top of page
A spare shelf holds a clock next to a picture of men in suits, seated with a woman in a dress. Both men wear hats. These are Pratchett and Jones. The woman is their gal Friday, Gwen.
Nick picks the phone up, in shadow, and puts it to his ear. His clean-shaven face still drips from the cold water he’s just run over it.
Earth Industries proudly serves up a noir-horror cocktail that's two parts vermouth, one part spleen.
Nick Pratchett's workday often starts with the sound of a phone ringing. "People have loved ones," says Nick. "Loved ones get bit. Then I find 'em. And I put 'em down." And yeah, that's the phone ringing, and there's Nick, about to answer it. But this is no ordinary call. And today is no ordinary day in the life of a zombie detective.
INT. PRATCHETT & JONES OFFICE – late morning
Open with a slow pan around the walls of a dark-wood paneled room that looks like a private eye’s office from the ’30s, hunkered down for a long apocalypse. The windows have thick iron bars. A small amount of dusty light streams in. Firearms hang by the door.
bottom of page