This Location of Unknown Possibilities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  “Maybe, yeah. Give me a minute, okay?”

  “Bullets in the cylinder?”

  “What?”

  “You know, you have to take a crap, like now.”

  “Christ, man. No.”

  Jake walked to the tunnel’s entrance and stared inside; without a flashlight the depth was impossible to gauge. The shaft would be of little use except as an exterior shot, that he knew; it looked cramped and, besides, there’d be hell to pay for wasting an interior already built on set in the city. A few strides into the damp shadows Jake paused at a lichen-splattered wall—as good a place to piss as any. As he lowered his pants to mid-thigh Jake felt cool air flow between his legs. He wanted to spray the rock wall with a full surge, but Nicos loitered just outside.

  “You thirsty or something?” Jake asked. He’d oblige even though it wasn’t really one of his kinks.

  “Oh, sorry, man,” Nicos said at a near-whisper decibel.

  “I gotta return some of my organic coffee to Mother Earth. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  “Marking territory, gotcha. I’ll be waiting in the truck.” The hibiscus flowers of Nicos’ Hawaiian shirt retreated into the glare.

  Within seconds of returning to overhead sunlight, Jake felt sweat rivulets funneling down and settling in his ass cleft. He strode toward the spacecraft and stopped, holding up outstretched hands to mimic a camera’s lens frame. Viewed with one eye shut, the alien’s crash site registered well, closer to cineplex quality than cable network product. Peering out of the pit and into the perimeter of the sun’s aura, Jake decided the location measured up. He lifted the hand-camera again and strode toward the Ford; with each step he watched Nicos fill the frame.

  Comfortable in the air-conditioned oasis, Nicos didn’t open the window as Jake approached; he shifted into gear when Jake planted his feet at the grille.

  “Very funny,” Jake muttered, wiping his forehead with a sleeve.

  Nicos continued to creep forward when Jake reached for the passenger door.

  “You are how old? Suck my dick, man.”

  Nicos pretended to adjust radio controls.

  “C’mon, man, don’t jerk me around.” At the bottom of the pit, his voice echoed.

  Nicos refused to brake. He popped the door lock seconds later.

  “Bet you’re thirsty now.”

  “As a matter of fact I am.” Jake regarded his colleague fondly: fair is fair. “Asshole.” He could hear Lora’s routine chide: “Keep them in your pants, boys.” He reached into the bed for the Red Bull and threw it into construction’s scrap pile.

  “You stoked?” Nicos revved the engine.

  “Yeah, I think I am. Everything’s smooth so far.”

  “Maybe it’ll be the exception to the rule.”

  “Maybe.”

  APPREHENSION

  1.

  Marta opened the script before turning the ignition key. Even with Lora’s suggestive story-as-wet-clay analogy, Marta couldn’t re-cast Lady Stanhope—or, as it turned out, the stand-in required by the legal department—as tomb-raiding action hero material, “kick-ass” or otherwise. True, the flesh and blood Victorian aristocrat had placed herself in the midst of scheming political factions and petty civil war skirmishes in the Levant region; perhaps the script dwelled on her as a female Machiavelli adept at half-truths, well-timed flattery, and ally choice. If that emphasis warped the truth considerably, the courtly intrigue would nevertheless give the plot necessary punch.

  With the exception of drawn-out family quarrels haltingly enacted through letters transported by camels, horses, and ships, Marta concluded, there were simply no other places to insert searing conflict or daredevil plot elements into the caravan-paced episodes of Stanhope’s life.

  She read a sheet stapled to the cover page—

  THE BATTLE FOR DJOUN - OVERVIEW

  Djoun, Lebanon, 1825.

  A middle-aged aristocratic English woman lives in exile with servants and her doctor, Basil Potter, a weak man who has loved his patient for years but has never spoken the words. Lady Harriet Swinburne turned her back on England and its hypocrisies years ago, and has used a formidable intellect and powerful charisma to carve a place for herself in an unforgiving desert land ruled by stern men who view women as expendable possessions.

  The local populace, peasants and wealthy alike, fear and respect her.

  Marta wondered whether this information would scroll on the screen following the opening credits. She’d ask. So far the changes were cosmetic.

  Lady Swinburne is called the Empress of the Desert, and many believe she is a prophet close to the ear of God. She has a reputation as a healer, a philosopher, and an oracle; each and every day men and women in need of guidance or medicine show up at the gate of the Djoun compound seeking a minute of her attention, a touch from her hand, or sage words. Legend speaks of a savior, a woman dressed in a man’s clothing who will arrive from a distant land. The credulous believe that she alone can free the land of wickedness and lead the people into paradise.

  “The same back story, so I see,” Marta murmured, wondering about the aptness of Jake’s description. Perhaps he’d meant “an English lady living in the desert.” This fabrication, she judged with pursed lips, had more in common with the hokum of The Ten Commandments than Hester Stanhope’s life. Marta knew the mother-love looked silly, but she felt protective of Lady Stanhope. There’d been a name change, at least.

  Marta patted her forehead and continued tracking the story’s trajectory.

  One night a bright comet streaks across the starry sky, followed by a thundering crash. In the following days villagers tersely whisper about massacred sheep flocks, dead birds littering the ground, and entire farmer families vanishing overnight. Strange portents—flashes of light, humming sounds—fill the night skies. People begin to fall ill with a new kind of plague, one that Lady Swinburne and her doctor cannot heal.

  Puzzled and desperate for answers, she eventually leads a small group on horse to the mountainous area where the comet appeared to land. Near a cave they find a great metal machine half-buried in the sand. The group has seen nothing like it before.

  Aghast but mesmerized, Marta skipped forward several paragraphs.

  The outlying grounds have been reduced to smoking rubble and the villagers have gathered with Lady Swinburne and Dr. Potter for the last stand. The creature appears at night only, and the rag-tag group had hoped to make an offensive assault on the metal machine during the light of day. Having failed, they can only wait for the creature’s certain arrival.

  Marta would never have predicted the inclusion of an alien. Re-purposed, indeed. She read the final lines.

  As the creature bends to feed on Dr. Potter, Lady Swinburne, despite being frightened and wounded, summons the strength to avenge the death of her beloved and loyal companion. She attacks with a farmer’s scythe and slices the creature at its throat. The creature shrieks and struggles, but Swinburne’s assault pays off—however, she is too late to save her faithful friend.

  Following the somber victory celebration the scene returns to a cavern near the crashed spacecraft. A few feet inside, the dry stone becomes wet with webs of organic material; suspending in them are small translucent orbs. In the final moment, an alien fetus squirms inside its egg.

  Serviceable enough B-movie plotting, Marta thought. While she’d encountered better ideas, she had also, in the name of conference papers, sat through worse. A B-minus movie. And the news wasn’t only bad: her dread over an inane script featuring a grotesque named Lady Hester Stanhope, so palpable moments ago, could be laid to rest.

  Marta heard laughter and looked up. The trio striding by held skateboards at their hips. The tall shaggy-haired leader closest to the car stopped to slip the board between his thighs; facing towards a hardware store, he drew the curves of a woman with index fingers that sliced through t
he air. Marta couldn’t hear the words of the exuberant tale, but watched the cartoon thrusting motions. She filled in the blanks: “36-24-36.”

  “Dude, no way,” the skinny friend to the performer’s left replied.

  The youngest followed suit: “No way!”

  As the storyteller leaned on the hood and continued with the va-va-voom-era Playboy fishing tale, Marta wondered how far he’d strayed from the truth and for how many millennia men had etched that universal contour; archeologists had likely discovered identical figures at Lascaux. Women never draw the equivalent ideal, she thought, and reached for her notebook. The movement alerted the storyteller’s friend, who turned and pointed; grinning, the three mimed smiling universal peace offerings—Ma’am, we’ve removed our hands from the vehicle, we’re backing off, no harm intended, peace—before tearing down the street.

  2.

  Marta adjusted the seams of the close-fitting denim. Hermetically sealed and perspiring in my car, this is ridiculous, she thought. Surely she could locate a place for breakfast along the main street. After releasing the safety belt and re-checking the emergency brake, she stuffed The Battle for Djoun into the canvas tote and swung open the door. A toasting blast of air outside easily bested the car’s greenhouse interior.

  Marta followed the direction of the storyteller and his rapt sidekick audience. Homeless men with homemade cardboard sign pronouncements—“A dollar short of taking over the world”—were nowhere to be seen, she noticed, and wondered if the city council, eyeing the dollars of happy tourists, had drafted a zero-tolerance policy.

  The sign outside the O-K Café teetered awkwardly; the chrome music stand holding a tray-sized whiteboard promoted the daily special: 2 eggs any style, ham/bac/saus, tst, hash $3.99. Marta could see no other options. Dry toast and tea would be fine anywhere, she suspected.

  The O-K epitomized a style of restaurant that had passed out of fashion in big city centres long ago. The spaciousness alone would make the monthly rent prohibitive. A row of blue vinyl booth seating occupied the left wall, tables stood pell-mell in the middle, and on the right ran the O-K’s social hub, a stretch of grey laminate counter where any customer on a stool faced a mirror, sundae glasses, milkshake and coffee makers, a metal rack holding single-serving cereal boxes, and a friendly middle-aged woman wearing an apron over a snug waitress uniform the pastel green of bygone hospital corridors.

  The restaurant’s oscillating fans and quiet invited her in. Marta guessed that the town’s breakfast rush crested shortly after sunrise. A second music stand directed foot traffic: “Please Seat Yourself at a Clean Table.” Marta crossed to a booth and slid in. The seat offered a full view of the restaurant and street.

  The waitress broke from a conversation and strode to the kitchen’s ordering window. To the woman’s bellowed question—“Loon, will you pick up that single?”—Marta heard no answer.

  Marta watched as Loon approached.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the waitress said. “Did you see the special?”

  “Yes, I did. An order of dry whole wheat toast and black tea, please. Thank you.”

  “Orange pekoe and wheat toast, that all?”

  “A glass of water too, please. No ice, if that’s not a problem.”

  “Happy to oblige, less work for me. White or brown?”

  “Brown,” Marta frowned at the woman’s distractedness. “Thank you.”

  “It’ll be back in two shakes.” Marta heard the waitress call out the order: “Henry, stack of brown.”

  When Loon returned with a small metal teapot, Marta asked, “Do you have soy milk? The unsweetened kind would even be better.” She was averse to being pigeonholed as a fussy special-needs urbanite, but the diligence of her diet represented a trickling source of pride. A wrong turn into bad habits began with one seemingly inconsequential choice.

  “Creamers there on the table is all we’ve got.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Marta pulled the script and a pen from the bag. She reread the treatment and dragged a finger along the script’s edge. The nail caught a page and she flipped the script open near mid-point.

  “Here you go. Three shakes at most.” The waitress slapped down a bill.

  The toast was slathered with buttery goo. “Excuse me.” Marta picked up the plate and raised it high. “I’m afraid this toast isn’t dry.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Accepting the toast, she placed the coffee pot on Marta’s table. “I figure my messed up orders will reach the ceiling by the time my shift ends. Today’s one of those days. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

  “I know it. We all have them.”

  Marta returned to the script.

  DISSOLVE TO:

  EXT. DJOUN - GATES - DAY

  Riding their horses slowly toward the Djoun compound, Lady Swinburne and Doctor Potter formulate a plan.

  LADY SWINBURNE

  It is unholy, an evil from the depths of the Inferno.

  DR. POTTER

  (laughs)

  My dear Lady, such feverish imaginings!

  Too many years in the desert with these credulous superstitious pagans, I suspect.

  As a man of science, I implore you to clear your mind and proceed rationally. Now is not the time to take leave of your good senses!

  Swinburne halts the horse suddenly.

  SWINBURNE

  What do all your laws of science lead you to conclude? Pray tell, Potter, pray tell!

  POTTER

  This is wondrous strange, I grant that.

  Without further investigation, however, I must stoop to base conjecture.

  SWINBURNE

  Be that as it may, Sir!

  POTTER

  You force me into a premature conclusion, Madam. But if you insist . . .

  In place of your minions of Beelzebub, I suggest vestiges of a lost tribe. Local legend speaks of an ancient race of powerful warriors cast into exile for unspeakable sins.

  It may well be there is fact at the basis for this fanciful mythology.

  SWINBURNE

  (laughs)

  There are more things in heaven and earth, Doctor, than are dreamt of in your ­philosophy . . . Dear, in all honesty, your science sounds no better than my superstition.

  POTTER

  We are at sixes and sevens, my old friend.

  SWINBURNE

  No matter.

  It is incumbent on us to lead these poor farmers and secure their continued safety.

  They may not possess simon-pure souls, Doctor, but it is the obligation (in French) of our kind to care for them.

  Without our leadership, they shall surely perish. Let us retire to my chambers to formulate a winning strategy.

  Get thee to the Batmobile, Robin, Marta thought. Shakespeare must be a godsend to hacks.

  At the gates they wait for an attendant. Swinburne is impatient.

  SWINBURNE

  I wonder where Abdul might be.

  Marta flipped to the last page.

  The waitress returned. “Bone dry,” she said. “You one of them movie people in town?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Today’s my first day up here on location.”

  “Lornette Spang—she’s one of the waitresses here—was talking,” the woman turned to check the order pick-up window, “she heard you people might be hiring on some extras.”

  “Certainly. In fact, there are several scenes that require extras.” Marta patted the script knowingly.

  “Do you need any experience? To be a movie extra, I mean.” As she moved to pour coffee, Marta rattled the teapot’s lid. “I did a commercial for OK New and Used up Penticton way last year. I played ‘young mother buying a minivan.’” Marta watched Loon’s paired quoting fingers, aloft like rabbit ears. “I’m Luna. Luna Kwakowsky. Maybe I’m
too old?”

  “Please to meet you. I’m Mar,” Marta swallowed back “Sadie” as equal parts impulsive and foolhardy. “You’d be perfect, I’m sure.” Luna looked well under thirty.

  “Ha, that’s nice of you. Mar, eh? That short for Margaret,” the woman asked. “Martha?”

  “Marta, actually, but Mar works best.” Marta disliked abbreviated names. “Why don’t you write down your number? On the back of the script is fine. I can pass it along to the Production Coordinator.”

  “Will do, thanks. And don’t you worry about the bill, it’s on the house.” She grabbed the coffee pot but remained at the table. “We heard that Michelle Pfeiffer is staying up there at that fancy hotel at the Burrowing Owl winery.”

  Think smaller, Marta thought. “No comment. I really ought to go over the new script.”

  “Keep me in mind.”

  Marta nodded in reply and flipped to the final pages.

  INT. SWINBURNE’S COMPOUND - NIGHT - MOMENTS LATER

  Potter advances toward the alien hesitantly, palms open to show his peaceful intentions.

  DR. POTTER

  In the name of civility, stranger, I urge you to diplomacy.

  The Alien hisses and crowds Potter into a corner. Lady Swinburne enters with stealth and watches events unfold. She holds a grain scythe.

  POTTER

  We are… We are men of Science. We must communicate!

  As Potter stretches out a hand in welcome, the alien swells up and covers Potter to consume him in a frenzy. Lady Swinburne uses this opportunity for her assault.

  LADY SWINBURNE

  (rushing in)

  To hell in swift dispatch, demon!

  ‘Get away from him, you bitch,’ or its early nineteenth century equivalent, Marta thought. Obviously.

  The alien spews liquid from gaping wounds and shrieks in pain. Lady Swinburne commits to a final attack and the alien falls away from Doctor Potter, whose wounds are too severe to heal. Lady Swinburne rushes to him and places her face close. She is in tears.

  POTTER

  (whispering)

  The eyes of science have been blind, Lady.