View Full Version : Fan Trailer Script

12-20-2013, 08:48 PM
I had free time (I.E. I was bored out of my mind) , so I decided to write a script (I know, it's not an image nor a video... Yet) of how I'd make a 7 Days to Die trailer based on my experience so far, to show my appreciation of the game.

Old man with grey hairs and well-trimmed beard, the very picture of ancient kings, sits in a stone room, writing on a piece of parchment with a quill. Light flickers, screams are heard, and he looks up at the lone wooden on the far wall before going back to writing. Someone is trying to knock down the door.

Voiceover: “Time’s quill is quick to spill its ink onto a new page. I have known true glory in my lifetime, the height of mankind, things that make my own achievement appear trivial, like a sailor, clinging to a piece of wood, remembers the glorious vessel that once held him afloat…”

Scene cuts to a boy, in his late teens/early twenties, holding a 9mm pistol as he pulls cereal boxes off a trashed super-market’s shelves and into his backpack, on the floor. Something moves down the alley and he turns around, centering his weapon’s sights on a mutilated woman’s forehead. She shuffles forward, slowly, and he turns away to further fill his pack before running away.

“I studied architecture when it happened, at the time, I was a liability, more than useless, an outcast. Survival of the fittest…”

In the same super-market, the boy enters the tool section. Everything has been ransacked, all that is left is a single shiny pickaxe, hanging in its place, its price tag reading 24.99$. The boy looks outside; the sun is coming down… Then, he takes the tool and looks at his feet.

“If there is one lesson to learn from history, it’s that the fittest is not always the strongest. Some call me a visionary, a hero. Truth is, I never thought of anything other than survival.”

The boy begins swinging the pickaxe at his feet. Scene cuts to a brown, obviously hand crafted pickaxe hitting and cracking a stone wall. The boy from the super-market, now in his mid twenties and far more muscular, wipes sweat from his brow and swings the tool again. Something hits the rock ceiling, inhuman screams audible through the stone. The man looks deeper into the tunnel, where two others are also digging. He gives them orders and they obey without question.

“Word spread that I could provide shelter, protection. People came, some offering food, some nothing but the strength of their arm and the sweat of their brow. There never was an election, not even a discussion, people flocked to me and I was too weak to turn them away. The sick, the old, the young…”

It’s night, six refugees are running towards the market. One is missing an arm, another has an eye patch, they are all sick and malnourished. Withing the market, they find a stone gateway sealed by an iron door with no way of opening it from their side. A pregnant woman begins hammering the door, looking behind her shoulder at the hordes of undead closing in on them. The narrator is inches away from the door, hand on the handle, eyes screwed shut in apprehension.

“These people’s safety became my responsibility, it fell to me to take the hard decisions, to do what must be done regardless of morality and fear…”

The Cyclops stands at the market’s door and uses a wooden club to smack the first zombie, but is quickly overwhelmed by the horde. The woman turns back to the door and finds it open, the narrator and eight more men standing in line up the stairs. He tells her to move and rush out, pickaxe in hand, to meet the advancing horde. The others follow him without hesitation.

“Sometimes, doing the right thing is the hardest decision of all.”

The scene cuts to a wide, torch lit room filled with wooden beds. On the beds are four soldiers, injured during the previous scene. The narrator, his old pistol in hand, walks up to the first and checks his wounds. Clawing marks, bruises, he squeezes the man’s shoulder and moves on to the next; a bite is obvious on that one’s forearm. The narrator takes the doomed warrior’s hand into his in a solid handshake, they exchange a nod and, with one bullet, the leader makes sure his soldier is not turning.

“No amount of money can buy a man’s devotion, but a single decision can make you a legend.”

Scene cuts to a forge, the blacksmith’s face hidden by a welding mask as he hammers a piece of iron into an axe head and throws it into a bucket already filled with sledge and axe parts. The camera moves through the ceiling, showing a few meters of rock, then dirt and finally a handful of workers, protected by guards with crossbows, cutting down trees.

“More people came, so we dug deeper and further, we established work shifts and guard duties, but man was not made to live underground and the food soon began to run out.”

Cuts to that same stone room, this time filled with fever victims, malnourished and pale as snow. Then switches to a mushroom farm with penned pigs in the background.

“The Earth had sheltered us from the horrors of the surface, but it was this safety, the sun’s absence, that slowly killed us…”

Scene switches to the gateway. The market is gone, scavenged in its entirety. Undead shuffle around the construction, sniffing the air and looking around wildly. In the background, over the horizon, the sun rises, casting orange rays across the now barren landscape.

“The infection hit us from within, caught us off guard in our weakest moment…”

The door cracks open.

“We hit it from beneath when it least expected it.”

The narrator, now clad in chain mail and armour plates, slams the door open. He is older now, his temples growing grey and wrinkles spreading from his eyes. A zombified police officer lunges at him and he kicks it away, into the horde where it explodes in a gory mess. Another infected, burnt beyond recognition, attacks from the side, but another man, just as heavily armoured, splits its skull with his axe.

“Rome was not built in a day, as they say…”

Beyond, holes open in the earth and people of every age and gender, armed with guns, crossbows and sticks, emerge to flank the distracted hordes. Behind them, unarmed workers carrying stones, cement and tools rush out. Some dig trenches while others jump in the newly created holes where they are handed down stones, which they set down hastily before reaching for another.

“But the Romans had all the time in the world. We did not.”

Scene cuts to night time. There is now a wall, three meters high, fencing off a large part of the wasteland. Flimsy guard towers rise every fifteen meters, at least four men with crossbows manning each one. Not two seconds pass between shots as they ward off the endless undead armies. Within the walls, a construction site, lit up by torches and a few flash lights, rises around the old gateway, workers scurrying around like ants.

“You can’t build a castle in a week on the first try, not unless you’re obsessed with medieval architecture…”

Time speeds up, the castle rises, four towers, a keep and a central tower standing tall above the others.

“I certainly never asked anyone to call me Lord or Your highness…”

Camera zooms in into the central tower, where the narrator, now the old man from the beginning, leans over a hand drawn map of Colorado.

“But people need a leader, someone to take responsibility, to blame when things go wrong and whine to when things are fine.”

He puts his finger on a small town and the scene cuts to armoured knights battling a disorganised militia in the streets, knocking down doors and dragging people out.

“Not everyone agreed to join us, some tried to resist, believed they would be better off on their own…”

Back in the castle, three men and a women stand on a stage, nooses around their necks, as a crier proclaims their sentence. With a motion of his arm, trap doors open and all four are seen falling. Just before they reach the end of their fall, the scene cuts back to the small, town, lawn turned to farms under the vigilance of knights, a stone wall now protecting the inhabitants.

“Perhaps they were right, but this is not about them, it is not about me, it’s about survival, it is the only thing that has ever motivated me. Mankind’s survival. If a few must lose their freedom in order for many to live, then so be it…”

The old king looks up at the door, a large crack now runs down the middle.

“Judgement has been passed.”

Camera switches to the city that now grows in the castle’s shadow. Riots and fires rage through the streets.

“Men unused to the burden of responsibility, unable to grasp the stakes at play here, have decided they could do better, that I must be executed for my crimes…” Tone grows angry as he looks at the door again, his blue eyes narrowing in a cold glare, “I never asked for any of this, you people came to me for protection, you trusted my judgment for years and I never once led you astray. With my guidance, we could have reclaimed our world, our children could have rebuilt the glory that was once ours and be forever free of tyrants such as myself… You want this freedom for yourself, right now, no matter the cost, even if it destroys all we have worked so hard to achieve… Fair enough;” Narrator looks at camera just as the door breaks, and says.

“Let’s see you do better.”