The Grid
Tyler navigates the city's grim quiet, the whispers a constant hum, searching for supplies while a new, unsettling realization dawns about the Strays and their unnerving intelligence.
EXT. ALLEY - DAY
A slick of foul, grey fluid leaks from a RUPTURED SANITATION PIPE, coating the grimy concrete.
TYLER (30s, frayed, running on fumes) scrambles through it, his worn boots skidding. He’s lean, competent, but his eyes carry the weight of years spent like this.
SOUND of his rapid, heavy breathing and the slap of his boots echoing in the vast, unholy quiet of the dead city.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
He bursts out of the alley’s mouth and onto a wider street.
EXT. ELM STREET - CONTINUOUS
The street is choked with the skeletal remains of auto-taxis. Their screens are spiderwebbed with cracks. The air is thick with a fine, grey dust that coats everything.
Tyler dodges a crumpled vending kiosk and plunges toward a derelict bookstore. A metal shutter hangs halfway down, barring the entrance like a set of broken teeth.
He squeezes underneath. The metal GROANS, scraping against his heavy pack. He’s through.
INT. ABANDONED BOOKSTORE - CONTINUOUS
The air is stale, thick with the scent of mildewed paper and a sharp, chemical tang that catches in the throat.
SOUND of a low, insistent HUM, like a hundred muted, arguing voices at the edge of hearing. The psychic static of the city.
Tyler presses his back against a cold, metal shelf, chest heaving. He listens. Only the hum.
He pulls a scavenged COMMS UNIT from his pocket. The screen flickers to life, a faint, unstable blue. Three bars. A miracle.
He taps a worn contact: MIKE.
Static HISSES from the small speaker. Then, a voice.
MIKE (V.O.)
Tyler? You there? I got a reading.
Tyler struggles to catch his breath, his voice a hoarse whisper.
TYLER
I’m here. Elm Street. Had a couple
of the quick ones on my tail.
The chemical smell makes his eyes sting. He wishes he had a fresh mask.
MIKE (V.O.)
Two? That’s new. We’ve only been
seeing singles up this far north.
You good?
TYLER
Good enough. What’s your reading?
He runs a gloved hand over his short, grimy hair, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
MIKE (V.O.)
Movement. Big movement. Heading east
on Grand. Not just Strays, Tyler.
I’m picking up... coordination. A
pattern. They’re moving in a line.
Too precise.
The thought chills Tyler more than the chase.
TYLER
Coordination? They don’t coordinate.
They just... wander. Or sprint. They
don't *think*.
MIKE (V.O.)
They are now. And the hum, Tyler,
it’s spiked. You feeling it?
Tyler presses a hand to his temple. The internal drone is a dull ache, pressing in.
TYLER
Yeah. Like someone’s got a drill
going in my skull. You think it’s
connected?
MIKE (V.O.)
Has to be. Look, you need to get
back. Now. Forget the filters. This
isn’t a good day for a solo run.
TYLER
I’m nearly at the processing plant.
Just need to grab a few more...
Sandy was running low on those re-gen
chips for the purifier, remember?
A beat of dead silence on the line.
MIKE (V.O.)
Tyler. We both know Sandy isn’t
answering. And you know why.
The flatness in Mike’s tone is a cold, hard slap of reality. Tyler grips the comms unit, knuckles white.
TYLER
Just... a few more, Mike. Then I’m
back. Promise.
He cuts the connection before Mike can argue. The blue screen goes dark, leaving Tyler alone with the hum.
INT. ABANDONED BOOKSTORE - MOMENTS LATER
Tyler pushes deeper into the cavernous interior. Rows of shelves, stripped bare, stand like skeletal sentinels. Ripped, water-damaged paperback covers litter the floor – faded images of forgotten heroes.
SOUND of the HUM rises in pitch, the whispers more distinct, seeming to vibrate the few remaining panes of glass in the storefront.
He moves with heightened caution, reaching a back storage room. The door hangs off rusted hinges.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - CONTINUOUS
The air here is even heavier, thick with particulate matter dancing in weak slivers of light from a high, grimy window.
On a shelf, a box: “HVAC Filters – Industrial Grade.”
A small win. He pulls them out, stuffing them into his already heavy pack.
CRACK!
A sharp, deliberate sound from the front of the store. A foot falling on a loose floorboard. Too heavy for a rat. Too slow for a Stray.
Tyler freezes. His hand goes to the heavy PIPE WRENCH strapped to his side.
The psychic hum PULSES, a frantic, insistent throb.
And through it, a SOUND. Not a growl. Not a shriek.
A VOICE. Mangled and inhuman, a broken imitation.
STRAY (O.S.)
Tyler?
Tyler’s breath hitches. His heart hammers against his ribs. It knows his name.
He crouches, peering through a crack in the storage room door.
HIS POV - A SILHOUETTE
A Stray stands framed in the dim light of the main store. Its head is tilted, as if listening.
Then, with a horrifying, unnatural slowness, it TURNS.
CLOSE ON THE STRAY
Its eyes, even in the gloom, gleam with a new, terrifying FOCUS. Not the vacant stare he knows. Something else is looking out.
A second, equally distorted voice whispers from just outside the shattered storefront.
STRAY #2 (O.S.)
He’s... here.
CLOSE ON TYLER
His face is a mask of pure terror. The rules have changed. He is not being hunted. He is being found.
A slick of foul, grey fluid leaks from a RUPTURED SANITATION PIPE, coating the grimy concrete.
TYLER (30s, frayed, running on fumes) scrambles through it, his worn boots skidding. He’s lean, competent, but his eyes carry the weight of years spent like this.
SOUND of his rapid, heavy breathing and the slap of his boots echoing in the vast, unholy quiet of the dead city.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
He bursts out of the alley’s mouth and onto a wider street.
EXT. ELM STREET - CONTINUOUS
The street is choked with the skeletal remains of auto-taxis. Their screens are spiderwebbed with cracks. The air is thick with a fine, grey dust that coats everything.
Tyler dodges a crumpled vending kiosk and plunges toward a derelict bookstore. A metal shutter hangs halfway down, barring the entrance like a set of broken teeth.
He squeezes underneath. The metal GROANS, scraping against his heavy pack. He’s through.
INT. ABANDONED BOOKSTORE - CONTINUOUS
The air is stale, thick with the scent of mildewed paper and a sharp, chemical tang that catches in the throat.
SOUND of a low, insistent HUM, like a hundred muted, arguing voices at the edge of hearing. The psychic static of the city.
Tyler presses his back against a cold, metal shelf, chest heaving. He listens. Only the hum.
He pulls a scavenged COMMS UNIT from his pocket. The screen flickers to life, a faint, unstable blue. Three bars. A miracle.
He taps a worn contact: MIKE.
Static HISSES from the small speaker. Then, a voice.
MIKE (V.O.)
Tyler? You there? I got a reading.
Tyler struggles to catch his breath, his voice a hoarse whisper.
TYLER
I’m here. Elm Street. Had a couple
of the quick ones on my tail.
The chemical smell makes his eyes sting. He wishes he had a fresh mask.
MIKE (V.O.)
Two? That’s new. We’ve only been
seeing singles up this far north.
You good?
TYLER
Good enough. What’s your reading?
He runs a gloved hand over his short, grimy hair, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.
MIKE (V.O.)
Movement. Big movement. Heading east
on Grand. Not just Strays, Tyler.
I’m picking up... coordination. A
pattern. They’re moving in a line.
Too precise.
The thought chills Tyler more than the chase.
TYLER
Coordination? They don’t coordinate.
They just... wander. Or sprint. They
don't *think*.
MIKE (V.O.)
They are now. And the hum, Tyler,
it’s spiked. You feeling it?
Tyler presses a hand to his temple. The internal drone is a dull ache, pressing in.
TYLER
Yeah. Like someone’s got a drill
going in my skull. You think it’s
connected?
MIKE (V.O.)
Has to be. Look, you need to get
back. Now. Forget the filters. This
isn’t a good day for a solo run.
TYLER
I’m nearly at the processing plant.
Just need to grab a few more...
Sandy was running low on those re-gen
chips for the purifier, remember?
A beat of dead silence on the line.
MIKE (V.O.)
Tyler. We both know Sandy isn’t
answering. And you know why.
The flatness in Mike’s tone is a cold, hard slap of reality. Tyler grips the comms unit, knuckles white.
TYLER
Just... a few more, Mike. Then I’m
back. Promise.
He cuts the connection before Mike can argue. The blue screen goes dark, leaving Tyler alone with the hum.
INT. ABANDONED BOOKSTORE - MOMENTS LATER
Tyler pushes deeper into the cavernous interior. Rows of shelves, stripped bare, stand like skeletal sentinels. Ripped, water-damaged paperback covers litter the floor – faded images of forgotten heroes.
SOUND of the HUM rises in pitch, the whispers more distinct, seeming to vibrate the few remaining panes of glass in the storefront.
He moves with heightened caution, reaching a back storage room. The door hangs off rusted hinges.
INT. STORAGE ROOM - CONTINUOUS
The air here is even heavier, thick with particulate matter dancing in weak slivers of light from a high, grimy window.
On a shelf, a box: “HVAC Filters – Industrial Grade.”
A small win. He pulls them out, stuffing them into his already heavy pack.
CRACK!
A sharp, deliberate sound from the front of the store. A foot falling on a loose floorboard. Too heavy for a rat. Too slow for a Stray.
Tyler freezes. His hand goes to the heavy PIPE WRENCH strapped to his side.
The psychic hum PULSES, a frantic, insistent throb.
And through it, a SOUND. Not a growl. Not a shriek.
A VOICE. Mangled and inhuman, a broken imitation.
STRAY (O.S.)
Tyler?
Tyler’s breath hitches. His heart hammers against his ribs. It knows his name.
He crouches, peering through a crack in the storage room door.
HIS POV - A SILHOUETTE
A Stray stands framed in the dim light of the main store. Its head is tilted, as if listening.
Then, with a horrifying, unnatural slowness, it TURNS.
CLOSE ON THE STRAY
Its eyes, even in the gloom, gleam with a new, terrifying FOCUS. Not the vacant stare he knows. Something else is looking out.
A second, equally distorted voice whispers from just outside the shattered storefront.
STRAY #2 (O.S.)
He’s... here.
CLOSE ON TYLER
His face is a mask of pure terror. The rules have changed. He is not being hunted. He is being found.