EST. INNSMOUTH MOTOR IN - DAY
A sleepy, Massachusetts coastal city. Humarock, MA,
unexpectedly, not Innsmouth itself. The November rains are
drizzling, the streets wet, the doors always shut hard when
someone steps off the street.
The Motor In looks like a boring old Motel 8 with the serial
numbers scrubbed off. The parking lot is sparse, only a '68
Corvette Stingray in deep sea blue of any note.
The license plate reads MANTA.
A cell phone rings OS.
INT. INNSMOUTH MOTOR IN - CAYMAN'S ROOM - CONT
A shiny new cell phone rings on the nightstand.
There are more than a few bottles of cheap booze tipped or
toppled around it. A few more on the floor. No cigarettes;
the ashtray is scrupulously clean. Clothes, some dirty, some
clean don't heap but definitely are lazily stacked around.
Whoever's here has been here for a while and expects to be
here a little longer. A few Chinese cartons are stacked in
the garbage can along with another bottle, this time of
Jack.
The phone's not giving up.
One hand gropes out from under the covers. Maybe the fingers
are a little long, maybe a little webbed. The thick-lipped,
round-faced head that slides toward the surface after it is
a little more disturbing.
The hang grasps the phone languidly and the voice that
follows it sounds like it's been asleep for a thousand
years.
MARK CAYMAN
Cayman.
TOM PITTS (OS)
It's the Pitts, man.
Cayman rolls over under the covers as if he wants to drown.
CAYMAN
What do you want, kid? Can't you
see I'm trying to drink like a
fish?
TOM PITTS (OS)
No. We have camera phones but no
one ever turns the cameras on.
Total bummer.
Cayman pulls the covers back up until only one slitted eye
can be seen in the dark.
CAYMAN
Look, kid, I gave you what you
wanted. Leave me alone. That which
can eternal lie, yadda yadda.
TOM PITTS (OS)
Yeah, about that --
CAYMAN
No. There ain't no more.
TOM PITTS (OS)
But that was some primo shit, man!
Anyway, not what I was calling
about. Jack's talking.
A beat.
Slowly, impacably, MARK CAYMAN surfaces again.
CAYMAN
Motherfucker.
TOM PITTS (OS)
I have no doubt, my man. I have no
doubt. But he's up and he's
talking.
CAYMAN
It's your prissy girlfriend,
Justin, ain't it?
TOM PITTS (OS)
Hardly. Justin is terrible at dick
sucking. My girlfriend's great at
it.
But he is good at talking to
jack-offs, and your buddy Jack is a
grade-A wanker.
CAYMAN
You've been reading Constantine
again, haven't you?
TOM PITTS (OS)
Look, we're in the same boat, you
and me, right? Right bro? This shit
is going down.
Lugubriously, Cayman clambers out of the bed, wearing only a
pair of yellow speedos. He has the body of a swimmer with
just a hint of sheen to his skin like an orca, pale and
dangerous. Without looking he reaches out and scoops up a
pair of old jeans in one hand.
CAYMAN
We are not anywhere near the same
"boat," "bro." I don't do boats.
TOM PITTS (OS)
You'll do this one. Jack'll sink us
both.
Cayman gives the phone a disgusted look.
CAYMAN
Another ocean pun and you can go
fuck yourself, kid. Good and hard.
I don't need this shit.
TOM PITTS (OS)
(cold)
Yeah. You kinda do, Mark. You need
this one.
A thick thumb squashes the hang-up icon.
CAYMAN
(tired)
Fuck you, kid. Fuck you running.
INT. JUSTIN'S APARTMENT - CONT
TOM PITTS gives a tight smile as he flicks closed his
hipster RAZR.
TOM
Hooked.
EXT. HIGHWAY EAST OF BEAUMONT, TX - DAY
interstate 10 East looks about like every other eastbound
highway in southeastern Texas, with November brown and green
matching the crappy sedan's earthtones. Traffic is light in
the afternoon, just a few cars which keep their distance as
if afraid of catching something.
ALAN (OS)
You know, it's been four hours.
Subway was a few miles back. As is
the original owner of this lovely
Mercury Sable.
INT. MERCURY SABLE, EAST OF BEAUMOUNT, TX ON US-90 - CONT
ALAN CHURCHGRIM is casually belted into the passenger seat,
munching on some Funyons. He's casually rumpled but little
worse for wear, and singularly unconcerned. The car is
remarkably free of empty cups, wrappers, or other garbage.
TRAILER, wearing a black hoodie as if she never takes it off
is driving. Splay-fingered grip is precisely at 2 and 10 and
the speedometer is hugging 71mph as if painted on.
ALAN
(continuing)
Though, in fairness, he really was
looking the wrong way at that gas
station. Sloppy. You did good.
Trailer grunts and shrugs.
ALAN
A solid month and you've said like
thirteen words to me. I haven't
been counting, but I have a feel
for this sort of thing.
The woman grunts.
ALAN
Exactly my point.
TRAILER
You talk too much.
ALAN
The sphinx speaks!
TRAILER
'Course I do. Exactly like two and
a half hours ago.
ALAN
It was just so long, I couldn't
quite put my finger on it.
TRAILER
Right. You talk too much.
ALAN
Damn right I do.
She grunts again.
ALAN
I should really call Cally.
TRAILER
You said that last time. And the
time before that. And almost every
hour on the hour.
ALAN
I should.
She throws him an imperious look.
TRAILER
Phone's in your pocket.
Alan puts his hand on his hip then drags it away.
ALAN
I know. And it's staying there.
Least until I know where we're
going.
TRAILER
Home.
ALAN
Your place or mine?
TRAILER
We started at yours. We got a few
more stops to make.
Blinkers. An exit at LITTLE CYPRESS BAYOU.
Alan's staring out the car window. There's more trees and
less road as they go.
EXT. LITTLE CYPRESS BAYOU - DAY
it was a bog, once. Now it's mostly new growth pine and a
few hardy old oak that are holding as much water as they
can. it's a rainy day and the road has turned to gravel and
mud.
BILL SAXON and ARNOLD WARREN are standing in the middle of
the road wearing rain slicks. Bill has a PUMP ACTION SHOTGUN
leveled at the car. Arnold has TWIN BERETTAS and looks
positively gleeful.
TRAILER and ALAN roll to a stop twenty feet away. With
finality, Trailer turns off the ignition and dangles the
keys in her hand in plain sight above the dash.
Bill casually twitches the shotgun to the side and Trailer
rolls down the window and tosses the keys out into the mud.
She looks unperturbed.
Alan, however, looks very perturbed.
ALAN
(quietly)
Are you crazy? Why are we just
sitting here?
TRAILER
Was looking for them.
She gets out of the car, making sure to keep her hands
visible at all times. Nods.
TRAILER
Saxon! Long time!
Bill barely lifts the corner of his mouth but the shotgun
goes up to his shoulder as if he's just stepped out to hunt
some pheasant.
BILL
Trailer! If I'd known it was you
headed out here, I'd have brought
some Tastycakes. Warren, be polite
to the young lady.
Arnold smiles and drops the pistols into his hip holsters as
if he was at an Old West show. Reaches up to tip an
invisible hat.
ARNOLD
Ma'am.
BILL
Miss, you cur.
Trailer laughs and sketches a curtsey in her jogging pants.
BILL
I see you've started keeping
company with another man. I'd be
jealous if he didn't look so
comfortable.
Alan gingerly steps out of the car.
ALAN
She's very persuasive. Alan
Churchgrim, PI.
BILL
That she is. Bill Saxon, Department
of Natural Resources.
(to Trailer)
I appreciate your call. As he says,
very persuasive.
Trailer shrugs. Roots around in her pocket and tosses a
couple cell phones down in the mud.
ALAN
You had phones?
TRAILER
Not mine. They're insured.
BILL
But we're not. Come on up the road,
we've got a nice roomy 4-by. We'll
get out of the rain and mud for a
few minutes, anyway.
Trailer starts picking her way across the drier patches up
the road. After a moment, so does Alan with a shrug.
ALAN
(low)
DNR? Were you about to report me
for poaching?
TRAILER
Something like that. We're goin'
huntin'.
ALAN
For what?
TRAILER
Same as you're always huntin'.
EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 SUV JUST OFF ROAD - CONT
BILL and ARNOLD trudge up the road, TRAILER and ALAN not far
behind. What looks like a MUTANT ESCALADE with jacked-up
wheels sits on the side of the road, the only slightly muddy
logo of the Department of Natural Resources, Special
Operations Group on the side. It's not a subtle vehicle.
The group settles into the vehicle companionably enough.
Handshakes come along.
ALAN
(to Trailer)
Friend of yours, I'll assume.
BILL
Has to be a friend. She's only
tried to kill me a couple dozen
times.
TRAILER
Twelve. No more'n that.
BILL
Twelve then. That's almost like
making love.
Trailer tilts her head.
TRAILER
Almost.
ARNOLD
(to Alan)
I'd ask what brings you out to
these parts, but I'm bettin' I
already know that one. It's only
partly the young miss there.
ALAN
Her and a tip-off from a friend
that the person coming to my office
wasn't exactly the bearer of good
omen.
EXT. ALAN'S OFFICE - DAY
The strip mall is about as boring as you'd expect for a
mid-October day. In the far corner you can see the shingle,
ALAN CHURCHGRIM, PI.
A well-used VOLVO pulls up in the second rank away from the
office. MARLON GRIMALDI, mid-50's, balding, sports coat with
patched elbows, steels himself.
Then he takes a gun from the glove compartment. Sticks it
into his inner coat pocket, nervously, like someone's never
done it before.
INT. ALAN'S OFFICE - CONT
ALAN's looking speculatively at his office door, expecting
to hear a knock any time.
The PHONE rings. He scoops it up without thinking about it.
ALAN
Alan Churchgrim, PI. But you knew
that.
TRAILER (OS)
There's a man with a gun in your
lot.
ALAN
Just the one?
TRAILER (OS)
Today.
ALAN
Thank you.
TRAILER (OS)
Whateley ain't dead.
ALAN
Good t'know. We'll talk later.
TRAILER (OS)
Your place this time.
The line clicks dead.
ALAN
I really love this job. I do.
The phone is back in his hand.
ALAN
(to phone)
Cally, once you see the boring
gentleman in, you're done for the
day. I'll need a bit of privacy.
INT. MASSIVE 4X4 - DAY
ARNOLD
So you went out the window?
ALAN
What sane man wouldn't? That's why
it stays openable.
BILL
And you never went back?
ALAN
Hell no. Trailer grabbed a few of
the necessities other than my
go-bag from the office and met me
back at my apartment.
(beat)
Cally is going to be pissed.
A SHOTGUN BLAST rocks the side of the 4x4!
Without a hesitation, all four occupants boil out of the
truck and shelter behind the wheels, ALAN and BILL at the
front, ARNOLD and TRAILER behind the rear. Bill and Arnold
have shotgun and Baretta in their hands respectively.
ALAN
Hey! Mind sharing the load?
Arnold considers his pistole. Hefts them with a look of
abstract consideration. Tosses one to Alan.
ARNOLD
Thirty-round mag. Don't blow your
load in one spot.
BILL
(muttering)
That's what she said.
ALAN
Jesus, you two. Get a room.
He leans out and sends a trio of rounds down-range into the
trees.
EXT. IN THE BAYOU TREE LINE - CONT
SIX TRIBESMEN look at each other without concern. The three
rounds plip into the trees well off target.
SECOND prepares another blast from the truly absurdly large
shotgun he's cradling. Until a strong woman's hand presses
over the iron sights.
MIRE PRIESTESS
Wait a moment. They're almost in
place.
EXT. DOWN THE ROAD, AROUND THE BEND - CONT
THREE TRIBESMEN carefully wend their way between the trees
and bush, just out of sight of the quartet behind the truck.
They cross the road in a low crouch.
EXT. UP THE ROAD - CONT
FOUR TRIBESMEN form up in the slightly lower brush. They
glance back and forth, then silently shift across the road
to circle back down.
EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 - CONT
ARNOLD spots the TRIBESMEN up the road and fires three
rounds. BLAM BLAM. BLAM.
Two tribesmen lie dead in the road, one head splattered like
a melon, the other with a shattered and bleeding pelvis,
screaming.
ARNOLD
Not today.
EXT. IN THE BAYOU TREE LINE - CONT
MIRE PRIESTESS
Now.
SECOND lets loose another mighty BLAST that rocks the truck
on its axles again, making the group scramble for tighter
cover.
EXT. UP THE ROAD - CONT
The remaining TRIBESMAN scrambles into the woods on the far
side of the road, unseen.
EXT. MASSIVE 4X4 - CONT
TRAILER looks at ARNOLD.
TRAILER
We got us a problem.
ARNOLD
Y'think?
TRAILER
I know.
EXT. DOWN THE ROAD - CONT
FOUR TRIBESMEN circle through the woods until they're
looking at the crew through knotted trunks and scrub. Two of
them slowly draw wicked MACHETES. A third pulls a
SMALL-CALIBER PISTOL. The fourth watches intently.
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