Stephen Metcalfe - Writer & Director

GRIM REAPER

FADE IN ON:
On a deserted trail above the high desert, a man walks. It is moon-lit night; a million stars. It illuminates the rugged landscape, the vast distance - the nothing. The man’s dark clothes are stained with sweat and dust. He carries old leather saddlebags over his shoulder.
It is 1884.
Above the trail, a lone wolf stops to stare at the man. The wolf’s breath turns to steam in the frigid air. The man doesn’t seem to breathe. The wolf whimpers.
A warning rattle on the shoulder of the trail. The rattlesnake is a big one. The man stops and kneels. Serpent and man stare at one another, unblinking. The man rises and walks on. In the nearby rocks, a rodent moves out into the open. The snake strikes.
The silence is broken by the sound of a distant but fast approaching horses. The man doesn’t turn.
DOWN THE TRAIL
A covered wagon appears. A lantern swinging madly in the overhead arc.
The snake rears, full now, too slow - the wagon veers - a wheel cuts the snake in half. The wagon clatters on.
The wagon passes the man. Fleeting glimpse. Ghostly figure.
In the wagon, the light flickers across an insane, bearded face. The wagoneer chuckles.
The wagon slows and stops. A match flares. The stub of a cigar is lit. Acrid smoke fills the air.
THE WAGONEER
(muttering)
Well, come on, goddammit.
Boot heels crunch on gravel. The man approaches at his own leisurely pace. We don’t really see his face - we haven’t yet - the Wagoneer doesn’t bother to look.
THE MAN
If you’re looking for directions, I can’t help you.
The wagoneer is a powerful man. Bare armed, dirty.
THE WAGONEER
Shit, I ain’t lost, Mister, you are!
THE MAN
I’m not lost.
THE WAGONEER
(not liking the answer)
Whatever you are, you walking or riding?
The man vaults up. And as he does, something on his saddlebags catches the moonlight. It is a tarnished silver adornment - a scythe. The crack of a whip. The wooden wheels crunches gravel and the wagon moves away.
IN THE WAGON - MOVING
The Wagoneer pulls out a bottle; offers it to the man.
THE WAGONEER
Care for a bite?
The man shakes his head. The Wagoneer drinks. Then:
THE WAGONEER (CONT’D)
That your horse dead on the trail about three miles back?
THE MAN
I’d imagine so.
THE WAGONEER
Go lame on ya, did he?
THE MAN
Someone shot him.
THE WAGONEER
Did they now.
High caliber rifle in the boot beside him. The wagoneer drinks again; brown liquid drizzling down his chin. He throws away the empty bottle.
THE WAGONEER (CONT’D)
That must be your saddle in back then.
The man turns. We see his face now. Pale. Not unhandsome. Sad eyes. Behind him is a saddle and two black leather cases. Behind the saddle are two terrified looking children. The man turns back.
THE MAN
Yes. That’s mine.
THE WAGONEER
Not any more it ain’t.
And with that he raises the pistol he’s been holding, concealed, in his lap. Not laughing anymore.
THE WAGONEER (CONT’D)
You the one been on my trail the last thirty miles? Don’t answer, I know you are. Well, friend, you made one very bad mistake.
And he pulls the trigger. The bullet blows the man hard into the wagon stays, sprawling. Blood trickling from the mortal wound. And then - the man’s eyes flare open.
THE MAN
You have.
ON THE WAGON
The sound of screaming as the wagon veers and slows. The Wagoneer leaps from the wagon and half falling, runs.
ON THE WAGONEER
As he runs, gasping, wild eyed down the trail. Looking back - stumbling on - and suddenly he stops! REVERSE ON -
THE MAN
You can’t run from me.
The Wagoneer screams and raises the gun and shoots - once, twice, three times - at point blank range.
THE MAN (CONT’D)
And that doesn’t work.
The wagoneer turns, staggering off the trail. He falls. He crawls on. The man is walking, coming up behind him.
THE MAN (CONT’D)
If you’d treated the children well, I might have shown you mercy.
THE WAGONEER
Get away from me!
THE MAN
I might even have turned you in. But under the circumstances -
Moaning in fear, the Wagoneer staggers to his feet and runs. And now we see how the man does it - he leaps - clears the wagoneer in a bound - to land in front of him again. The Wagoneer screams - the scream turns into deep laughter; hysteria beneath the surface.
THE WAGONEER
All right, wait, wait - gotta tell a little story here. This old guy, back in Laramie prison; cutthroat, murderin’ bastard, - looney - he used to talk about the man who brought him in. Said he was a gun for hire, a bounty hunter, the best. And thing is, reason he was the best is - he was some sorta honest to God voodoo man. You believe that, Mister? I didn’t but damn.... look at you.
He laughs harder. His hands grasp for something.
THE WAGONEER (CONT’D)
Know what else the old looneybird said? Only one way to kill a voodoo man. Drive a stake through his stinkin’ heart!
And he springs and slams his knife - an eight inch Bowie - into the man’s chest. A long moment.
THE MAN
Wood.
Taking the wagoneer’s hand, the man pulls the knife out of his own chest.
THE MAN (CONT’D)
The stake has got to be made of wood.
The Wagoneer backs away, stumbles and falls.
THE WAGONEER
Oh, God... please, don’t....
THE MAN
God has nothing to do with it.
The man, ROBERT USHER, moves forward.