A Script for The Seaplane and the Sickbed

FADE IN:

**EXT. EAST MAIN POST, JAMES BAY - DAY**

SUPER: THURSDAY, AUGUST 1ST, 1929

The air is cool, damp. RICHARD (40s), the post manager, stands near the growing woodpile, his gaze sweeping the vast, empty expanse of the bay. He is pragmatic, observant, a man who carries the weight of this place in his shoulders.

His boots are caked in mud. The rhythmic THUD of wood on wood is the only sound besides the gulls.

The FUEL CHOPPERS, a crew of Indigenous men, work with an economic grace. They hoist logs from a boat, carry them ashore, and stack them onto the formidable pile. Their movements are efficient, practiced. No wasted energy.

Richard's eyes track their progress, then scan the horizon. A habit. Checking the weather, the light, the line where the sky meets the water.

RICHARD (V.O.)

North-west wind, still damp. The rain of the morning gave way to a fair, if cool, day. The Choppers were at it again... their work a constant, a bedrock.

Suddenly, Richard stills. He squints, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

High up. Impossibly high. A FLICKER of light.

He focuses. It's not a bird. It's a glint of metal against the pale blue sky.

A clear, distinct shape. A SEAPLANE.

RICHARD (V.O.)

A seaplane. A real seaplane. Heading north, disappearing above the river mouth. It was half-past ten.

Richard's breath hitches. A small, involuntary sound. He watches until it is nothing more than a memory against the vastness. The THUD of the logs continues, but the silence that follows the plane's disappearance feels deeper, more profound.

RICHARD (V.O.)

A jolt. A jarring reminder of a world that was moving, changing, while our own remained tethered to the ancient rhythms of trade and season. A herald of what? I didn't know.

**MONTAGE**

A series of shots compressing the next few weeks. Richard's voice-over provides the connective tissue.

RICHARD (V.O.)

The days settled back into their rhythm. The work was endless. The post began its seasonal transformation...

- **INT. STOREHOUSE - DAY (AUGUST 1ST)**

Richard stands at a heavy ledger. An INLAND HUNTER, a quiet man with deep-set eyes, stands before him. Richard makes a neat entry, then pushes a sack of flour, a brick of tobacco, and a box of shotgun shells across the counter. The Hunter nods once, a silent contract, and leaves.

- **EXT. JETTY - DAY (AUGUST 7TH)**

JIMMIE CARSON and his FAMILY arrive in a small, worn boat. Two small children, bundled in furs, blink in the bright light. A rare moment of simple warmth as greetings are exchanged.

- **EXT. WOODPILE - DAY (AUGUST 8TH)**

The Fuel Choppers place the final logs on the pile. It is now a formidable mountain of wood, a bulwark against the coming freeze. They wipe their brows, their work for the season complete. Richard watches them, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.

RICHARD (V.O.)

The woodpile stood a formidable mountain. Enough, I hoped, for the long, hungry months ahead.

- **EXT. POST - DAY (AUGUST 10TH)**

Three more families of Inlanders load their canoes. They are quiet, their goodbyes almost unheard against the vast silence. Richard watches them paddle away, their small crafts shrinking against the immensity of the bush. The post feels smaller, more isolated.

**END MONTAGE**

**EXT. BUNK HOUSE - DAY**

SUPER: FRIDAY, AUGUST 30TH, 1929

The day is calm. A MAN (40s, weathered) leans against the bunk house wall, mending a net. He is seized by a small, dry COUGH. He tries to stifle it, clears his throat, and continues his work.

Richard walks past, carrying a crate. He glances at the man, a flicker of notice, but continues on. Just a cough.

**INT. BUNK HOUSE - NIGHT**

SUPER: SATURDAY, AUGUST 31ST, 1929

The air is thick, heavy with the smell of wet wool, pine resin, and simmering stew. The room is crowded with sleeping bunks.

It begins with one man's ragged COUGH.

Then another answers from across the room. A deeper, wetter sound.

A third man shivers violently under his thin blanket, his breathing shallow.

The sounds multiply. A ragged, discordant chorus of coughs and pained groans fills the suffocating space.

**INT. RICHARD'S OFFICE - CONTINUOUS**

The same sounds filter through the walls, muted but persistent.

Richard sits at his desk, the ledger open before him. A single lantern casts a pool of yellow light, illuminating the neat, precise entries.

RICHARD (V.O.)

And then, the coughs started. A few men complained of chills, an ache in their joints...

He dips his pen in ink, his hand hovering over the page. He writes.

RICHARD (V.O.)

...noted in the ledger, quite a few people have been laid up with the 'flu' this week.

He pauses, listening to a particularly violent fit of coughing from outside.

RICHARD (V.O.)

Some seemed to mind it little, shaking it off after a day or two. But others... others were pretty sick.

He puts the pen down. The knot of anxiety, usually reserved for supply ships and winter storms, tightens in his gut.

He rises, walks to a simple wooden cabinet on the wall. The MEDICINE CHEST. He opens it.

The shelves are sparsely populated. A few bottles of dark liquid, some tins of salve, rolls of bandages. It looks thin. Insufficient.

RICHARD (V.O.)

The post, which had just been emptying out, now felt stifling. A chill, more profound than any wind, began to settle over East Main.

He stands there, staring at the meager supplies. The only sounds are the sigh of the wind outside and the relentless, ragged chorus of coughing from the bunk house.

The camera pushes in on Richard's face. All his meticulous planning, all his bulwarks against the cold and the hunger, are useless against this. He is facing an enemy he cannot see, cannot fight, and cannot count.

He slowly closes the medicine chest. The click of the latch is sharp, final.

RICHARD (V.O.)

The bay, usually so bustling, stretched out empty and cold. A stark, vast silence that offered no help... only the promise of an unyielding autumn and a long, hard winter ahead.

FADE TO BLACK.