The Antikythera Mechanism of Grandma Jean - Script

EXT. FROZEN LAKE - LATE AFTERNOON

A world of white. The WIND SCREAMS, tearing through the silence.

MIKE (24, broad-shouldered, heavy build) pounds across the ice. His breath tears from his lungs in ragged gasps.

Fifty yards ahead, LIN (24, wiry, dark hair) scrambles like a frantic insect against the vastness. A colorful vintage scarf whips violently around his neck.

(Roaring)

You’re not getting away!

Lin glances back. He doesn't slow down.

Try keeping up, bigfoot! Might help if you didn’t run like you’re wearing concrete snowshoes!

Mike pushes harder. Thump-thump-slide. Thump-thump-slide.

I’m going to take that stupid scarf and tie your ankles together!

Ooh, threatening my accessories? Now it’s--

CRACK.

A deep, GUTTURAL ROAR erupts from the belly of the lake.

A dark, spidery line shoots out from under Lin’s left foot.

Lin’s arms windmill. He fights for balance. The smirk vanishes.

Mike skids to a halt. His boots SCRAPE uselessly against the surface. He slides a few feet too close.

The ice VIBRATES beneath them. A low, resonant THRUM.

They are in the dead center of the lake.

(Whispering)

Don’t move.

Lin swallows. He stares down at the network of fractures spreading like a shattered windshield.

Wasn't planning on it. Any bright ideas? Or just going to stand there and look menacing?

Mike’s chest heaves. He forces a breath.

Get down. Slowly. Stomach.

Are you insane? I’m not lying on this thing.

It spreads the weight! Do it, or you're fish food!

The ice MOANS again. A mournful, dying whale sound.

Lin drops. He crouches, then lowers himself flat, arms spread wide.

Mike drops to his knees. Then his stomach. The cold bites instantly through his jacket.

We crawl. Back the way we came. Push with feet, pull with hands.

Like a very cold, terrified lizard. Got it.

They move. Inch by inch.

Mike’s face is pressed against the ice. Trapped air bubbles. Feathery frost patterns. The black abyss below.

Snow begins to fall. Hard pellets driven by the gale.

EXT. LAKE SHORE - DUSK

A hand slams onto packed snow.

Mike drags his body onto the bank. He rolls onto his back, gasping.

Lin collapses beside him.

Solid ground. Silence, save for the wind.

Well. That was a refreshing constitutional.

Mike sits up, brushing snow from his jacket.

The only thing pumping is my desire to throttle you.

Get in line. Hypothermia has dibs.

Lin wrings out his scarf. He looks back at the hostile grey sheet of the lake.

Okay. I’ll admit. That was... not ideal.

Not ideal? That was almost a dual-cousin popsicle! Because you can't hold an antique without treating it like a football!

(Standing)

You bumped the table! Your enormous elbow created a seismic event!

Mike towers over him.

Your hands were flailing like you were conducting invisible squirrels!

It’s called expressive gesturing! Go on then. Take a swing. Mom and Aunt Carol will be thrilled to find a domestic dispute.

Mike freezes.

Great distraction from the pile of splinters on the hearth.

Mike fumbles for his phone. His fingers are stiff, red.

ON THE SCREEN:

New Message: Mom. "Just passed Miller's Ridge. Traffic is light. See you two soon! Don't burn the cabin down! ❤️"

Mike looks up. Pale.

Miller's Ridge. They'll be here any minute.

Lin’s face drains of color.

Back to the cabin. Now.

INT. CABIN - MOMENTS LATER

The door flies open. Snow swirls in.

Warm light bathes the room. Wood scent.

ON THE HEARTH:

The music box is destroyed. Rosewood shattered. Brass gears scattered like teeth. A tiny ballerina lies on her side, plastic smile fixed.

Mike kneels. He picks up the lid. Inlaid mother-of-pearl flowers.

Glue? We could try glue.

Lin picks up a snapped brass spindle.

With what? It looks like it went through a woodchipper. We have forty-five minutes and dried-up Elmer's.

Mike drops the lid. CLATTER.

We tell them. It was an accident. We were wrestling.

Have you met your mother? Or mine? That's not an accident. That's a desecration. We'll be grounded until we're thirty.

Mike paces. Heavy bootfalls on pine.

So we leave it? A welcome home surprise?

Lin stares out the window. The snow is piling up against the glass.

He goes still.

We don't solve it. We hide it.

Mike stops.

They'll notice a missing music box, Lin.

We say it was never here. Maybe they packed it away. They'll question their memories before they question us.

They'll tear the cabin apart.

Let them. Better than finding this. We get rid of the evidence. All of it. Right now.

Lin points out the window.

A massive snowdrift against the north wall.

Bury it.

It's the only way.

Mike looks at the broken ballerina. Then at Lin.

If we get caught, it was your idea.

Naturally.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

Lin rummages through cupboards. CLANG. BANG.

He pulls out a biscuit tin with a faded royal family portrait.

INT. LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Mike sweeps splinters onto a piece of cardboard. His large hands tremble slightly.

He places the ballerina into the pile.

Lin sets the tin down. They work together. Fast. Silent.

Mike shines a FLASHLIGHT across the floor. A tiny screw in the grout. A sliver under the armchair.

Into the tin.

Lin clicks the lid shut. SNAP.

Let's give it a proper burial.

EXT. CABIN - NIGHT

The storm is a vortex of black and white.

Mike drives a shovel into the hard-packed drift. He heaves a heavy load of snow.

Lin stands by, clutching the tin to his chest.

Let me take a turn!

Mike hands over the shovel.

Lin digs. Frenetic energy. Flinging snow.

The hole is deep. A dark wound in the white.

Good enough. No one digs that deep before spring.

Lin kneels. He places the tin at the bottom.

Mike grabs the shovel. He pushes snow back in.

They kick fresh powder over the disturbance. Patting it down.

They step back. Chests heaving.

The drift looks like a drift.

Silence.

Then--

A SOUND. A high-pitched whine cutting through the wind.

They freeze.

A single BEAM OF LIGHT slices through the swirling snow from the access road.

The ROAR of a snowmobile engine grows louder.

Mike looks at Lin.

The headlight sweeps over them.