In the Night of the Heat by Blair Underwood

prick.
    â€œYou got a problem?” I said.
    Perry shrugged. “This is the biz, kid. You want steady? Get a law degree.”
    The director, Avery, gave Perry an irritated look, then he wavedhis hand over his head in his circular signal for Let’s get moving. Finally. I was ready to shoot the scene and go home before I did something that would make the tabloids.
    Avery motioned me to my cubicle on the set before my death scene. He knew I could have made his life hell that day, and he looked grateful I was still there.
    â€œWasn’t my call,” Avery said quietly, his obligation. He was olive-skinned and balding.
    â€œWhatever. What do you need?”
    Avery ran us through the scene: a quiet moment at the office interrupted by gunfire from Kelsey. Finally, with a sigh, Avery pointed to my character’s desk, which was as spare as my undeveloped character. I noticed that someone from Props had added a framed photo of me and Darnell, expertly Photoshopped. Nice afterthought, but it was too little, too late.
    â€œOK, Ten, so it’s bam-bam to the chest…” Avery tapped the squibs strapped beneath my shirt, which would splatter after a radio signal coordinated with the gunshots. Low-rent productions use plastic baggies, but Homeland could afford better effects. “The squibs go off, bloodstains, yada yada, you fall down. Then Perry comes behind you—last bam , to the neck. Left side. Your hand slaps your neck with a squib, splat, you’re dead. And that’s it.”
    I could hear the relief in his voice at the idea.
    Any other day I would have had a dozen thoughts on how to play the hell out of even a passive scene like that one, and maybe a few questions. Instead, I just nodded.
    Considering how hard the rest of the day had been, my last scene was easy.
    Sanford is typing on his computer at his desk. Kelsey shouts something. Commotion. Sanford looks up. I never had a chance to say anything, or reach for my gun.
    I never heard gunshots, so I was startled to feel the squibs burst on my skin. Like sharp, shallow punches. It wasn’t hard to look surprised and reel backward. No blanks sounded, but they could fix that in editing. I lost my balance when I stumbled back into my desk, which only added to the effect. I tried to imagine how a father would feel knowing he was leaving his son behind, and I fixed that horror on my face. I gasped for air, my last chance to be.
    I dropped to the floor.
    â€œCut!” Avery said. “Where were my sparks?”
    Gareth Priestly, the English propmaster who sported red hair and a beard to match, was already checking the gun’s chamber. “Misfire,” he said. “Blanks are there.”
    â€œFuck it, we’ll fix it in editing,” Avery said. “Give him the empty. Let’s finish.”
    I didn’t move on the floor, waiting. I was just glad to avoid going back to makeup.
    â€œAction!” Avery said.
    On Avery’s cue, the set became bedlam. More commotion. Shouting. This time, loud gunshots sounded behind me. I heard Perry’s hurried footsteps behind me, his heels vibrating the set’s floor. One step. Two.
    Off camera, I nestled the last squib in my hand, ready to slap it to my neck.
    I felt Perry’s gun against my neck. Good-bye, you assholes, I thought.
    Click. And—
    My head exploded. The world exploded. I still don’t know which was worse—the noise or the pain. A fiery lance stabbed through my ear and into my brain.
    My shout wasn’t in the script, but I would only find out about the shout later, because I didn’t hear it. I opened my eyes, expecting tosee only light, or utter darkness. With all sound gone, I was sure I was dead. My hand and shirt were covered with blood.
    I saw Perry standing over me, his blood-specked face so pale he looked like a Japanese geisha lost in the prom scene from Carrie. Suddenly he was an old man—a stricken, confused old man. I was