EXT. NORTHERN WILDERNESS - NIGHT
Snow flies horizontally. Not falling, but thrown like gravel from a passing truck.
GORD (44), heavy-set and wrapped in layers that don't seem to help, stumbles. Ice crusts the exposed skin of his face.
Ten paces ahead, STEPHAN (28), fit and annoyingly rhythmic, crunches through the drift in high-end gear. He doesn't look back.
Keep moving, old man!
I'm fixing my binding!
The WIND SNATCHES the words away. Gord rips a glove off with his teeth.
He fumbles with a frozen plastic clip on his snowshoe. His knuckles turn white instantly.
He jams the glove back on. The clip is still loose. He drags his left foot forward, ignoring the stumble.
EXT. CLEARING - NIGHT
A granite ridge blocks the gale. The air here is dead still.
A green tent shudders in the draft leaking around the rock.
Stephan flicks a butane lighter. SPARK. No flame. SPARK. Nothing.
Put it in your armpit. Warm it up.
Stephan shoves the lighter into his jacket. He is vibrating. Not just cold. Manic.
I got it.
Not now, Steph.
Yes, now. No cell service. No bugs. Just us and the freeze.
Stephan pulls a Ziploc bag from his inner pocket. Inside, a black rectangle sits wrapped in a toque.
A portable hard drive.
The voter lists?
And the donor cross-reference sheet. The real one. Developers mapped to Cayman accounts.
Gord stares at the plastic brick. He pulls a pack of cigarettes. Puts an unlit one in his mouth.
You stole property of the Crown.
I secured evidence of a felony.
Stephan retrieves the warm lighter. FLAME. He lights a strip of birch bark.
Firelight flickers against the snow. Long shadows jump against the trees.
What's the play? Walk into the RCMP detachment? Lose our pensions?
This goes away if we go to the cops. We go to Harrison. We tell him the price for it staying lost.
Blackmail.
Consulting contracts. Private sector. Five years, we cash out.
Harrison eats guys like you for breakfast. He won't pay. He’ll send guys to break your legs.
He can't touch us if we have copies. Dead man switch.
You don't have a dead man switch. You have a Gmail account and anxiety.
Stephan paces. Snow CRUNCHES loudly under his boots.
We deserve this! I missed my sister’s wedding for the budget lockup. For what? A sixty-k salary and heartburn?
We leak it. Anonymous drop. The Star or the Globe. We walk away clean.
I’m not walking away with nothing! It’s worth millions!
It’s worth prison time!
Gord reaches for the drive.
Stephan’s hand shoots out. He grabs Gord’s wrist. A vice grip.
Don't touch it.
Let go, Steph.
A sound cuts through the air. Distinct. Mechanical.
CLICK-WHIR.
Like a servo motor adjusting focus.
It comes from the ridge above. Thirty feet up.
Gord freezes. Stephan freezes, hand still on Gord’s wrist.
Did you hear that?
Gord turns his head slowly.
The wind moans, but under it—a RHYTHMIC CRUNCH. Heavy weight compressing snow.
Stephan releases Gord. Scrambles back toward the tent.
Is that... is that a bear?
Bears are asleep.
Gord picks up a heavy piece of wet birch wood. He holds it like a club.
He stares into the black wall of the forest.
Who's there?
Silence.
SNAP. A dead branch breaks. A heavy boot punches through crust.
Stephan shoves the hard drive into his jacket.
We have to go.
Quiet.
Gord kills his headlamp.
Absolute darkness slams down. Only the dying embers glow red.
Gord looks up at the ridge.
A SILHOUETTE stands against the faint grey of the sky. Darker than the trees.
Watching.