Pitch Black Page #3

AUDREY:

Yeah, but...do we even have enough food

to get there? Or will we have to resort

to cannibalism?

ZEKE:

(to Fry)

I'll see 'bout makin' this air go a bit

further, cap'n. With your permission,

a' course.

Fry blinks. "They actually think I'm the captain." Zeke and the

others get to work. Fry finds herself staring at another

problem. Riddick.

FRY:

And him?

JOHNS:

Big Evil?

FRY:

We just keep him locked up forever?

JOHNS:

Be my choice. Already escaped once from

the max-slam facility on --

FRY:

I don't need his life story. Is he really

that dangerous?

JOHNS:

Only around humans.

Riddick has his mouth on the hull, virtually licking the metal.

Fry moves closer -- and now sees it sheeting down the hull.

FRY:

Oh, Christ....

They're losing water. Suddenly Fry is running, snatching up an

emergency light, climbing wall-rungs...

INT. MACHINE LEVEL - CRASH SHIP - DAY

And crawling through dusty superstructure to reach the water

cistern. She opens a crank-hatch -- and finds light invading the

interior. Her face dies.

ZEKE (V.O.)

(shouting)

Well? Is it just the pump?

FRY:

Ask if anyone has anything in cargo!

Anything to drink!

INT. CARGO HOLD - DAY

Oversize DOORS RUMBLE open. Fry, Johns, and Paris climb into

this dark corridor lined with cargo containers. Each container

has an access door.

PARIS:

Mine here....

As Paris unlocks, Johns steadies himself, suddenly light-headed.

FRY:

S'matter?

JOHNS:

Little swamp-flu from the Conga system.

Never shook it with all this cryo-sleep.

Paris opens his container to reveal...

INT. PARIS' CONTAINER - CARGO HOLD - DAY

Tiffany chairs stacked 10 high. Bronze eagle lecterns. Oriental

umbrellas. Neo-Egyptian castings.

JOHNS:

King Tut's tomb....

PARIS:

Be surprised what these will fetch in the

Taurus system. Here. This Wooten here --

easy, easy. Very rare.

They open the Wooten desk. Cubbyholed inside are dusty bottles

of sherry. Vintage Port. Glenfiddich. Bicardi 151.

FRY:

This is it? Booze? That's what you have

to drink?

PARIS:

(educating her)

200-year-old single-malt scotch is to

"booze" as foie gras is to "duck guts."

JOHNS:

(cracking a bottle)

A toast to whatever he just said.

PARIS:

I'll need a receipt for that.

(to Fry)

For all these.

FRY:

Top of my list.

She joins Johns for a drink. Entering, the Chrislams watch with

both envy and aversion.

FRY:

I don't suppose....

IMAM:

One of the Christian habits we didn't

adopt -- perhaps unfortunately. We'll

have to wait.

JOHNS:

For what? There is no water. You

understand that, don't you?

IMAM:

All deserts have water, somewhere. God

shall lead us there.

INT. MAIN CABIN - CRASH SHIP - DAY

START on the cutting torch, abandoned in wreckage. Staring at it

is...

Riddick. With his hands cuffed behind him and around a bulkhead,

he can't get near it. Or can he? Near the ceiling, the bulkhead

is fractured -- a slim spot where maybe chains could pass through.

Riddick stands. With a GRUESOME POPPING, he dislocates both

shoulders...carries his arms overhead...passes the chains through

the broken spot...and brings his arms down in front of him. A

body-flex POPS HIS SHOULDERS back into joint.

Free, he reaches for the cutting torch.

EXT. CRASH SHIP - DAY

Pistol in hand, Johns runs into a BIG CLOSEUP, eyes sweeping.

Nothing on the horizon. But something lies on the ground nearby.

It's Riddick's mouth-bit.

JOHNS:

Like we needed another way to die.

INT. CARGO HOLD - DAY

FAST CLOSEUPS:
Hands pillaging storage lockers, pulling out

anything that might qualify as a "weapon." It all gets hauled

back and dumped into...

INT. NAV BAY - CRASH SHIP - DAY

Nav-bay. Gathered, the survivors take inventory: Johns has a

pistol, shotgun, baton. Zeke and Shazza offer up a pick-ax,

digging tools, hunting boomerang. Imam shows a ceremonial blade.

Paris straggles in with antique curios.

JOHNS:

What the hell are these?

PARIS:

Maratha crow-bill war-picks from Northern

India. Very rare.

ZEKE:

An' this?

PARIS:

Blow-dart hunting stick from Papua New

Guinea. Very very rare, since the tribe's

extinct.

ZEKE:

'Cuz they couldn't hunt sh*t with these

things, be my guess.

PARIS:

Well, what's the need, anyway? If he's

gone, he's gone. Why should he bother us?

JOHNS:

First, because he can only live out there

for so long -- he's gonna come back and

take what we got. Second, for the sheer

thrill of the kill.

A beat. They all grab for weapons.

EXT. CRASH SHIP - DAY

Johns stands atop the crash ship, scanning with a scope. He

fixates on...

A blue glow on the horizon. "What the hell is it?"

Zeke and Shazza modify breather units, adding straps and tubing

and ball-floats. The prototype is tested on Audrey. She sucks

on the mouthpiece -- and finds that it works, supplying oxygen on

demand rather than in a constant flow.

Chrislams convert to traditional bedouin head-gear, readying for

travel.

Fry finishes wrapping Owens' body. She looks to the yellow sun,

low on the horizon. The red sun seems inclined to follow.

FRY:

Imam. We should leave soon. Before

nightfall but while it's cooler.

ZEKE:

What, you're goin' off, too?

FRY:

Johns is leaving you a gun. Just do me a

favor, huh? Get my crewies buried? They

were good guys who died bad.

SHAZZA:

A'course we will.

PILGRIM #1 (O.S.)

Imam...Imam....

(NOTE:
"Imam" is pronounced "el-ee-MAM.")

Fry and the others round the ship to see...

A blue star flaring into view. It's rising as the other suns are

setting.

SHAZZA:

My bloody oath....

AUDREY:

Three suns?

ZEKE:

(to Fry)

So much for your nightfall.

PARIS:

So much for my cocktail hour.

IMAM:

We take this to be a good sign -- a path,

a direction from God.

Johns swings down from the top of the ship.

JOHNS:

A very good sign.

(re:
blue sun)

That's Riddick's direction. You do not

wanna be caught in the dark with this guy.

FRY:

Thought you found his restraints over

there. Toward sunset.

JOHNS:

(nodding)

Which means he went toward sunrise.

EXT. PLANET - DAY

Trekking, the Chrislams waft incense pots and CHANT FROM

THE KORAN as they head toward the blue star. Johns provides

shotgun escort; Fry carries Paris' second war-pick on a shoulder.

Silhouetted against the alien sky, the scouting party is an odd,

odd sight.

Already sun-battered, Johns crafts an eye-visor out of plexi.

Fry tries to wrap her head like the Chrislams. Imam helps.

FRY:

So quiet. You get used to the sounds of

the ship, then....

IMAM:

You know who Muhammad was?

FRY:

Some prophet guy?

IMAM:

"Some prophet guy." And a city man. But

he had to travel to the desert -- where

there was quiet -- to hear the words of

God.

FRY:

You were on a pilgrimage? To New Mecca?

IMAM:

(nodding)

Chrislam teaches that once in every

lifetime should there be a great hajj --

a great pilgrimage. To know God, better,

yes, but to know yourself as well.

FRY:

Frightening thought.

IMAM:

(finishes wrapping her)

We're all on the same hajj now.

Fry notices Johns scope-locked on something.

FRY:

What?

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