A Script for The Heart of the Woods

[SCENE START]

**EXT. WOODS - DAY**

Sunlight, pale and autumnal, filters through a canopy of maple and pine. The air is cool, damp.

The forest floor is a carpet of crimson, ochre, and wet green moss.

A two-man saw bites into a thick maple trunk with a GUTTURAL GROAN. Splinters of pale wood explode into the air.

SHAUN (30s, lean, weathered) leans into the saw, his shoulders working in a steady, patient rhythm. The scent of fresh sap is sharp.

A few yards away, GARETH (30s, broader build) wrestles a younger, thinner pine. He yanks a branch, and a shower of green, sticky needles rains down.

The only sounds are their work and the quiet hum of the woods. A comfortable, wordless rhythm.

Tobin feels the rough grain of the axe handle in his palms. He prefers the clean, decisive swing.

TOBIN (30s, restless energy) watches Shaun’s methodical sawing. He is the opposite: a quick, impulsive strike.

He kicks at a vibrant pile of leaves, sending reds and yellows spiraling into the air. They settle in a soft, silent rain.

A DULL CLANG echoes from deep in the woods.

A jarring, unnatural sound.

Shaun pauses. The saw blade goes still, dripping sap onto a patch of fern. He looks to Tobin, a question in his eyes.

<center>TOBIN</center>

> What was that?

Shaun shrugs, a slight shift of his weight. He wipes a hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of sawdust.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Deer maybe? Kicked something?

<center>TOBIN</center>

> (shaking his head)

> Sounded… metal. Like a car door.

Tobin listens. Only the gurgle of a distant creek and the sigh of wind in the pines. He takes another swing at the maple, aiming for a low branch. The clang has unsettled him.

He misses his mark. The axe SKIDS against the trunk with a dull THUD, spraying bark. He grumbles, adjusts his grip.

Shaun resumes sawing, but his movements are hesitant now.

The silence stretches.

Then another CLANG. Closer this time. Followed by a faint, GRATING SCREECH, like metal dragged over stone.

Shaun stops, drops his end of the saw. It lands with a soft THUD in the damp leaves.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Right. Let’s just… see.

Tobin nods, lowering his axe. He follows Shaun, stepping carefully over roots and decaying branches.

The forest grows thicker here, the trees older, their branches intertwining into a dark ceiling. Brilliant orange fungi cling to ancient trunks.

A strange, acrid smell taints the air. Metallic. Like old blood mixed with rain.

The ground becomes uneven, humped and mounded. Through a screen of low-hanging brambles, Tobin sees it.

A glint of dull chrome. Then another.

**EXT. JUNKYARD - DAY**

Shaun pushes aside a thorn bush. They step through.

The woods give way to a sudden, impossible clearing. A massive, sprawling landscape of human detritus, being swallowed by the forest.

Skeletal cars, mountains of rusting appliances, piles of nameless plastic stretch further than they can see. A surreal sculpture garden of decay.

The air is heavy with the smell of wet rust, stale oil, and a sickly sweetness. The ground CRUNCHES under their boots—shattered glass, ceramic fragments.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> (a low, tuneless whistle)

> Well. That’s… something.

Tobin just stares. A washing machine, green with moss, tilts atop a pile of deflated tires. A child’s tricycle, faded to a ghostly yellow, lies on its side.

A weak sunbeam breaks through the clouds, slanting across the scene. The rust on a car fender glows like dried blood.

<center>TOBIN</center>

> (whispering)

> Like a… graveyard.

Shaun kicks a discarded hubcap. It spins across cracked asphalt.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> More like a museum of bad decisions.

He grins, a quick, dry flash of teeth.

Tobin walks deeper in, head swiveling. A smashed television set houses a nest of desiccated leaves. A one-eyed doll sits propped against twisted metal, its plastic face a permanent grimace.

<center>SHAUN (O.S.)</center>

> Look at this.

Tobin turns. Shaun stands by the remains of a compact car, its roof caved in. From where the rearview mirror should be, a single, surprisingly intact, PLASTIC DAISY dangles on a thin wire, swaying in an unseen breeze.

<center>TOBIN</center>

> What do you think happened? Why here?

<center>SHAUN</center>

> (shrugs)

> People don’t want things. People get rid of things. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s what we do, isn’t it?

Shaun picks up a chipped porcelain teapot decorated with tiny, faded bluebirds. He turns it over in his hands.

<center>SHAUN (CONT'D)</center>

> Probably someone’s grandmother’s. Decided it didn’t fit the new kitchen aesthetic.

He tosses it back onto a pile of shattered crockery. It lands with a dull THUNK, not breaking further.

Tobin spots a cluster of battered suitcases. One is ajar, a glimpse of yellowed fabric escaping like a silent scream. He nudges it with his boot.

The latch GROANS and it falls open. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten clothes, is a brightly colored PLASTIC FLAMINGO. Its long, thin legs are snapped clean off.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Find anything interesting?

Tobin jumps, startled. Shaun is holding a melted, iridescent CD.

<center>TOBIN</center>

> Broken flamingo. In a suitcase.

Shaun peers at it.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Natural habitat, I suppose.

> (he drops the CD)

> Everything ends up here. Eventually. Even us, probably. Just in smaller, less noticeable pieces.

Tobin wanders past a heap of old typewriters, their keys missing. Past a collection of tarnished trophies, their tiny figures frozen in mid-leap.

He sees a small, wooden puppet, half-buried under rusted gardening tools. He pulls it free. It’s missing an arm and a leg, its painted face faded into a perpetual, unsettling grin. Its strings are tangled, broken.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Don’t touch that, mate.

Shaun’s voice is sharp. He’s standing by a pile of old electronics, prying at an ancient computer monitor with a rusted crowbar.

<center>SHAUN (CONT'D)</center>

> You don’t know what’s been on it. Or in it.

Tobin drops the puppet. It lands face down with a small THWACK, its grin hidden.

Shaun pries the back off the monitor. A shower of brittle wires and dust rains down. He peers inside.

<center>SHAUN</center>

> Just… circuit boards. So many circuit boards. Like a dead brain.

He lets a handful clatter back into the monitor’s cavity.

Tobin kicks at a bent ladder half-submerged in a shallow pool of rainwater slick with a rainbow sheen of oil. He stares at his own distorted reflection.

Above, a single, dark BIRD circles. Its CRY is thin, piercing, and instantly swallowed by the vast, encompassing silence.

This place eats sound.

Shaun straightens up, holding something small and dark. He walks back towards Tobin, his boots crunching methodically.

He holds it out. A small, tarnished metal BIRDCAGE, the size of his fist. Its bars are bent. Its tiny door is slightly ajar.

As if something just slipped out.

Or is waiting to slip in.

In the near distance, half-buried in a moldering armchair that wasn't there a moment ago, sits GARETH.

He shivers, a deep, profound chill.

He looks up, his eyes wide with a quiet, primal terror. He catches Shaun's gaze across the junkyard.

Shaun stares back, the birdcage still in his hand. His cynical mask is gone, replaced by a still, stark dread.

Tobin stands between them, oblivious.

The silence of the junkyard is no longer an absence. It is a PRESENCE. Heavy, ancient, and waiting.

[SCENE END]