All language subtitles for Tremors.5.Bloodlines.2015.1080p.BluRay.x265-RARBGG

My name is Burt Gummer.
And I've been called many things.

Gun enthusiast, monster-hunter,
doomsday-prepper.

I reject all these labels.

What I am is a survivalist.

I've scoured the dirt and dust
of Nevada and Mexico,

putting my life on the line to hunt
super-size subterranean

man-eating predators called Graboids.

Using a combination of local knowledge,
intuition and firepower,

I've managed to control
this deadly species,

and keep them confined
to the Northern Hemisphere.

Join me.

As I enter into and beneath
the Sands of Hell.

1500 hours. Moving through
the desert of Perfection, Nevada.

Ground zero for war with the Graboids.

For those of you newcomers,
who don't have a clue about Graboids,

let me bring you up to speed.

The Graboid is a vicious
subterranean predator,

about 30 feet in length
with a semi-rigid internal structure.

It senses its prey seismically,

and employs three powerful,
snake-like oral tentacles

to ensnare its prey,
and pull it into the Graboid's gullet.

It is not a pleasant venue.

Trust me. I've been there.

If that weren't enough,
Graboids give birth

to three ugly spawn we call Shriekers.

Short, squat, and blind bipedal bad boys

that sense and hunt their prey
using infrared sensors.

These, in turn,
give rise to the Ass Blaster,

a winged, predatory carnivore

which uses a mixture
of volatile chemicals in its...

...nether regions

to blast into the air
and swoop down upon its victims.

Ass Blasters carry eggs that hatch
and become new Graboids,

beginning this hellish cycle anew.

I have survived a great many
skirmishes with Graboids,

along with their Shrieker
and Ass Blaster kin.

And that makes me uniquely qualified

to teach you how to survive
whatever life throws at you.

And remember, life and survival

starts here.

Who's hungry?

What're you doing?

Shut your blow hole.

I'm tracking.

You feel that?

The only thing you're gonna feel
is my boot in your bum.

Yeah, good luck,
with that gimp leg of yours.

This place is gut boring.

Yeah. And I'm tired, and I'm starving.

And the only thing we've seen all day
is a pack of spotted hyena.

Yeah, it's just the nature
of things, boet.

Yeah, well, talking about nature,

I'm gonna drop the kids off at the pool.

Looking northwest, over the Highveld.

All those reports about exotic animals,
there's no wildlife here.

Well, speaking of wildlife, I wonder
if my wife's gonna come back to me.

If she's got brains, definitely not.

You're a complete and utter idiot.

I mean, I'm hurting here. I'm in pain.

And you mock me.

Basson. You hear that?

I didn't hear anything.
I'm in conference.

It's right here. Here, here, here, here.

Whoa! Whoa!

Basson?

Dreyer!

That's a long drop.

Didn't you see this gigantic hole?

I think I broke my butt.

I'm gonna grab a rope.

Bro!

I'm coming, man, relax.

- Basson?
- Yeah?

I'm gonna throw this rope down.

You grab onto it,
I'm gonna pull you up, all right?

Hurry up. There's something down here.

Okay, grab the rope.

Get me out of here,
there's something down here.

Just get me out of here.

Yeah, probably my ex-wife, Teresa.

Pull!

Yeah, just help me out man, come on.

You need to lose some weight.

Get me out of here. I'm pissing myself.

Basson!

Basson!

Whoo!

107 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hello, Nevada.

Oh, yeah.

Everything tastes better outdoors.

However, if one wants to enjoy
a source of sustenance out here,

one has to seize the culinary initiative

when it rears its ugly head.

So, let's review.

It took me 50 minutes to build
this improvised clay oven.

Thirty-two minutes to
fire up the scrub wood,

heat the interior,

feed in that snake and seal the door.

Now we wait as this little baby

turns snake into snack.

Whoa!

That's hot!

Ah!

And voilá!

One sizzling, succulent
piece of pure protein.

Whoo!

And you can bet that Burt's Bullseye
Brand Cactus Juice Marinade

will eradicate any trace of that

"tastes like chicken" residue.

Who the hell are you?

Yowza!

Smells like chicken.

There he is. Huh?

The man, the myth, the legend.

Burt effing Gummer. Travis B. Welker.

Sorry, sir. I should've told you that.

Don't mean to be all stalkery,
but I've been a big fan of yours

since your Y2K conspiracy series.

Well, I guess that's a wrap.

Maintain position, Riley.
It's not Miller Time, yet.

He's all yours, buddy boy.

Your gear's piled over there.

- And thanks for the Vegas gig.
- What Vegas gig?

The Real Housewives of Las Vegas.

You can't just adiós on me!

It's a union gig,
pension and health. So...

That is your new camera guy,

and, well, he comes highly recommended.

Lots of time in the eyepiece.

You're officially AWOL, mister.

So, I take it he didn't
give you my resume?

All right, I got something for you here.

This is called a digital file.

It's gonna speak to my
awesome capabilities.

Kind of wish your website could do
the same for you, but I can help.

I beg your pardon?

I'm a big fan. You know,
possibly your biggest.

But the fact that you're out here
in Who-The-Hell-Cares, Nevada,

smokin' rattlesnake says something.

You know what it says?

It says you're underachieving
big time, my man.

You should be a global brand. Come on!

I mean, how many monster-hunters
do you know? Huh?

I know one. Burt Gummer.

Last check, how many Twitter
followers did you have, huh?

Zilch.

Your opinion is duly noted.

It's what I'm here for.
To help build out the Burt Gummer brand.

I'm thinking, "Paranoid loner
meets charming whack job."

I can fix you.

I don't need fixing.

Yo, what happened to your dome, my man?

You binge watch Breaking Bad, again?

You trying to appeal to a younger
demographic, get a little Pitbull on us?

What I choose to do with my cranium
is none of your business.

All right.

This is snake, right, not rat?

Whoa!

That is a win.
That's a yummer from The Gummer.

You know what, you look
like you could use a cold one.

I know I can. You want?

Hey, I think we're vibing right now,
right, Pop? You feel it?

It's good talk. Where's your beer?

Hey.

Hands off my gear.

Lighten up, Pops.

You from the government?

Nope. Florida.

Grew up on the Gulf Coast.

Panama City, Trampa, Pensacola.

- Pensacola?
- Yeah.

They got a great gun show.

Yeah, right off the Interstate.

I was there in '74.

You got that look.

What look?

The "I did some dirty
things in Florida" look.

Hey, I get it. It was the '70s,
free love, you were young.

What now?

Looks like the IRS finally
caught up with you.

Mr. Gummer. Mr. Gummer.

You are way off grid, sir,
you're a very difficult man to find.

Evidently, not difficult enough.

I am Erich Van Wyk.

I'm with the South
African Wildlife Ministry.

South Africa? You with the government?

What? No, no. I'm a big fan of yours.

Go on.

Well, we have a rather pressing
situation in Gauteng.

Gauteng. The Cradle of Humankind?

Yes, that's right.

We have a confirmed sighting of what
you would refer to as an Ass Blaster.

That's impossible.
The species are confined

to the Northern Hemisphere.

Oh, well, then, I suppose
it's some other flying carnivore

that shoots flame out of its rear end
that we have wreaking havoc in Africa?

Is this a confirmed sighting?

Oh, yes, sir. Although the witness
is no longer alive.

- When do we leave?
- Excellent.

Slow your roll, there, Gums. Okay.

You're quite the fetching bushman,
Mr. Van Dick.

It's Van Wyk.

Van Wyk, right, okay. Um...

Mr. Gummer really isn't
in the monster business, anymore.

I'm what?

Give us a minute, will you?

What the hell are you doin'?

I'm working this dude for some paper.

Paper?

Cash. Listen.

You don't take the first offer.
Let me close this deal.

Request denied. I work alone.

Come on, but you need
a videographer, okay?

You need to take
the long view on this, okay?

Think about it. The Gummer in Africa.

This is our chance to catch you
on tape really doing what you do,

and really giving it
to those Ass Blasters.

Okay, that came out weird,
but you know what I mean, right?

This is real world, son.
You're a newbie.

Newbie?

Okay, stop being Burt for a second,
and just listen.

I may have not spent most of my life
fighting giant, blind worms,

but I spent the last 10 years
of my life deep in the shit.

Pulling gigs for CNN
and Fox in the sandbox.

Yeah, Afghanistan, Syria.
You know those places?

Yeah.

And as for firearms,

I just added this baby to my collection.

HK 91.

- Where'd you get that?
- Uh-uh-uh!

You punch my ticket to South Africa,

and will I hand over this beautiful,
semi-automatic Mr. Shotty to you.

Deal.

Erich. May I call you Erich?

Of course.

We really appreciate your offer,

but Mr. Gummer's monster-hunting
schedule's all booked up.

Sorry.

Oh, uh... That's a pity.

Bigfoot in the Ozarks.

Possible gremlin in Fresno.

Family of werewolves
in Peru we heard about.

Thank you for your time, gentlemen.

I don't suppose it
would make any difference

if I offered to fully fund

Mr. Gummer's videos
for the next two years?

Four.

Three.

What time does your plane leave?

How quickly can you roll your tents?

Rolled.

Burt Gummer. In Africa.

Africa's not for sissies, yeah?

We eat what we kill here, boet.

You mind if I call you boet?

Boet?

Yeah. It means brother.

So, you're the monster-hunter?

Yeah, somethin' like that.

This doesn't look like
any Ass Blaster I've ever seen.

- Strange attraction.
- Come again?

A man who hunts a monster.
It's a strange attraction.

Mr. Bravers, are you drunk?

Not yet.

Mr. Gummer?

We're heading for a safari lodge,
just south of the river.

The owner's been kind enough
to let us base our operations there.

Hey, where's my bug-out bag
and the weapons I brought from home?

About that.

We have very strict customs laws
here in South Africa.

I should have warned you about
the three-day weapons quarantine.

Three-day what?

Don't worry about it.
I've procured us some weapons.

They're waiting for us at the lodge.

There, there it is, there, there.

Nice digs, Van Dyke.

It's Van Wyk.

- Hey, boet.
- Yeah?

I got a story for you.

Every morning in Africa,
a gazelle wakes up.

And he knows he's gotta run
faster than the fastest lion,

otherwise...

He gets killed.

Every morning, a lion wakes up.

And he knows he's gotta outrun
the slowest gazelle,

otherwise he's gonna starve to death.

So, it doesn't matter if you are
a lion or you're a gazelle,

in Africa, when the sun rises,
you better be running.

Hey, if you need my help,
call me on the horn.

Mmm.

- Now, you go well, boet.
- Thank you.

Chop-chop, Pops.

Stop calling me "Pops."

Got you.

Old man.

And we're clear!

What? I don't understand.

This is a seismic vibration monitor.

It's uplinked to the South African
National Grid of Seismology

and can detect Graboid movement
within a 50 square-mile area.

Next level type stuff.

Graboid? Worms?

Exactly.

This is Johan Dreyer.

He's my local field representative
and a safari guide in the area.

He's the one who witnessed
the fatal attack.

That's right.

And this towering hunk of dark chocolate
is my assistant, Thaba.

That's quite a gun you got there.

Rifle.

Bet it makes you feel like
you got a lot of power.

I can drop a charging
rhino at 100 meters.

You wanna go for a run?

How's life in the Thunderdome?

Well, you wouldn't know
what a rhino looked like

if it shoved its horn
through your throat.

Graboids and Ass Blasters are immune
to any known form of tranquilizer,

rendering your weapon useless against
the creatures we're hunting.

Capturing. Capturing,
that's the plan, right?

You don't capture these things.
You kill them.

Kill them, capture them, I don't care.

But what we have in Africa, sir,
is not Graboids.

If you've got Ass Blasters,
you've got Graboids.

Odontotermes baadi.

Yes.

But on a massive scale.

It has the same magnesium mandibles.

That explains the presence of formic acid
in the bedrock surrounding it.

It spits out the acid to soften the rocks,
while the mandibles chew through it.

This is a super digger.

We're going to be on the cover
of Science magazine.

Been there, baby.

I want National Geographic.

Whoo!

Ugh!

Mr. Gummer. Mr. Gummer. Over here.

Can you say, "Ballin'"?

Hey, what's the Zulu word for "ballin'"?

Hello, Baruti.
Taking the kids for a walk, I see?

Well, you know that these young ladies

are too high-class for the likes of you,
so, I guess somebody has to do it.

Just act natural.

These men are here investigating
the impundulu attack.

Oh, right, the monster-hunters, right?

Ish. I'm still in training,
but I got, like, a credit away.

There.

You want guns, Burt?
This is how we roll.

Wow.

Here you go.

What's this?

The weapons you asked for.

A BSA .303 and a .30-06?

Well, there's also a Colt Peacemaker.

And a...

Ooh! The double-barrel thingy.

Are you serious?
We might as well use a spit straw.

Granted, it's not everything
you requested.

No, what I requested was confiscated
by your mindless government lackeys.

Yes, I'm sorry about that.

They don't just hand out machine guns

to every jacked-up safari jockey
that comes to this country.

This is Africa, Mr. Gummer.

But we're not all bushies.

Was that racist?
That sounded a little racist.

Bushist.

You promised me adequate weaponry.

What do you think we're hunting,
Rocky, the flying squirrel?

That .30-06 will drop
anything on this continent.

Anything.

Who's this?

Hey.

Hi.

What are you doing?

Zapping worms for bait.

Look. Here they come.

Damn!

Whoo-hoo!

You got any wasabi?

Eat it.

- Eat it?
- Eat it.

African tradition.

Is it really African tradition?

- No.
- Oh, God.

Travis, Travis.

This is Dr. Nandi Montabu.
She owns the reserve.

Hey, Doctor.

Nandi is fine.

No, free Wi-Fi at a coffee shop is fine.

You are like a holiday drink.

Like a caramel macchiato
pumpkin spice latte,

but instead of pumpkin,
it's African spice.

Okay, well, sounds delicious.

Thank you. You must be Travis.

At ease, Mr. Welker.

Mr. Gummer, welcome.

Um... I've arranged some refreshments
for you back at the lodge.

- With all due respect, Doctor...
- It's Nandi.

Nandi, I think we should
get right to the hunt.

Let's rest up, Mr. Gummer.
Start fresh in the morning, yes?

I'm not here on a safari weekend.

If you've got Graboids, no one is safe.

Travis, did you eat the worm?

Well, hello.

We did it.

You did it.

Yeah. I hate to go
back to the real world

and lecture at stoned-out students.

Be nice to stay out here
in the bush, with you.

I wish this moment would last
the rest of my life.

That's where Basson died.

- Coordinates?
- What?

Longitude and latitude?

I don't do coordinates.

Everything is in my head.

What about field communications?

- What the hell was that?
- A monkey's wedding.

Local lingo. Sun shower.

We get them every day, at this time
of the year, at the exact same hour.

You can set your watch to it.

1500 hours.

Exactly.

Mother Nature keeps to her rhythms.

Dr. Montabu. Nandi?

Yes?

I think you guys
might wanna come and see this.

Why?

There's been another attack.

An Ass Blaster definitely
didn't do this, Mr. Van Wyk.

Hey, Gums.

You may wanna check this out.

If you're dumb, you bleed.

Your problem is bigger
than I thought, Mr. Van Wyk.

How so?

This Graboid is much larger
than the North American variety.

It's Africa. Everything's bigger.

Everything except my munitions.

Knowing your enemy's
strength is Intel 101.

What other surprises
do you have in store for me?

I'm learning as I go, Mr. Gummer.

This one's leaner, too. Much leaner.

And more dangerous.

We're gonna need a big-ass cage.

Jeez, Gummy-drops, we get it.

You like to get cozy with your guns.

Not just cozy, Mr. Welker. Conjoined.

This is a hot zone.

Hey, what was that ministry Van Wyk
said he was affiliated with?

South African Wildlife Federation. Why?

Just curious.

Hey!

You want a ride?

No, I'll see you over there.

See her where?

Oh, she invited me to
some tribal dance thing.

We move out at 2200 hours.

I suggest you grab some chow
and get some rack time.

Wait. Are you giving me a curfew?

I don't do curfews, Pops.
Okay? I'm an adult.

But here's what I suggest you do.

I think you should go inside, right?

Check out the mini-bar situation.

See how your 401 is doing.

And I'll download the intel
from the smokin' hot South African chick.

And I am gonna dance with the natives.

Hey!

Come here!

Hey!

Hey!

- You made it.
- Wow.

This is quite the rager.

Yeah.

- You guys got a keg?
- Yeah.

Try this.

- What's this?
- Courage.

And?

It tastes like cow piss.

- You want more? Try again.
- No, I really don't.

So, what is this?

This is a warrior dance.

Our ancestors hunting the Inkanyamba
and the impundulu.

What's that?

Impundulu. It's what
you call the Ass Blaster.

- Ass Blaster.
- Yes.

Yes.

Hey, you know, you make
Ass Blaster sound good.

You know, Thaba,
I'm really not sure about these guys.

Especially this Travis guy. I mean...

I don't like the way
he's looking at my Nandi.

Is she your Nandi, now?

Yeah, well, she could be.

Good luck with that, bro.

A guy can dream, right?

Dream us up a couple
of cold ones, would you?

Hundreds, boet.

Ah...

To dreams.

Jesus Christ!

Okay.

What you call the Ass Blaster, in our
language, the word means "lightning bird."

The impundulu are nocturnal hunters.

They have bio-sensors on their foreheads

and their hunt is
based on heat signatures.

If they hunt during the day,
their targeting might be confused.

So, those freaks come out at night, so
they can hunt their prey in cooler temps?

Yes, they're like vampires.

No, no, no!

It just took off with Thaba.

It was attracted to the engine heat.

The engine was cold.

We gotta get Thaba.

I'll get my gear.

Whoa, boet. Is that Thaba?

Kill the engine.

HPF 250. Heat-blocking gear.

You got one of those
ball gowns for me, princess?

Turn on the AC, if you wanna
hide your heat signature.

Yeah, tough guy.

Thaba.

Hey.

Thaba.

I have better things to do
than babysit Americans in Africa.

Thaba!

Hold on, I got you.

Damn. I'm out.

C'mon, boet. Come on,
you old fart, let's get moving.

Help me, boet! Get this thing
off me, boet! Help me, boet!

I stuffed his blazing butt.

You're like freakin' Rambo.

Let's boogie.

Hey, what happened?

The question is where were you?

- He was with me.
- Really?

Well, here's some intel for you, Doc.

Those fart-flaming sons of bitches
have crossed your DMZ.

You need to evacuate everyone, ASAP.

Thank God you're here, Mr. Gummer.

All right, load every gun.
We're going after them.

- We leave in 10.
- I'll hitch the lion cage.

I don't think so, Yankee.
My cage, my hitch.

Hey, Gummy Bears, wait up.

Don't call me that.

Wait up.

Number one, don't ever touch me
like that again.

Number two, don't ever touch me
like that again.

You copy?

Yeah, I copy.

I don't have the time
to posture for your camera!

This was a mistake, havin' you along.

Just another pimple
on the ass of progress.

You need to chill out.

Don't tell me to chill. You were AWOL.

Now, we've got another K.I.A. and
a full-scale A.B. incursion to deal with.

You want to make yourself useful?

Go help with the evac.

Then, feel free to join in.
Think you can manage that?

Mr. Gummer.
I think you'll find this useful.

There is a God.

R5.

Full banana clip.

I zeroed the scope myself.

Where'd you get this?

You don't want to know.

I like your style. A-frickin'-men.

What's a veterinarian
doing with a machine gun?

They must've flown
in north of the river.

Ass Blasters don't fly, they glide.

They mix several volatile
gastrointestinal chemicals

that actually ignite,
allowing them to achieve blast off.

They fart to take off? That's funny.

Shh. Listen. You hear that?

Black-backed jackals.

Scavengers.

All right. Take it ahead and kill
the engine. We'll have a look.

You sure do come prepared, Mr. Gummer.

Basson was killed on that koppie,
just underneath that cliff face.

I think we have our Ass Blaster colony.

What about the bait?
Don't we need to make it hot

so these bastards can see it?

For sports injuries.

Forget the meat.

We need heat.

Happiness.

Okay, unhook the cage.

Gotcha.

Is that it?

Sure as hell ain't Mickey Mouse.

Stand behind me so he can't
read your heat signature.

Remember, Mr. Gummer, capture, not kill.

Easy. Take your damn shot.

Say hello to my dart, bitch.

Don't panic.

Hold your position!

Easy.

Screw that, I'm out of here!

No, stay with me, stay!

That's right.

Fly right into my crosshairs,

you fire-farting son of a bitch.

You can't kill me. I'm African.

Ass-Blast flambé.

What did you do?

Why'd you kill it?

And Dreyer, too?

- Nandi, Amahle!
- Yeah?

I think you left this in my truck.

- Thank you.
- You're welcome.

Nandi. After we evacuate,

I was thinking that maybe I should
take you and Amahle somewhere safer.

There's so much work to do.
I can't leave this place now.

In that case, I'm staying here.

With you.

Me, too.

Really?

You know what,
try not to shoot each other, okay?

This doesn't add up.

Ignored the thermal flare.

Came directly at us.

Protecting the nest,
weren't you? Roger that.

Where there are Ass Blasters,

there are Graboids.

Sorry, I'm going to have to take
that little money-maker from you.

What're you doing?

Cashing in, hopefully.
Why don't you hand that over?

I should've known you were dirty.

Thought it was
the luckiest day of my life.

I send Dreyer out to get a cheetah cub,

and he runs smack-bang
into a flying carnivore.

Who are you?

Let's start with who I'm not.

I'm not with the South
African Wildlife Ministry.

This is not gonna end good for you.

Sure it will.

An Ass Blaster
would've fetched 100 times

what a cheetah cub or
a rhino horn would've.

Dead one, not nearly so much.

You're a common poacher?

Morally, I'm okay with it.

You. Not so much.

Now, get into the cage,
or I'll shoot you in the stomach.

Shoot me.

Kill me.

But you won't cage me.

It ain't over

till it's over.

Useless!

Damn. Ow!

Hot.

Hot.

Ah!

The call of nature.

The Maasai have been using urine

as an insect repellent for centuries.

This may be the last will and testament

of Mr. Bertram Gummer.

Heather.

If you're still out there,

give the HK 41 a good home.

I miss it.

And to some extent, you.

Bastard Van Wyk.

If I ever get out of here alive,

I am coming for you.

Ah!

Definitely an acquired taste.

Is it over yet?

Oh, no, no, no.

Cue the freakin' lion.

I can't hear you.

Two alphas.

One understanding.

It's lonely on top
of the food chain. Huh?

Oh, God. We're getting
to know one another.

Shade, at last.

Shit! No. No!

No, no, no!

Pussy!

I'll take you down.

Thus I give up my spear.

I will claw my way

down your gullet.

You picked a weird time
to start meditating, dude.

- What the hell you doing here?
- I'm taking you back to the zoo.

You drove straight into a kill zone,
you moron.

There's a Graboid right behind you.
Get to high ground, now.

This might get a bit bumpy.

Hang on to your frosting.

Hang on, Burt!

Whoo-hoo!

You missed that last stop sign.

I think I'll walk the rest of the way.

You wanted to be outdoors.

Damn you, Travis!

How's Africa taste, Burt?

Go! Get on the rocks. On the rocks!

The rocks! On the rocks!

Oh, shit!

My bad. You okay?

You damn near broke
every bone in my body.

Yeah, but what does that have
to do with me saving your life?

I swear, I saw Graboid markers.
I must be delirious.

You're welcome. Pops.

I told you not to call me that.

How'd you know where I was?

Remote viewing.

Yeah, I spent a little time in the NSA.

Smile, you're on candid camera.

Sorry, I forgot your underwear.

We've been betrayed.

Van Dick?

How'd you know?

I knew the guy wasn't your typical,
run-of-the-mill D-bag.

So, I did a full,
digital cavity search on him.

And guess what? Poser!

Yeah, that whole South African
Wildlife Federation,

it's not even a thing.

He's got a Graboid egg, he intends
to sell it on the black market,

the implications of
which are unfathomable.

- You fart?
- No.

You smell gas?

Affirmative.

Fuel line's busted.

Good news is I can fix it.

Bad news is we're outta gas.

You didn't bring a spare jerry can?

No, Burt, I forgot a spare jerry can

'cause I was rushing to save your ass.

And we've got no talk?

No bars, no Wi-Fi in the bush.

You must feel right at home.

We got to get to high ground,
so we can get a cell signal.

Hi.

What was that?

Are you okay, Nena?

There's something out there, Mama.

I know, baby, I know.

Baruti. Baruti. Please take her
to her room, now, okay?

Come on, Amahle. Let's go.

Give me the spy thing
you're always looking through.

- Oh! Field glasses?
- Or binoculars.

Yeah, whatever, Tommy Technical.
Give 'em to me, let's go.

Anything?

- Oh, crap.
- What?

There's no sign of Van Dick,
but I got a bead on his Land Cruiser.

He must be creeping
around here somewhere.

What, are you ready for a gun fight?

Let's do this.

Go, go!

Burt, wait up.

There goes his trade-in value.

Tracks here.

- Serpentine.
- It's Graboid?

Uh-uh.

And human.

Van Wyk's. He was running.

Ooh! Hey, Burt, got some
war porn for you.

You might like that.

Phosphorus. I'm lovin' it.

I got dibs on the broomstick.

Damn.

Oh, Yeah. Yes.

Locked and loaded.

Okay. Stay calm.

Come on.

Take that.

Mama.

Hey.

I'm so glad you're here.

Hey. You okay?

Yeah. Gang's all here.

They're coming! They're coming!
They're coming! Help.

Help me! They're coming!

Dear God!

They're coming! Help!

Freeze.

Where are you?

That's my egg. Give me back my egg.

Move, get up on the rocks!

On the rocks!

They can't reach you on the rocks.
They can't get you up there.

Ow!

Stay on the rock.

Don't move. Freeze there.

That's my egg.

These Grabs are on HGH.

Are you frickin' kidding me?

The tentacles have detached
from the Graboid.

You're in the Burt zone now.

Why is it the critical,
need-to-know information

never gets to Burt Gummer?

Well, maybe nobody knew.

Nobody knew it?

Nobody knew the friggin' bastards
have gone free range?

It's all right.

Holy shit balls.

Evolution run amok.

I don't understand.

This African life cycle has mutated.

It's much more evolved, more efficient.

Nocturnal Ass Blasters,
Grabbers that detach from the host.

And where the hell are the Shriekers?

What's next? Graboids that talk?

Okay, Burt, keep it together, all right?

Try not to have a breakdown.

Let's just try to focus on one thing.

Why were they zeroing
in on that ice chest?

They were going for the egg.

Propagation of the species.

The Ass Blasters are protecting
the Graboid bloodline.

So, you're sayin' there's some
seriously gnarly shit in that cave.

Like, it's really beast heavy,
Graboid Ground Zero?

We gotta get in that cave,
destroy that nest.

We can't allow those eggs to hatch.

You sit tight. I'm goin' in.

Since when are you in command?

Since... Shut up, Burt.

I don't need your crap.

Oh, really?

Yeah, Burt don't need nothin' except
Fiber One cereal, prune juice,

man khakis and a monster to hunt.

You got somethin' to say to me?

Yeah, I do.

You're suffering from a mild case
of heat exhaustion

and a severe case of
"getting too old for this crap."

So, give me the vest and your flares.

- I'm goin' in.
- Is that it?

That's it.

Then why is the needle on my bullshit
detector still in the red?

I don't know. You got trust issues, man.

Serious, you need therapy.
Just give me the vest.

You got a signal on that phone, yet?

I have a bar.

Trade?

Really, you're gonna barter? Okay.

Three, two, one.

First sign of trouble, you pull the pin

on this white phosphorus grenade
and you skedaddle.

Comprende?

Comprende.

I'll handle it from here.

He's got a pair, I'll give him that.

This is retarded.

You're talking to me, so make it count.

Mr. Bravers, Burt Gummer here.
I'm in a bit of pickle.

Well, yeah. The bush can do that to you.

So, how can I help, boet?

I need a jerry can of gas and some ammo.

Ah. Why the hell not? Where are you?

About three clicks northwest of some
old railroad bridge, modified for road use.

Ah, yeah, yeah. I know the spot.

So, must I come heavy?

Is there any other way?

Well, I've got a couple of rocket pods
I took off a MiG-23 in the border war.

It's too much?

Just right.

Come to Africa.
We'll have some laughs, see some game.

Go to a deep, dark, cavernous...

Oh, my God.

No. Not again!

You are one ugly bitch.

Suck on this!

Whoa!

Anything to report?

Yeah. I think we hit the mother lode.

What's happening, Baruti?

I don't know.

I mean, these creatures are supposed
to be nocturnal hunters.

Why have they changed?

Predators don't change their tactics
unless they are forced to do that.

Something's triggered these attacks.

Animals always go for the food source.

No, I don't think it's that.
There are other reserves here.

- So, they're targeting us.
- Yes.

Make sure all of our weapons
are loaded and the truck is ready.

We're going to the village.

- Safety in numbers.
- Yeah.

Those eggs have got themselves
the full protection package.

So, we punt?

Not so fast.

Our protection package has just arrived!

There they are.

Oh, no. Let's call it!

We pissed off the head worm?

Shut it down.

To the rocks, to the rocks!

Come on, come on back!

Hang on. Hang on.

Come on. Come here.
Come back inside, man.

Hold on!

Charley?

Charley?

Charley?

Charley!

Charley?

This is a bag of dicks.

We're outta ammo
and we have to blow that cave.

Come on, Gums. Don't lose faith.

We are definitely F'ed up
beyond all recognition.

But we are not out of ammo.

All I got is this
damn pop gun, that's it.

The bag is full, and it's ready to blow.

Think outside the box.

- Oh, my God. You're right.
- Yeah.

That'll scramble a few eggs.

Oh, no. That'll make a big
frickin' omelet, is what that'll make.

Now, how do we get to the chopper
without gettin' eaten alive?

There's a herd of cattle out there.

If we run with them, we can get lost
in their seismic signatures.

What? That's your
brilliant idea, to run?

"When the sun rises in Africa,
you better be running."

You ready for this, old man?

You better step on it.

Consider it stepped on.

Not too far, now.

Go, go, go, go!

Out of my way, ladies.
Break it up, break it up.

- You get to the helo.
- You lock it up.

Whoo!

Yeah!

Easy, hoss. She'll be back.

Right. Let's poach some eggs.

- Scramble.
- My bad.

Hello. These MiG pods hold 16 rockets each.
Looks like he loaded 10.

This is gonna ring their bells.

It's a bit of overkill, don't you think?

If you're gonna give 'em the horn,
give 'em the horn.

All right. All right,
enough of the '60s.

Hey, I like that song.

Come on, where's the Tupac?

Burt doesn't love the old hippy-dippy,
free-love stuff, does he?

Takes me back.

Back to where?

Back before I met your sorry ass.

Back to a gun show in Florida?

What do you know about Florida?

We're burnin' daylight.

All right. Laser designated.
Locked on target.

Holy shit balls!

Oh, yeah!

Psycho.

What the hell? Jesus.

What the hell?
I thought you were dead, man!

Swallowed. Swallowed by that wide broad.

She was about 10 meals ahead
and 20 craps behind.

So, she spat me out.

Spat you out?

Well, I tickled the insides
of her belly a little bit.

Been there, done that, my man.

The bitch is back. Let's get outta here.

Buckle up, boys.

Come on, let's go.
Lock it up, lock it up.

Okay, let's go.

- Let's go.
- Come on, come on, come on.

Come, come, come, come on.

Stay close, Amahle. Stay close, okay?

They're here.

Okay. All we need to do
is get to your truck.

Stay close.

Again with the roof?

Whoo!

I like this badass Baruti.

Come. Come, Amahle.
Come on, get in the back.

Good girl.

Shit!

It couldn't make it
through the concrete slab.

Okay, it's turning around.

I've got an idea.

All right. Stay here, baby, okay?

Give me a light, give me a light.

There you go. Thanks.

Let's go.

- Thanks for the gas.
- No worries, boet.

Hey, look, I've gotta go
and fight a fire in Zululand,

and my girl's running on fumes.

- So, if you need me...
- I can reach you on the horn.

Yebo.

I've got a feeling
you're gonna be needing this.

An FN MAG. Classic.

She packs a punch, that baby.

She's all yours.

Thanks. Boet.

Always be running. Yeah.

Never stop running, boet. Never!

Let's talk about Florida.

Sunshine State. Lotta ladies.

I'm askin' what you know
about me and Florida.

I know that you went
to a Grateful Dead concert once

when you were there.

How could you possibly know that?
That was 40 years ago.

Pretty sure I know who you went with.

What do you know about Jasmine?

Flower child meets heroin chic. Model.

Hated disco. Loved Hendrix.

You were selling your dad's old guns.
She was in the parking lot.

Burning her bra.

Far left meets far right.

They spend the night.

Love's a bitch, huh, Burt?

Who is she to you?

I call her "Mom" most of the time.

Boom!

Well, that's gotta stir up
some shit, right? Huh?

You mean, you and me are...

That's right. Bloodlines.

Feel the theme happenin', here?

- No.
- Yes.

No. Impossible.

You're tellin' me.

I don't believe it.
There's no way you're my offspring.

What? Well, that's a dick thing to say?

What, do you think
you're better than me?

I just don't... I mean... Crud.
Look at you!

Yeah, look at me.

How could I be the son of Burt Gummer?

A man of such towering importance.

You know what? Forget it.

We don't have to do
this whole Dr. Phil thing, okay?

Let's just survive this
African worm invasion,

and we'll go back to never speaking
to each other again. Cool?

Son of a bitch!

Let's get outta here.

Let's boogie.

Damn it!

Grabber's got us hooked!

You've got a gun. Use it.

Yeah, dawg!

I want a paternity test.

What's this?

I found it.

- Amahle.
- What's going on?

I think I know why we're under attack.

Where would they go?

The village.

Safety in numbers.

Let's go.

Stay in the car, baby, okay?

Nandi!

Come on. Come on! Let's go!

Amahle? Amahle?

Amahle?

Amahle.

- Amahle!
- Amahle!

Mom!

No seismic activity.

Travis, look! Amahle, behind you!

God, no! No, no.

Off the ground and on the truck!

- No, she's my child. No!
- Let's go.

- It's gonna be okay, honey.
- It's okay. Wait right there.

Go, go, go!

- It's gonna be okay, honey.
- Hold on!

Let me get a shot on it.

No, no, no. We can't
risk hitting the girl.

What does she have in that basket?

I think she's got an Inkanyamba egg.

- That egg is the last of the bloodline.
- Why do you say that?

Because we blew up their nest.

Look, we have a hostage situation.

They're not gonna touch her
as long as she has the egg.

- What's the worm count?
- One.

And the queen bitch
is comin' for that egg.

Hey. Hey, hey, hey.

- You see what I see?
- Yeah.

Okay. One of us is gonna be bait
and one of us has gotta snatch the kid.

- Who's it gonna be?
- I'll get her.

- Hold on, baby.
- Let's go.

Stand still!

Baruti!

Travis, here. Throw it!

- It's okay. It's okay.
- You got her, you got her.

Behind you!

- I think I have an idea.
- Shoot.

Amahle always uses her earthworm
zapper to catch worms.

We can build one on a much larger scale.

We have the worm.
What do you suggest we use for the zap?

The lightning.

We can use the pile rods from the drill rig
and wire them together.

You can set your watch
to the lightning, right?

Yes, and right now we've got 13 minutes.

Let's hope the bride
doesn't get cold feet.

What's goin' on?

- Can you keep her busy?
- I can try.

If we're lucky,
she'll follow your seismic signature.

Send them to the river
and bring them back on my signal.

- Your signal?
- I'll send up a flare.

Give me some slack.

Game on, Travis.

Come on, tube snake!

Come on. They're headed our way.

Goodness, okay.

Go, go, go, go!

Come on, wherever you are.

On the roof.

Whoo!

Sonny boy!

Here it comes!

It's over, baby. Come, let's go.

I just got wormed.

Hey.

Here.

Ooh. Yeah, no, I know this is Africa,

but I'm not gonna eat
what I just killed.

- Thank you.
- Okay.

Well, Travis, I just wanted to say
thank you for everything.

You're a good man. Deep down there.

What, it's not on the surface?

It rarely ever is.
You've gotta dig deep.

See ya.

Amahle!

Good work today.

Yeah.

You, too.

So, what's the next stop
on the Burt train?

More Who-The-Hell-Cares, Nevada?

It's home.

Where you goin'?

I don't know.

Probably back to Florida.

Okay. You take care, you hear?

Hey, wait a minute.

What about my career?

What about it?

We had a deal.

You said you were gonna take
the long view, build the Gummer brand.

Said you were gonna fix me.

You don't need fixin', Pops.

Now, come on.
We got a gremlin to catch in Fresno.

Pops.

My name is Burt Gummer,
and I've been called many things.

Gun enthusiast, monster-hunter,
doomsday-prepper.

I reject all these labels.

What I am is a survivalist.

And I'm Travis B. Welker.

I've been accused of being a ninja
photographer, an adrenaline junkie,

and hitting on hot 22-year-olds.

I'm guilty on all accounts.

I embrace these labels,
and I live by them.

And together, we're taking
on the bizarre, the deadly, the weird.

It's a dirty job.

But dirty guys are sexy.

We've cracked the code of survival.

We are the cure that ails anything
crittery, creepy or crawly.

We are the knockout punch
to the shadowy world of monsters.

Go, go, go!

I don't know what the hell
you unleashed in there.

So, if you need us
for anything that goes

bang in the night
or fluff under your floor...

- It's over here!
- Watch your back!

Or just...

...reach us on the horn.

And remember, survival
and life starts here.