one
Ruby
Theblizzardcomesoutof nowhere, which is exactly the kind of thing that gets people killed in the post-apocalypse world.
One minute our three-vehicle convoy is making decent time through the mountain roads of what used to be British Columbia, and the next I can't see five feet past the windshield. The radio crackles with confused voices from the other vehicles, then cuts to static as the storm swallows us whole.
"Shit, shit, shit," Dave mutters, white-knuckling the steering wheel as our truck crawls forward. "Where the hell did this come from?"
"Doesn't matter where it came from," I tell him, checking that my rifle is still secure between the seats. "Just keep us on the road and watch for—"
The truck lurches suddenly, sliding on ice. Dave tries to correct, but we're already spinning, the world turning white and chaotic outside the windows. We slam into something—tree,rock, I can't tell—and then we're rolling, the horrible shriek of metal on stone filling my ears.
When everything finally stops, I'm hanging sideways in my seatbelt, my head throbbing from where it hit the window. The windshield is shattered, freezing wind already filling the cab with snow.
"Dave?" I call out, but he's slumped in his seat, not moving. Blood stains the driver's side window where his head connected.
I check for a pulse with shaking fingers. Nothing.
No. No no no.
I cut myself free from the seatbelt, landing hard on what used to be the passenger door. My pack is still wedged behind the seat. Small miracles. I grab it, along with Dave's rifle and what supplies I can quickly reach. The radio is crushed, useless. Our portable GPS is shattered.
I need shelter, and I need it now.
Crawling out through the broken windshield, I realize I have no idea where we are. The convoy could be miles away or could have crashed just around the bend. In this whiteout, I'll never find them. But we have protocols for this. If we get separated, we meet at Dawson Ridge in exactly one week. Seven days from today, noon, at the old church on the main road.
Seven days. I just have to survive seven days.
Through the driving snow, I spot something that makes my heart leap: a thin line of smoke rising from the forest. Smoke means fire. Fire means someone survived long enough to build shelter.
It could also mean raiders. Or worse, some of those cult freaks who've been moving through the territory. But freezing to death is certain, while whoever made that fire is only potentially deadly.
I check my weapons—pistol on my hip, knife in my boot, Dave's rifle slung across my back. Then I start walking toward that smoke. It’s the only chance I have.
The trek through the snow is brutal. Every step is a fight against knee-deep drifts, and the wind cuts through my winter gear like it's tissue paper. My hands go numb first, then my feet. I keep my eyes on that thin line of smoke, using it as my compass, my lifeline.
By the time I stumble into a clearing, I'm shaking so hard I can barely stand.
The cabin looks like something from a magazine about wilderness living from the old days. Solid log construction, windows intact and glowing with warm light, smoke curling from a stone chimney. There's a workshop to one side, stacks of cut lumber covered with tarps, organized tool racks under a lean-to. Everything about this place screams competence and planning. Someone's been living here, not just surviving day to day.
My legs give out just as I reach the porch.
The door opens, and I find myself looking up at a mountain of a man. Dark hair, thick beard, flannel shirt that strains across broad shoulders. He's holding an axe with the kind of casual confidence that says he knows exactly how to use it on more than just wood.
"Please," I manage through chattering teeth. "Storm... crashed... need help."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him calculating. Lone woman, obviously from outside his territory, could be bait for an ambush. In his position, I'd be thinking the same thing. Hell, I'd probably already have the gun pointed at my head instead of the axe.
Then he sets down the axe and hauls me to my feet like I weigh nothing.
"Inside," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Now."
The warmth of the cabin hits me like a physical blow. Real heat, the kind that comes from a properly maintained fire and good insulation, not the barely-adequate fires we huddle around on the road. He deposits me in a chair by the fireplace, then disappears into what must be a bedroom, returning with blankets and dry clothes.
"Strip," he orders, dumping the clothes in my lap.
"Excuse me?"
