A Script for The Heat in the Concrete

EXT. DOWNTOWN WINNIPEG - NIGHT

The wind is a physical presence. It shrieks down streets empty of all life, scouring the pavement. Forty below.

Traffic lights swing violently on their wires, signaling to no one.

DRAY (late teens), dangerously underdressed, shuffles along the sidewalk. He keeps his center of gravity low, fighting a gust that tries to throw him into the intersection. He wears a Jets jersey over hoodies and a flannel shirt. It’s not enough.

He ducks into the alcove of an abandoned department store. The glass doors are papered over with faded liquidation ads.

He presses his back against the brick. He flinches as it sucks the warmth right out of him. He stomps his feet, trying to feel them. A dull THUD-THUD. Nothing. The numbness is a ticking clock.

He checks his pockets. A lighter that sparks but won’t flame. A shattered stick of gum. A transit pass with a zero balance.

He looks up at the enclosed SKYWALK connecting two buildings. A SECURITY GUARD patrols the heated tube, looking down at the street with bored disdain. Locked tight.

A QUICK SERIES OF SHOTS:

A) INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)

A librarian gently but firmly gestures for Dray to leave. It’s closing time.

B) INT. MALL FOOD COURT - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)

A security guard stands over Dray, who is trying to look inconspicuous at a dirty table. The guard points to the exit.

C) INT. TIM HORTONS - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)

A manager mops the floor around Dray’s feet, forcing him out the door and back into the lethal cold.

BACK TO SCENE:

Dray pushes off the wall. He has to keep moving. He turns down a dark side street, heading for the exhaust vents behind the city arena.

The wind here is a solid wall. He lowers his head, chin tucked into a scarf already crusted with frozen breath.

And then he sees it.

Not the harsh orange of a streetlight. A soft, SICKLY YELLOW GLOW, pulsating from behind a dumpster overflowing with cardboard.

He slows. His boots CRUNCH on the hard-packed snow. The sound is too loud.

EXT. ALLEY BEHIND ARENA - CONTINUOUS

Dray rounds the dumpster.

A man, SPOON (60s), sits perfectly still in a cheap plastic lawn chair. He wears a patched-up parka, a toque pulled low, and ski goggles that reflect the yellow light.

SPOON

(Scratchy voice)

Close the door.

Dray looks around. There is no door. Just the alley, the brick wall of the arena, the open street.

DRAY

What?

SPOON

The draft. You're letting the draft in. Stand there.

Spoon points a gloved finger at a specific spot on the asphalt. Dray, too cold to argue, steps into the indicated spot.

He looks for a fire barrel. There's no smoke. No smell of burning. Just a strange, humid smell. Like a greenhouse.

And then he sees it. The source of the light.

Growing from a crack in the asphalt is a PLANT. It’s the size of a cabbage, its leaves thick and fleshy, pulsing with veins that glow with that sickly yellow light.

It radiates a palpable HEAT.

SPOON

Name's Spoon.

DRAY

Dray.

SPOON

Okay, Dray. Don't step on the crop.

Dray crouches down, mesmerized. The warmth washes over him, an incredible, life-saving wave. His ears burn as blood rushes back. He pulls off his gloves. His fingers are red and raw. He holds them out to the plant.

DRAY

What is that?

SPOON

City heat. Found it this morning. Thought it was a gas leak at first. But gas don't smell like fertilizer.

Dray looks closer. Around the base of the plant, the asphalt isn't just cracked; it's a MUSHY, GREY PASTE. The plant’s roots visibly churn the slurry.

DRAY

It's... growing? In this?

SPOON

It's eating the concrete. Look.

A tiny pebble of aggregate pops out of the mush and rolls away.

DRAY

That's not possible.

He feels dizzy. Hypothermia setting in. This has to be a dream.

SPOON

Everything's possible when the weather gets this stupid.

Spoon reaches into his coat, pulls out a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips. He offers it to Dray.

SPOON

Breakfast.

Dray takes a chip. It tastes sharp, salty. Real. He chews slowly, the warmth from the plant making his jaw ache.

The wind HOWLS at the mouth of the alley, but here, in the plant's radius, the air is still. A bubble of silence and warmth.

DRAY

You think it's radioactive?

SPOON

Maybe. Or maybe the earth is just pissed off. Trying to take the street back. We pushed too hard, kid. Now the ground is pushing back.

Dray rubs his face. The thawing is painful now, pins and needles stabbing his cheeks.

DRAY

I got nowhere to go.

The words fall out of him. He hates how weak they sound. Spoon doesn't look at him. He just nods at the asphalt.

SPOON

Plenty of heat. Just don't block the light. It likes the streetlamp.

They sit in silence. Dray sits fully on the ground. The pavement is warm, dry. Impossible. He leans back against the dumpster.

A POLICE CRUISER rolls past the alley entrance. Its red and blue lights wash over them, clashing with the plant's yellow glow. The cruiser slows... then speeds up. It doesn't stop.

Dray lets out a breath he was holding.

DRAY

They didn't stop.

SPOON

Invisibility field.

(Taps his head)

People don't see what they don't want to see. They see trash. They don't see the garden.

Dray looks at the "garden." The plant seems to flare brighter, casting long, warped shadows. The shadow of the dumpster looks like a crouching animal.

Dray reaches out, touches one of the thick, yellow leaves. It feels like leather. It VIBRATES against his fingertip, a low HUM traveling up his arm. It feels like an engine.

SPOON

Careful. It bites.

Dray pulls his hand back.

DRAY

Bites?

SPOON

Saw it catch a rat earlier. Roots snapped up like a trap. Dragged the sucker right into the pavement. Gone in ten seconds. That's where the heat comes from. Digestion.

Dray stares at the grey slush around the roots. He scoots back an inch.

DRAY

Jesus.

SPOON

Circle of life. Rat eats the trash. Plant eats the rat. We soak up the heat. Better than the shelter. At least here you know who's eating who.

Dray looks at Spoon. His eyes, visible behind the goggles, are pale and tired, but completely sane.

SPOON

You got family?

DRAY

Yeah. Somewhere.

SPOON

Keep it that way. Family freezes too. Everything freezes except this thing.

Dray feels a strange lightness in his chest. Not hope. Leverage. A tiny advantage in a rigged game.

DRAY

Can I stay? Just for a bit?

Spoon tosses him the nearly empty bag of chips.

SPOON

Till it blooms. Once it blooms, we probably gotta move. Pollen might be toxic.

DRAY

Blooms?

Spoon nods towards the tight cluster of leaves in the plant’s center. Dray settles in, listening to the plant’s HUM and the distant SCRAPE of a snowplow.

He watches the roots ripple. The grey paste bubbles.

DRAY

(Softly)

Hey Spoon.

SPOON

Yeah?

DRAY

Thanks.

SPOON

Don't thank me. Thank the mutant cabbage.

Dray looks at the plant.

DRAY

(Whispering)

Thanks.

The plant doesn’t answer. It just HUMS, louder now. A single drop of yellow sap oozes from a leaf, hitting the pavement with a SIZZLE, melting another inch of the city. The circle of warmth widens.

Dray closes his eyes, letting the impossible heat soak into his bones.