Pitch Black Page #4
Riddick, cuffed to a bulkhead. His eyes, still hidden by
goggles, track Johns and Audrey toward daylight.
The survivors straggle outside. CAMERA SURVEYS new faces:
ZEKE and SHAZZA. Male-female team of bushwhackers, partners in
life. Shazza has a tough sexiness. Zeke's face shows aboriginal
blood. (30s.)
PARIS. Overfed, overgroomed. A puff pastry of a man. (40s or
50s.)
Four male "Chrislams": The pillar-steady IMAM (50ish), and
THREE PILGRIMS, young and excitable (late-teens). (NOTE: The
Chrislams represent a union between Christianity and Islam. They
have the iconography of Christians yet the physical look of Arab
Muslims.)
WIDE SHOT:
All around them is stark and unforgiving terrain.The valley floor is relieved only by low hills to one side,
spiked with earthen spires. Scorching down on everything are
two suns -- one red, one yellow.
PARIS:
Well. Our own little slice of heaven.
The Chrislams fall to their knees. Confusion as they try to
orient themselves.
IMAM:
Please...which way to New Mecca? We must
know the direction in order to pray.
North? South? East? West? Nobody knows. Johns snaps open a
compass, finds the needle swaying rudderlessly. The SCREAMING
inside the ship finally ends.
As Fry holds Owens, now dead.
The four Chrislams have devised a way to pray: Backs together,
each faces a different compass point.
Fry climbs onto the back of the ship. Johns Paris, Zeke, Shazza,
Audrey are already here.
JOHNS:
Big talk about a scouting party...
Fry sees the huge smoldering scar in the ground behind the ship.
One glance confirms that there are no other survivors.
JOHNS (CONT'D)
...then we saw this.
PARIS:
Anyone else having breathing problems?
Aside from me?
AUDREY:
Like I just ran, or something....
SHAZZA:
Feel one lung short. All of us.
PARIS:
Well, I tend toward the asthmatic. And
with all this dust....
Faces turn to Fry: They're looking to her for answers.
FRY:
It's the atmosphere. Too much pressure,
not enough oxygen. Might take a few days
to --
ZEKE:
So what the bloody hell happened, anyways?
FRY:
Somethin' knocked us off-lane. Maybe a
rogue comet. Maybe we'll never know.
SHAZZA:
Well, I for one, am thoroughly f***ing
grateful. This beast wasn't made to land
like this. But cripes, you rode it down.
(to others)
C'mon, you lousy ingrates, only reason
we're alive is a'cuzza her.
Others CHIME AGREEMENT, laying thankful hands on Fry's shoulders.
HOLD on Fry, her face betraying nothing as they anoint her their
savior.
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"Pitch Black" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 28 Apr. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/pitch_black_919>.
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