can anyone tell me what they think?
CHASING WINTER -- Contained thriller
After witnessing a brutal execution, a mother and infant son are hunted inside their four-story brownstone, entangled in a terrorist plot during the blizzard of the century.
FADE IN:
EXT. N.Y.C. – DAY
A single snowflake becomes an army falling onto a N.Y.C, PUBLIC WORKS TRUCK as it rolls next to a manhole cover.
The traffic thinned in preparation for the impending snow that already dusts the pavement.
TWO MEN get out, they move quickly, practiced, one of them gets a long metal bar and hooks the man-hole cover pulling it off.
The other grabs a bag from a utility box and descends into the ground, the darkness swallowing him as the cover rattles back into place.
The remaining man puts the bar in the back and piles into the truck and pulls away -- all in under, thirty seconds.
EXT. BROOKLYN BROWNSTONE - DAY
The snow keeps a steady pace, beginning to accumulate. The city reduced to a ghost town, civilians hidden away from the impending blizzard.
When a lone car limps down the road, one head light, its bumper hangs like broken teeth as it waddles toward the building.
As it gets closer the spider-webbed windshield is obvious, bullets holes dot the hood --
It rolls up to the brownstone, this massive L-shaped building squats against the slate sky as the car haphazardly parks at the curb, still running.
It’s blinker pulsates, headlight arcs aimlessly disappearing within the daylight.
INT. CAR - DAY
A man we only know as WINTER, badly beaten, one eye swollen shut, his knuckles deeply purple. He’s hands slide off the wheel and grab --
A BLACK CASE in the passenger’s seat, riddled with bullet holes. He pulls it into his midsection and pops open the door, falling onto the curb.
He gets to his feet, doesn’t bother to shut the door, his shirt damp and red from another bullet hole.
He stumbles into the building –-
INT. BROWNSTONE – DAY
Two ways to go -- up, or the down a long, dark hallway with a door at the end. He picks the door, leaning against the wall for support as he inches down the hall.
This is grueling, blood pin drops to the floor as Winter finally gets to the door, still clutching the case.
He pulls it open to a dark, tight space, his head slumped, his hand cupping his wound as he moves down.
The walls seem to collapse in on him, made of mortar and brick. He loses his footing and tumbles down to the bottom.
The case bounces down the steps and slides into the room. Winter groans, the pain shooting to his head, his blurry vision comes to focus.
He gets to his knees, crawling toward the case. He finds it and somehow musters his strength to get to his feet as he scans the basement –-
It’s huge, with rooms and doors spread throughout. The only light streams in through small street level windows some cracked most covered in a layer of grime.
It’s cluttered and cavernous chucked full of remnants of a hundred tenants. Water heaters hum, plumbing whooshes down rattling pipes creating an eerie symphony.
Winter stumbles ahead, bangs into things, coughing, aching, dying as he maneuvers into a dark nook --
A long ICE BOX stretches the wall, it’s covered in some ancient Halloween garb and junk.
Winter’s breathing elongates, eyes drift to vacant.
He pulls back the ice box, not an easy task in his condition.
Blood imprints onto the steel, staining the white, red.
Finally it’s pulled away just enough, a small section is cut out from the brick, a false wall, very small, but big enough for someone to crawl through.
He drops the case behind the ice box, and now he tries to push it back but he’s too weak giving up.
He stumbles along the ice box, then to the wall using anything he can hold to keep him upright.
He pounds up against the door, sucking wind he opens it to the outside. A steep set of stairs lead out to a courtyard surrounded on all four sides by the building.
His tries to move up, his legs rubber, caving half-way, the snowflakes land on him, melting under his body heat, but not for long.
A gust of wind slams the door shut and we sit in this cold cramped place for a beat. The snow drifting in, beginning to surround Winter.
As we gradually pull up, through the creeping darkness and the pouring flakes INTO A SECOND STORY WINDOW -–
To MERRA, sipping a glass of wine, an infant baby curled up next to her on the couch, stares at the television blankly, her eyes heavily medicated.
The place is huge, clean, filled with things that hang on walls and dot the landscape. But lonely
CHASING WINTER -- Contained thriller
After witnessing a brutal execution, a mother and infant son are hunted inside their four-story brownstone, entangled in a terrorist plot during the blizzard of the century.
FADE IN:
EXT. N.Y.C. – DAY
A single snowflake becomes an army falling onto a N.Y.C, PUBLIC WORKS TRUCK as it rolls next to a manhole cover.
The traffic thinned in preparation for the impending snow that already dusts the pavement.
TWO MEN get out, they move quickly, practiced, one of them gets a long metal bar and hooks the man-hole cover pulling it off.
The other grabs a bag from a utility box and descends into the ground, the darkness swallowing him as the cover rattles back into place.
The remaining man puts the bar in the back and piles into the truck and pulls away -- all in under, thirty seconds.
EXT. BROOKLYN BROWNSTONE - DAY
The snow keeps a steady pace, beginning to accumulate. The city reduced to a ghost town, civilians hidden away from the impending blizzard.
When a lone car limps down the road, one head light, its bumper hangs like broken teeth as it waddles toward the building.
As it gets closer the spider-webbed windshield is obvious, bullets holes dot the hood --
It rolls up to the brownstone, this massive L-shaped building squats against the slate sky as the car haphazardly parks at the curb, still running.
It’s blinker pulsates, headlight arcs aimlessly disappearing within the daylight.
INT. CAR - DAY
A man we only know as WINTER, badly beaten, one eye swollen shut, his knuckles deeply purple. He’s hands slide off the wheel and grab --
A BLACK CASE in the passenger’s seat, riddled with bullet holes. He pulls it into his midsection and pops open the door, falling onto the curb.
He gets to his feet, doesn’t bother to shut the door, his shirt damp and red from another bullet hole.
He stumbles into the building –-
INT. BROWNSTONE – DAY
Two ways to go -- up, or the down a long, dark hallway with a door at the end. He picks the door, leaning against the wall for support as he inches down the hall.
This is grueling, blood pin drops to the floor as Winter finally gets to the door, still clutching the case.
He pulls it open to a dark, tight space, his head slumped, his hand cupping his wound as he moves down.
The walls seem to collapse in on him, made of mortar and brick. He loses his footing and tumbles down to the bottom.
The case bounces down the steps and slides into the room. Winter groans, the pain shooting to his head, his blurry vision comes to focus.
He gets to his knees, crawling toward the case. He finds it and somehow musters his strength to get to his feet as he scans the basement –-
It’s huge, with rooms and doors spread throughout. The only light streams in through small street level windows some cracked most covered in a layer of grime.
It’s cluttered and cavernous chucked full of remnants of a hundred tenants. Water heaters hum, plumbing whooshes down rattling pipes creating an eerie symphony.
Winter stumbles ahead, bangs into things, coughing, aching, dying as he maneuvers into a dark nook --
A long ICE BOX stretches the wall, it’s covered in some ancient Halloween garb and junk.
Winter’s breathing elongates, eyes drift to vacant.
He pulls back the ice box, not an easy task in his condition.
Blood imprints onto the steel, staining the white, red.
Finally it’s pulled away just enough, a small section is cut out from the brick, a false wall, very small, but big enough for someone to crawl through.
He drops the case behind the ice box, and now he tries to push it back but he’s too weak giving up.
He stumbles along the ice box, then to the wall using anything he can hold to keep him upright.
He pounds up against the door, sucking wind he opens it to the outside. A steep set of stairs lead out to a courtyard surrounded on all four sides by the building.
His tries to move up, his legs rubber, caving half-way, the snowflakes land on him, melting under his body heat, but not for long.
A gust of wind slams the door shut and we sit in this cold cramped place for a beat. The snow drifting in, beginning to surround Winter.
As we gradually pull up, through the creeping darkness and the pouring flakes INTO A SECOND STORY WINDOW -–
To MERRA, sipping a glass of wine, an infant baby curled up next to her on the couch, stares at the television blankly, her eyes heavily medicated.
The place is huge, clean, filled with things that hang on walls and dot the landscape. But lonely
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