INT. SUV (WRECKED) - LATE AFTERNOON
The world is upside down. Through the spiderwebbed windshield, snow and black trees hang suspended in a gray sky.
SAUL (42), pale and inverted, hangs from his seatbelt. A thick strap digs into his neck.
Blood drips from his scalp. PAT. PAT. PAT. It lands on the headliner inches from his face.
The engine block cools with a rhythmic TICK-TICK-TICK.
Saul gasps. The breath snags in his chest. He squeezes his eyes shut.
Don't look at the whole problem. Look at the first part.
Saul opens his eyes. He focuses on the release buckle. It is slick with fluid.
He jams his thumb against the red button. It refuses to give.
He grunts, twisting his body, leveraging his shoulder against the strap. The plastic GROANS.
CLICK. The buckle snaps open.
Gravity takes over instantly. Saul falls. He SLAMS into the crushed roof of the car.
Blackness.
INT. SUV (WRECKED) - DUSK
Saul wakes to the biting cold. Frost clings to his eyelashes.
He pushes himself up. His left wrist is swollen, the skin tight and shiny.
He drags his body toward the shattered driver's side window. The wind HOWLS outside, a physical weight.
EXT. FOREST - CONTINUOUS
Saul tumbles out of the window frame. He lands hard in the deep snow.
He sucks in air. White vapor plumes from his mouth.
The SUV is wrapped around a massive spruce. The rear is crushed accordion-style.
Saul limps to the back. Through the broken glass, an ORANGE EMERGENCY KIT is visible, pinned under the collapsed roof.
He yanks the tailgate handle. JAMMED.
He strikes the metal with his good fist. The sound is dull, swallowed by the snow.
He slides down the side of the wreck. Defeated.
He pats his coat pocket. Empty. He checks his pants. He pulls out a cheap plastic lighter.
He flicks it. SPARK. No flame.
He flicks it again. A tiny FLAME blooms, wavers, and dies.
Saul scrambles back to the driver's window. He reaches inside, sweeping the floor mats.
His fingers close around a damp ROAD ATLAS. He rips out a page.
EXT. WOODS - NIGHT
Saul pushes through thigh-deep snow. His gait is uneven, favoring his left leg.
The forest is a wall of silver and black. Shadows stretch long across the drifts.
He stops, clutching his ribs. He looks back. His trail is a jagged trench in the pristine snow.
He touches his chest pocket. A hard, rectangular outline presses against his heart.
EXT. ROOT BALL OVERHANG - NIGHT
Saul collapses into the hollow of an uprooted fir tree. The earth wall offers a break from the wind.
He shreds the map page into strips. His fingers are stiff, clumsy.
He piles dry pine needles and feeds the paper strips into the center.
He flicks the lighter. Once. Twice. The paper catches.
Fire. A small, orange circle of life pushes back the dark.
Saul holds his hands over the heat. He shivers violently.
A LOW HUM vibrates the air. Not the wind.
Saul freezes. He turns his head, straining to hear.
The HUM grows into the distinct DIESEL GROWL of a heavy engine.
A BEAM OF LIGHT sweeps the treetops a quarter-mile away. It cuts the darkness like a blade.
Saul stares at the light. His breath hitches.
The beam lowers, slicing through the trunks, sweeping toward him.
Saul kicks snow over his fire. HISS. The light dies instantly.
Plunged back into darkness, he presses himself flat against the frozen dirt.
The CRUNCH of heavy tires on snow echoes through the trees. Getting closer.