A Drowning Man's Cartography
In a world mostly lost to the sea, a young man from a floating shantytown discovers a pre-Flood map that points to the one thing no one believes exists anymore: dry land.
EXT. DROWNED CITY - DAY
An oppressive, perpetually grey sky hangs over an endless expanse of choppy, slate-colored water. The tops of skyscrapers jut from the waves like ancient tombstones.
On the deck of a small, ramshackle skiff named the 'SEA-WITCH', TYLER (19, scrappy, lean) pulls a heavy line from the depths. His knuckles are raw, stinging in the saltwater air.
SOUND of lapping water, the creak of old metal.
A sharp, mocking voice echoes across the water.
BENJI (O.S.)
> Find anything, rat?
Tyler doesn't look up. He focuses on the line, hauling it hand over hand.
TYLER
> Just your reflection, Benji. It's ugly enough to scare the fish.
A sleeker skiff with a quiet solar-powered motor glides alongside. BENJI (23, bigger, arrogant) stands at the bow, a gaffing hook held loosely. He lets out a harsh laugh.
BENJI
> Funny. My lookouts said you were pulling from the Gilt-Edge Tower. That's my claim.
Tyler hauls the last of the line. A heavy, CORRODED METAL LOCKBOX breaks the surface. He swings it onto the deck with a loud THUD. Not a jackpot, but something.
TYLER
> (muttering)
> Your claim's as empty as your head.
BENJI
> That's my box, then.
Benji's playful tone is gone. He grips the gaffing hook tighter.
TYLER
> You want it, you can dive for it yourself. The lower floors are picked clean.
Tyler ignores him, turning to a small diving rig. He attaches a fresh oxygen bladder and a new line. He's not done.
BENJI
> Don't drown, rat. It'd be a waste of good salvage.
Tyler fits a rebreather to his mouth, gives Benji one last defiant look, and slips over the side into the murky water.
INT. GILT-EDGE TOWER (UNDERWATER) - CONTINUOUS
COLD. MURKY. SILENT.
The only light is the narrow beam from Tyler's headlamp, cutting through the gloom. He kicks downward, following his guide line.
He passes shattered windows of submerged office floors. A grim tableau: SKELETAL REMAINS of workers still seated at their desks, frozen in time. Tyler swims past, unfazed. He's seen worse.
He reaches the top floor. The CEO's office. A huge, warped oak desk dominates the space. A nameplate reads: 'A. CORBIN, CEO'.
Tyler gets to work, prying at the desk drawers with a crowbar. They are filled with silt and pulpy, useless paper. Nothing.
CLOSE ON his oxygen gauge. It's half empty. Frustration builds on his face. He turns to leave, sweeping his light across the room one last time.
The beam catches it: a long, METAL CYLINDER mounted to the wall behind a fallen bookshelf. Sealed with heavy-duty clasps. Waterproof.
His eyes widen. His heart hammers in his chest.
He works the clasps with numb fingers. One gives way with a loud CRACK that echoes in the silent water. Then the second. He wrenches the cylinder from its mounting. It's heavy. This is it.
EXT. DROWNED CITY - MOMENTS LATER
Tyler BURSTS through the surface, gasping for air, clutching the cylinder to his chest.
His relief vanishes. Benji's skiff is tethered to his own.
Benji is sitting on the deck of the 'Sea-Witch', casually inspecting the contents of the lockbox. He looks up. A slow, greedy smile spreads across his face as he sees the cylinder.
BENJI
> Well, well. Looks like you found something after all.
Tyler scrambles onto his skiff, trying to hide the cylinder behind his back.
TYLER
> It's nothing. Just some old documents.
BENJI
> Let me be the judge of that.
Benji stands, dropping the lockbox. He takes a step forward, the gaffing hook held ready.
TYLER
> Get off my boat, Benji.
BENJI
> Not without my prize.
Benji LUNGES.
Tyler sidesteps, using Benji's momentum to SHOVE him hard. Benji stumbles, surprised. He recovers, swinging the gaff. The hook WHISTLES past Tyler's ear.
Desperate, Tyler grabs the small, sputtering engine that powers his winch and HURLS it.
Benji ducks. The engine SMASHES into the side of his own expensive skiff, CRACKING the fiberglass. He swears, distracted for a critical second.
It's all Tyler needs. He whips out his dive knife, SLICES the tether connecting the boats, and shoves off hard. He scrambles to his motor. It COUGHS to life.
The 'Sea-Witch' lurches forward.
BENJI
> (roaring in fury)
> TYLER!
But Tyler is already gone, pushing the throttle to its limit, bouncing violently over the grey waves. He doesn't look back.
EXT. HIDDEN COVE - LATER
The 'Sea-Witch' is tucked away in a small cove formed by the top floors of a submerged skyscraper. The world is quiet here.
Tyler's hands tremble as he works the final clasp on the cylinder. It opens with a HISS of escaping air.
He carefully slides out the contents.
It's a MAP. Not paper, but a thin, durable polymer. It shows the world as it was. Highways, towns, shipping lanes.
His eyes trace the faded lines, a look of awe on his face.
Then he sees it. A route, marked in BOLD RED INK. It starts from their city and leads west, across vast stretches of what the map calls 'land'.
The route ends at a cluster of mountains marked 'SANCTUARY PEAK'.
A handwritten note beside it: 'Elevation: 4,500m. High ground. Sustainable ecosystem. The only place left.'
CLOSE ON TYLER'S FACE. Tears well in his eyes. A single, overwhelming emotion: Hope. It's real.
He traces the red line with his finger, his hope solidifying into belief.
Then his finger stops. He notices another set of markings. Newer. Cruder. Drawn in black ink.
They are symbols of boats. Patrols. They are clustered all along the route to Sanctuary Peak. Like sharks waiting.
PUSH IN on Tyler's face. The hope drains away, replaced by a cold, grim resolve. The map isn't an escape. It's a battlefield. And the war has just begun.
FADE TO BLACK.
An oppressive, perpetually grey sky hangs over an endless expanse of choppy, slate-colored water. The tops of skyscrapers jut from the waves like ancient tombstones.
On the deck of a small, ramshackle skiff named the 'SEA-WITCH', TYLER (19, scrappy, lean) pulls a heavy line from the depths. His knuckles are raw, stinging in the saltwater air.
SOUND of lapping water, the creak of old metal.
A sharp, mocking voice echoes across the water.
BENJI (O.S.)
> Find anything, rat?
Tyler doesn't look up. He focuses on the line, hauling it hand over hand.
TYLER
> Just your reflection, Benji. It's ugly enough to scare the fish.
A sleeker skiff with a quiet solar-powered motor glides alongside. BENJI (23, bigger, arrogant) stands at the bow, a gaffing hook held loosely. He lets out a harsh laugh.
BENJI
> Funny. My lookouts said you were pulling from the Gilt-Edge Tower. That's my claim.
Tyler hauls the last of the line. A heavy, CORRODED METAL LOCKBOX breaks the surface. He swings it onto the deck with a loud THUD. Not a jackpot, but something.
TYLER
> (muttering)
> Your claim's as empty as your head.
BENJI
> That's my box, then.
Benji's playful tone is gone. He grips the gaffing hook tighter.
TYLER
> You want it, you can dive for it yourself. The lower floors are picked clean.
Tyler ignores him, turning to a small diving rig. He attaches a fresh oxygen bladder and a new line. He's not done.
BENJI
> Don't drown, rat. It'd be a waste of good salvage.
Tyler fits a rebreather to his mouth, gives Benji one last defiant look, and slips over the side into the murky water.
INT. GILT-EDGE TOWER (UNDERWATER) - CONTINUOUS
COLD. MURKY. SILENT.
The only light is the narrow beam from Tyler's headlamp, cutting through the gloom. He kicks downward, following his guide line.
He passes shattered windows of submerged office floors. A grim tableau: SKELETAL REMAINS of workers still seated at their desks, frozen in time. Tyler swims past, unfazed. He's seen worse.
He reaches the top floor. The CEO's office. A huge, warped oak desk dominates the space. A nameplate reads: 'A. CORBIN, CEO'.
Tyler gets to work, prying at the desk drawers with a crowbar. They are filled with silt and pulpy, useless paper. Nothing.
CLOSE ON his oxygen gauge. It's half empty. Frustration builds on his face. He turns to leave, sweeping his light across the room one last time.
The beam catches it: a long, METAL CYLINDER mounted to the wall behind a fallen bookshelf. Sealed with heavy-duty clasps. Waterproof.
His eyes widen. His heart hammers in his chest.
He works the clasps with numb fingers. One gives way with a loud CRACK that echoes in the silent water. Then the second. He wrenches the cylinder from its mounting. It's heavy. This is it.
EXT. DROWNED CITY - MOMENTS LATER
Tyler BURSTS through the surface, gasping for air, clutching the cylinder to his chest.
His relief vanishes. Benji's skiff is tethered to his own.
Benji is sitting on the deck of the 'Sea-Witch', casually inspecting the contents of the lockbox. He looks up. A slow, greedy smile spreads across his face as he sees the cylinder.
BENJI
> Well, well. Looks like you found something after all.
Tyler scrambles onto his skiff, trying to hide the cylinder behind his back.
TYLER
> It's nothing. Just some old documents.
BENJI
> Let me be the judge of that.
Benji stands, dropping the lockbox. He takes a step forward, the gaffing hook held ready.
TYLER
> Get off my boat, Benji.
BENJI
> Not without my prize.
Benji LUNGES.
Tyler sidesteps, using Benji's momentum to SHOVE him hard. Benji stumbles, surprised. He recovers, swinging the gaff. The hook WHISTLES past Tyler's ear.
Desperate, Tyler grabs the small, sputtering engine that powers his winch and HURLS it.
Benji ducks. The engine SMASHES into the side of his own expensive skiff, CRACKING the fiberglass. He swears, distracted for a critical second.
It's all Tyler needs. He whips out his dive knife, SLICES the tether connecting the boats, and shoves off hard. He scrambles to his motor. It COUGHS to life.
The 'Sea-Witch' lurches forward.
BENJI
> (roaring in fury)
> TYLER!
But Tyler is already gone, pushing the throttle to its limit, bouncing violently over the grey waves. He doesn't look back.
EXT. HIDDEN COVE - LATER
The 'Sea-Witch' is tucked away in a small cove formed by the top floors of a submerged skyscraper. The world is quiet here.
Tyler's hands tremble as he works the final clasp on the cylinder. It opens with a HISS of escaping air.
He carefully slides out the contents.
It's a MAP. Not paper, but a thin, durable polymer. It shows the world as it was. Highways, towns, shipping lanes.
His eyes trace the faded lines, a look of awe on his face.
Then he sees it. A route, marked in BOLD RED INK. It starts from their city and leads west, across vast stretches of what the map calls 'land'.
The route ends at a cluster of mountains marked 'SANCTUARY PEAK'.
A handwritten note beside it: 'Elevation: 4,500m. High ground. Sustainable ecosystem. The only place left.'
CLOSE ON TYLER'S FACE. Tears well in his eyes. A single, overwhelming emotion: Hope. It's real.
He traces the red line with his finger, his hope solidifying into belief.
Then his finger stops. He notices another set of markings. Newer. Cruder. Drawn in black ink.
They are symbols of boats. Patrols. They are clustered all along the route to Sanctuary Peak. Like sharks waiting.
PUSH IN on Tyler's face. The hope drains away, replaced by a cold, grim resolve. The map isn't an escape. It's a battlefield. And the war has just begun.
FADE TO BLACK.