A Gust of Sulphur and Sky
Casey and Jeremy grapple with a stubborn, mud-bound quad bike under a volatile spring sky, finding an unexpected, messy burst of laughter that cuts through the lingering shadows of their past.
EXT. VALLEY - LATE AFTERNOON
A vast, desolate landscape under a bruised, purple-grey sky. The earth is a raw wound of red-brown clay, slick with recent rain.
SOUND of a low, mournful wind whistling through dry grass
In the center of this emptiness, a QUAD BIKE is hopelessly mired. Its front wheel is swallowed by the earth, the machine tilted at a defeated angle.
CASEY (20s-30s), face streaked with grease and mud, crouches by the wheel. His denim jacket is soaked, his fingernails packed with grit. He shoves a dark strand of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving another smear.
A few feet away, JEREMY (20s-30s) stands silhouetted against the horizon. Lean, still, arms crossed. His work shirt clings to his shoulders, damp with sweat and chill. He just watches. The silence between them is a physical presence.
A sudden, sharp GUST OF WIND whips across the valley. It carries a faint, metallic scent, like burning copper mixed with decaying leaves. The wind catches a mud-soaked TARP near the quad, making it flap uselessly.
CASEY
> (muttering to himself)
> Stubborn old thing.
Jeremy shifts his weight, the mud sucking at his boots. His voice is low, rough.
JEREMY
> Think we can dig it out?
Casey grunts. He grabs a SHOVEL—its handle splintered and wrapped in electrical tape—and shoves it into the glutinous earth. The blade bites, then snags.
He wrenches it free. A thick CLOD OF MUD flies past his ear.
ANGLE ON JEREMY
The mud clod narrowly misses his cheek. A flicker of something crosses his face—not annoyance, a ghost of a smile, quickly gone. His gaze remains fixed on Casey, unblinking.
CASEY
> (sharper than intended)
> Only one way to find out.
He digs again, shoulders straining. The mud clings to the shovel with a greedy, sucking sound.
A fine, cold MIST begins to fall, quickly thickening into proper RAIN. Drops splatter their faces, run down their necks.
Jeremy moves closer, his boots sinking into the soft ground. He reaches for the shovel.
CLOSE ON THEIR HANDS
Jeremy’s hand brushes Casey’s arm as he takes the handle. The touch is brief, electric. Casey shivers, and it’s not from the cold. Their shoulders brush as they reposition. The faint scent of woodsmoke and damp wool from Jeremy’s clothes.
JEREMY
> (a low rumble)
> Try pulling from that angle.
He gestures with his chin. They wedge the shovel under the quad’s frame.
JEREMY
> (yelling)
> Right. One... two... THREE!
They HEAVE.
SOUND of groaning metal, a wet gurgle from the mud
The quad shifts an inch, then sinks deeper. The shovel slips.
Casey tumbles backwards, landing with a huge SPLASH in a knee-deep puddle of brackish water. Soaked. Stunned.
He lies there, cold shocking his system. Water drips from his eyelashes.
CASEY’S POV
Jeremy stands over him. His face is a mask of concern. A smear of mud now streaks his forehead where the flying clod must have landed after all.
Jeremy blinks. A slow, deliberate movement.
A small puff of air escapes his lips. His shoulders start to shake.
A low, rumbling sound begins in his chest. It grows, breaking free.
It’s a LAUGH. Deep, rusty, unfamiliar. A sound that shatters the oppressive quiet. It bends him over, hands on his knees.
Casey just stares. Soaked, muddy, defeated... and Jeremy is laughing. A real, honest-to-God laugh.
Something in Casey snaps. The frustration, the cold, the sheer absurdity of it all.
A SNORT escapes him. Then another.
It erupts into a full-bellied ROAR of laughter that echoes across the valley.
He sits up, splashing muddy water, his own laughter mingling with Jeremy’s. He laughs until his stomach aches, until tears stream down his face, mixing with the rain and mud.
Jeremy drops down into the puddle beside him, not caring. His laughter is just as wild, just as free. They clap each other on the back, wet and filthy, gasping for air.
JEREMY
> (choking out the words)
> You look... like a swamp creature!
CASEY
> (pointing a trembling, muddy finger)
> And you... you got a mud hat!
The laughter starts anew, a torrent that washes everything away.
EXT. VALLEY - MOMENTS LATER
The laughter has subsided. They lie back in the mud, chests hitching with residual chuckles, looking up at the grey, patchy sky. The rain has softened to a DRIZZLE.
SOUND of the gentle drizzle, their own quiet breathing
JEREMY
> (voice calm, still laced with mirth)
> Well. That was... productive.
CASEY
> (a soft snort)
> Very. Quad’s still stuck. We’re soaked. And probably catching pneumonia.
JEREMY
> (staring at the clouds)
> Worth it, though, wasn’t it?
A beat of silence. The question hangs in the air, heavier than it seems.
CASEY
> (a quiet breath)
> Yeah. Yeah, it was.
Jeremy props himself up on an elbow, looking at Casey. His eyes, usually so guarded, are soft. An understanding passes between them. A silent acknowledgment of the weight they carry, and the fragile relief they just found.
Casey feels a warmth spread through his chest, despite the cold.
Jeremy slowly reaches out. His muddy hand hovers for a second, then gently, almost hesitantly, rests on Casey’s arm.
The touch is feather-light, but it burns. A slow, deep heat. Casey doesn’t pull away. His gaze locks with Jeremy’s. The vast valley narrows to just the two of them.
JEREMY
> (barely a whisper)
> We should probably get up.
The words are practical, but his eyes ask a question. Casey can only nod, his throat tight.
The warmth of Jeremy’s hand is a small, fierce sun against his skin.
WIDE SHOT
Two mud-caked figures on the wet earth. The quad bike, a dark, hulking shape against the deepening grey, sits as a silent witness. The sky above is vast, open, and uncertain.
FADE OUT.
A vast, desolate landscape under a bruised, purple-grey sky. The earth is a raw wound of red-brown clay, slick with recent rain.
SOUND of a low, mournful wind whistling through dry grass
In the center of this emptiness, a QUAD BIKE is hopelessly mired. Its front wheel is swallowed by the earth, the machine tilted at a defeated angle.
CASEY (20s-30s), face streaked with grease and mud, crouches by the wheel. His denim jacket is soaked, his fingernails packed with grit. He shoves a dark strand of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving another smear.
A few feet away, JEREMY (20s-30s) stands silhouetted against the horizon. Lean, still, arms crossed. His work shirt clings to his shoulders, damp with sweat and chill. He just watches. The silence between them is a physical presence.
A sudden, sharp GUST OF WIND whips across the valley. It carries a faint, metallic scent, like burning copper mixed with decaying leaves. The wind catches a mud-soaked TARP near the quad, making it flap uselessly.
CASEY
> (muttering to himself)
> Stubborn old thing.
Jeremy shifts his weight, the mud sucking at his boots. His voice is low, rough.
JEREMY
> Think we can dig it out?
Casey grunts. He grabs a SHOVEL—its handle splintered and wrapped in electrical tape—and shoves it into the glutinous earth. The blade bites, then snags.
He wrenches it free. A thick CLOD OF MUD flies past his ear.
ANGLE ON JEREMY
The mud clod narrowly misses his cheek. A flicker of something crosses his face—not annoyance, a ghost of a smile, quickly gone. His gaze remains fixed on Casey, unblinking.
CASEY
> (sharper than intended)
> Only one way to find out.
He digs again, shoulders straining. The mud clings to the shovel with a greedy, sucking sound.
A fine, cold MIST begins to fall, quickly thickening into proper RAIN. Drops splatter their faces, run down their necks.
Jeremy moves closer, his boots sinking into the soft ground. He reaches for the shovel.
CLOSE ON THEIR HANDS
Jeremy’s hand brushes Casey’s arm as he takes the handle. The touch is brief, electric. Casey shivers, and it’s not from the cold. Their shoulders brush as they reposition. The faint scent of woodsmoke and damp wool from Jeremy’s clothes.
JEREMY
> (a low rumble)
> Try pulling from that angle.
He gestures with his chin. They wedge the shovel under the quad’s frame.
JEREMY
> (yelling)
> Right. One... two... THREE!
They HEAVE.
SOUND of groaning metal, a wet gurgle from the mud
The quad shifts an inch, then sinks deeper. The shovel slips.
Casey tumbles backwards, landing with a huge SPLASH in a knee-deep puddle of brackish water. Soaked. Stunned.
He lies there, cold shocking his system. Water drips from his eyelashes.
CASEY’S POV
Jeremy stands over him. His face is a mask of concern. A smear of mud now streaks his forehead where the flying clod must have landed after all.
Jeremy blinks. A slow, deliberate movement.
A small puff of air escapes his lips. His shoulders start to shake.
A low, rumbling sound begins in his chest. It grows, breaking free.
It’s a LAUGH. Deep, rusty, unfamiliar. A sound that shatters the oppressive quiet. It bends him over, hands on his knees.
Casey just stares. Soaked, muddy, defeated... and Jeremy is laughing. A real, honest-to-God laugh.
Something in Casey snaps. The frustration, the cold, the sheer absurdity of it all.
A SNORT escapes him. Then another.
It erupts into a full-bellied ROAR of laughter that echoes across the valley.
He sits up, splashing muddy water, his own laughter mingling with Jeremy’s. He laughs until his stomach aches, until tears stream down his face, mixing with the rain and mud.
Jeremy drops down into the puddle beside him, not caring. His laughter is just as wild, just as free. They clap each other on the back, wet and filthy, gasping for air.
JEREMY
> (choking out the words)
> You look... like a swamp creature!
CASEY
> (pointing a trembling, muddy finger)
> And you... you got a mud hat!
The laughter starts anew, a torrent that washes everything away.
EXT. VALLEY - MOMENTS LATER
The laughter has subsided. They lie back in the mud, chests hitching with residual chuckles, looking up at the grey, patchy sky. The rain has softened to a DRIZZLE.
SOUND of the gentle drizzle, their own quiet breathing
JEREMY
> (voice calm, still laced with mirth)
> Well. That was... productive.
CASEY
> (a soft snort)
> Very. Quad’s still stuck. We’re soaked. And probably catching pneumonia.
JEREMY
> (staring at the clouds)
> Worth it, though, wasn’t it?
A beat of silence. The question hangs in the air, heavier than it seems.
CASEY
> (a quiet breath)
> Yeah. Yeah, it was.
Jeremy props himself up on an elbow, looking at Casey. His eyes, usually so guarded, are soft. An understanding passes between them. A silent acknowledgment of the weight they carry, and the fragile relief they just found.
Casey feels a warmth spread through his chest, despite the cold.
Jeremy slowly reaches out. His muddy hand hovers for a second, then gently, almost hesitantly, rests on Casey’s arm.
The touch is feather-light, but it burns. A slow, deep heat. Casey doesn’t pull away. His gaze locks with Jeremy’s. The vast valley narrows to just the two of them.
JEREMY
> (barely a whisper)
> We should probably get up.
The words are practical, but his eyes ask a question. Casey can only nod, his throat tight.
The warmth of Jeremy’s hand is a small, fierce sun against his skin.
WIDE SHOT
Two mud-caked figures on the wet earth. The quad bike, a dark, hulking shape against the deepening grey, sits as a silent witness. The sky above is vast, open, and uncertain.
FADE OUT.