Frankenstein Page #3

THE RUNNING MEN hear an INHUMAN HOWL rise amidst those of

the dogs. A vicious free-for-all echoes from the rocks.

Barking gives way to shrill squeals. An object is launched

from the crags, catapulted through the air in a high arc.

Some men slip and fall as the object slams to the ground

with tremendous impact before them ...

...and they find themselves staring in horror At the sight

of the lead dog. Silence now. Those who have fallen, rise.

Walton c*cks his rifle. The group proceeds, picks and axes

held ready, slowly skirting the rocks ...

(CONTINUED)

6

... and the massacre is revealed. Blood-stained ice. Dead,

mangled animals strewn about. One twitching survivor crawls

toward them on broken limbs, whining piteously, dragging its

entrails in a red smear.

GRIGORI:

Look.

They follow his gaze. Bloody tracks lead away from the

bodies, ascending the rocks. Most are smeared and vague ...

but one is clearly a bare human footprint. Several men

cross themselves. Walton shoulders the rifle, aims down at

the surviving dog. BLAM! A single bullet to the brain ends

its misery, punching a halo of blood onto the ice. The shot

echoes for miles.

WALTON:

Back to the ship.

EXT - NEVSKY - ESTABLISHING - NIGHT

Silhouetted against the aurora borealis. The horizon swirls

mysteriously with color and light. Distant slivers of

lightning kiss the earth. Men keep watch in furtive groups,

huddled against the cold, breath punching the air with

billows of vapor. A massive CRACKLING is heard. A YOUNG

SAILOR spins, jumpy.

OLD SAILOR:

Only the ice to starboard, boy.

YOUNG SAILOR:

Is it breaking up?

OLD SAILOR:

Just dancing on the current. It'll freeze even

tighter come next wind

CAMERA DRIFTS past to another group:

SAILOR #4

It was a polar bear. That's what I say.

SAILOR #5

Say all you want, but you weren't there. It left

human tracks.

SAILOR #6

No man could tear those dogs apart

SAILOR #5

No human. We've roused a demon from the ice.

(CONTINUED)

7

CLANG-CLANG! The men spin. A SAILOR on starboard has rung

the signal bell. The men race over, crowding the gunwale.

SAILOR:

Something. In the mist.

Walton appears from his cabin and crowds his way to the

front, rifle aimed at the sky. The men wait. Holding their

breath. Scanning the darkness.

AN APPARITION looms eerily from the mist on a creaking floe

of ice, silhouetted by the shifting light of the borealis.

The figure's pose is uncanny and weird: neither standing nor

kneeling, but something in between, arm dangling at its side

and lolling slowly with the motion of the current.

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