We take a turn onto a single-lane road—mercifully still paved—as we head deeper into what I’m assuming is a wildlife reserve.
As the car summits a low crest, rolling hills unfold before us, trees glimmering emerald under the azure sky. The farthest hills turn hazy with distance, yet remain breathtakingly brilliant.
Goddamn, if all I get out of this trip is the free flight, it’ll have been worth it.
Even Jack quiets a bit, making a few affectionate remarks about the landscape but otherwise just enjoying it.
Shortly after the road turns to gravel, we pass around a bend and come upon a patch of modernity. White trailers line up along a gravel lot, squeezed close as if self-conscious about encroaching on the forest’s space. I gratefully note a cluster of blue portable toilets, jarringly identical to the ones back in the States.
Jack stops amidst the trailers. He turns off the car and gets out, which means he’s more than just a gig driver.
I hop out and follow him, which seems to be what he expects. “Bella shouldn’t be far…”
“Bella Zepper?” I blurt, and it’s just about the only name that could get me to lose my cool.
Jack turns to me with a grin. “Yeah, you know ‘er?”
“I knowofher.” It’s a struggle to rein myself in. Bella Zepper is one of the most well-known and well-respected stunt performers in all of film history. She’s doubled for a whole slew of female superheroes, was a pioneer of women’s acceptance in the industry, and whoever she takes under her wing has stunt work for life.
This can’t be real life.
A trailer opens, Jack waves, and out steps Bella Zepper. She’s fit in her early sixties, blonde and tanned, with a face aged by sun and cigarettes, now warmed by a genuine smile.
“Jacko! And you must be Mylo.”
Then, in a dream-like haze, Bella Zepper is shaking my hand.
I manage to look outwardly calm as she and Jack exchange some quick words, then Jack departs with a lively “Cheers, eh!” which Bella echoes.
I finally find my bearings and clear my throat. Getting star struck is a great way to not get invited back. Stunt performers are often in close proximity to A-listers, and the production crew has to be confident you won’t embarrass them.
I really couldn’t care less about A-listers. But this isBella Zepper.
“I’m a huge fan of your work,” I say, compartmentalizing again and finding that inner calm that keeps me steady even when I’m a hundred feet off the ground without a wire.
“The feeling is mutual,” Bella says smoothly. “You’ve got a talent for imitating mannerisms. Reshooting stunts isn’t an option, so we’re depending on you to match Alanna exactly.”
“She doing alright?” I ask, carefully choosing words to mask that I have no fucking idea what’s going on.
Bella gives a nod and a sad smile. “As well as can be expected. Physically, the surgery went well, and she’ll make a full recovery within a year. Emotionally, she’s devastated.”
“I can imagine. Any insights on what went wrong?” My survival instincts haven’t totally abandoned me. This work is dangerous to begin with, and a negligent director or stunt coordinator ups that risk by an order of magnitude.
Bella’s lips press into a thin line, and her shoulders tense. “It was a dead man’s fall. She landed on her wrist, and the angle was just wrong. Tore a ligament.”
It’s a common stunt: you wear a harness with a wire attached to an object that won’t move. If you fully commit to a forward sprint, when you hit the end of the line, it stops your body suddenly and you fall. It’s a pretty convincing approximation of getting shot at close range or blown back by an explosion.
“The kind of thing we’ve all done a hundred times,” I say with a solemn nod. Overall, the story passes my sniff test: footfalls are responsible for more injuries than you’d think, since you only have so much time to react being so close to the ground, and every fall is different. Plus, a lot of stunt performers are on the extra-bendy side. It’s usually an asset, but when you land at just the wrong angle, having looser ligaments makes you more prone to tearing them.
I continue, “You can only have pads in so many places. Unlucky.”
Bella sighs, forcing her shoulders back down. Her expression is something like motherly guilt. “I take every injury personally; I’m sure you understand. Please feel free to ask me anything. I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I offer a wry smile. “There are few sets safer than one where a freak accident just occurred.”
Bella mirrors my expression. “Don’t I know it. Any questions before I take you to meet the team?”
A million.But I can’t risk looking unprepared, even if the job is last minute and it’s not my fault the portal malfunctioned. I should be able to piece most of it together before anybody asks me to step into a harness. I’ll tip my hand at that point, if I have to. But not sooner.
