[EXT. A DOMAIN OF THE HUNT]
[TAPE CLICKS ON.]
[The bags jingle and the ground crunches as the Archivist and Martin walk through what sounds like dense-ish foliage. The air is still, but in the way that still air can be “loud,” obtrusive in the background.]
ARCHIVIST
Hold on, take it easy.
[The bags jingle again as they come to a stop.]
ARCHIVIST
What?
MARTIN
I’m going at a normal pace; you’re the one that’s slowing down!
ARCHIVIST
(quite put out) I am not.
MARTIN
You are!
[They’re both making an attempt to whisper/keep their voices low even as they argue.]
MARTIN
You’re dragging your feet. What’s up? (beat) What aren’t you telling me?
[In the background, a bird trills loudly.]
ARCHIVIST
Martin, please. I’m trying to find our way to Basira.
MARTIN
(:)) Talk to me, John.
ARCHIVIST
I’m fine.
[Pause.]
MARTIN
Glad to hear. And the fact that we’re hunting our friend in a domain of the Hunt isn’t getting to you at all? Not even a little bit? Hmm?
[The bird keeps going.]
ARCHIVIST
I don’t like betraying someone’s trust like this.
MARTIN
(gentle) It’s not a betrayal if you’re doing it to help.
ARCHIVIST
(rueful half-laugh) I’m not so sure.
MARTIN
Look, if it was me in her shoes, I’m sure I’d forgive you. It-It’s for the best!
ARCHIVIST
Mm.
MARTIN
Look, you’ll feel better about it when it’s done. Okay? Putting it off – it’s, it’s just going to make you feel worse.
ARCHIVIST
(slightly lower) Mm.
[Pause.]
MARTIN
Besides, I thought the Hunt was meant to make you go faster.
ARCHIVIST
Depends on the type of pursuit. (exhale) Besides, the chase isn’t really the point of this particular place.
MARTIN
Oh no?
ARCHIVIST
No.
MARTIN
…I can’t believe I’m asking this, but what is the point, then?
ARCHIVIST
…Have you ever had your friends turn on you? People you thought you could count on?
[Martin makes a couple of sounds that translate to how to put this?]
MARTIN
I mean… (another sound of indecision) I, I worry about it, but – but, actually, no? Not like a full-blown betrayal or anything.
ARCHIVIST
I’m glad. (inhale) Because this place focuses on that worry, that fear of your own pack turning their claws on you.
[Martin lets out a little hm.]
MARTIN
Is that… really a Hunt thing?
ARCHIVIST
Can be. The old divisions don’t mean as much these days. Maybe they never did. The domains are… smaller, more – personal than the powers.
They don’t just feed on the worst fears of the people trapped there; they’re shaped by them, too. It’s enough to fear the domain itself, if not the entire power behind it.
[Martin does another little hm.]
MARTIN
(somewhat begrudgingly) You should get that on a mug. ‘You don’t have to fear the Hunt to be trapped here…’
ARCHIVIST
(exhales) But it helps.
MARTIN
Look, so can we just – move on?
[He takes a step.]
ARCHIVIST
Soon.
MARTIN
Look, John, I didn’t want to say this, but we either need to move on or you need to tell me what’s going on because – (breaks off, steadying inhale) I think we’re being followed.
ARCHIVIST
(no hesitation) We are.
MARTIN
Oh. ‘Kay. That’s not actually what I wanted to hear.
ARCHIVIST
I know, that’s why I didn’t mention it before.
MARTIN
(inhale) But we’re safe, right?
ARCHIVIST
As long as you remain calm, yes, absolutely.
[Pause.]
MARTIN
So – So are you going to tell me what’s going on? What the plan is?
ARCHIVIST
We’re going to find Basira.
MARTIN
(passive-aggressiveness kicking in) No, John, that’s the goal. (faster) What I want is the plan, the steps in between that need us to be hunted through the woods. I’m flying blind here, I’m –
[The bird from earlier starts up again, and Martin falters into silence.]
ARCHIVIST
(exhaling) Yeah. I’m sorry. I do know what I’m doing.
MARTIN
How nice for you, but I don’t, unless you tell me! How-How are you even going to approach Basira?
[Bird.]
ARCHIVIST
It’s tricky. She’s – (inhale) She’s had a bad time.
MARTIN
(slight scoff) I mean – haven’t we all?
ARCHIVIST
No. No, we haven’t.
[Slight pause, and then:]
MARTIN
Right.
ARCHIVIST
If we approach her directly, she’s likely to bolt. And she can move a lot quicker than we can.
MARTIN
Yeah, okay, but I’m still not hearing a plan as such.
ARCHIVIST
I –
MARTIN
What?
ARCHIVIST
Uh – Hold on.
MARTIN
Oh my god, are you actually serious, right now?
ARCHIVIST
I’m sorry!
[Martin sighs.]
MARTIN
Fine. Just – I’ll keep a lookout, be quick.
ARCHIVIST
I’ll do my best.
[He rustles his way through the surroundings a bit to put some distance between him and Martin.]
[Then, his static kicks in, and:]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
Feet pound silent whisper silent blood on lips blood on teeth blood scent of hated prey flows through veins and into feet pound silent in pursuit.
Teeth smile. Ready to kill.
[In the background, under his words, we hear the jagged breath of someone running, someone running in fear.]
The lashing branches reach and claw and try to hold back the charging vengeance of the pack. But they slip, and fall away.
The killers make no sound as they move across the forest floor, their steps quick and certain.
[We hear them running.]
In the distance they hear the crashing stumble of the one who deserves to be hunted, all stealth forgotten in the panicked flight from righteous cleansing violence.
There are no names among the pack, no words, only a razor-keen unity of purpose, a shared loathing of the sickly scent of the one they chase.
A mutual determination that their quarry does not deserve to live.
If any were able to form the words to express them, no doubt the crimes listed of their prey would be as varied as the pack themselves, and some, perhaps, even true.
But that is not important, not really. Not the driving, pounding need behind the hunt, what spurs pursuit of tooth and claw is not some calmly made assessment or judgement on the weight of the hunted’s sin.
It is the need to tear and rend and coat their faces slick with the blood of the guilty that pulses through every fibre of them. The thumping need inside their head to hate, and to be right within that hate. To taste the blood of those who have declared themselves deserving of it.
But as the pack runs, each and all among them are afraid.
Of what?
The pounding in their heart drowns out the unease, makes it hard to taste and feel it out, but it is there.
Are they afraid of their prey, fleeing in abject terror, their trail marked clear by the scent of fear? No, it can’t be.
But what else could it be? Surely not their packmates, sprinting along the side, leaping, jumping, grinning in anticipation, moving as a group, their minds as one, never looking each other in the eye.
Up ahead, the quarry trips, cries out, tumbles to the floor in a desperate heap. They try to stagger to their feet but they are caught in the undergrowth, ankle twisted, vine wrapped around it.
They already lost their boots, and now their bare and muddy foot is trapped, flesh and dirt and oozing blood, the blood that fills the nostrils of these hunters, and drives their furious chase with the awful scent of its transgression.
Tears flow, too, but no one notices, and no one cares. Their punishment is at hand.
In moments, the prey is surrounded. The spaces between the trees are filled with eyes that hate and hands that hold the promise of a life ended on the rotting leaves of the forest floor.
They smile, and their teeth glint in the moonlight, still red with all that remains of their last morsel of prey.
They begin to step closer. One step. Two steps. When the prey turns, they are still, but they surround in all directions, moving slowly when they are not being watched.
What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? The time to run is over. The time to suffer has arrived.
But there is one last burst of strength within the prey. Not strength of arm, or speed of escape – what good is fight-or-flight in this place? But a strength of voice, of bitter, angry recrimination. Hurling accusations upon their pursuers: hypocrites,bullies,pathetic wretches that would hound the innocent so.
Perhaps the prey earnestly believes it, casts themself full woeful into the mold of victim, of one who has done no wrong.
Or perhaps they feel within themself the weight of the sin stinking out of them, flaring the hearts of their persecutors, but see in the faces that approach them those same transgressions shining, reflected back upon them.
It doesn’t matter in the end; the cry is the same: “This isn’t fair. This isn’t right.”
The pack descends and the prey is silenced, protests cut short by teeth digging into throat, nails piercing skin and clawing at gristle, bones shattering under relentless, merciless blows.
And the blood and bile flow freely, exciting the pack to ever-greater raptures of cruelty, of pure and cleansing rage.
They taste their fury in every corner of them. There is no sound to break their peace but the wet ripping of flesh and the occasional transcendent scream of deserved agony.
And then it is over.
There is a moment, a single, holy moment of blessed absolution, washed clean in sweet and sticky blood.
And then the unease returns. The uncertainty and fear that at some moments gripped them throughout their pursuit.
They look around from one to another, aware as they stand over the twitching remains, that they are suddenly without prey.
Expressions sharpen, eyes narrow, growls begin to bubble up deep from within each chest. They are afraid.
They can each smell it wafting from the others, but who will it be? Who is the most afraid?
Which of them held back? Which of them – there. You. Blood on your hands, no doubt; blood on your lips – but not much. Not much at all.
Perhaps you couldn’t get close enough; there were so many hunters, after all. Or perhaps you stayed your hand out of mercy. Out of… sympathy.
Perhaps you stink of that same sin.
No words need to be spoken, no accusations put in so coarse a form as voice. The pack immediately knows which among them is no longer theirs, which has exposed their own inequity.
Which is now prey.
[We hear the singled-out ex-Hunter gasp and turn to run.]
The prey turns and runs, all grace of the Hunt forgotten as they stumble, crashing through undergrowth and dirt.
Behind them, feet pound silent.
[Static rises and fades.]
[The Archivist exhales.]
ARCHIVIST
I’m done.
[Pause, and then he picks his way back.]
ARCHIVIST
You alright?
MARTIN
(snapping) Just peachy. (softening) I don’t – I don’t know; I feel like I saw something in the trees.
ARCHIVIST
You did.
MARTIN
(clearly on edge) Oh! Fantastic. You’re very reassuring, you know that?
[The bird trills again as he speaks.]
MARTIN
Is it that – pack thing you were talking about?
ARCHIVIST
No, they’d have – (inhale, quick exhale) They’d have no interest in us. We’re not one of them.
MARTIN
Look, John, if – if you know what it is, then why don’t you just tell me, so that –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) Hold up.
Sh.
[But Martin has reached his limit:]
MARTIN
Wh– no! No, John; you just did a statement; I don’t care if you want another one, we’ve gotta move –
ARCHIVIST
(cutting him off) Martin.
[Martin stops.]
[Pause, in which there is some quiet movement.]
ARCHIVIST
Right. Martin, do you trust me?
MARTIN
What? Ah, Christ, this can’t be good. Yes?
ARCHIVIST
Then it’s very – listen, (movement) – look at me. The next couple of minutes are going to be quite unpleasant for one of us, and I’m sorry.
MARTIN
Uh – (sounds of incomprehension) Sorry, what?
ARCHIVIST
You need to remain very calm, and don’t make any sudden movements.
MARTIN
Oh, okay, now I’m worried; what d’you –
[He’s cut off by a rush of movement; his words turn to tiny gasps, and then are cut off completely – hand over his mouth?]
[Something – no, someone – growls.]
TREVOR HERBERT
(with some desperation) Don’t move! Don’t you fucking move!
[Martin gasps out a choked breath.]
TREVOR
(to the Archivist) And don’t you say a word, or I’ll cut him open! I know what that voice of yours can do, so shut it!
ARCHIVIST
(best customer service voice) Mhm.
[There is silence but for Trevor’s ragged breathing for a moment.]
[Then:]
TREVOR
(exhaling) Okay. You can talk. But slow-like. You try and do any of that – word magic, and he’s dead.
ARCHIVIST
(slowly) Understood.
[Trevor exhales heavily.]
ARCHIVIST
Hello, Trevor.
MARTIN
(afraid, trying not to show it) John? What’s going on?
ARCHIVIST
It’s okay. Trust me.
MARTIN
(high) Okay.
TREVOR
It’s not okay. Stop fucking smiling!
[He must tighten his grip, because Martin lets out a pained sound.]
MARTIN
(voice shaking, trying to sound unaffected) John? I know you keep saying we’re safe, and I am feeling very calm, but just so I know – Can he – Can he kill me?
ARCHIVIST
He could, yes.
MARTIN
Right.
ARCHIVIST
If he were still a Hunter.
TREVOR
(hissing) Shut it. ‘Course I’m still a Hunter!
[He tightens his grip or digs in the knife or emphasizes whatever he’s got again; Martin lets out a slightly louder pained sound.]
[Trevor’s breathing is heavy, and he grunts.]
MARTIN
(the customer is always right!) Mmhmhm – gotta go with Trevor on that one, John!
ARCHIVIST
(low) No. Right now he’s prey.
[The bird from earlier trills.]
ARCHIVIST
How long have you been running now, Trevor?
[Trevor’s breathing becomes even more ragged, more fearful.]
TREVOR
Don’t know. Too long.
ARCHIVIST
And Julia?
[Pause. Bird.]
TREVOR
Dead.
ARCHIVIST
I’m sorry.
TREVOR
Shut it!
[But it’s tearful. It’s lost some of its bite.]
TREVOR
Should’ve been me. I’m old. Slow. (breathing harder, tearful) It’s not fair, outliving her.
But that dog of yours, that rabid bitch – she – (loses words) Killed her first, so she could see me limp away.
It’s a game to her.
ARCHIVIST
If you’re looking for my pity, I’m afraid it’s too late.
MARTIN
John…?
TREVOR
(gaining fuel again) What I want, is to make you feel the same loss!
MARTIN
(!!) John!
ARCHIVIST
It’s okay, Martin. (to Trevor) Maybe I spoke too soon. Maybe I do have some pity for you.
After all, I know you, Trevor; you’ve had a tough life. Hardship from beginning to – (small heh) This strange and twisted end.
TREVOR
Never complained.
ARCHIVIST
No. You haven’t, have you? And maybe that’s the greatest tragedy of all this.
I’m – sorry, Trevor.
[Silence but for Trevor’s breathing, which slowly gains in intensity.]
TREVOR
For what?
ARCHIVIST
For putting us all in this situation. I had hoped you’d go for me, but – well.
I’m sorry I’ve reduced you lower even than prey.
MARTIN
John?…
[Trevor snorts, but not in an offhand way. In the way that a cornered horse or bull might.]
TREVOR
No.
ARCHIVIST
To bait.
MARTIN
(breathing faster) Don’t –
[Gunshot.]
[Martin whimpers.]
MARTIN
(recovering, high) Oh-hoh. Hoh. Christ, you just – He jus–
[He lets out an incomprehensible sound.]
ARCHIVIST
Relax, Martin.
MARTIN
(very high) I, I’m not gonna – I’m not gonna relax; I’m sick of never knowing what’s going on, and then –
[As he speaks, there are footsteps, coming closer across the brush.]
ARCHIVIST
Hello, Basira.
MARTIN
(exhale) I – E– (more incomprehensible stuttering) Basira?
BASIRA
Don’t move. Either of you.
MARTIN
(still kinda high) Hey! Hey, hey. Whoa. Whoa, Basira, it’s us.
BASIRA
I said don’t move. This place plays tricks.
ARCHIVIST
It is us, Basira.
BASIRA
(yeah, right) Mhm? Sure. And you just happened to wander right into Trevor’s path when I was tracking him. What a fun coincidence for everybody.
ARCHIVIST
Not a coincidence.
[The bird trills.]
MARTIN
(with some effort) Can I at least put my hands down? M-M,My arms are kinda getting tired.
BASIRA
Prove you’re real.
MARTIN
I – Wh,What? Like, like – pinch… you, or?
[There’s a tiny snicker from the Archivist as he trails off.]
BASIRA
Prove you’re really Martin Blackwood.
MARTIN
How?
ARCHIVIST
(picture of innocence) You could do a poem.
BASIRA
Shut up.
MARTIN
(hissing) John, this is serious!
BASIRA
What’s something only Martin would know?
[Pause.]
MARTIN
What? I don’t know!
BASIRA
Fine. Then –
[We hear her cock the gun.]
MARTIN
No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no, wait, wait, uh – I – oh, I don’t know, we’ve never hung out much! I’ve no idea what you know about me!
[Pause as Basira considers this. Another, different bird screeches in the background.]
[Basira shifts to the Archivist.]
BASIRA
What about you?
ARCHIVIST
I mean – (holding back laugh, badly) I can know literally anything, so – ask away I guess.
BASIRA
You understand how unhelpful that is for proving identities.
ARCHIVIST
(audible grin) I’m sorry to be an inconvenience.
BASIRA
Well, you better think of something, or…
[She waggles the gun.]
ARCHIVIST
Basira, I know you’re not going to shoot us. There’s already too much doubt in your mind.
[Pause.]
BASIRA
I told you before not to look into my head.
ARCHIVIST
(smug) So you do believe it’s me, then.
[Brief pause.]
BASIRA
Know-it-all prick.
[We hear her put the gun away.]
MARTIN
So – Can I – ?
BASIRA
Yeah, put them down, Martin. It’s fine. You’re you.
[Martin does so, and in the process lets out a huge sigh of relief. And another. And another, as Basira and the Archivist keep talking:]
ARCHIVIST
You’re sure?
BASIRA
If you were monsters, that would mean I’d finally get to kill something with your smug face. No way am I that lucky.
ARCHIVIST
Can’t fault your logic.
BASIRA
Come on. You’ve wasted enough time already.
MARTIN
Wh– (sputtering) Wh– Hey, wait!
BASIRA
I said come on!
[She starts walking.]
MARTIN
Wh–! Wh–! John?
[The Archivist just shoulders his bag with a jingle.]
ARCHIVIST
(enjoying this way too much) After you.