Alive in the Snow

13. Heat and Treachery

The value of time was critical. There was no escape or turning back when Henry was slowly perishing under his breath. The selfless youngster, Ian, pushed himself into the forest of total darkness, out of desperation and under the influence of continual, sickening paranoia. The sun has faded into oblivion with no light to serve him like a candle. A candle couldn't guide him, especially in these abyss-like territories. It seemed as if the sun was cowering behind the sombre clouds, too frightened to gaze at the intense scene since it was too much to handle. Regardless, even if there wasn't a clear direction, Ian had to find his way to StoneWell.

A few hundred metres to go until StoneWell, the destination, was reached. The bitter weather thrashed against his skin, gnawed onto his tender, swollen flesh, and ripped away his crumbling morale. By now, the severe anguish had been numbed by the cold. A sign of compassion from somewhere or someone. It's not like Ian cared about his condition. Even if the pain did brute-force its way into his body, what could it do? Paralyse his thoughts into an immediate state of surrender?

"Run."

All that was on his mind was to run.

A piece of code that ran in a loop

like a robot without a soul.

The code that ended once a condition was satisfied - Getting to StoneWell.

Slowing his pace and moderating it further, Ian peered at his hands but looked to the front. Initially, he glanced to his left, then to his right, before flipping to checking both palms. His knuckles were bare and bleeding: so exposed that his left middle knuckle had a vulnerable cut running down it. His soft skin had now turned into leather. Soon, he progressively lost his sense of touch—his delicate feet could no longer be felt. The coldness has surrounded his body and engulfed it without mercy. Blood began to drip down the sole man's face as a result of the merciless threat grabbing hold of his nostrils. If Ian's body became unstable, the murky, ravenous snow was poised to consume him whole.

As the blood trickled down over his garments, some of it soaked onto the snow and disrupted the sheet of cotton with the destructive essence of man. The sweet scent of moist dew and petrichor could no longer be detected due to his blocked nose. All he could do was taste his own blood, all while choking on the air he inhaled. Rest wasn't an option. Ian's lungs were low on air, but resilience coiled around his mind tightly.

Thoughts?
There was nothing to think about.
Ian felt as if the world was collapsing around him; he was losing his sanity.
Everything was a blur.

"There wasn't a reason to stop."
- he told himself this profusely.

His mind ran silent moments later.
Things were shutting down.

The boy attempted to talk with himself, but his mind was unresponsive.

Ian's ability to manage things started to wane as his eyes welled up with cold, salty tears. Every muscle in his body ached. At last, Stonewell was seen up ahead. A vivid glow of yellow and orange simmered in the blackness—finally, a source of light. illumination and a glimmer of hope. Hope was all Ian could ask for. Even a small possibility could go against all odds for his survival. As diligent as he was, his hard work was diminishing.

The villagers—a dark silhouette—gathered at the gates.

Ian couldn't see them but heard their cries from afar.

This was his sign of hope.

Death was creeping around the corner.

"Ova here!"

"Look! They're alive!"

"Quick! "Everyone, it's Ian!"

"Nurse!"