Graceless by Krista Westervelt
FADE IN:
INT. ANGELA’S BEDROOM – DAY
ANGELA REEVES, early 20s, darts around her mildly cluttered bedroom, half-dressed in khakis and a white tank top, as voicemail messages play on SPEAKER.
MELINDA REEVES (V.O.)
Angela, it’s mom. Where are you? Service starts in twenty minutes.
AUTOMATED VOICEMAIL VOICE (V.O.)
Next new message.
Angela grabs a couple of crumpled button-down shirts from the bedroom floor. She performs the “smell test” and picks one.
MELINDA (V.O.)
Are you hung over? Oh, Lord, I hope you aren’t hung over. I told everyone you’d be here.
AUTOMATED VOICEMAILVOICE (V.O.)
Next new message.
Angela buttons her shirt.
HENRY REEVES (V.O.)
Ang, it’s Dad. For the love of God, please show up.
Angela laughs.
EXT. MEGACHURCHPARKING LOT – DAY
Cars fill the parking lot of the First Savior and Living Lord Church to near capacity.
INT. FIRST SAVIOR AND LIVING LORD CHURCH – DAY
HENRY REEVES, 47, not dressed to impress in khakis and sport coat, paces the empty church lobby, eyes fixed on the door.
He spots Angela on her way through the door. He strides over to meet her. Angela hugs him.
HENRY
I thought I was going to have to fake my own death.
INT. CHURCH SANCTUARY – DAY
A choir SINGS as DOUG RICHARDS, an imposing, silver-haired fifty-something pastor scans the crowd from his seat near the pulpit.
Angela’s mother, MELINDA REEVES, 47, sits in the second row of the packed sanctuary, her petite, yet chunky, frame loaded with enough costume jewelry to furnish a mall kiosk.
Angela and Henry stumble across the row toward Melinda. Angela sits down next to her mother.
MELINDA
Would it have troubled you to wear a skirt?
ANGELA
Good to see you, too, Mom.
A SNOOTY WOMAN turns and glares at them. Angela waves at her. The woman rolls her eyes and spins back around.
INT. CHURCH SANCTUARY – LATER
The pastor’s wife, DOTTIE (50s), an attractive woman with just a hint of menopausal softness, greets parishioners at the front of the sanctuary.
Dottie’s daughter, JAMIE (20s) -- the kind of preacher’s daughter the church boys would dream about if they weren’t so worried about her father reading their thoughts -- stands beside her.
Jamie tries her best to hold in laughter as a wildly gesticulating CHURCH LADY talks with her mother.
Melinda guides Angela to the front of the sanctuary.
Dottie hugs the Church Lady.
Melinda prods Angela forward. The Church Lady walks away, but not before giving Angela the once-over.
Angela reaches out to shake Dottie’s hand. Dottie hugs her instead. Angela glances over Dottie’s shoulder at Jamie, mid- hug. Jamie grins.
Dottie finally lets go. Angela lets out a sigh of relief.
DOTTIE
So, what did you think?
JAMIE
Don’t answer that.
Jamie winks at Angela. Angela blushes.
DOTTIE
Oh, hush. Angela, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal your mom for a minute.
Dottie drags Melinda away.
Awkward silence.
JAMIE
So.
Angela smiles.
ANGELA
Yeah.
JAMIE
I run the singles--
ANGELA
So how long--
They laugh and try again.
JAMIE
Go ahead.
ANGELA
You first.
More laughter.
JAMIE
Rock, paper, scissors?
ANGELA
I’m more of a coin toss girl.
JAMIE
Want me to sneak a quarter from the collection plate? I’ve got connections.
ANGELA
What are my odds?
JAMIE
You’re betting against the house.
Angela pulls a quarter from her pocket and hands it to Jamie.
JAMIE
Let’s raise the stakes.
Monstrous by Melody Cooper
EXT. SKY OVER ATLANTIC OCEAN – NIGHT
A calm, clear night. High full moon. A single engine airplane crosses the sky. Cabin windows are completely dark. Its tail and wing lights flash. Along the tail, in black letters: “SCUAB”
INT. PRIVATE PLANE – NIGHT
Moonlight, punctuated by the pulse of light from the wings, illuminates the darkness of the cabin of the 12-seater.
A WOMAN’S FACE, EYES WIDE IN FEAR, flashes by.
WOMAN #1 (O.S.)
(whispers)
Where is he? I can’t see anything.
WOMAN #2 (O.S.)
Stay close. We can’t let him--
SCREAM -- unseen, another woman SCREAMS, then another--
In the last row of the plane sits MOIRA, 20s, redhead -- breathless and frantic, she keeps her eyes on the front of the shadowy cabin as she shoves a small digital camera into a zip lock bag. She seals it.
SLICING OF FLESH
Blood sprays against the seat and window next to Moira -- some of it splatters on her face.
Moira snatches a life vest from under her seat, presses the zip lock bag against it, whispers...
MOIRA
(in Gaelic)
Stay bound together.
A MALE VOICE ROARS IN ANGER
Moira bolts from her seat. The plane banks -- she is thrown against the fuselage. Blue-white moonlight reveals the terror on her face.
Moira clutches the yellow vest, and against the pull of gravity, hauls herself to the emergency door.
She throws the handle forward and pushes the door open -- wind rushes against her face; her long hair whips back into the cabin -- she inflates the vest before she puts it on--
Her head is yanked back -- WET RIPPING SOUND -- she lets out a GUTTURAL CRY OF PAIN as she is dragged backwards--
Her dismembered arm stays attached to the door handle -- blood sprays everywhere--
As she flails in her unseen assailant’s grip, Moira stretches to reach the life vest with her feet -- before she’s hauled out of reach, she kicks the vest out the door.
EXT. PRIVATE PLANE – NIGHT
The life vest sails down towards the ocean, a hundred feet below the plummeting airplane, and hits the churning water.
The airplane careens in a slow spiral off into the distance. Bright flash followed by a CRACK and RUMBLE as if lightning and thunder has mysteriously marred the cloudless night.
The inflated vest rocks in the rise and fall of the ocean, as the WATER LAPS against it. The zip lock bag that holds the camera is still attached to its side.
EXT. ASTORIA APARTMENT BUILDING (NY) – DAY
On a littered side street in Queens, a ten-story residential building is sandwiched between an auto shop and a small novelty goods warehouse.
In the summer afternoon, the adjacent streets are filled with people heading home from work. A group of students gathers on the corner. An old woman in a black dress and scarf pushes a two-wheeled grocery cart.
A tall, narrow figure stands staring out of a fifth floor window of the building. The figure recedes and disappears from sight.
INT. HARRISON’S APARTMENT – BEDROOM – DAY
INHUMAN SCREECH
DAVID HARRISON, 20s, unshaven, hair a mess, face taut, eyes intensely focused as they track rapid movement.
LOW GROWL
Harrison opens his mouth, takes a sip from a straw that loops two feet to a bottle of beer in a holder secured to the arm of his seat. His hands grip a game controller that his fingers jab and flit over.
HARRISON
What the fuck are you doing?!
He leans in towards the large flat screen TV that he’s seated right in front of.
ON TV SCREEN: A dilapidated grand ballroom in a video game -- a Werewolf and Griffin circle each other--
The Griffin’s eagle head lets out an earsplitting SCREECH -- its immense wings flap once to lift its lion’s torso ten feet off the floor--
The Werewolf leaps into the air and onto the Griffin’s back -- with a flash of claws, it deftly swipes off the Griffin’s head -- both creatures crash to the floor.
The Werewolf stands on its two massive hind legs, victorious, and ROARS.
BACK TO SCENE
Harrison lifts his hands into the air.
HARRISON
Yes! You are no match for Lycanus, you mother fucking mythical piece of--
Sounds from the TV of MOANS, RASPS, SHUFFLING
HARRISON
Oh hell no.
He snatches up the controller with renewed fervor.
HARRISON
No, no, no,no!
ON TV SCREEN: Two dozen Zombies surround the Werewolf and take it down.
BACK TO SCENE
HARRISON
Since when are zombies on this level? Fuck this.
Harrison pushes back from the TV.
He is in a wheelchair. His powerful arms wrest the chair into a 180.
Lazarus Rising by David Elver
OVER BLACK:
We hear the distant sound of an AMPLIFIED ARABIC VOICE – a Muezzin, reciting the MUSLIM CALL TO PRAYER.
Over the voice rises the steady BEEP-BEEP-BEEP OF AN EKG.
CUT TO:
EXT. TRIAGE HOSPITAL JUST OUTSIDE CAIRO – DAY
CLOSE ON:
AN EYE SNAPS OPEN. The cornea is dark red. The color of blood.
The BEEPING speeds up. Fast. Too fast.
A HAND grasps at the air. It’s covered in dark, black welts.
THE EYE darts back and forth. The BEEPING becomes a single, long BEEEEEEEEP.
THE HAND drops onto a soiled white sheet. THE EYE stares straight ahead. Lifeless.
A slender, gloved hand reaches out. As it gently closes the staring eye, we REVEAL:
A PRETTY YOUNG NURSE wearing glasses over a respiratory mask. She traces an UNFAMILIAR RELIGIOUS SIGN over the dead man’s emaciated corpse and turns off the EKG beside his cot.
The long BEEEEP falls silent.
The Muezzin CALL TO PRAYER sounds out again. The Nurse looks up at the BLAZING SUN, shielding her eyes. And out across--
A VAST DESERT PLAIN. Thousands of beds stretch across the sand, filled with the dead and dying.
A handful of doctors and nurses scurry from patient to patient. Hopelessly outnumbered.
At the far end of the plain, barely visible in the heat-haze, rise the GREAT PYRAMIDS OF GIZA.
The nurse turns back to the dead man. She checks for a pulse.
The skin of the man’s wrist PEELS OFF in her hand.
The nurse stares at the smear of dead skin on her fingers. Horrified.
POP. POP.
EXPLOSIONS sound in the distance. Artillery?
BANG!
Another EXPLOSION, much closer. A SHADOW falls across the nurse, the bed, the entire compound. She looks up. Reflected in her glasses, we see--
A HUGE BALL OF FIRE AND METAL is FALLING FROM THE SKY.
The nurse opens her mouth to scream, and--
A CITY-SIZED STARSHIP, enveloped in a halo of flame, CRASHES into central Cairo.
The ship EXPLODES like a sun going nova. A SHOCKWAVE OF FIRE flies outwards, obliterating everything in its path.
The city.
The hospital.
The Pyramids.
EVERYTHING is consumed by FIRE.
EXT. INTERSTELLAR SPACE
BLACK.
One by one, stars bleed into the darkness. A loud, mechanical RUMBLING breaks the silence.
The LAZARUS lumbers into view.
It is a vast, ugly, cancerous tumor of a ship. Like a living thing cobbled together from a thousand different designs and technologies. Worn out by centuries of neglect.
TITLE OVER:
CONTAGION SHIP: LAZARUS
TIME ELAPSED SINCE EXILE: 299 years, 11 months, 27 days.
ESTIMATED TIME TO EARTH ORBIT: 23 hours, 47 minutes, 15 seconds.
The time to Earth orbit TICKS DOWN, like a CLOCK THAT’S COUNTING DOWN:
14 seconds
13 seconds
12 --
INT. SERVICE CORRIDOR
Cramped, cluttered, claustrophobic. Every square inch of the walls and ceiling are covered in battered pipes, rusted mechanical equipment, damaged computer monitors.
Steam HISSES. Dim lights FLICKER. From a dozen small panels, red warning lights BLINK ominously.
ABEL (30s) races nimbly down the narrow corridor, jumping over or ducking under the stalagmites and stalactites of machinery.
He looks like he hasn’t had a decent meal, a shower or a good night’s sleep in about a thousand years. Across his face are tattooed three red lines, like the claw mark of a jungle cat.
Abel stops at a huge power terminal, home to the brightest of the blinking lights. He stares at it. Kicks it. Again.
On the third kick, the terminal lets out a disturbingly human- sounding WHINE. The red light blinks out and dies.
ABEL
Shit.
Abel pulls on a pair of ancient gloves and wedges his arm into the gap between the wall and the terminal. Trying to reach the reset switch on the back of the machine.
He strains at the effort. Wincing.
Can’t. Quite. Make it.
With a dissatisfied GRUNT, he pulls his arm back. It jerks. Doesn’t come loose.
He’s stuck.
Abel grimaces. Jerks his arm again.
Nothing. He’s caught, his arm wedged shoulder-deep behind the big machine.
Abel SWEARS under his breath. Braces himself. And YANKS his arm.