The Thing Page #2

CHILDS:

pokes his head out from under the snowmobile.

INT. MAIN COMPOUND - REC ROOM

The rumbling of voices fades. The men adjust their eyes

to station manager Garry, as he extracts his gun from the

broken window, relieves it of its spent shell and puts it

away.

CUT TO:

EXT. BURNING COPTER

Several men spray snow on the burning wreckage. There is

no hope for the pilot.

CUT TO:

INT. COMPOUND

CLOSE ON THE PALLID FACE OF THE SCANDINAVIAN INTRUDER

A neat round hole is set in the middle of his forehead.

Station manager Garry holds up something akin to an ID.

GARRY:

Norwegian... Jans Bolen.

Fuchs, a young and sensitive-looking biologist, stands

closest to the large area map of Antarctica. Several men

sit and stand around viewing the body that lies on two

brought-together card-tables.

FUCHS:

Gotta be from the Norwegian camp.

GARRY:

How far's that?

FUCHS:

'Bout eighty kilos southwest.

GARRY:

(surprised)

That far?

Garry directs his attention to Childs, the large black man

who had been working on the snowmobile. Next to him sits

Norris, the rugged-looking, fortyish, geophysicist, who

was one of the men being shot at.

GARRY:

You catch anything he was saying?

CHILDS:

Am I starting to look Norwegian to

you, Bwana?

Garry motions inquiringly to Norris.

NORRIS:

Yeah. I caught that he wanted the

better part of my ass to come apart.

INT. INFIRMARY

Dr. Cooper, mid-forties, works on the outstretched leg of

Bennings, the meteorologist. Clark, the dog handler, is

mending the hip of the wounded dog off in the corner.

Bennings lets out with an ouch.

DR. COPPER

Don't "ouch" me. Two stitches. It

just grazed you.

He helps a shaken Bennings up off the table.

BENNINGS:

What in the hell were they doing...?

Flying that low... shooting at a

dog... at us...

DR. COPPER

Stir crazy. Cabin fever... Who

knows.

The dog yelps and whimpers as Clark tries to calm him.

CLARK:

I'll be here a while. Shell's

pretty deep.

INT. RADIO ROOM

Blair, senior biologist, fifty, balding, leans against the

entrance door.

He looks on as the young, bored-looking radio operator,

Sanchez, attends to his equipment. Bursts of static.

SANCHEZ:

It's no go.

BLAIR:

Well, get to somebody. Anybody.

We've got to report this mess.

SANCHEZ:

Look, I haven't been able to reach

sh*t in two weeks. Doubt if

anybody's talked to anybody on the

whole continent.

INT. HALLWAY

Nauls, the cook, glides along on his roller stakes down

one of the many narrow hallways that connect the various

compartments of the main compound. He is black, a little

mischievous, about twenty-two.

He comes to a flashy skidding stop at one of the entrances

to the rec room area, where the men are gathered with the

dead Norwegian.

NAULS:

Maybe we at war with Norway.

Palmer, a spacy, twenty-seven year old, novice pilot and

mechanic, grins as he lights a joint. He directs a remark

to station manager Garry.

PALMER:

Was wondering when "El Capitan" was

going to get a chance to use his pop

gun.

Garry rebukes him with a stern look and then turns to

Fuchs.

GARRY:

How long have they been stationed

there?

Fuchs leafing through a pile of papers.

FUCHS:

Says here about eight weeks.

Dr. Copper enters the room. Bennings limping after him

slightly.

GARRY:

(shaking his head)

That's not enough time for guys to

go bonkers.

NAULS:

Bullshit, Bwana, sweetheart. Five

minutes is enough to put a man over

down here.

PALMER:

Damn straight.

NAULS:

I mean Palmer been the way he is

since the first day.

Palmer smiles and flips the cook the bird.

GARRY:

How many in their party?

FUCHS:

(referring)

Started with six. There'd be four

others left.

DR. COPPER

How do you know?

The men's attention turn to Copper.

DR. COPPER

... Guys as crazy as that could have

done a lot of damage to their own

before they got to us.

GARRY:

Nothing we can do about that.

DR. COPPER

Yes, there is. I'd like to go up.

GARRY:

In this weather?

DR. COPPER

(turns to)

Bennings?

BENNINGS:

Winds are going to let up a tad,

next couple of hours.

GARRY:

A tad?

BENNINGS:

Can't condone it myself. But it is

a short haul. Hour there, hour

back.

Garry still does not much like the idea. Palmer takes

another hit off his joint.

PALMER:

Sh*t, Doc, I'll give you the lift

if...

GARRY:

Forget it, Palmer. Doc, you're a

pain in the ass.

GARRY:

(turns)

Norris, go get MacReady.

Slight laughter from some of the men.

NORRIS:

(grins)

MacReady ain't going nowhere.

Bunkered in till spring.

GARRY:

Just go get him.

NORRIS:

(stands)

Anyway, he's probably ripped.

EXT. U.S. OUTPOST #31

Norris, bundled in his sixty-five pounds of clothing,

exits the main compound. He walks the prefab wooden

planks up the precipice; his destination is someone a

hundred yards up the slope -- to a shack. He grabs onto

the steadying ropes and pulls himself against the wind and

blowing sleet.

INT. MACREADY'S SHACK - CLOSE ON ICE CUBES

being dumped into a glass, followed by the pouring of

whiskey. An electronic Voice is heard.

VOICE:

Bishop to knight four.

MacReady takes a sip of his drink; makes his way over to

his electronic chess game. A large Mexican sombrero hangs

on his back. He is tall; about thirty-five. His shack is

sparse but unkempt. A few centerfolds on the wall are

interspersed by an occasional poster of some Mediterranean

or South American paradise.

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