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was feeling pretty squeamish. Every few seconds I'd peek at the screen to check on their progress. Once they all got down from the wall, for a good five minutes, all they did was scream at each other. Finally, the man in the bird costume got them working together. They did their best to stop each other's bleeding. In a desperate attempt to make weapons, Dog began ripping floorboards.
     
    Twenty minutes and counting...19:99, 20:00, 20:01....
    Cautiously, they make their way outside the room into the hallway. Figures are stirring; encroaching ever closer. Peculiar shadows float above the ground, closing in from all directions. They are round as beach balls with water-hose arms scooting against the floor as they float past; long necks sprout up from their swollen torsos leading to an elongated cow-shaped head, with rotten flesh and exposed serrated teeth. They hiss at the people, spitting black tar. Dog and Bird swing their boards at the creatures but the brittle wood shatters against their bulbous, round hides. Monkey takes one good look at the hovering menaces and finds she can't move. An eruption of tar covers her legs and hips. Instantly, she hits the floor—face first—screaming, burning and fizzing. The skin around her leg is reduced to a flakey, gooey paste. Tiger runs to help her, pulls Monkey to her feet; but the skin peels off like a banana, revealing bone. She passes out in Tiger's arms.
    They have no choice but to leave Monkey behind. Rubbery hands grope her clothing, ripping it to shreds. Their tongues unravel and roll across her body, coating her in a thick lacquer of saliva. Sometime around the 23:00 minute mark, they grow bored of her. A dozen hands pluck her from the ground and, with tremendous force, they slam her head into the wall. Her nose shatters, her glasses split in half; her skull cracks; and they leave her there, twitching, as blood pools over the floor's wooden slats.
    “CUT!” says the off screen voice. Finally, the Director walks out from behind the camera. He stands over the body of Monkey, grinning a smile too big for a human face. The Director has dark eyes with hair the color of wheat, his facial features are simple, as if they were merely painted on; he wears a pinstriped suit, with brown penny loafers, complete with a tiny copper penny. He bends down, kisses her forehead at the exact spot of the gash. Methodically, building tension, the Director reaches inside his coat pocket, produces a tiny pair of scissors and cuts a lock of her hair. He smells it. He kisses it. Then, he pins it to his shirt. He shows the camera. “Four to go!” he shouts, giddy.
    31:19, 31:20, 31:21....
     
    At this point, I'd had enough. Something seemed too realistic about it...it never felt like I was watching a movie. I asked for a drink of water but nobody moved. I got up, found the bathroom on my own, splashed water on my face, and gave my heart a minute to slow down. When I came back, something— the cross between a praying mantis and a petrified, gnarled tree—carried the head of the man in the dog costume in his hands...and only the head! The body was left inside some bizarre torture device with spikes and wheels and bloody pieces of hemp rope. I was instantly glad I'd missed that part.
    “You gonna puke, Scanlan?” Bernie asked me.
    “Maybe.”
    “So, howdoya think he did it? How were those effects possible? Computer graphics, you think?”
    I shook my head, lost in thought. How did they do this? I wondered. How was this movie even possible? Did he super-impose these monsters? No, couldn't be. I was almost a hundred percent certain it wasn't any kind of layer or a composite; I have a good eye for that kind of thing. And these monsters were seamless! Computers ? I supposed it was possible but as far as I knew, there wasn't a computer on the planet that could generate something so realistic. It definitely wasn't p rosthetics or wirework of any kind. I mean, the monsters didn't even have a humanistic