Tag: science fiction

On Fire – Script Conversion 1

RYAN (V.O.)

I am two people.

INT./EXT. CHURCH VAN – COUNTRY ROAD – OVERCAST DAY

Unbroken stretches of Georgia pine. The van’s a billboard for WILMORE FIRST BAPTIST.

RYAN (30s), a lone disheveled man in the middle row, stares out the window in a daze. He mindlessly scratches the CAST on his forearm.

The DRIVER fiddles with the radio. LYNYRD SKYNYRD plays.

RYAN (V.O.)

I am now. And I am then.

INT./EXT. RYAN’S CAR – I75 – SUNNY DAY

That same Skynyrd TUNE, and Ryan sings along. He’s wearing a pressed shirt and a loose tie. He’s young. He’s excited.

Atlanta’s on the horizon

INT./EXT. CHURCH VAN – INSTITUTION GATE

The sign reads: WILMORE WELLNESS CENTER

The van comes to a stop as the GATE GUARD approaches, happy to see DRIVER.

GATE GUARD

Hey, Pete! How’s that boy of yours?

PETE (DRIVER)

Tom, I tell ya, I ain’t never

seen him throw this good.

TOM (GATE GUARD)

Amen to that, brother.

We’ll need him this year.

PETE

I hear ya. I’ll let him know

you’re rootin’ for him.

TOM

We’ll put him on the prayer list, too.

PETE

We could use all the help we can get.

TOM

Everybody could, ain’t that true?

(gesturing)

This the guy, I guess?

PETE

(undecipherable)

Ryan isn’t paying attention to the men anymore. He sees

CENTER GROUNDS

BALDY wearing a grey-blue jumpsuit. Baldy is standing at a side door, leaning and smoking, and staring across 30 yards straight into Ryan’s soul.

VAN

Ryan scratches his cast.

CENTER GROUNDS

The propped open door swings wide. ORDERLY 1, looking like an angry mountain, gestures to Baldy, who flicks his cigarette into the grass and heads inside.

VAN

The GATES open.

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from Agency 1

The neck of the first space bug snapped easily. I caught it off guard. Its muscles were tense and I was full of adrenaline. Its head spun a full three-sixty. The second little bastard had time to react, letting its body go slack as my hands wrapped around its small head. I could twist. I could jerk it this way and that. I’m pretty sure it was unconscious after my second attempt, but that satisfying crunch just wouldn’t happen. No stream of green slime they called blood erupting from the back of its little bug throat.

I’m no sadist. I’m no monster. I’d leave it lie if I didn’t have orders. Everything must go. Every single one of these six-legged alien assholes. Their entire bodies were only about as large as a human torso. and it was hard to believe these suckers had made it all the way across the galaxy to wreak havoc on our planet, but here they were, sucking the nitrogen from our atmosphere in their giant suppository-shaped spaceships. In my briefing, I was told that their mech suits were a new improvement. A quick adaptation. They sat their little ant bodies into a bipedal robot, and they were suddenly freeing up legs to work on more nefarious projects. The ultimate multitaskers, these little fuckers. They never stopped evolving.

Maybe they were smart enough to get their asses all the way here after all.

I laughed as I pressed my heel into the face of my enemy. The pop was sudden, my boot hitting the ground and that green goo splashing about in all directions. Their brains were so small compared to ours, and we still haven’t even made it to Mars? That shit’s embarrassing.

Zombeh 1.1

Tom Stovel and Amy Blithe (35, both) lived in a treehouse on a corner of Hickory Street in Savannah, Georgia. The walls of their top-floor two-bedroom apartment were paper thin, and there were too many windows. It felt just short of camping. Glamping, maybe.

The house was built well before lead paint had been banned. The ceiling fans were installed before bulb sizes had been standardized. The kitchen had been remodeled to include a clothes washer and dryer with a dishwasher in between – about six full paces away from the sink. They could not use more than two appliances in the same room without tripping a fuse, the box for which was hidden behind the refrigerator.

The apartment was a pain in the ass, for sure, but it was oddly comfortable. It was home.

Drew and Foster Effingham (39 and 32 respectively) lived in the apartment below. Instead of glamping, the Effinghams dwelled in the equivalent of a Hobbit’s den – the ceilings were only seven feet high – and the concrete floors of what was once a prototype garage sloped in all directions beneath thin carpet. Their washer and dryer was an afterthought, stowed in the storage space around the side of the house near the trashcans in the alley.

The neighborhood was a grid, as were all neighborhoods in the city. The four of them would sit in their driveway smoking cigarettes and waving to the pedestrians walking their dogs. Savannah, after all, was a dog kind of town. The couples would drink beer and tell stories, getting downright rowdy when the boys had had one too many – when shouting over one another became the only way to be heard.

They never really saw their neighbors doing the same.

The neighbors all owned their land. They built fences around eighth-acre lots for their kids and dogs to play in. They stayed inside and did things that real adults do, venturing out only for the aforementioned walks and bit of light gardening.

“Fucking grown-ups, the bunch of them,” Drew would say. His compatriots would toast in agreement.

*

They knew something was wrong when the power went out. Of course, the power went out regularly in a house built before electricity was a sure thing, but it only ever stayed out for a few hours at a time, usually in the middle of the night when they’d all fallen asleep with all of the switches on. This time, however, it didn’t come back on and blind everyone. They woke up to warming fridges and no internet.

Their cellphones were all dead.

It was going to be a rough day.