Sanitation Run

Chapter 9: Shelter

PICKUP TRUCK, GRAVEL LOT, WATER TREATMENT PLANT (NIGHT)

Bruce shoves Valerie over into the passenger seat and hits the gas.

Shadows SLAM into the truck from all sides, causing the cab to shake and splattering the windows with tar.

They drive a hundred feet before Bruce turns on the lights. They help little.

The sleet storm is a full-on blizzard, snow already accumulating on the lot.

Bruce DRIFTS around toward the main gate, the flaming wreckage from the explosion in the rear-view. Valerie is thrown against the door.

VALERIE: (tries to speak but can’t)

BRUCE: Save it. (pointing a thumb) Gonna need my bag from back there.

Valerie looks back. Pursuing shadows skitter in the foreground of the fire.

BRUCE: (engine roaring) Imminently.

Valerie sticks her head back through the rear cab window, assailed by the elements. Wind whips her hair. Her stinging eyes are reduced to slivers.

Never mind the guttural rasps.

She catches sight of the bag, now near the back of the bed. There’s no getting around it: she has to fully exit the cab.

Valerie (wincing at her shoulder) levers herself out onto the snow-covered truck bed and slides toward the tailgate on an alligator belly.

She hopes keeping out of sight will stay the shadows, but they smell her.

Her fingers are just in reach of the bag when Bruce drifts hard, causing it to slide across the bed.

Something dark mounts the side. Valerie spins herself around on the slick bed and connects with her foot, knocking it back.

Too soon there’s another one.

Another hard drift. The second shadow flies off, but now there’s a third.

Valerie redoubles her efforts on the bag and gains purchase just as the GAPING MAW of the shadow descends upon her.

VALERIE: (screams)

A HEAVY GUNSHOT rings out.

The shadow keels over backwards, spilling tar from what would be its neck.

Valerie’s eyes follow the trajectory up to the FAT pistol muzzle poking through the cab window.

Bag. Right.

She thrusts the bag through the window and dives in after it.

Bruce pulls around to the gate, window down, offering his key card to the sensor.

The swarm of shadows is still coming.

The sensor takes forever to validate, the gates even longer to creak open.

They can no longer wait.

Bruce floors it through the gates before they’re fully open, breaking off the passenger-side mirror.

It came at a price, but at least they’re out onto:

PICKUP TRUCK, HIGHWAY, CITY OUTSKIRTS (NIGHT)

The highway is a slick white sheet empty of traffic. Snow continues to fall at a sharp angle.

The river runs swift and black beside them, swelling onto the snow-laden banks.

The heater pumps heaven.

BRUCE: You got a name?

VALERIE: Vale. You?

BRUCE: Bruce.

VALERIE: Suits you.

Valerie touches her pocket to confirm she still has THE PAYLOAD.

BRUCE: Who are the guns?

VALERIE: They showed up when I took the package.

BRUCE: And those things?

VALERIE: I don’t know.

Valerie checks her phone.

VALERIE: That first one, near the water...?

BRUCE: Day shift.

VALERIE: I’m sorry.

BRUCE: Dave had it comin.

VALERIE: He was different than the others.

BRUCE: Maybe he was newer.

Bruce turns on the radio. Classic rock plays.

VALERIE: News?

BRUCE: I don’t listen to the news.

VALERIE: Not even when it can help us?

BRUCE: We’re beyond help. Let me drive.

Valerie puts on her music. Her head falls against the window as exhaustion sets in.

Bruce drives.

FLASHBACK: BASEMENT STUDIO, CITY (DAY)

Valerie stands at the top of the stairs, duffel slung over her shoulder.

A balding man stands beside her spinning a key on his finger. He is the Landlord.

LANDLORD: There’s a shower and a toilet but no bath.

VALERIE: Kitchen?

LANDLORD: Kitchenette. No thermostat. No guests.

VALERIE: No roaches?

LANDLORD: No promises.

VALERIE: No questions?

LANDLORD: No questions.

Valerie hands the man a thin grip of old bills.

LANDLORD: Make yourself at home.

PICKUP TRUCK, PARKING LOT, BRUCE’S APARTMENT, CITY (NIGHT)

Amber streetlights struggle against a piling snow turned from sharp horizontal blizzard to thick vertical fluff. Cars are buried. The streets are dead but building windows are alight beyond drawn curtains.

The snow insulates all sound.

BRUCE: (nudging Valerie’s shoulder) We’re here.

VALERIE: Where’s here?

BRUCE: Shelter.

OUTSIDE STAIRWELL, BRUCE’S APARTMENT, CITY (CONTINUOUS)

They trudge through the snow and up four flights of stairs. Snow fills their footprints almost immediately.

ENTRYWAY, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (CONTINUOUS)

They shed snow on a large square of linoleum. Bruce bangs off the butt of the rifle that had been buried in the truck bed.

VALERIE: I’ve never known snow like this.

Bruce kicks off his boots and steps into:

HALLWAY, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (CONTINUOUS)

BRUCE: The city’s never known snow like this. Take your shower while you still can.

VALERIE: (following Bruce into the hall, about to levy protest)

BRUCE: Don’t look a horse in the gift-mouth. Or something. You’ll fit my wife’s clothes. Bedroom’s down the hall. Find something.

VALERIE: Are we going to talk about what happened?

BRUCE: When you’re ready. If there’s time.

VALERIE: (pulling out her phone) I need to charge this.

HALLWAY, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (CONTINUOUS)

Valerie tiptoes down the oddly clean and barren hall. Wide wood floors. Picture frames absent from their former hooks. The apartment is rich but hollow. A soulless vessel.

The bathroom is straight ahead: open, white, inviting. Valerie pans from left to right. She’s certain that Bruce meant the left door but instead turns the knob and steps into the right.

BEDROOM, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (CONTINUOUS)

Everything’s subtle shades of pink: curtains, walls, bedspread. The room is untidy but clean: dustless but with dolls on the floor and a hastily made bed. Like the girl just up and left. Or like every effort had been made to preserve her ghost.

Valerie backs into Bruce.

BRUCE: Wrong room.

VALERIE: I’m sorry--when you said wife, I thought--

BRUCE: Divorced? The room you want’s across the hall.

LIVING ROOM, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (NIGHT)

Bruce sits on the couch cleaning the rifle, rags and oil and parts spread out on an ottoman.

The shower runs in the bathroom.

The TV plays old sci-fi: a starship captain and his crew seeking out new worlds. Muted.

The shower stops.

LIVING ROOM, BRUCE’S APARTMENT (NIGHT)

Valerie walks up the hall in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, hair wrapped turban-like in a towel.

Bruce isn’t prepared for the shock of seeing his wife. He nearly drops the gun before averting his eyes.

It’s not her.

VALERIE: Let’s talk.