The Fog in the Glass
FADE IN:
EXT. TRAIN STATION PLATFORM - NIGHT
Dilapidated light laboriously strains in a putrid enviorment, encumbered by a queer, suffocating darkness.
Amongst bleakness and death stands a woman of 23, looking back at the wilderness which nips at her courage, impatiently awaiting whatever may be.
Across from her, on the other side of the platform, stands a priest burdened by a holy man’s sacred duty.
A thick fog gropes the air with an inexorable due diligence, growing heavy and entangled with the roar of tumultuous steam.
A rhythmic grind tolls its feral shriek, cursing the creatures which dare to step near, forcing the man and the woman to search for something heard but not seen.
The cry of a raven, the shriek of a crow. The woman turns towards the birds but finds nothing near.
The train stalls, already there.
The woman, JUNE, steps onto the train.
The priest does too.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Down a long narrow hall a floor curves and rots, carpeted and soggy and sopping and moist.
June takes a step forward and tries the first door: locked.
June knocks on the door. No answer.
June tries another door. Locked too.
June tries another, and another, and another. All locked.
June walks down the hall, trying each and every door: no luck.
June approaches the last, pushing without conviction, falling with confusion and misunderstanding.
Gathering herself, June steps into the room.
INT. ROOM - NIGHT
Illuminated by oil, fumes dance across the acrid air, scouring damp walls in search of liberation.
Amongst tepid flames wallow two lonely chairs, wooden, rotten, broken.
June sits in one across from the other.
A knock on the door. June turns.
The priest, awaiting invitation.
June nods. The priest sits across from her.
The priest studies the room and then studies June, eyes fierce and intelligent and full of harsh judgement.
The priest withdraws a small book and hands it to June.
June stares at the book and then at the man. The man urges her on and June opens the book.
The story of Revelations.
June closes the book and attempts to return it, but the priest will have none of it, refusing the book and pushing it back towards her. June sighs and relents.
The priest smiles and stands, nods his approval, and approaches the window.
June sets down the book and fixes her eyes upon him, his dark, foreboding deference diluting faith in her judgement.
The priest falls to his knees, withdraws some beads, his rosary, and prays.
June averts her eyes as if in shame.
The priest crosses himself, stands again, and steps out of the room.
June waits for some time, awaiting his return, staring at the door already closed, but no sign of movement reveals his resurrection.
A pale light grows incredibly bright.
June approaches the flickering light: the window.
Harsher, rougher, the light grows brighter, snipping and biting at all its surroundings.
An intrepid inferno. A terrible, awful, burning horror.
A man amongst flames, indifferent to torture.
Not wreathing, not writhing, not heaving nor crying. The man acknowledges neither the flames nor the train.
The train passes by and June turns the other way, watching the blaze grow smaller and smaller in the haze.
June opens the window and leans out to see him, but the man is gone, the flames gone too, forgotten in the thick fog and cumbersome darkness.
June closes the window and turns back to the room.
The oil lamp fades.
June steps to the lamp and turns it up bright, but the light flickers no more luminescent.
June sighs and sits and picks up the book gifted in pity.
June flips through the pages, one after another, reading nothing, seeing nothing, closing it again and looking back at the door.
Nothing.
June stands, puts the book in her back pocket, and steps out of the room.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June steps into the hall, looking one way, then the other.
No sign of the priest, no footprints in soaked carpet.
June turns to her right, to a door on the far end of the corridor, and steps out of the car and into another.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
Amongst silverware and plates, tables and chairs, sits no one, stands no one, nothing but an empty dining room.
June steps into the next room.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Amongst aluminum and silver, iron and plastic, June stares at empty pots, empty pans, a stove still on.
June steps to the stove and turns it off.
Still no one but June.
June passes through and to the next room.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
There amongst fire, amongst flames, amongst coals, slumps a limp man over the controls.
June takes a hesitant step towards the limp man. The man doesn’t move.
June moves to touch him, to tap him, to wake him. Hesitates.
A loud thumping tolls.
June turns around, searching for the sound.
Nothing but the door, already closed.
June steps into the next room.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
The rhythmic beat swells with spasmodic rage, quaking pots and pans and loose silverware too.
June steps through and into the next room.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
Louder than ever, faster still, June stares at the sound’s terrible maker.
There stands the priest, stomping at the ground, crushing, killing, something now dead.
Perturbed by her entrance, the priest hesitates, unruffles his coat, and sits at a table.
The priest gestures to a chair across from his own.
Hesitantly, cautiously, June steps towards the man, passing the once living object which now lies dead.
Whatever it was, whatever he killed, it is now gone, and June is left alone, just her and the priest, one sitting across from the other.
As June sits the priest stands, in kindness, in obligation, throwing dining ware, dishes, forks, knives, and even table salt, all out the window and into the night.
The priest closes the window and sits again.
June pulls out a pack, a pack of cigarettes, and offers a nail. The priest shakes his head.
June shrugs and takes one, bites it, mumbles, and searches her pockets with forlorn agitation.
The priest lights a match, shields it from the draft, and offers it to June, dropping the pack upon the table for future use.
June nods and takes a few, blowing smoke into the flickering light.
A terrible scream. An awful screech. Iron against iron. Rails against wheels.
The train stops.
June stands, opens the window, looks out.
Nothing can be seen beyond the bitter darkness, the terrible fog.
June sits again, across from the priest.
Far in the distance a faint knock resounds. A tittering of metal, door handles.
Another knock, more tittering. Again and again and again.
A door opens. Closes. Not another sound.
June stands and steps out of the room.
The priest grumblea, mumbles, prays, grabs for his matches: gone.
INT. HALLWAY - NIGHT
June stands before the door, the door to her room, hesitating at the precipice, awaiting some sound.
None.
June takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.
No answer. June knocks again.
Still no answer.
June opens the door.
INT. SLEEPE CAR - NIGHT
No one. Nothing. Nothing but June and the room. Nothing but June and the room and the priest, just behind June.
June steps into the room, towards the glass pane. Open, close. No sign of anyone.
June turns back to the priest who stands in the doorway, gawking without shame.
June steps past the priest and out of the room.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June turns one way, then the other, pacing back to the place where she first began, trying each and every door already attempted. No different.
June reaches the end, the end of the corridor, and stares at a door already half open.
A door to another car.
June steps into the room.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Packed with small boxes and large boxes too, June approaches the middle of the cluttered messy room.
A single light, a wilting lamp, swaying with the breeze of a wheezing vent.
June reaches and pulls and scans the perimeter with the fading cylinder.
The crash of glass. June swings to her right.
An elderly old maid, 70 at least, huddled in fright.
June steps towards the woman and the woman steps back, forced against a wall in terrible anxiety.
June stops, hesitates, turns back. The priest at the door, blocking her way.
The priest crosses himself, whispers some prayer, and approaches the old maid.
The old woman complies.
With whispered words, a hushed tone, the two converse.
Something decided, something declared, the priest steps over to June, smiling a devilish grin.
The priest palms her hand, pulls her close, and whispers something into her ear.
A babble of syllables, a muttering of vowels.
The priest smiles, pats June on the hand, and walks back out of the room again.
June looks back to the corner to where the woman cowers, and walks out of the room. The old woman follows.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June walks down the hall followed by the old maid, a searing, crashing sound, reverberating from some far off place.
June follows the sound like a zombie to the living, from one room to another, until finally reaching the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
The priest, cooking.
June approaches the priest, approaches some vegtables, and picks up a knife, attempting generosity.
But June is clumsy, unskilled, ill managed. And so June inevitably cuts herself open, dropping the dagger.
Cursing, June sucks her bloodied finger and bends over to pick up the dropped weapon.
But the priest is quicker and wiser and steps on the metal, glaring at June with eyes all a fury.
June relents, walks away. The old maid follows.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
June sits at a table, the old woman too, one across from the other, June looking out the window, the other at June.
The priest approaches with a dining tray, a cloth, utensils.
June looks to the priest and the old woman does too.
The priest stands before the two, awaiting approval.
Approval is granted.
Under the dome is revealed the gruesome horror of his splendor, a miserable concoction of gray meat and wilting spinach.
But the meat is familiar, the body something of before. Yes, the body is that of an animal, the head of a boar.
The old woman claps with glee and febrile ecstasy. June attempts to smile, offering her best in a time of tragedy.
The priest serves the horror, first to one, then the other, then a third, himself presumably.
The priest sits next to the old woman and the two gorge themselves.
The priest’s manners are worldly, dignified, classy, sophisticated. That which are expected from a man of god. The old woman’s, on the other hand, are that of a dog.
June, with the many urgings of the priest, tastes the meat, gags, does her best not to vomit, and swallows. The priest smiles, stands, takes her plate, his, and the old woman’s too.
The priest walks away.
June stands and steps to a door, a room, the bathroom.
INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT
Within the small room is the normal gizmos of any latrine: sink, toilet, light reading, soap, and so on and so forth.
June stabs her fingers deep down her throat, gags. Futile.
June gurgles some water and spits it out, flushes for effect, and washes her hands.
As she washes her hands she looks into the mirror at her reflection.
A scar on her lower right cheek.
June runs her hand over her jaw, over the supposed scar, feels nothing. Nothing there.
In this way, June and her image differ, though June cannot tell, for it is only her mirror image which holds any truth, no matter how false.
June scratches at this oddity and steps out of the room, back to the table, back to the old woman and the priest too, the two gorging themselves on some decadent dessert.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
The priest offers some viscous substance but June politely refuses, shaking her head and holding her hands in a manner which denies any further intrusion.
The priest takes a final bite and withdraws once again, plates in hand, returning with only his peevish self and nothing else.
Sitting at the table, the priest withdraws something from his pocket. A paper, the paper, the news.
June glances at the front page: a horror so striking not a single word can engage.
June snatches the paper and stares at the picture.
There, before her, sways a woman, hanged, photographed still gasping.
June, swinging in the gallows.
June cups her mouth, stands, backs away, bumps into a chair, a table.
The priest looks at her oddly. The old woman too.
The priest folds the paper and glances at the picture, then at June.
The priest smiles and hands the paper to the old woman. The old woman cackles.
From another pocket the priest withdraws a small knife.
The priest approaches.
One step. Two steps. Three. June at the door. The priest only a few feet away.
Closer. Closer. The door won’t open.
Push. Pull. Still the door won’t open.
The knife strikes the air, cuts the current, hardly misses.
June screams. Falls. Into the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
The priest continues his bloody foray.
June crawls across the floor, eyes locked upon his.
Reaching. Grabbing. Holding.
Iron. Steel. Pan.
June heaves the heavy thing right at his head.
The priest falls with a thud, bleeding.
The old woman shuffles over, gasps, rushes, not to June, but to the injured man.
June slowly catches her breath, stands, and gawks at the knife in his weathered hand.
Not a knife but a pen. A scrap of paper. The paper with her picture.
June cups her mouth in horror, terror, running out of the room in abhorrent guilt.
INT. SLEEPER CAR - NIGHT
June slams the door shut with eyes wide open, gasping and heaving and stuttering in terror.
A knock on the door. A faint whisper. An echo.
June closes her eyes, prays, pleads.
Another knock. Still no answer.
Another. Another. Two fists. Now three. Four. Hundreds. The door bending with force.
June screams.
The door heaves no more.
Slowly, June opens the door.
No one.
June looks to her left, then to her right. June breaths a heavy sigh, no one in sight.
June closes the door and turns back to the room. A small child, 8, sits in a chair across from the other, legs dangling above the floor.
The little girl waves. June waves back.
The little girl points to a chair, the chair across from her’s, and June sits, somehow a slave to this serious child.
The little girl stuffs her hands deep into her pockets and pulls out a sucker sticky with lint and already opened.
June smiles and shakes her head but the little girl insists.
June takes the sucker and puts it in her pocket.
The little girl sucks a sucker of her own.
Distraught with boredom, the little girl stands and steps over to the window.
The little girl stares into the impenetrable darkness, holding the gaze of her own reflection.
June watches this scene with queer astonishment, amusement almost, but worry also.
The little girl opens the window. Looks out. Looks back to June.
June smiles.
The little girl jumps out the window.
Almost.
June pulls her back in, instinct quicker than thought, throwing her to the ground with worry and rage, slamming the glass pane.
The little girl mocks a meager cry.
Guilt consumes, overhauls, tears June apart, and before too long June is at the girl’s side, on her knees, hugging and kissing and shedding shameful tears.
The little girl struggles and strains but her effort is futile. The little girl gives in and digs her chin into June’s shoulder.
A good cry gone, June looks her over, wipes her tears, and sends her to her chair, June to the other.
A knock on the door. June and the girl both turn.
Another knock. June stands, steps over to the door, ear to oak. No sound.
Cautiously, June opens the door. No one.
June turns back to the girl: hardly a care in the world.
With a deep heavy sigh, and a gesture of good will, June steps out into the hall, closing the door carefully behind her.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Nothing heard, nothing seen. Just June and the long, monotonous hallway.
A deep heavy breath. A sigh of relief. June wanders off to whatever may be.
Unbeknownst to June, the little girl creeps out of the room and follows too.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
Within the small room sits the old woman and the priest, the wound all but hidden behind an entanglement of napkins.
The old woman glares but the priest is nothing if not forgiving, so June sits in a chair across from the priest and old woman.
To the astonishment of all three, the little girl approaches and sits next to June.
The priest chuckles. The old woman scowls.
From her pocket the girl withdraws another two suckers and offers one to each. Both oblige, though neither with the courage to take a single bite, both storing them away for supposed later use.
Satisfied, the girl sucks on her own.
The train halts. The four turn, awaiting some new passenger. None arrives. The train moves on.
Another long moment. Still nothing, still no one.
June goes to investigate.
The little girl follows, but is soon held back, pulled back, the priest showing off his beads, his rosary.
June steps into the hallway.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
No one.
June tries the door to her room.
No one.
June carries on to the end of the hall and to the next room.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Though the room is cluttered and cramp with hoarded rotten supplies, it is nonetheless barren of anything breathing.
June looks around, under, over, all over. No sign of anyone.
June carries on to the next room.
INT. MEDICAL ROOM - NIGHT
Though the light is dim, the room is bright, for light best reflects off white, a color which consumes the whole room.
A cacophony of medical supplies: cotton balls, stethoscopes, and the like.
Amongst all this medicine, all these supplies, is a young man, a boy really, only 22, getting high.
June gasps and the boy turns, paranoid, a needle in one hand, a bottle in the other, an arm strained tight, a band pulled taut.
The boy stares at June and June at the boy. After what seems like an infinite amount of time, the boy offers the bottle, a medicine of some kind.
June shakes her head and the boy shrugs, digs the needle deep into his forearm, and sighs with relief, ecstasy.
June looks about nervously.
Relieved, the boy tosses the bottle, the needle, and washes his hands carefully, diligent and dutiful in his cautious effort.
Clean, the boy passes by, past June and to the next room, presumably in search of someone besides June.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
The little girl fumbles with one bead after another, the priest watching over, the old decrepit woman scowling ferociously.
Sublime, the boy saunters over and pulls up a chair, sitting at the head of the table near the priest and old woman.
June sits across from the priest and old woman.
The little girl is sent back to her seat, just next to June.
The boy pulls out a pack, a pack of cigarettes, and offers one to each, the priest and little girl included.
All but June refuse.
The boy lights a match, puffs on a cigarette and lights another too. June nods her gratitude.
The little girl offers the boy a sucker.
The boy nods and obliges, chomping on the sucker with three nasty bites, gaining the disgust of everyone but the little girl. The boy smiles, unaware of any misgivings.
The boy drums on the table, gathering a steady beat, the priest’s eyes forward, the old woman staring at her feet.
The boy moves to forks, to knives, the beat gaining in rhythm and time.
The boy stands, knocks his chair over, and moves from the table to June to the little girl to the window. Down the wall and over the table and past the old woman and into the kitchen.
Banging, clanging, crashing.
The boy returns, pot hung around him like an old timey snare, smacking the thing with two new utensils: chopsticks.
The little girl hums. First quietly. Then louder. Louder.
June joins in. Then the priest. Even the old woman hums a note or two.
For a moment, pure ecstasy.
The boy falls to the floor. The train shrieks with brakes. The five catch their breath, newfound terror overwhelming joy.
The boy climbs to his feet and steps out of the room.
June follows. As does the little girl. As do the other two.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Unlike June or the priest or the old lady or even the little girl, the boy does not hesitate, does not regard any sort of caution, but rather audaciously approaches the door which leads to the outside world.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy opens the door.
June hands the girl over to the priest who accepts her and steps up to the boy all concern and worry.
There, through the doorway, past the door, is an impenetrable fog.
The boy hesitates, confidence waning, but takes a step out anyways. Lost in the haze.
Incredible cries of terrible pain. Screeching and yelling and screams of agony.
The boy clutches the door and hobbles back in, terrified for possibly the first time ever.
June gawks at the boy and then out into the night: only the fog.
June shuts the door.
Far in another car, the tumbling of steps.
The boy cowers, huddled against the floor.
Alone, June carries on.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Nothing.
No one.
June carries on.
INT. MEDICAL ROOM - NIGHT
Still nothing.
Still no one.
June carries on.
INT. BAR - NIGHT
The faint rustle of shuffling glass. June hesitates, takes a step closer.
Humming. Mumbling. Grumbling.
Another step. Another. Another. Just across the counter. June leans over.
A woman, propped against the floor, all smiles and giggles, two bottles in one hand, another in another.
The woman offers a bottle, a bottle already open, crudely cut and twisted and contorted all over. June takes a swig, winces, and sets it on the counter.
The woman, late 20s, early 30s, sets down the bottles and grabs this and that and returns with a whole set of miscellaneous items.
The woman pours one liquid, then another and another, shakes them together, and pours two separate beverages, one for her, and one for her newly acquainted partner.
June nods and takes a sip. The woman takes much more.
The door hardly opens and in walks the little girl harrying towards them.
June smiles and turns and lifts the little girl, setting her down on the counter between one woman and the other.
The little girl smiles and offers the woman a sucker.
The woman cackles and smiles and studies the sucker like some sort of strange alien object.
The little girl points to her mouth and the woman coyly smiles, shakes her head, and tries to return it.
The little girl pushes her away, slumps, crosses her arms, and gives her her angriest pout.
The woman laughs even harder and offers June the sucker who quietly stuffs it into her pocket.
The woman offers the girl a sip of her beverage.
The girl’s eyes grow wide with pleasure.
The little girl reaches for it. Grabs it, pulls it, sips it.
Pulled away. Snatched.
June glares at the woman, but the woman only smiles, shrugs, and walks away without a worry.
At the window, the woman opens the pane and dips her face out into the haze.
June cracks a cry of terrible pain. The woman turns, glances at June, and then the window.
A long moment passes but nothing happens.
The woman closes the window and steps back to the bar, downing June’s drink and readjusting her hat in the cracked mirror.
The woman jumps, shattering glass and courage.
A figure in the mirror. The woman, badly bruised and beaten.
The woman drowns another swill from one of the bottles and holds out the bottle for June to borrow. June begrudgingly does so, sips a final swallow, and puts it aside near all the other bottles.
The woman brushes her hair, breaths, goes steady, smiles, and walks out of the room.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
The boy and old woman slump in opposite corners, one on one end, the other on the other, neither anywhere near each other, some argument done and over.
The priest stands before a window, staring at his reflection, mumbling to himself and pulling loose skin.
The little girl dawdles, followed by June and the drunk woman.
The priest holds out a hand, a hand of good will, and greets the drunk woman, offers a chair, his chair, pulling it out for her.
The drunk woman obliges and tumbles into the chair. The priest sits next to her. June next to the little girl, opposite the two. Neither the boy nor the old woman recognize the new.
The little girl pours salt, pepper, onto the table, out of the shakers, building minature piles, constructing them into perfect rectangles.
The priest smiles and sets his chin upon the wooden table, eyes level with the salt and pepper too. The little girl blows, pepper and salt flying into the priest’s wounds.
The priest shrieks in pain, slaps the little girl hard across the face.
The little girl runs away.
The priest backs away, head down, eyes morose, mumbling fierce prayers of agonizing shame.
June stands, steps towards the priest; held back by the woman, drunk but not stupid.
June shrugs off the woman and stomps away, off to find the little girl wherever she may lay.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Not a soul. Not a sound. Alone amongst pitiless doom.
No cry. No whimper. Not even the soft fall of footsteps.
June tries the door on her left, the door to her room: locked.
June tries again. Locked still.
June knocks, waits for some reply: none.
June tries again and again and again, kicking and slamming and beating the door.
No use.
June closes her eyes, breaths a heavy sigh, and falls to the floor, her back to the door, head slamming against oak, patiently awaiting the end of this agony.
The sound of another door. Open. Close.
June searches the hall. No one. Nothing.
June stands, walks down the hall, stops. A door to another sleeper slightly ajar.
June stares at the door, then at the hall, then at the door again.
June pushes the door open. Steps in.
INT. SLEEPER CAR - NIGHT
Inside the room, inside the hovel, is a single queen sized mattress. One sheet, one blanket, one middle aged man.
June stares at the man sleeping like a bear.
June closes the door.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June closes her eyes, her head against the door.
A knock, a thump, from the other side of the door.
June steps back.
Another knock from another door.
Another from another.
Another. Another.
Dozens of drums beating in fury. Screaming and yelling and screeching in agony.
All goes silent.
Across the hall stands the little girl, smiling, offering a sucker, not to June, but to the man behind her.
June pivots, hits the man hard, knees him in the stomach, and kicks him again and again until the man is unconscious.
Blood soaks the crimson red carpet.
June backs away, back to where she started, pulling the little girl in fear of retribution.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
Each looks to June as she enters the room, blood splattered across her hollowed out body.
The boy rushes over, smearing the blood of another.
June pushes and shoves and tumbles to the floor. The little girl sits next to her. The boy steps out of the room.
The boy returns, middle aged man in hand, limping and hobbling and coughing up blood.
The boy sets the man down in a chair next to June, the boy on his knees studying the man’s wounds.
The man grumbles, coughs, pulls his head foreward.
The boy steps away, out of the room.
The priest approaches, crosses himself, offers a prayer.
The drunk woman offers her flask, but the man is too frail, too weak, too beaten, so the priest does it for him, pouring the acrid liquid down the man’s gullet.
The woman tucks it away without a sip for anyone.
The old woman grumbles and mumbles and in time each turns towards her, seeking some wisdom from time or lack of it.
The old woman grumbles again and stabs a shriveled hand into the air. Not at the man. Not at the priest. Not at the woman. June.
June pushes and shoves but the drunk woman is faster, grabbing her by the arm, the priest by the shoulder.
The boy returns with gauze and knives and all sorts of medical supplies, not for the dying man but rather for June.
June struggles and squirms but all to no use.
The boy ties her hands to each other and her feet to the chair, but only with gauze for theres nothing else of use; but the hold is strong and no matter how much June struggles she can only scream and shout until her mouth is tied too.
The boy drags the chair out and into the hall and then into June’s abandoned dark room, facing the chair away from the door and towards the glass pane, as ominous as stark, shutting the door firmly behind him.
INT. SLEEPER CAR - NIGHT
June struggles again but to no further avail. June calms, sighs, and regards her reflection, the scar larger and longer across her torn up mandible.
With a huff and a heave June nudges her chair away from the window.
Near the door, June hops, jumps, and pivots her prison.
June begins to rock back and forth, back and forth. Again and again.
June’s head slams against the door.
June groans, moans, forces her chin forward, tries the lever: not enough force.
June tries again, again.
Third times a charm. The door flies open and June falls to the floor, still tied to the chair, but now in the corridor.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June wiggles and squirms and inches her way foreward, chair and all, moving ever closer to the far door, the door to the storage room.
Reaching the door, June pivots and kicks. Again and again and again.
The door gives in.
June wriggles on, inch after inch, into the next room.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Despite all the ruckus, not a single soul approaches.
June inches her way towards a tattered old box, a box partly open, and kicks the crumpled thing over.
A set of frivolous items: tape, pencils, pens, matches, etc. A random collection of useless items.
June slowly turns herself around, feeling for the matches.
Found, June manipulates the box, pulls out a match, lights it, prays, and lights the bound, the bound between her hands.
June clinches her teeth and groans in pain, but utters not a sound, not a single moan of rage.
The fire grows larger, consuming her hands.
Still June weathers the storm.
Pulling. Pushing. Harder. Faster.
The blaze grow hotter.
Agony and shame and misery altogether. Perspiring resiliency in unconfined rage.
Beating and squeezing and biting and chomping.
Sobbing and moaning in bitter agony.
Free.
June pulls away and stares at her hands. Broken, ruined, burned.
June un-gags herself and unbinds her feet, kicking the chair and standing without defeat.
June closes the door recently kicked open.
Not a soul is heard. Not a single set of footsteps gain.
June sits against the door, as relieved as enraged.
A knock on the door. June freezes.
Another knock. June doesn’t move.
Another knock still.
June sighs, closes her eyes, and ever so slightly opens the door, body held against the door just in case.
There stands the little girl, smiling incessantly.
June lets her in, hesitant.
The girl waddles in and sits on a box, sucking on a sucker and looking all around.
June sits on the box across from the child. Seeing her wounds, the little girl gasps and pulls June close.
June pulls away, blushing with shame.
The little girl rushes away, not bothering to close the door behind her.
June watches her go and there she returns with the priest in hand. June stands in a hurry but the priest only holds up his hands, his bandages.
June hesitates. The priest points to his wounds, chuckles, and offers the tape.
Still cautious, still wary, June sits, feet planted against the ground, just in case she has to get away.
The priest drops to his knees and studies her hands, mumbling and whispering and waving the child over.
The priest whispers to the little girl who soon disappears.
The priest studies her hands still more intently, and back returns the little girl with a bottle of whiskey.
With teeth on the cork the priest opens the bottle, takes a swig, offers one to June, who refuses, and pours the harsh liquid over June’s hands.
June winces, groans, pulls back, away. More alcohol. More wincing.
The priest hands back the bottle, the bottle to the little girl, who studies the bottle and takes a solemn sip, gags.
The priest chuckles and wraps June’s hands.
Wrapped, the priest stands, offers his hand.
June stands.
The two walk back to the bar, followed by the little girl, whiskey in hand.
INT. BAR - NIGHT
The priest saunters around the bar and to a double jigger, a shaker, some ice, a cacophony of liqours. With the skill of a bar tender, the priest concocts a variety of mixed liquids.
Seven distinct cocktails.
June fumbles, retreats, stumbles into the boy, the bloodied man, the elderly woman, the drunk woman, the girl.
June tries to escape. No avail. Forced into submission.
Each sits next to another, six in all, at the bar, a drink for each.
June grabs her own, glass to lips, mouth to liquor, but is pulled back by another, the woman, a face solemn with displeasure.
June relinquishes her grip.
The priest reveals the label of one of the liquors: antifreeze.
The priest downs his own cocktail, his morbid concoction.
All wait. Nothing happens.
Next is the old woman, who doesn’t even hesitate, downing the drink in one fearless gulp.
Nothing.
Next is the boy.
The boy closes his eyes, grips the glass, lips to liquor, hesitates. The boy sets it back down again. Stands. Paces. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again and again.
Everyone waits.
Gaining some courage, or perhaps just stupidity, the boy downs the cocktail.
A sigh of relief.
Next is the middle aged man.
The man guffaws, glares at the others, picks up his glass, and hurls it across the counter, shattering the flute in mocking renunciation.
The priest sighs and pours another from the shaker.
Cockiness subsides. Terror takes over.
The man hesitates, escapes, tries to, at least. But the man is held back, down, by the priest alone, his hands over the man’s, a grip so tight men twice as strong would whimper.
The priest reveals no signs of malice. No signs of mistrust. Only a dedicated faith in his vocation, trust in his faith.
The man concedes. The priest loosens his grip.
Shaking like that of a coward, like that of a man who once feigned courage, the man swallows his torture.
The man lives.
Next is the drunk woman.
More thrill than hesitation.
Disappointment when left breathing.
June stares down the bar, her next in line. June shakes her head, stands, pulled back down again, pulled by the hand.
June winces. Closes her eyes. Downs the liqour.
All wait.
June grabs at her stomach. A wince of pain.
Nothing.
June lives too.
Last is the girl, hardly able to reach over the counter, let alone succumb to murder.
June tries for the drink, tries to snatch it from her, but the priest is faster, quicker, smarter, grabbing the drink and pulling it from her.
Before she can plead, before she can speak, she is held back, one at each side, the boy and the drunk, each squeezing a ruined pain.
June struggles, screams, but the little girl is handed the drink and gurgles and swallows.
The little girl falls to the ground, seizes.
June struggles, pushes, pulls, breaks free, runs to the little girl, looks all around, holds her near.
The little girl goes limp.
June lays her down flat with tears in her eyes. Tears of sympathy, tears of agony, tears of rage.
Before anyone can move, anyone can think, June is over the counter, over the priest, hands wrung around his neck, thrown against the filthy mirror.
A cackle.
June whips around her head with fingers ever tighter, watching the little girl sit up and giggle.
June drops the priest who slumps down and breaths, coughs, stands again, and walks over to the bottle, the bottle of antifreeze, and pours out the bottle, the bottle into a glass, downing it haphazardly.
Nothing happens.
The priest chuckles and reaches, pats June on the shoulder. June reels away, peels away, taking one step after another.
June reaches for the door. No one stops her.
June steps out of the room and into another.
Another and another. Faster and faster.
First the storage room, then the hall, then the dining room, then the kitchen, then the engine.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
Intrepid coals cackle within a decrepit stove, coughing sparks and fumes and meager flames.
The door to the stove jitters and jars, entangling iron with iron as hinges rust.
June gawks at the man slumped over the controls.
Reaching for the man, June touches his shoulder. Pushes, pulls: no reaction.
June shakes the man, first out of concern, then out of worry. The man slumps to the ground, a hand falling into the stove by sheer serendipity.
June steps back in horror.
The fire sputters and crawls and consumes; first the man, then the room.
June backs to the door and runs out of the room.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
June searches for a bucket, a bucket for water, finds one, fills it, hesitates, paces, drops it, picks it back up again, paces some more. Back and forth, back and forth, again and again.
The sound of a screaming man.
June closes her eyes, whispers some solace, and drops the bucket, escaping again.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
June plunges into the room and slams the door shut behind her, plummetting to the floor, loosing her grip on reality.
There in the room sits everyone, including June.
The train stops.
June opens her eyes. Each looks to another.
The little girl stands, hops, and skips out of the room.
No one else moves.
Out the window, amongst the fog, lingers a shadow: the little girl.
June jumps to her feet and sprints to the window, searching for the girl too often forgotten.
Seeing nothing but shadows, nothing but fog, June jumps out the window and into the fog.
EXT. FIELD - NIGHT
Acrid fog palpates slithering skin as June presses through the horrid mist, breath wheezing with the thick impenetrable haze.
June stalks elongated shadows down the field and past the train, becoming incalculably lost within the tepid landscape.
June turns back to the train but finds nothing there.
June walks further, farther, faster, this way, that, pacing, sweating, sprinting, trying to find her way.
Lost.
June drops to her hands, drops to her knees, crawling through the fog, groping through the mud, rolling on the ground to find imprinted tracks.
Relief at the dirt sodden shape of her footprint.
June follows the tracks this way and that but comes only to the end, a place where the tracks begin, as if thrown onto the ground from some heavenly place.
June looks all around, paces the tracks, but the tracks simply stop, gone.
The train is nowhere to be found.
Seething worry evolves into mounting terror.
June begins to hyperventilate.
Growling. Cackling. Killing. Screaming. Coming for June.
June begins to run. Faster. Faster. Faster still.
Footsteps grow louder, breathing heavier, the evil thing upon her, right on top of her, just through the fog, the shadow a monstrous glob.
June trips. Screams. Falls. Closes her eyes. Closes her fists. Closes her knees against her narrow hips.
The little girl offers her petite little hand.
June slowly recovers and stands.
Just a few feet away, as if out of nowhere, the train wheezes and puffs acrid black smoke.
The two step in.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Five before two, looking past, beyond, towards bitter truth.
The little girl and June walk through, into the dining room.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
Finding tables and chairs each attains some sort of comfort, awaiting the moment something will happen.
Nothing does.
Time passes and still no one moves.
The middle aged man cups his wrinkled hands against the cold pane and looks out through the glass darkly: nothing but fog. The man opens the window: only fog still. The man closes the window and leans on the sill.
The boy, bored out of his mind, sighs, and drags himself out of the room.
The boy returns with a plethora of bottles, some liquid, some pills.
The boy sets down the bottles and sits down beside them.
One by one the boy pours out the contents of each and every bottle and mixes them together, all into one gregarious pile.
The little girl stares, fixated; no one else takes much notice.
The boy fingers a bottle, a plastic bottle tarnished by paper, and breaks the capsules into the container, the sediment rising with each pill added.
Pill after pill he does this to. Some he breaks, others he smothers, but after not too long he’s gone through most of the colors.
The boy opens a bottle, a bottle of some viscous syrup, and pours it into the bottle stuffed with crushed medicine.
The boy closes the bottle, shakes it, and waits for the sediment to subside.
Thoroughly mixed, the boy takes the cap, the cap to the bottle, and fills it to the rim.
The boy downs a shot.
The boy’s eyes roll back in febrile ecstasy. The little girl giggles. June watches. The boy seizes.
June rushes to the boy, holds him down, and looks all around.
Finding nothing, nothing worth anything, June sticks her fingers deep down his throat, turns him over, and the boy gags, coughs, vomits. Seizes no more.
The boy laughs. June slaps him hard across the face. The boy only laughs harder. June walks away.
The little girl approaches the boy but is soon pulled away.
The boy, unaffected, shrugs and puts the pills away, stuffing as many as he can into each bottle, taking no time at all to sort one from another.
Pills gone, liquid too, the boy scoops up the poison and walks away.
June looks to the priest who listens and nods to the hushed whispers of the middle aged man.
The man points to the engine room, to June.
The priest nods, whispers, and steps out of the room, towards the kitchen, following the middle aged man.
Holding the girl back, June follows the two.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
June tiptoes into the room, keeping her distance.
The two men abandon the kitchen.
June approaches the door, the door to the next room, and leans against the rotting wood.
Muffled words mutter through. Nothing understood, nothing new. The mumbling of men, the pacing of steps.
A shovel of coal. Crackling firewood.
The door stutters.
June jumps, trips, trapped behind wood, the middle aged man stepping through, not noticing June, closing the door and walking back to the dining room.
With care and caution, June opens the door and watches the priest shovel coal onto the fire.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
Hearing the door, the priest turns, nods to a shovel, and offers no more.
June looks to the priest and then to the shovel and then searches for the corpse; no one but the priest and June.
June picks up a shovel and begins to shovel.
The train lunges forward, slowly gaining steam.
The priest shovels a final pile and leans against his crutch, his shovel, wiping dust and dirt and sweat from his weather beaten brow.
June continues on.
Tired, the priest flops into a chair, studies hinges and levers, and hesitates.
June stops and turns, hands over the shovel, and waves the priest over. June sits in the chair and stares at the panel.
The panel is that of anachronistic technology.
Much like the priest, June is confused. But conscious of his staring, his judgement, his guilt inducing countenance, June pushes a lever, pulls another, and waits.
Nothing happens.
Regarding the problem solved, June stands again and walks out of the room.
The priest shovels again.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
Despite the calamity of a few minutes prior, not a single soul is seen, not a single soul is heard. June stands alone in the middle of the room, as bewildered as before.
June steps into the next room.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
No one.
June continues on.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
No one.
INT. MEDICAL ROOM - NIGHT
No one still.
INT. BAR - NIGHT
No one but June.
June steps beyond the bar, past the bar, to the door assumed. There is no door beyond this room.
Everything beyond the bar is nothing but weary fog and dilapidated land. No train car. No train. Just elongated tracks imprisoned by a heavy haze.
June turns back to the bar, rubs at her eyes, and grabs a glass, pours a drink, about to sip, glances at the antifreeze, sets it back down again.
June sighs and peers into the looking glass.
There, beyond the mirror, beyond the glass, is a woman with rotted skin, frizzled hair, a scar upon her chin.
June stares at the woman, this cruel, terrifying reflection, regarding it as something other than herself.
June watches as the shadowed self mimics her movements, her expressions, her scowl.
June climbs over the counter and to the mirror, standing face to face with the queer mirage.
June reaches for the glass, the person just beyond, but as she touches the other, as she grasps the other’s hand, her own begins to bleed, but not the other’s.
June winces, curses, pours a dark liquid over her scar. The blood washes off, the scar gone.
A loud thumping sound.
June turns around, and there stands the priest, shovel in hand.
June grabs a bottle and follows, back through and to the engine room, where the priest trades the shovel for the bottle, standing for sitting, consciousness for slumber.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
June shovels coal.
A knock on the door. June turns. The old woman silhouetted by burning oil.
June turns back to her work, ignoring the old woman.
Without regarding the slight, the old woman grabs a shovel and piles coal onto the fire, stronger than June.
June can’t help but chuckle.
The old woman carries on, a workhorse who heaves and groans, spitting every now and then through those almost toothless gums.
The priest shrieks a shrill terror in his unfruitful slumber.
June hesitates and turns to the old woman for wisdom, hoping to inspire some sort of action. But the old woman ignores her, and him too for that matter, shoveling and mumbling and groaning and spitting.
June attempts mimicry, apathy towards terror, but the tactic is futile, the ignorance unattainable. June throws down her shovel and approaches the horror.
June tries to wake him, poke him, shake him.
A terrible sting of an open hand. June staggers back, slapped across the face.
June lunges, about to retaliate. Held back. The old woman’s grip incredibly strong. The old woman nods back to the rest of the train.
June walks away, agitated.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
An empty room. No one but June.
June rubs at her jaw, her skin, her bone. A red hand print strewn across limpid flesh.
A moment’s hesitation.
June steps into the hall.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
June tries the door to her room. Locked.
June tries again. Locked still.
June knocks on the door. No response.
June knocks again, slamming her open palm against the wooden frame. Nothing.
June kicks the door.
Again and again.
The door meekly gives in.
INT. SLEEPER CAR - NIGHT
Amongst rusted nails and rotted wood sits the little girl staring out the window.
June looks to the window. The glass. Nothing but black.
The little girl points, screams, screeches. June rushes over.
The little girl bawls, accusatory limbs condemning dark horrors.
June holds the girl close, soothing her fright with whispered prayers.
The little girl sobs.
June begins to rock, brush, anything to calm her.
A heavy hand on an aching shoulder.
The middle aged man, his grip as tight as iron.
The man lifts June by the collar and throws her against the wall, June’s feet dangling like that of a child’s.
The man scowls. June offers a peevish smile.
The man tosses June aside, opens the window, and presses his head into the night, the man decapitated by fog.
The man closes the window, turns on his heels, grabs the girl, and stomps away, pushing some object against the doorframe.
The train stops again.
June stands, tries the door. Blocked.
June kicks. Shoves. Futile.
June steps to the window, looks back to the door, sighs, opens the window, and steps out into the night.
Back into the fog, back into the horror, back into the depths of forsaken regression; the catacombs of torture, the terror of fortune.
EXT. WOODS - NIGHT
Groping branches and teetering trunks palpate a seething sky, brittle earth, haunted shadows and forgotten frights.
Mumbling and shouting and whispering and yelling. Crying and suffering and begging for mercy.
Amongst misery and terror resides a broken June, eyes down, head forsaken, mumbling false courage.
June bumps into something, something of metal. The tracks, the train, stopped before June.
June looks up, pauses, looks back, turns around, and steps away, pulling what little cloth she has close around her, the damp insipid mist seeping into her.
June walks for an eternity, all in one direction, attempting, but failing, to ignore the pleading and yelling and screaming for sanctity.
Seeing something, a shadow most likely, June hesitates, and there again is the train, saturated by fog.
June retraces her steps, her footsteps, her direction, all in her head. No explanation.
June backs away, keeping her eyes upon the train. The train sinks into the intrepid horizon.
June turns around, takes a few steps away, and there again is the train.
June cackles, laughs, walks up to the train. The train is the same, marked by the queer set of divots dug into the train.
June runs her hand along the train, following the cars to the end of the train.
June steps onto the tracks, looks back, and walks away.
A shape begins to emerge far in the distance, something on the tracks, something just beyond the foggy precipice.
June steps closer, stops: the train.
Exacerbated by futile plans of elaborate escape, June steps back onto the train.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
All look to June as she enters the room. The priest, the drunk, the middle aged man, the girl, the boy, the old woman.
June laughs. Chuckles. Cackles. Falls over.
The boy rushes over, thrusting a hand in sincere horror.
June shoves the boy off and stands without reverence, slogging her way across the room and to a pleather sofa.
June stretches and coos and rests her feet upon the window sill.
The middle aged man gasps, aghast, and slaps her feet off the precipice, wiping away filthy grime with an embroidered handkerchief.
June cackles, shrugs, and moseys over to another.
Beyond the window, within the forest, is a man, a woman, blowing in the wind. Floating. Flying. Levitating. 6 feet above soil. Swaying. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again and again.
June stumbles, trips, falls, climbs back up again.
The shadow disperses.
June turns to the figures gawking warily at her, five of the six, all except the little girl.
The little girl scribbles, doodles, draws upon the glass, her breath her ink, her finger her pen.
The girl hums, enraptured by play.
June steps away.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Through trifles and trinkets June plunders, throwing out binders and folders with names written on them.
One of the folders, though June doesn’t notice, is her own; but that too is thrown out with the bathwater.
Finding a pen, finding some paper, June abandons the box and steps out of the room.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
Next to the girl on the same side of the table June reveals her treasures, a pen and some paper.
The little girl smiles and draws five dashes, the word ”thing”, and a platform to be hanged from.
June thinks for a moment, borrows the pen, and writes the letter A.
The little girl shakes her head and draws a head.
June writes the letter E.
The little girl shakes her head again and draws a line, the body.
I.
The little girl nods and writes an I, the second of the five.
O.
The little girl nods again and writes the letter O, the last of the five.
G.
The little girl draws an arm.
H.
Another arm.
J.
A leg.
S.
Another leg. The little girl shakes her head.
June stares at the word partly written, -i—-o, then at the little girl. The little girl smiles, hands over the pen and paper, and waddles away, over to the priest, who hands her his rosary.
The little girl smiles and plops onto the floor, metamorphosing the beads from one shape to another.
All June can do is stare at the word, the accusation: -i—-o.
June closes her eyes, massages her temples, and tries to think. Can’t. Taps the pen, studies the girl, shakes her head again, tries to laugh, and notices the man, the middle aged man, still beaten and bruised, now sitting across from her
The man snatches the pen, the paper, and begins to scribble, words, letters, a message. The man rips the paper, stuffs it in his pocket, throws the pen, stands again, and steps over to the priest, palming the paper.
The priest attempts to read the message with sly solidarity, but the priest is no sneak, and is noticed quite quickly.
The priest stuffs the paper into his pocket.
The old woman brandishes her cane. Once, twice, three times at the boy, a boy innocent of any deed but sitting in a daze.
The boy cowers, terribly afraid, eyes glazed over, clutching something in his hand.
The old woman swings again, misses, cries out in pain. There in her abdomen is a pen.
Without missing a beat, the old woman yanks the pen out and throws it at him.
The boy tries to get away. Tripped. Thrown. Pummeled by the cane.
The woman and the man try to hold her back. Can’t. Beaten back by the venomous cane.
The priest approaches, arms raised.
The old woman pauses, hesitates, throws away her cane, drops to her knees, prays.
The priest steps over the boy and blesses the old woman.
The boy spits, coughs, spasms, seizes, freezes. Stiff, cold, not breathing.
The drunk woman stumbles, out of the room and back in again, bandages in hand.
The little girl waddles to the boy, tries to wake him. The boy doesn’t move. The girl tries again. No response.
No one else dares disturb him.
The little girl toddles to a glass, a glass full of water, and dumps it on him. Only rigor mortis.
Hyperbolic exasperation. The little girl pouts in a corner.
The priest drops to his knees, searches for a pulse, a breath, anything. No sign of life. The priest shakes his head, mumbles a prayer, crosses himself.
All look to the old woman who sits in a corner grumbling to herself.
For a terrible moment, nobody moves.
The drunk woman tumbles out of the room. The middle aged man looks to the ground. The little girl pouts in a corner. The priest climbs to his feet. June picks up the body and drags him out.
EXT. LAKE - NIGHT
June pulls the body through a bitter, deplorable haze, dragging the carcass towards the muddy banks.
The priest follows with two shovels.
June drops the body and mourns the boy.
The priest studies June.
A lingering suspense dissipates.
The priest offers a shovel and digs without haste.
Grave dug, boy buried, June and the priest linger at the precipice.
The priest crosses himself and steps away.
June does just the same.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
The old woman and drunk woman and little girl too cower in the hovel that is the dining room.
The old woman grovels in a pitiable corner as the little girl and drunk woman console one and other. June joins the two.
The drunk woman nods to the old woman mumbling, fidgeting, shivering.
The drunk woman reveals a dangerous weapon, a gun, a pistol, hidden in her handbag.
June refuses. The drunk insists. June pushes. The drunk pushes back. In the heat of the moment, the little girl snatches the weapon.
June jumps back. The drunk does too. The little girl cackles.
June tries to approach her, hands raised in disarmament, but the little girl is ruthless and cocks the weapon.
June stops dead in her tracks.
The old woman continues to garble.
The little girl wiggles the revolver, finger on the trigger.
The two are forced out of the room.
INT. SLEEPER CAR - NIGHT
Shut and closed and locked behind them, June and the drunk are trapped in the sleeper.
June opens the window.
The priest and the other, whispering lost secrets in vehement counsel.
June hesitates. A shot fired. June hesitates no longer.
June jumps out the window and into the haze, unintentionally frightening the priest and middle aged man.
Each looks to the other before sprinting to the cabin.
INT. DINING CAR - NIGHT
The little girl fires one shot after another. Not at the old woman. Not at the men. Not at anyone. Just a drinking glass, bullets missing again and again.
The little girl runs out of bullets and looks into the cartridge. Nothing. The little girl sighs and drops the weapon.
Slowly, carefully, June picks up the weapon.
June hands it to the priest who studies the cartridge: no bullets. The priest hands the gun over to the man standing by him. The man tucks it deep into his back pocket.
The train lurches forward.
The little girl rushes to the window and waves spasmodically. Only her reflection.
The middle aged man strips off his belt, clutches the little girl, and pulls her away, out of the room.
In the next car conspire yelps and whimpers. June winces but does nothing to stop him.
The yelping seizes and the man returns. The little girl is not with him.
June steps to the door, trying to push past him, but the man is stronger, looking directly at her. June hesitates.
But hesitation devaluates, and soon June is past him.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Whipped, beaten, broken, the little girl cowers in a far off corner.
June can’t help but pity her.
June approaches the girl but the girl won’t have her.
June reaches for the girl but the girl screams in terror. June staggers back.
The little girl quiets, all out of breath and anger.
June steps to the freezer and pulls out a bag, a bag of frozen broccoli, sets it on the ground, and slides it across the floor. The little girl picks up the bag, sets it against her, and grimaces forlornly.
June enlightens with excitement and digs deep into her pockets. June pulls out a sucker.
The little girl hesitates, snatches the sucker, and crawls back to her corner.
June sighs. A thump in the engine room.
June looks to the girl but the girl doesn’t notice.
Another thump.
June gawks at the door. Still the girl doesn’t notice.
A feverish howl.
June lurches away, grabs a knife, holds it tight, and stands before the girl, doing her best to protect innocence from death.
The door quakes.
June readies: her knife, her stance, her kill.
The door flies open.
June pounces.
Pushing, shoving. Kicking, fleeing. Throwing. Hitting. Stabbing. Missing.
Skin against skin, hand against wrist, holding back iron, holding back metal.
June, for the first time in a long time, stares into the eyes of the man, the boy, the boy buried and dead.
In hesitation the boy gains the advantage, throws her off, leaps to his feet, and seizes a knife of his own.
June can’t help but gawk at his image.
The boy pivots as the door to the next room opens.
Far across the kitchen, past pots and pans and other utensils, gawks the priest.
June throws down her weapon. Holds up her hands, stands.
The priest drops to his knees, in tears, mumbling some sort of prayer.
June approaches the boy despite his dagger.
Closer. Closer.
The boy lunges. Stabs. Misses. The knife knocked out of his hand.
June holds the boy close. A miserable hug.
The boy relents. Gives in. Sobs.
The priest approaches the boy and drapes an arm over his shoulder. The boy turns towards the man, each staring into the eyes of the other.
The priest can’t help but hug the boy too, but the priest soon regains his holy composure.
The little girl, though beaten and bruised, holds out a sucker.
The boy chuckles and gobbles, swallowing it whole just like the other.
But joy soon evaporates with the recognition of fate.
The boy must be presented. The conundrum explained. The boy leads the way.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
Resurrection mingles amongst shock and awe, inspiring the drunk to gape and the man to gawk. The old woman scoffs.
The boy pounces upon the decrepit old hag.
Inches from her scalp the boy is hindered from revenge, held back by the middle aged man and drunk woman too. Struggling, straining, the boy spits in her face. But the boy is weak, tired, exhausted. So the boy gives in.
The drunk woman wearies and relinquishes her burden. The other, still cautious, only does so after coaxing.
The boy tumbles to the floor.
The others, excluding the old woman, crowd the queer spectacle.
The boy turns his head in shameful embarrassment.
All look to the old woman who garbles and grumbles, all except for the priest who forgoes such base urges, inclining instead to study the undead.
Each, in turn, begs the priest for guidance, if not so much in words then prayers and gestures.
The priest shakes his head, paces, approaches the window, searches for an explanation, sighs, turns back to the eyes which watch him with false courage.
The priest shakes his head and steps out of the room.
June follows.
INT. BAR - NIGHT
Crumpled and beaten, the priest drowns his faith in a drunken stupor, regarding June only with disdain and blame as she enters the room.
June snatches the bottle and pours herself a drink.
The priest sits profile to June.
Though June desires speech, begs confession, nothing is said, for her mouth is confined by a burdensome mind, and so she, much like the priest, sips her drink.
The priest sets down the gun indignantly before her. June stares at the priest.
The gun is of that before.
The priest slides the gun over.
June looks to the priest who only looks away, out into the darkness, searching for faith.
June searches the cartridge and there lay six bullets.
June’s hands quiver as she studies the priest. The priest returns her terrified gaze, a sullen, meager smile upon his haggard face.
The priest cradles her hands, cradles the gun, and puts the barrel to his head, thumb on her finger: the trigger.
The priest closes his eyes. Whimpers a prayer. June pulls away.
The priest sighs, chuckles, grabs his stool, and approaches the window.
Glass shatters. Wind howls. The priest cleans the edges with his stool.
A black hollow encumbers the wall.
The priest climbs onto the sill. Sits. Leans. Falls.
Caught. Just in time.
June throws the priest onto the ground. The priest cackles.
June is struck by the horror of his laughter, the terror of his gaiety.
June stumbles to the door, eyes locked upon his, struggling and straining with the mechanism which eludes her.
The priest guffaws and moans, climbs to his knees, and grabs the gun, the gun dropped and forgotten.
June freezes, the gun pointed at her.
The priest cocks the gun, waves her back over.
One step at a time, June obliges.
June sits on a stool, as demanded by her captor.
The priest is all smiles.
June closes her eyes, whispers some prayer, and falls backward, behind the counter. A single shot misfires.
Behind the counter, June cowers, searching for something to beat back this monster. But all June can find is a bottle opener. She’ll have to make do.
June crouches, ready to pounce. The priest doesn’t move.
June peaks her head over the counter. No one.
Cautiously, June crawls to the window, looks out, back. Nothing but fog.
June sighs and stands and reassess the room: no sign of anyone.
June tries the door to the next room: locked.
June slams, kicks, no use. The door is not locked, but blocked.
With a sly, eery smile, June makes her way back to the bar, pouring herself another drink. An open door.
June turns. The door is closed.
June looks all around and steps to the door. Tries it again: still blocked.
June studies the room. Footsteps. Faint, but audible.
June steps past the bar and to the other end of the car, and there, where there once wasn’t, is.
A door.
June tries the door, opens, looks out.
A small, pitiful platform. Empty.
June closes the door and there is the priest as humble as before, next to the window, head bowed in prayer.
Prayer recited, the priest stands again, crosses himself, and steps to the door.
The priest tries to break through. No use.
June watches the priest and pours two drinks.
The priest gives in and steps back, pondering another drink, swaying in a drunken stupor.
As the priest downs the drink, head high, waist exposed, June grabs the gun tucked into his belt, cocking the weapon.
The priest slows.
June pulls out the gun and points it at him.
The priest only cackles. That is, until he notices where the gun is pointed on him. Not at his head, not at his stomach, at his waist, his crotch, his privates.
June motions the gun and the priest does as commanded, sitting in a stool across from June.
A door someplace far off opens.
The priest turns and June does too, the two staring at the little girl who wobbles her way to a stool. The little girl sits next to the priest and across from June.
June cloaks the weapon under the counter, still pointing the pistol at her opponent.
The little girl tugs at the priest and the priest hands over his rosary.
The girl smiles and skips off, closing the door behind her.
The priest turns back to June, teetering the burning liqour within his small glass. The priest tries to smash it against June.
Misses.
A shot to the knee. A yelp. A scream. The priest falls three feet, plummeting in defeat.
June leaps over the counter and cocks the weapon.
The priest kicks, trips, pulls, and soon the two are on the floor, tumbling, the gun skidding across the floor.
First one on top, then the other.
The priest gains the advantage, holds her hands down, feet too. June squirms. Tries to break free. Grows restless. Tired. Exhausted. Gives in.
Slowly, the priest loosens his grip. Stands. Offers his hand.
June glares at the wicked thing, but in the end, takes it, and stands.
The middle aged man silhouettes the doorway with a gun in his hand.
The man fires four shots.
The two plummet to the floor.
June cowers, breaths, not a scratch on her, looks over to the priest. Only a shot to the knee.
The middle aged man chuckles and tucks the gun back into his pocket, helping first June and then the priest too, hobbling the priest along to the next car over.
INT. MEDICAL ROOM - NIGHT
Within the small room glow continous fumes: lamps, lit and forgotten.
The priest topples over.
The middle aged man chuckles and mumbles and flops to the floor to evaluate the wound.
The man points to a set of tools above the man and next to June.
June hands them over.
The bandaged man wipes away blood and dirt and grease and grime and stuffs the towel down the priest’s gullet. The priest mumbles and moans but doesn’t spit it out.
The man digs through the cartilage until he finds what he seeks and removes the small bullet.
The man wraps the wound, washes his hands, and steps out of the room.
Sweating, the priest pulls out the towel and wipes his furrowed brow.
The priest tries to stand but falls to the ground. June helps him back up again.
June looks all around but nothing can be found. So June offers her help, and with June as a third leg and forth leg too, the two limp out of the room.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
The old woman grovels in a far off corner while the others conspire terrible emotions. June and the priest join the clatterers.
The gathering quiets, shushed by the drunk woman.
The boy offers a chair and the priest obliges, assisted by June’s guilt-ridden self conscience.
Each stares at the wound, the bandage, June. June looks away, ashamed of rash action.
The man whispers to the drunk who nods in agreement, and the boy is summoned, told what to do. The boy nods and approaches the old woman.
The old woman swings her cane wildly.
As she swings, the boy grabs the cane, pulls her down, and takes the cane from her, forcing her to wallow in self pity, offering the cane to the priest for use.
The priest shakes his head, refusing the offer. So the boy twiddles it here and there between his thumb and four fingers.
The old woman attempts to clamber to her feet but can’t. She is far too weak.
No one helps her.
The old woman begins to cry.
Only the little girl, blinded by innocence, soothes the old woman. But when the old woman reaches for her the little girl reels, eyes full of disgust and shame.
The woman pivots her body so as not to see the eyes of the others.
The little girl, seeing no other option, skips away, over to the boy, tugging at the cane.
The boy, stubborn though he is, relinquishes the cane, and the girl plays. First as a sword, then as a gun, then as a stick a blind man would use.
The little girl, unaccustomed to lost sight, trips over the foot of the old woman.
As quick as a viper, the old woman snatches the cane, pummels the shins of the little girl, and hobbles to her feet.
The old woman glares at the group, the undead and once dead too, and without a single sound, the old lady shuffles out of the room.
The little girl rubs at her shins, sitting where she’d fallen, staring at the once open door which the old woman went through.
June attempts to comfort but the little girl is unamused, agitated. All June can do is relent, stepping back to the circle, now smaller, quieter, a sullen sense of shame encumbering pleasure. Even the boy, so recently murdered, exacerbates shame.
The middle aged man, however, full of morals and pride, huffs and puffs, gruffly rocking to his feet, puncturing the floor with every sharp step, piercing the window with that furious glance, and stepping back to stand before each and every one of them.
Each looks to him, and as they do, the man pulls out his gun, checks for bullets, and cocks it. He offers the gun to the boy.
The boy refuses.
Then to the woman, then to June, then to the priest. All refuse.
Without another moments hesitation, he steps into another room and closes the door behind him.
The echo of a single shot.
June, along with everyone else, winces.
The middle aged man steps back into the room and throws down the gun, falling between them.
Each ponders the ragged thing.
The little girl, seeing the weapon, runs into the kitchen.
Glaring at the man, June runs after her.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Far from June sways a door ever so slightly ajar, whimpering and mumbling and reverberating suffering.
June hurriedly steps through the room and to the door.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
Muffling, heaving, gasping, the little girl sobs, sprawled across a dead body, grasping the wound with a hand doused in blood.
June pulls the girl towards her but the girl latches on, nails digging deep into wrinkled skin.
June unclenches her nails and relieves the girl’s grip, holding her tight in her own bearish hug.
The little girl pushes and shoves and tries to break free but all is lost in her futile attempt.
The little girl sobs.
A heavy step nears, pushes the door open, and there stands the priest, hobbling, gawking at the dead woman.
June hands the girl over and the two limp away, the little girl’s tears as heavy a burden as any pain.
Closing the door, June studies the corpse.
June opens the pit, the pit to the fire, and tries to stuff the body into the ashes. The old woman won’t fit.
June steps out of the room.
Rustling, shuffling. June returns with a butcher’s knife.
June drops to her knees, raises the blade, closes her eyes. Hesitates.
Another deep breath.
Another.
June reevaluates, fidgets, switches position, angle, velocity. Tries again.
Not a cut is made.
June sighs and throws down the knife.
An idea.
June steps to the window and opens it wide, looks out, back in, sighs.
With all her small might, June lifts the old woman and throws her out.
The old woman tumbles into the night.
The train forcefully stops.
June kicks the burning furnace, throws coals onto the fire, but nothing further happens. The train doesn’t move.
June stomps out of the room.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
All huddle near a single glass pane.
The drunk woman gestures and gawks, whispering to the others, while the priest shields the curious eyes of the small child.
June looks out the window and there lies the corpse, bloodied, bruised, broken. The only creature beyond the bitter fog.
All look to June and June steps out of the room.
INT. ENGINE ROOM - NIGHT
Within the small room, near seething coals and burning flames, lies firewood. From this quaint collection of cedar and oak June withdraws a single log, neither large nor small, and dips it in the flames.
June steps out of the room with her torch ablaze.
INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT
June paces through the room and out too.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
The small crowd lingers, close but far enough.
June looks to the others, sighs, and steps off of the train.
EXT. FIELD - NIGHT
June pierces the fog with her crackling torch, squinting and struggling to see the corpse.
June looks all around. Only the body.
June sighs, whispers, approaches the body, and sets it aflame.
The fire burns incredibly hot. Something grabs her.
June jumps. Screams. Falters. Drops the torch into the fire.
The little girl smiles that sad, lonely smile.
June offers her own and then her hand, watching the body burn to ashes.
From the shadows, shadows which whip at the night, emerge the others: the boy, the priest, the middle aged man, the drunk.
All six stand amongst the tepid flames, watching the body burn to ashes.
Burned, nothing more than smoldering coals, June turns back to the train.
The train is not there.
June takes a few steps foreward.
Still no train.
June steps further, farther, faster. The fog grows thicker.
Faster. Faster. Hawing and heaving and gasping and wheezing.
Foot upon a ledge, misstep, trip.
Before her, upon her, a cold, brutal steel. Iron. Train tracks. Metal upon metal.
June contorts her gaze up and down the tracks.
No sign of the train.
June hyperventilates, breaths, gains her composure, heads back the way she came.
Terrible, awful sounds emerge from the fray. Yelping and screaming and screeching in pain.
June cocks her head low, eyes even with soil, sight an escape from inevitable horror.
Howls grow shriller, louder, the epitome of agony.
June begins to shake like that of a schizophrenic.
A bright light emerges, far off in the distance.
Despite her intuition, June approaches.
There, amongst burning light, stands the etch of a man, no, a woman, no, a little girl. The little girl. Consumed by flames.
June leaps, jumps, plunges, pulls the little girl to her, suffocating the flames with her pitiful embrace.
The flames dissipate. Disappear. Never there.
The little girl points to a pile of ashes behind her, the remnants of time witnessed and gone.
June hugs the little girl close who begrudgingly submits, pushing away only after being suffocated.
The priest emerges from the shadows, peeking past the two to the train not there.
The others, with due time, emerge too.
June, with the terrible knowledge of truth, leads them towards horror.
There, along the tracks, is nothing. No train of any kind. Only brittle, rusted iron, decaying with decadent rapidity.
June moves down the tracks, to where the train must be, but the middle aged man differs, moving back to where the train once was.
The priest, badly injured and afraid of conflict, sits upon the railroad tracks. The boy does also.
June gawks at the four, for the little girl and drunk woman sit too.
The priest whispers to the little girl who goes up to June. The drunk, likewise, approaches the middle aged man.
The little girl, on reaching June, pulls at her hand. June bends down and contemplates nonsensical claims.
The man does the same.
Insulted, the man pulls out his six shooter.
No one, not even June, reacts to this danger.
The man pushes the woman forward to the two left sitting and forces them to stand and follow him too.
The priest, terribly injured, struggles to his feet with the help of the boy.
The four carry on, down the tracks to where the train once was, abandoning the little girl and June to fend for themselves and find their own way.
June watches the wind carry them away.
June carries on, further into that putrid haze.
The little girl follows.
EXT. RAIL ROAD - NIGHT
Along the beaten path the two make their way, wary of ghouls and goblins and all those retched things which coagulate the damp haze.
A queer figure upon the horizon.
A building. A house. Squat. Square. Abandoned.
The two approach the retched monstrosity, hesitate.
June pulls the girl close and stares into the void that is bitter darkness: no sign of life.
June sighs, drops to her knees, and looks into the little girl’s eyes.
The little girl smiles.
June kisses her softly and approaches the shack.
The little girl stands alone, abandoned, left behind.
EXT. HOUSE - NIGHT
June steps onto the porch, looks back to the little girl, takes a deep breath, and looks back to the door. June knocks.
No answer.
June knocks again. Still no answer.
With a wavered breath, June looks again to the girl oblivious to the world. A deep, mournful sigh.
June turns the knob and opens the door. No quarrels.
June steps into the house.
INT. HOUSE - NIGHT
An old set of rickety stairs, a living room, a kitchen, not much else.
No furniture nor appliances nor lights. June is forced to grapple with only moonlight.
From one room to another June searches the house, living room and kitchen and closets and all.
June steps to the stairs and assesses the hazardous snare.
Hesitant. Unsure. Afraid.
June looks back to the girl, back to the window, searching for courage in that stoic gaze.
The girl is not there.
June rushes to the window.
Nowhere can June find the little girl.
EXT. HOUSE - NIGHT
June sprints out the door and onto the tracks, looking this way and that in terrible desperation.
The girl is not there.
June falls to her knees, all misery and despair.
There, upon the path, is but a single inkling of hope, a last frizzle of possibility. Amongst dirt and decay, lies the rosary, buried and frayed.
June digs, jabs, stabs. Hands raw, nails broken. Pulls, clutches, holds, hugs. The rosary her solace.
Still no sign of the little girl.
June steps back into the house.
INT. HOUSE - NIGHT
June stands by the window, taps, paces, grows bored, tired, sleepy. Tries to keep her eyes open. Slumped against the wall, fast asleep.
Time passes and June awakenes, startled by the fact that she has slept at all.
But day is still night, time no different, as if time itself has seized on this particular moment.
The fog is thicker than ever, the night darker than before, and still no sign of the little girl.
June steps through the house and to the kitchen, searching the cabinets for any sort of sustenance: none.
June wanders through the house, searching every room and closet, until reaching the stairs, staring at the rickety old trap.
With another deep breath, June closes her eyes, whispers some prayer, and climbs up the steps.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
A claustrophobic corridor. An exact replica of the train.
June tries the door on her left. Locked. Right. Locked too. Another. Locked. Another and another. Locked too. All locked, except for the last.
June opens the door.
INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT
No one. Nothing. Not even a chair.
The window, far from June, is a queer peculiarity, for it is not that of a house window, but that of a train window.
June steps to the window and looks out.
Railroad tracks.
June steps back to the door inadvertently closed.
June tries the door. Locked.
June tries again. Locked.
June tries again. And again. And again.
Still locked.
June grows feverish, desperate, manic, hitting and slamming and kicking the oak frame.
As pliable as steel, impossible to penetrate.
June breaks into a terrible laugh, cackling like a witch who’s been beaten and broken
June wipes away tears and steps to the window, tries to open it. Locked.
June slams the pane in bitter disgust.
No use. Much like the door, the pane is unbreakable.
June slumps to the floor.
June slams her head against the back wall, hitting so hard some would consider suicide. But with pain all activities seize, and so too does June, for escape is not so easily appeased.
As pain subsides, futility becomes fruition. June stares at the ground, a floorboard slightly askew.
June steps to the floorboard and tries to lift it, tries to break it.
Nails creak, groan. June winces and moans. The epitome of futility.
June kicks the floorboard and stomps away, searing with rage, staring out into that impenetrable haze.
June closes her eyes and knocks her head against the frigid pane, falling to the ground with motivation drained.
June withdraws a match, a cigarette. Lights the match, hesitates.
June withdraws a small book, a gift of holy words, and rips it to pieces, tears it to shreds, standing and hobbling and kneeling once more, stuffing pages under the door.
June lights a match and sets the bible ablaze. The small fire consumes the pages.
But to June’s dismay, fire is not so easily contained, and soon the entire door frame is in flames.
The door crumbles in the fray.
Smoke grows thick, heavy. June whispers a prayer and rushes through the entry.
The fire can’t be contained.
June sprints down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door as the house erupts into flames.
EXT. HOUSE - NIGHT
June tumbles and rolls, breaths, goes steady, hobbles back to the tracks where the train once laid.
June looks both ways, back the way she came, and then towards the way she may.
Decided, June carries on, thumbing the rosary in her malaise.
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS - NIGHT
As the night grows darker, June grows tired, weary, exhausted. June can hardly garner another breath.
Far beyond her, appears a figure, two, three, four.
June hesitates. Can’t hide. Already noticed.
June grits her teeth, clenches her fists, ready to fight.
Those from before, remitting the old woman. The old woman and the little girl. The little girl is not with them.
June’s face grows solemn with realization.
The man searches for the girl. June shakes her head furtively.
The man grunts and pushes, past June and beyond, followed by the drunk woman.
The boy and priest hesitate.
The man turns, impatient, insistent. The two do not follow.
The man pulls out his gun and points it at them. The two do not move. They do not feign interest.
The man cocks the gun. Nothing more is done.
The man takes one step, two, but the man has miscalculated, forgotten June, and as the man nears, June seizes the weapon.
One shot, two.
The two struggle with the gun, pointed near none, another shot, another.
Neither the boy nor the priest nor the woman, rather out of pity or cowardice, assist June.
June pushes, pulls, trips, takes the man down with her.
The two tumble down the hill, plummeting into a frigid ditch.
First one on top, then the other. The man throws punch after punch and gains the advantage.
Struggling. Straining. Choking.
Two shots. Blood splatters. Coughing. Choking. Wheezing. Breathing.
June pushes the carcass off of her body.
There, in the fog, is she who holds the gun.
The little girl, smoke radiating off the barrel.
The little girl drops the gun in horror.
No one, not even June, dares move.
A long, terrible moment.
Slowly, cautiously, June climbs to her feet and picks up the weapon which has dropped down the embankment and towards her muddied boots.
June buries the gun and steps to the others who gawk in astonishment, not a single leader among them, lost to loyally follow anyone who offers.
June grabs the little girl and walks past them, not regarding a single soul as she passes.
The priest crosses himself, the woman sheds a tear, and the boy kicks dirt over the dead body.
The three abandon the man, following June and the little girl, as cautious as can be.
EXT. TUNNEL - NIGHT
The five still alive approach an ominous tunnel, a dark, sinister fissure with no light to comfort.
The tunnel pierces the base of a small gruff mountain, hindering all passage beyond the decrepit tunnel.
June searches for gallantry amongst the others. No offers.
June looks to the little girl and the little girl smiles. A broad, fearless smile which only innocence can exude.
June looks back to the cave and then to the others.
June steps into the forest and returns with broken branches.
All, except for the little girl, receive wood.
June withdraws a pack of matches and lights her torch, then the others with her’s.
June breathes a heavy sigh, clutches the little girl, and paces into the tunnel, followed by the others.
INT. TUNNEL - NIGHT
Amongst nothing and no one, four flames alight the impenetrable darkness.
So dark is the night that light hardly reaches beyond those horrid faces.
The five slowly make their way deeper into the cave, until even escape is lost to fate.
At this loss of light, this final hope of abandonment, the five intuitively hesitate.
A screaming, yelping pain. Each looks to the other. All there.
A screeching, howling cackle, echoing down the long tunnel.
The five turn towards the sound, far down the cave, opposite the entryway.
Out of fear or timidity, no one moves.
The howl comes again, closer.
The boy pushes past and steps into the darkness.
The boy’s torch grows smaller and smaller until lost entirely in blackness.
The screech of one is followed by another.
All grow deathly silent.
The four wait, but no one returns. June turns back to the others.
The priest only stares, lost in horror. The woman is decided.
The woman turns around and heads back the way she came, back towards some plausible escape. June runs to catch up with the woman.
June grabs her by the arm, the woman jumping with terror.
June looks into her eyes, eyes which surrender courage and honor. The woman is horrified.
The woman shoves her off and disappears into the encumbered fray.
June walks back to the priest and little girl.
June turns back to where the boy might be, freedom might lay, and looks to the priest, searching for bravery.
The priest shakes his head, and with the little girl in hand, heads back the way they came.
June stands in the cave, alone with her flame.
June waits and waits but the boy doesn’t return.
June turns back and abandons the boy, stepping back the way she came.
EXT. TUNNEL - NIGHT
June steps out of the cave and to the drunk woman, the priest, the little girl, and the boy too.
June hesitates.
Absurdity condemns sanity.
The others are unaffected.
The boy rushes to June and hugs her compulsively. So stunned is June that all she can do is hug too, maneuvering the torch so as not to scorch him.
The boy releases June and steps back to the others, crowded together, as if awaiting some sort of command or order.
But June is no leader, no master of any realm, and all she can do is offer her incompetence, her terror, pushing past the three and heading back the way she came.
Without a single complaint, whisper, or sigh, they follow.
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS - NIGHT
Rubble and ashes pollute the sky, a queer sort of snowfall palpating life.
A grave of buried ashes and singed grasses.
June wanders by without hesitating.
The others do likewise, all except the woman, who staggers, blunders, moves no longer. The priest pulls June back.
The woman gapes at the acrid plot.
June approaches the woman and tries to soothe her. The woman becomes agitated, animated, furious.
The woman pushes June.
June stumbles and gets back up.
The woman steps to the ashes, falls to her knees, and clenches the rubble with hands filthy and rotten.
The four look away.
The woman hyperventilates, grows angry, smashes charred wood and scorched belongings.
Garnering some serenity, or perhaps just humility, the woman stands and approaches June, something in her hand.
Only a step away, the woman throws the ashes into June’s face.
June flinches, but doesn’t retaliate.
The woman shoves a pair of shoes, baby shoes, into June’s chest.
The shoes are unused.
June stares at the shoes, the woman, the ashes. June is pushed to the ground without provocation.
June falls, tumbles, doesn’t fight back. The woman hits and slaps.
The priest and the boy reach and grab and pull and hold the drunk woman back.
The woman struggles and groans like a beast of the wild but the two are steadfast. June stands and wipes the blood off of her face.
June offers the shoes back to the woman. The woman spits in her face.
The little girl tugs at June’s shirt, holding out her hands to carry the singed items.
June shakes her head and offers them again to the woman. The woman just sneers and shrugs the men off and walks away.
June hesitates. The priest only shakes his head. The boy looks away.
June buries the shoes within a shallow grave and walks away.
The two men follow, a cautious, wary pace.
EXT. TRAIN TRACKS - NIGHT
June suddenly stops. The others hesitate.
The priest approaches.
The tracks end.
June turns back to the others, biting her thumb.
The others look around, searching for a savior. None to be found.
June turns back around, back to the end of the tracks, and takes a step out. Another. Another.
The fog consumes her.
Even the little girl, held tight in her hand, is cut off by the fog, a disfigured dysmorphic blob floating in the night.
June looks to the others but sees only fog.
The two continue on, further and farther into the night.
Howls. Screeching. Pleads of asylum. Moans of misery. Groans intoned with unendurable torture.
June squeezes the girl’s hand ever tighter.
The little girl squeaks, moans, pulls back. June instinctively lets go.
June grapples for the hand, but the hand is gone, the disembodied figure lost.
June claws at the fog in manic terror.
June grows worried, anxious. Reaching and pushing and pulling and flailing.
Nothing.
June trips, falls. Doesn’t get back up.
June sets her head down against the bitter ground, yielding to fate in agonizing misery.
As she digs her nose deep into the soil, she realizes there is something bombarding her touch.
Her head lays not against dirt, but steel. Iron. The rail road tracks.
June palpates the ex machina with two meager hands, crawling along the tracks and searching for the rest.
No sign of anyone.
June looks back, climbs to her feet, and turns around, stepping that way.
After some time, June decides this too is the wrong way, and turns back the other way.
June grows disheartened, exhausted, lost. All hope is forgotten. All pleasure erased.
June bumps into something, someone, looks that way.
There, in the distance, a figure walks away.
June steps towards the figure and the figure hesitates, looks back, runs away.
June breaks into a trot, a run, a sprint, an unsustainable fury.
The figure grows smaller and smaller in the preceding horizon. Almost lost to the impenetrable haze. June slows, infuriated.
The figure drops, trips, falls.
June catches a second wind, catches her prey.
The figure screams. June grabs it by the hand.
The boy, incredibly scared.
The boy’s eyes are filled with no recognition, no relief nor courage. Just fear. Unmistakable terror.
June tries to soothe him but the boy reels away. Horrified, disgusted, trying to get away.
To this June resists, pulling him closer in her embrace, until she realizes it is not she he is trying to escape, but that of another.
June turns to see this retched thing, and as she does, the boy runs away.
Nothing. No shadow. No figure. Nothing.
June turns back to the boy. Gone.
A shadow draws near. A figure mumbling in the haze.
Monochromatic tools dangle false promises along a barren chain, gurgling prayers in furtive disdain.
June tries to stop him, the priest, clawing at his robe, but the priest shoves her off, groaning horrible prayers with furious distaste.
The man carries on, leaving June in her place.
Another sound and June turns again. The drunk woman drunker than ever, tossing one bottle and drinking another.
The drunk woman stumbles, falls. June hesitates
Wobbling, shaking, the woman climbs to her feet, cackling at the world, laughing at its abuse.
Behind her a light encroaches, far in the distance, approaching the woman.
The sound of a whistle. The scream of iron upon iron, steel against steel.
June runs. Sprints. Tackles.
June and the drunk woman, just missing the train.
June rolls to her side, heaving a heavy sigh, and without a single word of thanks, without even a nod, the drunk woman stumbles away.
June presses her head into the ditch, uncontrollable laughter consuming the final shallows of sanity.
June wipes at her tears, tears of joy or sorrow or ecstasy, and climbs to her feet, stepping back to the tracks. But the tracks are no longer there.
This final absurdity is too much for June. A scream of rage far beyond human reverberates across the putrid landscape.
June beats at the ground and kicks at the dirt, searching for anything to alleviate her rage.
Finding nothing, June claws at the dirt, tearing her own bloodied fingernails to miserable shreds.
This soon becomes too painful and June is forced to stop, pressing her head against the dirt.
Next to her stands the little girl, holding out her hand.
Relief overcomes anxiety and June pulls the girl close, holding on for dear life, grateful for even the smallest semblance of hope.
EXT. FIELDS - NIGHT
The two carry on, growing tired and weary and soon exhausted.
The little girl trips, falls, struggles, can’t get back up.
June picks her up and carries her off.
June slows with fatigue, can no longer walk.
Dead asleep, June sets the girl down, sitting beside her, trying hard not to slumber.
But fatigue is that which cannot be escaped, and soon June succumbs to inevitable fate, falling asleep along the tracks.
Light palpates upon the distant horizon. Rising. Slowly. Surely. Growing bright.
The blow of a whistle. The clunk of a train. Approaching. Speeding along at a harrowing pace.
The little girl jumps to her feet, tries to pull June away, but June won’t move, succumbing to her fate.
The little girl pushes and pulls but the effort is futile.
Suicide is the only life left to June.
The little girl cries and moans and yells and groans but June simply pushes her away, pushes her down, and the girl tumbles into a ditch as the train speeds along.
But the train doesn’t collide nor crash nor crush nor even kill. The train doesn’t even hit June.
More than a mile away, the train diverges, missing June by 66 feet.
June looks to the girl who sobs with bitter tears, assumption thieving reality with harsh choking heaves.
June stands and steps over, hugs to comfort, but the little girl only cries harder.
As the train passes by and rumbles away, a figure across the tracks appears, weapon in hand, heading their way.
Ominous and severe, June hides the little girl safely behind her, searching for some sort, any sort of weapon.
None to be seen.
June shields the child, ready to attack.
When the figure nears, when the monstrosity looms, June tackles the shadow and the two tumble in the dirt.
Up and down and side to side, the two shove and push and fight and bite until June gains the advantage, grabs the weapon.
Each figure struggles, the needle nipping the figure, then June.
June is flipped over, onto her back, but dodges the needle which strikes the hard ground.
June pushes the creature, grabs the sharp weapon, and throws it at him.
The weapon lands.
There, on his knees, the boy pulls the needle out of his stomach.
June recognizes the boy, tries to make sense of it, tries to approach, tries to save him.
The procedure is a failure. The boy is dead.
June stares at the boy and gawks in horror.
A few feet away stands the little girl, witness to all.
Before June can move, before June can even think of what to do, the little girl runs away.
June stumbles onto the tracks, the tracks where the train once passed, and lays in defeat, awaiting another train.
None arrives.
June sits up again and looks both ways. No sign of any train.
June sighs and stands and continues on her way.
EXT. LAKE - NIGHT
Though the lake is not wide, nor long nor deep, the tracks diverge, wrapping rusted veins around the narrow bank.
There, across the lake, stands a hill, a valley, a miniature mountain, a cacophony of trees. A woman walking across the bank.
June stops and stares at this queer thing.
The other, as if struck by some sort of cue, stops too, looking back at June.
The drunk woman waves. June does too.
The woman jumps into the lake.
June gasps. Time passes by at an agonizing pace.
The woman reemerges, halfway through, provoking a heavy sigh of relief from June.
But the woman is flailing, screaming, drowning, bobbing up and down in the depths of the lake.
June steps towards the water, hesitates.
June gawks at her breath.
The woman reemerges less and less.
Guilt gnaws at June’s fallible inaction. June curses her own conscience.
June strips and plunges into the deep blue waters, kicking and pulling and pushing and shoving.
June grabs the woman’s hand, her arm, her shoulder, anything to save her, but instinct overcomes logic, and June is dragged under water.
June struggles and coughs and chokes and strains but the woman is relentless, provoked by terror.
June pulls the woman under until unconcious.
June breaks through the surface, an arm around the woman, whispering and praying and hoping there’s still life in her.
Upon virgin soil, June plummets to the ground with the woman next to her.
The woman doesn’t move.
On hands and knees June crawls up to her, searching for a heart beat, a breath, life.
None.
The woman, it seems, is dead.
June slams her aching head against the brittle sand, shrieking screams of terse agony and bitter rage.
The woman coughs, first water, then blood, but alive nonetheless. June pulls the woman close in an unbearable hug.
The woman mumbles and June looks her over.
The woman’s eyes are glazed over, lost to some terrible fiend.
June hugs her again and climbs to her feet, giving the woman time to recover.
June dresses herself and offers a hand. The drunk woman shivers.
Standing, limping, the two hobble off, the rail road tracks a few feet distant.
A light draws near. A single, pulsing, glowing light.
The priest with a lamp, heading their way.
The priest, recognizing the two, hesitates.
No one moves. Time stands still.
The priest carries on, pushing past the two.
The woman and June follow suit.
EXT. PLAIN - NIGHT
The three make their way across the barren plain, the woman limping and hobbling and stumbling in pain.
Quivering and feverish, the woman collapses.
June rushes over, enlists the priest’s kindness, and then rushes off into the feral wilderness.
The priest prays and crosses and whispers and pleads.
A long time passes. June doesn’t return.
Grass tumbles in the wind. A howl. A cry. A sharp, terrible scream.
A figure emerges, much smaller than June. The priest holds out his cross, his only weapon of use.
The creature gurgles and snarls and draws ever closer.
The priest trips and falls and whimpers and crawls and bumps into the unconscious woman.
Before he can stand, before he can move, the hideous creature recedes from the shadows: the little girl, smiling without a care in the world.
The priest sighs with relief.
The little girl sits next to the woman.
The priest studies his pocket watch, studies the weeds; no sign of June.
The priest paces, worries. The little girl watches him mumble and murmur.
The priest thrusts out his lamp, scanning the horror, but no sign of life reveals its maker.
The priest grows agitated. Anxious. Worried.
The woman coughs. The little girl soothes her. The priest makes up his mind, grabs the lamp, the little girl, and then the woman.
The woman can’t stand.
The priest pulls and pushes but his body is too frail, his countenance too weak.
The priest curses and looks back to the wilderness, back to the woman, back to the little girl.
The girl smiles.
The priest crosses himself, mumbles again, and with the little girl in hand, makes his escape.
No more than ten feet away, the priest stumbles into June.
Overcome by ecstasy, the priest hugs June. June drops what she’s holding, firewood.
June hugs him too, though more out of obligation than truce.
The priest relents and June kneels, gathers dropped firewood, and begins to stand. Stops. The little girl across from her, no longer hidden behind the man, eye to eye with June.
June succumbs to joy, a hug and a kiss and another hug too. To this the girl retaliates with laborious obligation.
Relieved, the three make their way back to the woman, dropping the burden and stacking the branches.
June manipulates the lamp and starts a small fire.
For a brief, wonderful moment, each is happy.
The little girl plays with a stick, one of the few not yet used, stabbing at the grass like a knight with her sword.
June can’t help but smile at the girl.
June picks up a stick and plays with the little girl, the two jabbing and poking and prodding and jumping.
The little girl trips over the priest’s foot.
The priest only smiles and grabs a stick too, the three at it again, a playful sword fight of sorts.
For the briefest of moments, life is ecstasy.
But happiness is fleeting, joy never lasting, and with the bitter, bloody cough of the woman, melancholy returns, colder and darker than ever before.
In time, each makes their way back to the fire, burdened by the cruelty of fate and destiny.
The woman coughs, mumbles, gestures to the priest. The priest approaches. Nods. Stands. Steps off into the wilderness.
The woman closes her eyes, tries to sleep, but the pain is unbearable, the shivering never ending, the coughing miserable.
The little girl is frightened by this weak, miserable existence, slowly edging herself away from this inevitable extinction.
The little girl bumps into June.
The little girl reaches into her pocket but withdraws only sticks, suckers long gone. Saddened, the little girl throws the sticks into the fire, watching them burn with disdain and desire.
The little girl cries, moans, grips at her stomach. June grabs her and holds her but knows not what she can do. June looks around for some source of food. None.
June stands, stokes the fire, rests a hand upon the woman’s shoulder.
The woman coughs and grumbles.
June retreats with the little girl into the wild.
EXT. PLAIN - NIGHT
Amongst tall grass and limber weeds June drags the little girl, the girl clutching at her aching stomach.
June turns back to the woman, the woman they abandoned, but the grass is too tall, the distance too far, and so June is forced to carry on.
A roar. A howl. The sound of rushing water.
June stops. Listens. The girl grows impatient.
June leaps, jumps, runs, through thick grass and gripping weeds, an impenetrable midwestern jungle where a river splashes and pummels.
EXT. RIVER - NIGHT
June approaches the river and then the muddy bank, dropping to her knees without a semblance of shame. June forms a hollow bowl with quivering hands and offers some water to the little girl in pain.
The little girl obliges.
June bends down again and drinks for herself.
A sound. A rustle. June turns towards the muffled.
There, opposite the two, the priest crouches, gulping down water, oblivious to the others.
The girl and June are struck by his savagery.
The priest seizes his guzzling, gathers some dignity, and rights his posture, a gaze fixed beyond reality before resting upon June.
June offers a queer smile.
The priest hesitates, looks away, drops his head in contemplative shame.
June attempts to stifle rising animosity, but the priest still retreats back into the fray.
June searches for a crossing, a bridge of some kind. None to be found.
June looks back to the fire, smoke rising through the haze, and then to the priest’s appealing escape.
The girl tries to pull away. June hesitates.
The little girl pulls harder. June still hesitates.
The little girl grows angry, furious, tries to get away, but June’s grip grows tight, tighter, tighter still with the girl’s pleas and shouts.
June pulls the girl close, obtains a better grip, and clenches her against her misgiven body.
The little girl grows tired from the effort of the ill tempered tantrum. The little girl gives in.
June picks up the girl and wades into the river, slowly making her way across the frigid waters.
The current is strong, the river relentless, and June is soon forced to regain her uncertain footing.
The other side seems infinitely distant.
June treks on, gritting her teeth.
June trips, falls. The girl drops into the river.
Drowning. Drowning. Screaming. Dying.
June lunges. Misses. Clutches. Misses.
The little girl no longer above the water.
June dives, plunges, plummets, into the current.
June tumbles into the girl, pulls her above water, and slows her descent down the retched river.
The little girl coughs, chokes. June climbs out of the water, relinquishes the child.
The two shiver, feverish.
The girl coughs water, blood, vomits. Still breathing.
June closes her eyes but refuses to cry, grits her teeth and lifts the child.
June carries her back to the fire slowly dying.
EXT. FIRE PIT - NIGHT
Amongst scorched grass and singed leaves lies a woman passed out and sleeping, curled around a fire teetering on extinction.
June sets down the girl and rubs at her body, doing everything she can to seize that stubborn shiver.
The girl’s clothes are nothing more than threaded water.
June looks to the woman’s and then to the child’s and then to her own, soaked and sopping.
June approaches the woman, checks for breath, then a heart beat.
Still breathing. Still beating.
June hesitates, stares, first at the woman, then at the child.
June closes her eyes and whispers some solace.
Cautiously, carefully, June strips the woman naked, the woman far too exhausted to even mumble resistance.
June approaches the little girl, strips her naked too, and drapes the woman’s clothes over the little girl’s shivering body. The little girl, hardened by death, does not resist.
June sets down the tattered threads next to the fire, staring at the woman enchanted by slumber.
Time passes and June awakens, jumping at the shock of unwanted slumber. But the girl is still breathing, bundled up in an oversized sweater, content somehow, at least in warmth, for the first time in a while.
June clutches her clothes and then the little girl’s: bone dry.
The fire is dead.
June awakens the little girl, forces her to dress, and steps over to the woman, clothes in hand.
But the woman is colder, stiffer somehow. June reels at the touch.
June searches for a heartbeat. A pulse. A breath.
Riga mortis. The woman is dead.
June succumbs to this agony with nothing more than a furrowed brow, kicking dirt over coals and dragging the little girl away from the corpse.
EXT. FIELD - NIGHT
Beyond June, beyond the little girl, shines a light, incredibly bright.
The light wisps and fumes and snips at the night, coagulating smoke with stifling fog.
June stops dead in her tracks some ten paces back, gawking at the horror which glowers in fright.
The figure is that of a man, a human of some kind, engulfed by flames.
June hesitates, steps forward, back, reluctant to assist the seething thing. The girl is likewise struck by terror.
The two just stand there, consumed by a remorseful awe.
The figure doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell. Doesn’t cry or whimper or cough up any sort of sound. Rather, the figure, once human, for it could be no other, just stands there, face hidden by writhing flames.
The howl of a whistle. A train approaches.
June and the girl reluctantly step back, opposite the creature, watching the train clunk and groan past.
As the last car rolls by, June and the girl look back to the figure.
Wherever it was it no longer is, lost to the wind.
With the little girl in hand, June steps over the tracks to where the creature once was.
While there are footprints, flattened grass overcome by gravity, there are no scorch marks, no signs of arson. Nor do the footprints lead anywhere, go anywhere. Just entangled weeds knotted in a single lonesome spot.
June looks into the fog, attempting to gather some semblance of reason, but nothing abides.
June looks to the little girl and the little girl shrugs.
The two carry on down the tracks.
EXT. TRAIN STATION - NIGHT
Not far in the distance a shabby shack looms, a platform, stairs.
A decrepit, ancient shelter, but shelter nonetheless.
The two approach the meager abode more eager than cautious.
At the door, the door furthest from the tracks, for the other is barred and locked, a large bell lingers, to be rung when the door is moved.
June grips the door knob, hesitates.
June retracts her hand and steps to the window, cupping her hands against the feral grime.
Too dark to see.
June sighs, looks back to the fog, back to the encumbering darkness, and steps to the door, pushes, presses, opens; with the little girl in hand, the two step in.
The bell tolls, ominous.
INT. TRAIN STATION - NIGHT
Two benches and a bar and floorboards curved and rotten.
The girl’s grip tightens.
June leads the girl over to the two tattered benches and sits down across from the girl in reverent submission.
A thumping, grinding sound grabs her attention. Something, someone, behind the counter. June hesitates, squeezes tiny hands, stands, steps near.
June tries to peek over, tries to look beyond, but the geometry is awkward, the physics peculiar, and so June is forced to round the corner, a dangerous predicament.
A heavy breath. A shallow sigh. June conquers all sense of cowardice.
No one. Nothing. Just dust and a stool rusted by time.
June sighs, smiles, looks back to the little girl.
She too is smiling, peering out the window.
June rummages through the cabinets, searching for anything.
June finds an old oil lamp, a set of matches. June lights the lamp, the small fire burning life into the meager shack.
But with light comes illumination, and too an odd sight, something queer about the little girl’s anatomy.
Worried, June grabs the lamp and paces over.
Across from the girl, June drops to her knees, holds the lamp close, and grabs the girl’s chin, turning it over.
A scar runs down the little girl’s face, bleeding.
June gasps, pulls her hand close, tastes copper, feels blood. A scar of her own, a reflection of the girl’s.
June leaps to her feet, jumps to the window, and there, in the window, is a woman with a scar stretched across her mandible, a neck covered in red, bruised, blue too.
June stares at the image, the image sneering back at her. The little girl is lost in the reflection.
June pivots. Turns. Gasps.
The little girl is gone.
June scans the room, too frightened to move, studying every square inch of the terrible room.
The little girl is neither seen nor heard.
Hesitantly, June takes a step forward. Another. Another. Approaching the bar with a false sense of courage.
With a final breath, a final whisper of courage, June rounds the corner expecting nothing but horror.
With her back to June, the little girl fumbles, searching the cabinets for some sort of sustenance.
June heaves a heavy breath of weary relief, approaching the little girl with febrile ecstacy.
Wood creaks, floorboards scream, and the little girl leaps to cautious feet.
The little girl yelps, screams, cowers, as if June is some sort of hideous monster. June hesitates, starts again, arms open.
The little girl draws back, retreats into the shadows.
June grows agitated, worried, and approaches rather quickly, too quickly. The girl screams, jumps, over the counter and out of the room, into the fog and into the night.
June doesn’t move. The sound of a whistle blows.
June turns to find the train billowing steam and coal.
June hesitates, looks back, steps to the door, out the door, and into the fog.
Nothing but mist.
June steps back into the shack, grabs the meager lamp, and presses out into the haze, abandoning the train.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
An impenetrable fog encumbers an inexhaustible landscape, nothing but mist and haze hindering June’s way.
June pushes further and farther into the foray, looking back every so often at the looming train.
June hesitates, turns back, steps towards the tracks, turns away, back, away again, stepping further into the haze.
The sound of a whistle, the screech of iron upon metal. The train begins to lurch away.
June sprints towards the station, back towards the train, dropping her lamp in her feral need to escape.
June is too late. The train has gone away.
June turns back to the lamp and finds it not there, back again, gone again. Bobbing, up and down, up and down, again and again.
Ecstacy.
June sprints towards the light, the lamp, the fire, approaching the figure steadily approaching.
The shadow rears its ugly head.
Not that of the girl, but the priest.
With agonizing eyes June gawks at the acrid blood splattered across his hideous face, small handprints slewed across his savage breast.
With all the wisdom of god, the priest shakes his burdened head.
June tries to push past, tries to get away, but the priest’s grip is cruel, and June is trapped.
June wreaths in agony. Writhes in misery. The priest relents.
June falls to her knees and pounds her skull against the brittle soil.
The priest does nothing but turn his head.
June tires, hesitates, staggers, and makes her way back to the train.
EXT. PLATFORM - NIGHT
Two shadows lull upon a meager stage, neither near nor far nor close nor distant, delusion overwhelming an insufferable fate.
Agony now apathy, pain now numb, suffering becomes faint.
A whistle blows. A train tolls. Stops. Lulls.
June steps onto the train. The priest does too.
The train stumbles away.
FADE OUT