EXT. SNOWDRIFT - DAY
A white void. No sky. No ground. Only the MAELSTROM of snow driving horizontally.
RICK (40s), beard matted with ice, eyes sunken and raw, leans heavily on a rifle. The wood stock presses against his frost-bitten cheek.
He stares down at the drift.
ED (30s), unconscious, is half-buried. He wears a fine, expensive wool coat, now ruined by mud and ice. A dark blossom of BLOOD stains the pristine snow beneath his shoulder.
Rick turns his back on the body. He takes a step toward the invisible horizon.
He stops.
He looks back over his shoulder.
A faint plume of VAPOR rises from Ed’s lips. It is instantly snatched away by the gale.
Rick stares at the breath. The arithmetic of survival plays out on his face. His gloved hand tightens on the rifle.
Damn you.
Rick turns back. He jams his rifle onto his back.
He grabs the collar of Ed's coat. He leans back, digging his boots into the shifting drift.
He pulls.
EXT. WILDERNESS - MOMENTS LATER
A boot SLAMS into deep snow. Then another.
Rick is a beast of burden, body angled forward against the wind. The rope of his muscles strains against his coat.
Behind him, Ed is a dead weight. His heels carve two deep, parallel furrows in the ice.
The WIND SCREAMS, a physical blow that nearly knocks Rick off his feet.
Rick stumbles. Falls to one knee. He gasps, the air burning his lungs.
He looks back. Ed hasn't moved. The snow is already covering his legs.
Rick snarls. He forces himself up. He grabs the collar again.
INT. LINE SHACK - DAY
Darkness. Cold. The sound of the storm is muffled here, a dull ROAR.
The door CRASHES open. A swirl of white invades the gloom.
Rick drags Ed over the threshold. He collapses, heaving Ed’s body onto the rough floorboards.
Rick kicks the door shut. He slams the latch home.
Silence. Heavy and sudden.
The shack is a coffin. Twelve by twelve. A stone hearth holds dying gray embers. A single shelf holds three tins of beans and one strip of jerky.
Rick crawls to the hearth. He blows on the coals. A faint orange glow responds.
He turns to Ed. He pulls a knife.
Rick slits Ed's pant leg from ankle to thigh. The fabric parts with a RIPPING sound.
The leg is a ruin. A jagged gash in the calf. Below the knee, the bone presses against the skin at a sickening angle.
Rick grabs a flask. Pours whiskey onto a rag. He scrubs the wound.
Ed GASPS. His back arches off the floor.
Ed’s eyes snap open. Lucid blue. Fever-bright. He focuses on Rick.
(A dry rasp)
Ah. The beast of the wilderness plays the good Samaritan.
Rick ignores him. He grabs two sticks from the kindling pile.
To what strange providence do I owe this... unfortunate rescue?
Rick wraps the cloth tight. He binds the sticks against the bone.
Shut up.
Silence. The preferred parlance of the stoic. Have you dragged my carcass here to gloat?
Rick ties the final knot. Hard.
Ed hisses through his teeth. His head lolls back.
You'll need your strength.
My strength? For what? Does the bear preserve the fawn for company?
Rick stands. He walks to the shelf. He stares at the three tins of beans.
INT. LINE SHACK - NIGHT
The wind HOWLS, vibrating the thin walls.
Ed lies on the floor, shivering violently. Sweat beads on his pale forehead.
Rick sits on his cot. He holds the single strip of jerky. It is dark, tough, and small.
He looks at the woodpile. One log remains.
(Delirious)
It is a stage... this little box. A morality play for an audience of none.
Rick looks at the jerky. Then at Ed.
I find the script... lacking in clarity.
Rick closes his eyes. He grips the jerky with both hands.
He tears it. The fibrous meat SNAPS.
Rick looks at his hands. One piece is large. The other is a scrap.
He stands. He crosses the room.
He kneels beside Ed. He presses the large piece into Ed’s limp hand.
Eat.
Rick grabs Ed under the arms. He drags him across the floor, placing him directly in front of the hearth.
Rick retreats to the cold wall near the door. He slides down to the floor.
He puts the small scrap of meat in his mouth. He chews slowly.
Rick watches Ed’s chest rise and fall.
Rick stands up. He picks up the LAST LOG.
He places it on the fire. The flames lick up the sides.
Rick warms his hands for a second. Then he pulls away.
From outside, a sound cuts through the wind.
A HOWL. High. Sharp. Mournful.
Rick freezes. His eyes dart to the door.
Another HOWL answers. Then a third. A chorus of hunger.
Rick looks at the fire.
The last log CRACKS loudly in the heat.
Rick stares at the door. He waits.