AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN*
HARDCASTLE: There has to be an explanation for this. A rational—
KAPOOR: You can sit around and figure out an explanation. I’m going back to the boat, and I’m getting out of here. Joy—
NOVAK: Yeah. Sophie, we’re leaving.
Her voice is tight with fear. Baker and Carreau are still looking upward in rank confusion.
CARREAU: But that was Venus. Venus isn’t a meteor; it’s not meant to fall from the sky.
NOVAK: Martin, can you help me get all of this back in the bag?
KAPOOR: Don’t bother. We can come back for it later if we need to.
HARDCASTLE: We don’t know that there’s anything to be afraid of.
KAPOOR: And that is a risk that you are welcome to take for yourself, but there is a child here.
CARREAU: It’s the sky. How do you escape the sky?
KAPOOR: The moon was out when we set off. I remember seeing it. Maybe whatever’s happening is localized. Maybe there’s a goddamn good reason no one’s allowed out here at night.
She grabs the camera, but doesn’t seem to remember to turn it off.
KAPOOR: You’d better all come, because we’ve only got one boat.
She leads the march. Their flashlights provide some visibility, the beams skittering over the ground. At the crest of the hill, Hardcastle calls a halt.
HARDCASTLE: Vanya, slow down. We’re going to break our necks going downhill in the dark this fast.
KAPOOR: The stars are winking out, Will.
HARDCASTLE: It’s some kind of trick of the weather or—
KAPOOR: The moon is missing and the stars are going out. A lifetime of scientific pursuit has taught me skepticism, but it has also taught me that the world is full of dangerous things, and we have only learned to explain about half of them. We’ll study it after everyone’s safe.
BAKER: It’s beautiful.
KAPOOR: Yes, the stars are falling like it’s the damn apocalypse, but it’s very sparkly, Carolyn.
BAKER: Not that. The singing.
The frantic activity around the makeshift camp suddenly halts as everyone freezes, listening. Novak kneels with one arm around Sophia, holding her close.
CARREAU: What language is that?
KAPOOR: I can’t tell. But I feel like I can almost understand it.
They listen. To what, we cannot be certain; the microphone records only silence. Novak gasps.
CARREAU: What is it?
NOVAK: There’s someone down there. Down on the beach.
Carreau steps toward the camera, and picks it up. For a few seconds it goes out of focus in the darkness, and then it snaps into night-vision mode, and he zooms in on the beach. Down below, a man stands stock-still on the shore, not far from the boat they’ve left moored to a huge driftwood log. His back is to them, his arms dangling inert at his sides.
NOVAK: Who is it? Someone from the town?
CARREAU: I can’t tell. It almost looks like—is that an army uniform?
BAKER: Oh, shit, there’s more of them.
The camera pans along the shore. At eerily precise intervals, people—men and women both—stand facing the sea, ringing the shore.
CARREAU: What are they doing?
SOPHIA: Momma, I don’t want to be here.
NOVAK: I know, baby. We’re going home. Just be patient.
Mist rises from the water, and swiftly gathers, hiding the strangers from view.
NOVAK: Do we go down there?
KAPOOR: I don’t know. I—
In the mist, something shrieks.