INT. SEDAN - DAY
Heat waves shimmer off the asphalt ahead. A river of red brake lights stretches to the horizon.
Inside, the air conditioning blasts, but sweat still beads on the forehead of GARY (40), a man in a polo shirt that is aggressively tucked in. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
A cell phone is wedged between his ear and shoulder.
(Over phone)
What’s it for this time?
Gary inches the car forward. Six inches. He slams the brakes.
Who knows? Corporate greed. Saving the planet. All I know is your brisket is getting cold and I'm being held hostage by kids who've never had a job.
The GPS says ninety minutes. Just hang in there.
In two hundred feet, remain on the highway.
Gary looks to his right.
The exit ramp is empty. A concrete curve leading away from the gridlock.
Idiot machine.
Gary, don't. Last time you ended up in a Target parking lot on Black Friday.
This is local knowledge. My roads.
Gary flicks the turn signal. A declaration of war.
He swings the wheel hard. The sedan cuts across two lanes of stationary traffic.
A chorus of ANGRY HONKS erupts behind him.
EXT. OFF-RAMP - CONTINUOUS
The sedan accelerates up the ramp, leaving the static misery of the highway behind.
Recalculating.
You do that.
EXT. INDUSTRIAL SECTOR - DAY
The sedan cruises down a road lined with corrugated steel skeletons and broken windows. Weeds conquer the pavement cracks.
Gary taps the steering wheel. Smug. In control.
A violent, wet THUMP-WUMP-WUMP-WUMP vibrates the entire chassis.
The car lurches hard to the right. The smell of BURNT RUBBER fills the air.
Gary wrestles the car to the shoulder.
EXT. INDUSTRIAL SECTOR - ROAD - CONTINUOUS
Gary stands over the front passenger tire. It is a shredded flap of black rubber.
A jagged piece of rusty rebar sticks out of a pothole like a spear.
You have got to be kidding me.
He kicks the good tire. He winces, hopping on one foot.
LATER
Gary is on his knees. Grease smears his cheek. His polo shirt is plastered to his back with sweat.
He grunts, hanging his body weight on the tire iron. The lug nut SCREECHES but gives.
A CYCLIST glides past. Silent. Fluid. A bandana covers their face.
Gary pauses, wiping sweat from his eyes.
SLAP.
A sharp sound against the rear bumper.
Gary looks up. The cyclist is already fifty feet away, pedaling without looking back.
Gary moves to the back of the car.
A fresh sticker, bright blue and red, covers the chrome: DEPORT ICE.
Gary stares at it. His jaw tightens. A vein throbs in his temple.
He marches back to the wheel. He throws the flat tire into the trunk.
He slams the trunk shut. BAM.
INT. SEDAN - DAY
Gary drops into the driver's seat. His hands tremble.
He floors the gas.
The donut tire WHINES in high-pitched protest.
Gary yanks the wheel at the first turn. A narrow street.
EXT. NARROW STREET - CONTINUOUS
The sedan flies around the corner and slams on the brakes.
A wall of people blocks the road. Hundreds of them. Holding signs. Chanting.
Gary is nose-to-nose with the crowd.
INT. SEDAN - CONTINUOUS
Panic widens Gary's eyes. He fumbles with the gear shift.
His foot slips off the clutch.
The engine REVS, COUGHS, and DIES.
Silence.
Outside, the chanting stops. Hundreds of faces turn toward the sensible sedan.
EXT. NARROW STREET - CONTINUOUS
A PROTEST LEADER (20s) stands on a crate near Gary's hood. She holds a megaphone. She squints at the car.
Her eyes drop to the bumper.
The sticker: DEPORT ICE.
A slow grin spreads across her face. She raises the megaphone.
REINFORCEMENTS ARE HERE!
The crowd ERUPTS in cheers.
INT. SEDAN - CONTINUOUS
Gary turns the key. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.
No. No, no, no.
He looks past the crowd.
At the end of the block, a line of blue uniforms and plexiglass shields stands waiting. An armored vehicle looms behind them.
A BLINDING LIGHT blasts through the windshield.
Gary throws a hand up to shield his eyes.
(Amplified)
Driver of the sedan. You are the leader of an unlawful assembly.
Gary sits frozen in the spotlight.
Step out with your hands up.