A Dozen Works

A Dozen Featured Works

NO ONE SHOULD EVER PUBLISH THEIR NOTEBOOKS (AND HERE’S WHY)
by
Joey Jones

It’s going to paint you in the worst possible light: as being not only extraordinarily flawed but extremely naive as well.

That out of the way, this is the book I wanted to do: something honest and vulnerable to attack.

The Nineties is a collection of stories that were written during my early adulthood. This work is a product of my imagination and no resemblance to persons living or dead is intended.

Send your permission requests to sullivanradley@gmail.com.

THE WINTER PEOPLE

CHAPTER ONE

The young scientist unzips his parka and drops the fur-lined hood down onto his shoulders. With gloved hands, he removes his backpack and places it on the ground. Squatting, he unzips the largest pouch and extracts a chrome-coated instrument. With the instrument in the palm of his left hand, he turns a knob with his right—it comes alive with a crackle. He pans it back forth, pointing it at the 10-foot-high bank of red earth in front of him. The chatter coming from the instrument becomes more excited. Slowly, he turns 360 degrees, all of his attention focused on the face of the instrument and its bobbing needle.

All around him, ice crystals jut from the frozen ground. What remains of an old paved road runs parallel to the high red bank, disappearing around a curve in one direction and over a hilltop in the other.

He returns the instrument to his backpack. From the breast pocket of his parka, he extracts a pen and a very small spiral-bound legal-style pad and jots some figures onto paper. A gust of wind causes the page to flip and his careful hand to scribble. He puts his hood back on, zips the front of the parka to his chin, and finishes the entry.

He takes a sample of soil from the area, scooping and corking it into a glass test tube.

He then zips his parka as far as it will go, to his nose. Putting both arms through the loops in his backpack, he walks up the side of the ditch to the old road. Facing into the wind, he heads down the slope to the curve below.

CHAPTER TWO

Cold air helps throw open the door, as the young scientist enters the house.

“Close that door!” a voice calls to him from a behind a mountain of newspapers.

The young scientist slams the door shut behind him and strides down the central aisle. Halfway down the length of the 30-foot-room, he tosses his backpack onto a wooden church pew and hangs his parka on a hat rack. Having removing his mitten gloves along the way, he stuffs them into one of the bottom pockets of his parka. He continues on to the end of the room to where tremendous heat emanates from a potbelly wood-burning stove. There he holds both hands, palms down, over the radiant heat, warming them. A minute later, the young scientist throws another small log into the fire, re-hooking the potbelly’s front door shut again.

Close by, a typewriter’s keys begin to clack, punching away at a sheet of paper. That and the occasional ring of the typewriter’s carriage return are the only sounds in the room.

Above the open ceiling, cracks in the southern wall allow shafts of sunlight to penetrate and illuminate dust motes. Waist-high stacks of newspaper serve as walls in the one-room house, affording semi-private areas.

The young scientist returns to his parka on the hat rack and retrieves his notepad and pen from the breast pocket. He passes through a gap in the newspapers to his cubicle. On a dark-stained wooden desk, a laptop computer waits, its screen dark. At the top of the keyboard, he presses a button and the computer comes to life.

The laptop’s power cord runs out a chipped pane in the nearby window to an eight-by-eight-inch solar panel mounted on a bracket to the side of the house.

The young scientist logs into his profile.

Soon a cacophony of keystrokes fill the room.

CHAPTER THREE

“Are you guys ready?” the young scientist asks from the stuffing-oozing La-Z-Boy rocker recliner by the wood stove.

“I will be by evening. I’ve still got to get this afternoon’s readings,” a bespectacled young man answers from across the wood stove and the steaming cup of coffee held close to his face. Now he takes a sip, swishing the coffee around his mouth, savoring the caffeinated elixir.

The young scientist turns to the third, and final, member of their party, who sits in the nearly depleted woodbox beside the back door: “How about you, Cal?”

“I’m ready. Thought I’d tweak ‘the car’ a bit more though.”

“Seeing as how everybody’s going to be busy but me, I’ll volunteer for bitch detail. What would y’all like for The Last Supper?”

Turning to the bespectacled young man, “What do you want, Blu?”

Blu peers out of his coffee, “Soup. Potatoes, canned tomatoes, corn—we got any butterbeans left?”

The young scientist replies, “I think so, but I’ll have to look. How about some deer meat in that? I think we still have some in the salt box out back.”

Cal clambers from the woodbox, throws on his coat: “I’m going out to make those tweaks to ‘the car.’ Soup’s fine by me.”

Cal shoots out the back door.

When he’s out of earshot, Blu, adjusting his glasses, asks, “Why does he always get down just before a trip?”

“I guess he somehow feels safer here. Plus, you know he spent all that time out there, alone, traveling the trails…until…finally…he found us.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’d better get on out there and take those readings, before I lose the light.” Blu goes to his cubicle, pulls on his coat and grabs his backpack, before returning to the back door.

With his hand on the door knob, “Could you make it spicy this time, Sully? Maybe some red pepper?”

The young scientist smiles. “You got it.”

Blu returns the smile and, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, disappears out the back door.

CHAPTER FOUR

Down the wooded trail they go—three young men, single file. Cal brings up the rear, hauling on his back something akin to a turtle shell. Upon closer examination, the shell closer resembles an A-frame outhouse. Sully and Blu labor under enormous backpacks, topped with sleeping bag rolls and lengths of aluminum tubing.

Later that night, they build a campfire and sit by it, drinking still-warm leftover soup from their thermoses.

“Who’s driving tomorrow?” Blu asks.

“Well, you know it ain’t going to be me. How ‘bout y’all piss for it,” Cal suggests.

Sully and Blu set down their thermoses and run over to a nearby fallen tree, where they whip out their peejims.

Cal barks: “All right, y’all pissers, shoot!”

And out come two hard streams of yellow piss. Sully’s abates first, dribbling on the log in front of him, before spattering his jeans. “Dehydration.”

“Excuses,” Blu says, putting his tool away and zipping up.

As is customary, the winner, Blu, breaks down ‘the car’ for the night—and what looked like a mini-outhouse transforms, telescopes, accordions into seven-foot-long by five-foot-wide by six-foot-high, hard-shelled sleeping quarters. Made from a combination of wood, vulcanized rubber and aluminum pipe, held together by wire and nails, ‘the car’ is—in the eyes of its young makers—something of a masterpiece. That night, they sleep in relative comfort, confident that their solid-built structure will at least keep the wild dogs and hogs, coyotes, and the occasional bobtailed cat and brown bear away. His shoulders aching, Cal dreams of ways to lighten the 180-pound behemoth.

CHAPTER FIVE

Two days later, at two in the afternoon, the three young men arrive in town. It is here that they come across the only wheeled traffic. A pair of horse-drawn, tire-wheeled buggies struggle through the red-brown mudtrack that is Main Street. Staying well off into the dead-grass and straw mulch, the three suddenly veer right, into their first stop, the area’s one-and-only newspaper. There, they drop off their articles, which they are paid to deliver once a month. After picking up their money and talking to the proprietor and editor (one and the same) for about an hour, they head on over to the Old-West-style brothel where they ‘get hitched’ for the night.

The next day, the three awake to some sore heads. It’s 11 A.M. and, with little else to do in the town, they make their all-important final stop—before the long walk back home—at ‘The All and Sundry,’ a supply store, where they lay by enough canned and dry goods to keep them alive for another month.

JACK KETCH
a treatment
(not quite a screenplay)

* Originally written on 3x5-inch index cards.

MUSIC

“Circles” by Joe Satriani
“Crazy” by Seal
“Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix
“I Believe” by Joe Satriani
“Freedom of Speech” by A.T.L.
“Little Drummer Boy” by V.B.Q./L.S.O.
“Cream” by Prince
“So Fine” by Guns N’ Roses
“What Child is This/ Greensleeves” published by Sony
“Valentine” by Nils Lofgren
“Do Anything” by N.S.
“Gonna Make You Sweat” by C&C Music Factory
“The Forgotten” by Joe Satriani
“The Forgotten II” by Joe Satriani
“Something to Believe In” by Poison
“Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton

OPENING CREDITS

Fade in to the sound of water softly lapping the creek shore. Opening credits roll as we’re afforded a view that looks up the creek. There’s a bend at the far end. As the credits end, the Joe Satriani song “Circles” begins and our protagonist, JACK, comes around the bend into sight, using a single paddle to manuever his little boat.

OPENING SEQUENCE

Show a beheaded chicken hanging by its feet from a clothes line. Blood is dripping from its neck.

AFTER OPENING SEQ.

JACK is preparing a fire around a witch’s cooking pot.

SEQ.

CROWE brings supplies to JACK.

EXT. MORNING

JACK eats his breakfast of canned beans as he observes the activity in CROWE’s yard. He digs into the bottom with his metal spoon. Across the road, CROWE emerges from the house. A long column of younger siblings trail out behind him like the tail on a comet. They walk to the end of the driveway. Soon, the yellow school bus arrives, and they file aboard and disappear. The bus pulls away.

JACK picks up the milk crate he’s been sitting on and walks away into the woods.

SEQ.

The water has begun to boil.

SEQ.

JACK takes a shower. As he pulls down on a lever, water is fed down from a 50-gallon drum to the showerhead down below.

SEQ.

JACK goes down to the water’s edge and checks his fish traps. Gallon jugs, anchored to the shore with nylon string, bob on the water’s surface. He checks the fishhook that is attached to the milk jug handle with transparent fishing line. From a pouch at his waist, he rebaits the hook and sets the jug back in the water.

He checks another jug and finds a fish attached to it. Gently, he removes the hook from the bream’s mouth. He puts the fish into a nylon sack hanging from his side. JACK baits the hook and sets the jug back into place.

JACK produces a compact fishing pole – a Zebco – from a sling that hangs across his back. He baits the line and casts it. A splash and then an orange and white float bobs on the surface.

SEQ.

Staked rotissere-style over a campfire, JACK roasts a large bass.

SEQ. – Basketball Game

JACK is watching his old buddies as they play basketball. His mind flashes back to a point in time 2½ years ago.

A younger JACK walks down a road and into a yard. Young men are warming-up for a basketball game. JACK appears on the scene. They all greet JACK with friendly jokes and insults. Most of the insults are aimed at one’s mother. JACK gets the ball passed to him, and he takes a shot. Still cold, he misses.

His mind finally wanders back to the present, where he stuffs his hands into his pockets and trudges off, deeper into the woods.

SEQ.

JACK walks down a city street. He looks at the Christmas lights and decorations on the homes. He cries.

SEQ.

Wandering off the road for a pee, JACK discovers Ms. Mikael’s nude night routine from the edge of the woods, by the back of her house.

SEQ.

JACK tells CROWE about his discovery / Ms. Mikaels.

SEQ.

JACK goes back to Ms. Mikaels to make sure that it’s a routine.

Has binocs.

SEQ.

JACK sleeps well.

SEQ.

He builds a deerstand to observe Ms. Mikaels.

SEQ.

JACK spies on Ms. Mikaels at deerstand.

SEQ.

CROWE notifies JACK that he has seen JACK’s sister at school and that she had bruises on her.

SEQ.

Show JACK’s mother die in childbirth. Show the effect that it has on JACK’s father. JACK’s father sobs in the corner of the hospital room.

SEQ.

JACK visits the lights and cries.

SEQ.

JACK steals a chicken from a neighbor.

SCENE

JACK gives windchimes to CROWE.

SCENE

CROWE leaves JACK.

SCENE

CROWE goes home. He talks to his parents. His dad is cooking. His ma is reading. His sisters are in their rooms, moving about and playing loud music.

CROWE’s dad tells him that supper will be done in an hour.

SCENE

CROWE pedals to the antique shop on his bike. He carries JACK’s chime.

SEQ.

CROWE arrives at and goes into antique shop. He sells the chime and we see his signature.

SEQ.

JACK is brought a book from the public library.

EXT. JACK’S HUT

JACK and CROWE eat a chicken dinner.

They are talking about why women aren’t going out with them. “You being a hermit isn’t helping your ‘woman’ situation,” CROWE remarks to JACK.

CROWE tells JACK that he won’t be coming by tomorrow.

SEQ.

JACK has first nightmare about father abuse.

SEQ.

JACK wakes and puts water on the fire to boil.

SEQ. – SUICIDE / HANGING IN BARN

Windchime related death.

SEQ. – JACK & MS. MIKAELS ARE FALLING IN LOVE

Playing in field
Watching her house and eating banana sandwiches at deerstand
They make love and CROWE observes
He walks to her house, knocks on the door. She opens the door and he presents her with a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He asks, “Will you be my valentine?”

SEQ. – PLOT POINT I

9:15pm

Sarah Mikaels catches JACK redhanded – in his deerstand, looking at her house through his binoculars.

SEQ. – PLOT POINT II

JACK finds that he must confront his problem through Ms. Mikaels’ help.

SEQ.

JACK makes his first windchime when he is eight years old. He makes one for himself and one for his father.

SEQ. – Haunted Windchime

Something traumatic happens to one of them when JACK is eight, and the windchime makes its music even though the wind isn’t blowing.

END SEQUENCE – FUNERAL

Location: WOODVILLE CEMETERY

Time: LATE AFTERNOON

Weather: BEGINS TO SNOW (lightly)

JACK and all attend funeral. JACK, Ms. Mikael, Lindsay, Stacy, and CROWE walk away as a family.

PEARL’S PLAY PRETTIES
a treatment
(created on 3x5-inch index cards)

TRAILER

Show something walking through the woods at night (checking traps)
Close up – Camera pans across a chain-link fence

* Each 3x5 card represents 30 seconds of air time. [There are 39 index cards, counting the title and trailer card.]

CARD #1 – OPENING SCENE (Trap Checking) / EXT. WOODS – NIGHT

Old woman…

Checking Traps
Putting dead rabbits on tailgate
Checking more traps
Puts more rabbits on tailgate
Lights a cigarette and we see her [grooved and leathery] face

CARD #2 – COMPOUND SCENE – NIGHT

Pours gas into generator
Pulls cord to crank generator
She plugs [an extension] cord into the generator
Flood lights come on
The prisoners inside the [fenced-in] compound are momentarily blinded by the bright lights
The prisoners’ clothes are torn and dirty
The compound is as muddy as a pigsty

CARD #3 – COMPOUND SCENE – NIGHT

Woman throws dead rabbits over fence into compound
The woman says in her raspy, wicked voice: “How’s my little babies? You haven’t been trying to get out, have you?”
The prisoners just stare, too afraid to answer

CARD #4 – INT. HOUSE – NIGHT

We hear the back door open and then close
The woman walks into the bathroom and cleans up, washing the blood and rabbit fur from her hands
She appraises her ugly face in the mirror

CARD #5 – INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

The bathroom light is flipped off, and she enters the dark bedroom
Lit by moonlight, coming in through the windows, we see two single beds.
As she crawls under the covers of the nearest bed, we see an old man already asleep in the other bed

CARD #6 – INT. HOUSE – MORNING

The old woman walks into the kitchen, spying a note on the kitchen table
It reads: “Pearl, Gone to get some hay.”

CARD #7 – EXT. ROAD – MORNING

Close-up of the old man driving his pickup truck
The truck passes a sign that reads:
CRACK
POP. 901

CARD #8 – INT. BUILDING – MORNING

Camera dollies through a busy room, a maze of cubicles
People flit about like fleas
Phones ring incessantly
Typewriters crackle like warzone gunfire
At the end of the room, a sign on the wall, comprised of raised, three-dimensional letters, identifies the place as:
ATLANTA JOURNAL & CONSTITUTION

CARDS #9 & #10 – INT. BUILDING – MORNING

Close-up of a man who is typing an article. He stares at a computer screen. The article reads:

THREE TEENS MISSING

Druid Hills—Three teenage boys have been missing for over a week now.

Billy Brooks, 14, Seth Brown, 14, and Tommy Hurst, 13, have not been seen or heard from since Wednesday, March 15. The boys were friends and authorities believe the teens were together when they mysteriously disappeared. The boys’ parents worry that they may have been kidnapped.

CARD #11 – EXT. BARN – MORNING

The old man loads bales of hay onto the bed of his truck.

CARD #12 – EXT. WOODS – MORNING

Camera dollies along a chainlink fence.

We hear digging sounds.

CARDS #13 & #14 – EXT. HOUSE – MORNING

The old man walks up to the door of a house. He knocks on it. A man comes to the door.

OLD MAN: I got 10 bales.

He hands the other man some money. The other man, apparently distrusting and miserly, walks out to the truck and inspects the load. He verifies the amount with the pointing and bobbing of his index finger. Satisfied, he says, “All right,” and tucks the folded green bills into his shirt pocket over his left breast.

The old man says, “‘Preciate it, Zee.”

“Sure,” Zee replies mechanically and walks back to his house.

The old man climbs into his old truck.

CARDS #15 & #16 – INT. COMPOUND – MORNING

We hear diggings sounds.

Show the dirty prisoners of the compound. Looking bored and beaten, they rest on the ground near the chainlink fence.

Show where the digging sounds are coming from.

A group of prisoners are digging a hole near the compound fence. They are using sticks and a concrete block to dig with. The hole is a couple of feet deep.

CARD #17 – INT. KITCHEN – MORNING

We hear steam whistling, as it exits a kettle.

The old woman lifts the kettle off the stove eye and pours herself a cup of instant coffee.

Moments later, she leans forward, elbows on the dining table, coffee cup palmed in both hands. She stares straight ahead, into space, concentrating. Smokes wafts upward as a cigarette burns on the lip of an ashtray close by. A crotch novel lies open in an inverted ‘V’ on the table.

She sets her coffee mug down. She then lifts her cigarette, takes a deep draw, and resumes reading her book.

CARD #18 – EXT. COMPOUND – MORNING

We hear more digging. Suddenly we hear the diggers strike something.

The camera gets in close and we see that they have struck a concrete block. It is at the bottom of the hole, blocking the way. Their escape plan has suffered a serious setback.

CARD #19 (actually numbered as BB) – EXT. COMPOUND – DAY

Old Woman (in her high, squealy voice): “Which one of you did it?!”

She glares at the prisoners.

The old woman repeats: “Who did it? Was it you?”

She points her long, thin finger at a girl who looks to be about 20. The old woman carries a thick, knotted stick with her.

The old woman approaches the girl. One the prisoners tries to sneak up on her from behind. She senses him and whirls around. She strikes him across the shoulder with the stick. We hear a bone break. The male prisoner cries out in pain. She quickly strikes again, hitting him in the middle of the his back this time. He falls to the muddy ground, motionless.

Old Woman: “So it was you!”

She glares a warning at the other prisoners, who shrink away from her, their terror renewed.

CARD #20 (no cards are numbered going forward) – EXT. WOODS / PASTURE – NEAR DARK

An old truck is parked near a fence at the edge of a forest. Pan to the old woman. She stands close to a cow. The cow is uneasy. The old woman puts her arm around the cow’s neck and whispers to it.

The old woman croons softly: “It’s okay. Shush.”

We see her slowly raise her left hand. In it, she holds a hammer.

Suddenly, with speed and great violence, she brings the hammer down. Again and again. She pounds the cow in the forhead with the hammer. The cow lets out a pitiful cries.

“Mehhhhh!”

The cow collapses heavily to the ground.

21 – EXT. WOODS / PASTURE – NEAR DARK

We see the corpse of the cow move along the ground in fits and starts. Someone grunts with the effort of dragging it.

22 – EXT. EDGE OF THE WOODS / NEAR ROAD – NEAR DARK

Two young men stand 15 yards off of a curve in the roadway, behind a clump of trees and dense undergrowth. They wait.

We hear a car approaching. The boy’s crouch, so that the approaching lights won’t reveal their position. The car stops. The boys dart through the clump, down a deer path, to the road.

23 – EXT. AT ROAD – NEAR DARK

A car has stopped on the shoulder of the road. The passenger-side door opens. The boys hand money to someone in the car. Two full brown paper sacks are handed out of the car. The boys receive the sacks and look inside them. A moment later, the car drives away.

Laughing, the boys return to their hiding place in the woods.

24 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

More laughing.

The boys sit down on a straw-covered shelf on a bank of red clay. The embankment overlooks a long-abandoned logging road. They open their sacks, pulling out a bottle of wine and a six pack of beer. One boy pops open a beer, while the other twists the top off the wine.

25 – EXT. AT TRUCK – NEAR DARK

The cow scrapes along, as it is dragged along the bed of the truck toward the cab. Mission accomplished, the person climbs out of the truck bed. The person lights a cigarette—and we see it is the old woman. She opens the cab door and climbs up into the truck. We hear the clutch spring give a fast yawn, as the peddle is depressed. The old pickup truck roars to life, the mufferless exhaust pipe blatting loudly.

26 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

The boys are drunk. They stagger along the left track of the logging road; the right is a long mud puddle. One boy, laughing, stumbles forward and braces himself against his friend, which causes the other boy to lose his balance. But they right the ship just before they fall to the ground.

27 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

A limb slaps the windshield of the truck as it revs and bounces down a logging road.

28 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

Camera looks up a steep, 20-foot-tall embankment. The boys appear over its rim and begin to stumble toward us, down a severe slope of rotten leaves and red clay.

29 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

The old pickup crashes through second-growth pine trees that attempt to block its passage down the seldom-used road. Yet another young pine disappears under the truck’s front bumper, before appearing a second later, out from under the rear bumper. The sapling drunkenly attempts to straighten itself, half its bark missing, twig-limbs bent and broken, yellow heart exposed, amber oozing freely like honey.

30 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

The boys are jogging through thick woods. They slow down. We can hear a stream somewhere close by. The boys break into a run. They jump off the bank onto a sandbar in the middle of the creek. We can see milk jugs, with strings attached to them, floating in the stream. The boys check various jugs.

They hear something.

One boy hisses to the other: “Listen!”

They stop and listen. Soon, they make out the sound to be that of a truck. It gets louder, and closer.

They drop what they are doing and cross the creek and run up a hill. As they top the hill, they see the truck.

31 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

The truck skids to a halt.

32 – EXT. WOODS / HILL – NEAR DARK

The boys throw themselves to the ground. The boys watch as…

33 – EXT. WOODS – DARK

The truck door opens with a rusty screech, and the old woman spryly jumps out. “Whiskey River Takes My Mind” by Willie Nelson blares at full volume on the truck radio. The old woman has a lantern in her hand. She sets it on the tailgate and lights it. She uses a long, forked stick from the back of the truck to hang the lantern on a high, stubby limb. Now the truck and a huge tree are in a pool of bright illumination.

She fetches a large butcher knife and a hammer from the cab of the truck. She walks around to the tailgate where the cows rear legs rest. She cuts the cow’s ankles and hooks them to each end of a steel singletree. She walks over to the large tree behind the truck and picks up a pulley, hook, and rope from the ground.

34 – EXT. WOODS – DARK

The old lady ends up with the cow’s udder on her head, when one of the boys accidentally makes a sound. She looks up from revelry, alarmed. She spies movement at the top of the embankment. Dropping the udder to the tailgate of the truck, she runs to the cab, and fetches her double-barrel, 12-gauge shotgun. Immediately, she cocks both hammers and lets loose a twin blast of sparks, smoke, and deafening sound, which rocks her backwards. The boys make a hasty retreat back into the woods, as part of the red-clay hillside falls away from the impact of the double shot.

Blowing out the lantern, the old lady slams the tailgate shut and jumps into the cab of the truck, behind the steering wheel, throwing the gun onto the bench seat beside her. A second later, the pickup roars to life, the headlights come on, and the truck lurches forward. She fights the big steering wheel and gets the old truck onto the logging road.

The boys stumble and fall through the dark forest, trying to orient themselves to the way home. Soon, the truck is racing alongside them, 20 yards away. Suddenly, the engine revs louder, and the trucks surges ahead, appearing to vacuum up little trees as it goes.

The boys soon lose sight of the truck’s lights. And then they suddenly no longer hear the engine either. They slow from a run to a jog. Their breaths come in ragged gasps. Suddenly, there’s a metallic-snap sound, and one of the boys goes down in a heap. A millisecond later, he lets out an eardrum-popping shriek of pain.

This causes the old lady, who leans across the pickup’s hood, smoking a cigarette, to smile broadly. She takes a deep draw off of her cigarette and flicks it away.

35 – INT. COMPOUND – MORNING

We hear diggings sounds.

Show the dirty prisoners of the compound. Looking bored and beaten, they rest on the ground near the chainlink fence.

Now among them is the boy who got caught in the bear trap.

The camera pans up to a huge, crudely-etched white painted wooden sign that is attached to the chainlink fence. It reads:

GOLDEN RULES

No climbing.
No digging.
No lying.
No fornicating.
No bathing.
And no vandalizing of this sign or fence will be tolerated.

Successful escape attempts will be rewarded with Death.

FADE TO WHITE.

THE END

FALL

My name is Ron Squalls. My best friend is Bill Faust and we’re the same age, fifteen. I’m skinny, at least that’s what Granny says, and tall for my age. Bill’s shorter, but outweighs me by at least twenty pounds. It’s fall, and everything is autumnal orange. This is my favorite time of year. It’s a time for football games—high school football games. I look at the trees and things, and they all look like they’re dying… Yet, I feel so alive. To quote someone: In the midst of life, we are in death. I think it must’ve been fall when that occurred to them.

Most people think I’m smart, but most of the time I feel stupid. Granny says God gave me “book sense” but shorted me on “common.” I think she’s probably right. Bill makes bad grades, but I know him to be smart. He says God must’ve been drunk when he invented school. School’s a waste of time to Bill. Bill doesn’t know it, but I know that he paints pictures. He doesn’t show me any of his paintings, but I know where he keeps them. Bill must be scared that I’ll think he’s a sissy or queer. I like his pictures. He always paints hills and forests and hardly ever uses anything but earth colors: browns and greens. The pictures are tranquil, peaceful, pacifying. I’ve been wanting to tell him how much I like them, but I can’t seem to find the right words. Everything I think of sounds cheap to my own ears. I’ll wait until I find the right words. Plus, if he finds out that I know, then that might change something between us, forever.

I notice the beauty of girls more in the fall. Especially, the beauty of Elizabeth Waits. And, man, does she make the guys “wait.” As far as I know, she’s turned down every boy who ever asked her out. Things are about to change: seasons change; people change. My portrait of Elizabeth: taller than average, green eyes, curly brown hair, a narrow face, slender, small breasts (sorry Liz), and a big caboose. My dad was a breast man—God rest his soul—but I’m fonder of the rump. There’s nothing like a big juicy… Lord help me.

School. There are three reasons I like school. They are: Elizabeth, Ms. Grissom, and Mrs. Ballantine. Ms. Grissom is my astronomy teacher. She teaches enthusiastically and brings things to class that we can interact with, like: meteorites, moon dirt, videos about outer-space discoveries, and sci-fi movies. Mrs. Ballantine teaches me Advanced Composition. She criticizes my grammar and praises my stories. I want to be a writer, and she encourages me almost daily. Mrs. Ballantine doesn’t make me censor myself or use discretion. I like that a lot. It gives me freedom and creative autonomy. I like that word, autonomy.

All right, back to Elizabeth. It seems my mind always returns to her. Where is she at? What’s she doing? What’s she thinking? Who is she with? But I wasn’t always in love with Elizabeth. There was biggie before her. And that one started with a note:

Dear Rebecca,

Do you like me? Yes___ No___
I love you so much I could kiss you in front of the whole class.

—Ronnie S.

P.S. I love with all my heart. Please write back soon.

We were in the fifth grade. And what I thought was true love, was merely infatuation. I know because she told me so, right as she was leaving town and to be with another guy.

Rebecca Mitchell liked me for just a few months. I remember that I kissed her one time in the bushes, near my bus stop. She was a great kisser. Back then, I had no word for what she was, but I do now: she was exotic. I remember when she and her family left town. It was the summer between the end of middle school and the beginning of high school. Our high school starts in the seventh grade; I know of no other school that does that. Anyway, her brother, Frank, was the one who broke the news to me that they were moving. Rebecca and Frank were twins. Frank and I had gym together and were pretty good friends. I remember it felt weird to be “messing around” with my friend’s sister. I made sure to never use the words “Rebecca” and “sex” in the same sentence when I was around him. Frank said that they were moving to up near “fingers” region of North Lake.

I have dug up the last letter that Rebecca wrote me. It goes:

Ron,

It’s me, Rebecca. You’re nice but I like someone else. I’m sorry it had to end this way.

—Kiss, R.

She broke my damn heart. That little “kiss” shit was her trademark, and it finished me off. I cried like a baby. Her efficiency with a heart dagger, and her maturity as young woman, still amaze me. Even now, when I look at that letter, all I see is perfect execution…where my head rolls away from the bloody edge of the guillotine blade, and into the cabbage basket. Blunt and to the point, that was her style.

Elizabeth is different. To start with, they are different physically. Rebecca was full figured, healthy to the point of, well, chubbiness. Liz is borderline anorexic. Sometimes, I worry that she doesn’t eat enough. It’s a wonder she doesn’t collapse in one of the hallways at school.

THE HUNTED
a screenplay

1 EXT. WOODS - DAY

Five hound dogs lead two young men by leashes.

VOICE
(Guy#1; off camera)

Hey, Jim! Come over here and check this out. I think we got some prints.

Now we see Guy#1 and Jim. Jim strolls over to where Guy#1 is kneeling. They both examine the shoe prints.

JIM
(continuing; looking toward
the young men with the dogs)

Yaw, boys, bring them dogs over here an’ see if they can pick up this scent.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

2 EXT. A FIELD – DAY

Across a field, beyond a LONE TREE, is a HOUSE. The house has no underpinning and the rock pilings that support the house are visible. The house gets closer and closer until a WINDOW is all that can be seen.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

3 INT. HOUSE – DAY

The LONE TREE can be seen outside the WINDOW. There is a kitchen sink below the window. Turning clockwise: there is a refrigerator, a doorway, an overstuffed armchair. In it, sits a girl. She is about twenty years old. To her left is a lamp (glowing yellow) and a couch. Another girl, slightly older, sits on the couch. In the middle of the room, an older woman (about forty) paces nervously.

The mother and older daughter are arguing. Suddenly:

MOTHER

Shut up. Listen. What’s that?

SOUND: The distant wail of sirens. The sound gets louder and louder (closer and closer). Tension fills the air.

MOTHER
(shaking her head)

No. No. NO. NO-O-O-O!

The mother frets. The older daughter is figeting. The younger daughter watches the scene develop with glazed eyes. The mother goes to the window and looks out a gap in the curtains.

MOTHER
(no surprise in her voice)

It’s the cops.

The mother turns away from the window and looks around the room. She looks at the ceiling where a trapdoor is. She goes into an adjoining room.

The mother can be heard fumbling through things. She soon emerges with a twelve-foot stepladder. She sets it up beneath the trapdoor. The mother starts up the ladder. The younger, quiet daughter and the older daughter watch their mother from their seats. The mother pushes the trapdoor up and to the side. She looks over at her older daughter.

MOTHER
(to the older daughter)

You comin’?

The older daughter comes out of her daze and gets off the couch.

MOTHER
(to younger daughter)

If they ask for me or your sister,
tell them we’re out.

(something dawns on her)

Shit! I forgot the stuff!

She gets down off the ladder and goes into the kitchen. She pulls open a drawer near the kitchen sink. The older daughter walks to the kitchen doorway and watches and waits for her mother. Her mother slides things around: searching. The younger, quiet daughter turns her attention from her sister and mother back to the dark opening in the ceiling. She watches it intently, mesmerized. As she stares: a single sound comes from the hole in the attic. To the younger daughter, it sounded like a board came loose and fell to the unfinished attic floor. Suddenly: something blocks the young daughter’s view of the hole in the attic. She focuses. Her mother is in the younger daughter’s face.

MOTHER

Remember, you haven’t seen us!

The younger daughter doesn’t reply. After a moment, the mother turns and goes to the ladder. Abruptly, there is knocking at the front door.

VOICE
(muffled)

Open up. It’s the police.

The mother and the older daughter go up the ladder. More knocking at the front door. After they are in the attic, the mother looks down into the room, where the younger daughter is. She reaches down into the room and struggles to pull the ladder into the attic with her. More knocking at the front door. Louder knocking.

The younger daughter comes out of her daze and jumps up, running to the hole in the attic.

YOUNGER DAUGHTER

No, Ma! No—wait! Put the ladder back down.

She jumps up and tries to grab the ladder as it disappears into the hole. She stands there for a moment, waiting, hoping her mother will “put the ladder back down” No response comes from the attic. She runs into the adjoining room that her mother had went into. Looking—looking for something to use. Nothing. She goes into a closet in the ‘main’ room. A broom propped in a corner. A dust pan hanging on a nail. A vacuum cleaner. Nothing. She slams the closet door shut and goes into the pantry/utility room, where the ‘big’ freezers are. An extension cord on a nail. The washer and dryer. Shelves—paint cans and mason jars on them. A thick grass rope on a nail. A handsaw—

Her eyes go back to the rope. She snatches it from the nail and runs back to the ‘main’ room, unraveling it as she goes. She is under the hole. She makes what resembles a lasso and tosses it into the hole. The rope falls back to the floor. She tries again and again—again. It stays. She pulls on the rope. It falls to the floor. She tries again. It goes into the hole and stays. She pulls. The rope holds. She tests it again. Then throws her weight on it, pulling herself up, hand over hand. Suddenly, the rope goes slack. She’s falling. She closes her eyes and hits the floor. When she opens her eyes and looks around, she sees her mother and older sister lying beside her, the rope around their bodies. They look dead.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

4 INT. BASEMENT – DAY?

A welding helmet. The reflection of sparks can be seen in the helmet’s tinted eyeglass. The person is welding a copper carriage together. Sparks spew from the metal. It’s an old-fashioned coach. One could easily imagine horses drawing it along a dark forested road.

FADE OUT.

5 INT. ‘MAIN’ ROOM – DAY

The carriage is in the middle of the floor, beneath the hole in the ceiling. She drags her mother’s body into the carriage, her arms under her mother’s armpits. Then, her sister. She shuts the carriage door.

6 EXT. HOUSE YARD – DAY

The younger daughter stands at the bottom of the kitchen door steps, beside the house. She looks to her left. The LONE TREE, the huge field beyond the tree, the woods beyond that. At least two hundred yards to the woods. She looks to her right. Under the house, she can see five men in uniforms. They are packing something up into the floor joists. One man runs a wire over to a ‘T’–shaped detonator. The rest of the men move a ways behind the man with the detonator. He depresses it. KABOOM! Debris falls from the floor of the house to the ground. Smoke and dust quickly disperse. She goes around the side of the house. She can see the driveway and the highway beyond it. No too far away. Sixty yards maybe. She looks back toward the LONE TREE, the deep field, the woods. She chooses the driveway. She runs down the side of the house, toward the driveway and the highway. As she starts down the driveway, she looks back at the house. News reporters and their vehicles are at the front of the house beside the police cars.

A lady reporter, with a mike in her hand, spots the younger daughter and gives chase. Her cameraman, fumbling with the camera and a tangle of wires, struggles to keep up.

LADY REPORTER
(addressing the younger daughter)

Miss McGabe, where are your mother and sister? Are they all right?

KAREN, THE YOUNGER DAUGHTER, continues toward the highway. The lady reporter, persistent, pursues.

LADY REPORTER

Miss McGabe! Miss McGabe, are they in the house?

KAREN slows to a walk, and the lady reporter catches up. The reporter is in her face almost. Karen looks confused. Her head jerks up and down, side to side, as if she has a nervous tick.

LADY REPORTER

Miss McGabe—

KAREN

THEY’RE DEAD! THEY’RE BOTH DEAD. I KILLED THEM. I KILLED BOTH OF THEM.

LADY REPORTER

Miss McGabe, you can’t blame yourself for what that man did to your family.

KAREN

What man?

LADY REPORTER

The man the police are trying to apprehend.

(beat)

The man the police have been hunting. An officer stated that the tracks…

Karen looks beyond the reporter. Her focus fixes on a figure that runs across the field and into the woods.

LADY REPORTER
(continuing)

…were followed to your front doorstep.

FADE TO WHITE.

THE END

FD

Warning: the story that follows is not safe for work (NSFW).

“The Fucked and the Damned” is the name of this tale.

It’s one of mystery and intrigue.

In this story,

the two main title words are both

synonymous and antonymous.

Jerry loved Annette, and Annette loved Jerry. People said they made a good couple. One day, Annette fell in lust with another man, a dog of a man. His name was Mutt. Mutt loved the bottle, and, for the moment, what was between Annette’s legs.

Jerry didn’t know what to do. His first thought was to kill them both. But then he remembered that he’d cheated on Annette once before. Finally, he just decided to wait and see if she’d come back. Two weeks passed—and no Annette. Jerry considered suicide. His heart was broken and his dick ached from lack of use. His next decision was to masturbate. That relieved some of the pressure, but not enough. He wanted to hunt them down and get some answers. But he didn’t know where Mutt lived. I’m damned, he thought.

Then, Jerry got himself an idea: he went out and bought himself a gun, a .22-caliber pistol. When he got home, he sat on the commode and put the pistol in his mouth. He cocked the hammer, but couldn’t make himself pull the trigger.

Jerry put the small gun in his pocket and drove to town. He treated himself to a nice lunch at the Ritz Restaurant. After the meal, while walking down the sidewalk on the way to his car, Jerry spied Mutt, on foot, crossing the Main Street intersection. Jerry thought that this must be his lucky day. He fumbled the little gun out of his pants pocket and aimed it in Mutt’s direction. Mutt caught movement out the corner of his eye. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide as he saw Jerry, and, more importantly, what Jerry was about to do.

Jerry let him have it. He fired the pistol again and again, until it would fire no longer. He even pulled the trigger a couple of extra times, to assure himself that every round was spent.

Jerry got into his car and headed home. When he arrived, he found Annette there. She told him that she wanted to get back together. Jerry shrugged and said, “All right.” He went into the bathroom and reloaded the pistol. When he came into the bedroom, he found Annette naked. He smiled at her. She assumed the position she liked best, doggy-style, putting her back to him. He entered her from behind and put the gun to her head and said, “I don’t want any answers; I just want a nut.”

As she turned, to see what was butted against her head, Jerry pulled the trigger. Annette’s brains decorated the bed’s headboard. Jerry continued to pound the corpse’s vagina from behind. Finally, he came. He sighed, leaned forward on her back, and blew his brains out onto the headboard with hers.

* FD was written on December 28, 1995 when I was 23.

I BETCHA I CAN TELL YOU WHERE IT’S AT

“Betcha I can tell you where it’s at,” my friend said.

“Huh?” was my response. But deep down, I already knew what he was going to say. I need look no further than the hair standing at attention on my arm.

Repeating, he said, “I betcha I can tell you exactly where it’s at.”

“How—”

“Just hear me out. It’s in Livonia, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but how—”

“How do I know? Because I’ve been there myself.” He paused long enough to light a cigarette, then continued: “You see, we were on our way home. We had been in Atlanta all day, checking out guitars.”

“Who was with you?” I asked.

“Derek. Yeah—well—anyway—we were on our way home, and he asked me, ‘Are you hungry?’ And I replied, ‘Starving.’ So, he asked me where I wanted to eat, and I told him: ‘Anywhere, just so long as it’s a grab-and-go.’

“A few exits out of Atlanta, we noticed the big yellow sign, looming in the sky, so we pulled off the interstate.”

“What was the exit number?” I interrupted.

“Hell, I don’t know—39, 40, something like that?”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s got to be it.”

“Oh, don’t doubt it. It’s the same all right.” He continued, “Anyway, we go into the place, and right off the bat I know something’s wrong. I get this terrible gut feeling. The people don’t look right. It’s like we’ve stepped off the map.

“As we approach the counter, I look over at Derek, to see if he’s getting any of this. But, if he is, he isn’t letting on. My tuning fork, on the other hand, is tuned to that exact pitch. I’m getting it, and it’s rolling over me in waves.

“While Derek’s placing his order, I have look around. In the cooking area, in the back, there’s this guy. He’s got this pasty, pale skin. He’s pitiful-looking. Looks like some kind of idiot savant. Soulless. When he looks my way, I look into his eyes and they’re vacant. Like there’s nobody home.

“My eyes shift around the room. Closer, near the drive-through window, there’s this tall, skinny guy. He paces back and forth, doing nothing in particular, except he’s pulling at his hair. And fretting over something. His long, thinning hair is greasy and matted to his head. He looks as if he’s trapped, like he’s looking desperately for an exit. Out of nowhere, it occurs to me that he’ll never find it.

“Finally, it comes my turn to order. I look down at this chubby black girl, the cashier, and she’s pretty much normal. But she’s oblivious to this strange world that has merged with ours. I guess you could say she’s like Derek—not tuned to that fever-pitch.

“I think that maybe she’s a new employee, and still caught up in learning her job.

“I felt that the turnover rate there must’ve been higher than the norm, which would be really high at a place like that anyway, but that they cycled through employees even faster, to ensure that no ‘norms’ got suspicious. And the one’s that did, well—they vanished. Never to be seen again.

“What that place is, I really don’t know. Maybe it’s a waystation for outer-space aliens; or some kind of limbo, housing lost souls caught between this world and the next; or, just maybe, some thoughtless person poured the restaurant’s foundation on top of an ancient Indian burial ground, and these abominations are the result of such an action.

“As I placed my order, I caught movement out the corner of my eye: the skinny guy was still pacing, still pulling at his hair. Head down, he looked side to side, seeking that elusive exit. And that’s when I realized, with certainty, that I wanted to get the hell out of there. Before I, too, got stuck, you know. Before the wrong people got wise to me understanding what I was seeing.

“And that’s it. We got our food and left. The last time I looked back, that guy was still pacing, back and forth. No one had told him to get back to work, or asked him what was wrong. I had considered asking him myself—you know, if there was anything I could do, to help. But, deep down, I knew I couldn’t help him, even if I had known his problem. He was beyond help. And my survival instincts urged me to get out of there, while there was still time. Mainly because Derek ‘not seeing’—well, that made him a liability.

“Oh yeah, one last thing. As we walked to the car, Derek asked me, ‘Did you hear it?’

“I said, ‘Hear what?’

“And he said, ‘Didn’t you hear that guy, singing in the bathroom? He was singing so loud, you had to of heard him. I think he worked there.’

“I told Derek that I hadn’t heard a thing. But that sealed the deal on my never going back there again.”

“Did you try to explain to Derek what you’d felt?” I asked.

“No,” my friend replied. “As we pulled out of the parking lot, and relief washed over me, so did the feeling that I’d imagined the whole thing, or at least blown everything out of proportion. But you saying that something odd happened to you at a grab-and-go on your way to Atlanta—well, it all came rushing back.

“Now, let’s hear your tale.”

I took a deep breath. I looked down at my forearm, and wasn’t surprised to see prickly gooseflesh still there. I began:

I was taking my grandmother and aunt to Hartsfield Airport. At the last minute, my mother decided to come along too, which was a big deal because she had a phobia of cities, especially Atlanta. But her desire to see her sister and mother safely on the plane to Ohio outweighed any fears she might have of overpopulated places.

As we neared Atlanta, I asked if anyone was hungry. I instructed them that we should stop soon, before we entered the busy, thumping heart of the city. They agreed, and my mother—her nerves already as taut as piano wire—eagerly agreed. And seeing the towering sign, as you did, we got off at Livonia.

It’s in one of those almost too-perfect spots, don’t you think? It’s one of the last exits before you cross I-285 and into Atlanta proper. Kind of a ‘last stop.’ And, as crummy as it is, it gets a lot of business.

Me and the womenfolk walked inside the fast-food restaurant. In the section to my right, I spied a group of nine, possibly ten; most were sitting. I noticed that, because of a fat guy and a cleaning cart, I didn’t have a clear shot to the bathroom. The fat guy was middle-aged, with white hair, and he seemed to be holding court. His face was unnaturally dirty, as if he’d crawled out a cardboard box just five minutes earlier. Under his eyes were purplish bags, and he leaned against the cart, of rags, trash bags and cleaning sprays, as if it were his pulpit.

Seated nearby was his motley crew of listeners. At first glance, one would guess that they were customers, but upon closer inspection they seemed vagrants, their looks suggesting that their cardboard box was adjacent to that of the speaker, who continued to babble on and on, cheerlessly, monotonously. The crew acknowledged his speech with perfunctory nods, cackles and grunts of agreement.

Closer by, an employee, in grab-and-go dress, attempted, with little success, to insert a black bag into a trash receptacle. She had one ear pitched toward the speech, and even bodily appeared to list dangerously in that direction. Her uniform consisted of polyester navy slacks, a collared burgundy button-up, and a yellow smiley face pinned cockeyed over her left breast pocket. Her face was the rosy red of a kid’s-birthday-party clown, a drunk one; her orange hair and smeared blue eyeshadow completed the ghastly picture. It looked like she’d put her makeup on with the help of a broken piece of mirror, in the dark, and perhaps three years ago. She fit right in with the ‘box people.’

My family and I placed our orders, and then, with me leading the way, we sat down in the section at the opposite corner of the restaurant. Just as Derek wasn’t in tune with the true nature of what was going on, my family didn’t have a clue either. But, to their credit, maybe it was because I had made sure that I sat facing the ‘box people,’ which left two of our four with a sunny view of the front lawn and main drag beyond. I chewed my egg and cheese biscuit, my eyes cheating to the right every chance I got. After assuring my mom that we should be perfectly safe on MARTA, I tuned out the local conversation and tried to get a fix on what was going on across the room.

The fat guy with the purplish-black bags under his eyes seemed to be starting his monologue afresh, which made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. And, as I listened, I became more and more certain that he was repeating his exact words over again. He was a living, breathing record-player. Confirmation came six minutes later, when he started again. I was getting really twitchy, and I wiped sweat from my forehead, even though the restaurant was uniformly cool. I began to feel sickly. Suddenly, the egg and cheese weren’t sitting so well. I had picked up on something I wasn’t supposed to. I looked around the restaurant, to see what else I should’ve been paying attention to. Danger—we were in danger. My eyes flitted around the cooking area, looking for the manager.

But, right then, my stomach seized up. My first thought being: have I been poisoned? I looked at each of my folks; they were all big smiles and warmth; even my mom seemed to be loosening up. The only thing loosening on me was my bowels, and I got up jerkily as another pain racked its way through my intestines. I had scant seconds. There was no time to consider the possibility of malicious intentions from the peanut gallery. Hazarding one glance at the service station across the road—too far away—I bolted in the direction of the bathroom.

The listing-to-one-side, trash-bag lady nearly tripped me as I went by her. And then, looming in my path, was the cleaning cart, backed by the fat-guy. Undaunted, I turned sideways and squirted past, leaving fat-guy and his crew to mime laughter at me.

Through the door, a quick ‘excuse me’ as I passed someone, blur of door, whisper of denim, hiss, and then a thud, as my ass smacked hard on the toilet seat. I had no time to care what was on it. With a shaking hand, and reaching as far forward as I could, I slid the bolt home on the stall door. All I could think was ‘sweet relief,’ as my bottom-end sputtered, convulsed and shuddered, my feet kicking out into the air, randomly and at odd angles, from this too-high throne.

Things ran their course, wound down, abated, and I let out a long sigh of relief, followed by a “Whew!!” I rested. I was just beginning the arduous task of unfurling enough toilet paper to wipe with, when the outer door squeaked inward, and horror struck me anew.

“Shit,” I whispered aloud, and then held my breath. Boot-clicking steps went to the urinal. And then, nothing. Waiting. Waiting. Then, out came a hard stream, slamming into the back of the urinal. I leaned this way and that to see, and finally saw a quarter-inch-wide orange jet of urine flowing from something in black attire. Two minutes later, there was water at the sink, running. The being let loose a cackle, finding something amusing. Terrified, I forgot about my dripping end, and I tried for a better look, leaning hard on the left handicap rail. The light seemed dim over the sink and all I could make out was a tall, thin black shape; occasionally, it glanced in my direction, apparently bemused. I looked at the bolt on the door, to make sure I’d actually latched it. The bolt was home. My eyes flicked back to the crack. And that was when I caught my glimpse: a toothy, predatory grin on a thin, pale face…and then a flourish, a spin of cape, and out the door he went.

If ever there was the leader, that was it. Finally, I remembered to breathe, and my breaths came in ragged gasps. Danger seemed averted, but the tiled walls seemed to be closing in around me. I pictured the stall wall, at my left, suddenly swinging outward, to reveal only darkness. And then arms, reaching out of the darkness, grabbing at the air, searching, probing for me. Hyperventilating or not, I finally got to moving.

I wiped (half-assed), and threw open the stall door. Out of terrible habit, I still wet my hands as I flew by the sink, grabbing a paper towel as I went, and pulled open the outer bathroom door. In my way, was fat-guy-with-the-purple-circles and his cart. My bravado had returned and I wasn’t in any mood to die or take shit. Looking for weakness and finding none, he stepped aside, letting me through. I glanced to my right; his crew seemed suddenly somber, or maybe sober. There was no sign of the being-in-black; not that I expected there to be.

Having dried my hands, I hooped up the now ball-of-paper. The clown woman was just getting the bag onto the fourth corner, and gave me a black look. Unfazed, I turned the corner…and the wind went right out of my sails.

The table, where my family had sat, was now empty.

Again, my heart raced. What had been done to them? The being in black, had he—

Then I cut my eyes left, out the glass side the building, to the parking lot. They were there. My family. Beside the car. Safe and sound. Still laughing about something.

We continued onward, to the airport, without incident.

[This actual set of events, with minor embellishment, took place in the spring of 1996.]

THE WOMAN…

The Woman was a woman, and that was enough. The pilgrimage had made her tired. Her shoulders sagged as she sat down in the ditch beside the road. She had stormed out—had left the man who loved her most. The truth had almost killed her. As she sat in the deep weeds, she began to cry again. Her sides hitched. Her breaths came in ragged gasps. Their home was every bit of three miles behind her now. She had started out, running. After about a mile and a half, her strength failed her, and she had slowed to a walk. “He couldn’t be.” She mumbled this aloud, again and again.

The world grays in front of her eyes. “I love him.” She mumbles this softly. Then, a bit louder, she adds, “I do love him.” She laughs weakly and, with dirty hands, smears the tears on her face. She stands and smooths some of wrinkles in her faded blue dress. People stare at her from their automobiles, as they drive by. She barely notices.

BLUE NIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

It was late afternoon when Sullivan Radley first heard the heavy booming sound. He went out on the back porch to see if he could figure out what it was, and where it was coming from. His ears indicated that the sound was coming from his left, which was the southwest corner of the yard. At that corner, the deep, pine-infested forest began. The sound was heavy and regular like a bass drum, and its tempo was steadily quickening as if a great machine were coming to life. Wondering what the hell it could be, Sully shook his head and stepped back into the house.

He returned to his informal dinner party. His buddies, Larry and Bill, were in the dining room, playing poker and getting tanked up on Bud Light. Their girlfriends—the adorable but bitchy pair, Amber and Jen—were in the den watching Golden Girls. Sully passed in front of the television as he made his way to the dining room. He plopped down in a chair between his two ‘buds.’

“You ain’t drinking, Sully?” Larry asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sully jumped up and went to the refrigerator. He returned with a bottle of regular Budweiser in the bottle.

“Why do y’all drink that watered-down crap?” Sully asked, as he sat back down at the table.

“Because we don’t want no headbuster in the morning,” Bill replied.

Sully twisted the top off his bottle and spun it like a Frisbee into the trashcan a few feet away. “Two points,” he said.

CHAPTER TWO

Afew hours later, evening arrived, bringing with it a light fog. The heavy booming had not stopped, or lessened in intensity; if anything, it had gone up an octave in pitch. Sully was worried. He went to the back door and glanced out the diamond-shaped window. Animals were in the yard, and more fled the woods as he watched. While he’d been away, a blue mist had crept in from the southwest. The bluish tint to the mist throbbed in time with heavy booming sound, indicating that the two were somehow connected.

Suddenly, there was movement to his right. Walking by the porch was a huge animal—a deer. No, not a deer. But something similar. A ‘freak of nature’ deer with a giraffe neck. Its neck was so long that Sully couldn’t see its head, which was above the roof of the porch. Just then, a scraping-sliding sound came from the rooftop.

What the hell?! Sully thought. That bastard must be eating those old, rusty nails I left up there last year.

More movement, further to the left, caught Sully’s eye. A gaze of raccoons dashed across the lawn, pausing in the middle, uncertainly.

More animals followed—rabbits, squirrels, a pair of skunks, small birds, wild turkeys, white-tailed deer—until the yard was brimming with wildlife.

Sully didn’t dare go out there now. He was excited—and more than a bit frightened. He had to tell the others. He left his post at the window and found his friends watching TV in the den.

“Hey, you guys! Come and check this out.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno. Animals—lots of them. They’re all over the back yard. And where that sound is, there’s a blue mist.”

“Man, what have you been smoking?” Larry asked.

“Nothing. And I’m not pulling your leg. Just come and check it out. You’ll see for yourselves.”

They all came to the back door, and they saw. And most could have caught flies with their open mouths.

“So, what do you think it means?” Sully asked.

No one answered.

“Come on, you guys. What could it be?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think we should go out there,” Jen replied.

Sully gave her a look that said, “I’m with stupid.”

CHAPTER THREE

They all decided that it would be best—safest—for everyone to move into the study. They turned off all the lights in the house except for a lamp on the corner table of the three-piece sofa set. The two couples made pretense of cutting up with one another, the jokes coming out flat and weak. Head down, Sully paced the floor between the back door and the den. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

He was behind a video monitor, popping sweat, attaching cable ends, running the long cable from the study to the den, and attaching it to his video cameara on its Bogen tripod. He spun the video camera around until it was pointed across the den to the front door. The monitor in the study faced the group huddled together on the sofa. Sully powered up the video camera and the monitor, and slowly the front door came into autofocus, bathed in an oval of inaccurately white-balanced amber light.

“What the hell is that for?” Bill asked.

“It’s so that we can see whatever tries to break in through the front door,” Sully replied.

“Unlikely,” Bill said.

“Whatever,” Sully replied.

As Sully approached the diamond-shaped window at the back door, the bottom fell out of the clouds. Rain roared down onto the tin rooftop, drowning out even the heavy thrumming. The night outside had become as dark as pitch. If the animals were still out there, they were unseen.

Sully checked the monitor. And a chill went up his spine. It was showing the group huddled together on the couch!

CHAPTER FOUR

“Did anyone screw with the camera?” Sully asked, already knowing the answer would be a collective “negatory” as he repositioned the camera on its tripod, placing the front door squarely in the middle of the viewfinder again. He checked the image on the monitor before taking up his post at the back door. The diamond-shaped window was no longer giving up its secrets. The night was black and the rain made slanted white lines.

Resigned, Sully plopped down on one end of the crowded sofa.

Sully allowed their conversations to pass around and through him. His gaze settled on the monitor. In it, he saw the front door. The chatter continued around him.

“…and Sue goes down on this guy, and she barely knows him…”

“…me and Lendell were racing back from Atlanta on the interstate—he in his Dodge and me in my Chevy—and both our trucks are pegged out at 99 miles an hour. You see they were both governed…”

The picture on the monitor was moving. Sully snapped back into focus. He looked at the camera in the next room. Without a motor, it was panning on its tripod.

Unable to speak, Sully tapped Bill on arm and pointed.

The meaningless sofa conversations came to an abrupt stop. All eyes followed Sully’s finger.

“All right, Sully,” Larry said. “Where’s the remote control?”

“I don’t have one,” Sully stated flatly. “It’s moving by itself.”

Then the house plunged into darkness, as the lights went out. One of the girls screamed.

“Does anyone have a flashlight?”

A moment later, a small light came on. Sully, holding a small flashlight out in front of him, walked to the middle of the room. “I know where some candles are.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Sully lit the third candle and blew out the match.

“I don’t like this, you guys,” Jen said.

“Jen, come over here and sit with me. Everything’s going to be all right,” Bill slid over to make room for Jen. She came to him, and they huddled tightly together.

Amber huddled even closer to Larry.

Bright beams of light suddenly flashed across the wall. Sully jumped onto the sofa for a better look. With his face pressed tightly against the glass, he saw several sets of headlights coming up the driveway.

“Maybe it’s the power company,” Amber offered.

A sinking feeling of dread started to fill Sully.

“I don’t think so. There are seven or eight cars,” Sully said.

Up the rutted pasture driveway, splashing water, came late-model black Fords at high speed.

Still fifty yards from the house, the first car slid to a halt. The next eight followed suit, lining up, side by side. Their combined headlight beams brightly illuminated the side of the house, putting it under a singular spotlight and blinding its occupants. The door opened on the first car and a foot wearing a black dress shoe smacked down into the middle of a mud puddle.

A BETTER TOMORROW

CHAPTER ONE

The white two-story frame house looming in the distance had once been mine. The house now stood empty; no one had lived in it since I had been forced out. Recently, my friends had talked me into pawning my computers that were, hopefully, still inside the house.

As we walked up the long, gravel driveway, I thought about the little things that haunted me. Why had I let them push me out of my house without a fight? Why did I feel like a thief, right now, as I approached my own house? How had things gotten to this point?

We ascended the porch steps. I instructed my friends to wait by the front door. I went around to a particular side window that I remembered having a weak catch and let myself in. I entered the dark, dusty room that was to have been my daughter’s—the one I never I had. There the new bed was, still covered with plastic. And I knew beneath more plastic to my left was a shelf that was to hold her knickknacks. Before more ghostly dreams could possess me, I hurriedly passed out the bedroom doorway and into the even darker main hallway.

I headed toward the front of the house and fumbled along the wall for the front door and its locks. The turning of the deadbolt was like an explosion in the deathly quiet family room. I let my buddies inside. We stood quietly for a few moments, letting our eyes adjust. I looked around. My furniture (sofa, chairs, loveseat, et al.) was still there, dressed in white sheets and covered with plastic. Cobwebs and dust covered everything that had been left uncovered: an end table, two lamps, the mantelpiece, and a painting on the far wall. I led them back up the main hallway. The computers were on the second floor, so I flicked on my flashlight and we turned left and up the stairwell.

The second floor was a bit labyrinthine. At the top of the stairs, we took a right, followed by a quick left, and hugged the side of the house down a hallway. Here, we killed our flashlights as we passed by several windows, not wishing to draw attention to ourselves. At the end of the hall was the door to my office. Reluctantly, I tried the doorknob. The door was locked. I had considered this possibility. I pulled a key from my pocket and tried it in the lock. The knob turned easily. I flicked my flashlight back on and stepped into my former office.

The computers were just as I had left them, over a year ago. I pulled the dust covers off each of them. There were five in all. My babies: a Dell file-server; a Toshiba laptop; an Amiga 7000AV; an Apple Macintosh 10101sg; and last, but not least, a Compaq LTE Septum (another laptop; however, this one was extraordinarily lightweight).

We put my babies into the heavy-duty black trash bags we had brought. As I eased my gray laptop into the bag, I felt tears welling up. I knelt there and blinked until the tears receded. I think the nostalgia was overwhelming me. I reached for my flashlight, which I had set on the desk. It rolled away from me and fell to the carpeted floor, making a loud thunk! as it went out. That was when I first heard the footsteps downstairs.

“Shhhh!” I told to my friends.

We quieted and listened.

At first there was nothing to hear. Ten seconds later we all heard voices whispering at the bottom of the stairs.

“Leave it and let’s go!” I whispered urgently to my friends.

Reluctantly, they dropped their bags and followed me out a second floor window. One after another, we jumped off the porch roof to the ground below. I landed badly and twisted my ankle. We picked ourselves up, dashed past the barn into a stand of hardwood trees, crossed the fence at that edge, and entered the open field.

Behind us, in the distance, I heard the front door slam. Next, I heard loud voices out in the yard. I never looked back, just made every effort to turn on more speed. At the end of the pastureland, we crossed a second fence, and the highway. And then we stood on the train tracks. We paused briefly and listened. Distantly, we could hear the train coming. Right on time, I thought. With the depot being only a mile or two back, the train would still be traveling relatively slow when it got to us. We crossed the tracks and hid in a shoulder-high thicket.

As the train passed, we ran alongside, looking for an open box car. Finding none, we lept onto the ladder of the last car. My gimpy ankle caused me to need an assist. Up the metal rungs we climbed to the top. We alternated between laying flat and sitting Indian-style to draw as little attention to ourselves as possible, and got off at the next town—Thornton’s Crossroads. It was there that we went our separate ways.

I walked to the house that She shared with her grandmother.

I don’t know exactly why I did it. I did it partly because her house was close to the railroad tracks. And partly because I knew she’d take me home. But mostly because I wanted to see her.

She wasn’t home when I walked up into her yard. Her grandma said that she had gone to the market and should be right back. The grandmother’s eyes were untrusting, and I knew what they were saying: she didn’t like the looks of me.

After a 15-minute wait on the front porch, She turned up the driveway in her little car. She stepped out, clutching a medium-sized paper sack against her chest. I said “Hay” and she said “Hi.” She told me that she’d be back in a moment, and she was. I told her I needed a ride home. She told me that she’d be more than happy to take me home. “Wait in the car,” she said. I did as I was told. She went back into the house. After what seemed like forever, she climbed into the car, looking fit as a fiddle. She had put on perfume, and the smell was intoxicating. She started the car and we were off.

Neither of us spoke for several miles. Finally, not realizing what was about to come out of my mouth, I said:

“I LOVE YOU.”

She told me something entirely different.

CHAPTER TWO

As we rode along in her blue-gray ‘98 Ford Tempo, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she was right. All these years, I had thought I was in love with her. Doubt had never entered my mind, until now. She appeared to pay close attention to her driving. I didn’t know what to say. How do you reply when a woman tells you that you aren’t in love with her, after you have just told her that you are.

I looked at her beautiful profile: wavy, long blonde-brown hair, tigress brown eyes, slender, almost frail body. And, hidden in the seat, was plenty of junk in the trunk.

She looked vulnerable. But I knew her history, and it said that she’d been through hell. People who go through hell, and come out the other side without any apparent scarring, can’t be all that weak. She still had that nice, approachable exterior, which was proving to be my poison apple.

We were now on the Sparta highway, the miles slipping by. I knew that I should say something. But what?

Time flew.

She turned onto West Hancock Lane. As I stared out the window, my mind raced. I sensed the urgency. There was a good possibility that I’d never have another private moment like this with her.

She was right. I had no true reason to love her. I didn’t even know her. I fell in love with her outward personality and beauty. Come to think of it, in all these years, I’d never had more than a two-minute conversation alone with her. But this much I was certain of: I did care about her. I didn’t like the idea of her being with Him, especially he and his friends. They were trouble, plain and simple.

He lived three doors down from me, and his body shop was beyond a sunken empty lot across the street. After she dropped me off, she would go to him. I couldn’t stop her.

She turned onto my street, his street: good ol’ Apple Orchard Lane. I hadn’t seen an apple orchard since I’d been here, but that’d only been 10 months. I stayed with my buddies, the same ones I’d caught the train with. We helped each other pay the rent and utilities. Our house was a bit rundown, and most of the houses in the neighborhood are a bit shabby, but it was where we called home.

She eased up my driveway. Still looking out the car window, I noticed for the first time that all the leaves have fallen off the trees. Behind the trees, the sky was overcast. Rain threatened. The car stopped.

Winter had arrived. The downpour started, and we dashed to the house. She and I went inside. I could almost imagine that we were getting in from a date. And that we were going to sit for a while, have a real conversation. And then, before she left, she’d kiss me—not on the cheek, but—on the lips.

Inside, the house was dark. We were trying to save electricity. I could hear the monitor playing in the kitchen/den area. My friends were already back, and sat, smoking, watching an old John Wayne flick. Don’t ask me what they were smoking, but let’s just say it had a skunky smell. She forced a fake smile to her lips and said “Hi” to my friends. They were so ‘zoned out’ that they didn’t even notice that a fine woman was standing before them. Ordinarily, they would have flipped off the monitor and broke out their lines of B.S.

They spoke simultaneously, their voices dragging, “Haaay.”

You could tell from her disappointment that she had expected them to fawn over her. It was then that I knew that this flattery was the only reason she’d come in with me. For the first time this evening, she seemed unsure of things and, with noticeable discomfort, said to me: “I need to be going.”

I walked her to the front door.

My mind hunted fruitlessly for the right words to keep her there, if only for a few seconds longer. All I could muster was, “Take care of yourself.”

And just like that—poof!—she was gone. I watched her run to her car. The rain made it seem like she was part of an old movie, complete with scratches and graininess. That was something I missed: movies shot on film. It was a sad thing, but there hadn’t been a movie shot on film in over two years. This digital video wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Perfect, they say; perfect, my ass.

Her car backed down my drive. I knew that she was now going to him. And, sure enough, her car headed that way. I went back inside.

I laid down on my single bed and stared up at the ceiling. I could still hear the John Wayne movie playing in the next room. I thought about her. And I thought about the number of times I had thought about her. Thousands? Millions?

She was probably knocking on his door by now.

I studied the water stains on the ceiling. I saw the monkey. And, adjoining the monkey, there was the dolphin. It was like studying cloud formations: sometimes, in the same cloud, you might see a wolf or a unicorn or an old witch. Clouds were ever-changing, but these water stains remained very much the same. They had been frozen this way ever since we’d fixed the leaky roof.

I dozed off. I dreamed that she stayed and that we went to bed together. The curious thing about the dream was that we didn’t have sex. We just talked, our faces and bodies close. When I awakened, it was still raining. It rained a lot these days.

I checked on my friends. They had dozed off in their chairs. A news program was on the monitor. I shut it off.

I looked out the glass sliding door, which overlooked our pitiful patio, at the rain gauge. Today, we had received over two inches of rain, and, according to the gauge, the acid percentage is up to nearly four percent. Very Unhealthy. I wished these bastards would stop building so many factories. It was killing us. I remembered, not so long ago, when I could play in the rain. Not anymore.

I made me a bologna sandwich. Seeing that the kitchen/den bar was cluttered with junk, I took my sandwich to the bedroom and sat down on my bed. I thought of her. Is he fucking her while I sit here eating this sorry-ass sandwich? It was sort of a funny thought, when you put the two images side by side in your head.

I went to the nightstand and picked up the book that was there: TIMEPIECES AND STOPWATCHES by Stephen King. I took the book back to my bed and sat down. After eating the last bite of my sandwich, I opened the book and started to read:

Donnie was disappointed when his dad gave him the old watch for his birthday. Why couldn’t he get a pair of Ultra-Vision video goggles like Stu Steigmeyer…

I closed the book and put it back on the nightstand. Even King had sold out, writing about shit that was trendy. I went to the front door and looked out the diamond-shaped window. The rain was tapering off. I looked up toward his house. I could just see the rear-third of her car in his yard. A verse from an old Soul Asylum song came to mind. It went: “…Put me out of my misery! …Frus-strate-ed Inn-cor-pour-ray-ted…”

The music industry had gone to shit just like everything else. The number-one song in the land was “Kill ‘Em All” by THE SILICON BEASTS.

As I turned away from the door, I heard a commotion outside.

I returned to the diamond-shaped window—but couldn’t see shit. I threw open the door and ran out into the yard. From here, what was wrong was obvious. A rather large RV mobile home was sitting on four flat tires in the basin-shaped open yard across the street. I heard a door slam and looked in the direction of the sound.

It was Him and Her, and they were running toward me, toward the accident. They ran past me.

I walked closer to the RV, my forehead wrinkling as I attempted to piece together this puzzle. Maybe this guy, the driver of the RV, was drunk and the RV had spun out of control. The crisscrossing patterns of muddy streaks and flattened grass seemed to support my theory.

He, She, and two men were standing at the back of the RV, talking.

As I came around the side of the enormous vehicle, I saw a man, lying injured on the grass. His brains were seeping out of his ears and nostrils. He had a huge gash on the side of his skull, and gray matter leaked from there, too. I felt my stomach lurch. My hand went to my belly, and I clamped my throat shut. I looked away from him, and the urge to vomit passed.

He, She, and the two men were still talking, only now they seemed worried. At first, I thought they were worried about the guy on the ground. But they soon proved me wrong on that count. They totally ignored expiring man.

The two strangers climbed into the back of the RV, where the door was already ajar, and removed a couple of dozen heavily-taped two-pound packages.

I decided that I’d seen too much. I need to leave the scene. But, first, I needed to assure them that everything seemed normal to me.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked him and her, hoping earnestly that there was nothing I could do.

Everybody looked at me, as if seeing me for the first time, which they probably were. Damn, I could have slipped away unnoticed. After looking around to see if one of the others wanted to speak, she said, “No, I think things will be all right.”

She forced a smile to her beautiful face and added, “But thanks anyway.” No effort was made to turn on her charms.

I nodded and offered what I hoped was a wan, sympathetic smile. I turned my back on the scene of the accident. The part of me that wasn’t a self-preserving coward said, Why didn’t you do something back there? But, really, what could I have done for the guy? A guy whose friends didn’t care enough for him to call an ambulance. If they were that heartless, then that meant they were probably also dangerous. And me and mine didn’t need that complication; we already had enough strikes against us.

I walked back across the street to my house and tried to forget what I had seen. Lying on my bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, I planned mine and the boys’ evening. I decided that we were going to a party: an acquaintance of ours was throwing a small bash out at his family’s lake house. I dozed off.

When I awoke, the room was dark. Night was upon us. I stood and knocked down the wrinkles in my clothes. The boys were no longer in their respective chairs in the den. They were gone, probably to the store. I rinsed out a dirty drinking glass and filled it with what Steinbeck would have called ‘Old Tennis Shoes,’ a cheap, rotgut wine. I took a swig, and grimaced.

After a few minutes, I was feeling the wine’s relaxing effects. The tension went out of my shoulders. My head cleared. I was able to view the day’s events more objectively. The night—the party—seemed to hold a great promise.

The front door opened, bringing me out of my thoughts. I glanced toward the doorway as ‘the boys’ come in, each clutching a paper sack.

“What’chall get?” I asked them.

One said, “St. Ides”; the other, “Colt .45.”

Have I mentioned that we’re alcoholics?

They plopped down on the couch and helped themselves to their purchases. I tossed back another mouthful of wine. I don’t grimace this time; the buzz has distanced me from the foul taste. One of ‘the boys’ flipped on the monitor, and we watched an ancient episode of Andy Griffith.

Around ten o’clock, I suggested that we go to the party. They agreed, after much jee-jawing. At this point, we were all inebriated, but it didn’t matter because none of us had a car that ran.

We walked the five blocks to the town square and waited for a ride to come along. We milled about as purposely as possible under the few old hardwoods, trying not to appear to be loitering, lest a patrol car happen by and take an interest. I propped a foot up on a park bench. We all smoked cigarettes. Thirty minutes passed before someone came along and was willing to give us a ride.

The party was just getting cranked up when we arrived. Dope fiends were everywhere. Seemed like every time I turned around, someone was blazing up a crack pipe. Me and ‘the boys’ stayed away from that shit. I’d tried it, twice. It was some good shit the first time. Nothing but flux the second. It’s a rip. And too goddamned addictive for my tastes. The host of party was fuuucked-up. So fucked-up, in fact, that he tried to get his baby brother, who’d just turned thirteen, to smoke crack. He held the glass pipe out to his brother, who emphatically shook his head ‘no.’ But, in the end, he gave in. And now, he’d be a crackhead forever, just like his brother. I was so sure of it, that I’d be willing to bet money on it, and I’m no betting man. It was a fucking shame; it really was. I hated to witness it—the initiations, that is. I hated it most all because the initiators were so high that they didn’t even realize what they had done—that they were the ones who finished destroying their families.

Around two-thirty in the A.M., we decided that it was time to find a ride home. We got lucky and arrived back at the house at three. I crashed. I don’t know what they did. I awoke around noon; ‘the boys’ were still asleep.

I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. There was no bread for a sandwich, so I ate a couple of pieces of bologna. I washed it down with some buttermilk: wine, for some reason, no longer seemed appealing. Ten minutes later, I was climbing onto the throne, where I jettisoned a couple of turds. Suddenly, I got a bad feeling. No, my colon wasn’t hurting. In the cobwebbed hangover that was my mind, I felt that something awful has just happened to her.

Written on August 30, 1995 at the age of 23.

Moist Heaven

The night was moist. Horror was common. Stupors were a thing of the past. Love was hard to live with—and live without, for that matter. For the sake of appearances, she would go out with him. After years of disappointment she learned to love him. Time loved ‘em both. They were old creatures when God finally called them home. In the afterlife he grew to hate her. Everywhere he looked, she was there. Heaven became Hell. Suddenly he found himself wanting Earth more than anything else. This “sharing” shit was for the birds. He wanted a good fuck. He never would’ve used the word “fuck” though. He called it “spreadin’ the wealth.”

God heard his wishes and sent him back to Earth. God kept the bitch. He returned to his job at the factory. People asked him where he’d been. Everything was fine for a while.

One night, while he was sleeping, he received a faxed letter. It was from The Bitch. She said God had been taking good care of her. She also mentioned that she missed him. He faxed a letter back saying that he was doing everything he could to forget her. He received another fax. This one was covered with tears and otherwise blank. He jerked off on a sheet of paper and faxed it to her. He received no further response.

That morning, he woke up, took a bath, and went to work. Around 9:23, a steel press took his hand off, and he bled to death on the scene. He left this world again.

He awoke as a cockroach. Cockroaches he didn’t know were crowded around him. He was on his back, looking up at them. They were chanting a name—his name.

“Bi-i-l-l-l-l Mo-n-n-n-s-o-o-o-n.”

Or was it Bill Manson? He wasn’t sure. Regardless, they repeated the name, over and over again.

His vision had been doubled, even trebled; now it singled. Only one cockroach remained and Bill recognized him.

“Sammy!” Bill cried out with a smile.

Sammy looked relieved.

Sammy said, “I was worried about you. Thought you had got hold of some of that boric acid or something.”

Sammy helped him home. Home at the time was a paper bag filled with rotten oranges.

The next day, Sammy was mashed into the kitchen linoleum by a booted foot. No funeral services were held. In all of his lives he’d been surrounded by tragedy. With a mouthful of irony, he screamed at the sheetrock heaven: “Thank you, God. May I have another?”

A sneaker came down on top of him.

THE END

The Emporium

Three hours until dusk. I wandered without purpose through the open-air marketplace. Shops on my left, and even more on my right. Some with pull-down awnings; others with display tables out front, bearing wares that would have to be gotten in before nightfall. I picked over items on tables and entered shops at random, not wishing to appear out of place. But the truth be told: I was bored.

I paused at the entrance to a corrugated-roofed, totally inconspicuous little storefront. With my hand firmly attached to the black doorhandle, I took one last look around me, taking in the seemingly endless line of shops on both sides and in both directions. This is going to be my last stop, I promised myself. After this, I’m going to find my way out of here. And, with that, I entered the little shop.

Noisy, was my first thought. Kids sat in chairs in front of TVs, playing video games. A black kid of about 10 years of age walked around with his face bent to a Nintendo Game Boy. At the back of the store, behind the countertop, a little Asian man sat on a stool behind the cash register. His head was tilted down, as he read a newspaper. He seemed unaffected by the din of electronic sounds and raucous preteen laughter.

The kids were at four distinctly different vintage game consoles: a Sony Playstation, a Sega Genesis, a TurboGrafx-16, and an Amiga 500. They were all set up for two-player, and the kids who weren’t playing stood around cheering the contestants as they awaited their turns. The four walls of the shop had a veinous network of almost haphazard shelving attached to them. The shelves seemed to contain every conceivable type of thing: toy trucks and cars, potted plants, baseballs cards, vinyl records, CDs—and even that old format of music disc. What was it, I thought, MD? I felt that I needed to appear interested, so I picked up one of the discs and took it to the little man to ask him.

About that time, the little man abruptly looked up from his reading. But he didn’t look at me. “Hey you, kid, come here!” he said. I followed his gaze, and my eyes landed on the kid with the handheld game. And I thought, Oh hell, here come the racial slurs. The black kid cautiously approached the counter. “It just stopped working,” the kid said, a bit defensively. “Gimme, gimme,” was all the little man said, and stretched out both his hands to receive the device. Reluctantly, the kid handed over the Game Boy. With a manicured fingernail, the storekeeper flipped the Game Boy’s power switch to the OFF position, popped the back panel off, flicked the four old AA batteries into the trash, produced four new batteries from a nearby drawer, inserted them, snapped the back back into place, flipped the power switch back to the ON position, and handed the device back to the boy with a flourish. A smile lit up the boy’s face. “Thank you.” And with that he walked away humming to himself. I watched the kid for a moment too long—realizing subconsciously that something interesting had just taken place, but not quite sure what. I turned back to the counter dazedly and was slightly startled to find the old man’s gaze resting on me. Stuttering, I said, “I was wondering…” I trailed off, showing him the small discs in my hand. He looked at them. “You can play,” he stated flatly and with his right indicated the closed door behind him. His oriental accent was thick; his English simple, but his meaning unclear. Again, he pointed at the door behind him and repeated: “There, you can play.” Bewildered, I just decided to roll with it. Maybe the player for these discs lies just on the other side of that door, I thought. I came around the counter, to his side, but he was back to reading his paper; I took one last look at the kids in store. They seem to be having a good time. I opened the door and stepped through.

I had entered a house—that was teeming with life. The atmosphere was festive, but I couldn’t be sure that a party a was going on. I had left the little man behind me and was now exploring what was likely his home. I went from room to room, looking for a “player,” not having any clue as to what I was really looking for.

I passed two rooms on my left—they felt like bedrooms; a door on the right—revealed a closet. I continued down the hallway. The music was getting louder. The hallway opened into a living room—sofas; warm red-and-yellow light scattered about the room; and colorful multicultural decorations abounded. At the back of the living room, I saw someone come in through the back door—a shaft of harsh white light penetrated the room briefly—and then the door was shut. After that, the room seemed dark. Two people were talking near the back door, at yet another doorway. The conversation ended and an apparition drifted across the landing (in front of the back door) and down a short set of steps into the living room. But instead of turning toward me, they turned away, ducking into yet another room that I had not entered. Before they disappeared, I caught a flash of feminine red.

I looked around the living room for a stereo—on which to play the discs that lay mostly forgotten in my hand. Dimly confused; the thread of “why” I was there was slipping away. I decided to go into the room where I’d seen the person go.

I entered a kitchen. Two girls were talking at the island in the center; on it were dips, chips—a salsa smell in the air—lettuce, tomato, spices. Two young women smiled invitingly from their punch glasses. One wore a red dress—Aaahaa!—it reminded me of a kimono, with its detailing—there seemed to be dragons all over it. The other woman was dressed in a way that I was much more accustomed with—your typical modern young woman: black leather pants, white tank-top with pink and blue horizontal stripes on it. Both women were attractive—and they were oriental. I yelled, a bit excessively, over the music and told them that the man out front had invited me in and held up the discs as if this would explain everything. They looked at each other—and laughed—with me, at me, or something different. My confusion, only deepened.

Finally, the one in red pointed behind me to one of the bedrooms. I thanked her, nodded at the other girl and left the room. The bedroom was small and in the middle of the floor was foam-rubber mattress, fitted with a blue sheet. On the opposite wall (from where I entered) was stereo unit. I approached it and fumbled with the controls until a tray skated out and (from my hand) I inserted a disc. Soon music poured gently from the speakers.

And through the living room (not the kitchen) entered—an angel. Dressed in a white, belly-button revealing, short thing—it was toga-like and skirt- and dress-like but neither of the three. She came in and lit-up the room with just a tease of a smile. She was medium to tallish in height, with dark hair and oriental features. Electricity seemed to bridge the gap between us and behind my ears, my hair tingled and stood on end. She stood just inside the doorway and promptly asked me what I was doing. I fumbled my explanation, but eventually conveyed to her that the man out front—I gestured and looked toward the front of the house, and she said softly, “Ohhh, Father”—had invited me in to have a listen at some discs. She asked me to show her. I held out the remaining discs. She rushed toward me and instead of grabbing the discs her smiled turned into a devilish grin and stepping low she socked me on the left side of my chest with her fist. I closed my fist on the discs as they threatened to jiggle from my hand. She came around behind me and threw her right hand on my left shoulder. Leaning close, she said, “Let’s see what you’ve got there.” A current ran through my body from her hand. Weakly, meekly—I proffered what was in my hand. With both hands, she lifted the stack from my hand, her delicate fingers brushing across my open palm—everything about her aroused me—and she removed a disc. Setting the rest of the stack beside the stereo, she inserted a disc. Full of energy, she led me across, our hands together, held high.

Through to the kitchen, we went; introductions around, her two sisters. Sampling the chips and homemade salsa; I was handed a fleshly-blended margarita made from Cuervo 1800. Sashaying to the living room of warm yellow-reddish light; sitting on the long sofa, also red in color; dragons hanging from the ceiling and flying along the walls. Hardwood floors. That atmosphere of uninterrupted year-round festivities. Music wafted through the timbers of the living room’s high ceiling.

She led me up the steps, across the landing by the back door. A bedroom. It was SHE, I had glimpsed upon my first entering the living room, her sister in red kimono-dress, standing with her at this very door—this event seemed already a decade in the past. We entered her spacious bedroom—bed on the left, dressing-table-with-mirror on the wall to the right. Further to the right was a walk-in closet, and it was through this door that she vanished. She emerged—just a moment later—wearing only lace-white panties and bra, holding blue jeans and a white sackcloth shirt. Sitting on the bed, she dressed quickly; glanced in the dresser mirror, touching up the curls in hair with a brush; and, with my arm in hers, out the back door we went.

The day was nearly over; sunset only an hour away. Jets, taking off out of the west, roared overhead.

Her father, the little oriental man from the storefront, tended his new arrivals—watering them on their shelves in the metal wire rack. Then entire backyard was a garden: produce, herbs, and flowers. No rows could be discerned. The rack stood monolithically—lone as the little man. A few trees dotted the edge of the yard—a magnolia, a few, tall poplars—but in the direction of the airport, the yard ended on a knoll of square patches of inch-high herbs. Beyond that was miles of flatland—a place for crops, it seemed. The sun peeked through peach, aqua-blue, and dark-magenta clouds.

I approached her father, watching him tend his brood of sapling plants. Another commercial jet roared overhead, and, without looking up, he said, “Those planes are the only thing I sometimes don’t like about this place.” Much the same as the night was inevitable, and in its way, a calm and peace stole over me. The evening air was warm and the setting sun was buried deep in the clouds at the base of the western sky.

I turned my back to the sun, to look at their home—a dark brown structure, cedar roofing, siding and trim. I stepped backward, seeing: the little man to my left, bent to his metal wire rack; the house to middle right; a seven-foot-high, wood-paneled privacy fence at the periphery of my vision, left and right. I backed up some more, abruptly sensing something soft—like moss—underfoot. Looking down, I saw crushed herbs under my feet.

Alarmed, I looked toward the little man, but he was still tending his plants in the rack. I looked at his daughter, an apparition on the porch steps. His daughter, the new Light in my life. She stared back at me, from across the small yard, smiling in her gentle, knowing way.

She approached me, turned her back to the sunset, took my hand in hers, and we both fell backward, plunging into the softness of her father’s garden. At this small sound, her father glanced around, and, without changing expression, he went right back to what he’d been doing.

Lying on our backs, we looked up at the occasional whitish, reddish or charcoal-colored cloud—but mostly the sky overhead was a dark blue. The first star of the night twinkled at us—actually, not a star at all, for it was Venus, second planet from the Sun. She and I lay in our soft warm bed, the pleasant aroma of freshly-turned earth in our noses, the occasional underbelly of a 747 obscuring our view.

My hand in hers.

Life was good.

THE END

SPIRITS & ART

What do you envision the world to be like, as you affect the nature of art?

As I affect the nature of art, the world’s eyes will slowly open. People will become free-thinkers once again. Their focus will not be on paying bills. It will be on designing the lives of themselves and loved ones. Gradually, the love will expand and encompass the earth. People will learn to love their fellow man. Racism, sexism, and all other forms of prejudice and discrimination will be taken off the stovetop. On the front burners will be Spirituality and Love. This will be achieved through my art. What form will this art most often take? Answer: Film, Music, and Writing.

Film is the quickest way to reach hundreds of millions of people. Cinema, done properly, affects people’s emotions. They will re-evaluate their lives. That is the desired effect. In my films, I will show the world all sides. No stone will be left unturned. Sometimes people will not like what they see. Education is not always a pleasant experience. They will be entertained to say the very least.

Music is a way to touch millions of lives. With the right harmony, melody, and rhythm—music is a spiritual experience. With music, awareness of essence heightens. There is a feeling of oneness with the wild world. Your grip on reality loosens. Open your mind to this music, and you will be closer to your true self than you ever thought possible. My lyrics will be thought-provoking. Each composition will offer a clue as to how you go about reaching the higher plane.

Screenplays and novels will be the primary vehicles in my writing. I will explore life and death and everything in between. My readers will learn that Love is necessary for growth to occur. With me as their guide, readers will penetrate the un- and sub-conscious worlds. People will learn from my writings that it is important to search for your Self. The message will be: Be who you are, not what others want you to be.

What is art? Here’s one definition: Someone’s concept of beauty that is realized. My art will be educational and entertaining. People will get closer to their “spark” than they’ve ever been in their entire lives. As it becomes necessary, I will assist other gifted artists in their endeavors.

STRANDED AT THE THRONE

When I sat down, I did not check for tissue.

For at that time,
     as you can imagine,
          it wasn’t the most important issue.

But now I stand,
     with shit dripping off my end,
          thinking that this isn’t my idea of pleasure.

So I look around for my solution,
     and all I find,
          is one single, solitary, drastic measure.

I rinse out a dirty wash cloth,
     with hot water,
          and I wipe my nasty fissure.

THREE

Now I think of three women.

They all stay on my mind,
at least one of them…
all of the time.

I’m missing out on something really big,
something really special—
because I don’t have what it takes to satisfy any of these women.

This is a very big void in my life.

This empty space somehow…
eats at me,
day after day…
after day.

I miss all of these young women,
and none to the same extent.

Time plays the critical part,
determining which one I miss the most…
and when.

But I love ‘em all.

Together, they make the perfect woman.

How can I ever become the man they need?

Will I ever determine which of the three is my soulmate?

Were any of us meant to be together this time?

In this lifetime?

I miss them all,
all three.

Collective Unconscious, help me…
please.

FLOATING

Somewhere, out of harms way,

Out of harms reach, I float.

It must be done alone, yet,

In that state, you’re a part of all things.

Conversations come and go,

Peoples come and go.

Problems become a part of the small picture.

No big deal, something distant.

I don’t judge others or myself.

I am on a plane.

A flat line.

Emotions neither rise nor fall.

I am one with all.

I am in the big picture.

I am part of the whole.

THE PAIN OF LIVING

Yes, you try, try, try, and try.

And no amount of trying is ever enough.

No matter what you do,

You always end up feeling worthless and lazy.

If something fails,

You feel responsible for its failure.

And Time is always the enemy,

Constantly stealing away loved ones.

Will the pain ever cease?

Will it ever go away?

Yes, it will depart, but only in the end.

I JUMP, BUT WHY?

I find the edge of the cliff—
and off it I dive.
The rocks below rush to meet me,
how can I survive?

Suddenly, a gust of wind presses hard against my skin.
My body arcs away from the rocks,
and it is the water that I plunge within.

I hit bottom hard.
And in my hands and head are many a shard,
of shell and rock—
but I have survived the fall.
One of the greatest falls of all.

Scarred but not broken, I wade though the water,
I slip through the sand,
and up the hill I climb again.

At the top, I stop, to catch my breath and to wonder,
at what spell this is I’m under…

That wills me to the brink,
that drives me to the edge,
that makes me want to sink,
to those rocky depths beneath the ledge.

TWO FACTIONS

In roughly the year 12,000 BC, two Atlantean factions were at war with one another. One faction was called the Sons of Belial. This faction was considered to be evil, because it only believed in what is physical. The other faction was the Sons of the One. This faction was considered to be good, because it only believed in what is spiritual. It is my opinion that both approaches were flawed.

In each human, there must be balance between the spiritual and the physical: 50% of their time should be devoted to exploring what is spiritual, and the other 50% should be devoted to exploring what is physical. Examples of spiritual: sensory deprivation, participation in activities that you believe will open you up to your spiritual side (examples: theater, music concerts, motion pictures, art galleries). Examples of physical [or vegetative]: labor, sex, watching television.

THE SUICIDE KING
a screenplay
shooting script

1 INT. KINGPIN DOPE DEALER’S HOUSE – EVENING

KINGPIN sits at a table. The room is dimly lit. Heavy drapes cover the windows. The only light comes from a lamp on the table. A big, square border-less mirror is on the table in front of him. A small pile of powder-form cocaine is on the mirror. He has a razorblade in his right hand. Using the razorblade, he separates the coke into five smaller piles. A cordless phone lays on the table to the left of the mirror.

THE PHONE RINGS.

The KINGPIN picks up the phone.

KINGPIN

Yeah?

OTHER PERSON

It’s me, Mr. G.

MR. G. (KINGPIN)
(reprimanding)

DARRELL, I thought I told you never to call me here.

MR. G. makes each of the five smaller piles of coke into lines.

DARRELL

Sorry, Mr. G., but it’s…

(beat)

…important.

MR. G.

Speak DARRELL. Don’t waste my time.

DARRELL

Yes sir.

(composes himself)

They are getting too close for me.

(beat)

Please understand, Mr. G. I don’t
want to die.

MR. G.

DARRELL, are you bailing on me?

No response.

MR. G.
(softening)

DARRELL, are you there?

DARRELL

Yes sir.

MR. G.

DARRELL, I want you to listen good, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once.

(beat)

You hear me, DARRELL?

DARRELL

Yes, Mr. G.

MR. G.

DARRELL, I want you to listen to heart on this one. Whatever you decide, I won’t hold it against you.

(beat)

Okay?

DARRELL

Yes sir. Thank you, Mr. G.

MR. G.

Bye now, my son.

DARRELL

Bye, Mr. G.

MR. G. presses the “disconnect” button on the phone.

MR. G. straightens the first line of coke, using the razorblade. He puts his nostril to the first line and snorts until the line is gone. Alternating nostrils, he makes quick business of the other four lines. He rubs his nose, mostly out of old habit, but partly to rid himself of the slight itch in his nostrils.

He lifts the mirror off the table and puts it in a brown cardboard box that is on the floor beside his chair. The box is filled with small, twist-tied bags of powder cocaine. He stands with the box cradled in his arms and goes out a door into his back yard.

2 EXT. KINGPIN’S BACK YARD – NIGHT

Flames leap from a fifty-gallon drum that stands on-end near a wood shed. The KINGPIN walks to the fifty-gallon drum with the box in his arms. He tosses the box into the fire that is in the drum.

3 EXT. KINGPIN’S BARN – NIGHT

Mr. G. stands in the loft of the barn preparing a noose. The other end of the noose is tied to the rafters in the roof of the barn.

4 EXT. HARRY REDFERN’S PLACE – DAY

HARRY REDFERN is on top of one of his sheds. He is putting on the last sheet of tin. He leans over to drive in a nail and…

LOSES HIS BALANCE. He teeters back and forth on the edge. He falls, off the shed, toward…

THE GROUND. The Earth rushes toward him. HARRY lands on a pile of old, nail-infested two-by-fours.

CLOSE-UP OF HARRY. HARRY’S HEAD is stuck on the end of a rusty nail that sticks out of one of the two-by-fours. BLOOD flows out of HARRY’S HEAD, down the nail, and onto the two-by-fours beneath him.

HARRY is unconscious, as he should be.

NOTE: Possible side-effects from such an accident: death, need for a tetanus shot, blood poisoning, lockjaw, brain damage, brain stimulation.

5 EXT. HOSPITAL – DAY (RAINING)

HARRY comes out of the hospital lobby. As he walks with his girlfriend down the steps, HARRY bumps into someone who is ascending the steps.

THE BLUE SWIRLING [SPECIAL] EFFECT.

HARRY PUT HIS HAND TO HIS HEAD.

GIRLFRIEND

What’s wrong, Harry?

HARRY
(Harry looks back as the
lobby door closes)

Nothing. Just got a little dizzy.

6 EXT. HOUSE/YARD – DAY (RAINING)

A CAR pulls up in the yard.

HARRY, with the help of a young lady, gets out of the car. He is wearing a hospital gown and his head is wrapped with gauze. There is a bloodstain in the gauze at the back of HARRY’S HEAD.

7 INT. HARRY’S HOUSE – NIGHT

HARRY is asleep in this bed.

CUT TO: A CLOSE-UP OF HARRY’S FACE (ASLEEP)

SHOW BLUE SWIRLING EFFECT.

7a An old black man slowly walks across his yard and picks five playing cards off the grass. He rights himself and looks at the cards. The cards the old man is holding: a two of hearts, a three of spades, a jack of hearts, a king of hearts, and a Joker.

MORE OF THE SWIRLING BLUE.

THE BLACK MAN walks toward the camera, holding up a sign that reads:

It runs but never walks
Has a mouth but never talks
Has a bed but never sleeps
Has a head but never weeps

OCONEE at 15

MORE BLUE SWIRLING.

7b A man spinning slowly, his head in a noose. The rope, tied to the rafters of a barn, creaks. It is night.

7c HARRY WAKES WITH A START!

8 EXT. SIBLEY SCHOOL ROAD – NEAR DARK

A ‘79 FORD LTD weaves recklessly down the paved road (CAMERA POV: A VEHICLE CLOSELY FOLLOWS THE LTD). The car’s tires let out an occasional squeal.

HARRY is riding on the roof of the car. He has a joyous, insane grin on his face. His girlfriend is driving the car. She has a devilish grin on her face. He is on his stomach, his hands gripping the tops of doors’ window-frames.

SUDDENLY, HE IS THROWN OFF THE CAR.

His head strikes the pavement and he tumbles into the ditch.

Her brake lights come on.

The car comes to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Leaving the car running and the headlights on, she jumps out of the car and runs to the place where he fell off.

She spots him in deep weeds near the bottom of the ditch.

GIRLFRIEND
(terrified)

Oh my God. Are you all right?

He lies on his back, his hair matted with blood. He gives her a weak smile.

HARRY

I know the answer. It’s a RIVER.

A puzzled look comes across her face.

9 INT. HARRY’S HOUSE – LATER THAT SAME DAY

HARRY is at his desk, late at night. The piece of paper, with the puzzle on it, is in front of him. It reads as follows:

It runs but never walks
Has a mouth but never talks
Has a bed but never sleeps
Has a head but never weeps

OCONEE at 15

HARRY has a MAP laid out in front of him. He traces his index finger along the MAP. His finger abruptly stops.

CAMERA CLOSE-UP of his finger, resting on a place on the map that shows a junction of a river, the Oconee—and a road, Georgia Highway 15.

10 EXT. BRIDGE (NEAR CURTIS SANDPIT) – DAY

HARRY is on the bridge, looking around. He looks all around him, then looks off the bridge. His eyes come to rest on the river beneath the bridge.

He walks back to his car, gets in, and cranks it.

11 EXT. END OF THE ROAD (NEAR NATIONAL FOREST CAMPGROUND – DAY

Off in the distance, we can see the bridge HARRY was just on.

HARRY’S CAR ENTER THE FRAME.

The car comes to a stop and HARRY climbs out.

HARRY works his way down to the river, going toward the bridge. The way is snaky, thick with bushes, briars, and weeds.

HE FINDS THE BODY IN THE RIVER in an inlet/cove. He looks at the body closely. Decay has begun. An eyeball is missing. HARRY stares at the body.

At that moment, he hears something. He whirls and sees some bushes stir. He stumbles back, almost falling. HARRY looks around with increasing unease. He hurries back up the hill to his car, looking back frequently.

A FEW DAYS LATER…

12 INT. HARRY’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

SHOW HARRY ASLEEP.

NOTE: If I can, use feedback from camcorder mic being piped into monitor speakers while doing the swirling effect.

THE BLUE SWIRLING EFFECT.

12a THE BLACK MAN APPROACHES THE CAMERA. He holds up playing cards. He arranges them in his hand. Two. Three. Jack. King. Joker. He discards the King and the Jack. They spin through the air. He puts the Three in his shirt pocket and heads back toward his house, holding the Joker and the Two in his hand.

[I wanted to use Grandpa Delmar Higdon’s old house in Union Point, across from Jackson’s BBQ.]

CUT TO BLACK.

13 INT. HARRY’S BEDROOM – MORNING

HARRY’S jotting down notes, early in the morning, sitting at his desk. On a piece of paper is written:

Joker – ?
King of Hearts – Suicide king; the hanged in my dream
Jack of Hearts – Dead guy in river; one-eyed jack
Three of Spades – The black man in my dream; a low card
Two of Hearts – A low card; commonly used as a wild card

13a A MAN IN A SUIT KNOCKS AT A FRONT DOOR

HARRY COMES UP A HALLWAY, PULLING A SHIRT ON. THE GOES TO THE DOOR AND OPENS IT.

MEDIUM CLOSE-UP OF THE MAN OUTSIDE THE FRONT DOOR. HARRY STANDS JUST INSIDE THE DOOR, THE BRIGHT SUNLIGHT MORNING LIGHT MAKING HIM SQUINT AT THE MAN. CAMERA FOLLOWS THE ACTION.

MAN IN SUIT

Harry Redfern?

HARRY

Yeah, that’s me.

MAN IN SUIT

Mr. Redfern, my name is Steve Jacobsen.

(beat)

I’m with the FBI.

(the man flashes a badge)

Can I please come in, so that we can talk.

13b INT. HARRY’S HOME – DAY

HARRY sits in a chair opposite JACOBSEN, who sits on HARRY’S couch.

JACOBSEN

HARRY—Can I call you “HARRY”?

HARRY nods.

JACOBSEN

HARRY, we have reason to believe that you might hold important information regarding a man we found dead in the Oconee River two days ago.

HARRY

I—

HARRY SHRUGS.

JACOBSEN

Harry, do you live alone?

HARRY

Yeah.

JACOBSEN

Where do you work?

HARRY
(smiles; looks at the floor)

I—I’m—I was laid off.

JACOBSEN
(speaking slowly, emphasizing)

HARRY.

(beat)

The FBI…

(beat)

has decided…

(beat)

to put you in the Witness Protection Program.

14 EXT. NEAR COBB’S APARTMENTS – NIGHT

The Mercedes is turning off the main drag onto a side street.

14a EXT. AT COBB’S APARTMENTS – NIGHT

POV: THE MERCEDES IS FACING US, THE OCEAN IN THE BACKGROUND. The Mercedes rolls up to the curb outside of the COBB’S APARTMENTS OFFICE.

14b INT. MERCEDES CAR – NIGHT

HARRY REDFERN and STEVE JACOBSEN sit in the Mercedes, wearing tourist clothes. They are parked outside of Cobb’s Apartments. CAMERA POV: BEHIND THEM, IN BACK SEAT, FACING TOWARD FRONT OF CAR, OVER THEIR SHOULDERS.

JACOBSEN

Wait here. I’ll be right back.

JACOBSEN gets out of the car.

We see him from HARRY’S POV. He walks toward the COBB’S APARTMENTS OFFICE.

NOW POV OUTSIDE CAR, LOOKING IN AT HARRY. HARRY’S EYES FOLLOW JACOBSEN TO COBB’S OFFICE. JACOBSEN disappears into the office. Harry turns his head back, and now looks out the windshield. He runs his fingers through his hair. Suddenly, he looks very tired.

A SUDDEN RAPPING ON HIS WINDOW, startles HARRY out of his stupor. He looks out the passenger window. JACOBSEN is gesturing for HARRY to get out of the car.

14c EXT. COBB’S APARTMENTS – NIGHT

HARRY opens his door and steps out.

JACOBSEN
(holding the room key in his hand)

Come on. Get your bags.

HARRY opens the rear passenger door and grabs a couple of small suitcases.

HARRY follows JACOBSEN to:

THE SMALL APARTMENT. JACOBSEN unlocks the door and they go inside.

15 INT. HARRY’S [NEW] APARTMENT AT COBB’S – NIGHT

With his automatic pistol in hand, JABOBSEN quickly searches the apartment.

Satisfied, JACOBSEN closes the apartment door, bolting it.

JACOBSEN

It’s clean.

(walking to a small dining table)

Come over here and have a seat, HARRY. There are some things we need to talk about before I go.

HARRY sets his suitcase down. He sits across from JACOBSEN at the table.

JACOBSEN

Your new name is what?

HARRY

JOE JONES.

JACOBSEN

When were you born and how old are you?

HARRY

I was born March 6, 1969. I am 27 years old.

JACOBSEN

Good.

JACOBSEN reaches into his shorts pocket and brings out a wallet. He tosses it on the table.

JACOBSEN
(continuing)

Here’s your wallet. It contains a new driver’s license. A MasterCard with $500 limit. $350 cash. An insurance card and some old LOTTO tickets to make it look real.

HARRY thumbs through the wallet, then throws it on the nearby bed.

JACOBSEN

Any questions, so far?

HARRY

No.

JACOBSEN

What is my name to be?

HARRY

FRANK JACKSON. You’re my cousin from back home. We live in Campton, Georgia, near Winder. We are both single. I am the oldest child of Joseph and Martha Jones.

JACOBSEN

I see you’ve done your homework.

HARRY

Got nothing better to do.

JACOBSEN
(momentarily uneasy)

Yeah, well… What’s the number where I can be reached in case of an emergency.

HARRY

555-9812.

JACOBSEN
(rising from his chair)

HARRY, I want you to stay in your room as much as you can. Do not go out late at night.

(beat)

I’ll call you if something comes up.

(beat)

Take care of you.

JACOBSEN walks toward the apartment door. HARRY gets out of his chair.

HARRY

FRANK?

JACOBSEN (AS FRANK)

Yeah, JOE?

HARRY looks distraught, abandoned, almost to the point of being hysterical. Tears well up in his eyes.

HARRY (aka JOE)

Nothing.

(getting choked up)

I just wanted to hear how your new name sounded.

JACOBSEN (aka FRANK)

HARRY, everything’s gonna be all right.

(beat)

I promise.

HARRY attempts to regain his composure.

JACOBSEN pulls up his shirt and pulls a revolver out from the waist of his shorts.

JACOBSEN
(pauses, looking at the pistol)

This is my baby. I’ve had this .22 since I was 16.

(holds it out to HARRY)

Take it HARRY. It’ll make you feel a little better.

HARRY takes it.

HARRY

Thanks.

JACOBSEN

‘Bye, Jones. I’ll be in touch.

JACOBSEN (aka FRANK JACKSON) unbolts and opens the door. He disappears into the night.

16 INT. HARRY’S APARTMENT AT COBB’S – NIGHT

HARRY has five playing cards laid out in front of him on a small dining table. The Two-of-Hearts, the Three-of-Spades, the Jack-of-Hearts, the King-of-Hearts, and the Joker. HARRY arranges them.

17 INT. HARRY’S APARTMENT AT COBB’S – MORNING

THE PHONE RINGS. HARRY picks up.

HARRY

Hello.

OTHER PERSON

JOE, this is FRANK. I’m coming down. Something’s come up. Here’s what I want you to do. First, rent a bicycle. Second, get a tourist map of the island. Find the lighthouse on the map. Meet me at the top of the lighthouse at 1 P.M. today.

(beat)

You’ll have to buy a ticket before you go up. Get out of the A.S.A.P. Don’t delay. I have reason to believe that you’re in danger. Kill time away from the room. After you leave, don’t go back.

(beat)

Do I need to repeat anything?

HARRY

No.

JACOBSEN

See you at one, JOE.

HARRY

Wait! What do you want me to do with my suitcases and stuff?

JACOBSEN

Just leave it in the room. Remember, get out of there as quickly as you can. Just make sure you’re there at one.

HARRY

OK.

JACOBSEN

Bye.

JACOBSEN hangs up.

18 EXT. ON BEACH, NEAR SAND DUNE BRIDGE – DAY

HARRY looks at the ocean and the rock jetty jutting out from the shore. He looks at his watch. It reads: 12:40 P.M.

NEW ANGLE: HIS FACE AND THE LIGHTHOUSE ARE IN THE SAME FRAME. He looks back at the lighthouse.

HARRY pushes the bicycle to the SAND DUNE BRIDGE, where he lifts it up onto the bridge. He pedals across the bridge toward the lighthouse.

19 INT. LIGHTHOUSE – DAY

HARRY ascends the spiral staircase in the lighthouse.

AS HE NEARS THE TOP OF THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE, START THE VOICEOVER. KEEP THE WIND HOWLING, ETC., VIA SEPARATE AUDIO RECORDING. WE SEE THE DREAM AS HARRY DESCRIBES IT.

HARRY’S VOICEOVER

As I neared the top of the stairs, it suddenly occurred to me that I was neck-deep in fear. I asked myself, “What are you afraid of?” And that’s when I remembered the dream I’d had the night before. In the dream, I was ascending the stairs in a lighthouse. Come to think of it, it looked a lot like this one. The stairs ended, and I was out on the observation deck. With a death-grip on the handrail, I struggled through a fierce blast of wind to the seaside of deck. I turned the corner and approached a figure who was leaning against the railing, looking out to sea. The figure turned as I closed the distance between us. The face that greeted me was grotesque and alien. It started toward me and that was when my vision became blurry. I was fainting. At that point, all I could see was a green blob, bobbing in the air, getting ever- closer. Suddenly, everything went black. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Fear overwhelmed me. Then, I heard my bones “CRUNCH” as the thing devoured me. That was the end of me, and the end of the dream.

HARRY comes out onto the observation deck at the top of the lighthouse. He walks around toward the ocean side of the deck. The wind threatens to blow HARRY off the top of the lighthouse.

There is no one on the ocean side of the observation deck. HARRY goes all the way around and discovers, with some relief, that he is alone.

HARRY looks at his watch. It says the time is 1:03 P.M. He leans against the railing and stares out at the Atlantic Ocean.

A moment later:

A VOICE
(whispering with urgency)

Harry!

NOTE: THE VOICE IS EITHER GONNA BE HARRY’S OWN OR THE BLACK MAN’S.

HARRY whirls. AND SEES…

NOTHING. HE IS STILL ALONE.

THE VOICE
(again, an urgent whisper)

Harry!

HARRY CONTINUES TO LOOK, BUT THERE IS NO ONE TO SEE.

THE VOICE

You must get off the top of the lighthouse. Hurry! You don’t have much time. He’s coming.

HARRY
(looking to the heavens)

Who’s coming?

VOICE

Him. The GREEN MAN.

HARRY
(a whisper)

GREEN MAN.

The dream recurs.

That is enough to get HARRY moving.

A second later, he is on his way down the stairs.

He just about runs into JACOBSEN, who is ascending the stairs.

JACOBSEN

Joe.

HARRY

Come on, JACOBSEN. Follow me.

JACOBSEN

What’s goin’ on?

HARRY

No time to explain. Come on.

HARRY leaves JACOBSEN looking after him, dumbfounded.

20 EXT. LIGHTHOUSE/MUSEUM PARKING LOT – DAY

HARRY

Where’s your car?

JACOBSEN

Over there.

JACOBSEN points across the parking lot.

JACOBSEN

What’s got you so spooked, HARRY?

HARRY

You wouldn’t understand.

JACOBSEN

Try me.

HARRY

Maybe some other time.

(beat)

Where’s your car?

JACOBSEN
(pointing to well-used ’83 FORD PICKUP)

There.

HARRY

What happened to the Mercedes?

JACOBSEN

Had to change my cover. Ya’ know.

JACOBSEN AND HARRY ARRIVE AT THE TRUCK AND GET IN.

JACOBSEN CLIMBS BEHIND THE WHEEL, STARTS THE TRUCK, AND THEY ARE OFF.

21 EXT. GAS STATION – DAY

GET A MASTER OF SHOT OF FORD PICKUP AT THE GAS PUMPS. JACOBSEN pumps gas.

22 INT. GAS STATION BATHROOM – DAY

HARRY is at the urinal taking a whiz.

He goes to the small sink and washes his hands and face. He dries his hands and face on his shirt.

He pulls something out of his pocket.

It’s the FIVE PLAYING CARDS. THE ORDER: KING, JACK, THREE, TWO, JOKER. HARRY lays the king and jack on the edge of the sink, face down. He lays the three on the sink edge, face up. He looks at the last two cards. THE TWO AND THE JOKER. He puts the TWO in his pocket. He stares at the JOKER.

IN HIS MIND HARRY SEES:

Himself bumping into the man outside the hospital. The flash he had immediately after bumping into the man.

The bushes stirring at the river near the body, startling HARRY.

SCREEN IS BLACK. WE HEAR THESE WORDS: “He’s Coming.” NEXT “Who’s Coming?” AND THEN “The Green Man”, SHOW THE TWO-FACED GREEN MAN ON THE LIGHTHOUSE OBSERVATION DECK, COMING TOWARD THE CAMERA.

JACOBSEN coming up the lighthouse stairs. HARRY almost running into him.

HARRY COMES BACK TO HIMSELF AND FACES HIMSELF IN THE GAS STATION’S BATHROOM MIRROR. SUDDENLY IT DAWNS HIM:

HARRY
(a whisper)

OH GOD. IT’S HIM.

(beat)

OK. YOU GOT TO RELAX.

(beat)

RELAX. RELAX. RELAX.

He readjusts the .22 pistol that is tucked into the waist of his shorts. He pulls his shirt back down over it.

23 INT. GAS STATION BATHROOM – DAY

HARRY OPENS THE DOOR AND FINDS…

JACOBSEN BLOCKING THE DOORWAY. HARRY HOLDS BACK THE URGE TO SCREAM. JACOBSEN SMILES.

JACOBSEN

Did I scare you?

HARRY
(forcing a smile to his face)

Man, you scared me.

JACOBSEN

I thought I did, by that look on your face.

(beat)

Man, do I have to shit.

JACOBSEN smiles and holds his stomach to emphasize his point. HARRY smiles back and walks out the door. JACOBSEN goes into the bathroom.

HARRY takes one quick look back to make sure the door closed, then he runs toward the FORD PICKUP.

24 INT./EXT. THE FORD PICKUP – DAY

THE PICKUP TRUCK HAS BEEN MOVED TO A PLACE AWAY FROM THE GAS PUMPS.

HARRY opens the door on the PICKUP and looks to see if the keys are in the ignition. THEY AREN’T. He feels around in the seat, then under the seat. No luck. He slams the truck door.

HARRY looks around momentarily. HARRY watches as a young blonde-headed girl parks her bicycle beside the entrance to the store. She takes her helmet off, hangs it on the handle bars, and goes in.

HARRY bolts in the direction of the store.

He tosses the helmet aside. It spasms on the asphalt before giving out. HARRY is off, pedaling like mad.

NEW ANGLE: HARRY TURNS OUT INTO THE HIGHWAY.

25 INT. GAS STATION BATHROOM – DAY

JACOBSEN sits on the toilet seat. His face contorts into a painful straining expression. He lets out a loud, gross, squirting fart/shit.

26 EXT. A SIDE STREET (SOME TOWN) – DAY

We see the spinning pedals of a bicycle. HARRY is moving at a high rate of speed, down the sidewalk.

27 EXT. GAS STATION BATHROOM – DAY

JACOBSEN emerges from the bathroom. He walks over to the FORD PICKUP and climbs-in on the driver’s side.

JACOBSEN sits behind the wheel, peeling the wrapper off a candy bar (a Whatchamacallit). He takes a bite out of the candy bar, sips his drink, then looks toward the GAS STATION/CONVENIENCE STORE. HE’S WAITING FOR HARRY TO COME OUT.

28 EXT. PARK/CAMPGROUND (ROBINSON FIELD/ A. H. STEPHENS PARK) – DAY

CAMERA SHOWS a bicycle, barely visible in some bushes. THEN IT STEADICAMS to where HARRY sits on a bench, in a remote part of the park. HARRY, holding the .22 pistol in his left hand, taps the bullets out of their chambers into his right hand. He puts the gun beside him and examines the ends of the bullets. There isn’t any lead in the tips of the bullets. He tamps it on the palm of his hand. Nothing comes out.

29 EXT. GAS STATION, AT FORD PICKUP – DAY

JACOBSEN tosses the candy wrapper into the floorboard and gets out of the truck. His expression is one of puzzlement, confusion, impatience, and anger. He walks toward the GAS STATION/ CONVENIENCE STORE entrance. POV: LOOKING OUT THE DRIVER’S SIDE WINDOW OF THE PICKUP TRUCK.

30 EXT. PARK/CAMPGROUND (ROBINSON FIELD/ A. H. STEPHENS) – DAY

HARRY stuffs the “blank” bullets into his shorts pocket and tucks the pistol into the waist of his shorts. He pulls his shirt down over the gun, concealing it.

He drags the bicycle out of the bushes and hops on it.

31 EXT. GAS STATION/CONVENIENCE STORE – DAY

JACOBSEN is coming from the CONVENIENCE STORE, toward the truck. He climbs in, sits there for a moment thinking, then pounds his fists on the steering wheel.

JACOBSEN
(he screams, enraged)

GODDDDAMMMITTTT!

JACOBSEN turns the ignition, starting the truck.

32 EXT. STREET (OUTSIDE OF A BAIT SHOP/ CONVENIENCE STORE/ HILLTOP) – DAY

MASTER SHOT. HARRY’S BIKE is parked in front of the store.

MEDIUM CLOSE-UPS of signs that say such things as: HUNTING SUPPLIES, DEER COOLER, FISH BAITS, ETC.

MEDIUM SHOT. HARRY emerges with a brown paper sack in his hand. He looks around casually and hops on his bike.

33 INT. TRUCK, GOING DOWN A MAJOR STREET IN THE CITY – DAY

CUT IN: ON JACOBSEN, WHO IS FURIOUS AND TRYING TO LOOK IN EVERY DIRECTION AT ONCE.

34 EXT. PAY PHONE BOOTH – DAY

AN EMPTY PHONE BOOTH is suddenly populated by HARRY. HARRY puts his hand on the phone’s receiver. After a couple of seconds, he picks it up and places a quarter in the slot.

35 EXT. CITY – DAY

HARRY’S BIKE leans against a brick wall. POV BEHIND HARRY: HARRY stands near the bike watching the street (behind the TOWNE HOUSE, looking toward the POST OFFICE).

MEDIUM CLOSE-UP OF HARRY.

POV BEHIND HARRY (over his shoulder). THE RED AND WHITE FORD PICKUP GOES BY ON THE STREET IN FRONT OF HARRY. HARRY grabs his bicycle and goes out on the sidewalk in the direction of the truck.

THE TRUCK is waiting for the light to change. HARRY pedals down the sidewalk, going by the truck. He makes a right (in front of the TOWNE HOUSE) and goes down BROAD STREET (toward ROBINSON FIELD).

36 INT. RED AND WHITE FORD PICKUP – DAY

JACOBSEN looks around wildly. He sees a guy on a bicycle, does a double-take, then a smile creeps over his face. The guy on the bike is HARRY.

37 EXT. SIDEWALK IN THE CITY – DAY

HARRY pedals along rather quickly now. CAMERA PANS BEHIND THE BIKE. Way up the road, the RED AND WHITE TRUCK is coming this way.

38 EXT. ROBINSON FIELD COMPLEX/A. H. STEPHENS PARK – DAY

SHOW THE ENTRANCE SIGN TO ROBINSON FIELD AND THE LITTLE ROAD THAT MEANDERS TOWARD THE BACK OF THE PARK.

CAMERA POV IS FROM THE FIRST “PLAY TOWER,” NEAR THE ENTRANCE TO ROBINSON FIELD.

HARRY TURNS INTO THE PARK, TRAVELING UP THE LITTLE ROAD.

NEW ANGLE. TRIPOD NECESSARY. CAMERA LOOKS THROUGH PARK ACCESSORIES (a child’s fun-pipe, swings, an oak tree) AT HARRY COMING UP THE LITTLE ROAD.

CUT TO:

38a CAMERA POV IS FROM THE FIRST “PLAY TOWER“ NEAR THE ENTRANCE TO ROBINSON FIELD

THE RED AND WHITE TRUCK turns in at the parking lot.

JACOBSEN gets out and enters the park.

FADE IN:

38b JACOBSEN walks up the little road (shoot this at A. H. STEPHENS; be careful when choosing my angle).

NOW FROM JACOBSEN’S POV. CAMERA SHAKES (WALKING HANDHELD) AS IT MOVES TOWARD PARK RESTROOMS. JACOBSEN SEES HARRY’S BIKE PROPPED AGAINST ONE OF THE RESTROOM’S FRONT COLUMNS.

39 INT. MEN’S RESTROOM (A. H. STEPHENS PARK) – DAY

HARRY watches JACOBEN’S APPROACH through the “MEN” restroom door’s window.

HARRY turns away from the door and goes into one of the stalls at the back of the restroom. The whole time, he rummages through the paper sack that got from the HUNTING GOODS STORE (HILLTOP).

WE CAN HEAR HARRY LOADING THE .22 PISTOL INSIDE THE STALL.

JACOBSEN cautiously goes into the MEN’S RESTROOM.

He doesn’t see HARRY.

A TOILET FLUSHES.

JACOBSEN
(amused)

HARRY, you didn’t have to come all the way down here to take a shit.

(beat)

If you could’ve waited, I would’ve let you use the bathroom at the gas station.

(beat)

You must’ve figured that you would not be able to handle the smell after I got through.

The bathroom stall door slowly opens.

VOICE (HARRY’S)
(calm, cool)

Yeah. That’s it.

JACOBSEN

Come on out, HARRY. Let’s go.

HARRY

You’re getting clumsy, FRANK. My name’s supposed to be JOE, remember?

HARRY cautiously steps out of the stall. He is holding the .22 REVOLVER in both hands. He points it straight at JACOBSEN.

JACOBSEN

Oh yeah, I forgot. I never was good at that F.B.I. crap. Was I, JOE?

HARRY

You were a bit green at times. Sending me to the lighthouse was—

(beat)

—too much.

JACOBSEN

I wondered about that after I got off the phone with you.

JACOBSEN eases his hand to the small of his back, where his pistol is.

HARRY

Don’t do it. I don’t want to have to kill you, JACOBSEN.

JACOBSEN gets the pistol anyway, and HARRY fires. THE GUN GOES “PIIIIIIZZZZZZ.” JACOBSEN laughs bitterly. HARRY pulls the trigger again. The gun “PIIIIIIZZZZZZ”-es again. JACOBSEN laughs even harder.

JACOBSEN

Now who’s green? I loaded your gun with “blanks” before I gave it to you. Actually, I just took the lead and gunpowder out of the bullets.

We can hear the sound of police sirens. They sound like they’re getting closer.

JACOBSEN
(smiling)

Did you call the cops, Harry?

HARRY SAYS NOTHING. He continues to train the revolver on JACOBSEN.

JACOBSEN

Would you stop pointing that thing at me. It’s getting on my nerves.

THE POLICE ARE DEFINITELY GETTING CLOSER.

JACOBSEN

I didn’t want to have to kill you, HARRY. At least, not yet. You just had to go and get the police involved, didn’t you.

JACOBSEN racks a shell into the firing chamber on the AUTOMATIC PISTOL.

JACOBSEN

We had a blast, HARRY. I’m gonna hate to see you go.

THE GUN GOES OFF.

HARRY’S GUN, THAT IS.

HARRY FIRES AGAIN.

JACOBSEN looks at his chest. His shirt is getting BLOODY. He tries to look up, and bring his gun up, but HARRY fires twice more.

JACOBSEN falls dead on the restroom floor.

The SIRENS are louder than ever.

FADE OUT.

FADE IN:

40 EXT. THE CITY (BUSINESS DISTRICT) – DAY

HARRY (dressed in slacks and a button-up dress shirt) is walking down a city sidewalk. HARRY passes a BLACK MAN, wearing a suit. He is the man from HARRY’S dreams. The BLACK MAN (played by James Wright) smiles at HARRY as they pass one another. HARRY stops and looks back. The BLACK MAN doesn’t look back. After a moment HARRY walks on.

CAMERA GRADUALLY PULLS BACK.

HARRY turns up the walk that leads to the COURTHOUSE.

FADE TO BLACK.

THE CYCLE
a original screenplay

1 EXT. RESIDENTIAL PART OF TOWN – NIGHT

The street and the trees alongside it are wet. Houses are packed tightly together on both sides of the street.

Two POLICE CARS whiz by at high speed with their flashers strobing and sirens wailing. The cars’ tires, as they pass through water holes, splash water onto the nearby sidewalk.

After a moment of silence:

TWO BLACK CLOAKED FIGURES run out into the street. They are being closely followed by TWO MEN wearing trench coats. From one of the trench coats comes a .44 MAGNUM CARBINE RIFLE. The gun is quickly shouldered and fired. There is a bright muzzle flash and a loud report. One of the CLOAKED FIGURES is blown to the asphalt. Another shot is fired. The second FIGURE lands head first on the pavement, dead before its body comes to rest. The MEN run up to where the figures lay in the street. The FIRST FIGURE twitches and a receives a final blast from the RIFLE. The SECOND MAN produces a can of gasoline and thoroughly douses the FIGURES.

CLOSE-UP of A MATCH being lit.

As the TWO MEN run from the scene, the CAMERA fixes its gaze on the DEAD FIGURES burning in the street.

2 EXT. STATE ROAD 12, EAST GEORGIA – A HOT SUNNY DAY

BEGIN OPENING CREDITS

FADE IN: SONG “UNFORGIVEN” BY METALLICA

A SLIM MAN, in his early twenties, walks down the highway, every long stride landing his feet on the white line. A TRANSFER TRUCK suddenly bears down on him, its horn blaring. The SLIM MAN, startled, steps off the road into the high grass. He flips a bird at the rear of THE REAR OF THE BIG TRUCK, as he is buffeted by its wake. He glances behind to see if anything else is coming. “The coast is clear.” He puts his feet back on the highway.

After a moment, he regains his rhythm, every step falling on the white line.

END OPENING CREDITS

END SONG

3 EXT. INTERSECTION DAY (SUNNY)

The SLIM MAN steps from the highway to a secondary road.

4 EXT. WOODEN WIRE BRIDGE IN RURAL AREA – DAY

The SLIM MAN crosses the 20-foot-long wooden bridge.

As he reaches a driveway that is just past the bridge he looks to his right, up a steep hill revealing…

A WHITE AND YELLOW HOUSE WITH GREEN SHUTTERS.

The SLIM MAN stares up at the house before beginning the steep ascent of the driveway.

5 EXT. BACK YARD OF THE YELLOW & WHITE HOUSE – DAY

The SLIM MAN comes around the corner of the house to the back yard. DOGS immediately begin to bark. He lets out a whistle, and the dogs immediately stop their barking. He glances at an open window. Just inside the window, curtains billow gently as a slight breeze kicks up. Faintly, through the window, come the sounds of a television. He walks past a powder blue, ‘66 Chevy pickup and a white, early-90s Honda Accord.

As he comes around the car, a dog pen comes into view. The pen is joined to the side of the house. It houses half a dozen beagles. They jump excitedly against the side of the pen, seeming to beg for attention.

The SLIM MAN stoops down and presses his hand to the side of chicken-wire pen. An old fat beagle comes to the fence. The dog licks the man’s hand.

SLIM MAN

Hey, Virgil. How ya’ doin’?

He takes his hand away and stands. The other dogs jump jealously at the sides of the pen. Virgil happily wags his tail as he quietly stares up at the man.

The SLIM MAN steps to the back door of the house. He knocks three times.

SLIM MAN
(shouting)

Hey! CHRIS!

(pause)

Knock! Knock!

He pauses a moment longer, looks around, then opens the door and walks into the house.

6 INT. HOUSE – DAY

The SLIM MAN goes down a dark hallway and turns left into a room. The man framed in the doorway studies the small, cluttered office. Papers are piled on the desk that sits in the center of the room. Books line the walls. Loose paper, socks, and other laundry litter the floor. Near the corner of the room is a washing machine and dryer. A couple of half-filled laundry baskets sit atop the washer and dryer.

SLIM MAN
(mutters to himself as he surveys the room)

How they ever get anything done in this room, I’ll never know.

He steps out the doorway and moves on down the dark hallway. A curtain of stringed beads hang in front of the doorway that is directly in front of him. He brushes the beads aside and enters the den.

7 INT. DEN – DAY

A GORGEOUS, NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD BLONDE is laid back in a recliner. She’s barefooted and wears short jean cut-offs and a white T-shirt. Her eyes are glued to a college basketball game on TV. She grips a bowl of vanilla ice cream in her hands.

SLIM MAN

How’s it hanging, VAL?

Startled, THE GORGEOUS BLONDE, VAL, nearly drops her bowl of ice cream.

VAL

CROWE, don’t you ever knock?!

CROWE
(smiles as he passes her, going into the kitchen)

I did.

CROWE spots THE GUY IN THE KITCHEN. He’s washing dishes and watching the basketball game via a full-length mirror that is propped against a barstool.

CROWE

I see the ‘old lady’ stuck you with the shit work.

THE GUY WASHING DISHES
(smiles)

Oh-h-h yeah. She was so good to me last night, I kinda felt…

(winks at CROWE)

obligated.

CROWE smiles at VAL, who scowls.

VAL

Yeah. Yeah. You love to talk that shit. Don’t you, CHRIS THOMESKY?

CHRIS just smiles.

CROWE

I need your help, man.

CHRIS

What’s up?

CROWE

The wagon broke down.

8a INT. CAR – HOT, SUNNY DAY

Shot from the POV of A TRAVELING SALESMAN, his briefcase lying beside him on the seat of his STATION WAGON, as he rubbernecks on the way by, REVEALING…

ANOTHER STATION WAGON, this one old and black, parked on the shoulder of the highway with its hood up. A few yards away, A LIGHT BLUE ‘66 PICKUP TRUCK is parked on the shoulder, facing the station wagon. A MAN IN HIS LATE TWENTIES leans in over the station wagon’s engine compartment.

THE TRAVELING SALESMAN squints to read the lettering on the magnetic mat that is attached to the station wagon’s driver-side door—

E & T
PLUMBING
CALL US AT (800) LAY-PIPE

8b EXT. STATE ROAD 17 – A HOT, SUNNY DAY

CHRIS stares in at the engine of the 1967 BUICK SPORTWAGON (note: 340ci, V8, 260HP). The carburetor’s breather lays off to one side of the motor. CROWE sits behind the wheel in the car, his hands at the 10 and 2 positions on the steering wheel.

CROWE
(his voice raised)

You ready to try it again?

CHRIS

Yeah. Try it again.

CROWE turns the ignition switch. The starter turns the engine over—

ARUH. ARUH. ARUH. ARUH. ARUH. ARUH.

CHRIS
(under his breath)

Speak to me, sweet lips.

(beat)

All right. Hold up.

CHRIS twists the positive battery terminal clamp counter– and clockwise.

CHRIS

All right, try it again.

Again, the old ‘67 Buick Sportwagon repeats herself—

ARUH. ARUH. ARUH. ARUH.

CHRIS
(a little flustered)

All right. Hold up again.

CROWE

What do you think it is?

CHRIS

I don’t know yet.

CHRIS turns and goes to his pickup truck. He reaches into the back of the truck and hauls out a very heavy, battered toolbox. He puts it on the ground in front of the station wagon. CHRIS opens the box and pulls out a flat-head screwdriver. Working quickly, he leans under the hood, over the radiator, deep down into the blackness, and unscrews the clamp that holds the gas line to the fuel filter. He pulls the line off.

CHRIS

All right. I want you to turn on the ignition switch and pump the accelerator until I tell you to stop.

(a long beat [about 10 seconds])

Okay. That’s enough.

CHRIS re-attaches the fuel line.

With the screwdriver in hand, he slides underneath the station wagon.

CHRIS unscrews another clamp. Gasoline gushes out onto the ground. CHRIS jams the gas line back onto the fuel filter. He re-tightens the clamp. Climbing out from underneath the car—

CHRIS

I know what it is.

CROWE
(still sitting behind the steering wheel)

What?

CHRIS
(dusting off his pants)

Fuel pump’s shot.

9 EXT. SMALL, TOWN RESIDENCE – WARM, SUNNY DAY

CAMERA CRANECAMS UP THE DRIVEWAY; AT FIRST, UP HIGH (NEARLY BRUSHING THE TREE BRANCHES), THEN LOWER (AT WAIST LEVEL).

In the driveway, sits the BLACK ‘67 BUICK SPORTWAGON with the magnetic mat on the door that reads: E & T PLUMBING, CALL US AT (800) LAY-PIPE.

A DUSTY, BLUISH-GRAY GALAXY 500 broods under an old barn-like carport. The car looks like it hasn’t seen a highway in years.

THE CAMERA’S SERPENTINE MOVEMENTS TAKE IT THROUGH SOME SHRUBBERY TO THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE. INTO VIEW COMES A SMALL DOOR THAT IS BUILT INTO THE FOUNDATION OF THE HOUSE. THE DOOR STANDS AJAR.

10 INT. UNDERNEATH THE HOUSE – DAMP AND DIMLY LIT

CROWE and CHRIS sit on overturned five-gallon buckets as they work. Close by are—their open TOOLBOX, a ROLL OF PAPER TOWELS, and a PAPER SACK full of PVC fittings. A couple of NAKED LIGHT BULBS are all they have for illumination. The damp earth underfoot is littered with soiled rags, broken bricks, and snips of heating-and-air sheet metal.

CHRIS looks up at the PVC water pipes. Water drips regularly from an elbow in the pipe.

CROWE

How long you reckon this deal between you and Valerie is gonna last?

CHRIS

The usual: till I get tired of her, or she gets tired of me.

(beat)

Hand me that roll of towels over there.

CROWE hands him the roll. CHRIS tears off a handful of paper towels. He dabs at a spot above the PVC elbow. Then, still holding the paper towel, he encircles the pipe with his hand. He holds it there for about three seconds. The water continues to drip from the elbow, only now at a slower rate.

CHRIS rummages through the nearby toolbox.

After a few moments, he pulls out a hacksaw.

CHRIS cuts through the pipe in two places, above the elbow and below the elbow.

He tosses the hacksaw back into the toolbox.

Now, he whips out a pocketknife and scrapes the burrs off the ends of the pipe.

Meanwhile, CROWE is cleaning two PVC couplings with a pipe-cleaner brush. Upon finishing, he hands the coupling and a can of PVC cement to CHRIS.

CHRIS glues the couplings to the pipes.

CROWE cuts off two short lengths of pipe. He hands the pieces of pipe and the pipe cleaner to CHRIS. After cutting the burrs out of these sections of pipe, CHRIS slops pipe cleaner onto them.

CROWE puts his hand in the paper sack beside the toolbox. He feels around in the sack and pulls out a PVC elbow. CROWE hands it to CHRIS. CHRIS swabs on some more of the caustic pipe cleaning fluid. He then glues one of the short lengths of pipe into the elbow. While he lets it dry:

CHRIS

I saw Elvis yesterday.

CROWE
(grinning)

Presley?

CHRIS

No, ass-dick. Elvis Patterson.

CROWE

Yeah!? Where’d you see that shit-ass?

(momentary pause)

I haven’t seen him since graduation.

CHRIS

I saw him at the pool hall last night. We shot a few games, talked about old times. He said he just got him a job working for the waterworks. He invited me to go this place where he hangs out. He said they party like hell there. I asked him if you could come along. He said, hell yeah, the more the merrier.

CROWE

Is Val going?

CHRIS

Hell, no! I figured boys’-night-out. You know, leave the old ladies at home for a change. When’s the last time you and I did something by ourselves.

CROWE
(thinks)

It’s been at least a year I’d say.

CHRIS

See what I’m saying.

CROWE
(smiles at CHRIS)

Hell, let’s do it then. After all, you only live two or three, or four or five times.

(suddenly frowns)

CHRIS, I’ve got great thing with Maggie. Whatever you do, don’t let her find out about this. She wouldn’t understand.

CROWE returns to his work. CHRIS looks over at CROWE.

CHRIS
(trying to lighten the mood)

Hey, man. When we get out from under here, remind me to show you the new floor plans I’ve been working on.

CROWE

All right.

(then, more to himself than to CHRIS)

The man’s always dreamin’.

CHRIS

Hell, you got to live for something.

CROWE

I guess you’re right.

CROWE takes the length of pipe with the elbow in it, and glues it to a coupling. The glue still wet, he turns the elbow to align it with the other pipe’s coupling.

CROWE

Where’s the place at?

CHRIS

He said it’s out on Route 14, a few miles past the Methodist Church.

CROWE

That’s what, about fifteen miles out of town?

CHRIS

Twenty at the most.

CROWE
(thinks)

Ain’t nothing past that church but a few houses and the county landfill.

CHRIS glues the other short length of pipe into the other elbow and coupling. He turns the short length of pipe a quarter turn to evenly distribute the glue.

CHRIS

Well, Elvis said it’s there. Must be new.

CROWE
(doubtful)

Must be.

The job is finished.

CHRIS

We’re done here. Let’s load up.

11a EXT. MS. SWEAT’S YARD – DAY

With the door open, CHRIS sits in the driver’s seat of the ‘67 BUICK SPORTWAGON. On a clipboard, he’s writing up the bill.

CAMERA snakes into the backseat and floorboard area. There, we see a pair of pull-on coveralls and lots of empty drink and snack containers. In the very back of the car, there are heavy boxes and buckets filled with pipefittings. Underneath the boxes and buckets, lengths of PVC, CPVC and copper pipe can be glimpsed. A GOTT water cooler sits at the rear, near the tailgate. Suddenly, someone drops the tailgate and lifts the rear window.

CROWE grabs a Styrofoam cup from a bag and then slides the water cooler out onto the tailgate, where he fills his cup.

He walks around the station wagon and climbs in on the passenger side.

11b INT. BUICK SPORTWAGON, PARKED IN MS. SWEAT’S DRIVEWAY – DAY

CHRIS looks up from his paperwork as CROWE gets into the car.

CROWE plops down in the seat, then takes a big sip from his cup.

CROWE
(savoring the refreshing taste)

A-a-a-aa-ahhhhh.

CHRIS
(smiling)

You didn’t get me any?

CROWE

Thought you were old enough to get your own.

CHRIS

All right. I see how you want to be.

CROWE
(the mood, back to one of business)

I checked for leaks. ‘Didn’t find any.

CHRIS

Cool.

(pause)

Check this out, man.

CHRIS flips through the pages on the clipboard. The last few pages are elaborate drawings and computer-aided designs of floor plans and house elevations.

CHRIS continues to flip, pausing occasionally, then flipping some more. He’s searching for a specific page. He finds it, and folds the rest of the pages back. He delicately hands the clipboard to CROWE, so that he can get a good look. CROWE studies the picture.

CLOSE-UP OF CLIPBOARD:

ILLUSTRATED IN PENCIL: THE FRONT ELEVATION OF A WHITE COLONIAL MANSION.

CROWE

It’s nice, really nice. Some of your best work.

CHRIS
(small smile)

Thanks.

CHRIS takes the clipboard back and returns his attention to the bill. He makes two copies.

CHRIS climbs from the car, CROWE follows.

12 EXT. MS. SWEAT’S FRONT PORCH – DAY

CHRIS knocks on the door.

CHRIS

Ms. Sweat!!!

(pause)

Ms. Sweat!

CHRIS turns and looks at CROWE. CROWE holds up his arm and pretends to smell his sweaty armpit. CHRIS and CROWE smile. About that time the door opens. CROWE quickly drops his arm to his side. CHRIS faces the elderly woman who looks at him through the screen door. She opens it and steps out.

MS. SWEAT

How much is it gonna set me back, boys?

CHRIS
(handing her the bill)

Thirty-eight dollars.

MS. SWEAT
(eyeing the slip of paper)

Damn. It looks like I’m gonna have to write you a check. That okay?

CHRIS

Yes ma’am. That’s fine.

Ms. Sweat scurries back inside. She soon returns with a check.

MS. SWEAT
(handing the check to CHRIS)

Thank you, boys.

CHRIS
(accepting the check)

You’re welcome.

CROWE

You have a good afternoon, ma’am.

13 EXT. MS. SWEAT’S YARD – DAY

CROWE and CHRIS climb into the station wagon. CHRIS turns the ignition switch, and the Sportwagon rumbles to life. An exhaust leak causes the car to make a loud skipping noise.

The car backs down the driveway, and out into the street.

As they drive away:

CHRIS

Do you want to keep the car, tonight?

CROWE
(tired)

Nah, you can.

13 EXT. CROWE’S FRONT YARD – LATE AFTERNOON

The BUICK SPORTWAGON turns into the driveway and eases up toward the house.

CROWE and CHRIS step from the car. A pretty little mousy-haired girl, ELLEN, age eight, runs down the porch steps across the yard to her father, CROWE.

ELLEN
(to CROWE)

Daddy!

CROWE
(a tired grin)

What is it, Sweety?

ELLEN

I’m glad you’re home. I’ve got something to show you.

ELLEN grabs CROWE by the hand and starts to lead him toward the back yard. CROWE suddenly stops, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman stands framed in the doorway of the porch; her hands are on her hips. She’s smiling. This is CROWE’s wife, MAGGIE. She’s tall, slim, and has a good figure.

CROWE
(smiling sheepishly)

Hi, Hon’.

MAGGIE
(posing seductively, her butt poked out)

Hi, Darlin’.

CROWE grins at his wife as his daughter leads him around the corner of the house.

CHRIS
(smiling)

Hey, Maggie.

MAGGIE

Chris, you keeping my husband in line?

CHRIS
(face set serious)

I’m trying my damn’dest.

CHRIS
(continuing the act)

Day after day, I ask myself, “How in the hell did Crowe end up with such a fine woman?”

MAGGIE

And, what kind of answer do you come up with?

CHRIS

Ain’t none. He’s just a lucky damn fool.

MAGGIE
(smiles, flattered)

Don’t you shit me, Chris Thomesky. I know a line of BS when I hear one.

CHRIS

Ain’t no line, Maggie. It’s just the damn truth, baby.

EXT. CROWE’S BACK YARD – LATE AFTERNOON

ELLEN

Mommy said we could plant it here.

ELLEN stops and points to a place directly beneath her feet. A five-foot-tall tree stands nearby in a dirt-filled burlap sack.

CROWE leans on a pair of post-hole diggers. In his other hand is four-foot-long steel rod that is to be used as a dirt packer.

CROWE

That’s fine, honey.

CROWE lays the rod down and plunges the post-hole diggers into the ground and starts digging. CHRIS walks up.

ELLEN
(to CHRIS)

Daddy’s diggin’ me a hole for my “Recycle America” tree.

CHRIS
(to ELLEN)

Where’d you get it?

ELLEN

School. Everybody got one. Teacher told us this is our way of helping to ‘recycle America.’

CHRIS

And to think I thought the school system was going to crap.

ELLEN beams.

16a INT. CROWE’S KITCHEN – DUSK

CROWE stands embracing his wife at the kitchen window. The curtains sway in the gentle breeze that’s coming in through the open window. In the background, we can hear foods boiling and frying on the stovetop. CROWE and MAGGIE stare out the window.

16b EXT. CROWE’S BACK YARD – DUSK

CHRIS is packing dirt around the planted tree with the heavy steel rod.

CLOSE-UPS AND TWO-SHOTS OF ELLEN AND CHRIS.

ELLEN
(barely audible)

Let me do it, Uncle Chris.

CHRIS
(handing the packer to ELLEN)

Okay, but don’t hit your toes.

ELLEN

I won’t.

CHRIS hands the dirt packer to ELLEN.

16c INT. CROWE’S KITCHEN – DUSK

TWO-SHOT OF MAGGIE AND CROWE AS THEY STAND AT THE WINDOW, OBSERVING THEIR DAUGHTER AND CHRIS.

MAGGIE

Think he’ll ever have kids of his own?

CROWE

I don’t know. I think, for right now, he’s content playing the role of ‘Uncle Chris.’

INT. CROWE’S HOUSE – ALMOST DARK

CHRIS and ELLEN enter the front door. They are both laughing about something.

Food, steaming hot, is on the table. CROWE and MAGGIE are setting the table and putting ice in the glasses. ELLEN and CHRIS are still giggling as they come into the dining room/kitchen area.

MAGGIE
(to CHRIS)

You going to stay for supper?

CHRIS

Sounds like a great idea, but no thanks. Val’s ‘sposed to be fixing supper, tonight. You know what a rare moment that is. I just hope she doesn’t burn the house down before I can get home. Thanks for invite. Well, I’ll see ya’ll.

(he walks to the front door, then looks back)

Bye, Ellen.

ELLEN
(still bubbling)

See ya, Uncle Chris.

EXT. CROWE’S FRONT YARD – NEAR DARK

CROWE stands beside the station wagon. CHRIS sits in the driver’s seat.

CROWE

See you in the morning.

CHRIS

Crowe, about what Elvis was talking about. You want to go?

CROWE

Yeah, sure. Why not?

CHRIS turns the ignition switch.

The old SPORTWAGON roars to life. CHRIS revs the engine a couple times. He gives CROWE a mischievous smile, and then drops the shifter into reverse and backs down the driveway.

CROWE retreats to the porch and waves.

Looking through the passenger window, CHRIS returns the wave. CROWE watches until the SPORTWAGON turns out the drive and up the highway. He turns around and goes back inside the house.

INT. CROWE’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

PLAY SONG “TRUST” BY THE CURE.

The room is lit with black lights. CROWE leans close to Maggie with one hand on the wall. They stare closely at one another. They kiss softly. With his fingers, CROWE gently brushes MAGGIE’s hair out of her face so that he can see her eyes. They kiss again. Again. Again. Lips tug on lips. Love and ecstasy surge through their systems. Pants and underwear are snatched down eagerly. MAGGIE leans back against the wall. Pelvises press together, searching for the right connection. The connection is made and loins slide up and down. Butts are gripped in an attempt to deepen the love. Lips are kissed; tongues search; eyes, when not closed, glisten. Crotches grind together, faster and faster. Backs arch. Breasts are cupped and kissed. Nipples harden. In one graceful movement, the two slide from the wall to the bed, not missing a stroke or a beat.

Time has passed. Now the room is lit with yellowish-white incandescent lighting, with strong shadowing.

CROWE and MAGGIE lie in bed. Maggie is on top of CROWE. They lay chest to chest, face to face. The sheets are pulled halfway up MAGGIE’s naked back. CROWE looks into MAGGIE’s eyes. CROWE knows that this is the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with. MAGGIE’s eyes are happy, gentle, and caring. The hint of a smile dances on her lips. They kiss gently and slowly, taking their time, enjoying every moment. Maggie kisses the center of CROWE’s chest, and then looks up into CROWE’s eyes. Their eyes lock. There is a pause. They both know what is to follow. Maggie reaches out and takes CROWE’s hands in hers. She licks and kisses CROWE’s nipple until it grows erect. She kisses lower, along his stomach. CROWE closes his eyes, allowing himself to be carried down-river, into the rapids of ecstasy. MAGGIE slides down lower, her head barely sticking out of the covers. MAGGIE looks at CROWE, biting and licking her lips sensually. CROWE looks back at her. MAGGIE’s head goes down to CROWE’s crotch area. He breathes in sharply. Their intertwined fingers tighten their grip. CROWE, eyes shut, breathes in ragged breaths. MAGGIE’s eyes are half closed, her beautiful curly reddish-brown hair plumes from the top of the bed covers. CROWE’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, a tear courses down his cheek. His chest rises and falls faster. Suddenly he inhales sharply. The he relaxes, chest falling. After a few moments, he opens his eyes. MAGGIE now faces him. She lowers her face to his.

MAGGIE

I love you.

They kiss.

ACT II

THE LANDFILL

20a EXT. ROUTE 14 – NIGHT

CAMERA IS FIXED ON A CHURCH. The SOUND of crickets is the only sound. The sign out front of the church reads:

BORN AGAIN CHRISTIAN
METHODIST CHURCH

TODAY’S SCRIPTURE:
“He that believeth and is baptized
shall be saved; but he that believeth
not shall be damned.”
–St. Mark 16:16

BBQ PLATE FUNDRAISER
SATURDAY, 2 PM
EACH PLATE $5.95

Abruptly, there is THE ROAR OF HEADER EXHAUST THROUGH GLASSPACK MUFFLERS, drowning out the crickets.

CAMERA PANS TO THE SOUND.

Headlights bear down on the CAMERA.

NEW ANGLE. CAMERA MOUNTED TO THE ROOF OF THE RED 1974 PONTIAC FIREBIRD. THERE IS A PASSING SHOT OF THE CHURCH.

20b INT. THE 1974 PONTIAC FIREBIRD – NIGHT

CROWE drives as CHRIS tries to look in every direction at once.

CROWE
(irritated)

Where the hell is this place?

CHRIS

He didn’t say exactly.

CROWE

Well, I don’t see shit. I think he was pulling your leg. Wait ‘til I see that son of a bitch.

Out the windshield, ahead of them, the 1974 PONTIAC FIREBIRD’s headlights pick out a car parked on the shoulder of the road.

CHRIS

Slow down. I think that’s Elvis’s car.

The FIREBIRD rumbles irritably as CROWE backs out of the throttle. They pull up alongside ELVIS’s car—A GRAY 1988 FORD MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE WITH IT’S BLACK RAGTOP DOWN.

The MUSTANG is empty.

CROWE

I don’t like this. Where the fuck is he?

Suddenly, CHRIS points—

CHRIS

There he is!

At the edge of the woods, ELVIS emerges from behind a large oak tree, zipping his fly, and calling out—

ELVIS

Hey boys!

CROWE
(still pissed, hollers)

Elvis, what kind of weird shit is this!? I thought you had led us on a wild goose chase.

ELVIS
(instead of answering, yells)

Yeah, well, follow me.

ELVIS gets into the MUSTANG and the engine roars to life. Tail lights come on. ELVIS guns the engine and the rear tires bark as they connect with pavement.

CROWE offers CHRIS a puzzled look. CHRIS shrugs and returns the same look. CROWE stomps the FIREBIRD’s accelerator. A cloud of blue tire smoke belches into the night air as the FIREBIRD’s tires let out a long squeal.

The FIREBIRD quickly closes on the MUSTANG. They travel a couple of miles at break-neck speed, the FIREBIRD’s speedometer rarely dropping below eighty.

Suddenly, ELVIS’s brake lights come on. CROWE takes his foot off the accelerator and presses down hard on the brake pedal.

CROWE’s face looks haunted.

CROWE
(whispers)

It’s the old county landfill.

A rusty, old sign mounted to a chain-link fence states:

SALINE COUNTY LANDFILL

Another sign, directly below the first, cocked to one side and with bullet holes in it, states:

CLOSED

ELVIS stops in front of the gate that leads into the LANDFILL. ELVIS does not get out of his car.

CROWE

What the hell is he waiting on?

After a few moments, the chain-link gate ‘magically’ opens. The gate swings inward, and stops on its own.

The MUSTANG’s brake lights go out and the car moves forward, through the gateway. CROWE and CHRIS exchange looks: CHRIS raises his eyebrows; CROWE shakes his head.

CROWE eases his foot down onto the gas pedal and they go inside, following closely behind ELVIS’s car.

EXT. INSIDE THE OLD SALINE COUNTY LANDFILL – NIGHT

CROWE
(looking at CHRIS)

Do you have any idea what he’s up to?

CHRIS

I don’t know. Not a clue.

The FIREBIRD and MUSTANG move quickly along the rutted dirt road.

Looming off the left side of the road is a WASTELAND. There, unburied trash heaps of all shapes and sizes blossom from the earth in irregular mounds.

Off to the right side of the rutted lane, there stands a dense FOREST.

After nearly a mile, the road curves to the right and out of sight behind a peninsula of second-growth pine trees.

Seconds later, the FIREBIRD and MUSTANG disappear behind the curtain of pines.

22b EXT. THE CLEARING / OLD SALINE COUNTY LANDFILL – NIGHT

REVERSE ANGLE—The FIREBIRD and MUSTANG come around the peninsula of pines into a brightly-lit, gravel-covered CLEARING. The CLEARING serves as a parking lot. Three sides of the CLEARING are heavily guarded by a thick WALL OF PINE TREES. The fourth side is open, offering a glimpse into the WASTELAND of trash and rubble.

The ILLUMINATION comes from a powerful SECURITY LAMP that is mounted on a telephone pole near the center of the CLEARING.

DOZENS OF VEHICLES are parked in and around the edges of the CLEARING.

Near the rear edge of the circle of light is A GREAT SILVER BUS.

THE BUS’s windows are blacked out, giving it a sinister appearance. In addition to the usual accordion door near the front, which is closed, there’s another door three-quarters of the way to the rear. The latter is open, light pouring from the doorway.

Situated near the rear of the CLEARING, is a small, tin-roofed office/shack. A couple of windowpanes are missing from the window nearest the building’s front door.

From the rear corner of the shack hangs an ELECTRICAL WIRE with LIT INCANDESCENT BULBS, which spans at least a hundred feet, disappearing into the nearby pine forest.

PEOPLE stand in little groups, not far from the open doorway, near the rear of the BUS. They converse, laugh, drink, and eat.

ELVIS parks his MUSTANG at the end of a long row of cars near the center of the CLEARING. CROWE spots a nice parking spot near the back edge of the CLEARING. He backs his car into the space, between an ARIES-K and a FORD ESCORT.

CROWE and CHRIS climb from the FIREBIRD and walk toward ELVIS’s MUSTANG. ELVIS leans against the front passenger fender, smiling like a possum.

CROWE
(to ELVIS)

You’ve got some explaining to do.

ELVIS
(smiling, his head bobbing to an invisible beat)

Can you dig it?

CHRIS
(demanding, waving his hand in all directions)

Elvis, what is this?!

ELVIS

It’s a “club,” man. Come on. I’ll show you boys around.

As they walk across the CLEARING, CROWE watches a WOMAN come out of the BUS. She holds a black bowl in her left hand and a black bottle in her right hand.

ELVIS walks to where a group of people are standing in a loose circle. He shakes hands and laughs with a guy in the group.

CAMERA PANS IN A SLOW (COUNTER-CLOCKWISE) CIRCLE, SHOWING:

CHRIS and CROWE walking toward ELVIS and the GROUP
the barren LANDFILL with its mounds of trashy dirt barely discernible in the distance
the peninsula of second-growth pines and the wall of mature pine forest
the wooden office/shack with its busted windowpanes
the naked, lit bulbs that hang from the wire that runs from the corner of the shack into the woods, a pinestraw-strewn path beyond that

NOW THE CAMERA HAS PANNED FULL CIRCLE and ELVIS is leading CROWE and CHRIS toward the BUS. ELVIS is gesturing for them to go inside the BUS. CROWE and CHRIS reluctantly enter the BUS. ELVIS doesn’t follow them inside.

INT. THE BUS – NIGHT

CROWE and CHRIS stand in the aisle while a blonde-headed woman leans into one of two floor-mounted freezers. She scoops things that look like black fish eggs into a small black container. After filling the container, she closes the angled glass-sliding lid on the freezer. She walks to the other floor-mounted freezer, slides the lid up, and reaches in and grabs a black long-neck bottle.

Up toward the middle of the bus, on the left, are two empty benches. At the furthest point, near where THE CAB OF THE BUS must be, strips of thick, clear plastic, much the same as what you would see going into a supermarket’s meat-processing department, hang in front of a dark doorway. From the inside of the bus only one window can be seen, the one at the rear. The rest have been blocked off by stainless steel walls. Powerful air conditioners can be heard, so it isn’t surprising that the air inside the bus is chilly. Along with the stainless steel panels, there is also white that is trimmed out in gray and black.

CHRIS and CROWE take their turns at the freezers. CHRIS follows the blonde woman’s example. He scoops fish eggs into a container and grabs a black bottle. CHRIS smiles at CROWE like a kid in a candy shop.

CROWE
(grabbing a bottle)

I think I’ll just grab a bottle.

INT. BUS CAB HALLWAY – NIGHT

A CREATURE is standing at a closed door. The CREATURE presses a button on the wall and the door retracts itself into the wall. A gust of fog exhales from the open doorway. Inside the doorway is an airconditioned closet. Transparent plastic bags hang from a bar that runs the length of the closet. Inside the bags are bloody bodies and body parts. The CREATURE steps into the closet. The CREATURE puts a “bear hug” on a body bag, lifting its hook from the hanging-bar.

INT. BUS – NIGHT

CROWE and CHRIS stand over a trash can that silent sentinels by the accordion door. CHRIS twists off his bottle cap and tosses it into the trash can. CROWE does the same.

INT. BUS CAB HALLWAY – NIGHT

The CREATURE drags the body bag across the floor, past another doorway. Strips of transparent plastic hang from the ceiling in front of this doorway, serving as a curtain. From this side, it looks as if the curtain is stained with dry blood. Through this blurriness we can barely make out two figures, CROWE and CHRIS.

INT. BUS – NIGHT

CHRIS walks toward the door that leads out of the bus. CROWE is about to follow when movement catches his eye. He looks up the aisle toward the cab of the bus. The plastic drapery that hangs in the doorway is moved slightly by a draft of air. Each time the drapes move, CROWE catches a glimpse of something moving on the other side. A GROTESQUE FIGURE labors past the doorway, dragging a plastic bag. CROWE is sickened and terrified of what he might have just seen. He quickly exits the bus, bounding down the steps.

INT. BUS CAB HALLWAY – NIGHT

The CREATURE comes to another doorway on the opposite of the see-through plastic drapery. The door is closed. The CREATURE drops the end of the bag and it “thunks” when it hits the floor. The CREATURE presses the button on the wall by the door. The door hisses open and a gust of fog blows out the door. The CREATURE picks up one end of the bag and hauls it into the foggy walk-in freezer.

EXT. LANDFILL – NIGHT

CROWE joins CHRIS who has already joined the nearest CIRCLE OF PEOPLE. CROWE glances around and notices other groups of people standing near vehicles. They all seem to be having a good time. CHRIS suddenly speaks to CROWE.

CHRIS
(gesturing)

CROWE, meet CHARLIE with an I-E on the end.

CROWE takes a huge pull from his black bottle—and nearly chokes. The stuff tastes like a combination of charcoal and vodka. Recovering, CROWE looks up to see the person named “Charlie”—and nearly chokes again. CHARLIE is a beautiful girl, mid-twenties, black hair, wearing a black one-piece lycra skirt.

CROWE
(grinning stupidly)

Hi, CHARLIE with an I-E on the end!

CHARLIE
(smiling coyly)

Hi, Crowe!

CROWE’s eyes guitily race over her body. Firm, well-shaped butt. Good hips. Long tanned legs. Slightly uptured breasts poke at the fabric of her skirt. Cleavage showing. CROWE notices that her nipples are hard. CHRIS pulls CROWE around to face him.

CHRIS
(smiling at Crowe)

She’s hard to take your eyes off of, isn’t she?

(winking at Charlie over Crowe’s shoulder)

But aren’t you forgetting that you are married?

CHRIS takes a slug of vodka/charcoal from his black bottle. Not giving CROWE a chance to answer, he throws out a challenge to the group:

CHRIS

What’s this drink called?!

THE OTHERS
(chorusing)

Black Spot!

CHRIS

How about the fish eggs?!

THE OTHERS
(chorusing)

Sherman’s Shot!

CHRIS turns back to face CROWE.

CROWE
(to Chris)

I don’t recognize a soul.

CHRIS
(laughing, jamming his mouth full of “shot”)

I know, isn’t it great?!

INT. BUS – NIGHT

CROWE stands alone at the drink freezer. He grabs another bottle of “Black Spot.” After opening it, he Frisbee-spins the cap into the trash can. He walks to the “Shot” (fish egg) freezer. He looks as if he can’t decide. Show this from CROWE’s POV (point of view). The drug in the “Black Spot” is starting to take effect. Things are slowing down and speeding up. He still perplexedly stares into the “Shot” freezer.

CROWE
(aloud, drunken)

Hell, why not!

CROWE grins and grabs a black container from atop the freezer and loads it full of “Shot.” He again catches movement out the corner of his eye. It’s the hanging strips of heavy, clear plastic, blown by tremendous drafts of cold air. CROWE curious, staggers closer. He pulls the drapes aside and looks into the cab. CROWE frowns and his forehead wrinkles thoughtfully.

INT. THE WALK-IN FREEZER – DIMLY LIT

The CREATURE sits on a stool in a long, narrow room. Frost is caked to the stainless steel walls. Florescent lights are mounted in the ceiling. The lights give off a bluish-white light. Clouds of fog swirl throughout the room, blown by unseen airconditioners.

The CREATURE’s body looks to be made up of body parts from different people. One leg is four inches longer than the other. One hand is black as from an African. The other is the white of a Causcasian. The CREATURE has scars that circle its wrists and neck. The CREATURE wears a black, hooded cloak.

The CREATURE leans forward on the stool, working on something that lies on a stainless steel table. The CREATURE is sweing a dead person’s head onto a neck. The CREATURE is using sophisticated surgical steel pliers and what looks like fishing line to stitch the skin together.

INT. BUS – NIGHT

CROWE shrugs and walks toward the back of the bus.

INT. SOMEWHERE IN THE CAB OF THE BUS – NIGHT

We see a creature, from the neck down, sitting at a computer console/switchboard. A finger reaches out to the console and presses a button. A red light comes on beside the button.

INT. THE WALK-IN FREEZER – DIMLY LIT

We hear a low beeping noise.

The CREATURE has nearly completed stitching the head to the neck. The CREATURE hears the beeping noise and looks down at his die-sized PAGER. The red light on the PAGER steadily blinks on and off. The CREATURE stops stitching and walks down the frozen corridor.

The BODY slides off the table and hits the floor with a slimy smacking noise.

INT. BUS – NIGHT

Suddenly CROWE hears the slimy bodily thump. The sound comes from inside the stainless steel walls. CROWE, hastily, staggers toward the door, making his exit.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

CROWE staggers out of the BUS. He walks the gravel/dirt toward his FIREBIRD. He glances at CHRIS, who is now talking to A DIFFERENT GROUP OF UNFAMILIAR PEOPLE. CROWE lies on his back on the hood of the FIREBIRD, placing his bottle of Black Spot and bowl of Shot on the hood within reach. He looks at the sky. A football-shaped moon hangs from the celestial ceiling.

EXT. AT 1974 PONTIAC FIREBIRD – NIGHT

CLOSE-UP OF A FEMALE HAND as it glides aggressively along the inside of a blue-jeaned leg. The hand stops as it finds what its been hunting. The hand strokes the crotch gently through the blue jeans. A bulge forms in the jeans beneath the hand. THE CAMERA PANS TO THE SUBJECT’S FACE.

CROWE, LYING ON THE HOOD OF THE PONTIAC FIREBIRD, IS THE SUBJECT. He slowly opens his eyes. CHARLIE’S hand rests on his crotch. CROWE sits up suddenly, hanging his legs over the side of the car. He looks embarrassed and uncomfortable. The young lady, CHARLIE, not seeming to notice, moves in closer. Their faces are now very close. CROWE notices her voluptuous lips. Her lips seemed poised, ready to kiss or be kissed. CHARLIE moves in closer and brushes her lips against his. Suddenly, her tongue flicks out, similar to that of a serpent, and penetrates CROWE’s lips. Her tongue probes his mouth lustfully. She withdraws her tongue and kisses CROWE’s upper lip, tugging on it.

With some reluctance, CROWE pulls away from her.

CHARLIE
(grabbing CROWE’s hand)

Follow me.

CROWE, after hesitating momentarily, hops off the car’s hood. CHARLIE, holding his hand firmly in hers, breaks into something approaching a run. CROWE allows himself to get pulled along.

CROWE and CHARLIE pass a car where a couple is fucking in the front seat. Both persons fucking have “butch” haircuts and their sexes cannot be determined.

CROWE and CHARLIE, hand in hand, run across the clearing and into the woods. For fifty yards they follow the path that is lit by the strand of naked bulbs. After that, they branch off onto another path; this one is unlit. The path is very faint and obstacles and pitfall abound. Thorns tear at CROWE’s flesh, while bushes attempt to trip him. CHARLIE, nearly dragging him, dashes over and around these, unscathed, seeming to know her way.

EXT. UNDER AN ARCHED CONCRETE BRIDGE – NIGHT

AS THE CAMERA PANS DOWNWARD FROM THE BRIDGE, slow-moving water can be heard. THE CAMERA settles on a small brook that has the moon reflected in it. Under the bridge, the shore on each side of the stream is made up of huge, flat slabs of granite rock. TWO FIGURES, outlined in moonlight, come around the side of the bridge, hand in hand. They walk under the arch of the bridge onto the slabs of rock.

CROWE

I’m not sure we should be—

CHARLIE silences him by touching her index finger to his lips. She kneels at CROWE’s feet and begins to untie his shoes. He raises each foot as she pulls of his socks and shoes. She puts them in a neat pile. CHARLIE stands and looks at him. He gets the message and takes off his shirt. CROWE’s extremely white chest is nearly covered with a carpet of black hair.

CHARLIE, reaching her hands over her shoulders, unfastens something on the back of her black, flattering skirt. She slowly pushes the skirt down. CROWE watches this sinful act with keen interest. As the skirt passes her chest, CHARLIE’s breasts pounce out and jiggle prettily. She presses the skirt lower and lower until it falls onto the slab of rock at her feet. With mesmerized delight, CROWE eyes the “V” of black pubic hair beneath her hard, flat stomach. CHARLIE neatly folds her skirt and, bending over, places it on top of the socks and shoes. Looking between her beautiful buttocks at her hairy love box, CROWE hastily snatches down his pants and underwear. He tosses them into the pile of clothing.

His buttocks flow white in the pale moonlight.

The approach each other slowly, CROWE fighting the urge to jump on her. CHARLIE reaches out with both hands and takes hold of his penis. She strokes it gently.

Cupping a breast in each hand, he rubs her large, brown nipples with his thumbs until they grow erect.

EXT. UNDER THE BRIDGE – NIGHT

CROWE lies on his back on a slab near the water. CHARLIE stands astride him, facing away toward the moonlight. She slowly lowers herself, guiding all of his penis into her.

EXT. UNDER THE BRIDGE – NIGHT

Close on her face. CHARLIE’s eyes are closed. She moans softly as she rocks up and down on his shaft. After a moment, she lies back on his chest. CROWE reaches up and places his hands on her breasts. With careful rhythm, CHARLIE grinds his penis in and out of her. She fucks him with furious concentration, her tongue squeezed between her lips and her eyes tightly shut. He runs his lips across the back of her shoulders…kissing and kissing. His hands move farther down her body, finding pubic hair and the point of entry.

EXT. UNDER THE BRIDGE – NIGHT

CROWE is still lying on his back but CHARLIE has now mounted him so that they face each other. She moves her hips up and down, faster and faster. She is kissing him all over his face. Chin. Lips. Nose. Eyes. Ears. He presses his crotch upward to her as they are nearing orgasm.

CHARLIE is coming.

She sits upright on his penis, taking it all in, thrusting harder and deeper. She holds his hands to her breasts, her head thrown back, moaning, gasping, eyes squeezed shut. He is coming simultaneously. As her shudders dissipate, CHARLIE lowers her face to his. They kiss long and hard for minutes, aftershock orgasms cause their bodies to shake spasmodically. CROWE takes a well-positioned tit into his mouth, tonguing the nipple. CHARLIE’s body rocks with the eruption of yet another orgasm. She settles on him like a deflated balloon. They kiss slowly, absorbing every moment of bliss.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

CROWE and CHARLIE emerge from the woods fully clothed. He holds her hand as they enter the clearing. Both look very relaxed and their faces glow as though each hides a smile within. They kiss lightly again as they separate, CHARLIE heading for the crowd, CROWE heading to the BUS for more Black Spot.

INT. CAB OF THE BUS – NIGHT

THE CAB OF THE BUS is dimly lit. Computer terminals line the wall, waist high. Large tinted windows are above the terminals. The windshield is also tinted. The driver’s seat is unoccupied.

UNSEEN VOICE #1

Sir, have you made…

We are now looking over a cloaked shoulder, out the tinted side window. Outside, we see a group of people conversing. CROWE is walking past, oblivious, toward the rear entrance of the BUS. In the other direction, CHRIS staggers toward the tin-roofed OFFICE/SHACK.

UNSEEN VOICE #1
(continued)

…a selection?

UNSEEN VOICE #2
(commanding, deep and pleased)

…Yes!

INT. BUS – NIGHT

CROWE is coming up the BUS steps. CROWE’s drunken POV. CROWE notices a young man sitting on one of the benches. The rear of the bus is empty except for the two of them. The young man is skinny and blonde-headed. He rocks back and forth on the bench, his body trembles slightly. CROWE offers a smile as he approaches the freezers.

CROWE
(scooping some “shot”)

Hi. I’m CROWE.

YOUNG MAN
(voice shaking)

I’m Johnny.

CROWE
(reaching in, getting a bottle)

What’s wrong, man?

YOUNG MAN / JOHNNY

I feel like something bad’s gonna happen.

CROWE
(walking toward the exit)

Aw, man, don’t worry. Everything’s fine.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING/WOODS – NIGHT

CHRIS looks at the small office building at the edge of the clearing, its busted windowpanes looking like an open wound. In his drunkenness, everything seems to blur and then jerk back into focus again, and then out again. His eyes follow a strand of naked bulbs that run from the building into the nearby forest. The wire, on which the bulbs hang, runs from tree to tree. Pine needles pad a trail that runs beneath the lights. With his eyes, CHRIS follows the lights deeper and deeper, until they become too dim, obscured by the denseness of forest. As if beckoned, he staggers toward the lights, following them into the woods. Things are slowing down for CHRIS, blurring more often than not. The trail terminates at a commode, where a middle-aged, red-bearded man sits, shitting. The toilet leans against a root, cocked haphazardly, strapped to a pine tree. The man doesn’t appear to be all that friendly. CHRIS retreats, hurrying back toward the clearing.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

CROWE has just emerged from the BUS with fresh SPOT & SHOT. He wanders around. His eyes fix on a ladder that is attached to the backside of the BUS. He carefully climbs up the ladder and onto the roof of the BUS. He looks around, taking in this great overview of tonight’s activities: the groups in loose circles near the center of the clearing and then those who prefer the shadows, out by their cars along the edge. He sits Indian style and begins to chow down.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

A hand reaches inside a car and grabs a bottle of baby oil off the dash.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

CROWE’s POV as he watches the crowd, grinning as if it’s a good episode of TV, and continues to push SHOT into his mouth like it’s popcorn.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

A NAKED GIRL climbs off the limb of a small pine tree and onto the tin roof of the office building. Her ample breasts jiggle in the pale moonlight. With much difficulty, a NAKED MAN climbs the tree, then accompanies her on the office rooftop. The girl puts down a thick, red blanket before easing down onto the corrugated tin roof. Lying on her back, she smiles easily up at the naked man. She hands him a bottle. He takes it, opens it, and pours some baby oil into the palm of his hand. He kneels down in front of her and starts to apply oil to her legs.

50b EXT. BUS ROOFTOP – NIGHT

From his perch atop the BUS, CROWE catches movement out the corner of his eye. His gaze shifts from the crowds below to the office building rooftop at eye level. He sees a naked man and a young woman, who he soon recognizes ans CHRIS and CHARLIE. CHRIS is rubbing baby oil along the insides of CHARLIE’s thighs. As if on cue, CHRIS senses someone watching and looks over in CROWE’s direction, their eyes locking across the great distance. CHRIS proffers a devilish smile, then returns to his work.

50c EXT. OFFICE ROOFTOP – NIGHT

CHARLIE, eyes closed, opens her legs wider, giving CHRIS better access. CHRIS finds the middle, and her hairy mound, and applies a heavy coat of oil to it. CHARLIE throws back her head and howls with pleasure. CHRIS brings his penis foward and into her. CHARLIE lets out a gasp of pleasure, opens her twinkling eyes, and offers CHRIS an approving smile. CHRIS applies a liberal amount to her breasts, all the while thrusting slowly, her breasts rolling back and forth. CHARLIE reaches out for CHRIS, and he applies oil to both her arms. With the exception her face, CHARLIE’s entire body now glistens.

PLAY SONG “COMFORTABLY NUMB” BY PINK FLOYD OVER THE NEXT TWO PARAGRAPHS. INSERT THE PORTION JUST BEFORE AND INCLUDING THE FIRST GUITAR SOLO.

Charlie leans up, slamming her mouth into his, her tongue plunging deep into his mouth. CHRIS presses her breasts together. He seizes her at the bottom of her ribs as he comes, convulsing. She pulls away from his mouth, putting both hands palm-down on the rooftop, pressing her crotch to meet his throbbing penis. She comes, her muscular buttocks contracting. She tries to hold his rapidly deflating penis inside her. CHRIS pulls out of her, his placid penis glistening, dripping semen. His head rocked back, his eyes tightly shut, his face contorted in blissful agony, CHRIS lets in a gasp of air.

EXT. BUS ROOFTOP – NIGHT

CROWE, sitting Indian style on top of the BUS, faces up into the night breeze. He sways slightly. He is either meditating or on the verge of passing out.

SUDDENLY THE BUS’S HORN BLASTS.

CROWE is jolted out of his stupor. He looks around. From the looks of the people on the ground, the SOUND came from the BUS. People are walking toward the front of the BUS.

EXT. BUS ROOFTOP – NIGHT

CROWE climbs down the ladder on the back of the BUS and follows the herd of people to the front. He stands at the front of the BUS, staring at it, looking perplexed.

EXT. LANDFILL CLEARING – NIGHT

CROWE climbs down and follows the people.

He stands at the front of the BUS looking a bit perplexed.

THE HORN BLARES AGAIN.

CROWE pushes and shoves his way toward the front of the crowd. The CROWD stares at something above the BUS’s windshield. As CROWE fights his way to front, we finally see what “it” is — a digital LED teleprompter.

CHRIS and CHARLIE, both naked, climb down from the roof of the OFFICE / BUILDING via the nearby pine tree. Soon they appear in the CROWD, clothed.

THE HORN BLARES FOR THE THIRD TIME.

A MESSAGE lit in green digital letters scrolls, from right to left, across the teleprompter—

GOOD EVENING … TONIGHT’S FESTIVITIES WILL NOW CEASE … PLEASE RETURN ALL BEVERAGE AND FOOD CONTAINERS TO THE BUS … FOR THOSE INTERESTED … NEXT APPEARANCE: OLD POKE ROAD … ON FRIDAY, MAY 3RD, FROM 10PM TO 3AM … THAT IS ALL … GOOD NIGHT AND DRIVE SAFE … THE DOOR WILL CLOSE IN 5 MINUTES … 4:59 … 4:58 … 4:57 —

The CROWD disperses. People stumble / stagger / walk to their respective areas in trance-like states and pickup their litter. They return the empty items to the BUS as instructed, dropping them into trashcan just inside the BUS’s accordion door. Just as the trashcan seems to be getting full, it seems to have the ability to compact or siphon some of it away.

CROWE drops off some trash, and then walks toward the front of the BUS to check out the countdown. CARS are leaving. CROWE is still drunk. Show CROWE’s POV. CROWE pans around looking as he walks. Things are still a combination of blurry and in-focus, and the world is still speeding and slowing way down, seemingly at random. Upon reaching the front of the BUS, CROWE looks up at the prompter—

1:06 … 1:05 … 1:04 —

All but two cars have left. One of the cars is a BLACK ‘77 TRANS AM w/ T-tops out; the other is CROWE’s RED ‘74 PONTIAC FIREBIRD. CROWE looks at the people as they get into the TRANS AM. The car is jam-packed with people. A tall guy with long black hair is now trying to squeeze into the back seat. Someone from the inside of the car yells—

UNSEEN MALE

Where’s Johnny?

UNSEEN FEMALE

He probably got a ride with Sam.

Soon the TRANS AM leaves, leaving the FIREBIRD … and CROWE and CHRIS. CROWE looks again at the BUS’s teleprompter—

0:21 … 0:20 … 0:19 —

CROWE walks across the gravel lot to his FIREBIRD. CHRIS sags limply onto the front passenger seat. As CROWE climbs behind the wheel, CHRIS offers him a big, stupid grin. CROWE sits there for a moment, watching the BUS.

As time expires on the prompter, the BUS’s engine roars to life. The accordion shuts. Moments the bus starts to move.

CROWE hastily turns the ignition on the FIREBIRD, and it sputters to life. CROWE pats the footfeed impatiently, trying to hurry up and warm the engine. The BUS pulls away. CROWE drops the stick into DRIVE and falls in behind the bus, flicking on his headlights. The BUS accelerates rapidly, kicking up a cloud of trash-filled dust in its wake. It moves over and down a hill, out of sight temporarily. CROWE pushes down hard on the FIREBIRD’s accelerator, the speedometer bouncing between 80 and 90 mph. When they top the hill, CROWE sees the BUS already headed up the next hill. The FIREBIRD is now running over a hundred. The trashy dust top layer on the dirt road is making traction difficult, and the FIREBIRD teeters from one ditch edge to the other. With the gap finally closing a little between them and the BUS, CROWE peers into the dust at the rear of the bus. The light is still on at the rear window of the bus. As the dust clears momentarily, CROWE is shocked to see a person at the window. Their face and hands are on the glass.

Dangerously, CROWE pushes the FIREBIRD’s accelerator closer to floorboard. The FIREBIRD, with its balding tires, is now barely able to hold the roadway. The gap closes between the FIREBIRD and the BUS, enough for CROWE to see that it’s JOHNNY at the rear window. He’s trapped in the BUS, and he’s screaming, a silent scream.

CROWE looks over at CHRIS, who is passed out.

CROWE
(muttering)

Damn.

CROWE backs out of the throttle as they reach the top of the final hill and the ground levels out before the LANDFILL entrance / exit. The landfill gate is open and the BUS swings left out it. Of its own accord, the GATE slowly starts to close.

CROWE slams back into the throttle and whooshes through the gateway and out onto the road, turning right, toward home. But then, abruptly, he brakes hard. The FIREBIRD skids to a stop. CROWE looks in the rearview mirrow. The road is dark and quiet. Except for a cloud of dust, there is no sign of the BUS. The landfill gate is closed. CHRIS stirs in his sleep.

CHRIS
(mumbling)

What’s going on? Why’d we stop?

CROWE
(shaken)

It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.

CROWE eases back down on the accelerator. They head home.

INT. CROWE’S HOME – NIGHT

CAMERA SNAKES DOWN A DARK HALLWAY INTO A DIMLY LIT BEDROOM. A GRUNT comes from the bed. A shaft of light pours out of the partly open bathroom door and angles across the room. CROWE tosses and turns in his sleep. MAGGIE, lying beside him, continues to sleep.

CLOSE-UP OF CROWE’S FACE. CROWE’s eyeballs dart back and forth beneath his closed eyelids. And occasional groan escapes his lips as the nightmare tightens its grip.

CUT TO:

WE’RE BACK INSIDE THE BUS, THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY AT THE LANDFILL CLEARING. Through the stained, billowing transparent plastic drapes, we see the CREATURE dragging the CORPSE past the doorway.

NOW JOHNNY SCREAMS AT THE REAR WINDOW OF THE BUS.

NOW WE’RE AT THE CREEK’S EDGE ON THE ROCKS UNDER THE BRIDGE. Two naked thighs are locked together, grinding, pumping with orgasmic intensity. NOW… the glistening, passion-filled faces of CROWE and CHARLIE.

JOHNNY POUNDS THE WINDOW GLASS AT THE REAR OF THE BUS. He hears something behind him and turns to see. Suddenly, he turns back to the glass and SCREAMS, renewing his pounding, shedding tears. Then something strikes the back of his head. WITH A WET SMACK, JOHNNY’S HEAD SLAMS INTO THE BUS’S REAR WINDOW, LEAVING BEHIND A BLOODY OVAL ON THE GLASS. JOHNNY FALLS LIMPLY, OUT OF SIGHT.

CROWE AWAKENS, his eyes flying open. His breaths come in ragged gasps.

INT. CROWE’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

TWO FIGURES in bed appear to be sleeping.

CLOSE-UP OF CROWE.

CROWE STARES, without blinking, in the general direction of the bedroom door. The bedside clock reads 5:17 AM. CROWE, careful not to wake MAGGIE, slides silently out of bed.

He goes into the bathroom. THE CAMERA DOES NOT GO IN. After a moment PISSING SOUNDS can be heard.

INT. CROWE’S KITCHEN – PRE-DAWN (DARK)

CLOSE-UP of a COFFEEMAKER. The coffee level has nearly reached the 10-cup line on the pot.

The dripping tapers off.

CROWE pours himself a mug of coffee. Coffee sizzles on the hotplate until CROWE replaces the pot. He adds two heaping teaspoons of sugar and two of powdered creamer from glass jars beside the COFFEEMAKER. After stirring a dozen times, he brings the mug to his lips and sips. Satisfied, he exits the kitchen.

EXT. CROWE’S PORCH STEPS – CRACK OF DAWN

CROWE is sitting at the top of his porch steps. He is barefooted, wearing only blue jeans and an unbuttoned blue-and-white pinstriped dress shirt. CROWE looks tired and downright scared. Leaning forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, he tightly grips the steaming of coffee in his hands.

CROWE has a vacant look in his eyes. He is trapped in his mind, in the world of the damned.

CUT TO VIOLENT FLASHES OF THE FOLLOWING:

JOHNNY at the rear of the bus, screaming.

CHARLIE rides his penis, moaning, approaching orgasm. CROWE cups CHARLIE’s breasts in his hands. She throws her head back, continuing to moan, her mouth open, her eyes closed.

JOHNNY continues to scream at the BUS window. JOHNNY hears that thing approaching from behind again. He turns to look. And back to the window he returns, pounding it harder than before. And again comes the deathblow to the head, except this time brain matter splatters against the window with the blood.

Suddenly, the mug falls from CROWE’s hands in slow motion.

Slow-motion coffee pours from the mug as it descends and breaks on the steps below.

CLOSE-UP OF CROWE’S BLOODSHOT EYES AS HE STARES FORWARD, BLANKLY AND UNBLINKING.

FADE FROM THE SOUND OF THE MUG BREAKING TO THE THROATY RUMBLE OF THE SPORTWAGON.

EXT. CROWE’S DRIVEWAY – MORNING (7:46 AM)

The BUICK SPORTWAGON turns up the drive and stops just short of the front porch steps.

CROWE opens the porch’s screen door and walks down the steps to the car.

CHRIS hangs his head out the driver’s side window, a big dopey smile on his face.

Contrarily, CROWE is not smiling. He looks haggard to CHRIS’s fresh.

CHRIS
(grinning)

You sure you don’t want to call in sick? You look rough, man.

CROWE ignores him and climbs in on the passenger side.

EXT. A LONG, STRAIGHT DIRT ROAD – DAY

The SPORTWAGON roars into the picture, her back to us. She quickly disappears into a huge cloud of dust, the sound of her motor already fading.

INT. THE SPORTWAGON – DAY

CHRIS is driving. CROWE sits on the passenger side, appearing to be deep in thought. Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” plays on the radio.

CROWE

Chris, what do remember about last night?

CHRIS

I got drunk and I got laid. What else is there to remember?

CROWE

Specifics.

CHRIS

Oh yeah, I saw Redbeard the Pirate shitting in the woods. But it’s all kind of fuzzy.

CROWE

You plan on going back?

CHRIS

It was a good time. So, yeah, I might.

CUT TO BLACK.

SOUND FADES IN. WE HEAR CRICKETS AND OTHER CREATURES OF THE NIGHT.

WE HEAR A HYDRAULIC DOOR OPEN.

PICTURE FADES IN.

EXT. A CONVENIENCE / MOVIE RENTAL STORE – NIGHT

CROWE emerges from the store with a couple of rented videotapes in his hand. He walks toward the end of the parking lot where his car is. Suddenly, from across the street, a bright light flashes on and off. He looks toward the source of the light. The BUS is parked on the street corner across the road. The headlamps come on again, “marking” him. CROWE squints into the nearly blinding white light. Terror climbs his spine. He feigns calmness and continues to walk toward his car at a normal pace. The BUS’s lights go out again.

CROWE
(whispering to himself)

It’s not the same bus. It can’t be.

He gets behind the wheel of his RED 1974 PONTIAC FIREBIRD. He adjusts the rearview mirror so that he can see the BUS. It waits quietly on the street corner. CROWE starts the car. He watches the BUS in the mirror as he backs up. Now he pulls forward, down to the road. He stops and waits for a car to pass by, then pulls out into the road. He watches the rearview mirror for several miles, but there is no sign of the BUS. Finally, he let’s out a long sigh of relief.

EXT. TOWN – NIGHT

The FIREBIRD pulls up to redlight and stops. The engine lopes hard.

CROWE flips on his left-turn signal and waits for the light to change. The blinker makes its monotonous “tink … tink … tink” sound. He gives the rearview mirror another glance. Nothing. CROWE looks again at the traffic light. Still red.

Suddenly, the BUS cruises through the intersection (moving from his right to his left) as its light turns yellow. Finally, CROWE’s light turns green, and he turns left, going in the same direction as the BUS. By now, there is no sign of the BUS.

EXT. A PAVED ROAD – NIGHT

CROWE finds himself taking his time going home. He continually looks at his mirrors. The FIREBIRD’s speedometer reads a steady 45 MPH. CROWE looks down sideroads for any sign of the BUS. CROWE’s wears and anxious look. He looks over his shoulder, out the back glass, as if he doesn’t believe his rearview mirror. His hands clamp down on the steering wheel with a death grip. Systematically, his eyes go from driver’s side mirror, to rearview, to passenger-side mirror, to passenger window and upcoming side road … and the BUS sitting darkly at the dirt road’s stop sign, facing in his direction.

CROWE

Oh fuck!

The BUS’s headlights come on and bathe the FIREBIRD in blinding white light as it passes by.

The BUS swoops in behind him. CROWE floors the FIREBIRD and its 350 V8 roars. The FIREBIRD barrels down the highway, the speedometer climbing past 90 mph. The BUS slowly closes the distance. CROWE brakes hard and turns left onto a little paved road at better than 40 mph. The balding tires let out a squeal of agony, but hold to the road. There’s nothing is CROWE’s rearview mirror. Then, 100 yards back, the BUS’s lights flash on. CROWE gives the FIREBIRD all the gas that he dares. Looming ahead, he sees the driveway to his house. He barely makes the turn, and the BUS nearly clips his rearend as it zooms past him, continuing on the down the road. CROWE kills his lights and eases on up to his house. He puts the FIREBIRD in park and rests his head on the cool steering wheel, letting out a long sigh, exhausted.

INT. GUN SHOP – DAY

A Colt .45 automatic pistol gleams in its case on the glass countertop. CROWE stands at the counter, eyeing the gun. The CLERK sizes up CROWE, eager to make the sale.

CLERK

Yeah, that’s a helluva gun. Standard issue in Vietnam.

CROWE

I’ll take it.

CLERK

That’ll be $427.54.

CROWE lays five one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter. The CLERK gives him his change.

CROWE

I’ve never shot a .45. Could you, ah, show me how to work it? Oh yeah, I’m gonna need ammo…

FADE OUT.

INT. CROWE’S HOUSE – MORNING (BEFORE WORK)

CROWE stands at his gun rack in the study. He picks up his .44 magnum rifle. CROWE sits down with it on the couch and loads the internal magazine with hollow-point bullets.

EXT. CROWE’S YARD – MORNING (BEFORE WORK)

CROWE is carrying something rifle-shaped, rolled up in a brown blanket. He places it behind the back seat, in front of the buckets of tools and supplies.

INT. CHRIS’S HARD – MORNING

CROWE honks the horn on the Sportwagon. A few moments later, CHRIS comes out of his house, walking between his two vehicles: a fairly new white Chevy pickup and a white Toyota Camry. CHRIS carries a six-pack of Pepsi’s in the can. He goes around to the rear of the station wagon and drops the tailgate. He slides out the GOTT water cooler, screws off the lid, and drops the six pack of Pepsi’s into the water and ice. CHRIS notices the rolled up blanket.

CHRIS

Whatcha got wrapped up in the blanket?

EXT. UNFINISHED HOUSE – DAY

THE CAMERA ZIGS AND ZAGS OVER PLYWOOD FLOORING THROUGH A MAZE OF 2 x 4 STUDS. Copper, PVC, and CPVC pipes just up from holes in the floor. A fiberglass shower/bath stands in a corner, the roughness of outside on display. Around the perimeter of the house, rough openings have been framed for windows. The are doorways, but no doors. The skeletal framework of walls, but no walls. You can look from one end of the house to the other, with a fairly unobstructed view.

CROWE sits in the open on the plywood floor, sipping a Pepsi. CHRIS sits on the plywood floor, but leaning against a couple of studs. The day is sunny, bright, and hot. CROWE and CHRIS have soaked their clothes through with sweat.

CHRIS walks out onto the HOUSE’s unfinished porch/balcony, where it overlooks a picturesque cove on the lake. CROWE steps out of the house behind CHRIS, staring intently through his back, thinking.

CHRIS

Damn, this is beautiful. I wish I had a place like this. You?

CHRIS turns to get CROWE’s response. CROWE is staring at the floor.

CHRIS

What’s been eating at you, man?

CROWE
(suddenly looking up at CHRIS)

It’s that bus.

CHRIS

What of it?

CROWE

I saw it the other night.

CHRIS

You did? Where’d you see it at?

CROWE

Out by Starvin Marvin’s.

CHRIS

What was it doing out there?

CROWE
(looking down, shaking slightly)

Waiting for me.

CHRIS
(laughing)

Ha! Waiting for you, for what?

INT. CROWE’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

CROWE is dreaming. CROWE is the one trapped in the BUS at it rockets down the landfill dirtroad, headed toward the gate. CROWE is at the back window, looking out with his face and hands pressed to the glass. We see CROWE’S FIREBIRD in hot pursuit of the bus. CHRIS is driving the FIREBIRD. CROWE is screaming as he beats the glass.

CROWE

HELP ME! PLEASE, GOD, HELP ME!

From the outside of the BUS, show a small, tinted side window open. A .50-CALIBER MACHINE GUN emerges from the small side window. It is controlled by a robotic arm. The gun aims toward the road behind the BUS. Suddenly the gun opens fire. Hundreds of flaming bullets erupt from the gun.

On the road behind the BUS, the FIREBIRD, going 70+ mph, suddenly explodes into flames. The EXPLOSION flips the car, forward, into the air. The car grinds to a fiery halt on its roof.

CROWE watches in horror as the wreckage burns, flames leaping into the night sky. CROWE hears something approaching him from behind. He turns…

FADE TO:

INT. CROWE’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

THE PHONE RINGS. Slowly, CROWE wakes from his nightware. Sweating profusely and shaking, he reaches for the PHONE.

CROWE

Hello.

CALLER

Mr. Erwin?

CROWE

Yes?

CALLER / AN ELDERLY WOMAN

This is Ellenore Fielding. I’m sorry to bother you at this late, but I have something of a catastrophe on my hands—

MAGGIE
(mumbling beside him)

What is it?

CROWE
(looking over at his wife)

Nothing. Go back to sleep.

ELLENORE FIELDING

What was that Mr. Erwin?

CROWE

I’ll be right there, Mrs. Fielding. Now, if—

ELLENORE FIELDING

Miz.

CROWE

Right. Now, if you could just give me that address…

EXT. YARD – NIGHT

A DARK FIGURE crosses the yard and approaches a tiny building. A flashlight flicks on. An old, rusty square nail is pulled from a galvanized staple lock. The hinged hasp is then swung out of the way.

The door to the tiny building has to be fought open.

THE DARK FIGURE sticks its head into the TINY BUILDING.

INT. TINY BUILDING – NIGHT

The beam of the flashlight darts over various pieces of equipment. As it gets quiet, the sound of dripping water can be distinctly heard.

EXT. TINY BUILDING – NIGHT

THE FIGURE withdraws its head from the TINY BUILDING.

THE FIGURE
(hollering)

You were right, Ms. Fielding.

EXT. HOUSE DOORWAY – NIGHT

At the top of a steep set of concrete steps, stands an little old lady in her nightshift. She holds open an aluminum screen door.

MS. FIELDING
(hollering back)

Oh, good-good. Can you fix it, Mr. Erwin?

THE FIGURE / CROWE
(hollering)

Should be able to. We carry lots of parts around with us.

MS. FIELDING
(hollering back)

Splendid, splendid. Do you want me to put on a pot of coffee.

CROWE
(hollering)

Sure. Thanks. Sounds like the perfect thing for a night like this.

MS. FIELDING
(hollering back)

I’ll get to it then.

Ms. Fielding allows the screen door to close and retreats back into the house.

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S YARD – NIGHT

CHRIS stands at the back of the SPORTWAGON, its tailgate down. He slides a bucket of fittings toward him. And then another bucket of tools. He exchanges tools with another bucket to get what he needs. He then carries the two buckets to the TINY WELLHOUSE BUILDING.

INT. WELLHOUSE – NIGHT

CROWE has already loosened the stainless-steel clamps that hold the black ABS plastic to the metal pipe fittings that go to the well pump. He is attempting to shake and twist one of the pipe’s loose, to no avail. He tries the other pipe. Nothing.

CROWE
(turning to the doorway)

You bring the torch?

CHRIS
(turning the gas-valve knob and operating the striker)

You betcha.

CHRIS hands the lit torch to CROWE. CROWE points the flame at one of the black pipes. Soon he is able to slide the pipe loose.

CROWE

I need you in here, man.

CHRIS enters the tiny wellhouse and grabs hold of the pipe CROWE has removed. CROWE heats the other pipe and removes it. CHRIS grabs hold of the other pipe with his free hand.

CHRIS begins to haul the pipes out of the well. CROWE grabs the end and walks backward out the doorway as CHRIS feeds him more pipe.

EXT. WELLHOUSE – NIGHT

CROWE backs across the yard toward the SPORTWAGON. After about 40 feet, CHRIS emerges from the wellhouse with the other end, the well’s foot valve.

CHRIS

Hold your end higher, CROWE.

CROWE raises the two black pipes high over his head.

CHRIS works his way away from the foot valve, up the pipes, feeling his way, looking. After just a few feet—

CHRIS

I found the leak.

Water squirts in a steady stream from a pinhole in one of the black pipes.

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S YARD – NIGHT

CROWE brings the five gallon buckets, containing the tools and fittings.

CHRIS removes a hacksack from one of the buckets and proceeds to cut through both black pipes, just above the pinhole.

CHRIS reattaches the pipes, now shortened by a couple of feet, to the footvalve and tightens the clamps.

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S HOUSE – NIGHT

Ms. Fielding pops her head out the door—

MS. FIELDING
(hollering)

Coffee’s ready when you are, boys!

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S YARD – NIGHT

CROWE walks toward the pump end of the pipes. He looks toward Ms. Fielding.

CROWE
(hollering back)

Thanks. We’ll be right up, Ms. Fielding!

Holding onto the footvalve, CHRIS leads with his end, back toward the pumphouse. CROWE follows, carrying the heavy pump end, stumbling, staggering, moving slowly to keep the pipes tight and off the ground.

INT. SPORTWAGON – NIGHT

A figure reaches into the driver’s side window. Gloved hands, holding pliers, go under the dash and cut through several wires.

INT. MS. FIELDING’S DINING ROOM – NIGHT

CROWE and CHRIS sit around the dining room table with MS. FIELDING, sipping coffee. The guys laugh about something. CROWE takes a last sip of coffee, glances at a personal check, pokes it into his shirt pocket, and stands.

CROWE

Well, thanks for the business and the coffee.

MS. FIELDING

It is I who am grateful. I think it would have been hard to get someone else out here at this time of night. You and Chris are a godsend.

CHRIS
(cornily, smiling)

Aw, shucks.

MS. FIELDING pretends to give CHRIS a reproachful.

They all stand.

INT. MS. FIELDING’S FOYER – NIGHT

MS. FIELDING turns the knob lock and deadbolt on her door. She flips off the interior and then the exterior light.

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S YARD – NIGHT

The stoop light goes out as CROWE and CHRIS cross the gravel driveway to the SPORTWAGON. They both glance back at the house. The yard is still lit, although dimly, by a security lamp.

INT. MS. FIELDING’S DINING ROOM – NIGHT

MS. FIELDING shuffles through the house, turning off lights as she goes. Her slippers whisper across the vinyl flooring.

INT. MS. FIELDING’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

MS. FIELDING turns the corner into her bedroom, her lamp already lit on the nightstand.

She never makes it to her bed.

A glint off of steel as an immense blade arcs through the air and neatly slices off her head. Swiftly, expertly, the black-hooded executioner steps in, catching the head and body before they are able to hit the floor.

The executioner gently lowers the body to the floor, all while staring into MS. FIELDING’S face. Her wide-open, horror-struck eyes. Her lips make small popping sounds, as her mouth opens and closes. As the life drains from her face, the dark figure slips her head into a head-sized, clear plastic bag and cinches it shut. Clear plastic is already laid out on the floor. The body is quickly rolled up in the plastic sheet and the seams are sealed with duct tape.

A small pool of blood on the hardwood floor is quickly tidied up.

INT. SPORTWAGON – NIGHT

CROWE turns the ignition switch again.

CROWE

Come on, dammit!

CROWE and CHRIS hear the house door open.

CHRIS
(looking back toward the house)

MS. FIELDING, I don’t know what the devil—

CHRIS trails off.

EXT. MS. FIELDING’S YARD – NIGHT

…A dark, hooded figure emerges from the house and starts down the steep steps.

INT. SPORTWAGON – NIGHT

CHRIS
(spying the dark figure)

Holy shit!

CROWE

Reach under your seat! I put a pistol there! Follow me out on this side of the car!

CHRIS looks over at CROWE, absorbing every word. He doesn’t question, just does as instructed. Primally, he knows that his very life depends on it.

They both slip out of the Sportwagon on the driver’s side.

Keeping below window level, CROWE opens the rear passenger door and reaches over the seat to the rear compartment. He emerges from the car with a brown blanket and a black bundle. He drops the bundle on the gravel driveway and discards the blanket, revealing a Ruger .44 Magnum carbine rifle. He racks a round into the firing chamber.

CROWE reaches down, picks up part of the black bundle, and tosses it at CHRIS.

CROWE

Flak jacket. Kevlar. Bulletproof. Put it on.

CHRIS stuffs the Colt .45 automatic, from under the seat in the car, into his waistband and slips on the black trenchcoat. CROWE is slipping on the other one.

Moments later, they are being pursued across Ms. Fielding’s lawn by two dark, hooded figures.

Unbeknownst to CROWE and CHRIS, a third figure emerges from the house and turns in the opposite direction, down the driveway to the street.

EXT. WALL OF HEDGES / STREET – NIGHT

The BUS is parked on the other side of tall hedges. Its engine roars to life. Air brakes release loudly, and it starts to creep forward.

EXT. WALL OF HEDGES / STREET – NIGHT

CROWE bursts through hedges and onto a sidewalk. He pants, out of breath, and looks around. The street is empty. Town is nearby. CHRIS flies through the hedges behind him, also out of breath.

They trot up the middle of the street, crossing to the other side under a traffic light.

EXT. TOWN – NIGHT

Old, one-story brick buildings flash by, as CROWE and CHRIS jog further into town.

From a blind alley, one of the BLACK CLOAKED FIGURES suddenly charges. CROWE lays down three quick rounds with the .44 MAGNUM CARBINE RIFLE, fire flying from the muzzle, the heavy concussions breaking the night’s silence, ricocheting and echoing off the brick structures. The first shot tears through the cloaked figure’s guts, jetting black blood onto the street. The second rips out its throat. And the third, a head shot, turns the hood into sack to hold the brain matter together. The figure drops lifeless to the pavement.

CROWE runs after CHRIS, who continues up the street.

CROWE
(coming up alongside CHRIS)

We need supplies.

INT. CONVENIENCE STORE – NIGHT

A hand grabs a gas can off of a shelf.

EXT. RESIDENTIAL PART OF TOWN – NIGHT

CLOSE-UP of A MATCH being lit.

As CROWE and CHRIS run from the scene, the CAMERA fixes its gaze on TWO DEAD FIGURES burning in the street.

EXT. TOWN SQUARE GAZEBO – NIGHT

CROWE and CHRIS sit in the dark on the benches around the inside perimeter of the gazebo.

CHRIS

So, what can we do now? The BUS is still out there somewhere. It’s the middle of the night, and we don’t have transportation. If we take this crazy story to the police, they’re going to lock us up. Shit.

CROWE

We’re going to have to think of some old friend. Someone who didn’t move away after high school, who never married.

CHRIS

Once we graduated, you and I both turned our backs on that crowd. There are no connections.

CROWE

I think Ronnie is worth a shot. He divorced. His parents died. Maybe he’s still living where he grew up.

CHRIS

Okay. How many rounds do you left?

CROWE
(without looking at his .44 magnum carbine rifle)

I’m out.

CHRIS
(handing the pistol out to CROWE)

Well then, you should have the pistol.

CROWE

Not gonna happen.

CHRIS

Why the hell not?

Instead of answering, CROWE stands and leaves the relative safety of the gazebo.

CROWE

You try to make it to Ronnie’s, and I’ll try for Norbert’s.

CHRIS watches as CROWE heads off down a sidewalk by himself. Reluctantly, CHRIS takes off, crossing the street under the traffic light. Neither man looks back.

EXT. A FIELD – NIGHT

CROWE, out of breath and dirty, stumbles across a moonlit field.

INT. CROWE’S YARD – NIGHT

CROWE emerges from the forest and walks into his own back yard. He sees his daughter’s “Recycle America” TREE. He runs up it in a sudden rage—

Images flash through his mind:

The BUS parked at the landfill.
A hand touching his inner thigh.
His wife framed in the front door, smiling.
CROWE and CHRIS working late at the lake job site. CHRIS, on the house’s balcony, turns around and faces the CAMERA.
Now CHRIS stands, terror-stricken, at the bus’s rear window.

CROWE rips the “Recycle America” TREE from the ground. Then, he is down on the ground, wrestling it.

Another image flashes through his mind:

CHRIS stands, horrified, at the rear window of the BUS, when something sharp strikes the back of neck. His head flies off, striking the window, shattering the glass, hitting the pavement below and bouncing down the street, as the bus continues onward, down a hill and out of sight.

Crying, CROWE stops struggling with the TREE and just lays beside it.

Suddenly, CROWE pops to his feet, stoops, grabs the TREE, and, with a final fury, flings the TREE as far across the yard as he can. He walks toward his house.

INT. HOUSE – NIGHT

CROWE, filthy and sweaty, stands framed in his bedroom doorway, watching his wife sleep peacefully. He retreats up the hallway, turns, opens a door, and closes it behind him.

INT. GUEST BEDROOM – NIGHT

CROWE flips on the light switch. Along with the overhead light, the attached ceiling fan comes on. Walking to the guest bed, CROWE strips off all of his clothes and flops onto bed. He pulls the covers up to his waist and lays back, facing the ceiling. The ceiling fan spins.

Now the room spins.

CROWE sees more flashes. He sees his daughter, standing at the hole in the ground, where her tree used to be, the dead tree withering some 20 feet away, in the background. His daughter says, teary-eyed, “Daddy, why’d you do it?” Another image, CROWE saying to CHRIS, “Keep going!” Next, CROWE shooting the hooded creature. Then, CROWE watching as CHRIS is hauled away to an almost certain death.

The room is still spinning. Another image is seen by CROWE. CROWEs is making love to his wife in their bed. Now CROWE is committing adultery, fucking CHARLIE at the creek on the rocks. Now, making love to his wife, kissing her. Now, sucking CHARLIE’S tits, as she rides his cock.

CROWE

MAKE IT STOP!

(holding his head in his hands)

PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP!!!

CROWE vomits all over his chest and stomach. CROWE’S hands slip down under the covers to his crotch area.

CROWE sees a flash of himself kissing and sucking CHARLIE’S tit, pulling at the large nipple with his teeth.

CROWE
(crying out)

OH, GOD! NO!!!

With a vicious move, CROWE rips his penis off, throwing it on the floor. Blood spurts onto CROWE’S thighs, his stomach, and all over the sheets. Blood mixes with vomit. The spinning of the room begins to slow. CROWE’S stare out into nothing. He weeps.

CROWE
(mouthing the words)

I’M SORRY, GOD…MAGGIE…ELLEN…CHRIS-S-S…I’M…I’M…I’M…SOR-R-R-R-RY!

But we can’t hear him.

Someone opens the bedroom door. It’s MAGGIE.

MAGGIE

Honey, what are you doing…

Her voice trails off. At first she is speechless, but then let’s loose a bloodcurdling scream.

The SOUND of a heartbeat.

EXT. THE ETHER – NIGHT(?)

CROWE is in the middle of a white desert. Powerful overhead light illuminates the sands. Thirty feet away from CROWE, in all directions, is absolute darkness.

CROWE is naked and on his hands and knees. The “Recycle America” TREE is planted in the dirt a couple of feet in front of him. Behind CROWE is a puddle of water. In his hand is a watering pitcher. The TREE is starting to lose its leaves. Leaves see-saw to the desert floor around the TREE. CROWE fills his pitcher with water from the puddle. He pours the water at the base of the TREE. Now fewer are leaves are falling from the TREE. He dips from the puddle again and waters the TREE. The TREE looks better already… and even starts to sprout new leaves. He repeats this again and again until the puddle is dry. The TREE quickly absorbs the applied water. And needs more. CROWE looks around for more water. But there is none. Leaves begin to fall from the TREE again. CROWE reaches for his throat, as breathing is becoming difficult. The TREE is visibly withering. CROWE begins to gasp for air, as the source of his oxygen dies before his very eyes.

The SOUND of another heartbeat…

INT. HOSPITAL – NIGHT

CROWE is being wheeled down a corridor on a gurney. His eyes are shut. Crying, MAGGIE staggers down the corridor, following the gurney. ORDERLIES stop her at the OPERATING ROOM DOORS. She fights them as the carry her back up the hallway.

INT. OPERATING ROOM – NIGHT

They transfer CROWE from the gurney to a table. Needles are quickly hard-wired into his veins. Bags of blood and saline hang from stands.

FEMALE VOICE

He has lost a lot of blood.

The SOUND of another heartbeat.

EXT. THE ETHER – NIGHT(?)

Rain begins to fall into the empty puddle. CROWE, holding his breath, dips water into the pitcher and pours it on the TREE. After pouring four or five pitchers of water on the TREE, it looks better… but still leafless. It stops raining into the puddle. CROWE dips water, and then pours it onto the ground at the base of the TREE. The TREE immediately sucks up the water. CROWE dips the puddle until it’s dry. CROWE looks at the TREE. It stands up straight but still does not bear leaves. Instead, as CROWE watches, the TREE wilts. Gasping for breath, CROWE looks at the puddle.

No water.

CROWE looks up, into the brilliant overhead light, for more rain. The light is blindingly bright. Faintly, CROWE can hear voices.

The SOUND of another heartbeat.

FADE TO:

INT. HOSPITAL – NIGHT

On the operating table, CROWE’S EYES suddenly open, and he stares into the overhead lamp.

FEMALE NURSE

Doctor, his eyes are open.

Many blue-gowned people stand over CROWE’S MOTIONLESS BODY. Tubes are jammed up his nose. A cloth, soaked with dried blood, is tape over his crotch.

DOCTOR
(leaning over into the light)

Crowe, can you hear me? I’m Doctor Ashton. Everything is gonna be alright.

DOCTOR ASHTON withdraws her head from the light. CROWE continues to stare into the light. CROWE closes his eyes.

FEMALE NURSE

Doctor, we’re losing him!

The SOUND of another heartbeat.

FADE TO:

EXT. THE ETHER – NIGHT(?)

CROWE stares into the powerful overhead light. There is no sign of rain. CROWE looks at the TREE. Its limbs are limp and sag at its sides. CROWE gasps for air. He scoops mud out of the dried-up puddle and packs it around the base of the tree. CROWE holds his breath as he works. His efforts aren’t doing the TREE any good. The TREE leans. CROWE attempts to suck in a breath of air.

The SOUND of another heartbeat.

INT. HOSPITAL – NIGHT

Resting in gloved handles, a pair of debrillator paddles hover over CROWE’S unmoving chest.

VOICE OF FEMALE DOCTOR

EVERYONE STAND CLEAR!

The group of nurses move slightly away from the body. The HANDS lower the electric paddles onto CROWE’S chest. CROWE’S body lurches as the voltage is applied. The heart monitor momentarily beats faster and stronger. But almost immediately weakens again.

The SOUND of a weaker heartbeat.

EXT. THE ETHER – NIGHT(?)

CROWE is lying in the dirt, his eyes closed. The TREE is dead, its top nearly touching the ground.

The SOUND of another weak heartbeat.

A flash:

A photo of CHRIS
A photo of CROWE’S daughter, ELLEN
A photo of CROWE’S wife, MAGGIE

The SOUND of another heartbeat, even weaker.

Another flash:

From high overhead, CROWE’S crumpled form lays in the center of the ETHER DESERT.

The SOUND of another weak heartbeat.

INT. HOSPITAL – NIGHT

FADE IN:

The SOUND of the heart monitor flatlining.

VOICE OF FEMALE DOCTOR

We’ve lost him.

CUT TO:

EXT. COMMUNITY / STREET – WARM SUNNY DAY

FADE IN:

On CROWE as he turns around and around and around.

CROWE stands in the middle of a street. A community of tightly packed houses crowd the street on both sides. Glimpsed through occasional chinks in the limb canopy overhead are blue sky and puffy, white clouds.

CROWE continues to turn. Around and around and around. A sidewalk. A bench. Hardwood trees. Brick homes. White frame homes. The paved street. The other sidewalk. More trees. More houses. The street in the other direction. The sidewalk, again. The bench, again. And around and around, he goes. Suddenly, the sound of a voice causes him to stop dead in his tracks.

MALE VOICE

Hey, Crowe!

And, suddenly, where there was no one before, by the sidewalk, a person sits on a bench.

CROWE focuses on the person sitting there.

The person on the bench is… CHRIS.

CHRIS

We’ve been expecting you.

(pause)

How do you feel?

CROWE
(hesitant, uncertain)

All right, I guess.

CHRIS

Feel like you’ve got jet lag?

CROWE
(looks a bit confused)

I’m not sure. I never rode a jet.

CHRIS

You know I haven’t either, but you know what I mean.

CROWE

Yeah. I feel… a little disoriented.

CHRIS

That feeling will pass in a few minutes.

(brief pause)

‘Been through a hell of an ordeal, haven’t you?

CROWE has a lost look about him, and seems to be caught up in his new surroundings. CROWE doesn’t respond immediately.

Finally…

CROWE

You say something?

(beat)

CHRIS, where the hell are we?

CHRIS

Come on, let’s take a walk. I’ll explain on the way.

As they walk down the street, something odd starts to happen. The rest of the town, opposite the direction they’re going in, seems to bend or bow in the wind; it even shimmers a bit, taking on something of a two-dimensional appearance. It looks as if the trees and street and sky are painted on a cloth curtain, and this curtain billows in the gentle breeze. Unknown to CROWE, this side of town is merely a façade.

Following CHRIS, CROWE looks around at the trees, the quaint houses, the sidewalks, the occasional bench by the sidewalk.

CROWE

You were going to tell me… what is this place?

CHRIS

It’s something of a HEAVENLY COMMUNITY.

(a sweeping, all-encompassing gesture with his arms)

It’s where I live. This is where many others live.

CROWE
(disbelief)

Aw, shit.

(pretends to resign himself to it)

All right.

(pause)

You know what puzzles me, other than the fact that this dream seems pretty fucking real?

CHRIS

What?

CROWE

You act as though you’ve been here forever.

(slightly mocking, with a touch of sarcasm)

You’re adjusted. Comfortable. And you died, or probably died, what, just a few hours ago. Your body probably isn’t even cold yet, wherever it is.

CHRIS

I’ve been here for three weeks.

CROWE
(an attitude of non-belief)

Why didn’t I guess that.

(not buying into it)

Get the fuck out of here.

CHRIS

Time is different here.

CROWE

Yeah, I’d say it would have to be.

(pause)

So this is capital-‘h’ heaven. Kind of a dump, isn’t it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s nice in a geriatric, Florida retirement community sort of way; but it’s not quite what I had in mind.

CHRIS

This isn’t Heaven. We’re at the fringe of Heaven. This is a place where we can rest at night. This is a place I can be comfortable in. This wouldn’t be your kind of place.

CROWE
(defensive)

So you’re saying that I’m not fit for Heaven.

CHRIS

I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that your heavenly community, or your resting place at the fringe of Heaven, would be different from mine. We have different ideas about how things should look.

(pause)

CROWE, you may be wondering why you’re here.

CROWE

That’d be an understatement…

(settling into a serious tone)

because I’m actually beginning to believe that this shit’s real.

CHRIS

You’re right. It’s real.

(pause)

You’re here, because I wanted you to come. The moment you flatlined I cut through the red tape… and had you detoured. I’ve been observing the developments from up here. It’s so easy to do it. Progress on earth—it seems to come so slow. Anyway, you’re here because I wanted to see you. It’s gonna be a long time before we meet again, and I took advantage of the opportunity.

(beat)

I wanted you to see that I’m all right. Genetic memory—for the human race—is such a bitch. Scientists have never been able to prove that it exists in humans, but a form of it does. You will remember things about past lives in your dreams, and those dreams will haunt you in your waking moments, only to quickly fade, leaving you agitated, confused, and having no clue as to why.

CROWE

What the hell are you talking about?

CHRIS

I’m just saying…

(beat)

…you’ve got some baggage.

CROWE
(cynical)

Doesn’t everyone?

CHRIS

Yes, but you’ve had more than your fair share. And I’m your friend, so I’ve taken it upon myself…the responsibility—

CROWE

What responsibility? I take full responsibility for my actions. I suffer the consequences.

CHRIS

I know you do. Let’s just forget about that. Just hear me out.

(redirecting the conversation)

I want you to see some things. I’ve been talking with your dad…and your mom for that matter—

CROWE
(interrupting)

Now this shit’s gone too far.

CHRIS

Just listen, Crowe.

CROWE frowns at CHRIS.

CHRIS
(continues)

Your dad wanted you to see some things. To set the stage for this, I want you to tell me about the day you last saw your parents alive.

CROWE
(bored, textbook account)

I was fifteen years old. My mom and dad left in the car to go to town. They never came back.

CHRIS

Why?

CROWE

They died in a car wreck.

CHRIS

Did you see it? Did you see the wreck?

CROWE

Yes.

CHRIS

How? You were left at home, right?

CROWE

I did something I wasn’t supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to ride my motorcycle unless my parents were home, but I couldn’t resist the opportunity to ride, even if it meant unsupervised.

102b EXT. HOUSE / YARD / HIGHWAY – DAY

CROWE
(V.O.)

A few minutes after they’d left, I kickstarted my bike and went up the road. I remember having to flip up the visor on my helmet because it had started to rain. I had gone barely a mile when I spotted the car. It had left the road and was buried in a pine tree. A small amount smoke or steam came from the engine compartment.

CROWE stops. His eyes water. He sighs.

CROWE
(V.O.; continuing)

I stopped the bike, laid it over on the shoulder of the road. I flung my helmet off and raced to the front of the car. My mom…her head was through the windshield. The wiper blade rested against her neck and the wiper’s motor was in a bind. It was still trying to push the blade through her neck.

CROWE
(looking straight ahead, shakes his head, bites his lip, continues)

My dad was slumped over the wheel. Both of them were dead. I opened my mouth to scream, but I couldn’t do anything but make this gagging noise. Everything that happened after that is kind of in a haze. A blur. I remember, vaguely, a neighbor standing there with me, and an ambulance. The funeral’s kind of fuzzy, too.

A pause. CROWE seems to slowly come out it.

CHRIS

Do you remember—

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!bookmark

113 EXT. HEAVENLY COMMUNITY STREET – DAY

CROWE stumbles down the steep grassy bank to the street, where a TAXI drives up alongside him

CABBIE

Need a lift?

CROWE

Yeah, thanks.

The rear door swings open and CROWE climbs in.

CROWE is suddenly overwhelmed by a sleepy feeling and dozes off. The CABBIE, looking in the rearview mirror, smiles knowingly.

114 INT. TAXI / EXT. TRAIN DEPOT – DAY

CROWE awakens as the taxi turns sharply into the train depot. Two trains are parked in opposite directions just beyond the concrete platform. CROWE exits the car, gives the CABBIE a wave, and nearly runs into an ATTENDANT who hands him a card. It reads:

MIDWORLD RAILWAYS
BOARDING PASS

Crowe Erwin
Train: A-3

CROWE thanks the attendant and approaches the concrete platform. A sign, pointing to an escalator that arches over the tracks, reads: TO ALL ‘A’ TRAINS.

115 EXT. TRAIN DEPOT – DAY

A grisly, squat fellow exits a taxi and follows a concrete walkway to the train platform. An ATTENDANT approaches him and hands him his pass. It reads:

MIDWORLD RAILWAYS
BOARDING PASS

Petre da Costa
Train: B-7

116 EXT. TRAIN A-3 – DAY

CROWE gets off an arch escalator and climbs aboard.

117 EXT. TRAIN – DAY

HELICOPTER SHOT OF THE TRAIN AS IT RACES ACROSS THE DESERT AT HIGH SPEED and enters the mouth of a cave, disppearing within.

118 INT. TRAIN – DARK

THE CAMERA FIXES ITS GAZE ON A PASSENGER. The train’s interior lights begin to flicker on and off. Mostly off. Now they’re on and reveal PETRE DACOSTA. He numbly looks out his window into reddish-black caverns. Other share PETRE’S numb look.

118 EXT. CAVERN – DARK

The TRAIN blazes by an opening in the cavern where HUMANS/MUTANTS work. All seem to slumped over and emaciated. Some push wheelbarrows. Others use pickaxes on earthen walls. Still others carry heavy sacks over their shoulders. No light source is apparent, but a red glow seems to come from deep within. The CAMERA zigs and zags through a series of tunnels until lighting upon a massive glowing red gem, set in the ceiling. Directly this light source is a limestone table, with MUTANT/HUMANS for card players, sitting on slabs of stone, playing for chips of ice. Each player leans over the table, staring intently at the others, a bead of sweat of dangling from each’s nose. They drip in quick succession, and the winner drags the pile of ice from the center of the table to his corner. He rapturously tilts his head back and drops a handful of chips into his mouth.

119 EXT. VALLEY BRIDGE – DAY

A thousand feet in the air, the TRAIN hurtles across the steel skeletal bridge at hundreds of miles an hour.

120 EXT. TRAIN – DAY

CROWE, seated by one of the trains many windows, stares out the window in awe. More than a thousand feet below the train lays a dense green jungle that stretches all the way to the horizon. A large river, which appears rather small from this height, meanders in the general direction of the TRIPLE SUNS, parked 20 degrees above the horizon.

CROWE puts his finger on a line in the brochure. It reads:

MIDWORLD is fixed in its orbit, much the same as the Earth’s moon, whereby this side of the planet always faces the suns… They never set.

121 EXT. TRAIN TERMINAL – DAY

The TRAIN’S BRAKES whine as the TRAIN rapidly comes to a halt.

CROWE steps off the train onto a huge concrete platform. A roof supported by concrete columns shades the loading/unloading platform. CROWE walks toward glass doors that lead inside the train terminal. Other people wander around purposefully. CROWE opens the glass door and disappears inside the terminal.

INT. TRAIN TERMINAL/WAITING ROOM – DAY

CROWE is now in a very large room. To his left is a counter. Two men and three women stand behind the counter, where they monitor sophisticated computer equipment. Straight ahead and to his right is a waiting area. Hundreds of chairs in rows nearly fill the room. Most of the chairs are empty. To CROWE, this place looks like the inside of a large airport terminal. CROWE walks to the counter. A pretty girl in her mid-twenties stands behind the counter.

GIRL
(smiling)

Passport, please.

CROWE digs the passport from his pocket and hands it to her. He glances around, taking in the scene behind the counter. A man sits at a computer terminal to his left; mirroring this, a woman sits at a computer terminal on the right side of the room. Directly ahead, on the wall behind the counter, is a digitally-mapped globe. As the globe rotates, CROWE notices that each country in the world is represented, its border outlined. Inside some of the countries, red dots blink. CROWE stares slightly upward, waiting for the globe to show the United States. As the U.S comes into view—first the New England and Deep South states, then the Midwest and so on—he sees that red dots are blinking in various locations. By the time California comes into view, CROWE has counted at least 15 blinking red dots.

GIRL

Okay, MR. ERWIN. You can wait right over there.

She points to the huge waiting area.

Suddenly, CROWE hears a beeping sound and looks up at the rotating globe. The globe has stopped rotating. A green dot blinks somewhere in Great Britain. The blinking green dot and the beeping sound are in sync. Reluctantly, CROWE turns his back on the globe and walks toward the waiting area.

GIRL
(her voice now behind CROWE)

Mr. Hesseman, please come to the counter.

An elderly gentleman gets up from his chair and slowly walks toward the counter. CROWE glances at the man as they pass one another. Bearded, gray hat, white shirt, gray suit. Could’ve been a wino.

In the seventeenth row, CROWE plunks down into a chair. Thirty seconds pass. Faintly, CROWE hears the beeping sound again. Again, the digital globe has stopped. From his seat, CROWE strains his eyes to see the green dot and in what country it resides, but the distance is too great.

GIRL

Ms. Smith, please come to the counter.

Another person, a teenage girl this time, walks toward the counter. The beeping sound subsides. CROWE watches as the girl accepts a slip of paper. Words pass between the two girls. CROWE cannot hear what they’re saying. After a couple of minutes, the teenage girl exits the building through a glass revolving door on the right side of the room. Five seconds pass. Then CROWE hears the beeping sound start afresh.

GIRL

MR. ERWIN…please come forward.

CROWE gets up from his seat, says “excuse me” a couple of times as he slides out of the row…and approaches the counter at the front of the room.

The GIRL hands CROWE a slip of paper.

GIRL

Give this to the driver. Exit out the revolving door to your right.

CROWE

Thanks.

CROWE turns to exit.

GIRL

One more thing, MR. ERWIN.

CROWE

Yeah?

GIRL

I hope they let you keep your beautiful eyes.

CROWE

Thanks, I think.

The GIRL smiles after him.

EXT. TERMINAL/ DRIVEWAY – DAY

CROWE pushes through the glass revolving door and steps out into bright sunlight. He crosses the concrete surface to the loop-shaped driveway. There, a yellow cab waits with its engine running. The passenger-side window is rolled halfway down. CROWE looks in and sees the fat, Chiclet-toothed cabbie behind the steering wheel.

CROWE
(holding the slip out to the cabbie)

I was given this sheet of paper—

CABBIE

Get in.

INT. TAXI CAB – DAY

CLOSE-UP of slip of paper. It reads:

CROWE ERWIN
EARTH
LAT. 42.14.63 N
LONG. 71.07.05 W

INT. TAXI CAB – DAY

CABBIE

Hi, CROWE. My name’s FRANK. ‘Nice to have you onboard.

CROWE manages a smile. He notices that there is a computer screen and keyboard in the place where the FM radio and air conditioner controls usually reside. The driver holds the slip of paper in his hand as he punches the coordinates into the navigation computer. With his index finger poised over the ‘ENTER’ key, FRANK rereads what he has typed:

WORLD: EARTH
LAT.: 42.14.63 N
LONG.: 71.07.05 W

FRANK presses the ‘ENTER’ key. The single word ‘WAIT’ flashes in the middle of the computer screen. After a few seconds, another message appears. It reads as follows:

LOUVRE 16 IS NOW READY

The cabbie puts the car into gear, and the yellow taxi pulls away from the curb.

EXT. TUNNELS/ LOUVRE 16 – DAY

The taxi’s engine revs. Suddenly, the taxi launches forward, tires squealing. The taxi accelerates across a large black tarmac toward a concrete, Colosseum-like building. At the base of the building are dark arch-shaped openings. The eight visible openings are oddly numbered: 1, 2, 3, then 5, 11, 16, 17 & 20. The taxi’s supercharger kicks in, as it rockets toward the hole marked “16.”

INT. TAXI – DAY

CROWE watches—a calm has come over him—as they close the distance to Louvre 16. FRANK, his cabbie, hunches determinedly over the wheel, the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The expression on FRANK’s face is telling: he enjoys his job.

EXT. LOUVRES – DAY

The taxi shoots through the hole in the wall, into blackness.

EXT. DIRT ROAD – DAY

The taxi suddenly appears from thin air, three feet above the ground. It drops to the ground with a frame-bending, body-buckling crash. Dust kicks up, clouding the air. The taxi fishtails violently, but the cabbie stays hard on the throttle. Dust clouds erupt around the car, and it continues onward at better than 70 miles per hour.

EXT. FARM – DAY

The taxi slides to a halt in front of a brick farmhouse.

FRANK THE CABBIE

Well, this is you, kid.

CROWE climbs out of the cab.

FRANK slams the gear shifter into reverse.

FRANK THE CABBIE

Good luck, kid.

The taxi pulls away.

CROWE is left standing on the front lawn. Reluctantly, he walks across the lawn to the front door of the farmhouse. [Try to use childhood friend Booger’s house.] Behind the house, chickens cluck and cows moo. CROWE knocks on the door. No answer. Cautiously, he enters the house.

INT. FARMHOUSE – DAY

Immediately, he’s slammed with a smell. It’s an immeasurable but detectable odor—FEAR. Hesitantly, CROWE steps fully into the kitchen. The sink is full of dirty dishes. A meal—breakfast?—is set out on the table. Two plates of food—halfeaten. Voices in the distance and—something else—groaning. Someone in pain. He walks closer, entering a hallway, and, now, the words float waveringly, but clearly, across the air to him.

FIRST WOMAN

It’s too late to go. We’ve got to do it here.

(a pause)

Things have gone too far.

SECOND WOMAN

No. No. No.

(now a scream)

Noooooooooo!

A woman rushes out of the room, doesn’t see CROWE, turns right, and abruptly turns right again into the nearby bathroom.

CROWE stands near the bathroom, watching her. She turns on the sink, tosses in towels. Steam rises from the hot water.

CROWE turns around, retreating back down the hall, and turns left into the room the woman had just exited.

INT. BEDROOM – DAY

A pregnant woman lays on the bed, her legs apart, knees up. She wears only a white and blue flower-print maternity dress. Her breaths come in ragged gasps.

CROWE hears footsteps behind him. He moves aside as the FIRST WOMAN rushes by him carrying steaming-hot towels. Water drips from them onto the hardwood floor.

SECOND WOMAN / PREGNANT WOMAN

Oh my God it hurts! Oh my Christ it hurts!

FIRST WOMAN / MIDWIFE

Remember the Breathing Method, child!

The PREGNANT WOMAN quiets and begins to pant, rhythmically.

MIDWIFE

That’s good, child. Keep it up.

CROWE sags weakly against the wall, slides down it, ending up in a sitting position on the floor. From his new position, HE can see the PREGNANT WOMAN’s face and one of her spasming feet. The MIDWIFE stands at the foot of the bed, knees bent, both hands outstretched, as if she’s playing catcher in a baseball game.

CROWE feels himself slipping away. He holds his hand up in front of his face. He can see through it, to the woman on the bed. She grimaces, straining. CROWE closes his eyes.

FADE TO BLACK.

A far-off place. Voices. His mother’s and father’s.

EXT. HOME – DAY (RAINING)

An autumn afternoon. Lightning flashes across the sky. His parents dash across the yard, in the rain, to their beatup dark-blue sedan. CROWE—just a kid—waves from the front porch of their home. His parents wave back and get into the car. The car turns around in the drive. His parents wave…one last time. Then—

EXT. SHOULDER OF HIGHWAY – LATE AFTERNOON (RAINING)

CROWE—still the young kid—stares at the scene of a terrible automobile wreck. He approaches the crushed car. CROWE walks past splintered second-growth pines, the yellow of their hearts showing, sap oozing out onto the dark-colored bark. CROWE steps around to the front of the car, where an older tree stands. This one blocks the car’s path. At the point where they meet, the car’s bumper and grill are bent into a ‘V.’ The tree is scraped, slightly dented, bruised: it will live. Without turning, CROWE knows the occupants of the car will not.

Now CROWE stares at the windshield of the crumpled dark-blue sedan. A woman’s head juts out a gaping hole. CROWE approaches the car and leans over the hood. He grabs the woman’s head, partly by the hair, partly by pushing against her forehead. He pushes up—but the windshield wiper bears down on her neck from above. He gets a good look at her face before giving up. It’s his mother’s face. He lets the neck sag against the jagged glass. The rain washes fresh blood down the glass beneath her neck.

He goes around the rear of the car, to the driver’s side. With some difficulty, he prises the front door open. His father sits behind the wheel, his body slumped forward and motionless. CROWE grabs hold of his dad’s shoulder and shakes him. His dad’s head flops side-to-side along the steering wheel. He leans close, peering into his dad’s face. The hazel-green eyes are lifeless. CROWE withdraws from the vehicle. Grabbing the door, he attempts to shut it back. But it groans metallically and won’t close. CROWE soon gives up. He steps away, stumbling across the uneven ground. He falls on one knee. He sways, eyes closed, both hands together in prayer. Rain pours out of the sky onto his upturned face.

EXT. FARMHOUSE – DAY

A baby comes into the world. The screams and cries of the newborn bring CROWE out of his dream. He is still sitting on the floor near the bed. From his position, he sees the mother reach out in front of her. She takes something into her arms.

She settles back against the pillows, her newborn cradled in her arms. Her face is red, swollen, tear-stained. And now there is a smile. It creeps up onto her face like a sunrise. She rocks her new baby in her arms. She looks up at the midwife, who still stands near the foot of the bed, and mouths the words “thank you.”

CROWE is out again. His eyes twitch under his closed lids. His forehead wrinkles into rows of furrows.

FADE TO:

THE SOUNDS OF MORSE CODE.

Short pulses. Long Pulses. Back and forth. Then, finally, an image emerges.

EXT. KITCHEN – DAY

MAGGIE stands over her daughter. ELLEN sits on the kitchen tabletop. There is a scrape on her knee. With a bottle of peroxide and cottonballs, MAGGIE attends to it.

EXT. FARMHOUSE – DAY

CROWE is back. His eyes are open. His face is calm. A smile touches his lips. He tries to get up from the floor, and slips down. He tries again, and slips. On the third attempt, he’s unsuccessful and slides back down. Suddenly, there is the sound of a bubble popping. And CROWE winks out of existence.

A marble-sized, iridescent bubble is left in his place. Two feet off the floor, it rises slightly and moves toward the bed. There, it hesitates momentarily before zipping to the baby and vanishing inside its little head.

THE END

RENFROE’S FISH CAMP

Harrell started the fish camp with revenue he had received from producing and trafficking moonshine. His sons, Jake and Gregory, helped Harrell on his ventures. The local police knew that Harrell had a still. They just couldn’t catch him. Town gossip would tell you that the still was somewhere along the shoreline of North Lake. Harrell knew his moonshine operation was “small potatoes” and that the cops wouldn’t fool with him much. Harrell and his boys had other investments though. Two years ago, Harrell’s hair had started falling out, as a result of these investments. Harrell often told his boys that this new business was “troublesome.”

Eugenia, wife to Harrell and mother to the boys, had died when Gregory was just six years old. Now Gregory was twenty-four and Jake was twenty-six. Their mother had been plagued by an illness for as far back as each boy could remember. Harrell had loved his wife, even though, every once in a while, he’d come home on a mean drunk and slap her around. During the last year of her life, Harrell, realizing that his wife didn’t have much time left on this earth, was the perfect husband. He suspended his ‘shine operation and stayed by her bedside. Two years after Eugenia’s death, Harrell started up the fish camp.

He catered to the people’s needs: fishing, eating, dancing, drinking, and accommodations. This more-than-fulltime operation was very successful at diverting the attention of Harrell and his boys from their loss. And they no longer pained when they thought of their dear departed Eugenia.

HID IN THE ROCK

When I was a kid, I shit my underwear. And I was so ashamed that I sneaked out to the giant rock in the front yard and crammed them into what appeared to be a very deep cranny. Years later, the shameful deed long forgotten, the underwear were dug out of there by some smartass with a long stick. The statute of limitations on this crime had run out, so I fessed up.

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NO ONE SHOULD EVER PUBLISH THEIR NOTEBOOKS (AND HERE’S WHY)byJoey Jones

It’s going to paint you in the worst possible light: as being not only extraordinarily flawed but extremely naive as well.

That out of the way, this is the book I wanted to do: something honest and vulnerable to attack.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

MUSIC

OPENING CREDITS

OPENING SEQUENCE

AFTER OPENING SEQ.

SEQ.

EXT. MORNING

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ. – Basketball Game

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ.

SCENE

SCENE

SCENE

SCENE

SEQ.

SEQ.

EXT. JACK’S HUT

SEQ.

SEQ.

SEQ. – SUICIDE / HANGING IN BARN

SEQ. – JACK & MS. MIKAELS ARE FALLING IN LOVE

SEQ. – PLOT POINT I

SEQ. – PLOT POINT II

SEQ.

SEQ. – Haunted Windchime

END SEQUENCE – FUNERAL

TRAILER

CARD #1 – OPENING SCENE (Trap Checking) / EXT. WOODS – NIGHT

CARD #2 – COMPOUND SCENE – NIGHT

CARD #3 – COMPOUND SCENE – NIGHT

CARD #4 – INT. HOUSE – NIGHT

CARD #5 – INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

CARD #6 – INT. HOUSE – MORNING

CARD #7 – EXT. ROAD – MORNING

CARD #8 – INT. BUILDING – MORNING

CARDS #9 & #10 – INT. BUILDING – MORNING

CARD #11 – EXT. BARN – MORNING

CARD #12 – EXT. WOODS – MORNING

CARDS #13 & #14 – EXT. HOUSE – MORNING

CARDS #15 & #16 – INT. COMPOUND – MORNING

CARD #17 – INT. KITCHEN – MORNING

CARD #18 – EXT. COMPOUND – MORNING

CARD #19 (actually numbered as BB) – EXT. COMPOUND – DAY

CARD #20 (no cards are numbered going forward) – EXT. WOODS / PASTURE – NEAR DARK

21 – EXT. WOODS / PASTURE – NEAR DARK

22 – EXT. EDGE OF THE WOODS / NEAR ROAD – NEAR DARK

23 – EXT. AT ROAD – NEAR DARK

24 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

25 – EXT. AT TRUCK – NEAR DARK

26 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

27 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

28 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

29 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

30 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

31 – EXT. WOODS – NEAR DARK

32 – EXT. WOODS / HILL – NEAR DARK

33 – EXT. WOODS – DARK

34 – EXT. WOODS – DARK

NO ONE SHOULD EVER PUBLISH THEIR NOTEBOOKS (AND HERE’S WHY)
by
Joey Jones