A Script for The White Static of Winter

[SCENE START]

**EXT. FORT RESOLUTE - WEST PERIMETER - DAY**

A vast, unending canvas of WHITE. Snow falls in a lazy, hypnotic swirl.

FRANK (10), a small figure bundled in a parka, is crouched low. His mittened hands scrape at the frozen earth beneath the snow. He digs out a dark, frozen WILLOW BRANCH.

He holds it up, imagining. The mast of a ship trapped in ice.

The world is muffled quiet. The soft CRUNCH of his boots. The whisper of the wind.

And then--

A low, metallic SHRIEK rips through the silence. It's a tearing sound, like metal stretched to its breaking point. Sustained. Agonizing.

Frank freezes, the willow branch clutched in his hand. His head snaps up, eyes wide. The sound comes from the west, near the fence line where the big, unmarked supply trucks park.

He squints through the swirling flakes. The base buildings, squat and dark, seem to huddle together against the cold. Their windows reflect nothing but grey light.

The shriek tapers off into a high-pitched WHINE, then dissolves.

Silence rushes back in. But underneath it, an OMNIPRESENT HUM vibrates up from the ground. A low thrumming Frank can feel in his teeth. A sleeping giant.

He shivers, and it's not just the cold.

The willow branch falls from his hand, forgotten. He tucks his chin deep into the fur-lined hood of his parka and starts the long walk back.

His small boots crunch in the deep snow. Each step is an effort. His breath hangs in the air, a thick white cloud. The quiet feels too big now. Too empty.

**INT. COMMUNITY HALL - DAY**

The air is too warm, thick with the smell of dust and stale coffee. A few YOUNGER KIDS tumble on faded gym mats, their GIGGLES thin and reedy.

At a long, scarred table, IRENE (10) works with intense focus. She flattens a discarded cereal box, her tongue caught between her teeth. The table is a landscape of colored paper, blunt scissors, and dried-up glue sticks.

Frank stomps the snow from his boots, pulling off his mittens. His fingers are bright red, traced with the faint purple lines of old frostbite.

<center>FRANK</center>

> That sound.

Irene doesn't look up. She knows what he means.

<center>IRENE</center>

> Yeah. Heard it.

She presses the cereal box flat with the heel of her hand.

<center>IRENE (CONT'D)</center>

> From the south tower. Near the big satellite dish.

She finally lifts her eyes. Her gaze is sharp, unnervingly perceptive for a child.

<center>IRENE (CONT'D)</center>

> Wasn't supposed to be working today. The sign said.

She nods towards a crumpled, hand-drawn schedule tacked to a corkboard. We can just make out the words: 'South Tower - Power Down'.

Frank grunts, pulling out a wobbly plastic chair. It SCRAPES loudly on the linoleum. He picks up a piece of crinkled, iridescent wrapping paper.

<center>FRANK</center>

> Sounded like... a big tin can getting stomped.

He smooths the paper, its shiny surface distorting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead.

Irene pushes a small, empty milk carton towards him. Her voice is a whisper over the sound of the kids playing.

<center>IRENE</center>

> Help me. For the town.

Their project. A miniature town built from the base's refuse.

Frank takes the carton. His fingers, stiff from the cold, fumble with the blunt scissors. He begins to cut along the seams, each snip a small, deliberate victory against the stubborn cardboard.

<center>IRENE</center>

> Dad’s still gone.

Her voice is flat. She draws a tiny window on another piece of cardboard with a dried-up marker. The lines are thin, grey.

Frank nods, not looking at her. He knows. 'Training exercises.' The words the adults use like a shield.

<center>IRENE (CONT'D)</center>

> The new trucks. They're black. And they don't have base numbers.

Her eyes are fixed on the far wall, seeing something beyond it.

<center>IRENE (CONT'D)</center>

> Saw one this morning, pulling out. Too big for the roads. And too quiet.

Frank feels a cold dread creep up his spine. The hum. The shriek. The silent black trucks. Puzzle pieces from different boxes.

He starts to draw a door on his milk carton. He presses too hard and the marker skips, scratching the cardboard.

The main door to the hall bursts open.

SERGEANT MURRAY (50s, gruff but with usually kind eyes) strides in. Today, his face is a tight, grim mask. He clutches a clipboard like a weapon.

The younger kids stop tumbling. The hall goes dead silent, except for that ever-present HUM.

<center>SERGEANT MURRAY</center>

> Alright, kids. Listen up.

His voice is strained. He scans the room, his eyes lingering for a half-second on Frank and Irene.

<center>SERGEANT MURRAY (CONT'D)</center>

> We've got an unscheduled drill. Perimeter lockdown. Code Black.

Irene looks at Frank. Her eyes are wide. They both know. Code Black isn't a drill. Not really.

A few of the younger kids start to WHIMPER.

<center>SERGEANT MURRAY (CONT'D)</center>

> Everyone to the designated safe rooms. Now. Let's move it. Quickly and quietly.

He points to a thick steel door at the back of the hall.

Frank feels a knot of ice in his stomach. He glances at their unfinished town, scattered and vulnerable.

But Irene is already moving. Swift. Efficient. She gathers their small collection of cardboard houses, tucking Frank's milk carton building under her arm. She gives him a look. *Let's go.*

Frank pushes his chair back. The SCRAPE echoes in the tense silence. He follows Irene, his eyes fixed on the back of her faded blue coat as they join the line of children shuffling towards the steel door.

**INT. SAFE ROOM - LATER**

A cramped, windowless box smelling of stale air and fear. A single, bare bulb hangs from the ceiling.

Children huddle in corners. Some cry silently into their knees. Sergeant Murray stands guard by the heavy door, listening.

Frank sits on the cold concrete floor, knees drawn to his chest. Beside him, Irene clutches their small cardboard town.

A faint TAPPING.

Irene is tapping a quiet, steady rhythm on the side of the milk carton house. A tiny, secret signal in the suffocating silence.

Frank reaches out, his fingers brushing against the rough cardboard.

The HUM feels louder in here, pressing in on the walls, making his ears ache.

**EXT. FORT RESOLUTE - DUSK**

Hours later. The sky is a bruised, fading purple. The air bites, sharper than before.

Sergeant Murray waves the kids off, his face unreadable. "Go straight home."

Irene walks away, a small, hunched figure holding the milk carton house tight against her chest. She disappears into the twilight.

Frank watches her go, then finds his own feet carrying him back. Back towards the west perimeter.

The new snow is untouched. A pristine white blanket. No footprints but his own.

The metallic shriek is gone. But the HUM is still there. A high-frequency tremble that makes the hairs on his arms stand up.

He walks along the fence line, his boots CRUNCHING. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of spruce trees ahead.

He sees it.

A small CHICKADEE. It flutters erratically, low to the ground. It bumps into a snow-laden branch, then another, as if blind. Its movements are jerky, wrong.

It hits another branch and falls, landing in a soft drift. Its tiny wings twitch once. Twice.

Then still.

Frank stands frozen, his own breath caught in his throat.

His eyes are drawn from the dead bird to a nearby supply building. The same area the shriek came from.

From a small, grated vent near the foundation, a faint GREEN GLOW pulses. Sickly. Unnatural. It beats softly, almost imperceptibly, against the deepening gloom.

CLOSE ON FRANK'S FACE.

The cold. The hum. The dead bird. The green light.

He understands nothing, and everything. He knows, with the hollow certainty of a child, that something is terribly wrong under all this snow.

[SCENE END]