[EXT. MID-NORTHERN UK, SOMEWHERE]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[There’s a barking sort of sound on repeat. The buzzing of a fly drones at that volume that’s just loud enough to be an annoyance. Other bugs, too. Some unintelligible chattering in the background, high in pitch.]
[This is territory of the Corruption.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance, and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss. But as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake.
The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and the voices that come from behind the inhabitants’ masks are hoarse and wet.
They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life. And when they have a break from weeping, they reassure each other how wonderful it is in their village, or at least how wonderful it used to be.
Each is covered from head to toe in thick black fabric, and they never, ever touch.
Take a deep breath.
The air feels thick and soupy in your lungs, swarming with a thousand contagions digging into you, begging for you to join the village:
It’s so quiet there, and everyone cares for each other, far from the din and compacted flesh of the city.
In the center, a maypole stands, mildewed strips of colored cloth hanging limply from it like shreds of ragged skin. The base of the pole is ashen and charred.
The disease itself is nothing special. It begins as a small patch of discolored skin, the tiniest blemish. Scrub it off, and it is gone! For a few hours, at least. But it returns again and again, and begins to spread, a mold with tendrils that burrow deep.
It ranges in color from rancid yellow and corpse-fat white to the dull, angry purple of a fresh bruise. It itches, and burns, and you can feel it growing and spreading inside you, looking for the core of you. At least until it worms its way into your bones.
Beneath the coat of each terrified citizen of this sick village lies a lurking possibility, a nightmarish suspicion of infectious constellations of hungry mildew, a mutating technical atlas of rotten and pockmarked flesh.
But who can know for sure? Their coats are oh, so thick.
There was never a time before the disease, no matter what the old bastards tell you. It has always been in the village, always festered in the dark corners where no one could stomach to check. Where good neighbors wouldn’t dream to speculate.
But those who live here will tell you different. From behind their masks those friendly voices will tell you how it used to be: clean, and hygenic, and always bathed in sepia sunshine. They know in the guts of them this sickness has come from outside, that it is those from beyond the village that have done this to them.
They brought it here, they whisper to each other in the unnamed pub, hunched and bloated over their pale and stinking beers, lifting their masks to take a mouthful, puce faces and frightened sneers exposed for just a moment.
They couldn’t leave us well enough alone. They wanted what we have, our perfect peaceful life, and so they dragged their sickness here and damned us all.
The patrons speak quietly, ‘cause who can say for sure if the face behind a mask is a good, honest village face – or a sickness-bearing harbinger from beyond?
And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.
They are stopped, of course. Beaten and stripped and checked head to toe for any sign of infection. The village council sees to that. Most are uncontaminated, though that does little to save them, while others are already laced right through with fungus of their own.
A few are spared brutality, and treated with such cordial politeness you must have thought their inquisitors old friends. Though there seems on the surface no rhyme to such decisions, were you to look below their coats, you might see the patterns of their mold were matched.
It is, alas, those who are unblemished who suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean, that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory: An invisible infection. A hundred Typhoid Marys spreading mildew and decay.
They keep them in the post office, wrapped in chicken wire, prodded and jeered and watched. Should they begin to show signs of the rot, then maybe, just maybe, they can stay for now, though nobody will doubt that it was they brought the illness.
But if they stay clean, if they continue to act like they are better, like they are above the sickness that it is certain that they must have brought to the village, then that cannot be endured. So they are taken to the village green, and the scorch marks at the base of the maypole get darker.
The villagers stand on the green to watch, ignoring the bending of the grass as it tries to worm its way through their boots. They watch the screaming outsider as the fire purifies them, and inside feel the gnawing panic of their own secrets.
For how long ago did they really come to the village? How deep did their roots go? Do any of them truly remember? What if they are an outsider? What if they’re found out?
No. Such fears are to be quashed and swallowed; they must stand strong; they must stand together as one body against the mass of those beyond the village who would see them degraded and destroyed. They cannot allow such secret terrors to break their unity.
And the maypole watches over all.
There is no house in town that has not found itself marked with the red cross of plague, but paint is fleeting and the villagers are so desperate to hide their state. Night still falls here, if only to give those that wish it a chance to try and hide their frantic denials.
As the weak dawn breaks, you may count the doors now painted white, and see who is more conscientious in covering their spongy skin.
The deception is pitiable, and yet deep down every villager knows the mold has marked them deeper than any of the others, and carries it as their most secret shame.
Foremost in their denials are the village council, those loud and hardy souls who have taken it upon themselves to police this place, to safeguard their traditions and denounce the infection that is the right and proper punishment of those who would allow the village borders to be breached, and their ancient way of life to be compromised.
Their masks are blue and red and white, and their coats are the color of fresh ivory, stained sometimes with streaks of crimson from their dutiful ministrations. None would dare accuse them of infection, and to cross them or draw their eye is to invite the strongest diagnosis.
Head of the council is Jillian Smith. Her father’s father’s father’s father’s father built the maypole, carved from a jackalberry tree and painted in the colors of the village. This place is her home and her right and her duty, and woe to any fungus-riddled outsider who might believe it otherwise.
For no one would speak up if Jillian Smith were to mark you infected or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green.
Her gloves are purest white and never sullied, and they hide a cerulean mold that covers every inch of her, through skin, muscle, and organ, though she has no idea it runs so deep.
By night, she sits in the quiet darkness of her perfect cottage, peeling herself with a straight razor, layer by layer, desperate to reach the pure flesh she is so sure must still be in there, somewhere.
Her living room is the same suffocation blue as the rest of her, every surface piled high with her own discarded bloody skin, and she has no terror deeper than the thought she might be discovered. As she pulls spongy strips free one agonizing fiber at a time, she stares from the window at the house of her neighbor, Mrs Kim.
Mrs Kim is not on the village council. Mrs Kim keeps to herself. And Jillian Smith is certain Mrs Kim is not infected, and hates her for it.
What Mrs Kim is, is scared. Scared of her neighbors, scared of her friends, scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back, and decide she is infected, or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather’s day, and judge her to be an outsider.
Should she accuse someone else? Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the village council, though that would invite their attention as much as anything might.
Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub. But what can she do?
When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatch roof, she knows it is too late.
They drag her to the maypole, their masks hiding the tears of terror and angry shame, and lash her there with those strips of cloth that never seem to burn.
Mrs Kim does not fight, though she screams and screams and screams as all her fears are realized. Jillian Smith tries to smile as she watches her neighbor burn, but the fungus is too thick around her lips, and her face no longer moves.
As the flames consume the last of Mrs Kim in thick and acrid smoke, the mold reaches the bones of Jillian Smith, and she blooms.
In a moment she is swollen, bloated, bursting into a cloud of violet spores that envelop the green and those who dwell there, embracing them in a rot that long since seeped into the soil of this blighted land.
[The Archivist takes a deep breath and then exhales.]
ARCHIVIST
(softly) Okay. (heavy inhale) End recording.
[TAPE CLICKS OFF.]
[EXT. MID-NORTHERN UK, SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE CORRUPTION VILLAGE]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[The sounds of the Corruption are in the distance now, though the fly in particular still manages to stick out.]
ARCHIVIST
We’re fine.
MARTIN
A-Are we? I mean, that place is – (sputters) I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your,y– (how to phrase this?) – your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is –
[Some movement.]
MARTIN
I,It’s infectious, and… I don’t –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) We’re not infected, Martin; that place – (stop, exhale) It isn’t for us.
MARTIN
A, Alright – but how do you know? –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) I just – Do. I just know it.
[Silence. Some movement.]
MARTIN
You’ve been Knowing a lot, lately.
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
MARTIN
A lot more than you used to.
ARCHIVIST
Ye…Yeah.
[By now, we can no longer hear the sounds of the Corruption’s village, just the standard howling wind of this universe’s fearscape.]
ARCHIVIST
And it, and it feels more – deliberate. Like I have more control now.
MARTIN
Okay.
[A step.]
MARTIN
So – How much can you see? What else do you know?
ARCHIVIST
Uhh… (step, genuine surprise) Maybe everything.
MARTIN
What’d’you mean, “everything?”
ARCHIVIST
I don’t – Ask me a question! One I can’t possibly know already.
MARTIN
O-kay… (step) What’s my middle name?
[The Archivist hms. His static begins to rise.]
ARCHIVIST
(!) Y– You don’t have one!
MARTIN
(impressed) Whoa.
ARCHIVIST
You – I actually believed you!
[The static starts to fade.]
MARTIN
(overlapping) Oh – S-Sorry; sorry, I just, I just wanted to try it out-
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) “That’s ridiculous,” I thought, “That’s not a real name, but he wouldn’t lie to me.”
MARTIN
(caught red-handed) Okay – okay, okay, okay. Let’s – Let’s try something a little bigger, then.
ARCHIVIST
Alright.
[Step.]
MARTIN
Is Basira alive?
[The Archivist inhales sharply.]
MARTIN
Is she in – o,one of these places?
[The static rises, quicker than before.]
ARCHIVIST
She’s alive. Out there, not trapped in a, in a, a hellscape, but – moving. Hunting.
She’s – She’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind.
MARTIN
And Daisy?
[Static intensifies.]
ARCHIVIST
…Beastial. Brutal. Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood –
[He sighs, and there’s a note of – guilt? Regret? Pity? To it.]
ARCHIVIST
Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry.
MARTIN
What’s Basira going to do?
ARCHIVIST
She – (movement) – thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. But she’s conflicted.
MARTIN
(immediate) And will she?
ARCHIVIST
I don’t know; th-the future, th, th,that’s… not something I can see.
MARTIN
O-kay, good to know. How much further do we still need to go?
ARCHIVIST
A long way.
[The static kicks back up into a higher register. When the Archivist speaks, his voice is closer to his Statement Voice – lower register, more distanced from what he’s saying, like a narrator.]
ARCHIVIST
Through many dark and awful places.
MARTIN
(catching the change) Is this – A-Are you okay? How are you feeling?
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) I – Um, I, I’m okay. It’s a little – strange? But it doesn’t hurt.
Keep going; you have – questions, let’s hear them.
MARTIN
Oh, oh, okay, um. How are the others?
ARCHIVIST
I, uh. (pause) Hm. I’m – I’m not – sure. I can’t really see Melanie, or, or Georgie.
MARTIN
They’re dead?
ARCHIVIST
No, no – I, I don’t think so; if they were dead, I – I think I would know that, I just – (rustling) I don’t know – where they are, w,what they’re doing.
MARTIN
Hm.
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) London, maybe?
MARTIN
What about Elias?
ARCHIVIST
(immediate, darker) He’s inside the Panopticon. The tower, far above the world.
MARTIN
(joke) That one?
ARCHIVIST
(misses/doesn’t care for it) Yes.
[He sighs.]
MARTIN
(as if asking after an old friend) How is he?
ARCHIVIST
Hard to say. The, The way this works, this – new sight, the knowledge is, is… (sigh) somehow wrapped up in the Panopticon? (sigh) An eye can’t – see inside itself.
[Martin hms.]
ARCHIVIST
But I can feel him in there.
MARTIN
Hm. That sounds… gross.
ARCHIVIST
It is.
[They both laugh.]
MARTIN
Are we safe, traveling like this?
ARCHIVIST
Yes. (brief pause) Yes, sort of, we’re – (exhale) I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re – something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them. Separate, and untouched.
MARTIN
That’s not as comforting as you might think.
[He gives a little laugh as he says it. The Archivist laughs with his next words, too.]
ARCHIVIST
I like it better than the alternative.
MARTIN
Fair point! (small laugh) Okay, okay, uh – what else, what else, um… Oh! Um, uh, who was – um, uh – phone! Who was calling me?
[The Archivist’s static comes noticeably back in.]
ARCHIVIST
(inhale) …I think it was Annabelle Cane.
MARTIN
Hm.
ARCHIVIST
That’s – weird; I – I know the Web was wrapped around that phone, but, but I can’t – see her. A, At all. At least with Georgie and Melanie I have a vague sense they’re still alive, i-in London, and o– well, what was London.
But Annabelle? Nothing.
MARTIN
Hm. W, Well, I’ll… I’ll ask her, next time she calls.
ARCHIVIST
(amused) Well, I know that’s a bad idea.
MARTIN
(overlapping, fond, amused) What, do you?
ARCHIVIST
…Okay, no; that one was a – very reasonable guess.
MARTIN
Ha!
ARCHIVIST
(inhale) Anything else? I’ll, I’ll be honest, I’m starting to feel a bit – self-conscious being a post-apocalyptic Google?
MARTIN
Okay, okay, just one more, but – it’s a big one.
ARCHIVIST
(near-whisper) Okay.
[Movement, possibly the flip of a page.]
MARTIN
Can we turn the world back?
[The static takes off.]
ARCHIVIST
Whoa. Um. I-If the fears are removed, y,yes, but they c-can’t be destroyed while there are still people to fear them, th-then they can’t be banished back to the space where they came from; it,it’s not – there anymore, I, – Oh, uh –
MARTIN
J,J,Jo,J,John, what’s wrong?!
ARCHIVIST
Uh, i-it’s, uh – I’m sorry – trying to know things about them directly, i,i,it’s like – (exhale) God, it’s like looking into the Sun.
MARTIN
Okay, okay, okay. Alright, that’s alright. We can leave it.
[The Archivist exhales as he speaks.]
ARCHIVIST
Good. (inhale) Ow.
[He sighs.]
MARTIN
Hey. (small chuckle) Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll go slow for a while.
ARCHIVIST
Alright.
MARTIN
Yeah. Yeah, there’s no rush.
[Pause as the Archivist sighs.]
MARTIN
Oh, actually – what about Helen, where’s she these days?
[Static kicks in again.]
ARCHIVIST
Uh – She’s –
[He laughs, dryly.]
ARCHIVIST
Right. Naturally.
[He sighs.]
MARTIN
What’s she doing?
ARCHIVIST
Martin, turn around.
[We hear him do just that.]
MARTIN
(fuck off) Oh, you’re kidding.
ARCHIVIST
Wish I was!
MARTIN
(sigh) Shall we… um…
ARCHIVIST
Do you want to do the honors?
MARTIN
(grimace) Not really!
[One of them knocks, a little knock-knock-knock.]
MARTIN
Maybe – no one’s home? –
HELEN
(overlapping) Hello, John!
[We hear her footsteps as she steps outside. They’re not on any gravel-type surface like Martin’s and the Archivist’s; instead they sound like she’s walking on wood or tile.]
ARCHIVIST
(sighing) How did you find us?
HELEN
Oh! I thought you’d know everything by this point.
ARCHIVIST
Yes, I suppose I do.
[There’s a definite note of amusement in his voice. Helen laughs, in that disorienting way of hers. The Archivist allows a small hm.]
MARTIN
(still here!) And I don’t! So, care to enlighten me?
ARCHIVIST
Oh – yes, sorry, uh – The Distortion can always find anyone who has – crossed its threshold.
HELEN
And that includes you, Martin! Remember? And please – my name is Helen.
ARCHIVIST
Like you said, I can know everything now, including how much of a lie that really is.
HELEN
Don’t mistake complication for falsehood, dear Archivist. And remember, that knowledge is not the same thing as understanding!
ARCHIVIST
What do you want.
HELEN
To say hello! And check up on the happy couple.
[She laughs again.]
HELEN
I always knew you crazy kids would make it work.
[The Archivist sighs as she speaks.]
MARTIN
Thanks.
ARCHIVIST
Martin. (to Helen) Look, I’ve no interest in your – gloating.
HELEN
(picture of innocence) What would I have to gloat about? Much as I am delighted by this brave new world in which we find ourselves, I can take no credit for it. This was all – you!
ARCHIVIST
(immediate) You could have – (inhale, reigning in) You knew what was happening.
HELEN
I suspected. But all I really did was refuse to help! And that is hardly a unique quality.
[Another sigh from the Archivist at her words.]
HELEN
If that makes it my fault, then surely this is Georgie’s fault as well, and Melanie’s –
ARCHIVIST
Leave them out of this, they didn’t know!
HELEN
There it is again! Knowledge! It’s so very important to you, isn’t it? These fossilized nuggets of pretend comprehension, weighing you down, stopping you thinking or feeling! What about hypotheticals? If they had known, what would they have done?
Is that something you can see?
ARCHIVIST
What. Do. You. Want!
HELEN
To be friends again! All three of us.
[Another sigh.]
HELEN
Look at this place, look at this – (inhales deeply) Wonderland.
This is the world, now, and we are strong and free! There’s really no reason for us not to hang out.
[A pause, silent but for the hollow ring of Helen’s tone and static.]
HELEN
(to Martin) (exhale) Goodness, he is in a mood. Has he been like this the whole time?
MARTIN
Not the – whole time.
HELEN
Thank goodness.
ARCHIVIST
Martin…
MARTIN
In fairness, he’s had a lot on.
HELEN
(sympathetic) Oh, I’m sure.
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) Martin… please.
MARTIN
Sorry, it’s just – maybe she can help!
ARCHIVIST
With what.
MARTIN
With our – With our, with our quest!
[The Archivist sighs.]
MARTIN
We’ve been walking a while, and well, her door’s – maybe we could, you know – shortcut!
ARCHIVIST
No. No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.
HELEN
I would happily take him. But I don’t think he’d want to leave you.
MARTIN
Okay, o,one – (hm) Don’t talk about me like I’m not here; it’s – rude. Two, I know you can take two people at once. Me and Tim were both inside the corridors when it –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) Martin, it’s not that si-simple.
HELEN
I’m afraid the Archivist is too powerful now.
[A sigh through teeth.]
HELEN
If he tried to travel through my corridors it would not go well, for any of us.
ARCHIVIST
But mainly for you.
HELEN
(pleasant surprise) Ooo! Is that a threat?
ARCHIVIST
No.
HELEN
Mm, pity!
MARTIN
So, no shortcuts then. (sigh) Understood. (to John) I’m not leaving you on your own.
HELEN
Oh! Such devotion. (to John) You really don’t deserve it. But of course – you know that already!
[She laughs.]
HELEN
Oh, this is nice! I am really glad we get to spend some proper, quality time together now.
MARTIN
…Yeah.
HELEN
Anyway. Sorry to love you and leave you, but I must dash. It’s a very busy time for me, lots of things to do, people to – well. You know!
ARCHIVIST
I don’t doubt it.
[Tenuous pause.]
MARTIN
…What?
HELEN
Just taking a moment to look. You two are just such an adorable couple –
ARCHIVIST
Enough.
[Helen opens her door.]
HELEN
See you soon!
[We hear her footsteps as she walks into her corridors. The door swings shut behind her. The Archivist sighs yet again.]
MARTIN
(a bit sing-song) Maybe she’s right!
ARCHIVIST
I am not, nor have I ever been, “adorable.”
MARTIN
(pfft) Okay, not true. But I actually meant the whole – being friends thing? I mean, I don’t see why –
ARCHIVIST
Martin, she’s – a cruel, vicious monster!
MARTIN
Yes. Yes, she is. But who else is there?