The Thing Page #2

of the crash, his eyes crazed with determination,

struggles to his feet. Heedless of his companion, he

double-times his way to the men and the dog. He reloads

his gun and bellows in his Scandinavian tongue.

Norris and Bennings have no idea what he is saying.

The survivor waves his arms as if shooting them off,

screaming as he does so; his face now caked with blood.

The two men are bewildered. The dog jumps up, licking and

pawing them, imploring for safety.

Blam!! The visitor fires. The men jump back in

disbelief.

NORRIS:

What the fu...

Blam! Blam! The crazed visitor screams and fires as he

stalks after them. His countenance ablaze, mad. Ice and

snow kick up about the terrified Americans. A bullet

smacks into the dog's hip, sending it skidding and howling

in pain.

Childs, the black man by the snowmobile, takes cover,

diving behind his machine.

Bennings is hit. Norris pulls, drags him back toward the

compound. The dog crawls along beside them.

The intruder is relentless in his assail. He runs,

screaming, firing, screaming, reloading and firing.

INT. COMPOUND

Total confusion. Some watch helplessly through the small,

fogged-up and translucent windows. Others try to mobilize

grabbing for their heavy jackets.

CLOSE ON A .357 MAGNUM

as it efficiently breaks through a windowpane and into the

cold. A steady hand grips it firmly.

THE SCANDINAVIAN

getting closer. Kablam! Suddenly, his head jerks back.

He falls to his knees and then face down into the snow.

NORRIS AND BENNINGS

stare blankly, but relievedly at the fallen man. The dog

whimpers in pain.

CHILDS:

pokes his head out from under the snowmobile.

INT. MAIN COMPOUND - REC ROOM

The rumbling of voices fades. The men adjust their eyes

to station manager Garry, as he extracts his gun from the

broken window, relieves it of its spent shell and puts it

away.

CUT TO:

EXT. BURNING COPTER

Several men spray snow on the burning wreckage. There is

no hope for the pilot.

CUT TO:

INT. COMPOUND

CLOSE ON THE PALLID FACE OF THE SCANDINAVIAN INTRUDER

A neat round hole is set in the middle of his forehead.

Station manager Garry holds up something akin to an ID.

GARRY:

Norwegian... Jans Bolen.

Fuchs, a young and sensitive-looking biologist, stands

closest to the large area map of Antarctica. Several men

sit and stand around viewing the body that lies on two

brought-together card-tables.

FUCHS:

Gotta be from the Norwegian camp.

GARRY:

How far's that?

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