INT. CYPRESS GROVE MALL - DAY Gary stands by the information board at the mall's nexus where all its arteries converge. He examines it like he's trying to find a particularly well-hidden store. Gary glances up at the clock: two minutes past three. Reflexively presses his earpiece. GARY: Mr Wizard, no ones here for the exchange. This Pescadero dude... is he usually late? CONTROL CENTER Damian, the Wizard, scans an array of monitors. WIZARD: The fisherman? No, he's never late. In fact, he's famous for it... Gary I don't see him. MALL Gary surveys the scene again. Can't see his meet, but does spy a couple of secret service types in standard issue shades and earwigs. GARY: We've got company. Gary starts walking towards a huge Macy's a couple of blocks ahead. WIZARD (V.O.): Ok, let's get you out of there. Take the next left and make your way down to the service corridor at the end. I'll leave the door open. GARY: Gotcha. WIZARD (V.O.): By the way, when you go in, we might lose contact until you get outside. Gary starts to move more quickly into the crowd, but he's been spotted. GARY: Shit. Gary crouches down and scampers into a doorway. Grabs a grey hoodie from his bag, replaces his Cardinals baseball cap with a Giants cap. As he rises, the two security types pace their way past him, still scanning the area as they hunt him down. Gary continues to move forward, keeping a wary eye of those two, until he hits his left turn, and with far less foot traffic to obstruct him, he jogs gently to the service door at the far end. Gary opens the door and enters. CONTROL CENTER All of a sudden, Wizard's live feed from the mall turns to snow. WIZARD: Gary? Dude, can you hear me? SERVICE CORRIDOR Static fills Gary's earpiece. GARY: Wizard? Crap! Gary steps down the corridor, attentive for any sound. In contrast to the bright lights of the mall's throughfares, this corridor is dark, lit only by exit lighting just bright enough for someone to see where they're going. Gary follows the exit lights, but as he turns the corner, he trips over an outstretched leg and goes flying, head first, into the ground. As Gary scrambles, he turns to see a man in a Cardinals' cap resting against the wall, a bullet hole right between the eyes. Meet Cesaro Pescadero... ex-fisherman. GARY: Oh shit. Metronomic footsteps approach. Click, click... Gary looks up to see the silhouette of a woman, evil looking gun dangling menacingly ay her side. Diane smiles, but it's not one of those happy to see you kind. DIANE: Hi Gary. We need to talk.

INT. TRAIN - DAY Martin takes a seat several rows behind Carrington. Seats fill up around them as the train pulls out of the station. An old lady looks at the aisle seat beside Martin. He glares. She moves on. Martin whispers into his phone: MARTIN: Carrington's on the train. I don't know where he bought a ticket to. I can't get any closer. CLAIRE (phone): We need to know if he has the bag. MARTIN: I can't get any closer. CLAIRE: All of this is pointless if he doesn't have the bag. Does he have the bag? Martin leans out into the aisle. There's a brown leather hump at Carrington's feet. A duffle bag, maybe? MARTIN: I think so. CLAIRE: "Think" isn't good enough- MARTIN: Yes! He has the bag. The old woman, now sat a few seats away, glares at him. CLAIRE: How big is it? MARTIN: What? CLAIRE: How big is the bag right now? MARTIN: The same size as- CLAIRE: That's not going to be true, Martin. Look again. Martin leans round the side of the chair to take a look - And his eyes widen. INT. OPS ROOM - DAY Claire leans in to her workstation, listening intently: CLAIRE: Martin? MARTIN (phone): It's growing. CLAIRE: How big? Martin? On the other end of the phone, the screaming starts. CLAIRE: Martin! On her workstation screen, CCTV shows the train plunging into a tunnel. Martin's cellphone signal fails. The disconnected sound buzzes in her ears. CLAIRE: Martin...? --------------- (And no, I have no idea what's going on there...!)

INT. LUCA’S RESTAURANT - KITCHEN - DAY Amy marches up to Rita, made brave by her secret weapon. Rita senses her approach and pushing her black chef’s hat up on her forehead-- RITA: What. AMY: I really need those tickets. Rita ignores her, continues chopping celery rapidly-- CHOP CHOP CHOP. AMY (CONT’D): Rita, please. RITA: How many times do you have to hear ‘no’ before you believe it? AMY: There is no number. I never believe a ‘no’. RITA: That’s fun for your boyfriend. AMY: What do I have to do? Tell me and I’ll do it. You want me to lick your shoe? What? Rita stops chopping and turns to Amy. RITA: I love Prince, okay Amy? I love him more than my kids and more than myself. I love him more than sex and I love him more than macaroons. There is no way I will ever, ever sell you my Prince tickets. Even for 2 billion dollars. Now, piss off, I’m chopping. CHOP CHOP CHOP she dismisses Amy. But Amy doesn’t budge. AMY: I know what’s in the ceiling. RITA: Huh? AMY: Your hiding spot. RITA: I say again-- huh? Amy stares at Rita until the chef is forced to look up at her. Then Amy plugs one nostril and SNIFFS, miming a bump. Her eyes travel to the ceiling above Rita’s head, where we see the type of ceiling tiles that make an easy hiding spot. RITA (CONT’D): He won’t believe it’s mine because he can’t run this place without me. AMY: I’ve been watching you for months. I can make your risotto with my eyes closed and he’ll sure as shit believe the stuff is yours if I show him the video on my iPhone of your skinny crackhead ass climbing a stepladder to stick a humongous white brick up there. Rita’s eyes narrow at her adversary. Amy meets her gaze, not backing down this time. AMY (CONT’D): You love Prince that much? CUT TO BLACK.

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT Stains of pasta sauce against the wall. Behind the sofa an empty steel pan with traces of the same sauce. Broken glass and cut flowers scattered on the floor. Curtains ripped off, hanging askew of what is left over. Mark and Margie stand across each other. His eyes cold, rage is streaming through Mark. Margie feels hate, much hate. Her dress shred. His blouse cut, his arm bleeding. Mark raises his hand. Mark: don’t you ever threaten me again Margie: or else? (steps closer, daring eyes) Mark manages to contain himself, dashes outside the living room. BANG, the front door closes. Margie: BASTARD. I build the company too, it’s not YOURS (yells) Margie returns to finish her packing in the bed room. MOMENT LATER RING… must be the taxi driver. Margie grabs her bag, opens the door. Mark stands in her way, totally fucked up.

INT - CLASSROOM - AFTERNOON Kids sit listening to their teacher with varying degrees of attention. Johnny sits in the back half listening as he looks over a map of the school. An small bud protrudes from one ear. TEACHER: A 90 degree angle is found in what kind of triangle class? The kids look at each other, no one wanting to answer. A CHIRP sounds and Johnny jumps. But he's the only one that hears it. TEACHER: Johnny? Johnny does not answer but pulls a small device the size of a phone from his desk. INSERT - MESSAGER SCREEN Student reported snooping in lockers in sector 52A. Please respond. BACK TO SCENE Johnny looks up, confused. TEACHER: Johnny? Do you know the answer? Johnny stands and points to his sash. The teacher nods. Johnny hurries out of the classroom. INT - HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Johnny taps his ear bud as he exits the room. JOHNNY: Dispatch, this is HM87; come in. DISPATCH: HM87, we have a reported snooper in the sector 52A hallway. Please investigate. Johnny paces as he talks. JOHNNY: Where is the Monitor on duty for that sector? I'm in class right now. Or was.. DISPATCH: All sector 52 monitors are currently on an emergency call in sector 33. You're it rook. Johnny frowns at the informal moniker and begins walking down the hall. JOHNNY: Very well, I'm on it. INT - SECTOR 52A HALLWAY - AFTERNOON Rows of stacked lockers line either side of the hallway. No classrooms occupy this section of the hall and the light is dimmer than usual. Johnny enters, creeping along one wall. He pulls out a flashlight, nearly dropping it in nervousness. He switches it on, illuminating a section of the hall. He taps his ear bud. JOHNNY: Dispatch, this is HM87. I'm not seeing anything here. No disturbed lockers. There is no answer. Johnny taps the ear bud. There is nothing but STATIC. JOHNNY: Hello? He pulls out his messager. It is dead. Johnny puts it away and stares down the hall with a sense of dread. He points his flashlight ahead and moves forward with caution. After a moment he reaches the end of the hall and stops next to a closet. JOHNNY'S P.O.V. - ANOTHER HALLWAY sits empty around the corner. The light here is not any brighter. BACK TO SCENE The closet door opens behind Johnny and a pair of arms emerge, grabbing the hall monitor and pulling him into the darkness of the closet.

INT PROFESSOR CHATSWORTH'S STUDY - DAY It's like we're back in the 19th century. Bookshelves filled to the brim with ancient leather bound tomes line the walls of this huge room. There's even a spiral staircase up to a mezzanine and a balcony outside. Through a bay window, we see outside to children playing on the lawn and a spectacular view of a colorful New England fall. Dakota Smith slumps exhaustedly into an armchair as Dominic Chatsworth pours a glass of sherry and hands it to her. CHATSWORTH: Hartley will be in with more substantial refreshment in a few moments. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable. Dakota surveys the room, mostly out of professional curiosity as she adds up the value of the rare books in Dominic's personal library. CHATSWORTH: Alas, while I'm alive these books are not for sale. Busted, Dakota proffers a gentle smile. DAKOTA: Daniel Grey tells me you knew my parents. CHATSWORTH: Good friends... We were at Oxford together back in the late 60's. All three of us Rhodes scholars... and then later, of course, we all helped create The Conclave. DAKOTA: What's that? CHATSWORTH: The Conclave of St. Raphael... I assume you know who he is. DAKOTA: Sure, the archangel-- CHATSWORTH: -- and patron saint of humanity... You have to understand, the 60's were a different time. We all wanted to save the world and had more than enough hubris to think we could succeed. Chatsworth takes down a framed photograph from the wall, hands it to her. CHATSWORTH: Here, look for yourself... she was astonishingly beautiful in those days. I was quite jealous of your father. Dakota smiles as she scans the picture, her slim finger tracing the outline of her mother, then her father. Suddenly, she reaches a ruggedly handsome face that seems vaguely familiar to her. DAKOTA: Dominic, who is this man? Chatsworth leans over the frame, his slight smile turns to a mild scowl. CHATSWORTH: Charles Henderson. He was also one of the originals. DAKOTA: I just met him, a few weeks ago. CHATSWORTH: That's impossible. DAKOTA: I swear to you, his name's... Charles Hendricks, and he's the CEO of Alpha Prime, the big defense conglomerate. CHATSWORTH: Again it's not possible... because I shot him and saw him fall into the Tigris. There's no way he survived-- At that very moment, Chatsworth desk phone rings. Caller ID says Alpha Prime Inc. He hits the speaker phone, as Charles Hendricks begins to speak in that thunderous bass. HENDRICKS: Dominic, it's been too long... and Ms. Smith, please pay close attention if you want to find out what happened to your parents.

EXT. DEEP SPACE - UNKNOWN Dark. Infinite. Space. SUPER: 2021 - 24,134,273,485 KM FROM EARTH Voyager one makes its way forward into silence. INT. NASA MISSION CONTROL - DAY Giant screens and computers surround the room. Although quiet, there is a constant humming and a gallery of BEEPS and TINGS. GEORGE (50s), red tie and striped shirt stares at his computer screen, his face buried in his hands, snoring. Behind him, AIDAN (60s), "Alexander, The Man Who Knows" red T-shirt on, sits, feet on his desk, and throws little balls of paper to Georges' head. GEORGE wakes up and discovers a blanket of paper balls around him. GEORGE: Dude. AIDAN: Bored. He picks up a bunch of balls and bring his full hand forward. GEORGE: Really? AIDAN: Yea. An ALARM RINGS throughout Mission Control. Both men jump to their feet alongside the rest of employees in the room. A male's voice erupts from the room's speaker. VOICE: Team Voyager One, incoming communication from the spacecraft. AIDAN (To the speakers): I'm on it. GEORGE: Still can't hear you dammass. The two men work in perfect coalition to bring up the communication on screen while the printer nearby spits papers at fulgurant speed. GEORGE: What d'you see Aidan? George focuses on the screen while Aidan attends to the prints. GEORGE: Talk to me brother, I'm getting weird signals on screen. Aidan is silent, staring at the report in front of him as more paper jerks out of the printer. George turns to see tears on Aidan's face. He walks up to him. GEORGE: What is it? AIDAN: Patterns. GEORGE: What patterns? Aidan raises his head to look at George then turns to the room which has fallen completely silent, no more BEEPS, no more TINGS, just silence. Two dozen colleagues stare at him. Another TEAR. George can't wait and picks up more of the report from the printer, flips through the pages. His jaw DROPS. GEORGE: Patterns, communication patterns. People around him hold their breath. GEORGE: It's constant and continuous. It looks like a communication pattern from outer space. The entire room screams in excitement. People hug and kiss. Bert T-BOWS. Jeanine jumps into Julie's arms. They kiss. A long awaited kiss. George looks up at Aidan who just picked up the last page from the printer. His colleague stands there, lifeless, the page hanging at his finger tips. He LET'S GO. The page falls like a tree leaf in autumn and lands by George's feet. He picks up the page and reads. GEORGE: I don't know that code, what's that, B-E-O-L ONE-O-ONE? Aidan, still tearing, looks at George in silence, as the crowd around them jumps, hugs and scream.

EXT. FIELD ALONG THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER, JANUARY 1815 - TWILIGHT WIDE VIEW of winter-yellowed field, facing an embankment toward which red-coated BRITISH SOLDIERS slowly progress. GUNFIRE appears as spotty, smokey puffs scattered above the embankment, tracing above the field dotted with dead and injured red-coats. CLOSE ON WICK, dressed in a lieutenant's ratty British army uniform, as he looks around the field. TRACK WICK now running from scattered volleys of grapeshot as he heads toward the swamp line. HITCHITI tribe members can be seen watching the field from the edge of the swamp. - - - EXT. CHALMETTE SWAMP, ALONG FIELD NEXT TO MISSISSIPPI RIVER CLOSE ON WICK as he approaches a HITCHITI MAN once WICK has entered the swamp's brush. WICK (hesitantly): Do you speak English? HITCHITI MAN (wary): Yes. WICK: I need to reach General Thornton, near the river. Which way is best? HITCHITI MAN (pointing the direction from which WICK came): Across the field. WICK: That won’t work. Why are you here? HITCHITI MAN: We are watching for any Americans entering the swamp. This is our land. WICK: Carry on. CLOSE ON WICK, who turns around and slinks below the densest brush, keeping an eye on the field. TRACK as WICK works his way farther from the embankment where American troops continue to fire. CLOSE ON WICK stops to listen for gunfire. Hearing none, he drops down into the brush, exhausted. A rustling sound in the brush startles WICK, who sits up and looks in direction from which he came. Seeing nothing, WICK relaxes and shuts his eyes. WICK jerks upright, leaves crunching nearby startle him. WICK’s eyes focus in the growing dark. Recognition floods WICK’s face, his entire body tenses as if prepared to run. WICK (shocked): Lud! You? What are you doing here? A shot rings out. CLOSE ON WICK, who falls the ground on his back. WICK (pained): You bastard! BLACK OUT. __________ A/N: Ick...this is rough. I needed more research on the Battle of New Orleans for my novel. This exercise forced me to study the battlefield layout in detail.

oh wow! some good ones in the mix. nice job, guys :) INT. FANCY AD AGENCY - DAY Brady sits looking at a pile of ad copy like he's just been blasted by a skunk. BRADY: What? What the fuck is this? Where's Alex? (to his assistant) Get Alex up here. Now. A fleeting glimpse at what's in his hand shows a series of 8 1/2 x 11 glossy prints of what appears to be a woman bound and gagged. INT. ALEX's OFFICE - DAY Alex is on the phone, his face pale and sweaty. He swallows hard. ALEX: (desperate) Wait. No, you don't understand. Wait. Please. I'll be right there. Please, just wait. Alex slams down the phone and dashes for the door, tripping over Brady on the way out. Alex scrambles to right himself and notices the scattering of papers and seemingly pornographic prints. His eyes bug out, he panics. BRADY: (heated) What is this crap? We've got a multi-million dollar fragrance campaign and you're selling me torture porn? They'll be here in 10-- ALEX: No. (gasping) No. I can... That's not... Alex turns on his heels and barrels through the maze of cubicles knocking down anything and anyone in his path. Panic is an understatement. BRADY: You leave me hanging, Alex, and you're done. You hear me? Alex. ALEX! Brady's pissed. BRADY: (to Elizabeth) Clear his desk. He's done. Elizabeth is standing nearby and begins to pick up papers from the floor when she gasps and rises slowly with one of the glossies in her hand. ELIZABETH: Mr. Brady... That's his wife. BRADY: (confused) What? ELIZABETH: (emotional) Oh my god, that's Claire. That's his wife. Brady takes the picture from Elizabeth and squints before recognizing the bound and gagged woman as Claire. He reaches down to gather the rest, flipping through each one carefully and growing more disturbed. BRADY: Oh my god.

[…] month on Go Into The Story is Scene-Writing month. Write one scene prompted by Scott Meyer everyday to stretch your writing […]

[…] month on Go Into The Story is Scene-Writing month. Write one scene prompted by Scott Meyer everyday to stretch your writing […]

Again good work, all. One key to a good cliffhanger is leaving its outcome in doubt, as all you have pretty much done in your scenes. Another way to exploit a cliffhanger is to make it a surprise.