A quick flash of the end of the pilot when Troy argues with
Amanda and River. The punch... then, Amanda hits him with the
gun. He's out! They run away.
FADE IN:
EXT. DINER - NIGHT
Walkers emerge slowly from darkness. Dozens of them. Wheezing
moans, growls. Swell.
The exterior light of the diner illuminates just enough to
put anyone of edge. The real terror lies beyond the nights
embrace, unscathed by the light's reach.
Contours build, become more definite.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
Troy starts to move, slowly. Painfully. He picks himself up,
hand rubs the back of his head, as he moves to the entrance.
Looks out the window to see --
WALKERS,
converging on the small diner. A Sea of Dead.
He looks for a way out. All directions. Nothing.
PEW! That familiar sound again - like a lazer. He digs into
his pocket, fishing his phone out. Scrolls through his texts.
READS: What's your location? Made it to the safe house yet?
His fingers dance -- no, have to handle something.
RESPONSE READS: Trouble?
His fingers dance -- no more than usual.
Troy cranes up from his phone. Smiles. Then --
RESPONSE READS: Things are getting bad around here. Hope for
a cure though. We're close.
Fingers dance -- I gotta go.
He buries the phone in his pocket. Ponders, then... walks to
the kitchen.
After a beat, he emerges with a large chef knife. Moves to
the door, composes himself.
EXT. DINER - NIGHT
He exits with the knife at the ready.
A psychotic gleam in his eye. A calmness befalls him.
Their hobbled shamble is easy for Troy to maneuver through --
slicing necks, shoulders -- anything he can, as he pushes
past.
They're slow but many. He cuts through -- a bloody trail. But
for everyone he takes down, Five More take it's place.
THWACK -- SMACK -- PSST -- no matter how many they throw at
him, he seems to cut them down -- one after another -- with a
butchers intent... then --
-- it becomes too much. He's swarmed, overwhelmed by the
rabid MASS of DEAD. He's knocked to the ground, but still
fights: stabbing -- slicing -- cutting. Anything he can.
He uses the dead ones to shield his body.
Hands try to penetrate the fleshy barricade. He stabs
relentlessly to keep them at bay.
PULL BACK
to reveal dozens of walkers converging from everywhere. The
small pile is the focal point.
More and more converge. Hungry. Snarling.
The rabid horde elicits a horrifying sound, that carries like
a leaf in the wind.
PULL TIGHT
on the flesh. Thick, grotesque. And a protective shield.
Troy uses this precious time to gather himself. Sounds are
muffled under the weight --
-- which becomes overwhelming. What started off as a survival
strategy is taking a horrendous turn.
He's getting squashed, the air being forced out of him. Life
itself, is getting pushed out... until --
-- POP! POP! POP! Gunshots, muffled under the weight. More
POPS! Continuous... then --
-- relief. His chest expands. And a healthy intake of air.
He tries to get the bodies off him but he can't. Tries to see
what's going on, but all he sees is blood, guts... then --
-- something moves above. Hurried.
Troy closes his eyes for a beat, then... opens them:
accepting. But determined - he's not going quietly.
It's close, he can feel it. A few more bodies... then it's
showtime!
Almost there... until --
-- the last body gets thrown off and a hand reaches down...
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
(muffled)
You alive. Hey asshole...
-- then a face of the future: mechanical, long narrow eyes
protruding. Night vision wear.
Troy's tired eyes...
FADE TO BLACK.
Amanda and River. The punch... then, Amanda hits him with the
gun. He's out! They run away.
FADE IN:
EXT. DINER - NIGHT
Walkers emerge slowly from darkness. Dozens of them. Wheezing
moans, growls. Swell.
The exterior light of the diner illuminates just enough to
put anyone of edge. The real terror lies beyond the nights
embrace, unscathed by the light's reach.
Contours build, become more definite.
INT. DINER - NIGHT
Troy starts to move, slowly. Painfully. He picks himself up,
hand rubs the back of his head, as he moves to the entrance.
Looks out the window to see --
WALKERS,
converging on the small diner. A Sea of Dead.
He looks for a way out. All directions. Nothing.
PEW! That familiar sound again - like a lazer. He digs into
his pocket, fishing his phone out. Scrolls through his texts.
READS: What's your location? Made it to the safe house yet?
His fingers dance -- no, have to handle something.
RESPONSE READS: Trouble?
His fingers dance -- no more than usual.
Troy cranes up from his phone. Smiles. Then --
RESPONSE READS: Things are getting bad around here. Hope for
a cure though. We're close.
Fingers dance -- I gotta go.
He buries the phone in his pocket. Ponders, then... walks to
the kitchen.
After a beat, he emerges with a large chef knife. Moves to
the door, composes himself.
EXT. DINER - NIGHT
He exits with the knife at the ready.
A psychotic gleam in his eye. A calmness befalls him.
Their hobbled shamble is easy for Troy to maneuver through --
slicing necks, shoulders -- anything he can, as he pushes
past.
They're slow but many. He cuts through -- a bloody trail. But
for everyone he takes down, Five More take it's place.
THWACK -- SMACK -- PSST -- no matter how many they throw at
him, he seems to cut them down -- one after another -- with a
butchers intent... then --
-- it becomes too much. He's swarmed, overwhelmed by the
rabid MASS of DEAD. He's knocked to the ground, but still
fights: stabbing -- slicing -- cutting. Anything he can.
He uses the dead ones to shield his body.
Hands try to penetrate the fleshy barricade. He stabs
relentlessly to keep them at bay.
PULL BACK
to reveal dozens of walkers converging from everywhere. The
small pile is the focal point.
More and more converge. Hungry. Snarling.
The rabid horde elicits a horrifying sound, that carries like
a leaf in the wind.
PULL TIGHT
on the flesh. Thick, grotesque. And a protective shield.
Troy uses this precious time to gather himself. Sounds are
muffled under the weight --
-- which becomes overwhelming. What started off as a survival
strategy is taking a horrendous turn.
He's getting squashed, the air being forced out of him. Life
itself, is getting pushed out... until --
-- POP! POP! POP! Gunshots, muffled under the weight. More
POPS! Continuous... then --
-- relief. His chest expands. And a healthy intake of air.
He tries to get the bodies off him but he can't. Tries to see
what's going on, but all he sees is blood, guts... then --
-- something moves above. Hurried.
Troy closes his eyes for a beat, then... opens them:
accepting. But determined - he's not going quietly.
It's close, he can feel it. A few more bodies... then it's
showtime!
Almost there... until --
-- the last body gets thrown off and a hand reaches down...
MALE VOICE (O.S.)
(muffled)
You alive. Hey asshole...
-- then a face of the future: mechanical, long narrow eyes
protruding. Night vision wear.
Troy's tired eyes...
FADE TO BLACK.