Sticky Fingers in Sector Four - Script

EXT. PINE RIDGE - DAY

A wall of spruce trees. Grey light filters through the branches. It is minus twenty degrees. The air itself looks frozen.

ARTHUR (40s) sits on a battered Ski-Doo. He wears a grease-stained parka that has seen better decades. He shakes his left hand violently, staring at his mitten.

The engine beneath him SPUTTERS. A distinct CHUG-A-CHUG-COUGH rhythm. Smoke belches from the exhaust, smelling of burning rubber.

Arthur flips his visor up. The wind hits his face. He winces, eyes watering instantly.

Thirty yards ahead, another sled sits idle.

BENIOT (30s) stands next to it. He wears a pristine, neon orange monochromatic snowsuit. He looks like a traffic cone vibrating with anxiety.

Benoit waves his arms frantically.

Why are we stopping?

Arthur's voice is thin, swallowed by the trees. The engine DIES with a final wheeze. Silence rushes in. Just the RINGING in ears.

Benoit scrambles off his sled. He misses his footing and plunges into waist-deep powder. He thrashes, kicking up white clouds.

(Hissing)

Did you hear it?

Arthur leans back, stretching his legs. A knee POPS loudly.

Hear what? My fuel pump dying? Because that I heard.

Benoit rips his helmet off. Steam rises from his bald head. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the freeze.

The hum. Low frequency. Rotor blades. Small ones.

Arthur sighs. His breath clouds the air.

It’s the wind in the pines. Or your blood pressure. You forget the bait?

Benoit ignores him. He claws at the straps of his cargo rack. Three rigid Pelican cases are lashed to the back.

We need visual cover. We’re too exposed on the ridge.

Arthur dismounts. He steps onto the hard pack trail, stomping his heavy boots.

A satellite couldn't see you unless you lit a flare. I’m hungry. Give me the jerky.

Benoit freezes. He looks at Arthur with wide, terrified eyes.

What do you know about the briefcase?

A glob of snow falls from a branch. THWACK. It hits Arthur's cowling.

It was a joke. Give me the jerky.

Benoit unclips the top case. He fumbles the latch with liner gloves. The lid pops.

Inside, there is no jerky. No stove. Just gallon-sized Ziploc bags stuffed with white paper confetti.

Arthur walks over. The snow CRUNCHES under his boots. He picks up a bag. It is heavy.

Hamster bedding?

The minutes. From the Tuesday strategic resource allocation summit.

Arthur holds the bag up. A single strip of paper presses against the plastic: "...RUP RESERVE..."

Did you steal the shredding from the Ministry?

Rescued! They were going to dilute the reserves. Corn syrup, Arthur. High fructose corn syrup mixed into the strategic reserve.

Benoit paces in a tight circle, packing down the snow.

It’s liquid treason.

Arthur drops the bag back into the case.

You are on the run because of maple syrup.

It involves the Federation. The cartel. If they find out I have the proof, they won't just fire me. They’ll revoke my pension.

Arthur rubs his temples.

So we aren't ice fishing. We are fleeing a botched diplomatic meeting with the syrup cartel.

I threw my phone in a slushie machine in Parry Sound. To kill the digital trail.

Arthur pulls out his phone. No service. He stares at the black screen.

My toes are cold. We haven't set up the tent. Why did you bring the trash here?

Physical media is the only safe way. But I think the drone followed your heat signature.

CRUNCH. CRUNCH.

A rhythmic, heavy sound echoes from the tree line.

Benoit’s eyes bulge.

Extraction team. I can’t eat soy, Arthur! I’m not ready for prison!

Arthur squints into the grey forest. Vertical black lines of trees.

Something moves. A dark shape. Seven feet tall.

A sapling SNAPS like a toothpick.

Drone! Get down!

Benoit dives behind his snowmobile, trying to burrow under the track.

A MOOSE steps into the clearing. Massive. Prehistoric. It looks at them. It chews on a twig. A plume of steam shoots from its nostrils.

(Muffled)

Surveillance moose. Bio-mimicry.

The Moose stops chewing. It stares at the neon orange suit.

Shut up. You’ll spook it.

The Moose snorts. It shakes its massive head, then lumbers off into the dark trees.

Arthur exhales. His hands shake.

Is it gone?

It’s gone to report back. Get up.

Benoit crawls out, looking like a frosted donut.

We have to bury the evidence. Deep.

Ground’s frozen. We go to Lost Lake. My uncle’s cabin. It has a wood stove.

Arthur zips his coat higher.

We feed the bureaucracy to the fire. It’ll keep us warm.

That’s destroying evidence.

It’s heating. If I lose a toe, I’m leaving you here.

Arthur yanks the starter cord. RIP. RIP. ROAR.

The headlight flickers on. Dim, then bright.

Benoit hugs the plastic case to his chest. The wind swirls snow around his boots.

What if the syrup is flammable?

It’s paper, Benoit!

Arthur revs the engine. The track spins, clearing ice. He takes off, weaving through the trees.

Benoit scrambles onto his sled. His engine WHINES, a high-pitched mosquito sound.

The two machines race toward the ridge line, tail lights glowing red in the encroaching dark.