As Holden raises his eyebrows and Jules rolls her eyes, Marty hops in, calling out . . .
MARTY: Dana, you fetching minx! You have any food?
In the van a bit later: The key is turned, the gas stepped on. Curt looks in the rear view at his peeps.
CURT: Everybody ready?
JULES: Yeah!
CURT: Yeah?
MARTY: Okay, I'm ready!
CURT: Let's get this show on the road!
From up high, we see the Rambler rolling off into the distance. Our view swoops up to watch it go, where we now see the roof. A man in a Clean Room suit stands silently, then speaks into his earpiece.
CLEAN MAN: Nest is empty. We're right on time.
The Rambler: It trucks along an old road, nothing but brush visible. The gang is in mid-ride, clearly a couple hours in. Curt is still driving. Jules, riding shotgun, is checking the GPS. Marty sits at the little table, cautiously rolling an elegant row of joints. Dana sits with him, Holden in the bathroom with the door open, where they've stashed a keg. He's filling three cups.
JULES: I hope this is the right road. It doesn't even show up on the GPS. It is unworthy of global positioning.
MARTY: That's the whole point. Get off the grid, right? No cell phone reception, no traffic cameras. Go someplace for one goddamn weekend where they can't.... globally position my ass, man. This is the whole issue.
JULES: Is society crumbling, Marty?
MARTY: No. Society is binding. Right? It's filling in the cracks with concrete. Everything's filed or recorded or blogged, right? Chips in our kids' heads so they won't get lost. Society needs to crumble. We're all just too chicken-shit to let it.
JULES: I've missed your rants.
He grins at her, holding up a gorgeous joint.
MARTY: You will come to see things my way.
We cut back to the previously seen facility: A thick metal door (not vault-sized, but impressive) wheezes open, a military guard standing behind it. His name is Daniel Truman, and his exact military affiliation is unclear. He is uptight, exacting, and pretty new at all this.
TRUMAN: Identification, please.
Sitterson and Hadley pull off their badges and hand them to Truman. He confirms . . .
TRUMAN: Mr. Sitterson. . . . Mr. Hadley.
The control room consists of tables with built-in monitors and phones. Behind is a wonderland of screens, switches, and dials, with two rolling chairs for Sitterson and Hadley to move about in. On the far wall are three big screens. The place resembles a movie mixing stage, or a tiny Houston Control.
HADLEY: Thank you. What's your name?
TRUMAN: Daniel Truman, sir.
HADLEY: This isn't the military. You can drop the "sir". But Sitterson does like to be called "ma'am."
SITTERSON: Or "honey toes."
HADLEY: He'll also answer to "honey toes." You clear on what's gonna be happening here?
TRUMAN: I've been prepped. Extensively.
HADLEY: Did they tell you that being prepped is not the same as being prepared?
TRUMAN: They told me. I'll hold my post, Mr. Hadley.
HADLEY: Good man.
They hit a bank of switches that audibly powers up the control room. Hadley crosses to his chair and starts flipping switches. Sitterson is alrady entering data into a computer, locking and testing knobs and levers. He rolls to another bank of controls, flips the cover off a row of buttons.
SITTERSON: Okay. System's online.
HADLEY: Acquiring target. Let's see what we got.
The screens all blink to life, their light brightening the dim room.
The group is close to the cabin when they stop for gas and directions. It is as decrepit and abandoned looking as it can be. An old pump squats in front of a monument of rust, windows clouded with grime. From inside through the windows, we see the Rambler pull up. The inside of this place doesn't look any more inviting than the outside. Once upon a time things were fixed and goods were sold in here, but not of late.
The kids pile out, stretching, looking about. Curt and Marty examine the pump.
CURT: I'm thinking this thing doesn't take credit cards.
MARTY: I don't think it knows about money. I think it's barter gas.
Curt moves a pace to see if anyone is around. Holden goes inside, moving slowly toward the back.
CURT: Hello? Hey, Holden. . . Holden!
But no reply. Holden keeps walking, glancing over the variety of bizarre (and some morbid) oddities.
HOLDEN: I don't think there's gonna be . . .
The attendant fills the doorway, having come around from the outside. He speaks as he appears, he is known as Mordecai. Holdens jumps from being startled.
MORDECAI: You come here uninvited?
HOLDEN: Fuck!
Mordecai is old, weathered, and creepy as hell, one eyeball is hideously red, tobacco chaw spills over his stained lips, and he carries a permanent scowl of disgust.
MORDECAI: Sign says "closed."
Curt is making his way over to him, Marty judiciously hanging back.
CURT: Yeah, we were looking to buy some gas. Does this pump work?
MORDECAI: If you know how to work it.
But he doesn't move to help. The girls come around, no more anxious to get close once they've seen him than Marty was.
CURT: We also wanted to get directions. We're looking for.... What's it called?
JULES: Tillerman Road. Do you know if it's this way?
Mordecai looks at her, the name registering. She kind of wriggles under his gaze. He starts ambling toward the pump.
MORDECAI: Tillerman Road takes you up the hill, there. Dead-ends at the old Buckner place.
Mordecai sticks the nozzle in the Rambler's gas tank opening. The numbers on the pump start going up manually (like they used to back when), but creak to a stop almost immediately.
CURT: My cousin bought a house up there. You go through a mountain tunnel, there's a lake. Would that be the . . .
MORDECAI: Buckner place. Always someone looking to sell that plot.
JULES: You knew the original owners?
MORDECAI: Yeah, not the first. I seen plenty come and go. Hell, I been here since the war.
JULES: Which war?
MORDECAI: You know damn well which war!
She takes a step back, freaked.
MARTY: Would that have been with the blue and some in gray? Brother, perhaps, fighting against brother in that war?
MORDECAI: You sassing me, boy?
MARTY: You were rude to my friend.
Mordecai stops for a second, not expecting this guy to have come back at him. He glances at Jules and mutters . . .
MORDECAI: That whore?
CURT: What'd you say?
Curt is about to clock him, but Holden puts a hand into Curt's chest, steps forward.
HOLDEN: I think we got enough gas.
MORDECAI: You got enough to get you there. Getting back, that's your concern.
Curt contemptuously throws a twenty at the guy's feet.
MARTY: Well, good luck with your business, sir. I know the railroad's coming through here any day, now. That's gonna be big. Streets paved with actual street. . . . . . . Fucker.
Everyone gets back into the RV. The Rambler's tire spins in the dirt and takes the heap right out of there, cruising down the road. Mordecai watches, spits chaw. Watches. An aerial view shows the Rambler as it winds through an endless expanse of Firs, finally consumed by them. The Rambler comes up to the side of a steep drop-off. Jules, in the passenger seat smiling. . .
JULES: Guys, take a look.
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