For Those Who Dream Monsters by Anna Taborska Page B

pull a couple of rounds of ammunition out of the dead
man’s pocket. Alicia felt a couple more mosquito bites as the man discharged
the remaining bullets at her chest. She roared and was about to leap at him,
but stopped as a loud rumbling sound caught her attention.
    The creature spun round, its slanted yellow eyes staring into the scrub.
Despite their terror, the villagers momentarily lowered their weapons,
following the creature’s gaze.
    The
rumbling sound grew louder and then a long metal tube broke through the brush,
followed by the rest of the vehicle. The tank emerged fully from the bushes,
gun barrel loaded and pointing dead ahead. The vehicle came to a halt, the lid
in its top opened and the village blacksmith stuck his head out.
    “Pierre!”
cried the village elder, drawing the creature’s attention back to himself. It
growled and once more prepared to leap, but Pierre shouted as loud as he could
over the rumble of the tank, “Here, over here!”
    The
creature turned back to Pierre and sprinted towards the tank.
    “Run!”
shouted Pierre. “Everybody run!”
    The
villagers scattered in all directions, running as fast as they could away from
the village square. As the creature ran towards him, Pierre shouted at the top
of his voice, “Your mother sucks cocks in hell!” Then he fired.
    There
was an ear-splitting noise, a bright flash pierced the darkness, and then blood
and guts, fur and brain tissue, bone fragments and mucus showered all over the
village square as the creature exploded into a million tiny pieces.
    The months passed and the villagers tilled their land with sticks and stones,
and ate the grain and dried food and tinned goods donated by the kind people of
Europe and America. They did not look forward to the next convoy of Western
aid, but they were ready for it.
    In
the lazy sunshine, a little man happily hummed Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells as he polished a large gleaming silver tank.
    There
was talk that the village elder might allow a travelling cinema to come to the
village.



CUT!
    “I want her!” shouted Eli, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer –
especially not from the squat, balding little runt who was the producer of this
picture.
    “She’s
a psychopath,” Mark explained patiently, with the tone of one speaking to a
spoilt child prone to temper tantrums. “She beat the crap out of one of the
other actresses at the audition. You know she did.”
    “I
don’t care!” Eli was used to getting his own way. He was an award-winning
director and, even though Hollywood was temporarily boycotting him after he
caused an A-list actress to storm off the set of Pretty Woman 2 in
tears, he still pulled in a large audience, and Mark knew he was lucky to have
him. This was Mark’s first production. He’d made his money in IT, when that was
still possible, but he’d always loved movies – and horror movies in particular
– and his dream of being a film producer was finally coming true. But first he
had to deal with Eli’s latest whim.
    “Eli,
I bow to your superior experience,” he said in his best calm, steady voice,
“but even I know that your female lead needs to be able to act.”
    “You
don’t know shit!” Eli raved theatrically, his performance as usual over the top
and such that Mark couldn’t tell whether he was being serious or not. “She
doesn’t need to act – she’s a natural! What better actress to play a psychopath
than one with innate psychopathic tendencies?”
    “She
has no acting experience to speak of.”
    “She
has life experience… She’s perfect!” Eli was like a force of nature, and Mark
didn’t stand a chance.
    Two weeks later and Eli’s rehearsals with the actors were in full swing.
    “Where’s
Sylvia?” asked Mark, throwing down his jacket and perching on a hard-backed
chair in the small auditorium that had been hired for Eli and the actors to get
together and read through key scenes in the script.
    “Ah,
the producer drops