The North Hollywood studio lot was like a candy jar tossed into a furnace. The asphalt shimmered with distorted heat waves, turning distant soundstages into wavering mirages.
A foam prop tree leaned crookedly in a pile of sand, its green-painted trunk sticky from the sun, trapping a few dying flies.
Eli Roth stood on a rusty folding chair in the middle of the set, his work pants stained with dried, reddish-brown paint—fake blood from yesterday's test shoot, now hardened in the 100-degree heat.
"Listen up, people!" he bellowed, his voice like gravel scraped over metal, cutting through the generator's hum. "Blood Moon Pictures sent a fax. If we don't deliver the final cut by the end of September, we're all picking trash on Santa Monica Beach!"
The crew barely stirred. Some pressed ice-cold Cokes to their temples; others fanned themselves with scripts. Nobody took him seriously.
North Hollywood Studios was infamous as a "schlock factory." For thirty years, it had churned out B-movies that could fill every warehouse on the Malibu pier. Late deliveries were routine.
But Eli yanked a yellowed Los Angeles Times from his pocket, shaking it until it crackled. "Check this out! Weather section says the hurricane season's delayed three weeks, landing right on Halloween!"
He spun on the chair, spitting as he talked. "Picture this: Florida folks huddled in their living rooms, palm fronds smashing their windows in a storm, and our Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Next Generation blasting on their TVs. VHS sales are gonna skyrocket!"
Johnny, the crew chief, snorted, plugging a chainsaw into the power box. "Yeah, right, Eli. Last year you said Werewolf in Manhattan would be a hit, and it's still rotting in video store stockrooms."
"This time's different!" Eli jumped down, the chair squeaking painfully. "I scouted the location—Everglades National Park. Reeds taller than a man, chainsaws revving, egrets scattering. It's gonna have that raw, primal vibe!"
Leon Donaldson, who'd reluctantly joined the project, felt a chill crawl up his spine. He was crouched by a prop box, checking the wiring on a fake chainsaw, when "Everglades" hit him like a shock. His fingers nearly grazed a live wire.
Memories of the 1999 The Perfect Storm disaster flickered like a jammed VHS tape: a crew chasing realism on the North Atlantic, only to get slammed by a once-in-a-century tempest. George Clooney's fishing boat nearly capsized under 30-foot waves, saved only by a Coast Guard chopper.
Leon stood, brushing dust off his pants, and scanned the shooting schedule taped to a set board. A red circle around "August 15–25" glared back, smack in the middle of the paper's predicted hurricane window. Worse, the budget sheet showed Blood Moon had allocated just $500,000—barely enough to rent Miami's cheapest soundstage for three weeks.
"Eli, can I see that paper?" Leon pushed through a cluster of extras, their zombie makeup streaked with sweat like green tears.
His fingertip traced the weather map's edge, landing on a penciled note: "Category 4 storm, 70% chance, storm surge up to 6 feet."
"What's up?" Eli asked, grinding his cigarette butt into a prop tree's knothole. "This paper's a week old. Probably outdated."
"The Everglades' elevation is two feet," Leon said, his voice firm with certainty. "A six-foot surge would put us chest-deep in water. You want the crew filming a chainsaw murder scene in that?"
The set went quiet, the generator's roar seeming to drop an octave. The lighting guy's sunglasses slid down, revealing stunned eyes. A costume assistant's needle and thread hit the ground, rolling into a pile of blood-stained rags. Trevor's chainsaw sputtered out, its blade frozen mid-air.
Eli's face turned beet red. He snatched the paper and crumpled it. "What do you know about location shooting? I've been making horror flicks in SoCal for a decade. I've seen every kind of weather!"
"I've read the Perfect Storm incident report," Leon said, his voice slicing through the heat like an ice pick. "They cheaped out on a water tank, shot at sea, and ended up spending three million to fix the mess—double their budget."
He picked up a piece of foam bark, holding it to the sunlight. "Look at this fake texture. Location shooting will just scream low-budget. But there's another way." He pointed at an old IBM computer in the prop room, still sporting a Titanic sticker. "Move everything to an indoor green screen and use CGI for the hurricane."
The crew erupted. Trevor laughed loudest. "Green screen? What, you think we're making Star Wars? Lucas spent two hundred million on that tech. What can we do with half a mil? Make a cartoon?"
The others joined in, chuckling. In 1999 Hollywood, CGI was a polarizing novelty. George Lucas' The Phantom Menace had just been roasted by critics for its heavy green-screen use, with actors "performing mime to thin air." In a low-budget horror flick, it was unthinkable.
But Leon strode to a fire hydrant and cranked it open. Cold water gushed out, soaking an extra mid-makeup. She shrieked, wet blonde hair plastered to her face, her eyes wide with genuine terror—the perfect horror movie reaction.
"See that?" Leon nodded at Eli, water pooling at his feet. "Close-ups of real reactions—shivering in rain, hair whipping in wind—can look authentic on green screen. For wide shots, use NASA's free satellite hurricane footage. It's sharp enough to fill a TV screen."
He grabbed a tape measure from the prop box, marking a ten-foot square on the floor. "A green screen this size is enough. It'll save thirty percent compared to hauling ten trucks of gear to Florida. That money could buy fifty gallons of fake blood or a new chainsaw motor."
"How do you know this stuff?" Eli grabbed his arm, knuckles white. "Weren't you just some pretty boy who couldn't memorize lines?"
Leon's heart skipped. He'd almost forgotten: to the crew, "Leon Donaldson" was still a nobody, a face who'd only earned Eli's respect after Midnight Scream. He casually pulled free, fishing a crumpled business card from his pocket—one he'd grabbed while pitching to Kodak yesterday.
"Last week, I met with a sponsor. Their tech guy showed me some stuff," he said, keeping his tone light. "Kodak's got new waterproof film. Looks more natural on green screen than real locations."
It was half-true. The film existed, but the tech knowledge came from his 2025 producer days. Eli stared at the card for a solid thirty seconds, then pulled out a crumpled cigarette, his lighter sparking three times before catching. In the swirling smoke, his eyes shifted from doubt to excitement.
"Trevor, get the chainsaw back to storage!" He slapped the storyboards into Leon's chest, the paper's edge nicking his hand. "Tomorrow, you're coming with me to Blood Moon to pitch a three-grand budget bump for green screen. Screw it up, and I'll nail you to the set as a permanent prop."
At seven that evening, North Hollywood Studios' neon lights flickered on, painting the lot like a spilled palette. Leon sat in the prop room on a folding chair, a library copy of a 1999 Hurricane Season Analysis spread before him. A satellite photo of the Everglades, circled in red, showed a third of its mangroves dead from last year's storms—too weak to withstand a Category 4.
The old computer's dial-up screeched like a strangled cicada, taking five minutes to connect. NASA's website loaded a spinning hurricane simulation, its deep-blue eye like a brewing black hole, wreathed in orange-red wind bands. Zooming in, Leon saw the Everglades sat dead center in the storm's densest zone.
His pager buzzed, its green screen flashing: "Green screen's a waste. Stick to the swamp or pack your bags." The sender was Harvey Milk, Blood Moon's notoriously cheap boss, rumored to buy only discounted instant coffee for the crew.
Leon's fingers hovered over the keyboard, recalling his afternoon call to Kodak's West Coast sales manager. The guy had scoffed at sponsoring a B-movie until Leon offered to add "Filmed with Kodak Waterproof Film" to the credits—a cheap win for Kodak's push into the horror market.
He picked up the phone and dialed back. "I've got a sponsor. Kodak's offering free waterproof film if we put their logo in the credits."
A pause, then Harvey's voice crackled through. "Get that kid in my office tomorrow at nine." No producer—especially a penny-pincher like Harvey—could resist "free."
Leon pushed open the prop room window, the Hollywood night breeze clearing out the paint fumes. Down the street, a video store's new Matrix poster glowed, Keanu Reeves' sunglasses glinting coldly under streetlights.
He pulled out the script and scribbled in the margin: "As the killer raises his chainsaw in the hurricane, he says, 'Even the heavens are helping me clean up the trash.'"
Next door, an old TV played the evening news. The anchor pointed at a cloud map: "The National Hurricane Center predicts this year's season could be more active than usual. Florida should prepare early…"
Leon muted it. The storm graphic kept swirling, like a waking beast.
Eli's "September storm" comment echoed, and Leon's lips curved upward. Hollywood in 1999 had no idea what was coming—not just a hurricane season, but a soul from 2027, armed with industry know-how, ready to shake up this land of opportunity and pitfalls.
The storm's starting point? This unassuming prop room, with a script bearing new lines and a computer screen spinning a hurricane simulation.
Outside, the neon lights flickered, stretching Leon's shadow long and far, like a road to the future.
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