Pardon me, Annabell?”
“Werewolves aren’t undead. They’re cursed, but they never died in the first place.”
Jonathan looked down his needle-tipped nose at her. “Yes. Well, regardless, Max, we’ve all had these encounters and we’ve all surivived.”
Max looked around the room at the nodding heads with their solemn faces. There was a definite sense of unity here. He felt good. He felt a little at home.
“That’s great,” he said. “It’s definitely nice to know that there are people who understand what it’s like. So… when do you guys train?”
The looks of solidarity gave way to puzzlement. “Train?” Jonathan asked.
“Yeah. You must have some sort of training, right? You don’t just go out there looking for trouble without getting yourself ready for it first.”
The room fell apart into a choir of grumbles, gasps, and angry snarls that didn’t stop until Jonathan raised his hand. “Max, I think you misunderstand the purpose of our little family. This is a support group. We get together once a week and talk about our experiences. We draw strength from the fact of our shared pain, and we use that strength to help us move on.”
“Oh.” Max stood up and shook Jonathan’s hand. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“You don’t have to leave, Max. You’ve certainly been through enough – more than a lot of us in this room. We can help you too.”
“I appreciate the thought, Jonathan, but I’m not here looking for emotional strength. I’m looking for other people who want to kill the bastards.”
He picked up his coat from his chair and walked out of the room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and turned, his hand beneath his coat and resting on the grip of a gun he had hidden there. The footsteps he’d heard following him, though, weren’t those of the walking dead, but of the brunette from the support group who wanted to debate the life status of werewolves.
“I think you’re missing your group, miss,” he said. She smiled.
“I’m not missing it, Max. I just drop in there once in a while hoping to find somebody who isn’t just looking for a hug and a pat on the shoulder.” She handed him a card. “I think we can help each other.”
She turned and walked away, and Max looked down at the small piece of cardboard in his hand. Printed on it in red ink, right above a phone number and URL, were the words “ANNABELL CRANE: HUNTRESS.”
