Halt and Catch Fire

TEASER:

INT. GLASS-WALLED OFFICE -- DAY

ANGLE ON A MAN IN A BLACK SUIT SITTING BEHIND A DESK

Smarmy gym-and-suntan disciple with a conservative haircut.

This is DALE BARNES (38).

SOMEONE FACES HIM

Standing. JOE MACMILLAN (34). A man these black suits were

made for. But despite the jawline, the executive contour

hair, he’s a million miles away right now.

BARNES:

C’mon, Joe. It’s just business.

Without a word, MacMillan turns and leaves through the glass

door.

INT. PRISTINE HALLWAY -- CONTINUOUS

HIS BLACK WINGTIPS

Walking at a swift clip, toes glancing against the bottom of

the frame as they move forward in rhythm.

A BLACK BRIEFCASE

Suspended by the grip of MacMillan’s hand. White shirt cuff

exposed a flawless quarter inch from a black suit sleeve.

EXT. HEADQUARTERS ENTRANCE -- CONTINUOUS

MacMillan steps outside to a cement walkway leading out to a

vast employee parking lot.

He reaches the walkway’s end. Stops.

Just stands there.

FADE UP SUPER:
“Armonk, New York. 1981.”

EXT. PARKING LOT -- LATER

SLAMMING closed the trunk of a black 1980 Audi Quattro.

HIS HAND REACHES INSIDE THE SUIT BREAST POCKET

Pulls out a pair of Serengeti sunglasses.

Places them over his eyes.

2.

EXT. NEW ORCHARD ROAD -- LATER

The Audi ROARS past the company entrance sign: IBM.

CUT TO:

EXT. RURAL NEW YORK HIGHWAY -- LATER

The GROWING ROAR of the Audi. It appears, rockets down a two-

line asphalt in a matter of seconds, kicking up dead leaves.

INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS

ANGLE ON MacMillan’s hand, pulling the floor shifter down

into fourth gear, the road’s reflection in his glasses.

CUT TO:

EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- LATER

The Audi traverses a wooded lane that opens onto the rocky

coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Going faster.

INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS

MacMillan is blank as he throws the car into fifth. The blur

of water stretches to the horizon outside his window.

THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD, an approaching hard bank turn.

Nothing but guard rail. Not a problem at normal speed.

ANGLE ON the speedometer climbing...

EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- CONTINUOUS

The Audi SMASHES through the guard rail somewhere around 110.

A direct hit. No swerve. Intentional.

The rail gives like paper and the Audi is now a missile being

shot out over the white water of the coastline.

It sails high, engine REVVED and floored before...

THE FRONT END HITS THE WATERLINE LIKE A BRICK WALL

DESTROYING half of the car with a THUNDER CLAP.

A few seconds pass before lapping waves begin to fold around

the vehicle and its driver. No movement within. Completely

arrested.

END TEASER:

3.

ACT I:

INT. HONKY TONK BAR -- NIGHT

SUPER:
TEN MONTHS LATER

An honest to God COWBOY drops in a quarter, makes his punch

button selections on a jukebox. Two seconds pass until the

machine lets loose with STEEL GUITAR and MERLE HAGGARD.

The cowboy takes his mug of beer from atop the juke and

actually moseys through a late night crowd of legitimate and

gregarious country western folk spanning generations.

ANGLE ON the bar itself, tracking across its patrons--all

tough men in hats, jeans--ladies with perms, chewing gum,

heavy eyeshadow.

THE LAST MAN AT THE BAR sticks out like a sore thumb. He

isn’t country; hell, he ain’t much of anything. Ragged hair,

big glasses, thick unkempt mustache. Lots of empty mugs.

This is GORDON CLARK (31).

CLARK:

(to bartender)

Can I get another Shiner?

A fresh mug of beer slides his way but it doesn’t seem to

cheer him up any. A YOUNG BUCK (early 20’s) sallies up next

to him, square head in a wide-brimmed hat.

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