Alien 3 script
|
|||||
|
Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 Next page Go. Bishop punches the code-sequence and the door hisses open; they're through, moving. INT. TISSUE CULTURE LAB They move down the row of stasis tubes. Bishop pauses when they reach the two units with missing tubes, then quickly moves on. He opens a wall panel, exposing controls and a large, v ery serious-looking red switch. Label above switch: STASIS SYSTEM MICROWAVE STERILIZATION Then, he hesitates. Turning slowly, as if under compulsion, he looks back; the line of glowing tubes. HICKS Do it! And still he doesn't move... Hicks darts his arm past Bishop, breaking the trance and yanking the red switch. A burst of unpleasant high-frequency SOUND as the fluid in the tubes instantly begins to boil. CLOSE ON ONE OF THE ALIEN CULTURES as it bursts, disintegrates into a film of slime lost behind a storm of bubbles. The lab's ALARM system goes off. The doors slide open as three MARINES cover Hicks and Bishop with handguns. MARINES Just don't you fucking move, Jack. Hicks stonefaces the Marines. Then cracks a grin. INT. DETENTION UNIT Hicks and Bishop, in white plastic "medical restraints" (like arm and leg- irons) precede the grim-faced Marines along a corridor and are thrown int o separate cells. DISSOLVE TO: INT. THE BUBBLE Meeting of Anchorpoint's full directorate, including Welles and Fox, Jackson, and a number of new faces. Welles is white-lipped with fury. JACKSON They knew the code, didn't they? The code for the door... FOX You got it, Ops. And they knew just where to go which button to push to poach our eggs for us, didn't they? Struggling with an idea, Ops? Think it may even have been an inside job? JACKSON You're a Grade A Company prick, aren't you, mister? (Her bitch truckdriver side; a tough lady, used to taking a lot of life-or- death responsibility in her job.) WELLES The Anchorpoint phase of the project is terminated, Rosetti. You'll keep Hicks and the android in solitary until they can return with us to Gateway to stand trial for treason. TRENT The Anchorpoint phase? What do you mean? We have no more material to work with... FOX You have no more material to work with, Trent. In any case, it's become obvious that you aren't quiet the man for the job. We took the precaution of obtaining our own samples. They're on their way to Gateway. WELLES (with cold satisfaction) ... and everything, every move each of you have made, since our arrival, is going to be gone over with a fine toothed c-c-c-c-- As Welles begins to stammer, her eyes betray a terrible consternation. She rises from her chair, lurches forward , catching herself on her hands. The C-C-C-C-C phases into a chattering palsy as a thick strand of blood-streaked drool descends toward the table. Fox, seated to her left, has instinctively shoved his own chair back, ready to run. Everyone else is frozen with shock. As the chittering tooth-burr becomes a shrill SHRIEK of inhuman rage, the transformation takes place. Segmented biomechanoid tendons squirm beneath the skin of her arms. Her hands claw at one another, tearing redundant flesh from alien talons. Then the shriek dies. She straightens up. And, rips her face apart in a single movement, the glistening claws coming away with skin, eyes, muscle, teeth, and splinters of bone... SOUND of ripping cloth. The New Beast sheds its human skin in a single sinuous, bloody ripple, molting on fast forward. An instant of utter silence as the featureless mask moves. From side to side. Scanning. Trent vomits explosively. The Marine guard snatches his pistol from its holster and FIRES wildly across the tabl e. Blind screaming chaos. OVERHEAD SHOT as the directorate plunges, like a single panicked organism, to the far side of the bubble. The thing is on Fox before he can get up from his chair. CLOSE On his scream as the sucking, fanged tongue plunges through the orbit of his eye. ANGLE A Marine with a flamethrower bursts through the door, torching Fox and the New Beast, setting fire to the bubble's acoustic foam baffles. INT. CORRIDOR OUTSIDE TULLY'S SLEEPING CUBICLE Spence is coming down the corridor, carrying a clear plastic bag of styrofoam food containers. Nobody else in sight. She look tired, but not particularly worried. She reaches the door to his cubicle. Thumps on it with the heal of her hand. SPENCE Tully! Hey! Open up.. Got you some food... No reply. She thumps again, then punches the combination (the lock look like a telephone key-pad). Door opens. Dark inside. SPENCE (continui ng) Tully? You sleeping? She climbs in. Dark. Very. A red LED glows on the phone console. She crawls through the detritus of Tully's housekeeping and fumbles with the lights. Can't find the switch. SPENCE Tully? Lights CLICK on. Nobody there. Nothing. Looks even messier then she last saw it. She sighs, puts the bag of food on a ledge, scoops up a mound of dirty cloths off the pillow in an automatic cleaning-up gesture. And sees Tully's lab badge. Picks it up. CLOSE ON THE BADGE The contamination indicator strip is red. DISSOLVE TO: INT. DETENTION CELL Hicks sitting on the narrow bunk. Door opens. One of the Marines who arrested his in the lab; he wears combat armor now. HICKS What's your problem, bud? Got a war on? The Marine steps back, admitting a haggard Rosetti. ROSETTI Get up, Hicks. We need you in the Ops Room. HICKS We didn't kill it. ROSETTI No. It killed Fox and Welles... INT. TUNNEL, CONSTRUCTION ZONE Small vehicle WHINES TOWARD US through puddles of condensation: a skeletal electric motor-jeep with heavy roll bars, scratched and paint-scarred. Walker driving. Hick behind him in partial combat armor and communication rig, cradling a pulse-rifle. Walker is pushing it, driving fast; the jeep bounces and sways, skitters around a corner. Into the gloom of the big construction chamber. Halts. |
|||||
|