"Evil Dead: The Series" Episode 16.5
"New Year's Eve of Destruction"
By: OmarSnake
Somewhere in Mesopotamia.
January 1, 2000... barely.
The helicopter descended on the archeological dig, kicking up clouds of dirt and startling some of the scientists who had been lost in their work.
By the time the copter set down on the ground, Professor Genevieve Thoreau had been roused from her sleep. She was a boney little woman, 70-some years old and short, with her white hair pulled back in a bun, but her eyes were as vibrant and inquisitive as a child's. She adjusted her glasses and stared at the helicopter. Beside her stood a strapping, ruggedly handsome man who seemed out of place among the other scientists, almost like someone out of an adventure fiction. His name was Chance Mackenzie, and he had shoulder-length blond hair and chiseled good looks.
"They weren't due yet, were they?" Thoreau asked.
"Not by a long shot," Mackenzie replied, his accent faintly Welsh.
The doors of the copter slid open; three men emerged.
Leading the group was Newton Fisk, his necktie flapping in the wind generated by the copter blades. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and ducked more than he really needed to as he walked under the spinning blades. Beside him, walking more confidently under the blades, was a lanky young man with wavy black hair, also clad in a dark suit and wearing sunglasses.
"Doctor Thoreau!" he yelled as he came up to her, extending a hand. Thoreau shook it, more firmly than Fisk had expected from such an old woman.
"What brings you here, Mister Fisk?" Thoreau asked, trying to hide her annoyance as the group made their ways toward a row of tents.
"I've been sent to find out the status of the dig!"
"No need to yell, Mister Fisk," Thoreau said wearily as they walked into the main tent. "We're far enough away from the contraption, and my hearing is fine as ever."
"Sorry. Anyhow, Mister Szabo wanted to find out if you'd had any luck with the search..."
Thoreau rolled her eyes. "Trust me, if I HAD I would have let him know. Lord knows he's thrown enough money our way..."
Fisk nodded. "Well, you know our time frame."
Thoreau grunted. "Archeology doesn't obey 'time frames', Mr. Fisk. On one dig, you'd be lucky to find an arrowhead; on another, just a few hundred yards away, you might find a lost city of gold." She eyed the young man beside Fisk. "Who's this, by the way?"
"Tyler Wilcox," the young man replied eagerly. "I'm here to provide any assistance."
"He's a gofer," Fisk said flatly. "Now, although I understand that whole 'archeology doesn't obey time frames' rigamarole, let me remind you that if we don't have the sheath by May, Mr. Szabo will be forced to pull the funding."
Thoreau sighed wearily. "Yes, yes, I know. Don't worry, Mr. Fisk, we have plenty of people working on this. We've found the site of an ancient battle, it may prove fruitful."
"If you need more hands, I can arrange that," Tyler Wilcox offered.
Thoreau eyed him. "I can too, young man," she said. "I'm not incompetent, you realize. I CAN go into town and pay for more diggers if I need them."
"Yes, ma'am, I didn't---"
"Whatever you say," she interrupted. "Now, much as I appreciate these interruptions, I do have work to do. Chance can show you what we've dug up so far, and give you a tour of the site so you'll have something to report back to Mr. Szabo."
She spun and left the tent. Fisk and Wilcox exchanged glances, and Fisk shrugged.
"Well, this was a collosal waste of time, wasn't it?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk arched an eyebrow. "The boss sent us on a mission. If he wants me to stand in a corner all day whistling 'Sweet Home Alabama', I get paid same as ever."
"But why bother? He could have just called that foul-tempered little witch and gotten the same information."
"That 'foul-tempered little witch' is one of the most brilliant minds in archeology," Fisk replied. "You have to expect certain eccentricities."
Wilcox crossed his arms. "Should be more grateful, with all the money the corporation has given her."
"Mr. Z has little use for bootlickers," Fisk replied. "You'll learn that, if you stay with the company long enough."
They stood silently for a long moment.
"So what's the story with this sheath, anyhow?" Wilcox asked. "And what's so important about May?"
"Mr. Z also has little use for people who ask too many questions," Fisk replied. "Trust me on that, you'll be much better off in the long run."
Wilcox considered this. "You know, don't you?"
Fisk nodded.
"But you won't tell me? Even off the record?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk shook his head no.
"Well, dammit, how can I do my best work if I don't even know the company's goals?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk rolled his eyes. "You're better off not knowing," he said. "Shit, I wish I didn't know."
December 31, 1999.
11:50 p.m. Eastern time.
New York, New York
The celebration on the streets below could be heard even from high in the GlobeCo Building.
Lajos Szabo watched the crowds from an unlit balcony on the top floor. His daytime offices were located in the sub-basement of the building, but he had secondary offices here at the top of the gleaming skyscraper.
As usual, his features were indistinct, hidden in shadows from the small hanging gardens he had built on the roof years ago. He tended carefully for the plants here, some of which were unknown to modern botany; it gave him a place for quiet reflection, something he prized more than he would ever admit.
A door slid open behind him. He did not look back.
"Reports from our European offices, Oracle?" he asked.
"Several hours in and no 'Y2K' bugs to speak of," Oracle replied. She wore a form-fitting, elegant silverish evening dress, a pearl necklace, and her standard sunglasses. "It seems that the whole concern over this was unjustified."
"Of course it was," Szabo replied, lifting a goblet he had been resting on the railing of the balcony and taking a long sip of the dark red liquid. "One thing you will learn, if you watch humanity long enough, is that they adore nothing more than getting worked up over nonsense."
"Yes, sir," Oracle said.
"Have we heard from Fisk?" Szabo asked.
"He's still in Mesopotamia, trying to figure out if the archeologists have found the sheath or not," Oracle replied. "He said that Professor Thoreau was being her usual problematic self."
"Adorable little woman," Szabo said, almost -- but not quite -- warmly.
"Fisk also reports that Mr. Wilcox is asking intrusive questions," Oracle said. "I told you he might be a problem."
"His nosiness may prove handy," Szabo said. "Keep your eye on him, and let's see how much he can uncover. It will be a good test of our internal security."
"Yes sir."
"Any details from Thoreau's dig?"
"They apparently dug up a battlefield, and there are numerous weapons- related artifacts---"
"Will the sheath turn out to be one of them?" Szabo interrupted.
Oracle paused, concentrating, and a glow came from one eye beneath the sunglasses. "I think not," she said. "But it is near them, and will be found soon, I think..."
"Before our deadline?" Szabo asked.
Oracle concentrated again. "Unclear. I hope so, for your sake."
"And for yours?" Szabo asked, taking another sip of the dark liquid.
"I have tied my fate to yours, Lajos," Oracle replied matter-of-factly. "What works out well for you should benefit me as well, though more indirectly of course."
"Actually, I was the one who tied your fate to mine," Szabo replied. "And you're aware of that. The past few weeks you've seemed contemplative... not having second thoughts, are you?"
Oracle shook her head no. "I doubt I could hide them from you if I did," she said.
"But you have thought about how much you'd like to have never become involved in all this to begin with," Szabo said.
"It is a huge burden," Oracle admitted.
"But, as someone... I think it was me... once wrote, the ends do justify the means," Szabo replied, taking a final sip of the liquid.
"True," Oracle said. "So, how do the crowds look tonight?"
Szabo glanced down the impossibly long distance at the crowds below. "Drunk, giddy, anxious. Ah, I see Belworth from accounting down there, nibbling on the neck of some floozy."
"It's an event worth celebrating," Oracle said.
"What? That an arbitrarily-designed and problematic calendar is about to turn over another cycle?" Szabo asked. "I suppose, if they are looking for something to celebrate in their drab little lives, it's as good as anything."
Oracle joined him on the edge of the railing and looked down at the crowds below, which to her were a blur.
"Not getting in the Millennium Spirit, Lajos?" She asked, almost teasingly.
"It's hard to care that much, when I've seen so many before," Szabo replied with a sigh. "And, if this plan comes through, I can look forward to seeing more." He glanced over at Oracle. "Who knows, perhaps I will bring you along 'for the ride,' as they say."
Oracle almost shuddered at the thought, but remained silent.
"New Year's Eve of Destruction"
By: OmarSnake
Somewhere in Mesopotamia.
January 1, 2000... barely.
The helicopter descended on the archeological dig, kicking up clouds of dirt and startling some of the scientists who had been lost in their work.
By the time the copter set down on the ground, Professor Genevieve Thoreau had been roused from her sleep. She was a boney little woman, 70-some years old and short, with her white hair pulled back in a bun, but her eyes were as vibrant and inquisitive as a child's. She adjusted her glasses and stared at the helicopter. Beside her stood a strapping, ruggedly handsome man who seemed out of place among the other scientists, almost like someone out of an adventure fiction. His name was Chance Mackenzie, and he had shoulder-length blond hair and chiseled good looks.
"They weren't due yet, were they?" Thoreau asked.
"Not by a long shot," Mackenzie replied, his accent faintly Welsh.
The doors of the copter slid open; three men emerged.
Leading the group was Newton Fisk, his necktie flapping in the wind generated by the copter blades. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and ducked more than he really needed to as he walked under the spinning blades. Beside him, walking more confidently under the blades, was a lanky young man with wavy black hair, also clad in a dark suit and wearing sunglasses.
"Doctor Thoreau!" he yelled as he came up to her, extending a hand. Thoreau shook it, more firmly than Fisk had expected from such an old woman.
"What brings you here, Mister Fisk?" Thoreau asked, trying to hide her annoyance as the group made their ways toward a row of tents.
"I've been sent to find out the status of the dig!"
"No need to yell, Mister Fisk," Thoreau said wearily as they walked into the main tent. "We're far enough away from the contraption, and my hearing is fine as ever."
"Sorry. Anyhow, Mister Szabo wanted to find out if you'd had any luck with the search..."
Thoreau rolled her eyes. "Trust me, if I HAD I would have let him know. Lord knows he's thrown enough money our way..."
Fisk nodded. "Well, you know our time frame."
Thoreau grunted. "Archeology doesn't obey 'time frames', Mr. Fisk. On one dig, you'd be lucky to find an arrowhead; on another, just a few hundred yards away, you might find a lost city of gold." She eyed the young man beside Fisk. "Who's this, by the way?"
"Tyler Wilcox," the young man replied eagerly. "I'm here to provide any assistance."
"He's a gofer," Fisk said flatly. "Now, although I understand that whole 'archeology doesn't obey time frames' rigamarole, let me remind you that if we don't have the sheath by May, Mr. Szabo will be forced to pull the funding."
Thoreau sighed wearily. "Yes, yes, I know. Don't worry, Mr. Fisk, we have plenty of people working on this. We've found the site of an ancient battle, it may prove fruitful."
"If you need more hands, I can arrange that," Tyler Wilcox offered.
Thoreau eyed him. "I can too, young man," she said. "I'm not incompetent, you realize. I CAN go into town and pay for more diggers if I need them."
"Yes, ma'am, I didn't---"
"Whatever you say," she interrupted. "Now, much as I appreciate these interruptions, I do have work to do. Chance can show you what we've dug up so far, and give you a tour of the site so you'll have something to report back to Mr. Szabo."
She spun and left the tent. Fisk and Wilcox exchanged glances, and Fisk shrugged.
"Well, this was a collosal waste of time, wasn't it?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk arched an eyebrow. "The boss sent us on a mission. If he wants me to stand in a corner all day whistling 'Sweet Home Alabama', I get paid same as ever."
"But why bother? He could have just called that foul-tempered little witch and gotten the same information."
"That 'foul-tempered little witch' is one of the most brilliant minds in archeology," Fisk replied. "You have to expect certain eccentricities."
Wilcox crossed his arms. "Should be more grateful, with all the money the corporation has given her."
"Mr. Z has little use for bootlickers," Fisk replied. "You'll learn that, if you stay with the company long enough."
They stood silently for a long moment.
"So what's the story with this sheath, anyhow?" Wilcox asked. "And what's so important about May?"
"Mr. Z also has little use for people who ask too many questions," Fisk replied. "Trust me on that, you'll be much better off in the long run."
Wilcox considered this. "You know, don't you?"
Fisk nodded.
"But you won't tell me? Even off the record?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk shook his head no.
"Well, dammit, how can I do my best work if I don't even know the company's goals?" Wilcox asked.
Fisk rolled his eyes. "You're better off not knowing," he said. "Shit, I wish I didn't know."
December 31, 1999.
11:50 p.m. Eastern time.
New York, New York
The celebration on the streets below could be heard even from high in the GlobeCo Building.
Lajos Szabo watched the crowds from an unlit balcony on the top floor. His daytime offices were located in the sub-basement of the building, but he had secondary offices here at the top of the gleaming skyscraper.
As usual, his features were indistinct, hidden in shadows from the small hanging gardens he had built on the roof years ago. He tended carefully for the plants here, some of which were unknown to modern botany; it gave him a place for quiet reflection, something he prized more than he would ever admit.
A door slid open behind him. He did not look back.
"Reports from our European offices, Oracle?" he asked.
"Several hours in and no 'Y2K' bugs to speak of," Oracle replied. She wore a form-fitting, elegant silverish evening dress, a pearl necklace, and her standard sunglasses. "It seems that the whole concern over this was unjustified."
"Of course it was," Szabo replied, lifting a goblet he had been resting on the railing of the balcony and taking a long sip of the dark red liquid. "One thing you will learn, if you watch humanity long enough, is that they adore nothing more than getting worked up over nonsense."
"Yes, sir," Oracle said.
"Have we heard from Fisk?" Szabo asked.
"He's still in Mesopotamia, trying to figure out if the archeologists have found the sheath or not," Oracle replied. "He said that Professor Thoreau was being her usual problematic self."
"Adorable little woman," Szabo said, almost -- but not quite -- warmly.
"Fisk also reports that Mr. Wilcox is asking intrusive questions," Oracle said. "I told you he might be a problem."
"His nosiness may prove handy," Szabo said. "Keep your eye on him, and let's see how much he can uncover. It will be a good test of our internal security."
"Yes sir."
"Any details from Thoreau's dig?"
"They apparently dug up a battlefield, and there are numerous weapons- related artifacts---"
"Will the sheath turn out to be one of them?" Szabo interrupted.
Oracle paused, concentrating, and a glow came from one eye beneath the sunglasses. "I think not," she said. "But it is near them, and will be found soon, I think..."
"Before our deadline?" Szabo asked.
Oracle concentrated again. "Unclear. I hope so, for your sake."
"And for yours?" Szabo asked, taking another sip of the dark liquid.
"I have tied my fate to yours, Lajos," Oracle replied matter-of-factly. "What works out well for you should benefit me as well, though more indirectly of course."
"Actually, I was the one who tied your fate to mine," Szabo replied. "And you're aware of that. The past few weeks you've seemed contemplative... not having second thoughts, are you?"
Oracle shook her head no. "I doubt I could hide them from you if I did," she said.
"But you have thought about how much you'd like to have never become involved in all this to begin with," Szabo said.
"It is a huge burden," Oracle admitted.
"But, as someone... I think it was me... once wrote, the ends do justify the means," Szabo replied, taking a final sip of the liquid.
"True," Oracle said. "So, how do the crowds look tonight?"
Szabo glanced down the impossibly long distance at the crowds below. "Drunk, giddy, anxious. Ah, I see Belworth from accounting down there, nibbling on the neck of some floozy."
"It's an event worth celebrating," Oracle said.
"What? That an arbitrarily-designed and problematic calendar is about to turn over another cycle?" Szabo asked. "I suppose, if they are looking for something to celebrate in their drab little lives, it's as good as anything."
Oracle joined him on the edge of the railing and looked down at the crowds below, which to her were a blur.
"Not getting in the Millennium Spirit, Lajos?" She asked, almost teasingly.
"It's hard to care that much, when I've seen so many before," Szabo replied with a sigh. "And, if this plan comes through, I can look forward to seeing more." He glanced over at Oracle. "Who knows, perhaps I will bring you along 'for the ride,' as they say."
Oracle almost shuddered at the thought, but remained silent.