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The milky snow compressed in by shaking, calloused hands. Hot breath danced over the ground and under his figure. His chest, adorned with the standard uniform shirt, displayed the movement of flesh and skin around his ribs. Scoutmaster Myres had collapsed onto the terrain, but remained supporting himself with his arms. Myres did not require rest within the current moment. His weakened legs landed upon the bitterly cold ground. Pacing, his mind, pacing to comprehend that his own scouts became his assailants. He coughed. The sharp mountain air aspired to stab into his windpipe, and he attempted to recollect his mental state, for his own survival. Shelter was a neccesity.
Scoutmaster Myres limped onward to a cave within his clouded view, guided not by the movement of his legs but rather his own outstretched, desperate arm. The cavity provided a minimal degree of protection from the elements and insulation, thus allowing the Scoutmaster to gradually recover and recollect his thoughts. He massaged his upper trunk region in attempt to provide the center of his body warmth, as he assumed a curled-up position. Senior Patrol Leader Toby possessed a lantern, a source of heat. A source of heat, now unable to aid his own Scoutmaster, for he and the youth of his troop departed in the period of Myres' unconscious state.
The pace of Scoutmaster Myres' breathing slowed to soft and raspy gasping, originating from his cracked and metallic-tasting lips. Scoutmaster Myres reflected upon his predicament. He was an outdoorsman, a prestiged leader within his community. He earned the rank of Goat Scout at age 15, and now participated within the organization of scouting at 60. But he remained within the cavernous atrium of the mountain now, without the troop of which he dedicated decades upon decades working towards the growth of their values and goals. A decision he was unable to comprehend.
His breathing wavered.
"In a survival situation, one of the worst things that can happen is getting separated from the group."
His eyelids fell heavy, and the creases of his aged face became heavily defined, shifting from silty to rough and jagged.
"Nothing is more important than sticking together as a team!"
Myres jaw tensed up as he brought his weathered palms to his face.
"You won't do anyone any favors by passing out on the mountain!"
And an agonized face began to weep, warm droplets caught upon the strands of his facial hair. Myres grit his teeth, his eyebrows falling to his eyes. Frustration presented itself. He had reiterated the neccesary guidelines to remain safe and secure in the duration of outdoor excursions, and his scouts had significantly disregarded the set boundaries. A disegard of which resulted his current poor condition.
Scoutmaster Myres facial expression quickly contorted into one of pain and solemn, tears trickling down the smooth surface of the glacial cavern.
He was the Scoutmaster of these scouts, and the current situation thus resulted from faliure of his own accord. Twitching fingers ran down his temple, his nails digging inwards into his leathery skin. No. No time to spare.
Myres forced his deteriotating body into movement, tredging into the battering force of the blizzard. He forced his bruised fingers into the divots of a wind-eroded cliff face, bashing his steel-toed hiking boots into the slick rock footholds of the wall. Scoutmaster Myres began to ascend the stone cliffside, contorting his weakened body in a bout of desperation. As his automaton-like state progressed him further and further, his limbs became lacerated from jagged glacial protrusions. His scout troop was responsible, trained in the neccesary skills for dire survival situations. No, they were not his assailants, rather, they decided to utilize the safest course of action as to take shelter in the period of hazardous weather and afterwards organize an SAR to locate their scoutmaster. The courageous, determined scouts brought up underneath his leadership. No. No, but the search and rescue group was not necessary, no. His glazed-over eyes fixated on a familiar sight, black smoke flickering in a heavy flurry of snow.
His pale palms descended upon the stable ground where the plume of ash rose from, coated in snow and slush, and Myres pushed his upper torso onto the terrain. He gained footing upon the platform and limped towards the familiar smell of ignited coal. The particles of snow had increased in quantity and diameter, clouding his vision, yet he remained able to reach the campfire.
Scoutmaster Myres forced himself upon his feet and ran, stumbling towards his scouts, towards the shelter, towards warmth. A strained larynx choked out a slurred plea,
"SCOU-.."
The joints of his knee had given out under the strenuous exertion of physical effort, Myres collapsed onto the land, facing the source of smoke.
Beads of frothy sputum ran onto the ground, his mouth agape, choking out strings of mucus. Myres eyes were drawn to the source of the ash, to his scout troop.
A smoking, extinguished portable stove laid in front of him, surrounding by barren land indented with snow-powdered bootprints. Scoutmaster Myres attempts to scream were quickly ceased by the agonizing burning of his windpipe.
Myres dragged his body forward by his upper limbs, into a small crevice. A crevice of which provided a sufficient lack of insulation, of warmth. Involuntary muscle twitches had ceased within his hand, as he brought his bloodied arm to seize the cold journal from his breast pocket. A crumbled paper was ripped from the thin book of reaccountings and fresh blood ran across the page collected into a singular message. A singular crimson message strewn across repetitions of rule zero, quickly cast along with its brother inscriptions into the howling wind.
Scoutmaster Myres felt the numbness of his arms progress into a loss of mobility upon an attempt to adjust his positioning to maintain any remaining warmth. His eyelids descended upon his dull eyes. The rate of his respiration dropped into a state of dyspnea.
It was quiet.
Light snow fluttered around the sky.
The portable stove no longer smoked.