A Script for Wet Asphalt and Cheap Coffee

by Art Borups Corners

INT. BUS TERMINAL - NIGHT

SOUND of rain lashing against glass, a rhythmic FLICKER of a fluorescent light overhead (*BZZT-CLICK... BZZT-CLICK*)

The waiting area is a cavernous, yellow-lit tomb. Empty save for LEO (17, sharp but anxious) and SAM (17, fierce, hiding a deep exhaustion). They sit on a scarred wooden bench.

The world outside the thick plate glass window is a blur of sodium orange and oil-slick black. Leo stares into it, unblinking. A half-full styrofoam cup of brown sludge sits in his hand.

ANGLE ON Sam. She methodically shreds the rim of her own cup, a pile of white styrofoam "snow" accumulating on the bench between them.

> You look like you swallowed a wasp. A really angry one.

Leo doesn't turn. His eyes are fixed on his own reflection, distorted in the rain-streaked glass.

> It’s the coffee. It tastes like someone strained it through a gym sock.

Sam snorts, a sharp, unladylike sound that echoes in the dead space.

> That’s charitable. I was thinking battery acid mixed with regret.

> (muttering)

> Appropriate, considering.

> Don't start.

Her voice lacks its usual bite. She sounds tired.

> If you say 'I told you so,' I’m going to leave you here. I’ll take the bus ticket and leave you to walk back to the suburbs.

> You wouldn't. You need me to carry your bag. It’s got all the loot in it.

Sam kicks a heavy canvas duffel at her feet. It makes a soft, disappointing thud.

> Some loot. Three flannel shirts and a stack of comic books from 2014. We’re basically master criminals, Leo.

The fluorescent light above them flickers again. *BZZT-CLICK*. Leo winces, a subtle twitch. His hand, holding the coffee, has a fine tremor. He tries to steady it.

In the distance, a JANITOR pushes a grey mop bucket.

SOUND of the bucket's wheels squeaking like a dying mouse.

> (quietly)

> He’s not coming back, is he?

Leo takes a sip of the awful coffee. The heat scalds his tongue, a grounding pain.

> Rat said he headed west. Vancouver, maybe. Or up the coast.

> Rat says a lot of things. Mostly involving the government putting chips in his teeth.

She finally looks at him. Her eyes are dark, rimmed with red, but dry. She doesn't cry. She just gets sharper.

> Silas promised he’d be at my graduation, Leo. He swore.

> People swear things all the time. Doesn't mean they can keep them... especially when they owe five grand to a guy named 'The Dentist'.

Sam flinches.

> Don't call him that.

> That’s what Rat called him.

> Rat was high on something that smelled like burning plastic. I don't think we should take his word as gospel.

Leo shifts on the hard bench. His denim jacket is still damp, cold against his skin.

> We shouldn't have gone there, Sam. I said it was a bad idea. I said, 'Sam, let's just call the cops.' But no. You wanted to play detective.

> And you wanted to impress me.

> (a ghost of a smirk)

> Don't rewrite history, Leonard. You hopped in that car faster than I could turn the key.

> I did not hop. I entered with reluctance.

> You hopped. Like a golden retriever promised a treat.

Leo sighs, defeated. She's not wrong.

The rain hammers harder against the glass, rattling the frames. He glances nervously toward the dark parking lot.

> (lowering his voice)

> Do you think he saw us?

> Who? Rat?

> No. The guy in the alley. The one in the sedan.

> You're being paranoid. It was just a car, Leo. It’s a city. People drive cars. It’s a known phenomenon.

> (hissing)

> It was a black sedan idling with its lights off behind a dumpster. That’s not 'people driving cars.' That’s a stakeout. Or a hit.

Sam rolls her eyes, but her hand trembles slightly as she brushes hair from her face.

> We’re seventeen, Leo. We’re not in a movie. Nobody is 'staking us out'. We went to a storage unit, found some dirty laundry, and left. End of story.

> We triggered the alarm.

> It was a silent alarm! How do you know we triggered it?

> Because there was a little red light that started blinking really fast! That usually means 'run'.

Sam groans, dropping her head into her hands. Her tough facade finally cracks.

> I hate this. I hate everything about this. I just wanted to find him. I just wanted to drag him home by his ear and make him apologize to Mom.

> (a whisper)

> He’s such an idiot. He’s my big brother. He’s supposed to be the one bailing me out of trouble. Not the other way around.

Leo reaches out, awkwardly patting her shoulder.

> I know, Sam. I know.

> (after a beat)

> Maybe that’s the lesson. Maybe older brothers are just people who were born a few years earlier and have no idea what they're doing either.

SOUND of overhead speakers CRACKLING to life. They both jump.

<center>ANNOUNCER (V.O.)</center>

> (bored, garbled)

> ...final departure for City Center... now delayed due to adverse weather conditions... we apologize for the...

Leo stands, stretching. His knees POP audibly.

> I’m going to get another coffee. You want anything? Maybe a bag of air from the chip rack?

> I’m good.

> (beat)

> Actually, get me water. My mouth tastes like dust.

Leo walks toward a bank of vending machines across the lobby. He digs greasy coins from his pocket.

SOUND of coins CLINKING into the slot. The machine WHIRS, GROANS, and spits out a plastic bottle of water.

He turns back.

Sam is on her feet. She's pressed against the window, her posture rigid. Alert.

> (tight)

> Leo. Come here.

> What is it? Did the bus finally show up?

> No. Not the bus.

Leo walks over, the water bottle cold in his hand. He follows her gaze out into the rain-lashed lot.

LEO'S POV - THROUGH THE WINDOW

A car has pulled up to the curb, right in the 'No Idling' zone.

It's a matte black sedan. Late model. The windows are tinted so dark they look like voids.

His heart hammers against his ribs.

> Is that...?

> (whispering)

> It looks like the same one. From the alley.

> Maybe it’s just a coincidence. Maybe it’s an Uber.

> Uber drivers don't sit in the dark with their engines running. We need to go. Now. Out the back.

She backs away from the window, grabbing her duffel bag. Her movements are jerky, panicked.

> And go where? It’s pouring, Sam. The next town is twenty kilometres away.

> I don't care. I’m not staying here to find out who’s in that car.

Leo grabs her arm.

> Wait. Look.

The driver's side door of the sedan opens. A heavy, black leather boot hits the wet pavement. Then a leg. Then a torso.

A TALL MAN IN A TRENCH COAT emerges. He moves with a terrifying purpose. He looks up, his gaze seeming to find them even through the rain and distance. He adjusts his collar and starts walking toward the entrance.

> (mouth dry)

> Okay. Back door. Definitely back door.

They turn. The only rear exit is past the ticket counter, blocked by a 'WET FLOOR' sign and the janitor's yellow bucket.

> (hissing)

> Walk. Don't run. If we run, we look guilty.

> We *are* guilty! We broke into a storage unit!

> Technicalities! Just walk normal.

They start walking, trying for casual. Leo fails, his boots SQUEAKING loudly on the linoleum. *Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.*

SOUND of the front automatic doors HISSING open.

A gust of cold, wet air swirls in, carrying the smell of exhaust and something else... like burning matches.

Leo can't help himself. He glances over his shoulder.

The Man in the Trench Coat steps onto the mat. He shakes the rain from his shoulders. His eyes scan the room, passing over a sleeping homeless man, a bored SECURITY GUARD on his phone... and land squarely on them.

He doesn't yell. He doesn't move.

He just SMILES. It's not a nice smile. It's a shark's smile.

> (choked)

> Sam.

> (whispering)

> I see him. Run.

They bolt.

Sam hurdles the 'wet floor' sign. Her duffel bag swings and knocks over the mop bucket. Grey water SPLASHES everywhere.

Leo hits the soapy slime, his sneakers finding zero traction. He flails, windmill-arms, but manages to stay upright.

<center>SECURITY GUARD</center>

> (looking up from his phone)

> Hey! No running!

They ignore him, slamming through double doors into—

EXT. LOADING BAYS - CONTINUOUS

—the cold, roaring downpour. The rain is a physical blow, soaking them instantly.

> (yelling over the rain)

> Bay 6! There’s a fence hop!

They sprint along the concrete platform, ducking between the dark, sleeping giants of parked buses. The smell of diesel is overwhelming. Leo's chest burns.

> Over here!

Sam scrambles up a chain-link fence at the edge of the lot. She tosses her bag over, then hauls herself up, metal digging into her palms. Leo is right behind her.

They drop down onto the gravel on the other side, rolling with the impact. Leo scrapes his hand on a rock. A sharp sting.

> (gasping for air)

> Did he follow?

Sam peers back through the fence mesh.

> I don't see him. I think we lost—

*FWOOM.*

Two brilliant beams of light cut through the darkness, blinding them. High beams.

The black sedan is parked right there on the service road. Waiting.

The passenger window rolls down with a smooth, electric HUM.

The Man in the Trench Coat leans across the seat. The interior dome light illuminates a face that looks like it was carved from granite and left in the rain. His voice is calm, conversational.

<center>MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT</center>

> Get in. Before you catch pneumonia.

Sam takes a step back, her hand finding Leo's. Her grip is crushing.

> Who are you?

The man taps the steering wheel with a ring-adorned finger.

<center>MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT</center>

> I’m the guy who’s going to clean up your brother's mess. Now, get in the car, or I call the people who don't ask nicely.

He stares at them. The rain pours down. There is nowhere left to run.

FADE TO BLACK.

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.