A Script for The Dead End at Mile Marker 88

by Jamie F. Bell

INT. 1998 COROLLA - DAY

SOUND of a rattling car heater, a majestic, dying lung

The car sits on a desolate gravel road flanked by a wall of wet, rotting trees.

Inside, JOHN (20), pragmatic and exhausted, grips the peeling leather of the steering wheel. CLOSE ON his fingernails, tiny black flecks of leather stuck underneath. He stares through the fogged windshield.

CLICK.

The heater dies. The rattle is gone.

Silence. Absolute. Heavy.

BENJAMIN (19), a ball of nervous energy swallowed by an oversized, moth-eaten parka, shifts in the passenger seat. His voice is muffled.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Did we... are we here?

John taps the spiderwebbed screen of his phone.

> GPS says yes. Coordinate match. Mile Marker 88.

Benjamin leans forward, the cheap nylon of his coat SWISHING loudly.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Okay. So why did the car stop? You didn't turn the key.

> I know I didn't turn the key, Bas.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> So it's a ghost. Or an EMP. Do they have EMPs out here? Maybe it's the Minister's guys. Remote kill switch.

John finally lets go of the wheel, flexing his cramped hands. He exhales. A puff of white fog hangs in the air between them. The cold is already seeping in.

> This is a '98 Corolla, Benjamin. It doesn't have a remote kill switch. It barely has brakes.

THUMP. A single CROW lands on the hood. It doesn't caw. It just stares at them through the glass.

It tilts its head, then...

TAP. TAP. TAP.

Its beak strikes the metal, a sharp, unnerving sound.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (muttering)

> That’s ominous.

He reaches into the backseat, dragging a standard office briefcase onto his lap. It's handcuffed to his left wrist.

ANGLE ON the handcuffs. They are pink and fuzzy.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Do you think they’re gonna shoot us?

> No. We’re the couriers. You don't shoot the pizza guy.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> You do if the pizza is poisoned. Or if the pizza knows too much about the Prime Minister's offshore accounts.

John rubs his face. A deep, soul-level exhaustion. He glances at the briefcase, then back at the road.

> It’s almost over.

The words hang in the cold air, feeling like a lie.

INT. 1998 COROLLA - 20 MINUTES LATER

A fine, misty drizzle coats the windows, blurring the oppressive forest. The interior is a mess of energy drink cans and wrappers.

Benjamin rustles a bag of salt and vinegar chips. The CRUNCH is explosive in the silence. He offers the bag to John.

> No. I feel sick.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (mouth full)

> Stress response. Your cortisol is spiking. Vinegar helps. It burns the fear away.

> That’s not science.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> It's field medicine.

> (shrugs)

> You know, I’m gonna miss this car. It smells like us. Like fear and onions.

> I'm not. I want a shower. I want to sleep in a bed that doesn't vibrate.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (grinning, a crumb on his chin)

> Liar. You love this. You love being 'The Driver.' You think you’re in a movie. You think you're Ryan Gosling, but, like, Canadian and with worse skin.

A half-laugh escapes John's chest. A small crack in the tension.

> Shut up. I just want to get paid. Five grand, Bas. We can actually fix the roof. Mom won't have to work doubles at the diner for like… three months.

The mention of home brings the silence back. Heavy again.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (quieter)

> Do you think it's worth it?

> (touches the briefcase)

> Whatever is in here?

> It has to be.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> It’s light, John. Like, suspiciously light. I bet it’s just a single sheet of paper with the word 'SORRY' printed on it.

> Or a sandwich. A really expensive sandwich.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> If I die for a sandwich, I’m gonna haunt you.

John looks at his best friend. Hair a mess, parka making him look like a child. Too young for this. A wave of profound sadness washes over John's face. The adventure is over.

> (softly)

> We made it, though. We didn't crash. We didn't get caught.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Yet. We didn't get caught *yet*.

Suddenly—

Two beams of bright, blue-white LED headlights slice through the gloom, blinding them. They reflect harshly in the rearview mirror.

Benjamin sits up straight, wiping vinegar dust from his hands onto his parka.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (whispering)

> Showtime. Do I look tough?

> You look like a marshmallow with anxiety. Just… let me do the talking.

A vehicle pulls up beside them. Not a black SUV.

A silver, sensible, family minivan with a 'Baby on Board' sticker in the rear window. Its engine purrs efficiently.

The driver's side window rolls down with a quiet WHIR.

A WOMAN (60s) sits behind the wheel. Librarian-esque. Glasses on a chain, grey hair in a tight bun. Her scarf looks expensive. Her expression is flat. Bored.

<center>WOMAN</center>

> Code?

John swallows. His throat clicks.

> Uh. 'The Sparrow flies at… noon?'

Benjamin elbows him, hard.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Midnight. The Sparrow flies at midnight, you idiot.

The Woman sighs, a sound of profound impatience. She glances at her watch.

<center>WOMAN</center>

> Close enough. Give it here.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (stammering)

> I… I can't.

> (lifts his arm)

> It's, uh, attached.

The Woman doesn't blink. She opens her door, steps out. She wears heels in the mud. She walks to Benjamin’s side, pulls a small key from her pocket, and unlocks the fuzzy cuffs with practiced ease.

She takes the briefcase without a word.

> Is that it?

The Woman pauses, briefcase in hand. She looks at the two of them, shivering in their rusted-out car. Her expression softens, just a fraction.

<center>WOMAN</center>

> You boys have a way home?

> Car's dead.

She reaches into her coat, pulls out a cheap burner phone, and tosses it onto John's lap.

<center>WOMAN</center>

> Call a tow. Don't use your real names. And forget you ever saw me.

She turns to leave.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Wait! What is it? What did we bring? Is it codes? Is it a weapon?

The Woman stops. She looks down at the briefcase, then back at them. A small, dry smile touches her lips.

<center>WOMAN</center>

> It's the Minister's divorce papers. His wife was refusing to sign unless he delivered them in person. He didn't want the confrontation.

Silence. The crow on the hood taps the metal again. TAP.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (squeaking)

> Divorce papers?

<center>WOMAN</center>

> Signed in blue ink. National security is a messy business, boys. Sometimes it's bombs, sometimes it's alimony.

She gets back in her minivan, backs out spraying gravel, and disappears down the road.

INT. 1998 COROLLA - MOMENTS LATER

John and Benjamin sit in the silence. The forest just seems stupid now.

Benjamin starts to laugh. It's a wheeze at first, then a full-blown, hysterical cackle. He slaps his knee.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Divorce papers! We almost died in Kenora for *divorce papers*!

A smile twitches at John's mouth. He fights it, then gives in. The tension of four days unspools from his chest in a rush of laughter.

> I hate the government. I actually hate them.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> Five grand for alimony running! We’re secret agents of matrimonial law.

John leans his head back, feeling light. They're alive. Stranded, but alive. He picks up the burner phone. It’s an old flip phone.

> I'm calling the tow truck. Let's get out of here. I want a burger.

He flips the phone open. The screen lights up.

He doesn't dial. He frowns.

> That’s weird.

<center>BENJAMIN</center>

> (licking his thumb)

> What?

> There's a text. From… 'Unknown'.

He reads the message.

The blood drains from his face. The laughter dies in his throat. The warmth vanishes, replaced by ice.

He reads it again. The words don't change.

CLOSE ON THE PHONE SCREEN

The text message glows:

*THE DECOY WORKED. INTERCEPT TEAM EN ROUTE TO YOUR LOCATION. ETA 2 MINUTES. RUN.*

BACK TO SCENE

John looks up from the screen, the blue light reflecting in his wide, terrified eyes.

> (a whisper)

> Benjamin... that wasn't the extraction team.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.