The Survivalist

Black two-dimensional space.

We are racing alongside a perfectly horizontal RED LINE.

It begins to curve and ascend. The red line becomes thinner as we pull back...

To reveal a BLUE LINE rising in parallel below it.

Pulling back further...

The horizontal and vertical axes of a GRAPH become visible.

The red line maps WORLD POPULATION and the blue line OIL

PRODUCTION.

We are moving through time - hundreds of years.

We reach the 20th century. The lines SPIKE.

We ZOOM towards the lines as they race up the near-vertical

face of an exponential curve.

UP...

UP...

The blue line - OIL PRODUCTION - begins to level off.

Flatten.

The red line - WORLD POPULATION - keeps racing up.

The blue line dips into decline. It forms a smoothe,

elegant curve downwards that perfectly mirrors its ascent -

what mathematicians would call a bell curve.

We move closer to the red line, still spiking...

It begins to level off...

The red line CRASHES.

DOWN.

DOWN.

DOWN.

Curving...

Levelling off...

Horizontal again.

AS BEFORE:
A red line bisecting a black screen.

MATCH FADE TO:

EXT. A FOREST - DAY

The HORIZON LINE is blurred but visible behind rows of

trees.

We are creeping up the incline of a small hill, rolling

over velvet green ferns, rotting branches, jet-black soil.

The gentle murmur and buzz of lifeforms. Dank gloom clings

to the forest floor.

Out of the murk... a white slither of luminescence.

The wispy root and cap of a MUSHROOM, growing under the

roots of a tree.

TITLE OVER:

Winter

A grubby hand plucks the mushroom.

It's brought to bearded mouth. Nostrils flare, sniff the

wide rim of the speckled cap.

The trained eye would recognise it as the fruit of the

fungus amanita phalloides, but it is more widely known by

the colloquial name of-

The mouth BITES into it.

... no matter, now.

The mouth chews slowly, tongue letting taste take form.

A bigger bite, devouring half the cap. Pink eyes close,

water in pleasure. Nourishment; the eater is half-starving.

But he knows to save it. He wraps the uneaten part in

plastic. Scoops the rest of the troop and wraps them as

well. He puts them all in what would have been a gym bag in

a former life.

Then he gets back on his feet and continues uphill...

FADE TO:

The FORAGER making a trail through undergrowth.

He is 38, but looks ten years older. He's unwashed,

ravenous, tramp-like - except his eyes aren't grey and

washed out, they're keen and alive and trailing the ground

for more food.

He stops.

Listens.

The sound of water.

He ambles on the spot, trying to divine the source.

He scrabbles over a fallen tree, down towards a dip in the

forest. He bursts through branches to find:

A clear stream, running over rocks.

Forager skids down the bank onto his knees, cups greedy

palm-fulls of water to his mouth. It taps a vein of

pleasure. He splashes it onto his face, scrubbing dirt off

with the heel of his hand.

His hand slows, stops - his eyes fix upstream.

Clothes, lain across the rocks.

Forager suddenly has a hunting knife in his hand. His eyes

dart around, looking for shapes in the shadows, watchers in

the fading winter light.

The trees stand silent and alone.

He tucks the knife back in his waistband.

FADE TO:

Forager stalks the strange smell. Quiet as you like, feet

gentle against the forest floor, movements slowed to keep

the friction of his coat's fabric to a whisper.

The scent leads to a clearing. Rotting stumps surround two

compost heaps of branch and humus.

A glint through the trees up ahead.

He draws closer, darting between tree trunks.

Between the branches he sees the shape of a cabin emerge;

light bounces off what looks like a solar panel on the

roof.

His foot steps on wire.

He looks down:
agricultural mesh, sunk into brown soil - a

makeshift pest barrier.

Getting closer, he finds the south-facing cabin overlooks

an abundant farm plot.

Mainly root vegetables, but with some hardy cabbages still

above ground. It's about four hectares in area, circling

around the cabin: small, enough to miss, but carefully

managed for maximum yield. To the side of the plot is a

long polytunnel to house less hardy planets, and a cold

frame for seeding nearby.

Forager stays in the darkness. He studies the window of the

cabin, watching for The Other.

Then he steps onto the soil. His hands dig deep and pull

up... a turnip. He pulls out more, stuffs them in his bag.

Carrots. Rhubarb.

He tramples the mesh, pulls out one of the cabbages. His

bag is full, so he grabs it in both hands.

He races to tree cover again, taking a different route

downhill, eyes over shoulders.

The cabin disappears from view.

Satisfied, he allows himself a mouthful of the raw, dirty

cabbage. His yellow incisors sink into the leaf...

... and his foot steps on a MANTRAP.

Metal jaws SNAP into his leg.

He topples forward into the dirt. The cabbage rolls

downhill.

His hands feel down his leg, find the metal... he looks

down to see the jaws dug deep in below the knee. Blood laps

onto the metal grill.

He looks away. His mouth lets out a thin, breathy wail - he

bites his finger, choking off the scream.

He looks at the device; an antique, oversized steel poacher

trap. He finds the grips to open the vice have been filed

off.

He reaches to some of the exposed teeth and gets his hands

between them. The vice and his hands are slick with blood.

He pulls the jaws open, with all the malnourished strength

he has.

He gets it an inch, a little more. He heaves, trembling

with exertion.

Another inch.

His hands SLIP...

The jaws SNAP shut, sink deeper into his leg.

He CRIES out this time.

Tears down his face.

Shallow breaths. Shallow breaths becoming something deeper.

Nausea.

He throws up. His vomit is watery, acrid spittle.

He has to lie beside it.

FADE TO:

The light is dying now.

In his misery, he realises he's not alone.

The Other is uphill. He wears black gloves and a

windbreaker, and holds a double-barrelled shotgun with

steady aim.

He is the SURVIVALIST. His face reads about 30, beneath an

overgrown, man-in-the-woods beard.

Slow as you like, Survivalist edges downhill, gun always

trained on his quarry's head.

Forager slips his hand behind his back. He's trembling, fly

in web fearful.

Survivalist crouches in front of him, just out of swing

range. He leans closer, reaching for the bag...

... Forager finds the knife isn't in his waistband. Fingers

dab the ground, desperate, trying to find the handle.

Survivalist opens the bag. He begins taking out the

vegetables Forager stole. Turnips. Carrots. A rhubarb.

Deeper in, he finds a hard cover Bible. A plastic lighter.

A crusted driving license - it takes Survivalist a couple

of glances to confirm the man in the portrait is the same

as the wretch in the trap.

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