Карл Бистром - 4:17

This text contains multiple references to sex, violence, sexual assault, trauma, and death.

4:17 BEGAN AS A SHORT FILM conceived and created for the 2009 48-Hour Film Project International Shootout (December 2009) by 3T Productions, a small crowd of creative and enthusiastic souls led by director Joon Chang.

After a hectic evening of brainstorming and story development, I frantically typed through the night attempting to capture the best bits in a script. We began shooting at 5:00am the next morning. Thirty-six hours later 4:17 was ‘in the can.’

Film racing is a very collaborative process, so credit for concept, plot, character, and story rightly belongs to the entire cohort of participants.

4:17 harbored far more potential than we could capture with our limited resources over a single weekend. It has been my delight to finally revisit the world with this novella and to discover and follow each character on their individual journey through the collapse of civilization.

If you have ten minutes to spare, I encourage you to watch the original film here—

Still sore from the punch he’d thrown the night before, Trey stretched his fingers wide then clenched them into a tight fist. He didn’t know if the kid’s nose had broken but it felt good to imagine the possibility. He had no patience for belligerent little punks who assumed there were no consequences. There were always consequences.

Okay, maybe the guy didn’t deserve a smack in the face, but he shouldn’t have peed right there on the sidewalk. It’s not like he was homeless or strung out, just a drunk-assed college boy without the grace to hold it for a restroom or even a bush. Trey noticed his shoe dampening in the stream just as the kid turned from the wall, zipping his pants, a big grin plastered across his face.

Consequences.

Trey knew about consequences. His foreman hadn’t called in four days. There was plenty of work; they’d recruited him for the soil delivery at the mini-mall, a complete re-landscaping that could occupy a full team for at least two weeks. Trey figured they didn’t ping him on the second day because they’d have to pick him up. The cops impounded his truck the week before. He wasn’t drunk, just driving with a suspended license. They took the rig anyway, which meant bumming a ride for any piece work.

It also meant he’d have to ignore any calls for the Tree Jesus. Not that anyone ever called. Three months earlier, Trey spun up his own business. He placed a Craigslist ad—“Need to resurrect your garden? Call the Tree Jesus!”—and even set up Twitter and Facebook accounts. The old wheelbarrow and ladder he’d bought from his boss now lay useless in lock up with his other tools in the bed of the truck.

“What’s the problem officer?”

“Unsecured load. Can I see your license please?”

His foreman guffawed when Trey related the tale of the traffic stop. “You’re a piece of work, TJ.”

TJ — Trey Jenkins, Tree Jesus, Tittie Junky, Tail Jumper, Tough Joe.

Total Joke.

Trey wanted a shot. Needed a shot. The craving spiked like an awl just behind his eyes. He shook his head but that just sharpened the pain. If he held still, closed his eyes, and breathed, the jabbing might recede into a dull ache, but he’d lost that level of patience long ago.

He winced a little with each step as he tried to saunter along the all too familiar sidewalk past the afternoon’s iterations of the same old characters. He flashed a wan smile at a twenty-something party girl in fishnets, but she only glared back before stopping to watch a thrift-store-hipster with a soul patch kneel to re-chalk his espresso cart sandwich board. Her fate seemingly hinged on the day’s special. A sidewalk preacher with a head-mic blared about the End Times through a tinny speaker. Everyone avoided his eyes as they walked by. An old woman carrying four grocery bags barreled down the center of the sidewalk forcing the espresso cart dude to stand and move out of her way. He bumped into a toothless homeless guy and didn’t even apologize. Trey stepped behind a group of frat boys waiting at the take-out burger window to let the old lady storm by, then kept walking. All the same people doing all the same things. Middle-aged Total Joke slouching in his hoodie as he shuffled toward the only bar that might spot him a shot of Fireball.

“Hey!” A shout from behind him. “Ugly!”

Trey chuckled to himself. Boys will be boys.

“Yo loser!” The voice got closer. “I’m talking to you.”

Trey turned, curious about the scene, not imagining himself the target of the heckles until he noticed the square of tape stretched across the frat-boy’s nose. The kid from the night before, but this time with three clean-cut, broad-shouldered comrades. Lacrosse or crew, Trey figured.

He didn’t hesitate for a second, jabbed straight for the nose again, but the boy ducked back, real fear on his face, and the others rushed forward. They threw him hard against the brick of a retired bank building, sending a blast of white across his eyes, sharper and longer lasting than his withdrawal pains and exponentially more maddening.

“You’re a dead man!” Trey said, challenging a pair of bright blue eyes. The chiseled young man collapsed in front of him. The two behind him stepped forward, punching his guts. Trey saw only white.

“Charlie?” He heard the concern as he slipped down the wall, his accosters having backed away. Trey’s name wasn’t Charlie, but he’d take the sympathy. His eyes cleared and fell on the three guys hovering over the fourth, still prone on the pavement.

“What did you do to him!” Tape Nose glared at Trey.

What? Trey thought, staring back. ‘ You’re a dead man?’

Tape Nose slumped to the ground.

The other two turned to the second of their fallen bros. “Kyle?” And then to Trey. “Jesus! What did you do?”

“What?” Trey said, then thought: You’re a dead man. You’re a dead man . Meeting their eyes in turn.

They collapsed next to their friends.

Trey laughed out loud.

Was this some kind of wicked blessing? He stood, shooting wary glances to either side. What had he done? Had he just wasted four frat-boys with his mind?

The fishnet girl took out her phone and started filming the kids lying on the ground. Trey pulled up his hood and walked away, fast.

By the time he reached the bar Trey had exercised his new power twice more. He missed a few times before he realized that he needed to meet their eyes. He downed a young woman—probably a whore given her short skirt, belly-button ring, and how she’d held his gaze—gender didn’t matter, calling her a ‘dead man’ worked fine. The other was just a sad old beggar no one would miss.

He left no trace; no scars, no weapons, no fingerprints, nothing. No one could bust him for what went on in his head, even if it did come true. Trey stood tall and his chest swelled with confidence. He was an angel of death—all powerful and totally immune.

You’re a dead man.

You’re a dead man.

He pushed through the heavy swinging door and picked off the lady bartender first, then a guy on a stool. Then another.