Night Of The Living Dead - Act 1

Hey Zach, are you smiling at my gorgeous canyon view?

No, Donald.

I'm smiling because I've got something I want to tell the whole world.

Well, do it.

Shout it out.

T-Mobile's Got Home Internet.

Minute, Minnett.

Whoa, I love that echo.

T-Mobile's Got Home Internet Internet.

How much is it?

Look at that, Zach.

We got the neighbors' attention.

Just $35 a month.

And you love a great deal, Denise.

Plus, they've got a five-year price guarantee.

That's five whole trips around the sun.

I'm switching.

Yes, T-Mobile home internet for the neighborhood.

Donald, you still haven't returned my weed whacker.

Carl, don't you embarrass me like this, please?

What's everyone yelling about?

T-Mobile's got home internet!

Then Donald's got my weed whacker!

Yes, T-Mobile's got home internet, just 35 bucks a month with autopay and any voice line, and it's guaranteed for five years.

Yodeling!

Beautiful yodeling, Carl.

Texas of these applied.

Ctmobile.com slash ISP for details and exclusions.

Audival's romance collection has something to satisfy every side of you.

When it comes to what kind of romance you're into, you don't have to choose just one.

Fancy a dalliance with a duke or maybe a steamy billionaire.

You could find a book boyfriend in the city and another one tearing it up on the hockey field.

And if nothing on this earth satisfies, you can always find love in another realm.

Discover modern rom-coms from authors like Lily Chu and Allie Hazelwood, the latest romanticy series from Sarah J.

Maas and Rebecca Yaros, plus regency regency favorites like Bridgerton and Outlander, and of course, all the really steamy stuff.

Your first great love story is free when you sign up for a free 30-day trial at audible.com/slash wondery.

That's audible.com/slash wondery.

Zombies, man.

Zombies.

I'm New York Times best-selling horror author Scott Sigler.

Let me bend your ear about a milestone of horror cinema.

Shamblers, crawlers, walkers, runners, even exploders.

The word zombie is ubiquitous for bloodthirsty, undead monsters that hunger for living flesh, that stalk us, that want to eat our brains.

But that version of zombies, the version we all know after decades of horror movies, novels, comics, games, and even musicals, wasn't always the case.

Before 1968, the word zombie often did refer to reanimated corpses.

But those poor devils were controlled by a priest or a sorcerer, more servant or even slave than ravenous eater of human flesh.

So what happened in 1968 to change that?

George A.

Romero's seminal flick Night of the Living Dead.

That's what happened.

The creatures in that genre-defining work weren't even called zombies.

No, in the film, they were referred to as ghouls.

But as the shock waves of Romero's gory, low-budget masterpiece rippled through our culture, redefining what a zombie is, the term retroactively came to be associated associated with and defined by Romero's vision.

But here's the thing.

The classic film that horror fans know and love didn't rise from the grave fully formed.

The original script was unfinished when the camera started rolling.

And what was on the page was wildly different.

Characters changed names and races, dialogue was written in thick country slang, and entire sections of the story simply didn't exist yet.

It was the actors, Dwayne Jones, Judith O'Day, Carl Hardman, and Marilyn Eastman, working side by side with Romero, who reshaped it as they shot.

They rewrote dialogue, improvised scenes, and turned rough pulp into timeless terror.

Out of that chaos came something transcendent.

The film didn't just invent the modern zombie.

It proved that horror could evolve, live, and breathe right in front of the camera.

And that is why this episode of Table Reads matters.

This live read you are about to hear takes us back to where it began: to the raw, unfinished version that shambled so the masterpiece could run.

You will hear the rough edges, the discarded lines, the bones of a genre still assembling itself.

Because every legend begins as a first draft.

And before Night of the Living Dead changed everything, it began as this.

One, two, three.

Table Read.

Night of the living dead!

Now we're gonna say table read and just fucking give me zombie sounds.

One, two, three, table read!

That was the best ever, yeah.

Night of the Living Dead.

Written by George A.

Romero and John A.

Russo.

Exterior Cemetery Dusk.

It is an ordinary dusk of normal quiet and shadow.

The gray sky contains a soft glow from the recent sun, so that trees and long blades of grass seem to shimmer in the gathering night.

There is a rasp of crickets and the rustle of leaves in an occasional whispering breeze.

Transitions are easy and gradual with relaxed studies of earth, grass, and leafy branches on a high-mounded hill.

Revelation of cemetery markers does nothing to disrupt the peacefulness of our established mood.

When awareness comes, it is almost as though we have known where we were all along.

We are in a typical rural cemetery, conceivably adjacent to a small church.

Although the presence of a church is felt rather than confirmed, the stones range from small identifying slates to monuments of careful design, an occasional Franciscan crucifix or a carved image of a defending angel.

Over a hundred years of death indicated in stones syllabic with their year and the status of the families they represent.

Over the other night sounds is added the gravel rumble of a slow-moving car.

A wider shot reveals the car and the mounted cemetery.

As the car pulls into the gate and moves down one of the cemetery roads, the car passes an extreme foreground and moves away from the camera.

In the breeze of its passing, the dead leaves that clutter the little road swirl and move.

Beyond the distant trees, the last receding gray of dusk and surrendering to the black, the car continues.

When the car stops, we feel the absence of its sounds, replaced by the crickets and the subtle wind.

Even as the car is still rocking slightly from its stopping action, we cut to a shot through the driver window at the occupants of the car.

The driver is a young man in his mid-20s, and his passenger is a young woman, his sister.

The man is in shirt sleeves with a loosened tie.

His suit coat is on the clothing hook over the back seat.

The girl is wearing a simple but attractive summer suit with a jacket removed and folded in her lap.

She is fussing with her purse while the man shuts off engine, lights, and leans back to yawn and stretch his legs.

The girl closes a potato chip bag, brushes crumbs, fluffs her hair.

Typical feminine gestures after a long ride.

The man stretches again.

They ought to make the day the time changes the first day of summer.

Then two good things would happen all at once.

A little laugh from the man as he straightens his tie.

I love the long days and the extra sun.

A lot of good the extra daylight does me.

I lost an hour's sleep, and it's dark already, and we still have a three-hour drive, and we won't even get back till after midnight.

Barbara reaches down to put her shoes on.

If it really dragged you that much, you wouldn't do it.

Are you kidding?

I certainly don't want to blow Sunday on this scene.

We're either going to have to move Mother to Parkville or the grave to Pittsburgh.

Pittsburgh.

Oh, you're just being silly.

Mother can't make a drive like this.

John reaches to the back seat and produces a flowered, cross-shaped grave ornament.

In the center of the cross, in gold script on a red field, is written, We Still Remember.

Look, $25.

We still remember.

I don't.

You know it, and I don't remember what the guy looks like.

Johnny,

it takes you five minutes.

Three hours.

No, no, six hours.

Six hours and five minutes.

Barbara continues to primp and straighten her outfit.

John hands her the grave ornament and leads forward to struggle into his suit jacket.

Mother wants to remember.

So we have to drive 400 miles to plant a cross on a grave as if he's staring up through the ground to check out the decorations.

We have to remember.

And she stays home.

Johnny, we're here.

All right?

She opens her door and turns to step out.

John takes the keys from the ignition and drops them into his pocket.

Hey.

Hey, hey, and Barb.

You know the radio's been on the whole time?

Ladies and gentlemen, please for what?

Hey, you got a signal, Charlie?

It must have been the station.

Do not be alone.

John clicks the radio off.

He gets out of the car and walks around the front of it, trotting to catch up with his sister.

It is obvious that she didn't hear him.

He catches up to her and starts to repeat his discovery about the radio.

Hey,

the radio's okay, it's just...

Barbara is more interested in finding the row containing their father's grave.

You remember which row it's in?

Uh, oh, it's over here, I think.

They start in his suggested direction.

Did you hear the radio?

Hmm?

The radio's fixed.

Must have been the station, not the radio.

Good.

You won't be as bitchy driving home.

Their jibes at each other are not really in anger, but are typical of brother-sister annoyance.

They walk through the row of gravestones in the growing darkness.

Nobody around.

Well, it is late.

If you get up a little earlier.

I already lost an hour's sleep on the time chain.

Oh, sometimes I think you complain just to hear yourself talk.

An hour earlier, and it'd still be light.

It's hard enough to find in the light.

There it is.

They move toward a grave with a standard rectangular stone.

It is an unkept grave, its outline cropped and overgrown with grass and wilted flowers.

John takes the flowered cross and, stepping close to the headstone, embeds its wire-pronged base into the earth as he rambles on.

I wonder what happened to the one from last year.

Every year, 25 bucks for one of these things,

and the one from last year is gone.

We hear Barbara's voice.

The camera stays on John as he builds up some dirt around the base of the ornament.

The flowers die,

and the caretaker or somebody takes them away.

Yeah, a little spit and polish and they can sell them again.

I wonder how many times we've bought the same t-shirt.

He doesn't finish.

Insteading, he sees his sister with a pair of rosary beads and he stops talking.

She is praying silently, looking down at the ground.

John straightens his tie and buttons his jacket.

He steps behind his sister, puts his hands in his pockets, and rocks nervously on one foot.

She continues to pray.

John looks around the cemetery.

The stones are soft and white.

They seem very pale.

There are a few moving shadows.

The sounds of the night seem louder, but this is only because they have stopped talking.

The situation does not seem ominous.

John is merely bored.

In the distance, a huddled figure is walking among the graves.

Come on, Barb, church was this morning.

The girl continues her prayers.

John lights a cigarette, idly exhales the first puff of smoke, and looks around again.

The huddled figure still moves slowly among the graves.

John turns to his sister and is about to say something, but sees her making the sign of the cross and dropping her beads in her purse.

She turns from the grave, and they both start to walk away slowly.

Well,

I mean, praying's for church.

I haven't seen you in church lately.

Well, grandpa told me I was damned to hell.

You remember?

Right here.

I jumped out at you from behind that tree.

Grandpa got all excited.

You will be damned to hell.

Barbara smiles.

Right here, I jumped out from behind the tree at you.

Barbara expresses annoyance.

You used to be so scared here.

Johnny!

You're still afraid.

Stop it!

I mean it!

They're going to get you, Barbara.

Stop it!

Your ignorance!

They're coming for you, Barbara.

They're gonna get you!

Johnny, stop!

They're coming out of their graves after you.

They're coming!

They're coming to get you!

With this, John throws up his arms and his voice rises.

The figure moving among the graves stops and stands for a moment.

Barbara glances toward the figure and momentarily her anxiety turns to embarrassment.

You're acting like an idiot.

John speaks in a low tone now, glancing at the figure as they draw closer in their perpendicular paths.

John's remarks now are directed to Barbara as though he didn't want the old man to hear.

Here comes one of them now.

He'll hear you.

He's coming to get you.

Barbara purses her lips in anger.

The couple is now only a few yards from the intersection of their path with the old figure.

I'm getting out of here.

He bolts and runs up the path.

John!

Embarrassed, she cuts herself short and continues to walk more rapidly now.

Up the path, beyond the intersection of the man's row, John stops, laughing, and turns to look back at his sister.

She is near the place where the paths meet, and so is the old man.

We cut close to her.

She is looking down in embarrassed silence, aware of her proximity with the old man.

She feigns poise, and as she makes the intersection, looks up nervously to deliver a socially necessary smile to the old mourner.

The old man lunges at the girl.

His hands grab at her hair.

A frightened gasp chokes her.

She is coughing.

The man grips her arm and slashes at her clothing.

She flails about, choking, trying to yell.

The man is all over Barbara, unable to hold her in her violent flailing.

He is grabbing and tears her jacket and scratches her face.

He seems to be trying to bite her arm.

John leaps at at the man.

The three fall to the ground, Barbara kicking and beating with her purse.

John gets a firm hold on them, and Barbara is able to wrench free.

The man is thrashing wildly at all parts of John's body.

They struggle to their feet.

The figure thrashes, beats, tears like an animal.

John clutches at him, and they fall in a heap.

In the darkness, their form is as one thrashing thing.

Barbara screams wildly.

The two men make animal sounds.

One figure gains the advantage and slams his fist down against the other's head.

Barbara is panic-stricken.

Her screams turn to frenzied gasps as she finds a tree limb and snatches it up.

But when she looks up, she sees that one has vanished the other.

She stops in her tracks.

Night sounds.

A close shot makes it clear that John is lying limply on the ground, with the other man hunched over his form.

The man is doing something with the limp body, still ripping at it, perhaps groping for money.

Barbara cannot tell.

Johnny!

The old man freezes and looks up.

The girl raises her club and rushes toward him.

He jumps into a half-standing position, like an animal hunched to spring.

Barbara stops in her tracks.

The man is breathing heavily.

She starts to back away.

The man holds very still.

She backs away further, faster, total fear.

The man starts to move slowly, cat-like.

He steps over the body.

Barbara drops the club and breaks into a dead run down the path.

She screams.

The man moves after her, but he is considerably slower than she is, with seeming difficulty in moving.

He appears almost crippled.

In a flailing run, Barbara reaches the car, sobbing.

She yanks open the door.

She can hear the man drawing nearer.

She scrambles into the front seat and slams the door shut.

No key.

The man draws nearer, seeming to move faster, more desperate to reach the girl.

Barbara sobs.

She clenches the steering wheel.

The driver's window is open.

She struggles to roll it up, then pushes the lock button.

The man is upon the car.

Barbara dives across the seat to slam down the passenger side lock button.

The man rips at the door handles and pounds violently at the car.

The girl starts screaming again.

The man, pounding, clawing.

He grabs a stone from the road.

The passenger window shatters into thousands of little cracks.

Another pound sends the stone through the window, and hands grab through the opening to peel away the flakes of glass in sections.

Barbara's screams become more valuable.

She summons enough presence of mind to reach for the emergency brake.

The man pounds and flails at the window.

The car, at the top of a long grade, slowly starts to drift.

The man struggles to hold it, to rip out the glass.

His arm breaks through.

His sleeve is ripped and tattered.

The hand grabs at the inside of the door, the car moving faster.

The man struggles to cling.

He is forced to trot after the car.

Faster.

He loses his footing, grabs at the fender, the bumper, he falls into the road.

The car gains momentum.

The man regains his footing and starts after the car.

It is moving faster.

Barbara is frozen in the driver's seat, clenching the wheel.

The road ahead is black.

The speed is frightening.

She pulls the light switch.

The headlights dance beams of light among the trees.

The beams reveal the grade in the road, which is narrowing to one car width.

And about 200 feet ahead, the downhill grade ends and an uphill grade begins.

In desperation, the girl looks out the rear window.

Against the sky, in the light from the cemetery gate, the man is still coming after them.

In panic, she looks about.

She is still in the cemetery proper.

Rows of graves on both sides of the road.

No lights from the house, no signs of life.

The car slows.

Its momentum carries it some distance up the upgrade.

Barbara glances backwards.

The man is moving faster toward her.

She is terrified.

The car reaches a full stop.

There is increased panic in her face as she forgets herself and the car begins to drift backward toward the man as he draws nearer.

The car picks up momentum, carrying her toward the pursuer.

She grabs at the emergency brake and yanks it tight, the lurch of the car throwing her against the seat.

She struggles with the door handle.

The button pops up.

The man draws nearer.

She breaks from the car.

The man keeps coming, desperately trying to move faster.

Barbara runs, off the roadway and onto the turf of the cemetery.

She falls, kicks her shoes off, gets up, and keeps running.

The man is still after her.

She reaches a low stone wall which marks the end of the cemetery.

She struggles over it and looks ahead for a moment to get her bearings.

Across a main highway is a darkened gasoline station, and beyond it, an old house.

She pants heavily, glancing up and down the highway, but there is no sign of traffic.

The man is nearing the low cemetery wall.

She breaks into a run across the highway.

The gasoline station shows no signs of life.

It is old and decrepit.

One light is out over the pumps.

The pump house and surroundings are nearly lost in shadow.

Some 50 yards away, there's the old house.

She runs toward it.

She presses against the side of the house, in a darkened corner, trying to look up into the window.

Across the highway, she sees her pursuer struggle over the little wall and in his clumsiness fall, groveling on the ground.

In panic, she runs to the rear of the house and into the shadows of a small back porch.

Her first impulse is to cry out for help, but she silences herself in favor of trying to stay hidden.

She gasps, trying to hold her breath.

Silence.

Night sounds, and the sounds of the man's running footsteps slowing to a trot, then a walk.

The footsteps stop.

Barbara quickly glances about.

There is a rear window.

She peers through it, but inside, everything is dark.

The pursuing footsteps take up again.

She presses back against the door of the house, and her hand falls on the doorknob.

She looks down at it, grabs it with a turn, and the door opens.

She enters quickly, as quietly as possible, and closes the door softly behind her, bolting it and feeling in the darkness for a key.

Her hand finds a skeleton key, and she turns it, making a small rasp and click.

She leans against the door, listening, and can still hear the distant footfalls.

Barbara finds that she is in the kitchen of the old house.

She gropes through a door and into a large living room.

No sign of life.

Her impulse is to cry for help, but again, she stops herself for fear of being heard by the man outside.

She darts back to the kitchen, rummages through drawers in a kitchen cabinet, and finds the silverware.

She chooses a large steak knife and, grasping it tightly, goes to listen at the door again.

All is quiet.

She goes back into the living room.

Beyond it is an alcove that contains the front entrance to the house.

She rushes to the front door to make sure it is locked.

Cautiously, she pushes back a corner of the curtain to see outside.

The view overlooks an expansive lawn, large shadowy pine trees, and the service station across the road.

There is no sign of the attacker.

Suddenly, there is noise from outside.

The pounding and rattling of a door.

Barbara drops the curtain edge and stiffens.

More sounds.

She hurries to a side window.

Across the lawn, the man is pounding at the door to the garage.

She watches, her eyes wide with fear.

The man struggles with the door, then looks about and picks up something and smashes at it.

In panic, Barbara pulls away from the window.

Across the room is a telephone.

She rushes to it and picks up the receiver.

Tile tone.

She frantically dials the operator.

Some buzzes and clicks.

Then...

I'm sorry.

Our lines are busy.

Would you hold the line, please?

I'm sorry.

Our lines are busy.

She quickly depresses the receiver buttons, lets them up and dials again.

Long pause.

She can hear sounds from the gas station.

I'm sorry.

Our lines are.

She depresses the buttons again, dials 411 for information.

Another long pause, then the rasp of a busy signal.

The noises from the service station have stopped.

She listens for a moment.

She shudders with fear.

Notices a telephone directory in a stand near the phone.

Frantically, her fingers search to pages for the emergency numbers.

The police.

She dials shakily, but before before she has dialed the last numbers, the rapines of the busy signal come back over the receiver.

She depresses the buttons again.

Footsteps.

She puts the phone down and rushes to another window.

A figure is crossing the lawn, coming toward the house.

It is a different figure, a different man.

She runs to the door and peers out through the curtains again.

The man still walks toward the house.

A shadow darkens a strip of window at the left of the door.

Its abruptness startles her.

She peels back a corner of the curtain and sees the back of the first attacker not 10 feet away, facing the man who is approaching.

The attacker moves toward the new man.

Barbara freezes against the door and glances down at her knife.

She looks back out at the two men.

They join each other under the dark, hanging trees and stand looking back toward the cemetery.

From inside the house, Barbara squints, trying to see.

Finally, the attacker moves back across the road in the direction of the cemetery.

The other man approaches the house, seeks the shadows of a tree, and stops.

In an attitude of stolid watching, Barbara stares, but can see little.

She lunges toward the phone again, dials the operator.

The same recorded message.

She barely stops herself from slamming down the receiver.

Then, suddenly,

a distant sound.

An approaching car.

She scabbers to the window and looks out.

The road seems empty.

But after a moment, a faint light appears, bouncing bouncing and rapidly approaching.

A car coming up the road.

Barbara reaches for the doorknob, edges the door open very slightly.

The light spills dimly over the area.

There, under the great tree in the lawn, is the silhouette of the second man.

Barbara shudders.

She is afraid to make her break for the approaching car.

The figure appears to be sitting quite still.

Its head and shoulders slumped over.

It seems to be looking right at the house.

The car speeds by.

Barbara just stares at the figure.

She cannot run.

She closes the door and backs into the shadows of the house.

She turns to see all around her.

The large, dreary rooms are very quiet, cast in shadow.

She spies a stairway, runs toward it, still carrying the knife, and starts up the stairs.

The camera is level with her eye and picks up her view of the stairs as she runs up.

Panting, frantic, she climbs, her hand grazing the banister.

Still at eye level, the camera starts to pick up the top of the stairway, the floor of the second landing.

A brief glimpse of something on the floor there.

She continues to climb.

The floor of the landing, zoom in, toward camera, the hand of a corpse.

Barbara stops.

The corpse is almost skeletal, with its flesh ripped from it, and it lies at the end of a trail of blood.

Screaming in absolute horror.

Barbara almost falls down the stairs.

She is gagging.

She breaks for the door, unlocks it, and flings herself out into the night, completely unmindful of consequences.

She is bathed in light.

Two headlights are screeching toward the camera.

The sounds of a vehicle stopping.

Barbara covers her face with her arms.

Someone rushes toward her.

Are you one of them?

She stares, frozen.

A man stands in front of her.

He is large and crude, in coveralls and tattered work shirt.

He looks very strong, and perhaps a little stupid.

Behind him is an old, battered pickup truck, which he has driven right up onto the lawn of the house.

He holds a large crowbar in his hand and stands there panting.

Behind him, the man of the tree still stands.

Barbara is still frozen.

I said, are you one of them?

I seen two

look like you.

The man of the tree moves forward.

Barbara screams and steps back.

The truck driver spins to face the other man.

The other man stops in his tracks.

The truck driver backs protectively toward the girl, while the other stands, just watching.

Finally, the truck driver seizes Barbara's wrist and pulls her into the house, slamming the door behind them.

Barbara falls back against a wall.

The truck driver locks the door and throws the bolt.

He is breathing hard.

He turns to look at the girl.

She brings the knife up in a defensive gesture.

All right.

It's all right now.

She stares widely at him.

He immediately concerns himself with his surroundings.

He moves into the next room to check the windows.

He tries a lamp.

It lights.

He turns it off.

Barbara weakly lowers the knife and falls to a sitting position in a chair.

She watches the man intently.

He calls to her from the other room.

Don't you mind to creep outside?

I can handle him.

There's probably gonna be lots of more of them as soon as they find out about us.

I'm out of gas.

Them pumps over there is locked.

Do you got any food here?

I'll get some grub.

And then we can beat him off and skid out.

She just stares at him.

The phone ain't no good.

Might as well have two tin cans of strain.

You live here?

She remains silent, looking toward the top of the stairs.

The man follows her stare and starts toward the stairs.

Halfway up, he sees the corpse and stops.

Oh, be Jesus.

At the bottom of the stairs, he just looks at the girl shivering with shock in her chair.

Then he forces himself back into action.

Hey,

we gotta bust out of here.

Get to rid of some folks.

Somebody with

guns or something.

I'll try to scare up some grub.

He enters the kitchen and starts to rummage.

He flings open the refrigerator and the cupboards.

Finding a stack of large paper grocery bags, he opens one and starts to fill it with things from the refrigerator.

He hurls the stuff into the bag.

He is interrupted by Barbara's voice.

What's happening?

The man looks up at her.

What's happening?

The truck driver looks at her.

She stands like a frightened child in the kitchen doorway.

He is amazed at her question.

A shattering crash startles them.

The man drops the groceries and seizes his crowbar.

He runs to the front door and looks out through the curtained window.

Another shattering sound.

The first attacker has joined the second man at the old pickup truck, and with great sticks, the two are smashing out the headlights.

Once the lights are battered out, the two men outside start to beat at the body of the truck.

The truck driver spins and lunges toward the girl.

How many?

How many?

She backs further away.

The truck driver lunges again, this time in desperation to make her understand.

How many?

Come on now.

I know you're scared, but I can handle those two creeps, right?

Now, how many more is out there?

That truck is our only chance chance to get out of here.

How many?

How many?

He grabs her shoulders and she struggles against him, thrashing hysterical.

I don't know.

I don't know.

What's happening?

I don't know what's happening.

She breaks into hysterical sobbing.

The truck driver spins away from her and breaks for the door.

He looks out the window for a moment.

The attackers still beat at the truck, wildly trying to tear it apart.

The truck driver flings open the door and leaps off the porch.

Two men look up.

For the first time, we see the faces of the attackers.

They are dead things, and flesh on their faces is rotting and oozing.

Their eyes bulge from deep sockets.

Their hair is long, and their clothing rotten and in tatters.

They are ghoulish beings, staring up at the truck driver.

He starts for them slowly, with building vengeance.

He moves steadily at first, with controlled power.

He speaks as he advances, wielding his crowbar.

Come on, again.

Come on, Agin!

Come get somebody's crowbar.

He concentrates on his attack, moving stolidly toward the two creatures.

He breaks almost into a run.

But the two, rather than backing off, move toward the man, as though drawn by some urge.

The man pounds into them, swinging and thrashing with arms and crowbar.

They are buffeted by his blows.

They seem weak compared to him.

But his powerful blows don't really stop them.

It is like beating a rock.

He flings them back and they advance again.

It is a violent, brutal struggle.

But the big man finally beats the two into the ground and for a great while continues to pound at their limp forms.

He breaks into almost sobbing with each of his blows.

He beats them and beats at them as the girl watches in shock from the porch.

He thrashes and beats until she starts to scream again.

Her screams pierce the night.

The man stops.

Breathing heavily, he stands, enveloped in the quiet of the night.

The girl stands in the doorway.

The truck driver turns to face her.

He is out of breath.

Suddenly, a noise behind the girl.

She spins, and walking toward her from the kitchen is another of the hideous creatures.

The truck driver leaps toward the thing.

Lock the door!

Barbara slams the door and locks it, backing against it as another equally brutal struggle ensues in the living room.

The big man again beats the attacker down, but another appears at the kitchen door.

The truck driver leaps toward it and with powerful crowbar blows drives it out beyond the door so that that he can fall against it, shutting it.

He bolts it and stands leaning against the frame, trying to breathe.

Long silence.

The truck driver just stares down at the floor.

They know we're in here now.

Ain't no use disputing that.

Outside the house, the fourth ghoul stands staring at the back door.

Another slowly walks up behind it, and another.

At the front of the house, three more stand near the bodies of the first two.

Pull off and follow focus from the front yard of the house, through the curtains at the front door, to the face of the girl as she spins to face the camera.

Her face twitches in fright, and her eyes are wide with a non-blinking stare.

As she spins, her eyes fall on the floor where the dead humanoid lies.

The thing is askew on its back, its right arm extended toward the girl with fingers twisted as though to grab.

Cameras tracking in slowly.

There is a slight movement in the thing's hand.

It twitches.

The whole body twitches slightly.

The bent, broken neck as the being's head twisted upward in an open-mouth, glassy stare.

Barbara steps toward the thing.

The fear in her face bears the beginnings of a sick frown.

The hand twitches again.

The girl moves closer, drawn toward it, staring down at it with overpowering curiosity.

The thing is something dead, with the beginnings of decay on its face and neck.

Barbara moves closer.

The thing still twitches.

She's staring right down into the thing's eyes.

Her hands come up to her mouth.

The urge to be ill, to scream, to run, must all be fought.

The glassy stare from bulging eyes, right back up at her.

Camera shoots back and forth at her face with the staring eyes of the dead thing.

Zoom in on the thing.

It seems as though the body is going to stand again.

Its face holds as much life as it did when it it walked.

Suddenly, with a rustling sound, the thing moves, cut back.

The big truck driver has a hold on the thing's legs and is dragging it across the floor.

Shut your eyes, girl.

I'm getting this dick tree out of here.

He is sweating.

His voice shows anger and anguish as he drags the body across the floor.

Barbara just stands, her hands still at her mouth, watching.

The sounds of the man's breathing and his struggle fill the room.

With the body, he reaches the back door and lets the legs fall.

You

filthy.

He cuts himself short, cutting for a close-up.

The stark light on the big man's face makes him shine in his sweat.

His eyes are alert and afraid.

He turns quickly to see through the small window panes in the door.

Outside, lurking in shadow from the huge trees, the three beings watch and wait, their arms dangling and eyes bulging as they stare at the truck driver's activities.

With a swift move, the big man unbolts the door, flings it open, and bends toward the inert thing at his feet.

The ghoulish things begin to move toward him.

With one great heave, the dead form is flopped outside the door.

It lies across the threshold.

The thing advances silently.

Filthy.

Another great effort shoves the body almost clear.

From inside the house, the big man's efforts cannot be clearly seen by the girl because the door frame is blocking her view.

She moves into the kitchen.

The truck driver flops the body down onto the edge of the porch.

The big man shudders.

He fumbles into the breast pocket of the work shirt.

The things advance.

He produces a pack of matches, manages to strike one, and touches the burning tip to the clothing of the dead thing.

And with almost a popping sound, the clothing catches fire.

The things in the yard stop in their tracks.

The fire blazes slowly.

Shaking, the truck driver touches the match to other aspects of the thing's clothing.

His fingers burn, and he snaps them, throwing the match into the heaped form.

He is breathing hard.

Standing, he kicks the burning thing off the edge of the porch, watches it roll down three small steps onto the grass, where it lies still, the flames licking around it.

The three beings step back slightly.

The big man clings to the banister around the little porch.

His fists clench, and his face is fiery in the glow of the flames.

His voice quivers.

I'll get you.

I'm going to get you.

All of you.

He stands defiant.

All of you.

One second, Chad.

He stands defiantly on the little porch, the flaming corpse separating from the things that wait.

Wait is going to be the end of Act One.

However, you want to do that to get us out.

How about no!

I love that.

He stands defiantly on the little porch, the flaming corpse separating from the things that wait.

End of Act One.

Thank you.

All right, let's take a quick ride after action.