A Gust of White Laughter
Caught in the throes of a brutal winter storm, Jon and Matt embark on a desperate search for a lost calf, battling the elements and their own pasts, discovering a flicker of joy in the shared struggle.
EXT. SNOWY WILDERNESS - DAY
A WHITEOUT. The world is a swirling vortex of snow and wind. Visibility is near zero.
SOUND of a high-pitched engine whine, battling the GALE
JON (30s), bundled in heavy winter gear, grips the handlebars of his snowmobile. Knuckles white. The machine vibrates through his bones.
A blurred YELLOW PHANTOM cuts through the snow ahead -- MATT (30s) on his own snowmobile. It's the only landmark in the featureless expanse.
A gust of wind SLAMS into Jon. The front ski of his machine lifts. He fights it, swearing under his breath, a knot of fear tightening in his gut.
The cold is a physical presence, seeping through his layers.
Matt’s machine slows. A faint RED TAILLIGHT pulses in the oblivion. Jon pulls up beside him. The engines idle, a low THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
SOUND of the wind, a high, banshee WAIL, now dominant.
Matt rips his goggles off. His face is ruddy, frost clinging to his eyelashes. His moss-green eyes find Jon's. A flicker of concern, quickly replaced by grim focus.
He has to shout over the wind.
MATT
> Tracks! Fresh!
He points a thick, mittened hand. Barely visible in the fresh powder is a shallow depression -- a line of small hoof prints, already filling with new snow.
MATT
> Must be the yearling. Stupid thing. Always wandering too far.
His voice is rough, but laced with an exasperated affection. He gestures forward with his head.
MATT
> Stay close. Follow my line. Don’t get stuck.
He pulls his goggles back down. Revs the engine. The yellow phantom lurches forward, once again swallowed by the storm.
Jon swallows, the air burning his throat. He takes a breath, squeezes the throttle, and follows.
EXT. FROZEN CREEK BED - MOMENTS LATER
The tracks are fleeting, a cruel tease in the white hell.
Matt navigates with an instinctual grace. Jon struggles, his machine lurching, fishtailing. He wrestles it back under control, heart hammering. He glances up -- Matt hasn't looked back.
They cross a small, frozen creek.
SOUND of ICE CRACKING sharply beneath them.
Jon flinches.
On the far bank, Matt has stopped. He dismounts, a tall silhouette against the raging white. He kneels, examining something.
Jon cuts his engine. The sudden silence is deafening, filled only by the HOWL of the wind. He clambers off, his boots sinking deep into the powder. The cold bites harder.
MATT
> Here. Not far.
Through the swirling snow, Jon makes out a dark cluster of stunted PINE TREES, branches heavy. A flash of brown.
MATT
> It’s huddled under that cluster of pines.
EXT. PINE GROVE - CONTINUOUS
A YEARLING CALF shivers violently at the base of a tree, its coat matted with ice.
SOUND of a thin, reedy BLEAT that cuts through the wind.
JON
> (muttering)
> Poor thing.
Matt pulls a thick, insulated blanket from a compartment on his snowmobile.
MATT
> Alright, Jon. We need to get it moving. It’ll be stiff, scared. Keep it calm.
He approaches the calf slowly, speaking in low, soothing tones, his words lost to the storm. The calf wobbles but doesn't bolt. Too weak.
They struggle to wrap the blanket around the shivering animal. It's an awkward, heavy weight of bone and muscle.
MATT
> (grunting)
> Okay, now we gotta lead it. One of us pulls, the other nudges.
He offers Jon a thick rope. Jon’s fingers are stiff and clumsy in his gloves. He fumbles with the rope, finally looping it gently around the calf's neck.
They start to move, a painstaking, slow procession. The calf stumbles, resisting. Jon pulls, muscles screaming. Matt is a steady presence behind, guiding, shielding it from the wind.
A stronger gust rips at Jon's mask, exposing his cheek to the raw sting of ice. He stumbles, the rope slipping.
In an instant, Matt is there. His hand clamps over Jon’s, thick and warm even through the layers. He steadies Jon, steadies the rope. A firm squeeze. A silent message.
The contact is brief, but the warmth lingers.
EXT. SNOWMOBILES - LATER
They make it back. Relief washes over Jon, dizzying.
They hoist the calf onto a small sled attached to Matt's machine, securing it with ropes. Matt gives the ropes a final tug, then pats the calf’s blanketed side.
MATT
> (murmuring)
> You’ll be alright, little idiot.
A genuine, soft smile transforms his face, chasing away the grim lines of worry. Jon finds himself smiling back, a hesitant, rusty feeling.
MATT
> Right. Let’s get you back to the barn. Hot chocolate awaits.
They mount their machines. The urgency has lessened. They are heading home.
Matt starts his engine. It ROARS to life. They set off, slower now.
Then -- a SPUTTER. A hiccup in the engine's roar.
Matt glances over his shoulder, a question in his eyes.
It happens again, louder. A violent, metallic HACKING.
With a final, dying WHEEZE, Matt's engine cuts out.
They glide to a halt.
The silence is absolute. Oppressive.
SOUND of whispering snow, the distant MOAN of wind, and the terrified BLEATING of the calf.
Jon’s heart sinks.
Matt is off his machine, yanking off his gloves, movements sharp with frustration. He rips open the engine cover.
MATT
> (to himself)
> No, no, no...
JON
> What is it?
Matt prods at wires, his breath steaming.
MATT
> (grinding it out)
> Fuel line, maybe. Or a spark plug. Can’t tell in this light.
He kicks the snow. The frustration is a live current in the frozen air. They are stranded.
Matt looks up, scanning the featureless landscape. His gaze hardens with resolve.
MATT
> We can’t just stay here. Not with the calf. There’s an old hunting blind, maybe half a mile west. Rough, but it’ll shield us. We leave the machines, carry the calf.
The thought is insurmountable. But the alternative is unthinkable.
EXT. SNOWY EXPANSE - LATER
The journey is a grueling hell. They drag the calf between them, its dead weight pulling at their shoulders.
Matt breaks trail, an unwavering beacon. Jon stumbles, feet numb, vision blurring.
He slips on a patch of ice. Goes down HARD. A sharp pain shoots through his knee.
Matt stops instantly, turns, his face a mask of concern. He helps Jon up.
MATT
> (a low growl of worry)
> You alright, Jon?
Jon just nods, grimacing. Matt puts a firm, reassuring hand on his back.
MATT
> Not much further. Just a bit more.
INT. HUNTING BLIND - DAY
A dilapidated, leaning structure of rough timber and corrugated iron. It is cramped, dark, and smells of damp earth and pine.
SOUND of the wind, now MUFFLED, a distant threat.
They huddle close, the calf wedged between them, its warmth a small mercy. Exhaustion settles, heavy and complete.
Matt fumbles in his pack. Pulls out a battered metal flask and two foil-wrapped energy bars. He offers one to Jon, then uncorks the flask.
MATT
> Whisky. For warmth.
He takes a swig, offers it to Jon. Jon hesitates, then takes it. The alcohol is a liquid fire in his chest. He COUGHS, a harsh, unexpected sound.
Matt lets out a short, booming LAUGH. It bounces off the rough walls.
MATT
> First time?
Jon shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
JON
> No, just... a long time.
They sit in silence. The calf’s breathing is soft and rhythmic. The terror has receded, replaced by a strange, giddy sense of survival.
Matt shifts. His knee brushes against Jon’s. A pleasant jolt. He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
MATT
> (low, raspy)
> Crazy day.
Jon chuckles, a soft, surprising sound.
MATT
> Never a dull moment around here.
Matt chuckles too, a deeper, richer sound. And for a fleeting, glorious moment, they just laugh. Two men in a box in a blizzard. The sound is joyous, shockingly free.
The laughter fades, leaving a comfortable quiet.
Matt opens his eyes. He meets Jon’s gaze. There's a quiet understanding there. An invitation. The air grows thick with unspoken things.
Jon feels a powerful urge to lean in, to close the small distance between them.
And then--
SOUND of a LOW, GUTTURAL GROWL. Just outside.
It is not the wind.
Followed by the FAINT CRUNCH of heavy footsteps in the snow.
Jon freezes. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Matt’s eyes snap wide. Alert. Every muscle in his body goes rigid.
The air in the blind grows heavy, thick with a new, colder fear.
SOUND of SCRAPING against the timber wall. Closer. Deliberate.
The fragile bubble of warmth pops. The laughter is gone.
They are not alone. And whatever is out there, sounds hungry.
A WHITEOUT. The world is a swirling vortex of snow and wind. Visibility is near zero.
SOUND of a high-pitched engine whine, battling the GALE
JON (30s), bundled in heavy winter gear, grips the handlebars of his snowmobile. Knuckles white. The machine vibrates through his bones.
A blurred YELLOW PHANTOM cuts through the snow ahead -- MATT (30s) on his own snowmobile. It's the only landmark in the featureless expanse.
A gust of wind SLAMS into Jon. The front ski of his machine lifts. He fights it, swearing under his breath, a knot of fear tightening in his gut.
The cold is a physical presence, seeping through his layers.
Matt’s machine slows. A faint RED TAILLIGHT pulses in the oblivion. Jon pulls up beside him. The engines idle, a low THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
SOUND of the wind, a high, banshee WAIL, now dominant.
Matt rips his goggles off. His face is ruddy, frost clinging to his eyelashes. His moss-green eyes find Jon's. A flicker of concern, quickly replaced by grim focus.
He has to shout over the wind.
MATT
> Tracks! Fresh!
He points a thick, mittened hand. Barely visible in the fresh powder is a shallow depression -- a line of small hoof prints, already filling with new snow.
MATT
> Must be the yearling. Stupid thing. Always wandering too far.
His voice is rough, but laced with an exasperated affection. He gestures forward with his head.
MATT
> Stay close. Follow my line. Don’t get stuck.
He pulls his goggles back down. Revs the engine. The yellow phantom lurches forward, once again swallowed by the storm.
Jon swallows, the air burning his throat. He takes a breath, squeezes the throttle, and follows.
EXT. FROZEN CREEK BED - MOMENTS LATER
The tracks are fleeting, a cruel tease in the white hell.
Matt navigates with an instinctual grace. Jon struggles, his machine lurching, fishtailing. He wrestles it back under control, heart hammering. He glances up -- Matt hasn't looked back.
They cross a small, frozen creek.
SOUND of ICE CRACKING sharply beneath them.
Jon flinches.
On the far bank, Matt has stopped. He dismounts, a tall silhouette against the raging white. He kneels, examining something.
Jon cuts his engine. The sudden silence is deafening, filled only by the HOWL of the wind. He clambers off, his boots sinking deep into the powder. The cold bites harder.
MATT
> Here. Not far.
Through the swirling snow, Jon makes out a dark cluster of stunted PINE TREES, branches heavy. A flash of brown.
MATT
> It’s huddled under that cluster of pines.
EXT. PINE GROVE - CONTINUOUS
A YEARLING CALF shivers violently at the base of a tree, its coat matted with ice.
SOUND of a thin, reedy BLEAT that cuts through the wind.
JON
> (muttering)
> Poor thing.
Matt pulls a thick, insulated blanket from a compartment on his snowmobile.
MATT
> Alright, Jon. We need to get it moving. It’ll be stiff, scared. Keep it calm.
He approaches the calf slowly, speaking in low, soothing tones, his words lost to the storm. The calf wobbles but doesn't bolt. Too weak.
They struggle to wrap the blanket around the shivering animal. It's an awkward, heavy weight of bone and muscle.
MATT
> (grunting)
> Okay, now we gotta lead it. One of us pulls, the other nudges.
He offers Jon a thick rope. Jon’s fingers are stiff and clumsy in his gloves. He fumbles with the rope, finally looping it gently around the calf's neck.
They start to move, a painstaking, slow procession. The calf stumbles, resisting. Jon pulls, muscles screaming. Matt is a steady presence behind, guiding, shielding it from the wind.
A stronger gust rips at Jon's mask, exposing his cheek to the raw sting of ice. He stumbles, the rope slipping.
In an instant, Matt is there. His hand clamps over Jon’s, thick and warm even through the layers. He steadies Jon, steadies the rope. A firm squeeze. A silent message.
The contact is brief, but the warmth lingers.
EXT. SNOWMOBILES - LATER
They make it back. Relief washes over Jon, dizzying.
They hoist the calf onto a small sled attached to Matt's machine, securing it with ropes. Matt gives the ropes a final tug, then pats the calf’s blanketed side.
MATT
> (murmuring)
> You’ll be alright, little idiot.
A genuine, soft smile transforms his face, chasing away the grim lines of worry. Jon finds himself smiling back, a hesitant, rusty feeling.
MATT
> Right. Let’s get you back to the barn. Hot chocolate awaits.
They mount their machines. The urgency has lessened. They are heading home.
Matt starts his engine. It ROARS to life. They set off, slower now.
Then -- a SPUTTER. A hiccup in the engine's roar.
Matt glances over his shoulder, a question in his eyes.
It happens again, louder. A violent, metallic HACKING.
With a final, dying WHEEZE, Matt's engine cuts out.
They glide to a halt.
The silence is absolute. Oppressive.
SOUND of whispering snow, the distant MOAN of wind, and the terrified BLEATING of the calf.
Jon’s heart sinks.
Matt is off his machine, yanking off his gloves, movements sharp with frustration. He rips open the engine cover.
MATT
> (to himself)
> No, no, no...
JON
> What is it?
Matt prods at wires, his breath steaming.
MATT
> (grinding it out)
> Fuel line, maybe. Or a spark plug. Can’t tell in this light.
He kicks the snow. The frustration is a live current in the frozen air. They are stranded.
Matt looks up, scanning the featureless landscape. His gaze hardens with resolve.
MATT
> We can’t just stay here. Not with the calf. There’s an old hunting blind, maybe half a mile west. Rough, but it’ll shield us. We leave the machines, carry the calf.
The thought is insurmountable. But the alternative is unthinkable.
EXT. SNOWY EXPANSE - LATER
The journey is a grueling hell. They drag the calf between them, its dead weight pulling at their shoulders.
Matt breaks trail, an unwavering beacon. Jon stumbles, feet numb, vision blurring.
He slips on a patch of ice. Goes down HARD. A sharp pain shoots through his knee.
Matt stops instantly, turns, his face a mask of concern. He helps Jon up.
MATT
> (a low growl of worry)
> You alright, Jon?
Jon just nods, grimacing. Matt puts a firm, reassuring hand on his back.
MATT
> Not much further. Just a bit more.
INT. HUNTING BLIND - DAY
A dilapidated, leaning structure of rough timber and corrugated iron. It is cramped, dark, and smells of damp earth and pine.
SOUND of the wind, now MUFFLED, a distant threat.
They huddle close, the calf wedged between them, its warmth a small mercy. Exhaustion settles, heavy and complete.
Matt fumbles in his pack. Pulls out a battered metal flask and two foil-wrapped energy bars. He offers one to Jon, then uncorks the flask.
MATT
> Whisky. For warmth.
He takes a swig, offers it to Jon. Jon hesitates, then takes it. The alcohol is a liquid fire in his chest. He COUGHS, a harsh, unexpected sound.
Matt lets out a short, booming LAUGH. It bounces off the rough walls.
MATT
> First time?
Jon shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips.
JON
> No, just... a long time.
They sit in silence. The calf’s breathing is soft and rhythmic. The terror has receded, replaced by a strange, giddy sense of survival.
Matt shifts. His knee brushes against Jon’s. A pleasant jolt. He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed.
MATT
> (low, raspy)
> Crazy day.
Jon chuckles, a soft, surprising sound.
MATT
> Never a dull moment around here.
Matt chuckles too, a deeper, richer sound. And for a fleeting, glorious moment, they just laugh. Two men in a box in a blizzard. The sound is joyous, shockingly free.
The laughter fades, leaving a comfortable quiet.
Matt opens his eyes. He meets Jon’s gaze. There's a quiet understanding there. An invitation. The air grows thick with unspoken things.
Jon feels a powerful urge to lean in, to close the small distance between them.
And then--
SOUND of a LOW, GUTTURAL GROWL. Just outside.
It is not the wind.
Followed by the FAINT CRUNCH of heavy footsteps in the snow.
Jon freezes. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Matt’s eyes snap wide. Alert. Every muscle in his body goes rigid.
The air in the blind grows heavy, thick with a new, colder fear.
SOUND of SCRAPING against the timber wall. Closer. Deliberate.
The fragile bubble of warmth pops. The laughter is gone.
They are not alone. And whatever is out there, sounds hungry.