The snow fell heavier now, painting the entire world in a desperate shade of white.
Under Simo's direction, the men gathered to inventory the contents of the four rucksacks recovered from the river.
"Two hundred rounds of Mosin-Nagant ammunition, five hand grenades, and two basic first-aid kits."
Simo's voice was hoarse; it was impossible to tell if he felt relief or disappointment.
There were no rations. Whatever black bread or tinned meat they might have carried was likely sitting at the bottom of the creek in the other bags, or had long since been swept away by the torrential undercurrent. This wasn't a windfall; it was a pittance. The only gain was the ammunition and grenades, but lead couldn't fill a stomach, and steel couldn't knit a wound. In this desolate sea of forest and snow, a bullet was often worth less than a moldy crust of bread.
"At least... we have ammo," Juha said, using his one good hand to scoop a fistful of snow into his mouth. He tried to use the biting cold to numb the hunger cramps gnawing at his gut. "As long as we have rifles, we can take what we need to eat."
As night fell, the temperature plummeted to -25°C. It was the kind of cold that could crack a man's bones. To this squad of a dozen-odd stragglers, they felt like abandoned ghosts on a polar wasteland, racing against the Reaper with every passing second.
Worse still, half the men were carrying injuries. Some had legs sliced by shrapnel, leaving them limping in a way that made every step feel like dancing on knife points; others were tormented by severe frostbite, their fingers blackened like charcoal and devoid of all sensation. There was also a young recruit with a chest wound; though no vital organs were hit, the lack of medicine in the extreme cold had caused the wound to fester. The yellow discharge seeping through his bandages gave off a faint, sickening stench of rot.
Because they were deep behind enemy lines, surrounded by Soviet patrols and outposts, they didn't dare light a fire. A single flicker of light or the scent of smoke would bring Soviet shells, not warmth.
"Dig snow holes," Simo ordered, his voice low and clipped. "One group on guard, rotating every hour. The rest of you, find a leeward spot and huddle up. Use your body heat to keep each other alive."
The men pulled out their entrenching shovels, carving small burrows beneath the thick snow just large enough for two people to curl into, covering the entrances with pine branches to block the wind.
Walter Ilves and Juha squeezed into a cramped snow hole. It wasn't a shelter; it was a white coffin. The narrow, oppressive space was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and damp mildew, a suffocating mixture that burned the lungs.
Juha's body temperature was alarmingly high, a fever brought on by his infected wound. He groaned in his sleep, his body shivering like a leaf in a gale. Walter pressed close to him, feeling the searing heat radiating from the big man.
I guess God is fair after all, Walter thought with a touch of gallows humor, a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. At least He issued me a human heater with a built-in heating function, even if this heater might burn out at any moment.
He pulled his greatcoat tighter, trying to trap every last erg of warmth.
"Do you think... we'll ever make it back?"
In the darkness, Juha spoke suddenly. His voice trembled, a cocktail of febrile weakness and the primal fear of the unknown.
"Don't talk nonsense, Juha," Walter interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "It's our turn for guard duty."
"I... I can still go..." Juha struggled to sit up, only to collapse back down with a muffled grunt of pain.
Walter pinned him down, his tone turning stern. "Like hell you can. Look at you. You're in no state to stand watch."
"But…"
"No 'buts.' Your only mission right now is to keep that fat of yours alive." Walter reached over to flip up Juha's collar, blocking the biting draft. "Get some sleep. If you die, who's going to be my human shield?"
Juha went silent for a moment, then finally gave a weak nod. "Thanks, Walter."
Walter didn't answer. He simply grabbed his ice-cold rifle and crawled out of the snow hole.
Outside, the blizzard had settled slightly, but the chill remained razor-sharp, like a thousand tiny needles flaying the skin of his face. Walter leaned against a tree and began his lonely vigil. The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional crack of a branch snapping under the weight of the snow.
Walter didn't feel sleepy. On the contrary, his survival instinct was amplified to its limit by the extreme environment. Though his Eye of Death wasn't active, his senses were preternaturally sharp, catching every subtle shift in the wind.
He thought back to his past life, back when he had camped alone on a storm-lashed mountain, waiting for the next day to challenge a high-difficulty ski run. The loneliness then was remarkably similar to his situation now, except then it was for a thrill, and now it was for his life.
"This is fucked," Walter cursed softly.
…
The next morning, Walter was roused by the sound of muffled sobbing.
Though he hadn't truly slept, merely drifting between a semi-conscious haze and alertness, the sound brought him back instantly. The horizon was turning a pale grey, the sunlight wan and piercing against the blinding snow. He pushed aside the branches covering the hole and crawled out.
Under an old pine tree, the few soldiers still capable of moving were huddled together, their expressions bleak. Someone was weeping softly. Simo was kneeling on the ground, inspecting two stiff bodies.
They were two of the wounded who had been marching with them yesterday: the veteran with the leg wound and the young recruit with the festering chest. They remained curled in their snow holes, looking like two blocks of frozen stone. Hoarfrost coated their faces, and there was even a faint, peaceful smile on the recruit's lips, as if he had finally found warmth in his dreams.
"Dead," Simo said, standing up and brushing the snow from his hands. His tone was so flat it was chilling. "Hard to say if they froze or if the wounds just got them."
"Probably both," Juhani sighed, tapping his pipe. "In this weather, the Reaper doesn't need to pick a day. You close your eyes once, and you might never open them again."
Walter looked at the two corpses. He felt no grand sorrow, only the hollow, shivering dread of a fox mourning the rabbit. The unit had started the night with over a dozen men; now, they were two short. Death was like an invisible hunter trailing them, calling roll one by one. If they didn't find food and medicine soon, the next name called would be Juha's, or his own.
"Are we burying them?" someone whispered.
"No time to dig. The permafrost is too hard." Simo shook his head, a flicker of helplessness in his eyes. "Just cover them with snow. Don't let the Russians find them, and don't let the beasts pick them clean."
The men silently used their shovels to pile snow over their fallen comrades. Soon, those two vibrant lives were reduced to two nondescript white mounds, merging entirely into the wasteland.
After the grim task was finished, the unit assembled once more. The atmosphere was heavier than the day before. Everyone knew their time was running out. Hunger, cold, and injury sat on their shoulders like three mountains, crushing the breath out of them.
Simo looked around at his gaunt, hollow-eyed subordinates.
"Let's move."
"We need to eat, and we need to live. As long as you've got a breath left in you, don't stop."
Walter walked to Juha's snow hole and dragged the feverish man out.
"Get up, Juha. Don't sleep."
"Yeah... moving..."
Juha forced his eyes open. They were clouded with fever, but that stubborn streak of his was still there. "I'm good... just need a drop of vodka to bring me back to life..."
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