Mimic Page #3

He looks back down the steps.

Something's climbing up fast, casting ominous, complex

shadows on the wall.

Too many FOOTSTEPS for it to be just one person.

The man hurriedly shuts the door and slides a bolt home.

Trembling, he backs away as a booming THUD makes the door

shudder. Raw, frenzied pounding and scratching follows...

something inhuman, determined to break through.

The metal surface suddenly buckles and bulges.

On the man's white undershirt, a blotch of blood starts to

grow. Needles of rain stab his flesh.

He searches wildly for a possible escape.

He reaches the edge of the roof: it's five floors down to the

sidewalk.

Two of the hinges on the door come loose, pulverizing the

surrounding concrete.

WHAM! The door to the stairs bulges outward as something

SMASHES against it again and again. Frenzied SCRATCHING.

The man sprints to the other end of the roof. There, on the

adjoining building...

THE CHINESE PREACHER'S POV

Just one floor below on the building across the alley is a

suspended PAINTERS' PLATFORM, crowded with paint cans under a

tarp. A two-story old EYEWEAR ADVERTISEMENT from the 40's is

being painted over.

THE CHINESE PREACHER

Looks back to the door. BAM! a tremendous SHATTERING sound.

LIGHT spills from inside. Two bolts fly in the air, a hinge

gives.

He CRIES OUT in terror.

The man gauges the distance between buildings; can he make

it?

He takes a few steps back, a few more...

Panting hard, he closes his eyes, his chest soaked in blood

and rain.

THE DOOR EXPLODES OUTWARD AND SKIDS ACROSS THE SLIPPERY ROOF.

Light from inside projects the shadow of wild, busy things

onto the curtain of rain.

Weeping with fear, the man desperately tries to hurl himself

to the catwalk.

It's too far.

He FALLS...CRASH! he hits the platform, knocking boards

loose and sending paint cans onto their sides, rolling. He

bounces, slides off the edge, barely able to grab onto a

loose board to save himself from falling.

The RAIN blasts down. The scaffold CREAKS. He hits the

edge, upsetting the cans of paint there.

He holds onto the planks with all his might, trying to push

with his feet, but they slide on the wet wall.

BELOW:

Cans bounce off the pavement. White pain blasts all over.

CU HANDS:

The man's hands slip on the planks, tiring.

FEET:

The Chinese Preacher's FEET bicycle in the air, unable to

find a purchase on the wet brick wall-

THE CHINESE PREACHER

is hanging just in front of the painted EYE of the forties'

model. He looks up above him, sees something-

CHINESE PREACHER

No. Please, God, no!

A SHADOW crosses his face as something looms above him.

Suddenly there is a CRACK and the platform tilts completely

on one end.

HANDS:

The Chinese Preacher's fingernails dig in, then slip on the

wet wood.

His hands paw the air.

WIDER:

For a moment his body, silhouetted in the rain, seems

suspended in a void. Then he falls backwards.

THE GROUND:

Impact. His body cracks the pavement.

Small pools of rain form on his dead, open eyes.

We CRANE to reveal

A WINDOW ON A BUILDING ACROSS THE STREET

CHUY, a young Latino boy. He stares out the window at the

Chinese Preacher's body with no discernable emotion.

He works a small WIRE SCULPTURE in his hands.

APARTMENT:

It's a small one-bedroom apartment.

An old man sleeps peacefully on a cot: Chuy's grandfather.

MANNY GAVIOLA, mid 60's, white hair haloes his handsome,

benign face.

All around him:
SHOES, shoes everywhere you look, on the

table, on the chairs, on the kitchen counter, on the floor.

A small altar is illuminated by votive candles. Next to it,

standing by the window is

CHUY:

HIS P.O.V.

We see a blurry vision of The Chinese Preacher's splayed

figure in a swirl of color.

Chuy's attention focuses on the Preacher's shoes.

CHUY:

CHUY:

(a whisper)

Oxfords, 8 1/2. Black...

He looks away from the body and goes back to twisting the

wire into shape.

THE PUDDLE OF PAINT

around the preacher, reflects large shadows moving above,

and across the neon sign...

CHUY:

hears a strange sound, a rhythmic clicking.

His head lifts and what he sees causes his expression to

change--there is an uncharacteristic flicker of excitement in

his eyes.

ACROSS THE ROOFTOP

We are behind whatever it is that has captured Chuy's

attention.

TICKETY-TACKETY-TOCK...

The strange clicking sound grows louder. The figure begins

moving in some weird, preparatory fashion. Then it steps

forward and drops out of frame.

CHUY:

His eyes follow the figure down to the pavement in a slow

arc.

Chuy puts down the wire miniature and opens the window to get

a better view.

GROUND LEVEL:

The Chinese Preacher's body is now being dragged toward the

rear of the alley, leaving colored paint smears in its wake.

CHUY:

We isolate the boy's face and, on the soundtrack, every other

noise FADES AWAY.

Chuy reaches for a pair of SPOONS nearby.

He begins to click them together.

Imitating the strange clicking sound heard a moment ago.

THE CHINESE PREACHER

is being pulled into a small, ground-level vent. The only

problem is that no human is small enough to squeeze through

this hole.

CHUY:

watches, still clicking with his spoons.

THE CHINESE PREACHER'S BODY

is stuck. One of his legs is through the hole up to the

thigh, but the other is folded up unnaturally and pressing

against the wall next to the vent. Impossible.

There is a silent beat, and then a series of INCREDIBLY

VIOLENT TUGS, BAM! BAM! BAM! shaking the Paint-soaked body

like a rag doll.

CHUY:

His spoons stop. His jaw tightens a little as we hear

terrible cracking and scraping sounds.

THE WINDOW:

The Chinese Preacher's head and hands disappear into the

hole. Bits of clothing, paint and blood stick to the edges of

the opening.

CHUY:

watches, still fascinated.

CHUY:

(very low)

Funny, funny shoes...

He starts a new wire sculpture.

CUT TO:

EXT. JOGGING PATH - CENTRAL PARK - DAWN

Peter is covered in sweat, running at a good clip around the

Central Park reservoir. A beautiful day dawns behind him; the

windows of the Beresford sparkle in the morning sun.

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