Published Sunday, June 28, 2026 at 08:33 PM PT

Burbank · Sunday, June 28, 2026 · 8:33 PM · 68°F, 61% humidity, wind 1 mph ENE (gusts 2), 29.29 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 4

PERMAFROST

An Original Thriller Series

Inspired by the world-building and paranoid isolation of John Carpenter’s THE THING

FADE IN:

COLD OPEN

EXT. ARCTIC TUNDRA — NIGHT

Absolute darkness. Then — a single point of light, far below, impossibly small against the black.

We descend. The light resolves: a research station. Modular. Prefabricated. Half-buried in drifted snow like something the earth is slowly swallowing.

Wind screams at 60 knots. The temperature reads -52°C on a weather sensor bolted to a support strut. The digit flickers, drops to -53.

No stars. No moon. Just dark and cold and the station’s amber windows bleeding warmth into nothing.

SUPER: "Kovalenko Arctic Research Station — Svalbard Archipelago — 78°N"

SUPER: "Population: 9"

SUPER: "Nearest inhabited settlement: 340 kilometers"

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — CORRIDOR B — CONTINUOUS

Narrow. Institutional. The walls are the pale green of hospitals and old government buildings. Pipes run exposed along the ceiling, sweating condensation that freezes in perfect droplets before it falls.

DR. MAREN SOLBERG (38, Norwegian, the kind of tired that lives behind the eyes) moves fast down the corridor in thermals and wool socks, no shoes. She carries a tablet. Her breath fogs.

She stops at a door marked: SAMPLE STORAGE — AUTHORIZED ACCESS.

The door is open.

Not ajar. Open. The magnetic lock hangs from its housing, the circuit board inside it scorched black.

Maren stares at it. Touches the melted plastic. Still warm.

MAREN (barely audible) Nei. Nei, nei, nei—

She pushes through.

INT. SAMPLE STORAGE — CONTINUOUS

A refrigerated room. Wire shelving. Labeled specimen containers in precise rows — the obsessive organization of someone who fears disorder.

One shelf: empty.

The containers that were there — six of them, each the size of a shoebox, each labeled in Maren’s handwriting with dates going back eighteen months — are gone.

Not knocked over. Not broken. Removed.

Maren turns slowly. On the floor, a single bootprint in something dark. She crouches. Touches it. Rubs her fingers together.

Motor oil. Or something close to it.

She stands. Looks at the security camera mounted in the corner.

The lens has been painted over. Black. Recently — the paint is still tacky.

Maren’s jaw tightens. She pulls out her radio.

MAREN This is Dr. Solberg. I need everyone in the common room. Right now. Don’t — (she pauses, recalibrates) Don’t discuss this on the channel. Just come.*

Static.

Then, from somewhere deep in the station — a sound.

Not mechanical. Not the wind.

Something wet.

Maren goes very still.

The sound stops.

She looks down at the bootprint.

Then at the door.

Then she runs.

SMASH TO TITLE:

PERMAFROST

ACT ONE

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — COMMON ROOM — NIGHT

The social heart of the station, which is to say: grim. Plastic chairs. A folding table with a chess set nobody’s finishing. A bulletin board with a paper countdown to rotation — 47 days remaining, someone’s crossed out each day with aggressive red marker.

Eight people crowd in, some still pulling on fleeces. The ninth — we’ll note the absence.

CHIDINMA OKAFOR (34, Nigerian-British, station engineer, speaks with the authority of someone who keeps the lights on and knows it) stands with her arms crossed, reading the room.

FELIX BRANDT (52, German glaciologist, gray beard, the kind of academic who became a field man because he couldn’t stand other academics) sits at the table, not looking at anyone.

YUSUF HASSAN (27, Somali-Canadian, the youngest, meteorologist, still has the look of someone who hasn’t yet learned to hide what he’s feeling) stands near the door like he might need to leave quickly.

PETRA VOSS (45, Czech, station physician, clinical in the way that’s either professional or personal — hard to tell) leans against the wall with a coffee mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST RESEARCHER.

Four others: LINDQVIST, PARK, TREMAINE, DAKARAI — support staff, technicians, the people who make science possible and never get thanked for it.

Maren stands at the front. She’s put shoes on. She hasn’t changed the expression.

MAREN The Holocene samples are gone.

Silence.

FELIX Define gone.

MAREN Removed. Deliberately. The lock on storage was destroyed — not forced, destroyed. Someone knew the circuit layout.

Chidinma’s eyes go to the ceiling. Doing math.

CHIDINMA That’s a Class-4 lock. You’d need the maintenance schematics.

MAREN I know.

CHIDINMA Which are on the engineering server. Which I have access to.

MAREN I know, Chidinma.

CHIDINMA I’m just saying — you’re about to imply something, so I’m getting ahead of it.

YUSUF Where’s Kovacs?

Beat. Everyone looks around. The absence crystallizes.

PETRA He was in the infirmary an hour ago. I gave him something for the headache.

YUSUF What kind of headache?

PETRA The kind you get from a headache.

YUSUF Petra—

PETRA Tension. He said it started when the pressure dropped yesterday. I gave him ibuprofen and told him to rest.

MAREN ERIK KOVACS. Has anyone seen him since?

Nothing. Heads shake.

FELIX (slowly) Those samples. Maren. Those are the ones from the sub-glacial core. The ones you’ve been—

MAREN Yes.

FELIX The ones you haven’t published. The ones you haven’t even fully catalogued.

MAREN Felix—

FELIX The ones you told me last week were “potentially significant in ways I’m not ready to discuss.”

The room shifts. Everyone looking at Maren now with a different quality of attention.

MAREN This isn’t the conversation.

FELIX I think it might be exactly the conversation.

MAREN Someone broke into my storage, took eighteen months of work, and painted over a security camera. Erik is missing. That’s what we’re dealing with.

LINDQVIST (Swedish, 40s, careful) Should we call Longyearbyen?

MAREN The satellite uplink has been down since 2100. I’ve been trying to raise it.

YUSUF It went down during my watch. I logged it as weather interference — the ionosphere’s been—

MAREN When exactly?

YUSUF (uneasy) 2107.

MAREN The lock was destroyed between 2050 and 2115. I checked the storage log before I called you all.

The room processes this.

CHIDINMA Someone took the samples, then killed the uplink.

MAREN Or killed the uplink, then took the samples.

TREMAINE (British, 30s, trying to sound calm) Okay. This is — let’s not. We’re nine people on a station. We know each other.

CHIDINMA Do we?

TREMAINE Chi—

CHIDINMA Kovacs has been here four months. Lindqvist joined the rotation in September. I’m just — Tremaine, I’m just pointing out that “we know each other” is doing a lot of work right now.

Maren holds up her hand.

MAREN We find Erik first. Then we figure out the rest.

She divides them with her eyes.

MAREN (CONT'D) Felix, Yusuf — Corridor A and the lab wing. Chidinma, Tremaine — maintenance and the generator room. Petra, stay here with Park and Dakarai. Nobody goes outside. Nobody goes alone.

(beat)

And if you find something —

(she doesn’t finish)

Just radio me.

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — CORRIDOR A — LATER

Felix and Yusuf move with flashlights. The overhead strip lighting is fine — this is a choice, the flashlights. Extra light. Extra certainty.

They’re not talking, and then Yusuf is.

YUSUF She knows something. Maren. About what those samples are.

FELIX Of course she does. They’re her samples.

YUSUF I mean something specific. Something she hasn’t told us.

FELIX (not stopping) Yusuf. I’ve been doing polar research for twenty-six years. You know what I’ve learned?

YUSUF What.

FELIX Everyone up here is keeping something back. The isolation does it. You start hoarding information the way you hoard calories. It feels like survival.

YUSUF Is that what you do?

Felix stops. Turns. Looks at him.

FELIX What I do is irrelevant. I’m not the one who went missing.

They reach a door: EQUIPMENT STORAGE — 2.

It’s open.

They exchange a look.

INT. EQUIPMENT STORAGE 2 — CONTINUOUS

Cold suits. Survival gear. Emergency rations in vacuum-sealed orange packages.

And ERIK KOVACS (48, Hungarian, station geologist, built like a man who moved furniture before he moved to academia) sitting in the corner behind a rack of parkas.

He’s alive. Sitting with his knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He’s soaked in sweat despite the cold. His eyes are open.

Yusuf moves toward him.

YUSUF Erik. Hey. Erik, we’ve been—

KOVACS (without moving) Don’t.

Yusuf stops.

KOVACS (CONT'D) Don’t come closer.

FELIX Erik, what happened?

Kovacs raises his eyes. They’re clear. Frightened, but clear.

KOVACS I took the samples.

Silence.

KOVACS (CONT'D) I took them because someone told me to.

YUSUF Who?

KOVACS Someone who knows what’s in them. Someone who knew before Maren did.

(beat)

Someone who isn’t supposed to be on this station.

Felix and Yusuf stare at him.

Kovacs finally moves — slowly, like a man who’s been still for a very long time and has decided stillness isn’t working.

KOVACS (CONT'D) I’ve been in here for two hours.

(he looks at his hands)

Because I don’t know if I did it alone.

Beat. The lights flicker.

The lights hold.

END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — COMMON ROOM — NIGHT

Everyone back. Kovacs sits at the folding table. Petra is taking his blood pressure with a manual cuff — she doesn’t trust the electronic one right now, for reasons she hasn’t articulated. The chess set has been pushed aside.

Maren stands directly across from Kovacs. She hasn’t sat down.

MAREN Start from the beginning.

KOVACS Three weeks ago. I was running the core sample inventory — you asked me to cross-reference the depth measurements—

MAREN I remember.

KOVACS There was a file. On the shared geology drive. Buried — I mean actually buried, in a folder structure that went about nine levels deep. Metadata said it was a seismic calibration log from 2019.

MAREN But.

KOVACS It was a analysis. Of your samples. Full spectroscopic breakdown, microbial sequencing, isotope dating. Whoever wrote it knew exactly what you had.

FELIX Before Maren ran the full analysis herself.

KOVACS By about eight months.

The room absorbs this.

CHIDINMA Someone accessed those samples before they were even catalogued.

KOVACS Or someone had parallel data. From another source.

MAREN (carefully) What did the analysis say?

Kovacs looks at her.

KOVACS You know what it said.

MAREN I want to hear your version.

KOVACS The microorganisms in the sub-glacial core. The anaerobic ones, the ones you’ve been culturing — they’re not a new species. They’re not even a new genus.

(beat)

They match a sequence in the international pathogen database. Partial match. Sixty-three percent. But the database entry is classified. I couldn’t pull the full record.

Silence.

PETRA Classified by whom?

KOVACS The entry code traces to a Norwegian Defense Research Establishment subsidiary. But the subsidiary dissolved in 2009. Whatever they were tracking — they stopped. Or they moved it somewhere else.

YUSUF (slowly) And then someone contacted you.

KOVACS Four days ago. Encrypted message through the station’s internal mail system. Which shouldn’t be possible — internal mail doesn’t have an encryption layer.

CHIDINMA It absolutely doesn’t.

KOVACS They said the samples needed to be removed from Maren’s storage before she completed the sequencing. They said if she completed it, she’d be required to report to the Norwegian Science Directorate, and the station would be put under immediate quarantine protocol.

TREMAINE Quarantine.

KOVACS Sixty days minimum. No rotation. No resupply beyond emergency rations.

(he looks around the room)

I have a daughter. She’s seven. My wife is — we’re not in a good place. I haven’t been home in—

MAREN (not unkindly) Erik.

KOVACS I know. I know what I did.

MAREN Where are the samples now?

KOVACS I put them in a cold pack in my bunk. I was supposed to — the message said someone would collect them.

MAREN Collect them how? We’re 340 kilometers from—

CHIDINMA (standing abruptly) The supply drone.

Everyone looks at her.

CHIDINMA (CONT'D) We have an emergency resupply drone scheduled. It’s not on the official manifest — it was added six days ago. I flagged it as a Longyearbyen admin update, I didn’t—

(she stops)

I didn’t look at it closely enough. I’m sorry. I didn’t look.

MAREN When is it scheduled?

CHIDINMA (checking her tablet) 0400.

Everyone looks at the clock on the wall.

0247.

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — CORRIDOR B — NIGHT

Maren walks fast. Yusuf falls in beside her.

YUSUF You finished the sequencing. Didn’t you.

MAREN Two weeks ago.

YUSUF And you didn’t report it.

She doesn’t answer.

YUSUF (CONT'D) Maren.

MAREN I needed to be sure.

YUSUF Sure of what?

She stops. Turns to him. When she speaks, it’s with the particular precision of someone who has been rehearsing this conversation in their head and hoped it would never happen.

MAREN The organisms are approximately 40,000 years old. They’ve been dormant in the sub-glacial melt layer — the one that’s been exposed by accelerated ice loss over the past eighteen months. They are alive, Yusuf. Not viable-but-dormant. Alive. Metabolizing. Slowly, but—

YUSUF That’s — that’s extraordinary, but it’s not—

MAREN The sixty-three percent database match. I pulled the classified record. It took me three weeks and a contact at the University of Tromsø who still owes me a favor from 2018, but I pulled it.

(beat)

In 1987, a Soviet research vessel operating in the Barents Sea recovered similar organisms from a seafloor sample. They ran a containment protocol immediately. The ship returned to Murmansk. Fourteen of the sixteen crew were hospitalized.

YUSUF (very still) What were the symptoms?

MAREN The record is incomplete. What I have is: neurological. Behavioral. And then —

(she pauses)

The two crew members who weren’t hospitalized were the ones who’d had no direct contact with the sample material.

Beat.

YUSUF We’ve all had contact. In the lab, the air circulation—

MAREN Indirect contact. Through the containment vessel. And the organisms need a specific temperature range to be active — they go dormant below minus twenty. The storage room is kept at minus fifteen.

YUSUF That’s not much of a margin.

MAREN No. It’s not.

(beat)

I didn’t report it because I needed to know if I was wrong. And I needed to know who else knew. Because someone did — someone knew before I confirmed it. And that means someone has been watching this station.

YUSUF Or someone is on it.

They stare at each other.

From the far end of the corridor — a sound. Both of them hear it.

Footsteps. Running.

Then Tremaine’s voice on the radio, and it’s wrong — too high, too fast:

TREMAINE (V.O.) (radio) Common room. Everyone. Kovacs — Kovacs is—

Static.

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — COMMON ROOM — MOMENTS LATER

They arrive to find: the room rearranged by panic. Chairs knocked over. The chess set on the floor, pieces scattered.

Tremaine stands in the center, pointing at the table.

Kovacs is gone.

The cold pack — the one with the samples — is gone.

TREMAINE He was right there. Petra went to get a thermometer, Dakarai went to the bathroom, Park was watching him and then Park just —

(he looks at Park)

PARK (Korean-American, 30s, shaken) He asked me to check the weather display. He said he wanted to know if the drone could land in current conditions. I turned around for thirty seconds.

FELIX (already moving toward the door) He’s going to the landing pad.

MAREN Felix—

FELIX He’s going to hand them over. Whatever they offered him — whoever they are — he’s finishing it.

MAREN The landing pad is outside. It’s minus fifty-three and he doesn’t—

But Felix is already through the door.

EXT. KOVALENKO STATION — EXTERIOR WALKWAY — NIGHT

The cold is a physical force. The wind tears at everything.

FELIX pushes through the outer door in a coat grabbed from the hook — not a proper cold suit, just the station’s emergency outer layer. He’s moving on adrenaline.

The landing pad is thirty meters from the main structure. A concrete circle with a helipad X and the drone guidance lights — currently dark.

KOVACS is there. He’s in his full cold suit. He planned this.

He’s standing at the edge of the pad, the cold pack in his arms, looking up.

Felix reaches him. Grabs his arm.

FELIX Erik. Stop.

KOVACS (not turning) You don’t know what they said they’d do. If I didn’t—

FELIX What? What did they say?

KOVACS My daughter. They know where she goes to school, Felix. They sent me a photograph. She was at the playground, she was—

Felix holds on.

FELIX Listen to me. Listen. If Maren is right about what’s in those samples — if she’s right — you cannot let them leave this station. You understand? Whatever they want them for—

KOVACS (breaking) I don’t care what they want them for. I want to go home.

Beat. The wind. The dark.

FELIX (quietly) I know.

And then — above them, in the black sky — lights.

Not the drone.

A helicopter. Running dark until this moment. Now its lights bloom on: blinding white and red.

It’s already descending.

Felix and Kovacs stare up at it.

FELIX (CONT'D) That’s not a supply drone.

The helicopter touches down. The rotors don’t stop.

A figure drops from the side door. Full Arctic gear, face covered. Moves toward Kovacs.

Felix steps between them.

MYSTERY FIGURE (muffled through balaclava, but the accent is British, the tone is practiced-calm) Dr. Brandt. Please step aside.

FELIX Who are you?

MYSTERY FIGURE Someone who’s been trying to prevent a very serious problem from becoming a catastrophic one.

(to Kovacs)

Erik. The package.

Kovacs looks at Felix.

Felix looks at Kovacs.

And Maren’s voice comes through Felix’s radio, and what she says stops everything:

MAREN (V.O.) Felix. Felix, come in.

(beat)

Petra is sick.

Beat.

MAREN (V.O.) (CONT'D) She’s showing — Felix, she’s showing neurological symptoms. She was in storage this morning, she said she was just checking the temperature logs, she said —

(her voice fractures, just slightly, just once)

I need you back inside. I need everyone back inside right now.

The mystery figure goes very still.

Felix looks at them.

FELIX (into radio) Maren. The helicopter—

MAREN (V.O.) I see it on the external cameras.

FELIX There’s a person. They want the samples.

Long pause. The wind. The rotors.

MAREN (V.O.) Don’t give them the samples.

FELIX Maren—

MAREN (V.O.) Felix. If they wanted to help us, they’d have called ahead.

The mystery figure takes a step toward Kovacs.

Felix doesn’t move.

The figure stops.

And for a long moment, on a landing pad in the Arctic dark, three people stand in a triangle around a cold pack containing forty thousand year old organisms that may or may not be killing someone inside, and nobody moves, and the helicopter screams, and the cold eats at everything.

MYSTERY FIGURE (finally) You have no idea what you’re protecting.

FELIX (evenly) Neither do you.

Beat.

MYSTERY FIGURE I know exactly what I’m protecting.

(they reach up and pull down the balaclava)

We see the face for the first time: a woman. Mid-50s. Sharp. The kind of face that belongs in a boardroom or an interrogation room and is equally comfortable in both.

She looks at Felix like she’s deciding something.

MYSTERY FIGURE (CONT'D) My name is CAROLINE STRAND. I work for the people who found those organisms the first time. In 1987. On the Barents Sea.

(beat)

We lost them. We lost the samples, we lost the data, we lost everything when the Soviet Union fell. We have been looking for a second occurrence for thirty-four years.

FELIX And now you’ve found it.

STRAND And now your station physician is exhibiting symptoms. Which means the containment has already failed. Which means—

(she looks at the station)

Which means I need those samples, and I need everyone on this station to stay exactly where they are, and I need you to understand that I am not your enemy.

Beat.

KOVACS (quietly, to Felix) She called me. She was the one who contacted me.

Felix looks at Strand.

FELIX If you’re not our enemy—

(he takes the cold pack from Kovacs)

—then come inside and explain that to Maren.

Beat.

Strand looks at the helicopter. Makes a small gesture — the rotors begin to wind down.

She looks back at Felix.

STRAND She’s not going to like what I have to say.

FELIX Nobody ever does.

He turns and walks toward the station. After a moment, Strand follows.

Kovacs stands alone on the landing pad. He looks up at where the helicopter lights were.

He looks down at his hands.

He follows.

END OF ACT TWO

TAG

INT. KOVALENKO STATION — INFIRMARY — NIGHT

Quiet now. Relative.

PETRA lies on the examination table, conscious, a cold cloth on her forehead. Her eyes track the room. Her left hand trembles — not constantly, but in small involuntary bursts, every forty seconds or so.

MAREN sits beside her. She’s not holding Petra’s hand. She’s holding her wrist, monitoring pulse. Clinical. Necessary.

PETRA (dry, even now) Tell me the truth. Doctor to doctor.

MAREN I’m not a medical doctor.

PETRA Doctor to doctor.

Maren looks at her.

MAREN I don’t know enough yet.

PETRA That’s not a no.

MAREN No. It’s not.

Petra closes her eyes.

PETRA The tremor started about six hours ago. I thought it was the cold. I’ve had it before—

MAREN I know.

PETRA But this is different. This is—

(she opens her eyes)

I can feel it thinking.

Beat.

MAREN What?

PETRA The tremor. It doesn’t feel random. It feels —

(she searches for the word)

Deliberate.

Maren is very still.

PETRA (CONT'D) That’s insane. I know that’s insane. I’m telling you anyway because you’re the only person in this station I—

The door opens. STRAND enters, Felix behind her.

Petra looks at Strand.

PETRA (CONT'D) (to Maren) Who is that?

Maren stands. Faces Strand.

MAREN You said you know what these organisms do.

STRAND (looking at Petra) Yes.

MAREN Tell me.

Strand looks at Petra. Looks at Maren. Something moves behind her eyes — calculation, or maybe conscience, or maybe both.

STRAND In 1987, the two crew members who remained healthy — the ones who had no direct contact—

MAREN I know about the 1987 incident.

STRAND (beat) Then you know there were two. You may not know —

(she pauses)

—that one of them is still alive.

Maren stares.

STRAND (CONT'D) And that she’s been exhibiting the tremor — the deliberate tremor, the one your colleague is describing — for thirty-four years.

Beat.

STRAND (CONT'D) Without having had direct contact.

The silence stretches.

On the examination table, Petra’s hand trembles. Stops. Trembles.

Outside, the wind finds a gap somewhere in the station’s hull and makes a sound that might be structural, might be weather, might be something else entirely.

Nobody moves.

Maren looks at Strand.

MAREN (quietly) What are they?

Strand opens her mouth.

The lights go out.

All of them. Every light in the station. Total black.

In the darkness — Petra’s voice, very calm, very strange:

PETRA (in the dark) Oh. There it is.

SMASH TO BLACK.

END OF PILOT

FADE OUT.

SERIES SETUP NOTES

What we know: The organisms are ancient, alive, and capable of indirect transmission. Caroline Strand has been hunting them for thirty-four years. Someone — possibly Strand, possibly someone above her — was willing to threaten a child to retrieve them. Petra is infected or affected by something she describes as deliberate.

What we don’t know: What the organisms actually do. Who Strand truly works for. Whether the “healthy” survivor from 1987 is Strand herself. What killed the power. And whether the nine people on Kovalenko Station are still nine people.

The series: PERMAFROST follows Maren, Chidinma, and Yusuf as they navigate an increasingly fractured station, an outside force with its own agenda, and the dawning realization that the most dangerous thing on the ice may not be what came up from below — but what it does to the people already there.

PERMAFROST Created by — Pilot written by —

THE END

Sources & Attribution

Content type: pilot
Topic: Thriller|drama
Generated: 2026-06-28
Model: OpenRouter (via Nova Journal pipeline)

Memory Sources

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