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  Copyright © 2018 Crystal-Rain Love

  Cover Art by Rebecca Poole with original art by September

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  Publisher’s Note. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to a

  person or persons, living, dead, or undead, business establishments, events or locales is

  purely coincidental.

  First Publishing; Crystal-Rain Love : March 2018

  ZOMBIEWOOD

  RAYMOND LEE

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to all my readers who gave me a try and came back for more!

  ONE

  “Wait here. Mr. Justain will be with you shortly.” The slender woman with the heavy Spanish accent gestured toward the black leather L-shaped sectional taking up the entire front wall of the producer’s waiting room as her eyes roamed over Misty’s body.

  Misty didn’t fail to notice the barely suppressed smirk or the slight shake of the woman’s head before she turned away to go back to her desk. Having made the cover of Playboy recently, it was no secret she had a great body and knew how to use it, but this was not a modeling job she sought. She was going to become a serious actress. Looking down at her wardrobe, Misty reassured herself she’d chosen smartly. She wore black slacks and a hot pink silk button-down blouse with only the top two buttons undone. Paired with black stiletto heels and dangling pink diamond earrings, her attire was sexy yet completely appropriate for business. Let the woman smirk at her, thinking the ditzy model needed to let her boobs hang out in order to get an acting job. She’d show her.

  The phone rang, prompting the secretary to sigh before reaching over to pick up the handset. “Harry Justain’s office.”

  Harry Justain’s office. A frisson of nervous excitement coursed through Misty’s blood. Born and raised in Palmyra, Indiana, the daughter of a diner waitress and a deadbeat truck driver, the very idea of being in such a highly sought after producer’s waiting room was unimaginable. People from Palmyra didn’t make it to Hollywood. They were lucky to make it out of the Kentuckiana area at all.

  Realizing her heartbeat had increased and her palms had grown wet, Misty took a deep breath. She couldn’t blow this opportunity. She wiped her hands on her slacks and looked for something to focus on. The artwork in the office consisted of posters of movies produced by Justain, movies featuring movie stars way out of her league. If she focused on those, her nervousness would give way to a full-blown anxiety attack. She looked at the flat-screen TV she’d ignored up to that point and saw the president of Russia’s long, narrow face looking back at her. Ah, the news would be a good distraction to tamp down her nerves. Nothing bored her like the news. She picked up the remote control on the black marble coffee table before her and turned the volume up a notch just as the president’s face disappeared, replaced by an attractive, brunette news anchor.

  “That was the video released to American news stations just this morning,” the news anchor stated. “There have already been twenty confirmed cases of the outbreak in the local area, over one thousand nationwide. As the president stated in the video, the Z-1219 virus was injected into the Russian mail-order brides’ systems before they were given their K-1 visas. The virus, described as working similarly to a bomb, was detonated today. From what we currently know, all mail-order brides directly injected with the virus would now have that virus activated in their bodies. The Russian president states the disease is highly contagious through blood and sexual contact so the exact numbers we may be facing are unclear.”

  “Misty Waters?”

  Misty jumped a bit, the deep baritone voice drawing her away from the news story. She turned her head to see Harry Justain standing outside his office door, a warm, inviting smile showing perfectly white capped teeth.

  “Yes!” She quickly stood and smoothed her hands over her clothes in case she’d wrinkled the material, the news story instantly forgotten.

  “Please come in.” He stepped aside and calmly gestured toward what lay beyond his door as if what happened in that room wouldn’t determine the outcome of Misty’s entire life.

  Trying to project the same sense of casualness so as not to appear as nervous and amateur as she felt, Misty took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and breezed past the tall, heavyset man.

  “Hold my calls and see that we are not disturbed,” Justain instructed the secretary before stepping into the office behind Misty and pulling the door closed.

  The office was large with a huge mahogany executive desk and at least a dozen bookshelves filled to the brim with framed pictures of Justain with various celebrities, POP figures of the characters from his movies, and other movie memorabilia. A large glass case held awards he’d won.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he said, sandwiching her left hand between both of his larger ones.

  Glad she’d wiped the sweat from her palms, Misty smiled at him. “Not at all. I’m sure you stay busy. I’m honored you gave me this appointment time.”

  Whoa, Misty. Ease up a bit. Don’t look too desperate.

  Justain smiled down at her wolfishly, her hand still trapped between his. “The pleasure is mine.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, his eyes roving down her form before he released her hand so he could gesture toward the black leather chairs before his desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  Misty settled into one of the offered seats, expecting Justain to take a seat in the larger chair behind his desk, but instead he sat on the edge of the desk, placing himself directly in front of her.

  “I was very impressed by your recent spread,” he said, his voice husky. His eyes seemed to be fixated on her breasts.

  Misty gripped the armrests as her back stiffened. She fought the urge to squirm away from the heavy weight of his gaze. She was a Playboy centerfold, she reminded herself. He’d seen and liked the spread. That spread was what had increased her Twitter and Instagram followers by the thousands and got her this meeting. If she hadn’t wanted her breasts to be admired she wouldn’t have paid good money for them.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, hoping it looked natural and didn’t reveal just how afraid she was that she was going to blow this. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and made a humble face. “I am only as good as my stars. My talent is finding the right projects and the right people, then combining the two to create a masterpiece which is why you are here today.”

  Misty’s smile widened. “I loved the script. I read it faster than I’ve ever read anything in my life.”

  Justain chuckled. “Enthusiasm is good. I instantly thought of you for the role of Amber but I’m a little confused now.”

  Misty’s smile faltered. “You don’t think I’m right for the part?”

  “Amber is a very sexy character. Her every word, action, her very breath has to ooze sex.” He angled his head to the side as he studied her once more. “This outfit doesn’t say sex kitten to me. It says office professional. I need the woman from the centerfold, the woman from the Rage Pistols video. That woman belongs in Hollywood. Show me that woman.”

  A cold clammine
ss washed over Misty as his meaning sank in. The secretary’s smirk flashed through her mind as she started undoing buttons, allowing her cleavage to spill out of her blouse. She’d arrived at the producer’s office dressed for a job interview, but this wasn’t a regular job, this was the chance to be a star. Harry Justain didn’t give a damn how professionally she presented herself. He’d chosen her for the role because he’d seen her naked. Her body had gotten her inside his office and if she needed to use her body to get on the screen in theaters throughout the country, she would. She would be the woman she needed to be to stay in Hollywood because she could never go back to being the girl stuck in Palmyra.

  “What do you mean they passed on me?” Mike Rha’s hand wrapped tighter around his cell phone as he sat in the dressing room chair, waiting for the makeup artist. “You said the role was in the bag.”

  “Sorry, Mike,” his agent apologized insincerely. “I thought you had it, but relax. You’re coming off a huge series run. Offers are pouring in.”

  “Offers for guest spots on sitcoms and small roles.”

  “You were offered the lead in The Corpse Killer.”

  “The lead in an indie movie from a production company no one has ever heard of,” he snapped. “I need better than that. I was perfect for that role. Who did they offer it to?”

  “It’s between Brad Pitt and Cruz Thomas.”

  “Brad Pitt and Cruz Thomas?” Mike realized his voice had raised several decibels and attracted the attention of people outside the dressing room. He took a calming breath before continuing. “So they’re passing on me, a Korean man, so a white guy can play the role of a Korean man?”

  “Well, Cruz Thomas is actually—”

  “Hispanic, I know. He might not be pure white but he’s a long fucking way from being Asian.”

  “I know,” his agent said and this time the empathy in his tone was genuine. “It sucks, man, I know it does. That’s Hollywood for you though. You’re going to get something great soon. Trust me.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said as a slim black guy in skin-tight jeans and a black Selena T-shirt entered the dressing room.

  “Ooh, you’re early,” the man said as he opened a makeup case on the counter and started pulling out items.

  “The makeup artist is here,” Mike told his agent. “Find me something.”

  He disconnected the call and tossed the cell phone onto the counter, not giving a crap if it broke. He didn’t expect any good job offers to come through soon anyway. Brad Fucking Pitt. Cruz Thomas wasn’t much better but at least if he got the role it would be a win for one minority community. Then again, Cruz Thomas was one of those lucky bastards who could play white or Hispanic so he wasn’t exactly hurting for roles.

  “Rough day, honey?” the makeup artist asked as he placed a black drape around his shoulders and caught his eye in the mirror before them.

  “Just lost an Asian role to a white guy,” Mike muttered. “Typical Hollywood whitewashing.”

  The makeup artist shook his head. “Damn, dude. I feel your pain.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t be raising that eyebrow at me, honey. You think straight white dudes haven’t been taking roles from black brothers and gay men for decades? Hell, even Will Smith’s black ass took a gay role and refused to do the kissing scene, but he still got the role.”

  “Fair enough.” Mike smiled. “I’m usually not so irritable.”

  “It’s cool. Hell, I’m impressed you’re on time. I usually have to wait around for most actors.” He held two different shades of base up to Mike’s face and narrowed his eyes while determining which one to start with then grabbed a brush. “My name is Damian Quincy Jones and I am about to make you so fabulous every studio will be wanting your Asian ass in everything.”

  Mike laughed, his mood lifted. “I’ll hold you to that. I could use the help.”

  “Shoo, you just came off a pretty hot show and this movie should do well. Jennifer Lawrence is crazy in demand right now.”

  “Yeah, and I get one scene with her in this movie.”

  “One scene that millions will be watching,” Damian said as he starting applying base. “Use the opportunity and make it count. Sell yourself like a two dollar hooker, sugar, and steal all J-Law’s thunder right out of that scene. She’s actually really nice but this is war. You gotta take care of you.”

  “Damian, did you see the news?” A young mocha-skinned woman with bright pink dreads and a silver hoop through her left nostril barged into the dressing room and turned on the television set on the wall behind them.

  Blake Lowell, the blond news anchor for the local news station appeared on the screen. “The military is sending soldiers to all known addresses of mail-order brides brought over in the past five years, which is when the Russian president claims the virus injections began. At this time, we ask all citizens to stay inside. If you have been in contact with any Russian mail-order bride, please call the number flashing at the bottom of the screen. A military unit will be dispatched.”

  "Tonya, girl, don't you see I'm busy turning this man into a monument of sexy?"

  The pink-haired woman eyed Mike up and down. "Looks like his mama and daddy did a good enough job of that already. You hear what that man just said? This shit is serious!"

  "All I heard was some Russian hookers are sick."

  "Mail order brides," Tonya corrected him.

  "Like I said, hookers."

  "Not all mail order brides are green card scammers," Mike interjected, knowing there were plenty of Asian women who used the internet to find husbands in other countries. "Did he say they're sending out the military? What kind of virus do they have?"

  "Hell if I know but it's not just the flu," Tonya said. "I've been checking Twitter and there's some people saying some woman in Utah tried to eat her husband."

  Mike barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Oh man. Is this another one of those stupid stunts to hype some movie?" Or maybe the next season of The Walking Dead, he thought, trying to keep a lid on his envy. Damn, his life would be set if Steven Yeun hadn’t beaten him out for the role of Glenn Rhee.

  "This is national news. I don't think they'd be part of some scam."

  "They would if they didn't know," Damian advised. "People go too far on the internet sometimes and they believe every damn thing." He looked at Tonya pointedly.

  "I don't know why you're looking at me like that, Damian. This is the news, not some website."

  "No but the story about the woman eating her husband was from Twitter and here you are spreading it. This is how shit gets started. This is why I thought Bill Cosby was dead last year."

  Tonya rolled her eyes and started for the door. "Don't say I didn't warn you if some Russian woman tries to eat your ass."

  "Where am I going to run into a Russian mail order bride in Hollywood? These men marry supermodels and actresses."

  "Yeah, but they screw anything," she reminded him before leaving.

  "You'll have to excuse her," Damian said, laughing as he muted the television. "That girl loves to gossip and she believes everything."

  "No problem," Mike said, continuing to watch the television through its reflection in the mirror before him. With the sound muted, the closed captioning kicked in but it was backward, making it more difficult to read.

  "Are you actually worried about this?"

  He looked up to see Damian looking down at him, amused. "I'm not terrified or anything, but it looks like they might be talking about some kind of epidemic."

  "Well, don't go shopping for any mail order brides from Russia and you should be fine and honey, you are fine." Damian used a wedge-shaped sponge to blend the makeup around Mike's nose and stood back to study his work. "Mmhmm. Fine. You're welcome."

  Mike laughed. "Thanks."

  "Knock 'em dead, honey."

  "Reports of violent attacks are coming in from coast to coast and many hospitals are already full with sick people."

  "Wheth
er this influx of sick patients has a direct link to the Z-1219 virus or not has not yet been confirmed," the Hispanic news anchor interjected, cutting off her male counterpart, Brad Finn. "While there is no cause for alarm the CDC strongly urges people to stay inside their homes and contact the military if they have been in contact with any Russian mail-order brides within the past five years and show signs of illness. Do not go to the local hospitals. Contact the military."

  "We are receiving an update." Finn placed his finger over the monitor in his ear. "The CDC is stressing anyone who has had any contact with any Russian party within the past five years or has received blood to call the military number flashing on the screen, and to report anyone acting suspiciously immediately. If you feel as if you are a danger to yourself or your family, or that someone near you is a danger, call the number."

  "This is getting serious, Brad."

  "I agree, Christen." Finn shuffled the papers in front of him then wiped the back of his hand along his forehead and coughed into his hand.

  "Pick up the damn phone," Ladeja said as she listened to it ring. She'd dialed her son's number ten times since the start of the news program and each time it went to voicemail.

  "You've reached C-Dawg. Leave a mess—"

  "Damn it!" Ladeja thumbed the button to disconnect the line and stopped herself just short of throwing the cell phone across the room. Of all the times for her ex to have their son. Then again, he had Cory the most nowadays. Cory had changed drastically over the last year. He idolized his father and if he had the choice he would spend every moment of his life with the man, or with his money. She hated to admit it but her son had grown extremely shallow despite her efforts to keep him grounded. None of that mattered now though. She just wanted to make sure he was safe.

  "Ladeja, what are you doing?" Aubrey entered the dressing room, adjusting the spaghetti straps on her long, black gown. "You know Georgios doesn't like it when we stay off the floor too long. Hey, somebody do something to you?"