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The golden rays of dusk had distorted into drab grey by the time they arrived at the alpine hut. A father, his son, and their dog stumbled forward—fur jackets drenched with sweat and melted snow. It clung to their bodies like leeches, biting into their flesh and stinging their skin. The boy's complexion mottled an ugly puce, splotches of purple had already formed on his lips. His shrill complaints drilled into his father's ears before the latter threw him a tiny sausage to satiate his hunger. Only the dog showed no signs of discomfort—it rolled around in the snowbed without a care in the world; typical behavior.
(Name's)—the father's—trained eyes scanned the horizon. From North to South, craggy peaks rose as far as the eye could see, draped in a sheet of ice and snow. He recognized some of them, he had visited this alpine hut with his father and grandfather before. Schreckhorn and Kleiner Schreckhorn were the names of the distant peaks, if his foggy memory served him right. If he squinted, he could see his mountain village nestled in the valley below—smoke billowed from multiple chimneys. He wondered if his extended family had already gone to bed.
Unbroken white covered the land, only broken by the occasional dark patch of forest. It was foolish of him to have strayed away from the established trail, but his son had insisted that they take the longer, more scenic route. Not that he blamed him—it was his first time joining his father on this trip. Eyes lit up with awe and wonder, the father could not resist the temptation of letting his son explore the wilderness. After all, he needed to become acquainted with the route—his son, his grandson, and their sons would need to maintain the hiking trail for generations to come. Every curve, every dip in the road had to be hammered into their minds in case they ever met a lost traveler in the mountains. Then, they would have to guide the lost soul back to the alpine hut and prepare them a warm meal, provide them with medical attention, new clothes.
The wind picked up, and the dog barked. His son tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, yelling at him to open the door. (Name) turned and twisted at the ice-covered doorknob, the metal slipping between his fingers. Strange, this used to be easier in his youth. After many attempts, the trio floundered into the dry hut. Almost instantly, the boy disposed of his drenched jacket and ran into the rickety kitchen in search of water and food. The dog stood guard outside, scratching its ears with its hind legs; typical behavior. Meanwhile, the father grumbled and placed both their jackets in front of the fireplace, before sparking a flame.
The fledgling flame sputtered at first, wavering against the chill that permeated the hut's bones. Yet (Name) nursed it, feeding it tender scraps of timber and brittle tinder. Gradually, it took hold, orange tongues licking up the logs akin to how his dog licks up the scraps thrown its way. A comforting warmth blossomed from the hearth, banishing the pervasive cold. It caressed the father's numb, frozen skin, thawing the icy ache in his old joints. He exhaled in satisfaction as feeling returned to his fingertips, the fire's heat penetrating deeper, massaging away the day's exertions.
Like a moth attracted to the flame, the son came bouncing toward the hearth, holding a batch of biscuits in his hand. Annoyed, the father scolded him for eating the food reserved for travelers. But the boy complained that there was no more food left in the pantry, nor water. And even that was infested with worms, rendering it undrinkable for the lowest vermins of Earth. Only a few bottles of whiskey sat in the cupboard, and the boy refused to let the alcohol slip past his purple lips.
This wasn't normal. Had a fox found its way inside and ate the dried meat? Or a wolf? Did he forget to fill the barrel with fresh water from his last trip? The man pursed his lips and swung his jacket over his shoulders—they had been given barely enough time to soak up the fire's heat. With a gruff cough, he told his son to stay indoors, and not open the door until he returned.
The boy asked where he was going.
"To the creek," replied (Name), "to gather fresh water for us."
"How about just melting the snow from outside?"
"No. Too dirty. Besides, I'll bring back some fish if I'm lucky. Yes, fish stew will warm us up in no time." The creek flowed all year round inside a forest, so there existed no fear of it freezing over. There was no need for the boy to worry, it was a short walk away, and besides, the dog would keep him company.
The boy protested, he wouldn't let his father walk off into the endless woods. Especially not with night approaching. But (Name) dismissed his concerns, securing his son's survival was more important. Parental instincts were such a strange phenomenon—he couldn't let his son die of thirst.
The father had walked that path at least a thousand times during his youth; saying that he was well-acquainted with the mountains was an understatement. (Name) grabbed a flask and was almost out the door when he had a second thought. Maybe he should bring a lantern? No need, he'd make it back before darkness settled, or so he convinced himself.
The boy and the dog watched him leave for the forest. He was right—the boy could hear a little trickle of water running in the distance. Or was it the wind? He wondered when his father would return.
Above him, the clouds darkened, covering the sky in black ink.
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(Name) continued through the level forest for several kilometers. Then he went down a bank to the frozen path of a small stream. Around him stood towering pine trees, their short leaves and pinecones glistening with a soft powder of snow.
How peculiar, the stream had frozen over. Maybe the weather was colder than usual. The man speared the ice with a wooden branch. Then he bent down and filled his flask with fresh water. Internally, he scolded himself for not bringing a second flask. Perhaps the boy could come here tomorrow with the barrel.
The clear water burbled merrily as it flowed over the sheet of ice and smoothened pebbles. But its cheerful demeanor concealed its biting chill. As the man dipped his flask into the stream, icy droplets sprang forth and spattered his mittens. The wet wool clung to his skin, soaking through to his flesh beneath. The cold was a knife's edge, slicing into his numb fingers. It stole the meager warmth he had regained, replacing it with an aching, bone-deep freeze.
He grimaced, flexing his fingers within the sodden mittens. Oh, how he longed to cast them away, but that was out of the question.
So he endured, grunting as the cold sliced his skin like a butcher's blade. He focused on thoughts of the fire, recalling its tender kiss on his frigid skin. The memory sustained him as he secured the now-full flask and rose on creaking knees.
But when he turned to return, his heart sank into his frozen boots. While preoccupied, a fresh coat of snow had stealthily fallen, concealing his footsteps in a featureless blanket of white. The sun had dipped below the horizon, abandoning him to the pitch-black night.
Had it always been so dark? Did the stars shift, or was his imagination playing tricks on him?
Panic rose in his throat. At the sub-zero alpine temperature, hypothermia could set in within a moment's notice. How long did it take him to reach the creek? Half an hour.
He had to move, now.
Though his mind churned with rising panic, the man forced himself to focus. (Name) noted each twist and turn of the frozen creek, etching the landscape into memory. The silhouette of the treeline, branches clawing at the night sky. They reached out to grab him. The positions of the stars overhead, their faint light just enough to illuminate hazards underfoot. The crunch of snow beneath boots, the wet chill needling his skin, the faint whiff of woodsmoke teasing his nostrils.
Step after precarious step, he pressed forward, trusting his honed awareness to preclude a misstep. His life now hinged on keen sight, touch, smell—senses locked in a singular purpose, to spit in Death's face and live to see his son.
His knees buckled without warning, spilling him face-first into the snow's embrace. The powder swallowed him greedily, soaking through his jacket, saturating every fiber with mind-numbing cold. The wet fabric clung to him, heavy and constricting, leaching away his fading body heat. He gasped as the chill pierced his skin like a thousand frozen needles, freezing the very marrow in his bones. Violent shivers wracked his exhausted body. Bleak despair flooded his mind, the cruel mountain indifferent to his cries.
He cursed himself for leaving in the dead of night, for being too arrogant to turn back sooner. Visions of his son and dog huddled by the fire taunted him—so close, yet hopelessly out of reach. He laughed at his own foolishness. As he laughed, he noted the numbness in his concealed fingers. He wondered whether they were warm or whether they were numb. He moved them inside the mittens and decided that they were numb.
Fire. He needed fire.
Was this the panic his ancestors felt? Hopeless to the whims of Mother Nature?
Clenching and unclenching his hands, he forced a sliver of feeling back into his hands. He didn't want to look at them, he knew they were frostbitten. With a loud grunt, the father forced himself to his feet and trudged toward one of the pine trees. Around him, the blizzard raged, the winds howling in his ears. In the distance, he swore he heard the dog barking, and his son shouting for him to take another step.
One.
Two.
He couldn't anymore.
(Name) collapsed against the side of an ancient pine tree, chest heaving up and down. A few pinecones lay scattered around, which he picked up promptly. Fishing out a box of matches, he soon had a little fire going. The pinecones burned reluctantly, the resin snapping and popping as (Name) coaxed the balky tinder alight. Flames sputtered from the cones in fits and starts, writhing weakly before being smothered by wisps of inky smoke. The meager fire crackled and hissed, devouring the cones in smoldering, lackluster gulps. The smoke, pungent and cloying, clawed at his throat and stung his eyes. He could taste the acrid pine tar coating his tongue. It certainly was still cold, was his thought. But he was safe.
First, he melted the ice off his eyes and nose—or, at least tried to. The heat was nowhere near enough to remove all the icicles, but it was a welcome change nonetheless. (Name) rubbed his hands in front of the fire, praying that it would give him strength to breathe one more breath, walk one more step, live one more second. He looked like a newborn fawn, struggling to move, dependent on warmth.
He fed the flame with pinecones the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to feed it with larger branches. Afterward, he would throw in a log, then a tree, then another tree another tree—another tree—burn down the forest—melt the snow; bask in the warmth—laugh in the face of the Devil; laugh in the face of Death—see his son and pet his dog—walk—back down the mountain; back to the village, soak in a hot tub and eat the finest meals known to mankind—just another pinecone—another one—
There were none left.
No more. None at all.
Please, if there's a God, save me! thought the man as he desperately blew on the embers.
But before he could blink, it happened. It was his own fault, or rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the pine tree. He should have built it in an open space. But it had been easier to pick the pinecones from the base of the trunk and drop them directly on the fire.
Now, this tree in particular carried a sizable amount of snow on its branches. And even his son would know what happens to snow in the presence of fire.
High in the branches, a single mound of snow slipped loose, crashing down on limbs below. This triggered a chain reaction, the impacts shuddering through the tree, dislodging more of the frozen white. It built into an avalanche that plummeted without warning upon the unsuspecting man and the fire. The fire died. Atop its grave lay a lump of fresh snow.
The man was too stunned to speak.
He was all alone.
Alone.
Shivering.
In the Alps.
Without a fire.
In soaking clothes.
Caught in a blizzard.
Had the air always been so cold?
Yes. No. Always. Never. Yes.
No more cold. No more cold. No more cold.
In one swift motion, he ripped the sodden mittens from his hands with chattering teeth. Cradling the matchbox, he sandwiched it between his bare palms - the only part of him not yet frozen stiff. Arm muscles burning with exertion, he scraped the box forcefully along its rough striking edge. The matches erupted in a single brilliant flare, all ninety igniting at once! (Name) blinked against the sudden flare, eyes stinging.
But something was wrong. The flames, fueled by an unholy force, engulfed his hands, searing the flesh and melting the sinew. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and the smoke rose to the high heavens. From the comfort of the alpine hut, it must have looked like an ordinary campfire.
The father screamed in agony, his eyes watering from the acrid stench. Could his son see him? Hear him? Or could the dog catch a whiff of his blood and flesh, leading the boy to his location?
But wait. None of that mattered anymore. He had fire. He had warmth. And it felt so damn good.
Nothing could stop him now. His battered knees sprung to life as he raced through the woods. He felt as though he were flying. He grew a pair of wings and zipped through the trees. Faster and faster. In the corner of his eyes, he saw a wolf. A big one. Black. Black eyes. Black fur. I'll race you! You'll never catch me! Not you, or your pack!
(Name) cackled as he ran. Before he knew it, he had reached the alpine hut. The man threw aside the matches and banged on the door with all his might, yelling at his son with a sing-song voice to open the damned door. His hands were red, purple, blue, blistered, frost-bitten—anything and everything at once.
Bang!
The skin peeled off like wet paper.
Bang!
Revealing the muscles underneath. Pulsating muscles, glistening with a sickly sheen.
Bang!
Then the muscles fell off, and the bones clattered against the door frame. Brittle bones. Clattering to the floor like splinters.
He heard the dog barking inside. It was alive! But why won't his son open the door! Open up! I'll gut you up and plunge my hand in your stomach if you don't open the door this instant! I need warmth! My skin is burnt! I don't care! Your muscles and skin shall be used to make a new hand, new body—your soul shall become one with mine! I see you staring at me through the window! Why are you scared! It's me, your father! I have the water! In the flask! From the creek! See! You want my clothes? Take them! I don't need them anymore! Damn it! Son! Open the door!
He stopped. It was useless. The wolf had caught up to him. But it didn't snarl. (Name) looked down at his hand—now a charred stump. Bone. Cracks in the bone. Bone marrow. Ha. Ha. Ha.
He slumped to his knee and the wolf did so as well. Strange, why was this wild animal so docile? Like a dog. His dog. Good boy.
Would his son ever find his body? Would the dog lick him awake? And what is this wolf doing here?
Ah, no matter. This is comfortable. There are worse ways to die.
Snow fell from the roof above. In front of the door stood a lump of snow. And next to it, lay the wolf.