Cue 3: Blood Red Lights
The lights are flickering again. I shouldn’t be able to see straight without my glasses but everything was sharper when I took them off. It’s been a while–judging from my hair tangles. My hair is normally thin and stick straight, but based on the matted knots I’m rocking now, we’ve been here for at least a week, probably more.
Five of my fellow cast members for The Music Man and I woke up in the dressing room in full costume. There were no other clothes anywhere that we looked, so we were stuck in period costumes. Matt was the first to try looking out the window. There was nothing left of him but dust, the sun carved right through the center of his head.
The entire theater department looked like a mob had trampled through it.
Me and Shea were on food duty today. Some of the cast and crew were still here—apparently the rest of our community college campus had gone just as strange—and they preferred to stay on their home turf. They were also gullible as all get out. They were so used to everyone in the theater program being a family that helping the scared actors through the hall to safety just seemed like a good idea to them. We would lure in one or two, and then whoever hadn’t eaten the day before would drain them dry. I cried the first time I did it, but hey it’s in the name of survival, right? Shea was lying in the middle of the hall crying and holding her ankle. “Please, is anyone here?” Sniff. “I need help.” Sniff. She’d always been so good at the dramatic stuff. I gave her two thumbs up, from where I was hiding behind an overturned desk right as Charlie, our stage manager, turned the corner, finally a fish on the hook. The others would be thrilled if they had the chance to eat Charlie. “Shea! Hey are you okay?” He rushed toward her. One step, two, three. He smelled so good. I pounced.
The hallways of the theater department are filled with junk and dust. The windows are covered with curtains and the doors are blocked with large planks. It’s a nest, a haven for the theater department from the strange, misshapen things roaming the campus. When Charlie looked around, he couldn’t help but hate that the theater department looked so post-apocalyptic. His organizationally-geared mind cringed every time he saw an overturned desk or scattered script. Still those desks marked where the vampires kept taking everyone from, so the desks had to stay. No one had figured out where people were disappearing to until Sherrie—Mrs. Paroo—saw Marisa—the ensemble dance captain—lure Tim, the stagehand, towards one of them so that Henry—the actor playing Harold—could leap from behind the desk and rip out his throat. The human camp holed up in the lighting booth after that to form a plan.
The weak-limbed, glasses-wearing part of Charlie hated being bait, but as stage manager, the safety and organization of the cast and crew fell to him. So he stuck three number two Ticonderoga pencils in his jeans pocket, one behind his ear – stage manager tradition – and left to roam the halls, looking for the trap. When he saw Shea crying on the floor, he knew it was his moment. Shea had always done tears well, proud of it. She would never see this coming. As Cassie lurked behind the desk waiting for him to come closer, Charlie made sure to keep his weight even and grounded like his fourth grade Karate teacher had taught him. This, Charlie thought, would show them that he could act too.
“Shea! Are you okay?” Charlie took one step forward, then two, grabbing the pencil from behind his ear. On the third step, Cassie vaulted over the desk. Charlie was ready. With a force his Karate teacher would be proud of and the skill of a stage manager who always knew where their pencil was, Charlie slammed the Ticonderoga into Cassie as she leapt toward him, fangs out. It sank deep into her chest, it sank. Cassie hurt like nothing else. Her nose was inches from Charlie, but her fangs were nowhere near his neck. There was a frozen moment as she choked, eyes bulging, hands grasping his wrists futilely, before she exploded into ash. Charlie’s eyes met Shea’s on the floor, and she knew: she was next.
Lena Foellmer is a 20-year-old junior at USC, where she is majoring in English Literature. She enjoys sports and is a member of the USC Fencing Club. In her spare time, she likes to read and make as much art as she wants that no one will see. You can follow her on Instagram.