A White Blanket of Lies
Reporter Anna Breadley finds herself mired in the bewildering bureaucratic quagmire of Ponderosa Creek, where a government-funded 'Snow-Shield Project' appears to be generating more winter than it prevents, forcing her to confront a chilling paradox and the unsettling apathy of the locals.
EXT. PONDEROSA CREEK, TOWN CENTRE - DAY
An endless, oppressive WHiteness. Snow, thigh-deep and undisturbed, blankets everything. The air is thin, razor-sharp.
SOUND of wind, a low moan.
ANNA "BEA" BREADLEY (30s), bundled in a heavy parka, crunches through the snow. Each step is a monumental effort, the snow squeaking in protest at the -22°F temperature. Her breath plumes, a ghost in the air.
She stops. Her gaze falls on a TOWN CENTRE sign, its crooked letters barely visible above a drift that swallows the entire first floor of a general store. The skeletal branches of a dead tree scratch at a leaden sky.
The place is a tomb. Not a soul in sight.
A low, pervasive HUM hangs in the air. Almost subliminal, felt more than heard. A deep, resonant frequency.
Bea pulls her collar tighter, a cold dread coiling in her gut. She presses on.
INT. PONDEROSA PUBLIC LIBRARY - DAY
Bea pushes open a heavy, snow-caked door.
A surprisingly cheerful DOOR CHIME jingles.
The space is a cramped, concrete box smelling of old paper and ozone. Bookshelves sag under the weight of history.
MS. TARRFIELD (70s), her face a roadmap of fine lines, sits behind a cluttered desk. Her grey hair is in a severe bun. She wears a cardigan the color of weak tea and thick-rimmed spectacles. She doesn't look up from her computer screen.
The HUM is fainter here, a subtle vibration in the wooden floor.
MS. TARRFIELD
> You made it.
Her voice is flat, devoid of welcome. She gestures a bony hand toward a wobbly chair.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> Hard to get in, isn't it? Roads are something else this winter.
Bea peels off her stiff gloves, her fingers numb.
BEA
> The reports said Ponderosa Creek was chosen for the 'Snow-Shield Project' because of its mild winters. This doesn't feel very mild.
Ms. Tarrfield makes a sound, half-sniff, half-chuckle.
MS. TARRFIELD
> Reports.
She slides a thick, leather-bound volume across the desk. It’s heavy with age.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> Our historical climate data. You'll find it... instructive.
Bea opens the book. Meticulous, handwritten entries fill the yellowed pages. She runs a finger down a column.
BEA
> (reading)
> Average winter snowfall: fifteen centimeters. Lowest temperature recorded: minus five Celsius.
Her voice trails off. She looks toward the window. Through the flurries, a colossal, dome-like structure looms on the horizon—the Snow-Shield. It pulses with a barely perceptible, low-energy thrum.
BEA (CONT'D)
> And now?
MS. TARRFIELD
> (eyes on her screen)
> Now, we're pushing eight metres of accumulation. The lowest was... last Tuesday, I believe. Minus thirty-six. Before the wind chill.
Bea stares at her. The pit in her stomach deepens.
BEA
> So the project... it's actively creating more snow?
Ms. Tarrfield finally looks up, her eyes sharp behind the thick lenses. A flicker of something unreadable.
MS. TARRFIELD
> The official line, Ms. Breadley, is that the project is 'recalibrating atmospheric moisture distribution'. It's ensuring 'equitable snow coverage' across the region to 'combat historical imbalances'.
Her delivery is a perfect, deadpan imitation of bureaucratic jargon.
INT. SNOW-SHIELD FACILITY OFFICE - DAY
Sterile. Brightly lit. The walls are a clinical white.
SOUND of the HUM, much louder here, a constant, vibrating presence.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (50s), impeccably dressed in a tweed jacket, sits behind a clean, metal desk. His spectacles are perched on the end of his nose.
Bea sits opposite him, her digital recorder on the desk between them.
BEA
> Professor Edmunds, the public was told the Snow-Shield Project would reduce the severity of Ponderosa Creek winters. Yet, we're seeing record snowfalls. Can you explain this discrepancy?
Edmunds adjusts his glasses, offering a faint, professional smile.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> Ms. Breadley, it's crucial to understand the nuanced complexities of climatic remediation. Our initial modelling predicated on a certain 'baseline atmospheric receptivity.' What we've encountered here is a rather... robust local micro-climate. A unique atmospheric personality.
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (CONT'D)
> The Snow-Shield is, in essence, harmonising with this personality, not overriding it.
Bea’s pen hovers over her notebook, unmoving.
BEA
> Harmonising... by burying the town under ten feet of snow?
Edmunds leans back. His chair SQUEAKS faintly.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> Think of it as an intensive, accelerated rebalancing. A temporary surfeit to ensure long-term, sustainable atmospheric equilibrium. We're observing fascinating data, Ms. Breadley. Truly, deeply fascinating.
He gestures vaguely at a large monitor on the wall. It displays a dizzying array of complex graphs and charts, utterly indecipherable.
BEA
> What about the cost? The local economy is collapsing. People can't get out.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> (a sage nod)
> Ah, the economic externalities. A regrettable, albeit anticipated, byproduct of such ambitious environmental recalibration. But consider the long-term benefits. Ponderosa Creek will be a pristine, snow-laden paradise. A winter wonderland, if you will, but scientifically managed.
BEA
> And the hum? That low thrumming sound across town?
Edmunds lets out a dry, papery chuckle.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> The hum? That, Ms. Breadley, is the sound of progress. The resonant frequency of innovation. Harmless, of course.
He gestures again at the screen.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (CONT'D)
> Optimal operating metrics, you see.
Bea feels a headache forming behind her eyes. Every answer is a wall of meaningless, perfectly constructed words.
INT. PONDEROSA PUBLIC LIBRARY - LATER
Bea sits at the table, laptop open, typing furiously. Ms. Tarrfield is at her desk, meticulously cataloguing old black and white photographs.
The HUM is more noticeable now. A low, steady vibration felt through the floorboards. The air smells strongly of ozone.
BEA
> (muttering to herself)
> He's impossible. He just... talks around everything.
Ms. Tarrfield doesn't look up from her work.
MS. TARRFIELD
> That's the point, isn't it? If you make the explanation complex enough, people stop asking.
She slides a photograph across the table. It shows the town square, decades ago. A soft winter light. A dusting of snow. People walk freely. The trees are whole.
BEA
> They all just accept it? The town is drowning, and everyone just shrugs?
Ms. Tarrfield finally meets her gaze.
MS. TARRFIELD
> Acceptance can be a powerful thing. Especially when you've been told it's for your own good.
> (lowers her voice)
> Sometimes, people adapt to the absurd because the alternative... is just too cold to think about.
Bea looks from the photograph to the window. Snow falls, thick and heavy. Each flake a tiny accusation.
The HUM intensifies. It's no longer just a sound or a vibration. It's a presence. A pressure in the room.
Bea stares out the window.
CLOSE ON THE WINDOWPANE. It's a thick, thermal pane, designed for the cold. A tiny, hairline CRACK appears near the bottom corner, spiderwebbing silently outwards.
It isn't from the cold. It's from the resonance.
ANGLE ON BEA. Her journalistic frustration drains away, replaced by a primal, creeping fear. The hum seems to vibrate in her teeth.
Ms. Tarrfield’s gnarled fingers tap the old photograph.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> (a whisper)
> Some things, once set in motion, can’t be easily stopped. Even when the ice starts to climb your window panes from the inside.
Bea’s eyes are fixed on the crack. It grows, a silent, deliberate line spreading across the glass. The hum deepens, a note of finality.
This isn't a failure. It's an unravelling.
An endless, oppressive WHiteness. Snow, thigh-deep and undisturbed, blankets everything. The air is thin, razor-sharp.
SOUND of wind, a low moan.
ANNA "BEA" BREADLEY (30s), bundled in a heavy parka, crunches through the snow. Each step is a monumental effort, the snow squeaking in protest at the -22°F temperature. Her breath plumes, a ghost in the air.
She stops. Her gaze falls on a TOWN CENTRE sign, its crooked letters barely visible above a drift that swallows the entire first floor of a general store. The skeletal branches of a dead tree scratch at a leaden sky.
The place is a tomb. Not a soul in sight.
A low, pervasive HUM hangs in the air. Almost subliminal, felt more than heard. A deep, resonant frequency.
Bea pulls her collar tighter, a cold dread coiling in her gut. She presses on.
INT. PONDEROSA PUBLIC LIBRARY - DAY
Bea pushes open a heavy, snow-caked door.
A surprisingly cheerful DOOR CHIME jingles.
The space is a cramped, concrete box smelling of old paper and ozone. Bookshelves sag under the weight of history.
MS. TARRFIELD (70s), her face a roadmap of fine lines, sits behind a cluttered desk. Her grey hair is in a severe bun. She wears a cardigan the color of weak tea and thick-rimmed spectacles. She doesn't look up from her computer screen.
The HUM is fainter here, a subtle vibration in the wooden floor.
MS. TARRFIELD
> You made it.
Her voice is flat, devoid of welcome. She gestures a bony hand toward a wobbly chair.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> Hard to get in, isn't it? Roads are something else this winter.
Bea peels off her stiff gloves, her fingers numb.
BEA
> The reports said Ponderosa Creek was chosen for the 'Snow-Shield Project' because of its mild winters. This doesn't feel very mild.
Ms. Tarrfield makes a sound, half-sniff, half-chuckle.
MS. TARRFIELD
> Reports.
She slides a thick, leather-bound volume across the desk. It’s heavy with age.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> Our historical climate data. You'll find it... instructive.
Bea opens the book. Meticulous, handwritten entries fill the yellowed pages. She runs a finger down a column.
BEA
> (reading)
> Average winter snowfall: fifteen centimeters. Lowest temperature recorded: minus five Celsius.
Her voice trails off. She looks toward the window. Through the flurries, a colossal, dome-like structure looms on the horizon—the Snow-Shield. It pulses with a barely perceptible, low-energy thrum.
BEA (CONT'D)
> And now?
MS. TARRFIELD
> (eyes on her screen)
> Now, we're pushing eight metres of accumulation. The lowest was... last Tuesday, I believe. Minus thirty-six. Before the wind chill.
Bea stares at her. The pit in her stomach deepens.
BEA
> So the project... it's actively creating more snow?
Ms. Tarrfield finally looks up, her eyes sharp behind the thick lenses. A flicker of something unreadable.
MS. TARRFIELD
> The official line, Ms. Breadley, is that the project is 'recalibrating atmospheric moisture distribution'. It's ensuring 'equitable snow coverage' across the region to 'combat historical imbalances'.
Her delivery is a perfect, deadpan imitation of bureaucratic jargon.
INT. SNOW-SHIELD FACILITY OFFICE - DAY
Sterile. Brightly lit. The walls are a clinical white.
SOUND of the HUM, much louder here, a constant, vibrating presence.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (50s), impeccably dressed in a tweed jacket, sits behind a clean, metal desk. His spectacles are perched on the end of his nose.
Bea sits opposite him, her digital recorder on the desk between them.
BEA
> Professor Edmunds, the public was told the Snow-Shield Project would reduce the severity of Ponderosa Creek winters. Yet, we're seeing record snowfalls. Can you explain this discrepancy?
Edmunds adjusts his glasses, offering a faint, professional smile.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> Ms. Breadley, it's crucial to understand the nuanced complexities of climatic remediation. Our initial modelling predicated on a certain 'baseline atmospheric receptivity.' What we've encountered here is a rather... robust local micro-climate. A unique atmospheric personality.
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (CONT'D)
> The Snow-Shield is, in essence, harmonising with this personality, not overriding it.
Bea’s pen hovers over her notebook, unmoving.
BEA
> Harmonising... by burying the town under ten feet of snow?
Edmunds leans back. His chair SQUEAKS faintly.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> Think of it as an intensive, accelerated rebalancing. A temporary surfeit to ensure long-term, sustainable atmospheric equilibrium. We're observing fascinating data, Ms. Breadley. Truly, deeply fascinating.
He gestures vaguely at a large monitor on the wall. It displays a dizzying array of complex graphs and charts, utterly indecipherable.
BEA
> What about the cost? The local economy is collapsing. People can't get out.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> (a sage nod)
> Ah, the economic externalities. A regrettable, albeit anticipated, byproduct of such ambitious environmental recalibration. But consider the long-term benefits. Ponderosa Creek will be a pristine, snow-laden paradise. A winter wonderland, if you will, but scientifically managed.
BEA
> And the hum? That low thrumming sound across town?
Edmunds lets out a dry, papery chuckle.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS
> The hum? That, Ms. Breadley, is the sound of progress. The resonant frequency of innovation. Harmless, of course.
He gestures again at the screen.
PROFESSOR EDMUNDS (CONT'D)
> Optimal operating metrics, you see.
Bea feels a headache forming behind her eyes. Every answer is a wall of meaningless, perfectly constructed words.
INT. PONDEROSA PUBLIC LIBRARY - LATER
Bea sits at the table, laptop open, typing furiously. Ms. Tarrfield is at her desk, meticulously cataloguing old black and white photographs.
The HUM is more noticeable now. A low, steady vibration felt through the floorboards. The air smells strongly of ozone.
BEA
> (muttering to herself)
> He's impossible. He just... talks around everything.
Ms. Tarrfield doesn't look up from her work.
MS. TARRFIELD
> That's the point, isn't it? If you make the explanation complex enough, people stop asking.
She slides a photograph across the table. It shows the town square, decades ago. A soft winter light. A dusting of snow. People walk freely. The trees are whole.
BEA
> They all just accept it? The town is drowning, and everyone just shrugs?
Ms. Tarrfield finally meets her gaze.
MS. TARRFIELD
> Acceptance can be a powerful thing. Especially when you've been told it's for your own good.
> (lowers her voice)
> Sometimes, people adapt to the absurd because the alternative... is just too cold to think about.
Bea looks from the photograph to the window. Snow falls, thick and heavy. Each flake a tiny accusation.
The HUM intensifies. It's no longer just a sound or a vibration. It's a presence. A pressure in the room.
Bea stares out the window.
CLOSE ON THE WINDOWPANE. It's a thick, thermal pane, designed for the cold. A tiny, hairline CRACK appears near the bottom corner, spiderwebbing silently outwards.
It isn't from the cold. It's from the resonance.
ANGLE ON BEA. Her journalistic frustration drains away, replaced by a primal, creeping fear. The hum seems to vibrate in her teeth.
Ms. Tarrfield’s gnarled fingers tap the old photograph.
MS. TARRFIELD (CONT'D)
> (a whisper)
> Some things, once set in motion, can’t be easily stopped. Even when the ice starts to climb your window panes from the inside.
Bea’s eyes are fixed on the crack. It grows, a silent, deliberate line spreading across the glass. The hum deepens, a note of finality.
This isn't a failure. It's an unravelling.