Ashes in the Darkness

Polar

TW: Cursing, main has a panic attack, hyperthermia

"Price, found a girl here," the skull-faced man said into his wrist. He paused for a moment, still holding a pistol to my head. At this point my legs had all but buckled as the fight or flight mechanism in my body had disengaged and I had accepted I was going to die. "Don't fucking try it," he whispered to me as he watched my eyes move to find an escape route.

"I'm at the LZ," he spoke into his wrist again. He finally nodded and rolled his eyes. "Turn around, put your hands behind your back," he groaned at me.

I finally found my voice as his giant hands grabbed my shoulders and turned me, "sir, I-I think th- there has been a misunderstanding here." Then it occurred to me, this was the final stop on my journey from my past, everything had finally caught up to me after all those years hiding in the Montana mountains, hoping the world would forget about me. I was still wearing my Air Force sweatshirt that was given to me so many years ago. It wasn't beaten up; I had taken good care of it. Just like I had taken good care of myself since then.

"Don't talk," he said. I heard zip ties, then my hands were ripped from being clasped on my head, "not until he gets here."

"Listen, I don't know-"

"What did I just say?" His words were like bullets, commanding and nothing else. He was angry. The zip ties tore into my skin, and I squeaked as he tightened them further. "Sit down."

I did as I was told, my ski pants were thankfully waterproof, so the snow didn't melt against my ass. I tried to wipe my nose against my shoulder to no avail. I probably looked like a toddler with snot dripping from my nostrils after a temper tantrum. The man finally walked in front of me, the gun still held up. He had a white jacket that was pinned down by a beige tactical vest, filled to the brim with items that I had once worn in the Air Force. Three mags, a med kit, a flashlight, a side arm strapped to his thigh with clip after clip circling his stomach. He had throwing knives on his vest that framed a British flag patch. I whimpered on the ground, growing cold as the adrenaline in my veins turned frigid.

After what seemed like hours of the two of us staring at each other, the sound of boots on snow and ice filtered into the circle. A man walked with such a stride; it seemed like the earth was shaking around him. He was dressed in the same white garb except for a black beanie that dawned his head. A thick beard covered the outlines of his face shape. Must have been keeping his face warm because he didn't sport the same balaclava and mask as the taller man had on.

"What do we have here?" Asked the bearded man. He had a thick British accent as well. He looked down at me with his hand on his side arm.

"She was carrying this," the masked man said, holding out my father's rifle to the bearded man. He took the rifle and looked down at me on the ground again, he pulled the bolt several times and emptied out the bullets. Dinging on the snow and ice was a sound I thought I would never hear again, but it was somehow a catch of bliss as my mind whirled with terrifying thoughts. Are these men going to kill me? Rape me? Detain me for my past in the Air Force? My eyes began to well again.

The bearded man noticed and kneeled to be on the same level as me, "vy russkiy?"

I thought for a moment I was losing your mind, "huh?" was the only sound I could muster from my sandpaper lined throat.

"A ty govorish' po russki?" The bearded man asked, this time with more heat in his voice.

I stared blankly at him, trying to figure out what he was saying but also contemplating the fact that I may just be losing my mind, and I was still dreaming or possessed, and this was the hell the demons had locked me inside. "I don't understand," I said breathlessly.