INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - NIGHT
A cramped, freezing space beneath an overturned Skidoo and a heavy canvas tarp. The wind HOWLS outside, a physical weight pressing against the fabric walls.
FRANK (40), his face a mask of grease and frost, grips a steel pry bar. His bare fingers are white, numb.
JACK (30), wearing thermal overalls soaked in black slush, lies contorted on the snow. His leg is a ruin. White bone juts through red muscle.
Frank aligns the pry bar against Jack's shin.
Bite down.
Frank shoves a grease-stained glove into Jack’s mouth.
Jack shakes his head, teeth CHATTERING violently.
Do it.
Frank leans his weight onto the bar. A wet GRINDING sound. Like stones in a riverbed.
Jack SCREAMS into the glove. A ragged, thin noise instantly swallowed by the storm.
Frank doesn't flinch. He wraps electrical tape around the bar and leg. Tight. Efficient.
Jack’s head lolls back. Breath plumes from his mouth in rapid, ghostly puffs. Sweat has frozen on his eyebrows.
(Weak)
Is it... is it set?
Frank finishes the taping. He wipes his hands on his pants. He doesn't look at Jack's face. He looks at the alignment.
It’s set.
Frank pulls a stiff, frost-rimed wool blanket over Jack’s chest.
Frank crawls to the front of the shelter. He pushes the tarp aside an inch.
EXT. ARCTIC WASTELAND - CONTINUOUS
Visibility is zero. A churning vortex of ice crystals. The wind SCREAMS, driving snow horizontally.
INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - CONTINUOUS
Frank lets the tarp fall. Darkness returns.
He checks their inventory. Half a pack of jerky. One protein bar. A thermos. A flare gun with two shells. A Zippo lighter.
He picks up the protein bar. He snaps it in half. CRACK. It sounds like a gunshot in the small space.
He crawls back to Jack. Pushes one half against Jack’s lips.
Fuel.
Jack turns his head away.
Can't.
Frank grabs Jack's jaw. Forces the mouth open. Shoves the piece in.
Chew.
Jack chews slowly. Tears freeze on his cheeks.
Frank eats his half in three efficient bites. He stares at the Zippo in his hand. He flicks the wheel. A weak flame sputters, then dies.
INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - NIGHT (LATER)
Frank dozes against the cold engine block.
Jack is awake. His eyes are wide, glassy. Fever bright.
(Whispering)
Frank.
Frank opens his eyes. Instantly alert.
Listen.
Go to sleep.
Under the wind. The scraping.
Frank listens.
The wind ROARS. The canvas snaps.
Then—a sound. Distinct. Rhythmic.
*SCRAPE... SCRAPE... SCRAPE.*
Something heavy dragging across ice. Close.
Frank stiffens. He reaches for the flare gun. His hand trembles slightly. He checks the chamber. One shell.
The scraping stops.
Silence. Heavy. Waiting.
The tarp BULGES inward. A soft, heavy THUMP against the canvas. A dark shape presses against the fabric, testing the tension.
Frank raises the gun. Aims at the bulge. His thumb hovers over the hammer.
The shape pulls back. Gone.
It knows we’re here.
Frank lowers the gun. He looks at Jack. He looks at the infected leg. The dark line of sepsis tracking up the thigh.
It smells the hunger.
Frank looks at the empty jerky packet. He runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips.
INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - DAY
The storm rages on.
Frank holds a small metal cup over the Zippo flame. Melting snow. Drop by drop.
He takes a sip. He holds the cup out to Jack.
Jack stares at the ceiling. Delirious.
Sunshine... Annie’s laugh...
Frank pulls the cup back. He drinks the rest himself.
From outside, a voice cuts through the wind. A WOMAN'S VOICE.
Please! Help me! I’m lost!
Jack bolts upright. Screams in pain as his leg shifts.
Did you hear that?
It’s the wind.
Hello? Is anyone there? I’m so cold!
Jack claws at the ground, trying to drag himself toward the flap.
We have to help her!
Frank grabs Jack by the shoulder. Slams him back down.
Sit down.
You coward! It’s a woman!
Frank SLAPS Jack. Hard. The sound cracks through the shelter.
Jack freezes. A trickle of blood runs from his lip.
It’s a lure. You open that tarp, we’re dead.
The voice outside changes. It warps. It becomes the voice of a CHILD weeping. Then—
Jack, honey? Where are you?
Jack squeezes his eyes shut. Hands over his ears. He sobs.
Frank watches him. His expression is empty. He touches the flare gun in his pocket. He looks at Jack’s leg. Then at the water cup.
INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - DAY (LATER)
Silence. Absolute silence.
The wind has stopped.
Frank pushes the tarp aside. Sunlight floods the shelter. Blinding.
EXT. ARCTIC WASTELAND - CONTINUOUS
A pristine, glittering expanse of white. The sky is a hard, cloudless blue.
No tracks. Nothing.
INT. SNOWMOBILE SHELTER - CONTINUOUS
Frank turns back. He begins packing. Compass. Flare gun. The last shell.
They’ll find us now. The planes.
Too cold to fly. We’re miles off course.
Frank zips his jacket. He picks up the compass.
What are you doing?
Walking out.
Jack stares. The realization hits him slowly.
You can't carry me.
No.
You’re leaving me.
Frank doesn't answer. He checks his gloves.
Jack scrambles. His hand closes around the heavy wrench used for the splint. He holds it up. Shaking.
Don't do this. It'll come back.
I know.
Frank looks at Jack. Really looks at him. The fever. The noise. The smell of sickness.
You're bait, Jack.
Jack lunges. He swings the wrench.
Frank steps back. Effortless.
Jack collapses face first into the snow. Sobbing. Spent.
Frank stands over him. He looks at the pry bar still taped to Jack’s leg.
Frank kneels. His hand moves to the pry bar. Smooth. Practiced.
Jack looks up. Terror. Understanding.
I’m sorry, Jack.
Frank raises the bar.
EXT. ARCTIC WASTELAND - DAY
Frank walks.
Left foot. Right foot.
The snow CRUNCHES softly under his boots. The only sound in the world.
He checks the compass. The needle settles on North.
He walks toward the razor-thin horizon.
He does not look back.