EXT. ARCTIC WILDERNESS - NIGHT
A SNOWMOBILE roars through a tunnel of black spruce.
A MUFFLED SNAP. Like a pistol shot under a pillow.
The headlight flickers. Once. Twice. Darkness.
The engine dies. The sled drifts, carving a furrow into the powder before settling into a drift.
Silence. Heavy. Pressurized.
DESMOND (40s, expensive Gore-Tex over a three-thousand-dollar suit) grips the handlebars. His gloved hands tremble.
KIONA (30s, utilitarian furs, headlamp) dismounts behind him. Her boots CRUNCH on the snow.
Desmond adjusts his scarf.
An unfortunate development. I assume you have a contingency for this specific mechanical failure.
Kiona ignores him. She moves to the front. CLICKS her headlamp on.
The beam cuts the dark. She unlatches the hood. It rises with a METALLIC GROAN.
She shines the light into the engine block. A mess of shredded rubber and fiber tangles around the clutch.
Belt is shredded. Must have seized.
Desmond taps his fingers against the grip. Italian leather gloves inside oversized mittens.
Then we replace it. I observed you loading spares. Proceed.
Kiona points the light down. A dark, viscous slick spreads over the white snow beneath the engine.
Clutch is jammed. Housing cracked. Look at the oil. The machine is done.
She lets the hood SLAM down.
Desmond pats his pocket. He pulls out a phone. He taps the screen.
INSERT - PHONE SCREEN:
No Signal. Battery: 12%.
BACK TO SCENE:
Done? We are thirty miles from the extraction point. The package is sixty pounds.
Kiona moves to the rear of the sled. She unstraps a heavy black duffel bag.
We walk. Or we freeze. It’s minus thirty. Your fancy coat won’t stop it.
She drops the duffel bag into the snow. THUD. It sinks a few inches.
We cannot carry the package and survive a thirty-mile trek. That is simple physics.
You prioritize. I’m walking.
She tosses a pair of snowshoes at his feet. CLATTER.
You can stay with your money plates if you want. The wolves will appreciate the company.
Desmond looks at the snowshoes. Aluminum frames. Plastic decking.
He bends down. His stiff fingers fumble with the frozen buckles.
You seem to be enjoying this. The native guide proving the incompetence of the city man. It is a tired narrative, Kiona.
Kiona adjusts her own pack. She checks a magnetic compass.
North. Keep up.
She walks. A rolling gait, lifting knees high.
Desmond stands. He takes a step. The tip of his left snowshoe catches the tail of the right.
He stumbles. Catches himself on a low-hanging branch. The frozen wood scrapes his palm.
He rights himself. Lurches after her into the trees.
EXT. RIDGE - LATER
Desmond crawls over the lip of a steep ridge. He collapses into the snow.
He gasps. His breath plumes in dense white fog. Ice crystals glue his eyelashes together.
Kiona stands above him. Not winded.
Up. Don’t lay down. You lay down, you don’t get up.
Desmond groans. Forces himself to his knees.
The WIND hits them. A physical blow.
Kiona points down into the valley.
There.
Desmond squints against the drift. Across a frozen lake, a dark shape. Walls. A cabin.
Extraction point?
Trapline cabin. We can rest there. Make a fire.
EXT. FROZEN LAKE - NIGHT
Desmond steps onto the ice.
BOOOOM.
A deep, resonant sound travels through the soles of his boots.
Kiona is twenty yards ahead. Her headlamp is a distant star in the blowing snow.
Spread out! Don’t walk in my tracks!
Desmond veers left. He fumbles his own headlamp on.
The beam illuminates bubbles trapped in the black ice. White streaks in black glass.
Ahead, Kiona’s light vanishes.
Kiona?
The wind HOWLS.
Kiona!
He spins around. The wind erases tracks as fast as they are made.
This is not amusing! I demand you reveal your position!
Nothing.
Desmond spots a dark shape on the ice. Twenty yards away.
He shuffles toward it. The ice CRACKS under his snowshoes.
It is the duffel bag. Sitting alone.
Desmond crouches. Unzips it. The oilcloth-wrapped plates are inside.
He sees boot prints leading away from the bag. Back toward the shoreline. Away from the cabin.
Kiona!
He grabs the bag. Slings it over his shoulder. The weight buckles his knees.
He turns toward the cabin.
He takes a step.
SHATTER.
The ice gives way.
Desmond plunges into the black water.
UNDERWATER - CONTINUOUS
Bubbles. Chaos. The headlamp beam spins wildly.
The bag drags him down. An anchor.
Desmond claws at the strap. The buckle is jammed.
He kicks. Useless. He sinks.
A HAND grabs his collar.
EXT. FROZEN LAKE - CONTINUOUS
Kiona, lying flat on the solid ice, hauls Desmond up.
She digs a knife into the ice for leverage.
Drop the bag! Drop the goddamn bag, Desmond!
I... can’t! It’s... stuck!
Kiona slashes the strap with her knife.
The weight vanishes. Desmond bobs up.
She drags him onto the ice. He flops like a landed fish. Water freezes instantly on his clothes.
Move! You have to move! Run! If you stop, you freeze solid! Run to the cabin!
Desmond stumbles up. He cannot feel his legs.
He runs toward the dark shape of the cabin.
He does not look back.