The Survivalist Page #7

Next stroke is closer to his throat. She pulls his forehead

back gently, and slides the knife under his neck.

She angles the knife carefully against his Adam's apple...

EXT. THE HEAPS - DAY

A spade SLICES into compost. Survivalist heaves up the

dark, steaming humus.

SURVIVALIST:

We toss them every three days.

He's clean-shaven, demonstrating for Kathryn and Milja.

EXT. CABIN, MAIN ROOM - DAY

Survivalist uses a sparker - an artificial, fuelless fire

device - to light kindle in front of the stove. Low, grey

smoke begins to snake out. He leans forward and blows it

gently. A flicker of flame...

The tiny, handmade fire intrigues Milja, until Survivalist

puts it out with a poker.

SURVIVALIST:

Don't light fires during the day.

Smoke means fire. Fire means food.

EXT. FOREST AT EDGE OF CLEARING - DAY

Survivalist chops at a tree. Kathryn digs up some of the

stumps nearby, clearing more land.

Milja watches Survivalist beat the bark white, until it

tilts...

The tree CRASHES into the forest.

EXT. FOREST - DAY

Survivalist carefully lifts lain foliage from the metal

grill of a mantrap.

Milja and Kathryn observe, memorise the surroundings.

EXT. THE HEAPS - DAY

Survivalist buttons his trousers. He looks around to see if

he is being watched.

He crouches, opens the Bible at his feet.

He takes out his hunting knife and DRIVES it into the

pages.

INT. CABIN, MAIN ROOM - NIGHT

Survivalist portions out stew for three. Four scoops for

him; two each for them. There is a little left in the pan.

He empties it into Milja's bowl. A slight smile, which she

doesn't return; instead she spoons some extra into her

mother's bowl.

INT. CABIN, SEED ROOM - NIGHT

Kathryn paces in small circles in the cramped confines of

the room. Silence from beyond the locked door.

She steps carefully towards it. She listens - movements,

slow murmur of a voice, or perhaps a dull gasp.

Her hand rubs shoulder, kneading out tension. It slips to

her breast, then presses across her chest to the other. She

clenches fist and bites upon it.

The door unlocks. Kathryn steps away from it quickly as

Milja is ushered in.

Survivalist shuts, bolts the door. Kathryn takes Milja into

her arms and kisses her head.

EXT. FOREST - DAY

Kathryn's wrist runs against the long stalks of forest

flowers.

She stoops and parts some tall grass. A few sprigs of

tarragon grow in a clump.

She scoops them out by the roots and brings them to her

nose. Closes her eyes as she smells them, presses the

stalks against her neck, fingers rubbing gently against

collar bone.

INT. CABIN, MAIN ROOM - DAY

Survivalist cooks a stew for lunch. Kathryn steps through

the doorway. She looks over her shoulder at Milja, working

downhill.

KATHRYN:

Tough, isn't she?

He meets her eyeline, then continues cooking.

She steps beside him.

KATHRYN (cont'd)

Perhaps you would prefer a different

dish, on occasion. Something from

stores.

He looks at her.

SURVIVALIST:

I like fresh food.

KATHRYN:

Doesn't everyone?

She takes the spoon from his hand - a moment of touch. She

drops the sprig of herbs into the broth.

KATHRYN (cont'd)

But in the hands of a more

experienced cook... even working

with quite ordinary ingredients...

through the seasonings, the

technique... they can be made quite

satisfying.

She holds up a spoon for him to taste, catching some of the

fresh herbs on the spoon.

SURVIVALIST:

She doesn't complain.

KATHRYN:

It's not in her nature.

He tries a taste.

KATHRYN (cont'd)

I am of a certain age. You could

have me any way you wanted. No risk

of consequence.

Milja is at the doorway, kicking dirt off her shoes. The

moment breaks up.

Kathryn offers a scoop to Milja.

KATHRYN (cont'd)

I found some tarragon. Try some?

EXT. FARM PLOT - DAY

The first signs of spring planting show in the soil.

FADE TO:

Late afternoon, dismal light. Survivalist and Milja are on

their knees, fingering in the seeds of a distant summer

crop. Painstaking, back-aching work.

Milja feels a pang of faintness. She rubs her forehead,

pulls her foot up and rests on the bedding walkway.

SURVIVALIST:

(not looking up)

Keep going.

She lifts a leg, sullen. No.

Kathryn observes from another end of the plot, seeing how

this will play out.

SURVIVALIST (cont'd)

Get. Up.

MILJA:

I'm tired.

He gets to his feet. He grabs her by the shoulders and

brings her arms to the soil. He puppeteers her hands back

into sowing. His fingers push hers into the dirt, gradually

building up to autonomous motion, if not enthusiasm.

His voice is a rasp in her ear.

SURVIVALIST:

Sometimes when I'm doing this, and

I'm getting tired, and my back

aches, and the cold is biting my

fingers...

He continues to guide her. Perhaps enjoying the touch of

her skin.

SURVIVALIST (cont'd)

I feel the hand of my father upon

me. Like he's standing right behind,

with his shovel. I'll get the lumps

if I don't finish. I'll be aching to

stop, but I'll get the lumps. I feel

his eye, and I keep sowing. And I

keep digging. Until it's done.

He lets go of her roughly and returns to his patch. Begins

fingering through the soil with the same methodical focus.

She ferrets a glance at her mother, then at him. He looks

slightly different to her now, in the fading light.

EXT. THE HEAPS - DAY

Kathryn sinks a pitchfork into the humus. She heaves and

tosses dirt to the top of the heap.

She stands straight and wipes her brow. Hard work.

She jags the fork again into the compost. It snags on

something as she pulls it out; a knuckle of bone caught

between the prongs.

It swings long and yellow and broken at one end of the

fork.

INT. CABIN, MAIN ROOM - DAY

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