Near Warf Raclue
FADE IN:
INT. BUNKER - DAY
Scattered rays of putrid light pirouette across a ragged horizon, alighting a trench filthy and rotten.
Amongst blood and grime stirs a BOY of 16, awakened by the jolt of earth trembling.
The boy moans, sits up, removes a gas mask circa 1915.
A resolute officer steps into the bunker.
The boy jumps to his feet and salutes the officer. Muffled words over quaking earth. A letter passed to him.
The boy studies scribbled writing, faded photos. A silo. A factory.
The boy nods, salutes, stuffs the letter into his pocket, and withdraws from the bunker.
EXT. TRENCH - DAY
The boy trots along with a lucid assurance, a feral high from the demands of his officer. Others, more down trodden than the boy, avert their sullen, war laden eyes.
The boy stops, pauses, clears his throat, approaches another. The officer’s eyes are glued to a set of binoculars. The boy hesitates, taps him on the shoulder.
The officer jumps, yells, clutches a knife to the boy’s throat.
The boy goes limp, eyes closed. The officer chuckles, relaxes, tucks away his serrated weapon.
The boy salutes the officer, tries to yell over the monotonous panic. The officer looks at him queerly.
The boy shouts louder. The officer leans in closer, closer, ear to mouth, mouth to ear.
The officer shakes his head. The boy sighs, looks all around, pulls on the officer’s sleeve, pointing to a bunker.
The officer pushes, hard. The boy falls. The officer glares, walks into the bunker.
The boy stands, wipes himself off, follows.
INT. BUNKER - DAY
The boy salutes. The officer gestures.
The boy leans forward, whispers. The soldier chuckles, nods, pats the boy on the shoulder.
The boy stands at attention. The officer withdraws his rifle.
The officer studies the cartridge and hands it over. The boy cocks the gun, aims the barrel.
Each salutes the other.
The boy fires. The officer tumbles.
The boy steps over the officer, cocks the weapon, and fires again, again.
The officer lies on the floor, shot in the head, bleeding, dead.
The boy reloads the rifle.
Two privates enter the bunker, pick up the carcass, and drag the dead body out of the bunker.
The boy sighs, sets the rifle aside, grabs a rake once forgotten, and rakes dirt over blood, mixing the new with the old, gore with mud.
An officer enters.
The boy salutes, drops the rake, fumbles, bends over, pauses, straightens, shamefaced.
The officer approaches, stops, pauses, kicks up the rake and shoves it over.
The boy reaches for the rake, slapped by lumber. The boy winces, salutes, stands at attention.
The officer shoves the rake into the boy’s chest. The boy hesitates, reaches for the rake. The officer shakes his head. The boy stands at attention.
The officer drops the rake. The rake falls to the ground. The officer nods to the rake. The boy bends over, pushed over.
The boy grunts, groans, clutches the rake. The officer crushes the boy’s hand with his boot of leather.
The boy grits his teeth, kicked in the face.
The boy moans. The officer chuckles. The boy reaches for the rake, ready to retaliate.
A tsk. A shake. The boy obeys.
The officer chuckles, threatens. The boy flinches. The officer cackles, withdraws.
Slowly, hesitantly, the boy climbs to his feet, picks up the rake, and drags the tool across the dirt, the mud, his own blood.
Fog gathers, amalgamates. The boy, exasperated by ill treatment, doesn’t notice.
Fog grows thick, a jaundice yellow, nipping at the boy’s war trodden feet.
The boy stops, stares, studies the doorway doused in bitter fog.
The boy mumbles, curses, looks all around. Only the doorway filling with fog.
The boy drops the rake, grabs the rifle, and charges out into the fog.
EXT. FOG - DAY
A putrid, acrid, rancid haze, cigarette yellow, palpating rust, gore, blood.
Puddles, piles, mounds of dead bodies, bodies still dripping, some still breathing.
The boy pushes, shoves, squints through the fog, eyes watering, wheezing terribly.
A hand clutches the boy’s ankle. The boy trips, falls, drops his rifle which tumbles into the fog.
A soldier pulling, dragging, whimpering, moaning.
The boy flails, slashes, tries to wrench the poor man off him. The man won’t let go.
The boy withdraws a serrated weapon, a rusted knife, threatens. Still the man holds tight.
Jab, stab, slash, the man’s hand cut open.
The boy pushes, shoves, climbs to his feet, coughs, staggers, abandons the man dying.
A makeshift door, three boards of plywood, held loosely together with fraying yarn and moldy twine.
The boy slams upon the door, yells, screams. No answer. The boy pushes, pulls, writhes, tries to break free. The door won’t open.
The boy falls to his knees, exhausted, wheezing.
The boy withdraws his weapon, his knife, cuts yarn, string, one piece after another.
The work is slow. The boy can hardly breath. The knife grows heavy, heavy.
The boy cuts one final string.
The door falters, crumbles. The boy falls in exhaustion.
The boy closes his eyes, apathetic to his fate.
Hacking, wheezing. The boy opens his eyes. A gas mask no more than a few feet distant.
The boy moans, groans, clutches dirt, mud, drags himself forward.
Feet, inches, just out of reach. The boy lurches with the last of his strength, clutches the strap, the gas mask, straps it on, breathes.
Two men sneer above him, leer, drag him out of the bunker.
INT. ROOM - NIGHT
The boy comes to, splayed across a gurney. Men and women in white coats scurry, hurry.
The boy climbs to his feet. Weak kneed. The boy falls to the ground, the dirt, the mud.
A woman in white steps into the room, gasps, runs out.
The woman returns with two burly men.
The men lift him, drag him, throw him onto the gurney and tie him to it.
The boy struggles, strains.
Weak. Tired. Exhausted.
The boy gives in to his insufferable fate.
The two men escape.
The woman sneers, leers, lurks across the room to the hopeless boy. The woman spits in his face, cackles, dawdles away, out a shabby door, locking it behind her.
Again the boy struggles against his restraints.
The gurney topples. The boy lays upon his side, coughing, groaning. A man steps in, drawn by the ruckus.
The man shakes his head, offers a severe tsk, approaches.
The boy lurches, snatches, bites his ankle.
The man yelps, screams, jumps, falls, drops a serrated weapon tucked into his back pocket.
The boy won’t let go. The officer withdraws his gun, screaming, yelling, shaking. The officer loads the rifle, cocks the weapon.
The boy lets go. The man climbs to his feet, kicks the boy hard, still aiming the gun at him.
The boy relents, takes the hit. The man limps out of the room. A gas mask forgotten.
The boy spits, lurches, inches towards a dropped weapon.
Closer, closer. Hand upon the serrated weapon. The boy clutches the handle, tilts the knife, slowly pivots the blade back and forth, back and forth.
Restraints relent. One hand cut free. The boy cuts the other, then his feet.
The boy stands, stretches, gathers the gas mask forgotten.
Footsteps. Grumbling. Mumbling. Ruffling.
The boy leaps behind the gurney, clutches the knife, and leans against the gurney.
The door to the room opens.
A man and a woman nod to each other, look to the toppled gurney, the room without its subject. The two share a glance of pure horror, terror, rush out of the room despondently.
The boy leaps over the gurney, to the door, and catches it just before it closes.
The boy peeks out the door.
EXT. TRENCHES - NIGHT
Abandoned, forgotten, dilapidated, muddy.
The boy straps on the gas mask and steps out of the bunker, encroaching a brutal, impenetrable fog.
The boy walks down the trenches, clutching the knife, wincing with every step: haggard and unruly. Nothing but fog.
The boy reaches, flails, stumbles.
The boy stops, turns, searches for walls.
Nothing but omnipresent fog.
A single, throbbing light. Snipping, snapping, biting. An intrepid flame, self contained, approaching.
The boy clutches the knife in his frigid grasp. The flame pauses, approaches, stops just before him.
A young boy engulfed by flames. The older gawks at the younger. The younger smiles, arms open in a loving manner. The older fumbles, stumbles, trips, falls, crawls backwards.
The younger steps closer, the older farther. Faster, faster, the younger moving at that same lethargic pace.
The older climbs to his feet, clutches the knife, threatens. The younger stops, smiles, cackles, burns to muscle, bone, ashes.
The boy drops to his knees, cradles the ashes.
Another light emerges, approaches. Tumultuous smoke, steam. A yellow, putrid, murderous haze.
The boy stumbles, fumbles, runs, trips, falls, cowers, screams.
The toll of a whistle. The chime of a bell. A train stops before the boy.
Doors open. The boy looks to the haze, the train.
The boy hesitates, hobbles onto the train. The doors to the train close behind him.
INT. TRAIN - NIGHT
A meager, ill treated cabin, with frayed leather and punctured cushions. Oil lamps of the 19th century sway with ominous shadows, pirouetting at the base of a peeling ceiling.
A yelping shrill scream. The boy takes a cautious step forward.
Another. Another. Grunting. Groaning. Past rusting bars and molding chairs.
Closer. Closer. The end of the corridor, moaning just beyond a final shabby chair.
The boy leaps, jumps, lurches, sets himself face to face with his antagonist: a bull frog, croaking.
The boy chuckles, tucks the knife back into his pocket. The frog ribbits. The boy shoos the frog. The frog doesn’t move.
The boy walks to the other end of the corridor and sits upon a rotting booth.
The train lurches, stops, the frog hops off, off the chair and down the hall and to the door open, hopping onto a platform and into the night.
The boy opens a window, looks out.
EXT. TRAIN STATION - NIGHT
A small, pitiable platform, banked by a squat, shabby diner, aglow with meager lamplight. Inside the diner reside a young man, a young woman, the woman behind the counter, the man in the kitchen.
The boy reaches into his pocket and studies its contents. A few bucks on him.
The boy steps onto the platform. Train doors close behind him.
The boy pivots, turns, struggles with the doors. The train lurches, chugs, abandons the boy.
The boy mumbles, grumbles, kicks rotting plywood, turns back to the station, the diner, and approaches the latter, which just so happens to also be the former.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The chime of bells. The whisper of coworkers. The boy finds a seat in one of the corners.
The boy removes his mask.
The young woman approaches.
The young woman tosses a pair of menus and stands quietly waiting. The boy undoes a button upon his sleeve. Another. Another.
A foreign curse from the kitchen. The young woman turns, wanders off into the kitchen. Muffled arguments resound through rotting walls. The boy buttons back up his tattered sleeves.
The young woman huffs out of the kitchen in bleak agitation, fondling a newspaper, disregarding the boy.
The boy looks through the menu, closes it softly, and looks to the young woman reading the paper apathetically. The boy blatantly forgotten.
The boy sighs, asses the small diner.
A bleak affair, clean but shabby. A few electric bulbs, though half are missing filament and most are flickering.
The boy taps his foot, fiddles his thumbs, sighs. No reaction from the young woman.
The boy slumps, stands, stomps over to the young woman, removes an envelope, pictures, and lays them upon the counter.
After a long, excruciating moment, the young woman looks up from her paper, studies the photos, sighs, folds the paper, and steps into the kitchen.
The boy sits at the counter. The young woman returns with liver, onions. The boy stares at the plate delivered.
The young woman thrusts the plate forward, pivots, turns, clutches a mug, and fills it with coffee. This, too, she delivers to the boy.
The boy feigns a false smile, cuts the cooked liver, and suffers a single bite, tries not to vomit. The young woman stands across from him, arms crossed, waiting.
The boy feigns another smile. The young woman taps her foot impatiently. The boy cuts another piece, holds it to his lips, chews, gags, swallows.
The boy sips the coffee, somehow worse than the liver.
The boy dry heaves, coughs, gags. The young woman smiles, chuckles, walks back to the kitchen.
The boy pushes the food aside, to the edge of the counter, farther, farther, the plate falling over, tossing the food, shattering the ceramic plate.
The young woman runs out of the kitchen. The boy shrugs. The young woman shakes her head, sighs, grabs a broom, and sweeps it up.
Another walks into the diner. A middle aged woman. A nun.
The nun sits on the stool next to the boy, lifting her sleeves, revealing clean wrists, nodding to the young woman who dumps food into the trash.
The boy slides over photos, points, gestures. The nun shrugs, shakes her head. The boy sighs, tucks the photos back into his pocket.
The young woman withdraws a cartridge, cigarettes, stuffs one between her lips, and offers another to the nun. The nun obliges, nods, takes one, searches her pockets, shakes her head, looks to the boy. The boy shakes his head.
The young woman walks back to the kitchen, returns with a box of matches, lights her own, then the nun’s. The young woman offers the boy a cigarette. The boy shakes his head. The young woman shrugs, tucks the cigarettes back into her pocket along with the matches.
The nun holds out her hand, gestures to the boy. The boy hesitates. The nun insists. The boy offers his hand.
The nun smiles, clutches his hand, turns it over, back, and looks into his eyes. The boy looks away.
The nun sucks, blows, throws smoke into the boy’s face. The boy coughs. The nun extinguishes the cigarette upon the boy’s hand.
The boy yelps, screams, jumps to his feet. The nun chuckles. The young woman looks at him oddly. The boy studies his hand: not a mark on him.
The boy mumbles, turns, stomps to the door. An eery yellow haze. The boy hesitates, straps on his mask, studies his watch, opens the door, closes it again, looks back to the two women.
The nun smiles.
The boy sighs, grumbles, removes his gas mask and sits in a corner, back to the women, eyes upon the door.
Lights flicker, flutter, spew, sputter, stutter, fade. A queer darkness entombed by a luminescent haze.
A door opens, closes, the woman lights a match, oil lamps. The young woman hands one to the nun, steps over to the boy, sets another upon the table, straps on a gas mask.
The boy looks to the young woman. The young woman nods. The boy and the nun strap on gas masks.
The young woman leads, the nun follows, the boy hesitates. The two stand at the door, waiting for the third. The boy looks to the back, to the man in the kitchen, chopping liver precariously, sneering ominously.
The boy follows the two women.
EXT. HAZE - NIGHT
Luminescence fades as the three make their way, off the platform and around the diner to the back of the station, pausing at a generator.
The young woman hands the nun her lamp and opens a small door. The young woman stares, looks back to the boy. The boy shakes his head, shrugs.
The young woman looks back to the generator, dumbfounded. The nun pushes past, shoving her lamp to the young woman. The young woman steps back with two lamps.
The nun clutches a wire, tugs, pulls, tears the wire, tears another, and links the two together. A spark, a jolt, a clanking of shifts, gears. The lights to the diner reignite.
A howl. A whistle. A gurgling growl.
The three turn. The boy clutches his knife.
Louder. Harsher. Fiercer. The enigma approaches.
Closer. Closer. The young woman falters, drops back, the nun resolute in whatever may happen.
From the haze, from the fog, a figure emerges, encroaching lamplight.
Coughing, heaving, wheezing. A man, falling, tumbling, dressed in the uniform of a cowboy.
The boy hesitates. The young woman gasps. The nun sprints over, removes her own mask and straps it on the cowboy.
The cowboy gasps, steadies, breathes. The nun coughs, gags.
The cowboy stands, shoulders the nun, and mumbles to the others, muffled through the gas mask. The boy points to his wrists. The cowboy gesticulates frantically. The young woman tries to flee, held back by the boy.
Again the boy taps his wrists. The cowboy growls, lifts up his sleeves, reveals wrists clean.
The young woman breaks off and rushes back to the diner, followed by the cowboy. The boy hesitates, looks around, follows.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
Push, pull, open, close. The door slams shut, the four safely inside. The man who once chopped liver is nowhere to be found.
The cowboy throws aside a table and pushes two booths together, laying the nun upon them, tearing the gas mask off him.
The young woman rushes behind the counter, grabs towels, water, and rushes back over.
The young woman douses the towels in water, soothes the nun, coos, caresses.
The cowboy grabs a chair and saddles it backwards, arms resting upon the back of it. The boy hesitates, steps over to the counter, jumps over, looks under.
Banging, clanging, crashing, items discarded. The boy searches through one cabinet, then another, another. The boy pauses, stands, aligns three glasses.
A dark mahogany liquid poured into each glass. The boy grabs two with one hand, another with the other, and steps over to the others. The boy offers one to the young woman, one to the cowboy.
The young woman props up the nun, presses glass to lips, dips, pours. The nun coughs, moans, opens eyes heavy. The cowboy slaps his knee and downs his drink in one heavy gulp.
The boy smiles. The young woman sighs. The nun clutches the glass and downs the drink. The boy chuckles, scandalized.
The boy reaches into his pocket, withdraws photos, hands them over to the cowboy. The cowboy studies them, shakes his head. The boy sighs, tucks them back into his pocket.
The nun snaps, gestures. The young woman withdraws cigarettes, offers one to the nun, then others to the others. All but the boy oblige.
The young woman lights a match, doesn’t take. Another. Another. None will take. The young woman sighs, tosses the matches aside, and hops to her feet, strutting past the counter and into the kitchen.
A feral scream.
The boy jumps, hops, leaps over the counter and into the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
The boy scans the room, hand upon his weapon. No sign of anything touched, moved, or stolen.
A shrill, desperate whimper beyond a set of stacked wooden boxes. The boy approaches, hesitant, cautious.
Closer. Closer. Just beyond the boxes.
The boy pauses, steadies, breathes heavily. A second’s hesitation. The boy jumps, lurches, hands high, knife ready.
Upon the floor, upon the ground, lies the man who cooked liver, head splayed open, bleeding.
The young woman bawls, blunders, draped over the limp carcass.
The boy sighs, tucks away his weapon, grabs the young woman, and drags her out of the kitchen.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The nun and the cowboy look back to the others. The young woman whimpers, the boy shivers.
The young woman runs to the nun. The cowboy approaches the boy. The cowboy stops just before the boy, on the other side of the counter.
The boy moves to speak, shakes his head, nods, gestures, steps back to the kitchen. The cowboy follows.
The young woman bawls into the nun’s shoulder.
The two men return, thrown, shaken. The two pour two more glasses, drink ravenously.
The boy searches the cupboards, the cabinets, finds a gas mask no longer needed, and throws it over to the cowboy. The cowboy straps on the gas mask; the boy, his own.
The two walk back to the kitchen and return with the dead man between them. The young woman cries ever harder.
The nun coos, soothes, straps on the young woman’s gas mask, her own, and helps the young woman up, out, holding the door for the two men struggling with their burden.
The four abandon the diner with the fifth in hand, haze engulfing one after another.
EXT. FIELD - NIGHT
Just beyond the station, just beyond the feral snipping of electricity, rests a field of dandelions, daffodils, a river babbling maniacally. There, across the train tracks, near the river, the men drop the body, the young woman gasping at the brutality of the effort.
The four gather dirt, toss it over the body.
The nun whispers, prays, crosses her body. The two men stand quietly. The young woman languishes upon the nun’s shoulder.
The soldier searches his pockets, looks to the boy; the boy shakes his head, looks to the young woman. The young woman quakes with misery. The boy holds out his hand. The young woman hides herself deep within the folds of the nun.
The boy looks to the nun. The nun glares, whispers to the young woman. Something passed between them. The nun hurls the matches at the boy, marches off, dragging the young woman back to the diner.
The boy sighs, bends over, picks up the matches, a hand upon him. The cowboy removes a flask from his front pocket, dumps its contents onto the body.
The boy sighs, offers the matches. The cowboy shakes his head, walks away.
The boy sighs, lights a match, sets the corpse aflame, and steps back to the diner, silhouetted by the fire.
EXT. PLATFORM - NIGHT
The boy approaches the others huddled upon the platform around the door to the diner. The young woman struggles with a key. Another. Another. The door won’t open.
The young woman grows frantic, hectic, hysterical. Still the door won’t open.
The young woman kicks, thrashes, slams her body against the door. Harder. Harder. Faster. Faster.
The nun lays a calm hand upon her. The young woman pauses, bawls, presses her body into the nun’s shoulder.
The boy studies his watch: 2:45. The boy curses under his breath.
A gurgling, gargling growl far in the distance. The young woman shakes with the ferocity of her terror.
The nun soothes, coos, whispers, consoles. The young woman nods, dries her eyes, and walks over to the edge of the platform, dangling her legs over the precipice.
The nun withdraws a blade and steps into the haze.
A guttural, horrifying shriek. The boy withdraws his knife, the cowboy, his revolver. The young woman, despite the terror, sits apathetic.
A muddled splash.
The boy looks at his watch, 2:53. The boy looks to the cowboy. Another terrible shriek. The cowboy cocks his gun.
Blood, shaking, shivering; a figure emerges from the haze. The nun, doused in rusted red, cleans her blade.
The nun walks up the stairs, soaking wet, past the young woman, past the two men, and to the door.
The nun opens her palm, scarred, burned.
Amidst blood, gore, flesh, resides a key. The nun presses the key into the lock. The door opens.
The four step in.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The nun locks the door behind her. The four sit around a table. The boy looks at his watch: 3:00.
Ravage, savage howls. Guttural gurgles. A thunderous thud.
The four turn to the window, splayed in blood, the corpse of the cook, half burned, soaking wet, cut open, thrown against the glass window.
Shaken, thrown, heaved. The body disappears into the haze.
The young woman whimpers, moans. The nun crosses herself. The cowboy tips his hat down. The boy stares at the blood.
For a long, unutterable moment, no one moves.
A shrill, creaking groan. A chair pushed aside. The cowboy stands, steps around the counter, and fills four glasses.
The boy and the nun hobble to the counter. The young woman sits in despair, unmoving, staring into that blank middle distance that is the abyss.
The cowboy holds up a glass, the nun and boy too, downing that sallow concoction in one horrid swallow.
The boy stands, grabs the final glass, and approaches the young woman.
A long pause.
The young woman looks through him. The boy pushes the glass over. The young woman smashes the glass upon the table, startling the boy, tearing her palm open.
The young woman studies her wound, apathetic. The boy gawks, horrified.
The shuffling of plates, cups, silverware. The cowboy pushes past the boy and pulls up a chair, holding out his hand.
The young woman doesn’t move. The cowboy snatches her hand, her arm, wraps the wound. A washcloth, a towel, a rag. The young woman stares at his handiwork, stands, approaches the door.
The cowboy leaps, jumps, slams his body against the closed door.
The young woman looks at him, past him, through him, removes her rag, and slaps him in the face. A bloody mark from an open wound. The cowboy smears blood away.
The young woman places her hands upon his shoulders, knees him in the stomach.
The cowboy grunts, groans, coughs, falls over. The young woman reaches for the door. The click of a gun.
The young woman pauses, hesitates, stares at the gun pointed at her. The young woman cackles. The cowboy stands. The young woman pulls the gun into her stomach.
The cowboy hesitates. The young woman pushes him away, pulls the door handle.
The door won’t open.
The young woman pushes, pulls, strains. Futile. The young woman looks back to the others.
The nun holds up the key, bites, swallows.
The young woman charges. Held back by the boy, the cowboy. The young woman thrashes, slashes, shrieks guttural fury. The nun offers a pitiable smile.
The young woman falls, tumbles, thrown into a booth violently. The boy sits next to her, the cowboy across. The young woman calms.
The nun approaches with four mugs. All oblige, even the young woman.
The four sip scalding hot coffee.
The boy withdraws his knife and etches a drawing into the table. A queer, surreal monstrosity. The boy grows entrenched, enchanted, fierce, violent, hectic.
The young woman lays a hand upon him. The boy stops, pauses, stares at the young woman. The young woman smiles. The boy stabs the picture, stands, stomps off, into the kitchen.
The young woman looks to the others. The cowboy shrugs. The nun shakes her head. The young woman sighs, slouches.
Rustling, rumbling, the stir of pots and pans. Crashing, smashing, a loud thud. The young woman stands with a start.
The nun attempts to calm her. The young woman pushes, shoves, runs into the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
Two figures roll across the floor, first one on top, then the other. The boy falters, gains the advantage, throws one punch, then another. Another. The figure below falters.
The boy dabs blood, sweat, climbs to his feet, back to the young woman.
The young woman coughs. The boy jumps, startled, dives, crouches, clutches the knife upon the ground beside him.
Only the young woman. The boy slowly calms.
The young woman looks to the other. Not a man. A woman. No, a child. A little girl. The young woman gasps.
The boy chuckles, snatches a rag, holds it to his ear, bleeding profusely.
The young woman approaches the little girl, held back by the boy. The boy shakes his head, taps his wrists. The young woman pushes, shoves, rushes over, hesitates, pulls the little girl’s sleeves up.
Two deep black marks, one upon each wrist. The young woman gasps. The boy pulls her up, back, out the door and into the diner.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The boy tosses the young woman and heads straight for the door. Pushes. Pulls. Locked.
The boy pivots, turns, glares at the nun. The nun shrugs. The boy charges.
The boy clutches, grasps, drags the nun across the diner and into the kitchen. A feral scream. Muffled words. Harsh whispers. The two return.
The boy sits next to the cowboy. The nun stands before a sink. Coughing, gagging, dry heaving. The nun dips her fingers deep down her throat.
The cowboy withdraws his revolver, spins the cartridge, stands, and steps into the kitchen. The young woman rushes after.
A shot fired. Another. Another. The boy runs into the kitchen.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
There stands the cowboy, gun aimed at the young woman, the young woman clutching the little girl, the two staring at each other. The boy, from behind, approaches.
The cowboy cocks his gun. The young woman clutches tighter. The boy grabs the cowboy from behind.
A shot fired. Another. Another.
The cowboy throws the boy back, off, to the ground scraped and bleeding. The boy moves to stand. The cowboy cocks his gun. The boy spits in his face. The cowboy pulls the trigger.
Click. Click. Out of ammunition.
The door to the kitchen opens. All three turn. The nun reveals a key: sopping, dripping.
The cowboy tucks his gun into his belt, chuckles, and holds out his hand. Slapped away. The boy stands without assistance. The young woman also.
The nun steps out of the kitchen. The others follow.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The nun unlocks the door, straps on her gas mask, and steps out of the diner. The boy straps on his mask and opens the door. Neither the young woman nor cowboy strap on their own. The boy looks back to the others.
The cowboy shakes his head. The young woman also. The boy sighs, closes the door, steps to the young woman, and hands her his knife.
The young woman tries to refuse, but the boy just shakes his head, calm, amused.
The boy looks to the cowboy, the six shooter. The cowboy shakes his head, holds out his hand. The boy sighs, shakes it, and steps out into the fog.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The boy walks along aside the nun, aligning his step with hers, hands set in perpetual caution.
A fire in the distance. The boy stops abruptly, holds the nun back protectively. The fire grows neither smaller nor larger.
The nun soothes, coos, brushes the boy off and steps towards the fire. The boy hesitates, follows.
The fire grows larger, larger. A figure emerges. Not within, but near, warming by it.
The nun steps into the snipping light of the fire; the boy lurks in the shifting shadows.
An old man tilts his head, smiles, gestures. The nun lifts her sleeves, reveals clean wrists. The old man nods, gestures. The nun nods, sits across from the old man.
The boy steps out of the shadows. The old man jumps, startled, chuckles, laughs, looks to the nun. The nun nods, smiles. The old man gestures. The boy sits across from the two others.
The boy digs through his pockets, withdraws photos, hands them over. The old man studies, chuckles, cackles. Hysterical laughter.
The boy lunges, lurches, grabs for the photos. Too slow.
The old man pulls back, deceptively quick, holding the photos over the fire. The boy pauses, holds his hands up, leans back. The old man smiles, tucks the photos into his pocket.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
The cowboy and young woman sit before a flickering bulb, staring at the kitchen door, blocked, shut off.
Before the kitchen door lies all the items easily moved. Booths. Chairs. Tables.
The young woman and cowboy sit on the floor, staring at the door, gawking.
A rustle. A groan. A moan. A hand upon the kitchen door.
Rattling. Jarring. Shaking. The door lurching, bending.
The cowboy clutches his revolver. The young woman lays a hand upon him. The cowboy chuckles, stands, straps on his gas mask.
The young woman looks at him oddly. The cowboy throws over another.
Contemplative understanding. The young woman straps on her gas mask.
The thunderous boom of the door grows louder. Louder.
The cowboy loads his revolver. The young woman reaches for her knife, stops hesitates, sets it on the floor in the middle of the diner.
The door pushed open, one inch, two, three. The little girl squeezes through, climbs over tables, chairs, booths.
The cowboy cocks his gun, aims. The young woman stands against the door to the outside world. The little girl stands across from the two.
Between the three, upon the floor, lies the knife, glinting in false light.
A long, hesitant moment.
The little girl dives. The cowboy fires. Another. Another. The little girl falls, whimpers.
The cowboy steps closer, places a foot under, flips her over. The little girl lies on her back, shot in the leg, moaning.
The cowboy cocks his gun. The little girl cries. The cowboy hesitates.
The little girl stabs the cowboy in the leg with the knife, pulls, tugs. Another shot fired. Miss.
The little girl drags the cowboy to the ground. The gun skids towards the young woman.
The cowboy grunts, groans, kicks the little girl hard. The little girl clutches the knife, pulls it out, tumbles back.
The little girl crouches, threatens, knife ready. The cowboy struggles, strains, stands.
The little girl cackles, charges. The cowboy lurches, dodges, slashed in the leg, the leg unwounded, and falls to his knees, the little girl thrown behind him.
The little girl leaps, charges, tackles the cowboy, wraps around him, pushes him down to the concrete.
The cowboy grunts, groans. The little girl presses the knife into his throat.
Closer. Closer. The cowboy coughs, gasps.
The crash of gunfire. Two shots fired.
The little girl falls, tumbles, thrown off the cowboy. The cowboy gasps, rips off his gas mask, coughs, dry heaves, glares at the young woman. The young woman shakes, feverish, gapes, horrified.
The cowboy crawls, props his body against a wall, digs through his pockets, withdraws a set of smokes, matches, lights a cigarette, and tosses the others over. The young woman stares at the smokes, the matches, the gun.
The young woman cocks the gun, aims the barrel; barrel to temple, her temple, fires.
No ammunition. The young woman crumbles.
The cowboy crawls, props himself up next to the young woman, lights a match, a cigarette, holds up her chin, smiles, and stuffs the cigarette between her lips
The young woman obliges.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
Rustling, shuffling, the nun digs through her pockets, removes a box, another, lights a match, a cigarette, offers another. The boy shakes his head.
The nun offers a nail to the old man. The old man nods. The nun tosses a box over the campfire, another.
The old man sighs with delight.
A guttural, ominous growl. The old man cackles.
The nun chuckles out of kindness. The boy glares at the rippling fire.
Hysterical, maniacal. The boy tenses. The nun quiets.
The old man leaps, jumps, dances around the fire.
The old man reaches, pulls, tugs the nun to her toes. The nun obliges, hesitant, limp, the old man tossing her like an imp.
Around the fire again and again. Faster. Faster.
Spinning. Turning. Thrown into the fire.
The nun yelps, screams, rolls out of the fire. The old man cackles.
The boy charges. Tackles.
The boy throws a punch, another, another.
The old man chuckles, cackles.
Another punch. Another. Another. Bruised knuckles. Bleeding.
The old man stops laughing. Still the boy persists.
Another punch. Another. Another. Pulled back. Held back. The nun’s hand upon him.
The boy pauses, sighs, studies the old man: two dark scars upon wrinkled skin.
The boy hesitates, cackles, shoves the nun off him, hobbles back to the fire, flickering and fluttering.
The nun drops to her knees, lays her head upon the old man.
The nun shakes her head. The boy sighs in relief.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
Discarded ashes. Forgotten cigarettes. A box crumpled, emptied, the cowboy propped up next to the young woman.
The cowboy loads his revolver. The young woman stands. The cowboy offers a box of matches. The young woman hesitates, obliges.
The young woman steps past the little girl, over to the counter, reaches under, and withdraws whiskey.
The young woman approaches the little girl, opens the bottle, tilts it, hesitates. The cowboy nods. The young woman sighs, shakes her head, caps the bottle.
The young woman steps back to the counter and grabs a napkin.
The young woman paces back to the cowboy, helps him stand, and limps out of the diner with the cowboy in hand.
EXT. PLATFORM - NIGHT
The young woman helps the cowboy down the steps and off the platform, propping him up against the wooden structure. The cowboy grunts with the agony of the effort.
The young woman paces up the steps, to the door, and pulls it open. The young woman tucks the napkin into the bottle, lights a match, the napkin, pauses. The young woman turns back to the cowboy. The cowboy nods.
The young woman tosses the bottle, shattering glass, igniting the diner.
The young woman gasps, freezes, dives into the fire.
Smoke amalgamates. The cowboy limps, falls, tumbles, crawls up the ragged steps.
Shrieking. Screaming.
The cowboy drags his limp body to the door handle. Reaches, grabs, pulls the door open.
Sporadic light snips at feral shadows. Black, impenetrable smog.
A long, endless moment.
Coughing. Heaving. The young woman emerges from the fire shouldering the child.
The young woman tumbles out the door, lifts the cowboy, hobbles down the steps, off the platform, and into the mud, falling to all fours, coughing, gasping, dry heaving.
The young woman gathers lost breath, turns back to the cowboy.
The cowboy shakes his head, sighs, lies face down in the mud. The little girl sleeps. The young woman succumbs to slumber.
The fire crackles, silhouetting the morbid figures.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The nun stands near the fire staring into the haze; the boy digs through the old man’s pockets, tossing miscellaneous items, tucking stolen photos back into his pocket.
The boy withdraws a serrated blade from the man’s coat pocket. The boy studies the blade, test its strength, durability.
The boy stabs the old man’s stomach. Pushes. Pulls. Cuts. Saws.
A serrated line down the old man’s stomach, a horizontal line perpendicular to the other. The image of a t.
The nun watches, apathetic.
The boy peels back skin, muscle, organs. The boy dips his hand into the old man’s abdomen.
Liver. Stomach. Intestines.
Torn apart. Cut open.
The boy withdraws his hand, his fist, doused in rancid gore.
The boy holds out his hand. The nun looks away. The boy shrugs, opens his palm.
Dog tags. Subject 8. The boy pauses, tosses the metal to the nun’s feet.
The nun picks up the dog tags, studies, looks up, shakes her head confusedly.
The boy shrugs, sighs, shakes his head. The nun tosses the tags into the flame. The boy watches them disintegrate.
The nun walks away, into the haze. The boy climbs to his feet, hesitates.
The nun returns. A bundle of firewood.
The nun lights a torch and sets the old man ablaze.
The two watch the fire morph the haze.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
Ashes to ashes. Nothing but coals. The cowboy comes to, the young woman too, six feet apart, the little girl between.
A cough. A groan. A moan. The cowboy reaches for his revolver. The young woman shakes her head slowly. The little girl opens her eyes.
The little girl sits, stands, turns all around. Wild, savage, gurgling, growling. The young woman holds her hands high, smiles.
The little girl tackles the young woman. The young woman struggles, strains, throws the little girl off her.
The little girl falls, tumbles, crouches, ready to pounce. A shot fired. The little girl yelps, cowers.
The cowboy cocks his gun, pulls it down, no longer aiming it high. The little girl falls to the ground, seizes.
The young woman and cowboy look to each other. The cowboy shakes his head; the young woman approaches.
The little girl on her side, writhing, heaving, vomiting. A black, viscous liquid.
The young woman drops to her knees, lifts the little girl, lays the girl’s head upon her lap. The little girl sighs, soothed.
The cowboy scoffs, tosses the revolver. The young woman glares, shakes her head slowly.
The cowboy clutches, gropes, drags, heaves his body over, maneuvers the little girl off the young woman, cocks his revolver, clutches the trigger, barrel held to the little girl’s temple. The young woman does nothing to stop him.
The cowboy shakes, shivers, rests one hand upon another. Tries to steady, can’t. Fires.
Another. Another. Five shots in succession.
The little girl breathing. The young woman feigns apathy. The cowboy tosses the revolver towards the dirt dug by the five bullets.
The young woman lays a hand upon him. The cowboy shoves her off, crawls over to the revolver, loads it, tucks it into his pocket, and lays gruffly on his side, back to the young woman.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The two walk along, the nun and the boy, at a weary, hesitant pace, stopping periodically at every howl, every growl.
Before them, two figures emerge. Lights. Shadows. Oil lamps parallel to each other.
The two hesitate, step forward.
Concrete steps. A decadent facade. An old church amongst mold-ridden rubble.
The two step forward. The nun pulls on the door. The door opens.
The boy holds the nun back, steps forward, into the church, holding up a hand, holding her back.
Shuffling, rustling, muffled curses. The boy returns, a lamp in hand, nodding reassuringly.
The nun steps into the steeple.
EXT. FIELD - DAY
Scattered rays of staggered light pirouette across sagging wheat, alighting the three. The cowboy comes to.
The cowboy sits, rips off his gas mask, struggles, stands, curses, mumbles, falls to his knees. The young woman awakes with the ruckus. The little girl sighs, moans, shifts.
The young woman shuffles, rests the little girl’s head upon a bed of wheat, stands, stretches, and removes her gas mask. The three surrounded by ashes.
The young woman searches the ashes. Miscellaneous trinkets melted by heat. The young woman stops, crouches, shifts through the ashes.
The young woman picks up a metal pipe. Another.
The young woman rips, tears, cloth, stitching, wraps the fabric around each pipe.
Makeshift crutches. The young woman offers them to the couwboy.
The cowboy obliges, struggles, strains, stands, takes a few steps forward, back. The cowboy nods to the young woman.
The little girl stirs, sits. Yelling, screaming, terror, panic. The little girl claws at her larynx. The young woman rushes over.
The little girl snips, snarls. The young woman hesitates. The little girl shrieks shrill horror. The young woman steps closer, closer.
Bleeding, screaming, gasping, coughing. Blood spews from the little girl’s parted lips.
The little girl flails, gestures, writhes, pleas despairingly. The young woman surveys the field, searching for that which cannot be reached.
The mask. The gas mask. The little girl gasping. The young woman dives, pulls, the gas mask rooted.
The cowboy’s crutch leaning upon the strap. The young woman pushes, pulls, tries to break free. The cowboy shakes his head solemnly.
The little girl sprawled across the mud, wailing, screaming desperately. The young woman looks back to the cowboy, eyes pleading. The cowboy shakes his head earnestly.
The young woman digs her nails into his scar, his wound. The cowboy yelps, tumbles, rolls. The young woman snatches the gas mask, wraps it around the little girl.
Deep breaths. The little girl calms, sighs, closes her eyes. Rests.
The cowboy struggles back to his feet, limps to her, past her, hobbling off. The young woman turns, watches him go.
The young woman shakes the little girl, helps her up, and the two follow the third, approaching the rising sun.
INT. STEEPLE - DAY
Sunlight gathers upon rotting lumber, piercing glass stained and dusty.
The boy lays upon a pew. The nun sprawled across concrete. Stomach down, eyes closed, arms apart, legs together. The nun prays fervently.
Gas masks lay upon a shabby podium, balancing upon a rickety shelf.
Sunlight scatters lucid dreams. The boy groggily awakens.
The nun turns, nods, smiles, stands, approaches the boy, and sits next to him. The boy stares at his callused hands.
An ominous, feral thud. The boy jumps, startled, charges the door.
Heaving, writhing, bending ominously. The door thunders menacingly.
The nun approaches. The boy heaves his body against the door.
Harder. Harder. The boy thrown down.
A rising sun. A horrific shadow. Three figures loom, menacing.
The young woman, the cowboy, the little girl. The boy sits up.
The boy and the nun stare at the little girl, her gas mask, her wrists covered.
The boy lurches, lunges, clutches loose sleeves. Two black marks, one upon each wrist.
The boy reaches for his knife. The young woman shakes her head slowly. The boy hesitates, obliges.
The little girl pushes past, off, skips over to holy water, removes her gas mask, swallows irreverently. The nun moves to stop her, held back by the cowboy. The little girl wipes her lips, satisfied, straps back on her gas mask.
The boy looks to the cowboy. The cowboy nods to the young woman. The boy looks to the young woman.
The young woman huffs, stomps, snatches the revolver, cocks it, shoves it, pushes the boy forward.
The boy hesitates, turns, paces. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again. Again.
Shaking, fidgeting, trembling uncontrollably.
The boy closes his eyes, steadies, whispers, shrieks, charges. The little girl chuckles.
The boy presses the gun into her skull, cocks it, mumbles. The little girl smiles.
The boy tosses the weapon. The cowboy picks up the revolver.
The little girl chuckles, climbs onto a pew, jumps onto another, another, another.
Running, jumping, playing.
The cowboy crutches over to a statue, Jesus Christ, and spits on the figure. The nun gasps, stomps, pulls the cowboy close, slaps him.
The cowboy spits in her face, then crutches over to a pew. The nun doesn’t move.
The boy looks at his watch, mumbles, shrugs, steps over to a pew. The young woman approaches the nun, offers torn cloth.
The nun obliges, cleans, hands it back over, refused. The nun tucks it into her pocket, pulls the young woman into a far off room.
The cowboy stares at the statue, sips from his flask. The boy carves into a pew. The nun and young woman return with a decrepit bible.
The nun whispers to the young woman and hobbles over to a pew. The young woman slams the book down upon the shabby podium. The boy and the cowboy turn with the thud.
The young woman clears her throat.
The crackle of bone. A feral shriek. The little girl, fallen between pews.
The young woman rushes over. The cowboy hobbles. The boy too. The nun doesn’t move.
The little girl seizes. The young woman lurches, clutches, holds the little girl still.
The little girl thrashes, crashes, hyperventilates, suffocates.
The boy grabs her legs, the cowboy her arms; the young woman straddles her, holds down her head.
The little girl calms.
The young woman hesitates, nods. The two men release the little girl.
The feral toll of a whistle. A bell. Steam.
The nun steps out of the church and onto the steps of the steeple.
EXT. CHURCH - DAY
A train stops before her.
Doors open. A queer, shrill giggling. The nun looks back to the others. The others take no notice.
Laughter becomes hectic, frantic, frightening. Screaming, howling.
The nun steps back, trips, falls, thrown upon the steps of the facade.
Frogs.
Dozens. Hundreds. Leaping. Jumping. Croaking. Trampling the nun. Charging the steeple.
The little girl screams. The boy jumps to his feet. The young woman turns. The cowboy clutches his revolver, cocks, fires.
Frogs burst from gun fire. Six shots fired. Reloading.
The boy snatches the cowboy’s crutches, tosses one to the young woman, swings, smacks, crushes with the other, his knife slashing all the while.
More and more frogs disperse from the locomotive.
The nun withdraws her serrated blade, thrashes, slashes, cuts frog after frog again and again
The little girl shrieks a rebel yell, rips off her gas mask, pounces upon one frog, then another, another, grabbing, stomping, biting; spitting guts, gore, blood.
The cowboy pulls the trigger. Click. Click. Out of ammo.
The cowboy curses under his breath, removes a flask, sips, pours the rest onto a pew, lights a match.
The pew bursts into flames. Frogs aglow, afire, aflame, leaping in miserable pain. The church consumed by terrible flames.
The boy leaps to the podium, snatches lost gas masks, helps the cowboy up, and swings about violently with his metal cane.
The young woman stumbles, staggers, hobbles to the little girl, pushes, pulls, drops the crutch, lifts her up, the little girl thrashing savagely.
Coughing. Choking. Smoke encompassing.
The little girl breaks free, runs past the two men, the nun, and leaps onto the train.
The young woman screams, chases after the little girl. Held back by the nun. The young woman pushes, shoves, leaps onto the train.
The train lurches forward. The nun snatches a dropped gas mask, jumps onto the train.
The train gathers speed. Faster. Faster.
The cowboy limps along, the boy trying to make haste, grabbing the other crutch as the two make their way.
Cars pass by. First one. Then another. Another.
The cowboy trips, falls. The boy hesitates, stops, turns, helps the cowboy up.
The train speeds off.
The boy kicks the ground, smashes gas masks. The cowboy shrugs. The blazing flames silhouette scorched frogs.
INT. TRAIN - DAY
The little girl coughs, chokes, heaves, gags, splayed across the floor moldy and rotten.
The young woman runs, sprints, cradles the little girl, reaches for her gas mask: gone. The young woman pivots, turns, hectic, frantic, tossing her head like a top without friction.
The nun hobbles in, scarred, bruised, the young woman’s gas mask in her hand.
The young woman jumps, leaps, lurches, snatches the gas mask. Grabbed, stopped, seized mid-flight.
Pushing. Pulling. Back. Forth. Again. Again.
Neither relents.
Harder. Harder. Faster. Faster. The young woman infuriated. The nun agitated.
The young woman relents. The nun falls back, down, onto the carpeted ground. The nun reaches for her knife, stopped, the young woman on top, holding her down, crushing her hands, forcing the knife out of her grip and across the ground.
The two struggle, strain. The nun thrashing, slashing. The young woman holding her back, holding her down.
The nun throws the young woman off. The young woman falls with a thud.
The two jump, lurch, reach for the knife, the nun too slow.
The young woman rolls, stands, leers, threatens, no more than a foot away from her oppressor. The nun pauses, hesitates, stands, steps forward.
Thrown against a wall, the knife pressed to her throat. The nun swallows hard. The young woman presses ever harder, drawing blood.
The nun closes her eyes, whispers, prays.
The young woman gone, back to the little girl, strapping on the gas mask momentarily lost. The little girl goes limp, steady, silent. The young woman sighs, sits next to the little girl.
The nun glares, studies her watch, scoffs, and stomps out of the car.
The young woman kisses the little girl.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The cowboy hobbles along as the boy walks beside, head low, eyes morose, gas masks strapped on.
The two stop at the sight of a horse.
The cowboy cackles, whistles. The horse approaches.
The cowboy holds out his hand, the horse submits. The cowboy brushes the head of the mustang.
The horse whinnies. The boy jumps. The cowboy chuckles, tosses his crutches, struggles onto the mustang.
The cowboy pats the horse behind him. The boy steps back, shakes his head.
The cowboy shrugs, gallops off, dissipating into the fog.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - NIGHT
Cursing, tossing. The nun rummages through one box, then another, another, fog nipping at ankles, advancing from a door slightly ajar.
The young woman steps into the room. The nun doesn’t notice.
The young woman surveys the putrid room. Boxes. Dozens. Stacked one on top of the other.
The young woman approaches the nun and taps her on the shoulder.
The nun jumps, growls, frothing at the mouth. The young woman staggers back, horrified.
The nun turns back to her boxes, back to discarded items. Ravenous, ferocious, furious.
Boxes sway with the ebb and flow of the train. The young woman takes a step back. Another. Another. Eyes glued to the nun.
The nun groans, growls, hurls the box, starts in on another.
Frivolous items become dangerous. Knives. Swords. Guns. Ammunition.
The nun cackles, dances, a medical mask strapped on her. The young woman at the door.
Push. Pull. The door won’t open.
The young woman turns. Struggles. Strains. Still the door won’t open.
Fog begins to rise.
The nun approaches, a knife in hand.
The young woman coughs. Gags. Dry heaves.
The nun cackles. The young woman throws her back against the door, threatening her knife.
The nun bursts into feverish laughter. The young woman thrashes, slashes, caught mid-swing. The nun crushing flesh, muscle, bone.
The young woman’s hand contorts in terrible agony. The young woman screams, the knife released.
The nun lunges, lurches, jabs, stabs, blocked, caught. The knife thrown into the wall next to the young woman; the nun’s hand knocked away, held back, struggling, straining.
The young woman ripped off the floor, against the door, held by the throat, by rancid, rotting fingers.
Coughing. Choking. Struggling. Straining.
One hand becomes two. Tighter. Tighter.
The young woman flails, clutches, grabs the knife, slashes.
The nun falls back, hisses, bleeding.
The young woman slashes, thrashes. The nun smiles pitiably.
The young woman takes a step forward. Another. Another.
Jabs, stabs, stopped. The knife torn out of her hand; the young woman flipped over.
The young woman moans upon the floor. The nun steps closer.
The young woman clutches a revolver, cocks the hammer, threatens. The nun pauses, laughs, steps closer.
The young woman coughs, gags, pulls the trigger. No ammunition. The nun pounces.
The young woman rolls. The knife just misses. The young woman climbs to her feet.
Tripped. Pulled. The nun straddles the young woman, pushes, presses, the knife centimeters from her larynx.
The young woman screams.
The door to the next car bursts open. The little girl bursts in, charges, tackles.
The nun falls next to the young woman, the knife knocked out of her grasp.
The little girl claws, tears, bites, snarls. The nun screams. The little girl slams the nun’s head against the floor.
Again. Again. Again.
The young woman clutches the little girl and drags her out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
The nun unconscious. Bleeding. Breathing.
EXT. SALOON - NIGHT
Horse shoes click, clack, pause, hesitate. An old saloon.
The cowboy loads his gun, cocks it, fires. Glass shatters. No reaction.
The cowboy grunts, groans, climbs off his horse, leans up against it, and ties it to the railing: ancient rotting lumber.
Slowly, carefully, the cowboy makes his way down the railing and to the steps. The cowboy pauses. Nothing to latch onto.
The cowboy looks to the horse, digs through his pockets. A pocket watch. Midnight.
The cowboy mumbles, shakes his head, grunts, groans, drops to the ground, and drags himself up the ragged steps. Lucid pain.
Another step. Another. Another. At the door.
The cowboy pushes, pulls. The door won’t open.
The cowboy throws his shoulder against the door. Harder. Harder.
The door bends, crackles, doesn’t break. The cowboy pauses, exhausted.
The cowboy props his body against the door, throws his back into the wood. Futile.
The cowboy sighs, turns to his side, removes his revolver, and shoots the hinges.
Wood scatters, scratches, cuts. The cowboy grunts, groans, throws his body against the door.
The door tumbles onto the floor, taking the cowboy with it.
The cowboy moans, crawls into the saloon.
INT. TRAIN - NIGHT
Slamming, banging, crashing. A syncopated thud reverberating from the storage room. The young woman stares at the heaving door, terrified, frightened. The little girl soothes.
Another door rattles too.
The young woman clutches the little girl incredibly tight. The little girl pushes, pulls, no use.
The train slows, stops. The young woman looks out the window. Impenetrable fog.
Doors rattle, jar. Bending. Breaking. Hinges snapping.
The little girl removes her gas mask, hands it over, stands upon leather, and opens the window.
The little girl smiles and jumps out the window.
The young woman lurches, lunges, dives. Too slow.
Doors heave, writhe, bend, break.
The young woman straps on the gas mask and dives into the fog.
EXT. SCHOOLYARD - NIGHT
From the fog emerges the boy, a schoolyard, a school. Rusted equipment, frail and unused.
The boy looks at his watch: 2:30. The boy approaches the doors to the school.
Push. Pull. Locked.
The boy pauses, searches, approaches a playground, hops over a rusted fence, clutches a metal pole.
Push. Pull. Kick. The metal pole snaps.
The boy swings the pole like a baseball bat, steps over to the doors, a window, and smashes it in.
The boy wipes down the glass and climbs through.
INT. SALOON - NIGHT
Shadows quiver across fading oil lamps, alighting a cowboy straining and struggling, blood strewn across ragged stubble, heaving a fallen door.
The cowboy struggles, strains, props the door against the doorframe, leans up against it.
The door falls forward. The cowboy smacks his head against it. Mumbled curses.
The cowboy digs through his pockets, studies his pocket watch: 2:40.
The cowboy sighs, sits, drags himself over to the bar, pulls himself up onto a stool, reaches over, grabs a bottle, and drinks ravenously.
The cowboy sighs, taps his fingers upon the bar.
A long moment passes.
The cowboy struggles to the floor.
With incredible effort, the cowboy drags himself to a table, pushes, pulls, strains. The cowboy inches the table across the saloon.
Reaching the door frame, the cowboy hobbles past the table and to the door. Grabbing, clutching, pulling; the cowboy heaves the door into the saloon.
The cowboy drags himself around the table, flips it over, and presses it against the gaping door frame. The cowboy sighs, breaths, crawls to the door, lifts it, finagles, balances it on top of the table, horizontal, sealing the gaping door frame.
A sallow wind. The door falls before the cowboy.
The cowboy kicks it, furious.
EXT. BATTLEFIELD - NIGHT
Atop a hill, near a small, mud ridden embankment, a miserable battle engages.
Thunderous shock waves. Ferocious rumbles. Miserable, horrid, agonizing wails of mercy.
At the precipice of this battlefield, before trenches less than a half mile off, amongst tall grass wilting and dying, stand the young woman, the little girl.
The rustling of leaves, trees, footsteps. Guttural groans. Whispers. Harsh reprimands.
The young woman drops to her stomach. The little girl giggles. The young woman shushes, grabs, pulls, forces the little girl down to her stomach.
Approaching, mumbling, moaning. Three young men, shouldering rifles, grumbling impatiently through gas masks old and decrepit. The officer, a lieutenant, balances an oil lamp upon four fingers.
The little girl cackles. The three men turn, ready to fire. The young woman slaps her hand over the little girl’s mouth. The little girl shakes with unkempt laughter.
The officer hands the oil lamp over to another, straps a bayonet to his rifle, balances the oil lamp upon the bayonet, and steps forward. The other two load their guns, aim, fingers tight upon triggers.
The little girl bites. The young woman yelps. The three men fire, aiming towards the sound.
The little girl takes off, perpendicular to the soldiers.
The officer steps closer. Closer. Hesitant. Cautious. Followed by the two others.
Grass rustling. The officer pivots, turns, fires. Unkempt momentum; the lamp goes flying.
Utter darkness.
A miserable wail. The officer stops, pauses, gestures to the two others.
The two step closer, look to each other, down at the ground in shame, fear. The officer grunts, groans, grabs one of them by the collar, and hurls him into the darkness.
Yelling. Screaming. The soldier tumbles back with the little girl latched onto him.
Clawing, straining, snipping, biting.
The man throws the little girl off him and aims his rifle at her. The others do likewise. The little girl pauses.
The three men confer over the little girl’s body.
The young woman clutches her mouth, tears tearing apart false courage.
A single shot fired. The young woman screams.
The three men turn. The officer gestures to another. The man pauses, hesitates. The officer aims his gun at him.
The soldier sighs, approaches, farther, farther, encroaching darkness.
The young woman bawls, whimpers, moans. The subordinate trips over the young woman, misfires.
The soldier aims his bayonet at the dark figure.
The young woman clutches the bayonet. The soldier pulls the trigger. Pushed away at the last second. Misfire.
The young woman slams the butt of the rifle into the soldier’s nose. Another misfire. The soldier squeals, drops the weapon.
The young woman straddles the soldier and crushes his larynx.
The soldier whimpers, grunts, groans, flails, clutches the weapon, aims, pulls the trigger, no ammunition. The soldier slashes the bayonet, cuts the young woman open.
The young woman rolls off the solider, into the grass, hidden.
The soldier reloads, searches the grass, aims his rifle, finger tight upon the trigger.
A rustle. A tussle. The young soldier pivots. Pulled from behind by the larynx.
Another misfire. Another. Another.
The gun kicked out of his hands, off to the side. The soldier writhes, hits, flails, strains.
The soldier reaches into his belt, withdraws a dagger, jabs frantically, violently. Released, thrown off.
The soldier flips, pivots, turns, ready to pounce. The young woman gone. The rifle stolen.
The solider paces, crouches, turns. Rustling. The soldier pivots opposite the sound.
Stabbed in the back. The bayonet struck through. The young woman removes the bayonet. The soldier falls to the ground, dead.
The young woman approaches the others. The soldiers aim their rifles at her. The young woman raises her hands, drops her weapon.
INT. SALOON - NIGHT
Crashing, smashing. Glass shattering. The cowboy rummages through cabinets, miscellaneous items, forgotten gas masks.
A box. A tool box. Hammer. Nails.
The cowboy drags himself across the saloon and to the gaping door frame.
The cowboy props the door on top of the table, the toolbox balanced upon the edge of the table. The cowboy pulls, struggles, strains, leans all his weight upon the table, stands.
Gasping, heaving, the cowboy opens the toolbox, removes a nail, the hammer.
Nail to door, hammer to nail. Hitting. Slamming. Banging. Gasping from the effort.
The cowboy reaches for another, knocks over the toolbox, scatters the nails.
The cowboy grunts, groans, pulls out his watch: 2:55.
The cowboy leans his hand against the door, bends down, reaches for a nail. Too far.
The cowboy inches closer, closer. Trips. Falls.
The door swings. The nail falters. The door tumbles on top of the cowboy.
The cowboy grunts, groans, pushes the door off him. A feral growl.
The cowboy sighs, crawls behind the bar, removes his watch, hangs it upon a nail, withdraws his six shooter, loads it, cocks it, aims.
The cowboy looks at his watch: 2:58.
INT. SCHOOL - NIGHT
The boy looks at his watch: 2:58.
The boy wanders the halls, trying the doors to each and every room. All closed. All locked.
The rattle of aluminum.
The boy pivots, turns, hands tight around the metal pole. The boy again looks at his watch. 2:58.
The boy taps the watch, holds it close, to his ear, muffles curses, turns.
A flicker of light upon a set of stairs. The boy hesitates, looks back towards the rattling, the rustling, steps towards the light, up the stairs.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
A door cracked open. The boy pushes the door open.
INT. CLASSROOM - NIGHT
A school desk, a chair, askew in the middle of the room.
The boy looks back to the howls, the growls, the guttural, horrid moans. The boy steps into the room aiming his rifle.
INT. BUNKER - NIGHT
An 18 year old boy aims his rifle at the young woman, lulling in and out of consciousness, head dropping, drooping, struggling to keep his eyes open.
The young woman glares through her gas mask, hands tied behind her, feet together, sitting amongst filth, dirt, mud.
The young boy succumbs to slumber, leans forward, misfires.
The young boy jumps, startled. Three men shuffle into the bunker. The boy leaps to his feet, drops his weapon, leans forward, stops, stands, salutes again.
One of the three men nods to the two others. The two grab the boy. The boy struggles, strains. The officer picks up the dropped weapon, cocks it, fires. The boy shot in the head, dead.
Blood splatters across the room. The officer holds out his hand. A soldier hands the officer a piece of cloth. The officer wipes down his mask, tosses it back, walks off.
The two men follow, dragging the dead kid.
The young woman hesitates. Marching feet dissipate. The young woman rolls to her feet, hops to the hole where a door should be.
The young woman dips her head out, in, throws her body against the packed dirt wall.
A soldier steps in, past the young woman, pauses.
The young woman charges, knocks the soldier down, falls down next to him. The rifle skids, tumbles, rolls.
The young woman leaps for the bayonet, pulled back by the soldier.
The young woman kicks, flails, knocks him in the head, unconscious. Blood spewing, spilling, gushing.
The young woman clutches the rifle, the bayonet, sawing, cutting.
The soldier comes to, withdraws a weapon, a knife, pauses, a gun pointed at him. The soldier chuckles.
The young woman cuts her feet free, stands, nods, gestures. The soldier stands, tucks away his weapon, hands held high, smiling.
The soldier takes a step forward. The young woman a step back. Another. Another. The young woman bumps into a wall.
The soldier takes another step. Closer. Closer.
The young woman pulls back the hammer. The soldier chuckles, takes another step forward.
The young woman pulls the trigger. Nothing. The young woman pulls the trigger again, again; the soldier steps closer. Closer. Hands upon the barrel. The soldier tosses the rifle.
The soldier clutches her neck, slams her against the wall, feet off the ground, knife at her throat. The soldier rips off her mask, his own, forces himself upon her, pulls back, stares, coughs up blood.
The saber from the rifle pierces the soldier’s stomach. The soldier gawks, falls, vomits. The young woman picks up the rifle, his mask, his clothes, wraps them over her own, and steps out of the bunker.
INT. SALOON - NIGHT
Growling, gurgling, grunting. Impenetrable fog; nothing visible beyond the gaping hole in the wall.
Shaking. Quivering. The cowboy pulls back the hammer, peeks around the corner.
The table blocking the door goes flying.
The cowboy ducks, cowers, curses, fires into the fog. All six shots. Silence.
The cowboy pulls himself up, leans against the counter, loads his six shooter.
A ravage, wild snarl. The nun emerges from the shadows.
The cowboy chuckles, tucks away his weapon.
The nun stands opposite the cowboy. The cowboy holds out his hand. The nun takes it, grabs it, pulls.
The cowboy thrown, bitten, flailing, screaming. The nun shaking her head like a rabid wild animal.
The cowboy struggles, pushes, pulls, throws the nun off him, a good chunk of his ear gone with her.
The cowboy dives behind the bar, clutching what’s left of his torn off left ear.
The nun spits muscle, cartilage, bone, cackles, blood spewing from decrepit jowls.
The nun grapples with a stool, smashes it over the counter, utilizes the sharp leg as a weapon.
The nun steps back into the haze.
The cowboy hesitates, peeks around the corner, fires a single shot, waits.
A long moment passes. The cowboy pulls himself up to the counter.
Nothing but the acrid, putrid haze.
EXT. TRENCHES - NIGHT
Yelling. Shouting. Earth shattering.
The young woman marches against a wave of down trodden soldiers, head down, hair back, tucked under her hat.
A guttural, foreign demand. The young woman looks away, ignores him.
The officer approaches.
The young woman turns, walks in the opposite direction.
Grabbed, pulled, stopped. The officer yells German at her.
The young woman salutes, feigns confidence. The officer scoffs, grabs, pulls, tosses her gun into the mud. The young woman freezes.
The officer gestures to the gun. The young woman bends over. The officer kicks the her over.
The young woman falls into the mud. The young woman reaches for the gun. The officer cocks his own. The young woman hesitates.
The officer cackles through his mask. The young woman sweeps the officer’s legs. The officer misfires. The young woman stands, cocks her gun, fires.
The officer dead, shot in the head. None notice. All march by without concern or bother.
The young woman steals his knife, his ammunition, and continues down the trench in the opposite direction, encroaching the mob pushing past her.
INT. CLASSROOM - NIGHT
Jarring. Rattling. The door to the room bends ominously.
The boy stands next to the door, opposite the hinges, back against the wall, hands upon metal, breathing heavily.
The door bursts open. The boy swings without hesitation.
A guttural groan. A thud. A queer mirage falls to the floor.
The boy kicks it back, slams the door shut.
The door falters despite the boy’s courage. The boy closes his eyes, whispers, prays, steps forward. The door flies open.
The boy flails, swings, batters lucid fog. Stopped mid-swing: a rotting, fleshless blob.
The pole thrown back. The boy pitched to the ground. The boy groans in pain, tries to stand.
A feral foot upon his back, crushing bone. The boy whimpers, moans.
A maleficent cackle.
The boy snatches his knife, swings savagely. A hollow thud.
The boy stabs, slashes, beats the savage thing hidden by fog.
The beast fidgets no longer. The boy sighs, kicks it back.
The boy surveys the gathering fog. At his feet, rising.
The boy steps to the desk, flips it over, smashes the wooden chair, and clutches a wooden leg.
The boy kneels, hidden behind the desk, sharpening the stake with his dulling blade.
EXT. BATTLEFIELD - NIGHT
The young woman reaches the end of the trenches, where defense meets offense, earth shaking, mud slinging, powerful missiles alighting the dark horizon.
The young woman looks back to the trenches, back to the battlefield. A long, pregnant pause.
The young woman steps onto the battlefield. The rattle of machine guns. The young woman dives back into the trenches.
A middle aged soldier, witness to the tragedy, shakes his head, chuckles.
The young woman jumps, startled, hammer back, finger tight upon the trigger.
The soldier holds up his hands, his rifle held high. The young woman stands, gestures. The soldier sighs. relents, sets down his rifle, takes a step backward.
The young woman approaches, kicks the gun behind her, pats down the soldier.
A knife. The young woman takes it. No other weapons. The young woman retreats.
The soldier reaches into his pocket. The young woman tightens her grip upon the trigger. The soldier withdraws a flask, sips it, offers.
The young woman hesitates, steps forward, snatches it, sniffs it, sips it, gags spits. The soldier chuckles.
The young woman tosses the flask onto the putrid soil. The soldier bends over, grabs it, pauses, flings the canister at her rifle.
The young woman misfires.
The soldier snatches the barrel, pushes, shoves, flips the gun over, and cocks the hammer.
The young woman reaches for the other. The soldier fires just above her, cocks the rifle.
The young woman holds her hands high. The soldier flips the rifle, offers it to her.
The young woman hesitates. The soldier nods. The young woman takes the gun.
The soldier holds out his hand. The young woman stands.
The soldier points to the abandoned rifle. The young woman hesitates, nods. The soldier picks up the gun, studies it, loads it, sets it aside.
The soldier sits opposite his gun, legs stretched out, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes, matches.
The soldier offers a nail. The young woman nods, sets her gun aside, and sits across from the middle aged man.
The soldier lights a match, a cigarette, another, removes his mask, pulls, blows, returns his mask. The young woman repeats the task, a mirror image of the aging soldier.
INT. SALOON - NIGHT
The cowboy extinguishes his cigarette, surveys the cumbersome haze, puts more and more weight upon his legs.
Wincing, grunting, groaning.
The cowboy clenches the counter, slams his fist. The cowboy puts all of his weight upon his two legs. The cowboy crumbles.
The cowboy barks irritation with a savage, wild moan, reaches up to the counter and pulls himself back up.
The whinny of a horse. The cowboy fires haphazardly into the haze. Still the horse whinnies, neighs.
The cowboy climbs on top of the counter and reloads his six shooter. A feeble moan.
The cowboy pulls the hammer to the revolver. A tolling, thumping grind.
The cowboy leans over the counter, sips from a bottle, smashes the bottle, and threatens the bottle along with the revolver.
A projectile heaved at him. The gun hurled into the haze. The cowboy screams in horrendous pain.
A stake, dripping with blood, where a palm once was.
The nun hobbles out of the haze. Skin rotting, peeling, flaking.
The cowboy grits his teeth, clutches the wooden stake, attempts to remove that retched thing: no luck. The nun approaches.
The cowboy wraps his feet around the stake, grunts, groans, heaves. The stake thrown out of his hand and into the haze. The cowboy screams in retched pain. The nun steps closer.
The cowboy clutches the broken bottle, flails about wildly. The nun cackles, just out of reach.
The cowboy lurches, dives, misses the nun, falls to the ground with a painful thud.
The nun kicks. The cowboy grunts. The nun kicks again, grabbed, pulled down.
The cowboy on top. The nun nipping, biting, snarling. The cowboy’s fingers wrapped around the nun’s larynx. The nun’s fingers unstrap the cowboy’s mask, dig into his eyes.
The cowboy slams her head against the dirt floor. The nun presses harder. Harder. Blood spewing from damaged eye sockets.
The cowboy falters, rolls off her. Momentarily blinded.
Fog. Haze. Darkness.
The cowboy flails about wildly. Clutches his gas mask, straps it back on, hobbles forward, trips upon his gun. A shot misfired.
The cowboy crawls towards the gun, grabs it, cocks it.
Footsteps. A shot fired. Rustling. Another shot fired.
The clatter of horseshoes. The whine of a horse. The cowboy crawls towards it, flailing his gun.
A step. Another. Another. The horse tied to the railing only a few feet distance.
The cowboy struggles down the steps, latches onto the rail, pulls himself up.
A hazy mirage. The cowboy fires another shot, hobbles onto his horse.
The cowboy reaches for the reins still tied to the rail. The cowboy maneuvers, adjusts, too far away.
The mirage gains. The cowboy cocks his gun, fires. Out of ammunition.
The cowboy digs through his pockets, throws away trinkets. Cigarettes. Matches. No bullets.
The cowboy pulls, rips, struggles, strains, tears the reins, slaps the horse, gallops off.
The nun stands at the precipice, skin rotted off, muscle peeling, smiling, cackling, jaw contorting, twisting off.
INT. CLASSROOM - NIGHT
Growling, snarling, the boy peers out from behind the wooden desk. Only putrid, acrid, rancid haze.
The boy sits back, sighs, sharpens his wooden stake.
A window shatters six feet away.
The boy jumps, one hand upon the wooden stake, another upon the blade. A hand grips the sill of the window: fleshless bone.
The boy lurches, lunges, stabs the brittle hand with the wooden stake. A guttural, feral groan.
Another hand reaches for the first, struggling, straining, moaning, pushing, pulling. The boy stabs the other with the metal blade.
A guttural groan.
The boy looks back to the door.
Stomping. Slamming. Galloping. Howling. Barking. Yelping.
The boy looks back to the window.
Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.
The boy pauses, hesitates. The feral figure before him snipping, snarling
The boy looks back to the door, rattling, jarring. The boy sighs, grunts, groans, removes the two stakes simultaneously.
A hollow thud. The boy looks out the window.
A dark carcass lies upon the ground, crumpled, broken. The boy pauses.
Savage beasts emerge from the shadows, charging towards him.
The boy jumps out the window, tumbling from the second story.
EXT. TRENCHES - DAY
Discarded cigarettes scatter about the two figures in the growing light of day, fog dissipating with morning rays.
The young woman smothers her cigarette, shoves off the sleeping man, and removes her gas mask, breathing deeply, heavily, sighing in glorious ecstasy.
The young woman stands, stretches, a brief seize fire. The young woman grabs her gun and steps out of the trenches.
More gun fire. The young woman dives back into the trenches.
The soldier comes to, stirred not by gunfire, but the ruckus of the young woman.
The soldier removes his mask, rubs his eyes, looks at the young woman, chuckles, shakes his head, sighs.
The soldier digs through his pockets, removes a white handkerchief, ties it around her gun, her bayonet, and hands it over.
The young woman hesitates. The soldier nods. The young woman holds up the gun, steps out onto the battlefield.
No shots. No gunfire.
The young woman takes another step. Another. Another. Nothing.
The young woman looks back to the soldier. The soldier shakes his head, gestures back to the trenches.
The young woman nods, salutes, and walks down the battlefield parallel to the trenches, heading towards the rising sun, a small village silhouetted by the growing light of day.
EXT. HILL - DAY
The cowboy tears off his gas mask, sighs, studies the village, the battlefield beyond.
The cowboy whips his reins; the horse whinnies, neighs, doesn’t move. Again the cowboy whips, all the same.
Harder, harder, faster, faster. No reaction. The horse won’t move, forward or backward.
The cowboy mumbles, grumbles, struggles off the horse, onto his feet, leaning as much as he can upon the horse for support.
The cowboy takes a step forward, wincing, grunting. Another, another. Tripping. Falling.
The horse lies down, apathetic to his riders predicament.
The cowboy sits up, searches his pockets, quietly curses, heaves his revolver. A single shot fired. A shot to the head. The horse, dead.
The cowboy gawks, stares, crawls to his revolver and studies it carefully. Still a single bullet.
The cowboy pulls back the hammer and clutches the trigger. Nothing.
Again. Again. Again.
The cowboy studies the six shooter, the barrel, the cylinder. The bullet still there, unmoved.
The cowboy sighs, tucks away his revolver, pats the horse gently, and crawls to a tree a few feet distant, a branch fallen and rotting.
The cowboy snaps the stick, breaks it in two, and struggles to stand, using the branch as a cane.
Standing, the cowboy winces, grunts, moans, takes a step forward. Another. Another. Down the hill and towards the village.
EXT. FOREST - DAY
Hobbling, limping, the boy pauses, breathes, leans heavily against a sallow tree, the forest behind him, a field before him. The boy unfastens his gas mask.
A small village, a battlefield.
The boy steps towards the village, stops, hesitates, reaches into his pocket, studies the photos, the factory, the village, the trenches.
The boy hesitates, sighs, tucks away the photos, approaches the trenches.
EXT. VILLAGE - DAY
Rancid, acrid, dilapidated architecture forgotten and abandoned, rotting upon shattered bricks of ancient cobblestone. The young woman comes upon this ghost town, this village that once was, and hesitates at the precipice, where dirt meets cobblestone, then continues on.
A clicking, clanking, rhythmic blow. The young woman stops, hesitates. Sound precipitates from across the road, around a sharp corner worn and eroding.
The young woman loads the rifle, cocks it, aims, clutches the trigger, breathes, steadies.
The clanking grows louder. Louder. A long, grotesque shadow.
The young woman closes one eye, aims, fires.
A screech. A yelp. The cowboy falls to the ground, head covered, eyes forsaken.
The young woman gasps, rushes over. The cowboy cowers.
The young woman kneels, rests a hand upon his shoulders. The cowboy winces, jumps, crawls back in horror.
The young woman gasps, sets down her weapon, slides it over. The cowboy hesitates, clutches the rifle, cocks it, taps his wrists.
The young woman reveals clean wrists. The cowboy hesitates, pulls himself closer, grabs her wrists, turns them over.
The cowboy tosses her wrists.
The young woman, with her hands held high, stands.
The cowboy crawls to his cane, one hand still upon the weapon, and tries to stand. Struggles. Strains. Can’t.
The young woman steps closer, holds out her hand. The cowboy hesitates, shakes his head, sets the gun down, and with two hands, uses the cane to stand.
The young woman steps closer. The cowboy snarls. The young woman steps back.
The cowboy reaches for the rifle. Struggles. Strains. Can’t reach.
The young woman picks up the gun, offers it to him.
The cowboy grunts, turns his back to her, and limps down the street. The young woman smiles, follows.
EXT. HILL - DAY
The boy pauses at the precipice of a small hill, surveying filthy trenches, marching soldiers, wailing cowards, howling heroes.
The click of a gun.
The boy sighs, clutches his knife.
A deep, heavy breath.
The boy pivots, turns, throws his knife.
The nun falls, tumbles, rolls; the gun tossed, pitched, thrown, a bullet discharged.
The boy charges, grabs, pulls, a hand upon the trigger. Another upon the barrel: a haggard figure, rotted skin, jutting bone. The boy hesitates.
The nun cackles through her gas mask. The boy fires the rifle, once, twice, out of ammunition.
The nun shoves the butt of the rifle into the boy’s nose. The boy falls, tumbles, rolls, nose bleeding, broken, rifle thrown.
The nun rips out the knife, jabs, stabs, blocked, thrown, under, the boy on top, the knife gone.
The boy wraps his hands around her larynx.
The nun rips off her mask, grasps his skull, pulls, bites, snips, snarls. The boy pushes back, jumps off. The nun spits blood, flesh, reaches for the gas mask.
Kicked back, off. The nun lurches, the boy dives, the two struggle for the gas mask.
The boy’s fingers slip. The nun falls back, rolls, straps on the gas mask.
The boy snatches the knife, threatens.
The nun growls, snarls, approaches. The boy steps back.
Another step. Another. Another.
The nun pounces, lurches, clutches the knife with two skinless hands.
Pushing, pulling, stabbed in the stomach. The nun steps back. The knife pulled out.
The nun gawks at the gaping wound, falls to the ground.
The boy pauses, steps forward, presses a foot into her stomach. No movement.
The boy flips the nun over, searches her body: a pocket watch, a coin, a memento.
Upon the coin is etched a single phrase.
COIN
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
The boy stares at the coin, mumbles, turns it over.
A guttural, foreign demand. The boy drops the coin, his weapon, raises his hands.
A soldier. A rifle. The boy stands, steps back.
The soldier hesitantly approaches, steps over the dead woman, kicks away the knife, pats down the boy, snatches the coin, turns it over.
The soldier pauses, gapes, stands at attention.
The boy looks at him oddly, feigns confidence, salutes, marches past him, approaching the trenches.
The soldier studies the carcass, the body, crouches down, a snarl. The soldier jumps back, rushes off, catching up to the boy.
INT. COURTROOM - DAY
The cowboy lounges in the chair of a judge. The young woman sits upon a bench near the front.
A knock from the far side of the room. A door knob jiggles, turns. Yelling from beyond the door.
The cowboy looks to the young woman. The young woman to the door.
The young woman clutches her rifle, the cowboy his broken revolver. The young woman approaches the door.
Closer. Closer. Hectic, frantic, furious.
The cowboy cocks his gun. The young woman cocks her own, opens the door.
The soldier at the door, the young woman’s companion, aiming a gun at her. The soldier laughs, lowers his weapon. The young woman taps her wrists.
The soldier pulls back his sleeves, reveals clean skin. The young woman lowers her weapon; the cowboy tucks away his.
The soldier walks past the young woman and to the cowboy, offering a hand.
The cowboy tilts down his hat, leans back, nods off.
The soldier shrugs, saunters over to a bench, sits, rests his feet upon another bench.
The young woman looks down the hallway, left, right, closes the door behind her.
The young woman sits beside the soldier, her rifle between them, quiet, peevish.
The soldier withdraws a nail, a match, lights a cigarette, offers another. The young woman refuses.
The soldier shrugs, tucks away the box, pulls, blows. The young woman twiddles her thumbs.
The soldier withdraws a flask, whiskey, sips, offers. Again the young woman refuses.
The soldier sips, extinguishes his cigarette, tucks away his flask, stands, paces. The young woman watches, his steps rhythmic, hypnotic, aimless.
The soldier stops, smiles, approaches the young woman, points to her weapon. The young woman shrugs.
The soldier smiles, winks, picks up the rifle, studies its make, its model, snaps it in two. The young woman gapes. The soldier offers the two.
The young woman shakes her head slowly. The soldier shrugs and tosses the two. The young woman gawks.
The soldier withdraws his flask, sips, scatters whiskey across the floor, tucks away his flask, leans against a door, and removes a box of matches.
The young woman stands, takes a step towards him.
The soldier sighs, shakes his head slowly, lights a match. The young woman hesitates. The soldier drops the match.
A terrible fire.
The young woman jumps. The cowboy comes to. The soldier withdraws his rifle, aims it at the young woman.
The young woman raises her hands, takes a step forward. The soldier pulls back the hammer. The young woman steps closer. The soldier fires, just missing the young woman. The young woman pauses.
The cowboy removes his six shooter, cocks the revolver. The soldier chuckles, winks at the cowboy.
The cowboy snarls, tucks away his revolver.
The soldier reaches, pulls, pushes the door open.
A fierce draft enrages the flame, doubles the fire.
The young woman jumps back, flames snipping at her. The soldier chuckles. The cowboy hobbles off the judge’s temple. The soldier fires, inches from the cowboy’s skull.
The cowboy drops, limp, barely held off the ground by two shaking arms, reaching for his cane, heat radiating all about him.
The soldier approaches the cowboy and holds out his hand. The cowboy glares. The soldier fires between the cowboy’s legs.
The cowboy relents, allows the soldier to help him stand.
The young woman steps back, further, farther, the flames growing hotter. The young woman pressed against a wall crumbling.
The young woman screams. The soldier turns. The cowboy lurches, falls, snatches the gun, plummets to the floor, cocks the hammer, aims the rifle.
The soldier chuckles. The cowboy fires. No ammunition.
The soldier cackles. The cowboy swings the rifle, swipes his legs.
The soldier falls to his knees. The cowboy swings again, held by the wrist. Pushing, pulling, the rifle thrown into the fire.
The cowboy hobbles. The soldier pulls back, climbs on top, hits, punches, chokes.
Coughing. Choking. Gasping. Not breathing.
Pushing. Pressing. Gouging out eyes. The soldier presses down with all his might.
Hands loosen. Grip relents. The soldier falls to the ground, head bleeding.
The young woman falls, faints, next to the soldier, covered in burns, dropping the rifle.
The cowboy shrugs off the soldier, grabs his cane, crawls over to the young woman, and hefts her upon his shoulders.
A Herculean effort. The cowboy struggles, strains, stands.
A heavy, choking breath.
The cowboy hobbles out of the room.
EXT. TRENCHES - DAY
The boy walks through the trenches, lead by two officers, soldiers dropping everything to salute the boy assumed to be a general.
The two men leading stop before a door. The boy hesitates, knocks on the door. No answer.
The boy tries the door. The door opens.
INT. BUNKER - DAY
Strapped to a chair, screaming through a gag, sits an old man, bleeding profusely.
The boy steps into the room; the door closed behind him. The boy pivots, turns, knocks, slams. No response.
The old man cackles.
The boy lurches, threatens, holds up his hands in a threatening sort of manner. An apathetic smirk.
The boy heaves a heavy sigh, reaches into his pockets, reveals a letter, photographs.
The old man nods, mumbles through his gag. The boy removes his gags, his irksome restraints.
The old man stands, stretches, spits blood, wipes lips.
The old man reaches into his pocket. The boy steps back. The old man chuckles, withdraws dog tags.
General Feynman.
The boy gawks, stares, wide eyed, open jawed. The boy looks back at FEYNMAN.
Feynman shrugs, holds out his hand. The boy hands over the photos. Feynman studies them again, cackles, hands them back over. The boy tucks them away.
Feynman pulls the boy close: incoherent gibberish.
The boy nods confusedly, not understanding. Feynman looks at him, in him, through him, cackles irreverently. The boy chuckles uncomfortably.
Feynman walks over to a corner, leans against a wall, digs through his pockets, and removes a box of cigarettes, matches. Feynman offers a nail to the boy.
The boy shakes his head. Feynman shrugs, lights a match, smokes. The boy sighs, steps over to the chair, and lamely kicks it over.
EXT. COURTHOUSE - NIGHT
The cowboy falls to his knees, gasping, writhing, heaving; coughing up smoke, mucus, blood.
The young woman moans, rolls, comes to, sits up, looks around, gasps, shakes the cowboy.
From the smoke, from the fire, emerges the soldier, gun cocked, loaded.
The cowboy looks from the young woman to the soldier, succumbs to unkempt exhaustion.
The soldier steps closer. The young woman snatches the revolver, cocks the gun, fires.
Click. Click. The gun won’t fire.
The young woman swings the six shooter like a hammer.
The soldier stops, pauses, six feet distant, falls, coughs, gags, drops his weapon.
The young woman hesitates. The soldier points to the courthouse. A billowing, yellow smoke. The young woman gasps.
The soldier crawls to the cowboy, straps on a gas mask, tosses one to the young woman, and straps on another.
Gathering lost breath, the soldier stands, shoulders the cowboy, and marches towards cannon fire. The young woman hesitates, picks up the soldier’s rifle, and follows.
INT. BUNKER - NIGHT
The boy sits upon the floor grinding a dull wooden stake against a dirt wall. Feynman shakes his head, sighs, pulls, blows, extinguishes a cheap cigarette.
The door to the room opens. Feynman groans. The boy jumps. The door closes.
Two gas masks. The boy pauses. Fog gathers.
The boy leaps, lurches, snatches, straps on one, throws over the other.
Fog encompasses the boy, Feynman, the room.
EXT. TRENCHES - NIGHT
The soldier drops the cowboy upon the trench floor, sits down beside, and gestures to the young woman.
Slowly, painfully, the young woman succumbs to exhaustion, sitting opposite the soldier and cowboy.
A pack of soldiers march between, uttering foreign reprimands with harsh whispers.
At the back of the pack struts a stern officer, pausing at the sight of the soldier. The soldier sighs, stands, salutes the officer.
The officer looks to the cowboy, the young woman, the soldier: burned, bruised.
The officer pulls the soldier aside, whispers conspiratorially. The soldier nods. The officer walks off. The soldier departs.
The cowboy watches, the young woman sighs; neither moves as more and more soldiers pass by.
INT. BUNKER - NIGHT
Impenetrable fog.
Metal upon metal, metal upon dirt, the eery creak of shrieking hinges.
The boy stands, hidden by fog, armed with his dull wooden stake.
Footsteps. Whistling. The boy presses his body against a dirt wall.
The roll of fog dispersed by a shadow, closer, closer, pauses.
The boy holds his breath. The figure turns, approaches.
The boy mumbles through his mask. Threatening. Domineering.
The shadow stops, reaches for something. The boy lurches, stake pressed against the shadow’s larynx. The shadow hesitates.
The boy reaches for his arm, his wrist, twists him around, pushes him towards muffled sound.
With a stake at his back, the shadow approaches a wall, a door. A rhythmic, syncopated beat.
The door opens. The two step out. The boy stops. Two barrels pressed into his skull, one on each side.
The boy lets go. The shadow turns, lifts an oil lamp to the boy. The soldier who almost killed the cowboy and young woman.
The soldier studies the boy’s face, reaches into his pocket, withdraws the dropped coin, dangles it in the boy’s face.
The soldier takes off his mask, mutters foreign gibberish, waits. The boy shakes his head.
The soldier sighs, straps on his mask, and shoves the boy back.
The boy trips, tumbles, falls. Skin torn by rock.
The door closes before him.
EXT. TRENCHES - NIGHT
The soldier approaches the cowboy, offers a cane. The cowboy obliges, struggles, stands.
The soldier cradles the young woman in both of his hands, walks over to a bunker, and kicks a closed door.
The door opens. A man in white studies the three. The man shakes his head, closes the door.
Stopped. The soldier’s foot blocking the way.
The man shakes his head, tries to push harder.
The soldier pushes, shoves. The man stumbles back. The soldier steps into the room; the cowboy closes the door behind him.
INT. MEDICAL ROOM - NIGHT
The man holds up his hands, shaking, denouncing, gesturing wildly.
The soldier ignores him, saunters past him, sets down the young woman upon a table gently.
The man mumbles, gibbers, blubbers desperately. The soldier grabs him by the collar and throws him into a cupboard.
Medicine bottles fall, crash, tumble.
The medicine man whimpers, pleas, drops to his knees. The soldier kicks him in the chest; the man drops to the ground, bawls, moans.
The soldier kicks him again. A sturdy hand upon the soldier. The cowboy nods to the door before them.
Footsteps. Shadows. Whispers.
The soldier sighs, withdraws his rifle, lifts the man, jabs the gun into his shoulder, and shoves him towards the door locked and bolted.
The man pauses. Another push. The medicine man opens the door an inch, no more.
Foreign mumbling, reassuring. Soldiers and officers disperse reluctantly.
The soldier slams the door shut, hurls the medicine man towards the young woman.
The medicine man hesitates. The soldier fires. The man screams, tumbles.
The soldier catches him, props him up, gestures towards the cowboy’s cane.
The cowboy hobbles, leans against the table, hands over the cane.
The soldier wraps the cane around the man’s hand, forces him to stand despite being shot in the leg.
The soldier pulls back the hammer. The man whimpers, moans, limps over to a cabinet, removes gauze, bottles.
The man sits on a stool, treats the young woman’s wounds, blubbering, bawling, a gun perpetually aimed at him.
The medicine man looks back to the soldier. The soldier nods to the cowboy. The cowboy, leaning upon the table, sits next to the young woman.
The medicine man grumbles, studies his wounds, shakes his head, mutters to the soldier.
The soldier mutters furious reprimands. The medicine man shakes his head, holds his hands, stands, steps back.
Shot in the leg again. The man tumbles.
Muffled yells outside the room. The man bawls, screams, shakes his head, utters guttural nonsense.
The soldier sighs, steps over the man, steps to a cabinet, studies a bottle, another, another, stuffs them into his pocket, steps over the man, and approaches the door.
Banging, slamming, knocking, cursing. The soldier sighs, looks to the man screaming, and drags him to the middle of the bunker.
Calmly, suavely, the soldier lifts the young woman and sets her down opposite door hinges; the cowboy clutches his cane, climbs down off the table, and sits down beside her.
The soldier drags the table to the two injured, flips it over, on its side, and hands the cowboy the bottles, the rifle. The cowboy nods, swallows sallow pills, loads the weapon, aims the gun, cocks the rifle.
The soldier drags another table to the middle of the room and turns it on its side, vertical.
The soldier steps back to a cabinet, opens a drawer, another, another, withdraws bandages, gauze, and approaches the man in the middle of the room.
The soldier lifts up the man, pins him against the table, and leans up against him as he wraps bandages around him.
The man blubbers and moans and begs and pleas. The soldier is moved by none of these.
Tied, trapped, the soldier studies his handiwork, mumbles, nods, presses his body against the wall next to the two others.
The soldier heaves a heavy sigh, grabs the rifle, holds a hand high, and throws the door open.
Machine gun fire tears through the man, the table.
Bullets ricochet. Metal rebounds. Dust coagulates with putrid sweat, mottles sight.
A long, trepidatious pause.
A brave young man steps into the room. Shot in the head. Dropped to the floor.
More machine gun fire.
A long moment passes.
A grenade. The soldier ducks behind the table. A terrible explosion.
Silence.
Tentatively, cautiously, a group of soldiers step into the room, dispersing the fog with anxiety-ridden bodies.
The smoke, the debris, grows thick, impenetrable. So heavy one can hardly distinguish himself from another.
Five shadows, five soldiers, stick close together.
A shot fired. Another. Another.
Two left standing. Footsteps, running; one of the two dives into the haze.
Struggling. Straining. Three shots fired. Silence.
The young soldier mutters, grumbles, yells out to the other: nothing.
Rustling. Shuffling. Footsteps falling.
The man pivots, turns, fires. Cocks his gun. Fires.
A fierce, gruesome shadow. The gun grabbed by the barrel. The trigger pulled, misfired. The gun turned, flipped, aimed at him.
The man face to face with his maker, his killer, the soldier.
The man raises his hands. The soldier mutters something foreign. The other shakes his head. The soldier cocks the gun, takes a step closer. The other undresses.
Practically naked, the man hands over his uniform. The soldier tosses the uniform into the fog. The soldier slams the rifle into the head of the other. The other falls, unconscious.
INT. BUNKER - NIGHT
The boy sits on the ground in the middle of the bunker, resolute in his failure, resolved in his demure.
Yelling, screaming. Dozens of shots fired. The boy stands, approaches the door, presses his ear against the cold metal door.
Wails of agony.
The boy slams, yells, screams, kicks, bangs, rattles the metal monstrosity. Feynman laughs, cackles, hysterical, maniacal.
The door thrown open. The boy thrown back. The soldier aiming his gun at him.
The boy raises his hands. From the fog emerges the cowboy, the young woman.
The boy steps towards them. The soldier cocks his weapon. The young woman and cowboy lower their rifles.
The soldier pauses, hesitates, lowers his weapon.
The boy reaches into his pocket. The soldier again raises his weapon. The boy removes photos, takes a step forward. The soldier cocks his rifle.
The boy stops, hesitates, sets them on soil, kicks them over. The soldier picks up the letter, the photos, studies them, grumbles, tosses them back, pivots, turns, marches.
The boy picks up the photos, follows. The others do likewise.
Feynman, unseen, unnoticed, follows.
EXT. FACTORY - NIGHT
Amongst abandoned silos and dilapidated concrete reside the boy, the young woman, the cowboy, the soldier. The soldier looks at his watch: 2:46.
The boy turns back to the others, silhouetted by the anachronistic lamps of the crumbling silo. The boy digs through his pockets, withdraws the letter, the photos: the silo.
The boy jumps up and down, leaps, lurches, flails all about. The others nod, shrug, neither curious nor amused.
The boy shakes the soldier’s hand, nothing but gratitude. The soldier sighs, apathy.
The boy stuffs the letter into his pocket and charges the factory. The others, slowly, hesitantly, follow.
The boy bangs on the doors. Slams. Kicks. Grows excited, frantic. No response.
The boy digs throughs his pockets, withdraws the letter, scans, mumbles, nods, taps morse code. No response. The boy tries again. Same effect.
The boy steps back, studies the letter. The soldier sighs, looks at his watch, steps past the boy, kicks in the door.
The boy looks up, down, studies the letter again. The soldier steps in, followed by the others.
The boy looks all around, hesitates. A feral, maleficent howl. The boy steps into the factory.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
Illuminated by fading oil, the four hobble down a long, ominous corridor, the soldier leading, the others following, the boy lagging.
The walls are that of concrete: blank, empty, depressing. The soldier stops. The end of the hall.
Nothing. Not a door. Not a window. Nothing. Just a wall at the end of the long hall.
The soldier pushes, presses, taps. The boy laughs, removes his mask, pushes past, studies the letter.
The boy knocks morse code onto the wall.
A long moment passes. The boy tries again. Nothing happens.
The cowboy limps back to the doorway. The soldier follows. The young woman hesitates, shakes her head, eyes full of sorrow, follows.
The boy’s face enlightens.
The boy runs, sprints, past the young woman, past the soldier, past the cowboy, and to the door, blocking their escape.
The cowboy glares, tries to push past. Pushed back.
The boy holds up a hand, reaches into his pocket, withdraws a box of matches.
The cowboy sighs, pushes past, pulls the door open. Slammed shut. The boy withdraws a stolen pocket watch: 3:02.
The cowboy sighs, leans against his cane, the door, sits upon the ground, arms crossed, removing his gas mask.
The soldier cackles. The boy pivots, thrusts the letter at him. The soldier shakes his head, removes his gas mask, and lays upon the floor, turning to his side, shutting his eyes.
The young woman removes her gas mask. The boy attempts to hand her the letter. The young woman refuses, sighs.
The boy huffs, stomps, back to the wall at the end of the hall.
The boy takes off his jacket, his vest, aligns them against the wall, removes a flask from his back pocket, dumps the contents onto his belongings, lights a match, starts a fire.
The young woman rushes over, held back, stopped. The boy’s grip furious.
Smoke gathers, amalgamates. The boy coughs. The young woman too. The cowboy struggles, stands, hobbles over.
The soldier ignores them, fast asleep.
The young woman thrashes, slashes, flails. Thrown to the floor, the cold hard ground.
The young woman claws, grabs, tugs, pulls, drags the boy to the ground, climbs on top.
Hands held back. Struggling. Straining.
The boy throws her off, dives into the smoke.
The young woman hesitates. The smog dissipates. Where there was once stone is now rubble, a warehouse full of large wooden boxes.
Upon the boxes reside apathetic labels: nuclear weapons.
The boy stands amongst them, between them, reveling in them.
The young woman gasps. The boy cackles. The cowboy gawks, limps into the warehouse. The soldier sleeps, unencumbered.
INT. WAREHOUSE - NIGHT
The boy withdraws the letter, kisses it profusely, skips to the boxes, pries one open: nothing. The boy pauses, chuckles, opens another. Nothing.
Another. Another. Another. All empty.
The boy grows frantic, hectic, throwing, hurling, heaving, hawing, smashing, breaking. Nothing.
The boy screams, yells, falls to his knees, slams his head against the ground.
The cowboy limps over, places a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. The boy pauses, sits up, stands, pulls the cowboy close, whimpers, moans. The cowboy soothes as best he can.
The soldier steps in, eyes weary, muscles tired, stretching, studying the panic, gas mask abandoned.
The soldier picks up the letter crumpled on the ground, reads it, chuckles, cackles. Hysterical laughter.
The boy pushes the cowboy off, snatches his rifle, barrel between fingers, and swings the gun violently, knocking the soldier down: bleeding, unconscious.
The boy swings again, stopped: a startling sound.
Screaming. Wailing. Howling.
The boy looks to the door far down the hall. Shaking. Bending.
The young woman straps on a gas mask. The cowboy too.
The boy straps on his own, loads his rifle, picks up the soldier’s, tosses it to the cowboy.
The cowboy loads it, cocks it, aims it, past the boy and towards the door.
The door bursts open. A deep, impenetrable fog rolls into the room.
INT. FOG - NIGHT
Snarling, growling, whimpering, snickering. Feral, maleficent gurgling.
The fog grows thick. Impenetrable. No longer can the boy see the young woman, the cowboy, the soldier.
The boy wheezes through his gas mask, steadies his aim.
The boy turns. Again. Again.
A shot fired. Another. Another. The boy cocks his gun, aims, hesitates. Screams from afar of terrible pain.
The boy takes a step closer. Another. Another.
Three more shots fired.
The boy trips, falls, drops his rifle.
The rifle tumbles into the haze.
The boy pushes himself up, gawks at that which tripped him up: the soldier, shot in the stomach.
The boy lifts the soldier’s arm, his wrist, searches for a pulse: none. The boy sighs.
The soldier’s eyes shoot open. The soldier lurches, clutches, grapples with the boy, coughing, choking, no gas mask on.
The boy flails, thrashes, pushes the soldier off him, unstraps his gas mask, throws it upon the soldier.
The soldier calms, steadies. The boy gags, coughs, pulls the mask back to him, gasps a great breath, hands it back over.
Another shot fired. The soldier reaches for his weapon: gone. The soldier looks to the boy. The boy shakes his head, shrugs, nods to the haze.
A savage snarl. The two turn towards the sound.
A wild, ravaged shadow.
The soldier tries to stand, struggles, falls, coughs up blood.
The boy stands, helps the soldier up.
The shadow approaches.
The boy takes a deep breath, steps towards the monstrosity. Pulled back, pushed, stopped.
The soldier shakes his head. The boy offers his gas mask. This too the soldier refuses.
The soldier withdraws a flask, drinks heavily, and hands it over. The boy takes it, hand heavy upon the soldier. The soldier tries to pull away; the boy won’t let him.
The soldier punches the boy as hard as he can. The boy falls to the ground, nose broken, mask beside him. The soldier hobbles into the haze, towards that gruesome shadow.
Snipping and snarling and grappling and battling. Screams of pain and mercy.
Utter silence.
The boy rights his nose, spits, straps on the gas mask, and steps towards the figures lost in the haze.
One step. Another. Another. Palpating with a foot out stretched and cautious.
Nothing. No one. Just that eery, luminescent, jaundice haze.
INT. FOG - NIGHT
The cowboy reloads his rifle, eyes scanning the fog for morbid threats.
The cowboy takes a step back. Another. Another. Heel striking lumber. A muttered curse.
The cowboy turns towards the figure, a wooden crate opened.
The cowboy kicks the box over, rummages through it. Nothing.
The cowboy grumbles, kicks the box into the haze.
A wild yelp. The cowboy fires three shots in quick succession, reloads his weapon.
A rifle skitters towards him, stopping just before him. The cowboy pauses, picks up the weapon, straps it behind him.
The cowboy steps towards the previous yelping. Closer. Closer.
The butt of the rifle shoved into his chest. The cowboy gasps, fires. A muffled shot.
The cowboy pauses, hesitates, holds a hand up, takes a step forward. A concrete wall.
The cowboy chuckles, leans against the wall, whistles.
INT. FOG - NIGHT
The young woman jumps at the wail of a whistle, aiming her gun and clutching the trigger.
The young woman whistles. The whistling stops. The young woman whistles again. A hesitant response.
The young woman steps closer, whistles. Another response.
Closer. Closer. Whistling, back and forth, back and forth, again and again.
A shadow before her. The young woman aims her rifle, hesitant. The figure steps forward.
An old man in uniform. An officer. General Feynman.
The young woman cocks her gun. Feynman pauses, chuckles.
The young woman gestures downward. Feynman drops to his knees.
The young woman takes a step forward. Another. Another. Presses the barrel into the skull of Feynman.
The young woman checks the general for weapons.
Feynman grabs, pulls, clutches the barrel, misfire, pushes the young woman, cocks the gun, aims it at her.
Feynman taps his wrists. The young woman reveals clean skin.
Feynman reaches into his pocket, tosses dog tags. The young woman studies, gasps, drops them.
Feynman chuckles, steps forward, gathers.
The young woman steps back. Feynman steps forward.
Another step. Another. Another.
Against a wall. Trapped. Feynman cackles. Steps closer. Closer.
A wooden box thrown into Feynman.
Feynman falls, tumbles, yelps, drops the weapon.
Three shots fired. The rifle between the young woman and Feynman.
The old man lurches but the young woman is faster, snatching the weapon and aiming it at him.
Feynman chuckles, attempts to stand; the young woman shoots him in the leg. Feynman wails in horrific pain. The young woman cocks her gun again.
Feynman whimpers, props himself up against the wooden crate. The young woman threatens.
Feynman chuckles, regards his wounded leg. The young woman pauses, hesitates, lowers her weapon.
Feynman pats the ground next to him. The young woman shakes her head, sits down across from him.
Feynman shrugs, whistles.
INT. FOG - NIGHT
The boy pauses at the eery wail of a whistle, turns towards it, lifts his mask, tries to whistle, can’t.
Whistling pauses, starts again. The boy steps towards it.
Closer. Closer. The boy approaches a tall shadow.
Whistling hesitates. The cock of a weapon.
The boy pauses, takes a step forward. The cowboy emerges from the haze, aiming his gun at the boy.
The cowboy chuckles, offers his weapon. The boy hesitates, takes it, aims.
The cowboy chuckles. The boy cocks the rifle, taps his wrists.
The cowboy sighs, reveals clean wrists. The boy lowers his weapon, holds out his hand. The cowboy shakes it.
A feral howl.
The boy pivots, turns. The two aim their weapons at the horizon.
A long moment passes. The boy lowers his weapon, leans up against the wall next to the cowboy.
The boy studies his pocket watch, 3:40. The boy sighs, looks up and down the corridor.
The boy turns right, leaning against the wall, making his escape. Stopped. The cowboy nods the other way. The boy shrugs.
The two make their way, clutching the wall, the cowboy leading the way.
INT. FOG - NIGHT
The young woman sways in and out of consciousness, exhaustion overcoming fear, slumber overriding logic. The young woman nods off.
Feynman clutches a pebble, tosses it near. The young woman stirs, doesn’t wake.
Feynman twists his body, leans upon his arms, crawls slowly, cautiously towards her.
The young woman shifts, mumbles, groans. Feynman hesitates. The young woman falls deeper into slumber.
Closer, closer. The gun inches from him.
Slowly, carefully, Feynman reaches for the gun still clutched in the young woman’s grasp.
Feynman unlatches a finger. Another. Another. Pausing after each, shaking with the effort.
One hand free, another upon the trigger.
Feynman maneuvers one finger, then another. Another. Almost there. Misfire.
The young woman jumps screams, slams the revolver into Feynman.
Feynman falls back, blood splatterd, nose broken. The young woman aims the gun at him.
Feynman sighs, chuckles, shuffles closer. The cock of the hammer. Feynman moves closer. Closer. The young woman pulls the trigger.
No ammunition.
Feynman grabs the barrel, pushes, pulls, the rifle thrown off into the distance.
A yelp. A groan. Shots fired. Feynman falls forward.
The young woman pushes the man off her. Feynman limply falls over. Grey matter splatters. Feynman’s head torn open.
The young woman stares, apathetic.
The cowboy emerges from the shadows, the boy beside him.
The young woman raises her hands, reveals clean wrists. The cowboy nods, lowers his weapon.
The boy approaches the limp carcass, aiming his rifle.
The boy presses a foot into Feynman, sighs, kneels, snatches dog tags, searches the body, finds a pocket watch, tucks it into his pocket. The boy pauses.
A memento. A coin. The boy studies the etched phrase.
COIN
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
The boy hesitates, stares, mumbles, grumbles, tosses it aside.
The boy marches on. The two follow.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
A dark, foreboding corner. A hole in the wall. The boy hesitates, steps through; the others too.
Outside the factory, amongst fog and haze, preside flickering oil lamps, hazy, vague. The boy withdraws the pocket watch: 6:23.
The boy turns to the others, reveals time stolen. The young woman points one way, the cowboy another. The boy shrugs. The young woman and cowboy look to each other.
The cowboy reaches into his pocket, removes a coin, points one way, then the other. The young woman nods; the cowboy flips the coin: heads.
The cowboy disregards the coin and walks in the direction previously chosen.
The two watch him go but do not follow.
A feral howl. A guttural groan. Grappling. Shots fired. The two run towards the horrid monstrosity.
Running and sprinting and flailing haphazardly; the two search the ground for any sign of struggle: none.
Wailing. Screaming.
Further and farther the two make their way.
The young woman trips, stumbles, falls: a pool of blood.
The young woman screams. The boy pivots, turns, gawks.
A long stream of blood stretches into the fog. The boy hesitates. The young woman wipes herself off.
The boy offers a hand. The young woman swats it away, stands, walks off, following the trail of trickling blood.
The boy pauses, follows.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The two stumble upon a shadow, a figure; the two raise their weapons, aiming them at it, incredibly cautious.
Closer. Closer. A gory, horrendous figure.
The soldier, on the ground, blood strewn about, torn, shredded to pieces.
The young woman approaches, held back by the boy. The young woman pushes him off, rushes over, falls to her knees, flips the poor man over.
The soldier breathes. His eyes jut open. The soldier sits up. The young woman embraces the miracle, holds his hands in hers, pauses.
Dark marks strewn across wrists. The young woman lets go of him. His grip tightens.
The young woman pulls. Pushes. Harder. Harder. The soldier’s grip only tightens.
The boy cocks his gun. The soldier smiles, cackles. A single shot fired.
The soldier falls to the ground, shot in the head, dead. The young woman gawks, silent.
The boy reaches into his pocket, withdraws a pack, lights a match. The young woman jumps, leaps, holds his arm in her hand. The boy pushes her off, lights another, and sets the soldier afire.
The boy walks away. The young woman hesitates, follows.
EXT. HOSPITAL - NIGHT
Morning light revels upon an abandoned hospital, consumed by an acrid, putrid mold.
The boy loads his rifle, shoots a window, another, another.
Silence.
The boy reloads his rifle, approaches a door, pushes, pulls: locked. The boy kicks, hits, slams, bangs.
Desperate. Frantic. Heaving. Writhing. Flailing. Pleading.
Unkempt exhaustion.
The young woman sets a hand upon him. The boy pulls, clutches, embraces, bawls, whimpers, moans.
The door beside them opens.
The boy dries his eyes, turns, surveys the dark corridor.
The boy looks back to the young woman. The young woman shakes her head slowly. The boy cocks his gun, fires into the shadows.
Only the echo of bullets.
The boy sighs, lifts an oil lamp swaying near his eyes, and steps into the ominous corridor.
INT. HALL - NIGHT
The door behind him closes. The boy turns to find the young woman gone, trapped on the other side of the door.
Yelling. Wailing. Screaming. Gun shots. Grappling. Beating.
The boy pushes, pulls, flails. The door won’t open.
The boy cocks his rifle, aims, fires. Still the door won’t open.
The feral groan of a savage beast before him. The boy pivots, turns, pressed against the door.
The shadow approaches. Steps closer. Closer. At the precipice of the flickering fire.
The boy cocks his gun, aims, takes a step forward.
From the shadows emerges the young woman. The boy pauses, chuckles, lowers his weapon.
The young woman cackles, steps closer.
The boy offers the oil lamp. The young woman takes it.
The two step down the long corridor, passing empty rooms abandoned by false hopes and feral inhibition.
The boy stops at the end of the hall. The hall diverges.
The boy looks left, right, back at the young woman. The young woman shrugs, points left, and the boy obliges, walking down the ominous corridor.
The boy removes his gas mask, tucks it away, turning to the young woman, offering to take hers.
The young woman shakes her head. The boy shrugs, pauses, hesitates. A swaying door just beyond the young woman. The boy pushes the young woman aside, cocks his gun, aims, hesitates.
The boy takes a step forward. Another. Another. At the precipice of the door.
The boy pushes the door open.
INT. ROOM - DAY
A filthy, shabby, dilapidated hovel. A gurney, one wheel broken, the only object within the murky room. The boy takes a step forward. A tumultuous thud.
The boy jumps, pivots, turns: only the closed door. The boy sighs, surveys the room, the shadows which loom, the shattered window where a harsh breeze puffs and woos.
The boy steps around the gurney to the broken window and studies the horizon. Shadows surrender to morning light. The boy pauses at a queer sight.
The young woman, down below, banging on the door the boy entered from.
The rattling of a door handle. The boy pivots, turns, fires. The gun out of ammo.
The boy whispers, mumbles, digs through his pockets, struggles to reload his rifle.
The door jitters, jars, bends, writhes. The boy cocks his gun, fires. Again. Again.
The door moves no longer. The boy reloads his weapon.
A long, hesitant moment.
The boy takes a step forward. Another. Another. At the door. Deep breath. The boy throws the door open.
EXT. HALL - DAY
No one. Nothing. The boy turns left, right. Only dark shadows.
The boy steps back into the room, closing the door behind him.
INT. ROOM - DAY
Light no longer lingers upon the precipice of the window, now engulfing the meager room.
The boy takes a step back. Another. Another. Gun aimed at the door.
Further. Farther. The rattle of the gurney. An anxious misfire.
The boy rights himself, assures himself its only the gurney.
The boy flips the gurney over, onto its side, and sits behind, gun balanced upon it.
The boy digs through his pockets, removes all the bullets yet loaded, only three. The boy sighs, loads one of the three bullets.
Howling. Hollering. Yelling.
The boy turns back to the window, stands, hesitates, looks back to the door, approaches the window.
The boy searches the courtyard for the young woman. The grass. The bushes. The trees. No sign of anyone.
The boy ducks his head back into the room, sits, sighs, leans against the wall, the window just above him, the gurney before him.
The door to the room rattles. The boy cocks his gun, doesn’t fire.
Rattling, shaking, jarring, quaking. The boy aims his weapon, finger tight upon the trigger.
The door bursts open. In steps the young woman.
The boy hesitates, fires a warning shot. The young woman stops. The boy cocks his gun.
The young woman steps closer. The boy jumps to his feet, threatens. Again the young woman pauses.
The boy taps his wrists. The young woman chuckles. The boy grows frantic, hectic, gesticulates wildly.
The young woman reveals wrists cut, scarred, broken. The boy hesitates, finger twitching upon the trigger.
The young woman steps closer. Closer. Closer.
The boy fires. Two shots in quick succession.
The young woman lies upon the ground, bleeding, not breathing. The boy hurriedly reloads his weapon, cocks the gun, approaches.
The boy nudges the young woman, flips her over. The young woman rips off her gas mask, gags, coughs, dry heaves.
The boy jumps, pauses, hesitates. Wrists clean, scar free, blood trickling from fatal wounds.
The boy drops to his knees, cradles the young woman. The young woman chuckles, sighs.
The boy closes her eyes, sets her aside.
The boy dries his eyes, steps to the window, surveys the dilapidated field, the rancid, acrid, putrid hospital.
The boy sighs, shoulders the young woman, and lumbers out of the room.
EXT. HALL - DAY
The boy kicks in a door, another, another, door after door, down the long hallway. The boy pauses at the precipice of a kicked in door.
The boy sets down the young woman and props her up against a crumbling wall.
The boy steps into the room and tosses a hodgepodge of tools.
The boy steps out with a shovel, shoulders the young woman, and steps down the hall.
EXT. FIELD - DAY
The boy jabs, stabs, pierces frozen soil, drops the young woman, digs without comfort.
The boy hurls the shovel, kicks the young woman, and shoves her into the grave, fairly shallow.
The boy withdraws a flask, tilts it back: empty.
The boy rockets the flask into the haze.
The boy studies his pocket watch, hurls it to the ground, stomps on it without mercy.
The boy withdraws his gas mask, chucks it on the ground, removes his rifle, fires a shot, cocks his gun, fires another, cocks again, pauses.
The boy rests the rifle upon his chin, breathes, clutches the trigger.
No ammunition.
A figure steps forward, an old man, decrepit, bent over. The boy aims his rifle at the other.
Apathetically, the other steps forward. Another step. Another. Another.
The boy cocks his rifle. The old man looks up, smiles, steps closer.
The boy stumbles back. The old man laughs, steps forward.
Another step forward. Another step back. Further. Farther. At the foot of the grave.
The old man holds out his hand, revealing scarred wrists, leaning heavily upon a rotting cane.
The boy heaves the butt of his rifle into the old man. The old man falls, bleeding.
The old man reaches for the boy’s leg.
The boy swings his rifle like a bat, a hammer, smashes the old man’s skull in. Remnants of skull scar the boy’s body.
The boy pauses, derelict in his horror. A long moment passes.
The boy wipes the other’s blood from his stony face, drops his weapon, and searches the other.
A rifle, bullets. The boy loads his rifle, ignores the other.
Dog tags. Subject 7.
The boy pauses, studies the name, returns the rusted metal, the monotonous chain.
The boy stands, lights a match, the man, and hobbles away, silhouetted by that savage flame.
EXT. TRENCHES - DAY
The boy stands at the precipice, staring down the dark abyss, gawking at the filth, the mud, the putrid, acrid waste.
A soldier from below garbles a muffled order. The boy stares, sighs. Again the officer garbles. The boy cocks his gun, aims, fires.
The man drops to the ground, dead like any other. The boy climbs into the trenches, over the dead body, and kicks on a door to a nearby bunker.
The door opens. The boy shoots the soldier. Another reaches for his weapon. The boy shoots him before he can reach it.
The boy drags the body out, then the other, steals their bullets, and closes the door behind him.
INT. BUNKER - DAY
The boy studies blood strewn maps, a table, a swinging light fixture. The boy approaches the maps, leans over the tattered papers.
Upon the map lies a large splay of land, red lines strewn about it, parallel to each other.
A knock on the door, queerly civil.
The boy picks up the rifle, cocks it, and approaches the door. Again another knock.
The boy hesitates, aims his gun at the door.
An ominous thud. The door falls. The boy slams his body against the bunker wall.
A thick, putrid fog.
The boy searches for his gas mask.
EXT. FIELD - DAY
The gas mask shot through.
INT. BUNKER - DAY
The boy coughs, gags, covers his nose with his tattered uniform and dives into the fog, rifle first.
EXT. FOG - DAY
Coughing, gagging, dry heaving. The boy flails through the fog, reaching for trench walls.
A step forward. Another. Another. No wall.
The boy turns on his heels, 90 degrees, still no wall. The boy repeats the task again. Again.
Nothing but fog.
The boy fires into the fog. North. East. South. Reloads. West.
Nothing but the echo of silence. The boy reloads.
The crackle of footsteps. Before him, behind him, left, right. The boy fires injudiciously into the fog.
A grunt. A groan. The boy reloads, steps forward, towards the moans.
Closer. Closer. A ravaged shadow hunched over.
The boy cocks his gun. Grunting. Croaking. A small critter hops past him.
The shadow reveals its gruesome figure.
A carcass. A rotting body. The cowboy, fed on by dozens of feral, maleficent frogs.
Guts spewing. Blood spraying. Flesh dripping from the lips of ravaged amphibians.
The boy gawks at the terror, awestruck in horror.
One of the frogs nibbles at his foot, his shoe. The boy jumps, kicks, hurdles the frog into the fog.
Frogs turn at the ruckus.
Enraged. Infuriated. Frogs surround the boy.
The boy hesitates, finger tight upon the trigger. The frogs begin to croak, ribbit.
Louder. Louder. The very voice of the devil.
The boy takes a step back, smashes a frog, trips, falls.
Frogs gather, climb, topple, nibble, bite. The boy writhes, thrashes, fires three shots in quick succession.
Frogs scatter, gather.
The boy thrashes, slashes, reaches into his pocket, clutches bullets, reloads his rifle, throwing off ravenous, hazardous amphibians.
Tearing skin, muscle, bone, blood spewing, spraying.
The boy fires, reloads. The frogs are relentless.
The boy fires again, again, again, frog after frog croaking, heaving, bursting. Still more tear at him.
The boy rolls, crawls, reaches, grabs, clutches a box of matches, lights a match, drops it: a blazing fire; the field aflame, frogs jumping, flailing, writhing.
The apocalyptic wave of amphibians slows, seizes, choking on the fumes, the flame, the haze.
A deep, heavy cough. The boy spits blood, lifts himself up.
Bloodied, broken, wounds reopened, the boy limps to the carcass of the dead body.
With the help of the rifle, the boy drops to his knees and searches the torn body.
Between tattered rags of rotting cotton the boy removes whats left of abandoned items: ammunition, a broken revolver, a gas mask, a coin.
The boy straps on the gas mask, breathes heavily, turns the coin over. Upon the coin is etched a short phrase.
COIN
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
The boy stares at the coin, tucks it away, clutches soil, spreads it over the dead cowboy.
The boy whispers, stands, and steps into the fog, limping along with his rifle as a cane.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The boy hobbles along at a pathetic pace, coughing through his gas mask, stopping intermittently, spitting blood, dry heaving.
The boy pauses at a metal infrastructure: a gurney, pristine, shining, amongst nothing.
The boy hobbles to it, tests it, sits, lies, closes his eyes, falls fast asleep in terrible exhaustion.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
The boy comes to, strapped to the gurney, rifle stolen, alone, abandoned. The boy struggles, strains. Restraints tighten.
A guttural, maleficent groan. The boy shakes as the shadow approaches. Closer. Closer.
A savage figure.
A tall, lanky, middle aged Japanese man, lurking, leering, a gas mask lacking. The boy struggles desperately.
Sisyphus in the flesh.
From an apron a welder may yield, the man withdraws a serrated weapon, a rusted blade.
Closer. Closer. The boy screams through his gas mask. The man cackles, searches the boy’s pockets, removes cigarettes, matches, pauses.
Dog tags.
The man studies them, chuckles, cackles, tucks them into his apron pocket.
The man cuts the boy’s garment, slits the boy’s stomach. The boy flails about frantically, hectically, wildly; begging, pleading. A forgotten memento falls out of a hidden pocket.
The man pauses, retrieves the memento forgotten. The man’s eyes widen.
The man hectically, frantically, fearfully salutes the boy and cuts him free, mumbling foreign apologies.
The man scurries about collecting stolen items, weapons, matches, handing them over with eyes plunged into soil.
The boy takes them with a queer countenance, tucking the coin back into his pocket.
The boy mumbles through his gas mask. The man looks at him oddly. The boy points to his gas mask. The man shakes his head, chuckles, digs through his pocket, hands the boy dog tags: Subject 15.
The boy turns them over: Fog Unit 9066. The boy looks at him queerly, hands them back over.
The man chuckles, tucks them back into his pocket, pats the boy jovially.
The boy slowly, hesitantly, takes off his gas mask.
Coughing. Choking. Dry heaving. The boy quickly straps back on his breathing apparatus.
The man sighs, shakes his head, rolls up his sleeves, taps his wrists, reveals foreboding black scars. The boy jumps, startled, rifle threatening.
The man chuckles, holds out his hand. The boy hesitates. The man insists. The boy sheaths his gun, shakes his hand.
The man cackles, withdraws a map, lays it flat, points to himself, the boy, a place upon the map. The boy nods. The man points ahead, another place upon the map.
The boy shakes his head. The man nods, tucks the map back into his pocket, and steps in the direction pointed.
The boy hesitates, follows.
EXT. RIVER - NIGHT
Freezing, frigid, frozen clumps of ice tumble down a bitter, biting channel, discouraging the boy and his compatriot.
The man points to a barn across the half frozen tundra. The boy looks to the barn, the man, the river. The man chuckles.
From his apron the man removes a small axe, hands it over, withdraws another, approaches a tree, begins to swing. The boy hesitates, assists.
The tree tumbles.
The two struggle, strain, flip the tree over, into the river, a bridge created.
The man gestures. The boy crosses, turns back to the other. The man steps onto the bridge.
Slipping. Tripping. Falling.
The man falls into brisk waters.
The boy lurches, pauses, hesitates. The man screams, begs, pleads incoherently.
Drowning. Drowning. Coughing. Choking. Suffocating. Bobbing up and down, flailing, thrashing.
The boy watches him drown.
The man drops under water, comes up no longer. The boy stares at the place where the man once was, the frigid, freezing, frozen waters.
The boy sighs, approaches the barn.
EXT. BARN - NIGHT
The boy stares at the humble abode, the two story barn, rotting, shifting, decaying rapidly.
The boy digs through his pockets, reloads his rifle.
The boy aims the rifle at a window, fires. Nothing but glass shattering.
The boy cocks his gun, fires again. Still nothing but glass fracturing.
A third shot, all the same. The boy reloads his rifle, approaches the barn.
The boy climbs up the steps. Stops. The click of a gun. A barrel pressed into the back of his skull.
The boy drops his rifle, raises his hands.
An old man pushes the boy into the barn, limping in behind with a rotted cane.
INT. BARN - NIGHT
A barren, dilapidated, dust ladened loft. A small desk, a wooden chair, a felt cap.
The old man pushes the boy and closes the door. The boy grunts, groans, falls to his knees, rips off his mask, spits defiantly.
The old man hobbles to the desk, digs through a drawer.
A hesitant moment.
The boy breathes, steadies, reaches into his back pocket, the axe, the handle.
The boy charges, lurches, axe threatening, ready to murder. The old man pivots, turns, fires, tearing skin, muscle, bone; the boy’s hand obliterated.
The axe goes flying. The boy tackles the old man.
The two struggle, strain, first one on top, then the other.
The boy gains the advantage, punches. Again. Again. Again.
A loathsome click. The boy pauses. A revolver aimed at him. The boy hesitates.
The old man cackles, pushes the boy off him.
The old man struggles to his feet, picks up the rifle, tucks away his revolver, and hobbles to the desk, digging through a drawer. Another. Another. The old man chuckles, tosses a coin.
The boy studies the coin: just like the others. The same retched phrase etched on it.
COIN
Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.
The boy pauses, stares, cackles, hysterical.
The old man shakes his head, sighs, pulls out a chair, gestures. The boy shakes his head. The old man fires inches above him.
The boy yelps, ducks, cowers, cautiously stands. Again the old man gestures. The boy obliges.
The old man taps his wrist. The boy shakes his head. The old man grabs the boy’s wrists. The boy stiffens.
The old man rips the boy’s shirt, his sleeves, lifts ragged cloth. Two dark cuts upon the boy’s wrists.
The boy jumps, leaps, out of the chair and onto the floor, crawling back with a frantic, hectic, manic fury.
Further. Farther. Thrown against a wooden wall.
The old man chuckles, opens a drawer, another, another, grumbles, mumbles, withdraws a crumpled file, gestures to the boy. The boy hesitates, climbs to his feet, sits in the chair, picks up the file.
A small picture of him in the top left hand corner dressed in a military uniform. Next to that a name, a rank: Henry Harber, subject 14. Below that a series of black lines. Only a scatter of random words left unmarked: phosgene, bromide, chlorine.
The boy swallows hard. The old man laughs, cackles, maleficent, malicious, frantic, hectic. His rifle flails about haphazardly.
The boy clutches, grabs, snatches the barrel. A shot fired. The old man pushes, shoves, slams the butt of the rifle into the boy’s nose.
The boy falls to the ground, clutches his nose. The old man cocks his gun. The boy spits on the old man
The old man fires. No ammunition. The old man tosses the rifle, reaches for his revolver.
The boy lurches, grabs, clutches, struggles. A shot fired. Another. Another. The two thrown to the ground, struggling for the weapon.
The two roll across the floor, first one on top, then the other.
The boy gains the advantage, the old man pulls the trigger. Misfire. Another. Another. The boy knocks the gun out of his hand, the gun tumbling across the dirt ladened floor.
The boy wraps his hands around the old man’s larynx. The old man coughs, chokes. Flailing. Writhing.
The old man clutches the boy’s axe, strikes the boy’s shoulder.
The boy yelps, screams, jumps off the old man.
The old man crawls to the revolver, reloads. The boy tears the axe out of his shoulder. The old man cocks his weapon, fires.
The axe thrown into his chest. The old man pulls the trigger again, again. Chamber locked, won’t fire. The old man cackles, falls over.
The boy stands, approaches the old man, pulls out the axe, searches the carcass, dog tags: Col. Oppenheimer.
The boy sighs, searches the body: bullets. The boy picks up the rifle and reloads, ignoring the unusable six shooter.
The door to the barn jars, rattles, heaves.
The boy picks up his gas mask, straps it on tight, and approaches the door.
The door jitters, moans. The boy steps closer, closer, aims the rifle, fires, cocks the gun, fires, cocks the gun, fires, reloads.
Fog seeps through man made holes. The boy steps closer. Closer. No sound of any kind.
The boy kicks open the door.
EXT. BARN - NIGHT
No one. Nothing.
The boy closes the door.
INT. BARN - NIGHT
The boy reloads his rifle, approaches the desk, steps over the dead body, empties a drawer. Another. Another. The boy empties the contents onto the floor.
Desk bare, items dispersed, the boy flips the desk over and sits behind.
The boy studies the pile of splayed items upon the floor.
Pencils. Pens. Papers.
Pictures. Men and women. Files like his own.
The boy picks up a file.
Subject 15. The soldier who drowned. A stamp on the file: deceased.
The boy tosses the file and studies another.
Subject 10. A little boy. A stamp: suicide. The boy burned to ashes some time ago.
The boy stares at the file, sets it aside, picks up another.
Subject 8. The old man who danced with the nun, who set her aflame. The old man killed by the boy. A stamp: KIA.
The file dropped. Another picked up.
Subject 7. The old man the boy smashed in with his rifle. A stamp: KIA.
The file discarded. Another picked up.
Subject 11. The little girl. A stamp: KIA.
A thump. A groan. A moan. Just beyond the door. The boy cocks his gun, fires at the door. A feral yelp.
The boy cocks his gun, stands, approaches.
The door rattles.
Banging. Hitting. Slamming.
The boy fires through the door. Silence.
The boy reloads his rifle, looks back at the dead body; fog gathers across the dirt floor. The old man moans.
The boy mumbles, curses, approaches the carcass, digs through his pockets, and withdraws a box of matches. The boy lights a match, hesitates, tosses it onto the floor.
A fierce, tumultuous flame. The boy pivots, turns, approaches the door, pushes, pulls. The door won’t open.
Harder. Harder. Still the door won’t open. The flame grows, splinters, amalgamates.
The boy kicks, slams, heaves, writhes; the door bursts open. A terrible draft throws the flames higher.
The boy dives into the haze.
EXT. FOG - NIGHT
Ravenous growls. The boy cocks his gun, aims. One step. Another. Another.
The fire snips at the boy with furious anger.
Further. Farther. The boy trips, falls, down the steps and into the mud. The boy misfires.
The boy groans, stands, clutches his shoulder, bleeding profusely.
A shadow approaches.
Oppenheimer, smiling, cackling, nothing but muscle, bone.
The boy cocks his gun, fires. Oppenheimer recedes into the shadows.
Growling, gurgling. The boy aims his rifle, fires. Oppenheimer cackles from the shadows. The boy pivots, turns, fires again: no ammunition.
Oppenheimer guffaws. The boy digs through his pockets.
Oppenheimer emerges from the shadows. The boy struggles with bullets, reloads his rifle.
The boy raises his weapon.
Oppenheimer upon him, a gruesome hand grasps the barrel.
A shot fired. Another. Another. Oppenheimer throws the gun into the fire.
The boy reaches for his axe; the boy pushed into the fire.
EXT. BARN - NIGHT
The boy rolls onto grass, skin cutting gravel. Burning, screaming, flailing wildly.
Oppenheimer steps through the fire, feeling no pain, dark scorch marks stretched across wrinkled wrists, the boy’s axe within his rancid, rotting grasp.
The boy struggles, strains, limps to tattered feet. Oppenheimer cackles heartily.
The boy hobbles down the hill, towards the frigid waters. Oppenheimer smiles, follows.
EXT. RIVER - NIGHT
Falling, tumbling, rolling, tripping, the boy perishes upon the face of the hill, barely able to move. Grunting, groaning, the boy crawls towards the channel. Oppenheimer grabs him by the ankle.
The boy clutches soil, dirt, at the precipice of the river. Oppenheimer pulls him back, flips him over, straddles the boy, laughing all the while.
The boy struggles, strains, pushes the blade which inches towards him.
Closer. Closer.
The boy pulls the blade closer, stabs his own shoulder, uses the momentum to flip the man over. The boy leaps to his feet and rips the blade out of his shoulder.
Oppenheimer chuckles, faces the boy crouching.
The boy steps closer. Closer. Leaps. Jumps. Lurches. Misses. Thrown into the river.
The boy gasps, coughs, clutches the ledge morphed by erosion; hand stepped on by Oppenheimer.
The boy winces, let’s go, grabs on again. Stepped on again.
The axe dug through Oppenheimer’s foot.
Oppenheimer grunts, groans. reaches down to pull it out; Oppenheimer thrown into the river, the axe diving deep beyond the depths of the current.
The boy pulls himself up, out, freezing, shivering, shaking incessantly.
Oppenheimer nowhere to be found above the frozen waters. The boy sighs, limps back to the fire.
A long, perilous moment passes.
Oppenheimer gasps, coughs, chokes, clutches raw soil and drags himself towards the still raging fire.
EXT. BARN - NIGHT
Acrid fumes rot putrid wheat, smoke billowing, bellowing, blinding indiscriminately.
The boy limps, hobbles, rips off his gas mask, vomits up blood, water.
The boy straps on his gas mask, nears the fire, shivers, shakes, searches.
Near the boy lies the rifle, still in tact except for the barrel: terribly bended.
The boy picks up the rifle, curses, drops it, induces burns upon ruined calluses.
The boy kicks the gun away from the fire, cools his hands with morning dew, steps on the gun, pulls on the barrel, and snaps off the broken end of the rifle.
Upon the hill climbs Oppenheimer, limping, smirking, sneering.
The boy digs through his pockets, removes soaked bullets, loads the rifle, cocks the gun, fires.
Oppenheimer falls with the first. The boy hesitates, cocks the gun, approaches.
Closer. Closer. The boy presses his foot into Oppenheimer’s stomach.
Snatched. Pulled. A shot misfired.
The boy falls with a thud; the gun tumbles towards the river.
The boy flails, kicks. Oppenheimer struck violently.
The boy dives for the rifle, inches from the gun; pulled back just before.
Oppenheimer straddles the boy, grips his neck.
Coughing. Choking. Struggling. Straining.
The boy presses his thumbs into Oppenheimer’s eyes. Blood oozes and drips upon the boy.
The boy presses harder. Harder.
Coughing. Choking. Not breathing.
The boy struggles, strains, clutches the rifle; swings, stopped, caught.
The boy pushes, pulls, clutches the trigger; a bullet shot through, shattering the arm clutching the boy’s larynx.
Oppenheimer falls, tumbles, rolls, grunts, groans.
The boy discharges the gun: no ammunition.
Oppenheimer cackles, lurches; the boy smashes the butt of the rifle into Oppenheimer’s nose.
Oppenheimer falls. The boy clutches the barrel, bashes the rifle into Oppenheimer’s skull.
The boy swings again, again. Oppenheimer moves no longer.
The boy heaves a heavy sigh and tosses the rifle.
The boy picks up the carcass, drags it across the tattered field, and casts the body into the fire.
The boy stares at the fire, the smoke, the ashes, shivers.
The boy unstraps his gas mask and throws it into the fire.
The boy sighs, breathes heavily.
FADE OUT