FADE IN:

EXT  ICY DOCKYARD -- DUSK

Wood planks cling together in plus-sign formations across the lip of the Arctic Ocean. Among the battered whaling ships, a small freighter bearing the Red Cross logo bobs at the dock.

From its deck emerges GORMUND, as oily and wrinkled as a gas station dollar bill. Bundled against the cold, Gormund hurries down the gangway.

He steps onto snow-packed tundra and passes a sign:

WELCOME TO BARROW, ALASKA
Northernmost US City

EXT  BARROW -- DUSK

A mote of civilization on the ass of Old Man Winter.

The LOCALS (mostly fishermen) drink and dance to loud music under tents outside down hall. Cheap Christmas lights dangle from the bleached jawbones of bow-head whales, suspended over doors.

Gormund approaches a SMILING LOCAL, their breath illustrated in plumes. The Local shoves an open beer in Gormund's hands.

GORMUND
What's the occasion?

SMILING LOCAL
Festival of lights. To celebrate
the last sunset.
(pointing)
For the next sixty-five days, we 
live in perpetual darkness.

An orange smear of a sun slowly collapses on the horizon.

Gormund stares at it, a smile spreading over crooked teeth.

INT  FREIGHTER HOLD -- DUSK

From the blackness, a metal door creaks open. Gormund's silhouette frames the opening. Fluorescent light flickers on.

The entire hold is lined with TWO DOZEN TEAK COFFINS laid atop a carpet of gray-brown soil.

GORMUND
Soon, my masters. Soon...