01-14-2025, 04:15 AM
“When you stop feeling cold, that’s when we worry.”
The words escaped Tristan in a low growl, more to himself than to Thalia, though he knew she could hear him. His breath fogged in the frigid air, curling like ghosts between them before dissipating. "There's a story, almost one hundred years old now. Five campers went trekking in the mountains of Siberia. All seasoned hikers, all experienced adventurers. A month after they went missing, their abandoned campsite was located . Their tents were cut from the inside, their coats and sleeping bags left behind, and the bodies were found over a mile away, scantily clothed and barefoot, as if they had left in a panic in extremely cold temperatures. They all died of hypothermia... the last stage of which is to feel unnaturally hot... and you begin to remove your clothes."
The story was meant to be reassuring, but survival was all he could focus on now. The horrors of the last few hours and the suffocating heat of the cave had been traded for the relentless, bone-deep cold of this desolate island. But as the adrenaline from their escape drained from his body, exhaustion began to creep in, dragging at his limbs. He knew that if either of them fell asleep now, neither would wake again.
He turned slowly, scanning the dim, hollowed-out dormitory with sharp, calculating eyes. His hands throbbed dully, tingling with the first warnings of going numb. A frustrated rumble vibrated in his chest, but the sound only made him dig his heels in harder. There was no room for anger here, only action.
From the hill, he had counted at least four small buildings in the station. The one they had entered was clearly a combination of a dormitory and a data collection site—old and abandoned, cluttered with papers and dead equipment. But the other structures? He had to hope they might hold something useful.
“I bet one of the other buildings is a mess hall,” he said, more decisively this time. His golden eyes flicked to Thalia, her shoulders trembling beneath the blanket he'd draped over her. “Stay here. I’ll find supplies.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. She looked too cold and drained to argue anyway, and there was no time to waste. He grit his teeth and ducked back out into the icy wind.
The cold slammed into him like a physical force, slicing through the layers of fabric as though they weren’t even there. He squinted against the blinding whiteness of the snow, the wind cutting through the desolate landscape and tearing at his hair. The frost bit hard at his cheeks and nose, but he pushed on, his boots crunching over ash-streaked ice as he approached the nearest building.
The door groaned loudly as he forced it open, the sound echoing in the emptiness. Inside, he quickly scanned the room, his breath fogging in the still air. Long tables were scattered throughout—this was the mess hall, just as he had hoped. The sight sparked a flicker of relief, but it was fleeting. He had to keep moving.
The kitchen was small and cluttered, its stainless steel counters tarnished with age and grime. Cabinets hung open, revealing a scattering of forgotten supplies. He worked quickly, his stiff fingers pawing through the drawers and shelves. A handful of pots and utensils were still intact, and he grabbed what he could: two large pots, a wooden spoon, a ladle, and a couple of metal spoons. He grimaced at the state of the pantry but managed to find a few sealed cans—beans and corn, their labels faded but intact. He checked each can carefully, discarding anything dented or corroded. The undamaged ones, he knew, could last indefinitely.
A rustling in the corner caught his attention, and he turned to find a half-empty bag of charcoal tucked behind a cabinet. It was heavy and awkward to carry, but he hefted it under one arm, his breath quickening in the cold. On the counter, a long chef’s knife glinted faintly in the pale light. He grabbed it without hesitation.
With the supplies bundled against his chest, Tristan trudged back to the dormitory, his fingers numb and throbbing as he shoved the door open. He dumped the items near Thalia with a muttered “Stay warm,” before heading back out again. The cold was unrelenting, but his determination burned hotter than the frost biting at his skin.
The second was a utility building, smaller and more cluttered than the others. Tristan sifted through the debris quickly, his movements growing clumsy as his fingers turned a deeper shade of purple. He found what he’d hoped for: an axe, its blade nicked but still sharp. The rest of the shed held generators, their hulking frames covered in dust, but as he’d suspected, there was no gasoline. Even so, an axe was a win. He could chop up furniture for firewood with it.
On the way back to the dormitory, he crouched by the snowbanks outside, digging through the icy crust to collect smooth rocks. His hands screamed with the cold, his nails caked with frost and dirt, but he didn’t stop. He ignored the throbbing ache, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and carried the rocks back inside.
“Can you light this?” he asked Thalia, motioning to one of the pots where he had dumped the charcoal and torn-up papers from the seismographs. His voice was rough, but there was a spark of urgency in it.
Her light flared, and warmth bloomed. Tristan immediately held his hands out to the flickering flame, shuddering with relief as the frost began to melt from his beard and hair. His fingers tingled painfully, but the fire's heat pulled him back from the edge of real danger. He didn’t linger in the moment of reprieve. There was still work to be done.
He filled the second pot with snow and smaller pebbles, setting it carefully over the first. The fire licked at the bottom of the pot, and soon the snow began to melt, forming a thin layer of water that steamed faintly in the air.
“Once the water boils, we’ll use the hot rocks to keep warm,” he explained, his voice steadier now as the heat returned to his body. He glanced at Thalia, his sharp eyes softening slightly as he noticed the way her shivering had eased. “We’ll drink the snowmelt once it’s warm enough—it’ll stop our body temperature from dropping any further. Then, we’ll eat. Dry out our clothes.”
His gaze flicked toward the window, the barren wasteland beyond still visible through the grimy glass. “Once we’ve rested, I'll search the other buildings. There has to be a map. A radio. Something that tells us where the hell we are.”
For now, the fire filled the room with a fragile warmth… a fragile hope. But Tristan’s jaw remained tight, his mind already spinning with plans. The fire would keep them alive, but survival was only the beginning.
The words escaped Tristan in a low growl, more to himself than to Thalia, though he knew she could hear him. His breath fogged in the frigid air, curling like ghosts between them before dissipating. "There's a story, almost one hundred years old now. Five campers went trekking in the mountains of Siberia. All seasoned hikers, all experienced adventurers. A month after they went missing, their abandoned campsite was located . Their tents were cut from the inside, their coats and sleeping bags left behind, and the bodies were found over a mile away, scantily clothed and barefoot, as if they had left in a panic in extremely cold temperatures. They all died of hypothermia... the last stage of which is to feel unnaturally hot... and you begin to remove your clothes."
The story was meant to be reassuring, but survival was all he could focus on now. The horrors of the last few hours and the suffocating heat of the cave had been traded for the relentless, bone-deep cold of this desolate island. But as the adrenaline from their escape drained from his body, exhaustion began to creep in, dragging at his limbs. He knew that if either of them fell asleep now, neither would wake again.
He turned slowly, scanning the dim, hollowed-out dormitory with sharp, calculating eyes. His hands throbbed dully, tingling with the first warnings of going numb. A frustrated rumble vibrated in his chest, but the sound only made him dig his heels in harder. There was no room for anger here, only action.
From the hill, he had counted at least four small buildings in the station. The one they had entered was clearly a combination of a dormitory and a data collection site—old and abandoned, cluttered with papers and dead equipment. But the other structures? He had to hope they might hold something useful.
“I bet one of the other buildings is a mess hall,” he said, more decisively this time. His golden eyes flicked to Thalia, her shoulders trembling beneath the blanket he'd draped over her. “Stay here. I’ll find supplies.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. She looked too cold and drained to argue anyway, and there was no time to waste. He grit his teeth and ducked back out into the icy wind.
The cold slammed into him like a physical force, slicing through the layers of fabric as though they weren’t even there. He squinted against the blinding whiteness of the snow, the wind cutting through the desolate landscape and tearing at his hair. The frost bit hard at his cheeks and nose, but he pushed on, his boots crunching over ash-streaked ice as he approached the nearest building.
The door groaned loudly as he forced it open, the sound echoing in the emptiness. Inside, he quickly scanned the room, his breath fogging in the still air. Long tables were scattered throughout—this was the mess hall, just as he had hoped. The sight sparked a flicker of relief, but it was fleeting. He had to keep moving.
The kitchen was small and cluttered, its stainless steel counters tarnished with age and grime. Cabinets hung open, revealing a scattering of forgotten supplies. He worked quickly, his stiff fingers pawing through the drawers and shelves. A handful of pots and utensils were still intact, and he grabbed what he could: two large pots, a wooden spoon, a ladle, and a couple of metal spoons. He grimaced at the state of the pantry but managed to find a few sealed cans—beans and corn, their labels faded but intact. He checked each can carefully, discarding anything dented or corroded. The undamaged ones, he knew, could last indefinitely.
A rustling in the corner caught his attention, and he turned to find a half-empty bag of charcoal tucked behind a cabinet. It was heavy and awkward to carry, but he hefted it under one arm, his breath quickening in the cold. On the counter, a long chef’s knife glinted faintly in the pale light. He grabbed it without hesitation.
With the supplies bundled against his chest, Tristan trudged back to the dormitory, his fingers numb and throbbing as he shoved the door open. He dumped the items near Thalia with a muttered “Stay warm,” before heading back out again. The cold was unrelenting, but his determination burned hotter than the frost biting at his skin.
The second was a utility building, smaller and more cluttered than the others. Tristan sifted through the debris quickly, his movements growing clumsy as his fingers turned a deeper shade of purple. He found what he’d hoped for: an axe, its blade nicked but still sharp. The rest of the shed held generators, their hulking frames covered in dust, but as he’d suspected, there was no gasoline. Even so, an axe was a win. He could chop up furniture for firewood with it.
On the way back to the dormitory, he crouched by the snowbanks outside, digging through the icy crust to collect smooth rocks. His hands screamed with the cold, his nails caked with frost and dirt, but he didn’t stop. He ignored the throbbing ache, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and carried the rocks back inside.
“Can you light this?” he asked Thalia, motioning to one of the pots where he had dumped the charcoal and torn-up papers from the seismographs. His voice was rough, but there was a spark of urgency in it.
Her light flared, and warmth bloomed. Tristan immediately held his hands out to the flickering flame, shuddering with relief as the frost began to melt from his beard and hair. His fingers tingled painfully, but the fire's heat pulled him back from the edge of real danger. He didn’t linger in the moment of reprieve. There was still work to be done.
He filled the second pot with snow and smaller pebbles, setting it carefully over the first. The fire licked at the bottom of the pot, and soon the snow began to melt, forming a thin layer of water that steamed faintly in the air.
“Once the water boils, we’ll use the hot rocks to keep warm,” he explained, his voice steadier now as the heat returned to his body. He glanced at Thalia, his sharp eyes softening slightly as he noticed the way her shivering had eased. “We’ll drink the snowmelt once it’s warm enough—it’ll stop our body temperature from dropping any further. Then, we’ll eat. Dry out our clothes.”
His gaze flicked toward the window, the barren wasteland beyond still visible through the grimy glass. “Once we’ve rested, I'll search the other buildings. There has to be a map. A radio. Something that tells us where the hell we are.”
For now, the fire filled the room with a fragile warmth… a fragile hope. But Tristan’s jaw remained tight, his mind already spinning with plans. The fire would keep them alive, but survival was only the beginning.