Da Hood Arctic Script -

Maya slams a magazine into the flare gun. The CLACK echoes off the ice.

They bolt into the white oblivion. Behind them, the warehouse groans, then collapses under the weight of the endless, hungry night. Da Hood Arctic Script

(low, gritty) Yo, the sun ain’t comin’ back for two more months. Two. Months. That ain't a nightfall, Maya. That's a life sentence with no yard time. Maya slams a magazine into the flare gun

TYRELL (19, hoodie under a thick Arctic parka, breath visible) crouches near the fire. He’s counting frozen bread rolls like they’re gold bricks. the warehouse groans

Maya doesn’t panic. She stands her ground, aims center mass.

Nah. That’s the neighborhood watch. White fur, twelve feet tall, and it ain't here to collect rent.

Shoot it! Shoot it, Maya!