B-Movie Attack by Alan Spencer

executing an escape. But all he could do was think, for he sank into the bed deeper and deeper. Every muscle was mush. A feverish heat blanket covered him. He sweated and stank of sickness. And the vampire women stank too. They smelled of unkempt sex. The twang of iron and spilled blood wafted on their breath and radiated out their undead flesh. Their flesh was ice cold the last time they made love to him. The harrowing realization he was having sex with corpses—and that they could mimic life and death at their will—chilled him.  
    It’s not your fault.
    They're fucking movie characters.  
    He eyed the shotgun that was feet from the bed. That was his safety net. They’d overtaken him before he even knew he was in trouble. Thinking back on what couldn't be changed, he was helpless to watch the images playing out on the wall. He caught random pieces of conversation as well, mostly of the vampires strategizing their attack.  
    “How can we secure the city?”
    “This isn’t Anderson Mills. It won't be as easy. Fog won’t obscure an entire city. The military will intervene. We need more time. Something better to keep the authorities busy.”
    “You can’t block an entire city.”
    “Yes, you can! Don’t give up so easily, you infernal slut!”
    He heard the clanging of reel tins. They were shuffling and trying to locate the correct film to meet their goals. “This one’s a good start. Ease into it.”
    “ Mr. Baker’s Delights .”
    If I could only break free, I could unplug that device, and this would all be over!
    Ted was soaked in sweat, the sheets sodden. The room spun at all angles. He couldn’t affix his eyes onto one object, he was so dizzy.  
    He broke the spell and caught the movie that was playing on the wall. A pasty-faced man was peeking at a glass display of baked goods with a wild expression on his face, his wide eyes and his mouth even wider, gawking. The store sign appeared in the background: “Ferguson’s Bakery”.  
    The man said exuberantly, “I can’t get enough mince-Molly. I'll order your freshest.”
    A middle-aged woman behind a counter of cookies, cakes, pies and pastries replied with a vexed expression on her face, “Sir, we don’t carry mince-Molly, whatever that is.”
    “You carry mincemeat pies, correct?”
    “Sir, I’m going to call the police.”
    “And your name is Molly, right?” The voice hardened. “Surely you can whip up some fresh mince-Molly. I'm starving, and I can't stand to wait for good food when I'm so hungry.”
    A scream followed the shattering of glass, but Ted’s eyes suddenly dried and he had to close them to re-hydrate them.  
    He'd missed the brief killing scene.
    The vampires piped up after searching through more reel bins. “Yes, this is the film. I’ve found it. It’s perfect. Play it after this one. We'll entrap the city. Then after Chicago, we move on to another city, another town, until everyone’s dead.”
    “I knew this would go well after Andy Ryerson perished.”
    Ted attempted to plead for mercy for the city and for himself, but he soon slipped into a exhausted sleep.  
     
     
    A middle-aged gentleman was reading the flyer posted on the inside of the door before entering Peggy Sue’s Bakery Creations, a Chicago favorite. The flyer was for the annual contest for the best pie or pastry. The winner received a one thousand-dollar prize and an official place on Peggy Fulbright’s menu. The gentleman tore the flyer from the wall, tucked it into his pocket and muttered, “Ah yes… yes . My pies are swell. Surely, I'd win.”
    Peggy Fulbright watched the strange man enter. The customer resembled Gene Wilder, except he was bald on top with carrot red hair bulging from both sides. He was five feet tall, no more than one-hundred and thirty pounds. His eyes were constantly wide as though excited, though his lips were relatively void of expression. The contradiction was inhuman. What troubled her even more was the fact he was wearing