KAZIMIR
We're going to die out here.
The thought comes to me with absolute clarity as I carry Svetlana through snow that's already past my knees. The wind is a living thing, clawing at us, trying to tear us apart. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees since the crash, and it's still falling. I can feel it in my lungs with every breath, a sharp, crystalline cold that means we're well below freezing now. Below zero.
Svetlana is shaking so hard I can feel it through both our layers of clothing. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, and I’m afraid she might be in the early stages of hypothermia. Maybe not so early anymore.
I've survived worse than this. I’ve spent a week in the Siberian wilderness after a job went sideways. I know cold and how to get through it, but I was alone then. I didn't have a half-frozen woman who's already been tortured for weeks, depending on me for survival.
“Huddle into me,” I tell her, knowing she probably hates my touch, but she needs as much warmth as she can get. “You need to stay as warm as you can.”
She doesn't answer. I'm not sure she can anymore. I glance down at her, and her eyes are still partially open, narrowed against the blowing snow, and I’m surprised she hasn’t just passed out by now. She must be in agony. But it’s good that she hasn’t. Going to sleep or being unconscious in this kind of weather is a recipe for death.
The thought of Svetlana dying in my arms sends a new kind of pain through my chest, one I’ve never felt before and don’t have the time to examine. But it’s there, barbs sinking into my heart as I clutch her in my arms and slog through snow that threatens to take me down with every step.
I scan the treeline, looking for anything—a rock formation, a fallen tree, a fucking cave. Anything that might offer shelter from this storm. But visibility is so bad I can barely see in front of us, and it's getting worse. The forest is a wall of white, the trees appearing like ghosts and then vanishing again.
We can't keep going much longer. Svetlana is rail-thin, and I can carry her for a while, but not forever. Not in these conditions.
I know our odds are not good. I hate the helpless feeling that courses through me. I can’t shoot the snow or fight the wind. I can’t strangle the cold. I can’t torture a storm into giving up.
I have survival skills, but I wasn’t prepared for this, and she definitely isn’t.
And then I see it.
There’s a small break in the drifts of snow. Not much, just a slight dip, a path where the drifts aren't quite as deep. It could be nothing. An animal trail, or a trick of the wind.
But we have to follow something. Walking blindly is getting us nowhere.
"This way," I say, adjusting my grip on Svetlana and angling us toward the trail.
I take one step before my boot slams into a rock buried under the snow and makes me stumble, nearly taking us both down. I right myself, tightening my grip on Svetlana, and look down at her. My heart stutters in my chest. Her face is white, her lips blue. Her eyes are unfocused.
"Stay with me," I snap, giving her a small shake. "Svetlana. Look at me."
Her eyes find mine, barely. There's still something there, some spark of consciousness. Good. I need her conscious. I need that fire she still had back in the cell. If she gives up, she’ll die.
"We're almost there," I lie. I have no idea if we're almost anywhere. But she needs to believe it.
She nods, just barely, and we keep moving.
The trail—if that's what it is—leads us deeper into the forest. The trees are thicker here, offering some protection from the wind. Not much, but enough that I can hear something other than the howl of the storm. I peer into the white canvas ahead of us, and I see a shape that doesn’t look like an animal or a tree.
It’s angular. And as we get closer, I realize it’s a cabin.
A feeling of relief hits me so hard it's almost painful. We're not safe yet, but we have a chance now.
“Just a little further,” I promise Svetlana, and I dig in toward the cabin.
It’s small—I can see as we approach—definitely only one room, built from rough-hewn logs that have weathered to gray. A hunting cabin, probably decades old. The roof looks intact, which is the most important thing. There are two boarded-over windows on each side, and a door that's definitely seen better days but still hangs straight on its hinges.
The door is locked, and snow is piled up against it. The latch is so old that I’m able to break it with my knife, and I set Svetlana on a pile of logs next to it.
“I need to clear the snow away so I can get the door open,” I tell her as her head lolls against the side of the wall. “Give me a minute.”
I’m not sure I have a minute. She looks like she’s on death’s door. I kick and claw the snow away from the door, desperate, until I have enough cleared that I can get it open far enough for us to squeeze in. I get her inside first, then follow her in, yanking the door shut. The snow is already piling up again; it’ll keep anyone else from getting in without me hearing or the door from opening on its own.
The cabin muffles the sound of the storm, and the sudden quiet is so startling it makes my ears ring. It’s dark inside, but it's dry, and it's out of the storm, and right now I’d take only that and nothing else. I look around as my eyes adjust, making out the basic shapes of what’s inside. There’s a rough-hewn table, two chairs, an old iron woodstove, and a low bed. There are some shelves on the walls with cans and jars, and I hope to God that some of them are food.
