No matter how much the facts insisted otherwise, some part of Armand still waited for dawn. An endlessly prolonged night made no sense to him. True, there were no real days or nights in the outpost either, but even then he could at least assume that somewhere outside, beyond the stone and the cave walls, daylight existed. Now, however, under an open sky, this unbroken darkness made him feel dull, hopeless, and strangely unsafe.

  He walked beside the sled, lost in his thoughts. The caravan had left the old ship, left the riverbed, and was now pushing farther north. On the opposite bank they began following the river upstream. The terrain was too steep to climb. Hemingway kept switching between the map and her compass, estimating, measuring, analyzing, until she finally reached a decision and called out to him:

  “We have to follow the bank for another mile or two. We should run into the mouth of a smaller river up there. That’ll open a passage toward the mountain.”

  For now, the weather was on their side. The storm had not only calmed, it had died entirely, and the air had become unnaturally still. The contrast made everything that had happened earlier feel distant, almost unreal. Low clouds hung over the frozen lake formed by the tributary before it reached the main river. The water had spread across the plain, drowned it, and then sealed it in ice. A white, smooth, untouched surface stretched endlessly ahead. The caravan glided over it quietly, smoothly, almost soundlessly.

  With every step, Armand felt the cold diminishing. He could bare his face completely now. The clouds above them barely moved, heavy, sluggish veils slowly lowering their first strands toward the lake. Lower and lower, thicker and thicker, until the night, already dark and silent, became entirely opaque.

  He kept one hand on the sled’s handle, yet he could barely make out its outline. It felt as if he were traveling through a landscape choked with black, damp wool. Hemingway shouted something to him, the sound drifted in from several directions at once, as if from some immense distance, even though he knew she was no more than twenty yards ahead. He cupped his hands around his mouth to shout back:

  “Hey, Hemingway! I didn’t catch that, what’d you say?!”

  He stopped and listened. Her voice echoed; he could hear it, but not locate it. He reached for the sled, but his hand sank into empty air. He swung his arms left and right, groping at nothing. Then he rushed in the direction he believed the caravan had taken, running with both hands extended before him. A black void. Panic rising in his chest like a tide.

  He spun wildly, searching for any trace of the column. His sense of direction had vanished; he no longer knew where he’d come from or where he was going. His left foot slipped on the ice mid-stride, and he crashed backward with his full weight. His head snapped and struck the frozen surface with brutal force. The world rippled, then dissolved into nothing.

  He had no idea how much time passed before he came to. He pushed himself upright, feeling a sharp throb at the back of his skull. A metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He pulled off a glove and touched his sore tongue.

  “Must’ve bitten it when I fell…”

  He needed light. His lamp was on the sled, along with his pack and gear. Fortunately, he remembered the phone in his inner jacket pocket. He pulled it out and lit the screen. No signal, of course, not that he expected one. What he hoped for was light.

  But the weak LED brought him no comfort, if anything, it made things worse. It illuminated only a dense white mass. He could make out the surface beneath him, but nothing beyond a few steps. He stood and looked around. A soundless white void.

  He started forward slowly, hoping to recognize something, anything.

  “Hemingwaaay!” he shouted now and then, but nothing answered.

  Moving through ink, or through a wall white as milk, depending on whether he aimed the phone’s light ahead or not. The panic had passed, replaced by simple, clean fear. The situation felt impossible - a boundless flat expanse, without a single landmark, suspended in a white vacuum. Was this what death looked like? Eternal wandering toward nowhere, without exit?

  All hope of finding anything familiar had nearly drained away, when he thought he saw something in the distance. A thin thread of light, like the ember of a cigarette. When he lowered the phone, it disappeared. When he raised it, it returned. But not in the same place.

  He walked toward it, eyes locked. It vanished and reappeared.

  He came close enough, and to his surprise, the glow changed. Now there were two. Floating out in the haze, two lights together. Then a third joined them. And another.

  What is this?

  He stepped closer, then he heard it.

  A quiet growl.

  He froze. He understood what he was walking toward, or rather, what was walking toward him.

  Wolves.

  How many? Close now, close enough that the phone’s beam caught their shapes moving in the mist. Another pair of eyes. Then another. The first pair, the one that had drawn him, flickered, shifted, and seemed to inch closer with every heartbeat.

  Armand looked around. His body screamed to run, but where? From every direction came soft panting, deep-throated growls, and the faint whisper of paws on thin snow.

  He looked ahead again. The beam caught one of them clearly now. A large gray wolf stood about ten paces away, head lowered, hackles raised, fangs bared in a demonic snarl. Ready to leap.

  Armand hunched instinctively, bracing for impact. He shouted, swung his arms, waving the trembling light in the darkness. The beast hesitated, just a moment, calculating. It knew large prey could be dangerous, but it was winter. Hunger was law. And the pack was here. They would bring him down.

  Its muscles tightened. It sprang.

  What happened next didn’t register at first.

  From Armand’s right, a dark shape, faster than thought, burst past him and slammed into the wolf mid-jump. Two snarling bodies tumbled across the ice and vanished into the whiteness. A heartbeat later, another silent shadow streaked by and dove into the fight.

  Howls, yelps, frantic barking. The sounds receded. Smothered. Sank into the white expanse.

  Then, silence.

  Armand turned in place, trying to see anything. The red eyes in the dark faded one by one. A few heartbeats later, he heard soft, rapid footsteps approaching.

  Out of the snowy haze, into the beam of his phone, emerged Atila, followed immediately by Hektor. Their muzzles streaked with blood, they trotted up to him, tongues out, and sat at his feet.

  He dropped to his knees and wrapped both arms around them. His rescuers, his guardian angels. Tears of relief slid down his cheeks. The dogs licked his face.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  *

  Atila was leading the way, glancing back from time to time to make sure he didn’t lose them in the dark. Right beside Armand’s legs moved Hector, neck lowered, ears pricked, sniffing the air, his muscular shoulders rolling with every step. Armand couldn’t remember ever feeling this safe, this shielded, as he did in the company of these two cerberi. There was no trace of the wolf pack.

  Not long after, far ahead of them, a streak of red light pierced the darkness. It climbed upward, tearing through the night, and at the height of its ascent began to sink again until its glow faded. That must be a flare! Hemingway was there! Armand quickened his pace, then plunged into a headlong charge toward the dying light. The dogs trotted beside him. Soon, the sky split again, another flare, now much closer. Shouts followed it, clear enough that he could finally make out the voice. Sprinting full speed, he began shouting as well:

  “Hemingway! Heeey! Hemingway!”

  Her head jerked toward the sound. A breath of silence, then she recognized his voice. Suddenly, without any conscious decision, without thinking, her body moved. Her legs carried her faster and faster, her eyes straining to cut through the dark. A few more steps, and there he was. Ah, you clumsy, wretched fool, she thought.

  Without a word, they crashed into each other’s arms. He wrapped her tightly, pulling her close, feeling her body beneath the heavy layers of winter gear. She held him even harder, like someone terrified of losing something precious, something long and desperately sought. And the dogs, sensing the surge of emotion radiating from the reunited pair, began to leap around them, barking and howling as if they had just won a great victory.

  “What happened? Where did you disappear?”

  “Ugh… I’m honestly embarrassed to even say. I just, lost hold of the sled, and then got myself lost.” He dropped his head in shame.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I was just ahead of you!”

  “I fell, hit my head, and blacked out. I suppose you kept going, not realizing what had happened.”

  “You hit your head on the ice? You passed out? Let me see.” Hemingway anxiously pulled back his hood to check for injury.

  “It’s fine, trust me. Hardly hurts at all. My tongue hurts more, I must’ve bitten it.”

  “You bit your tongue? Good Lord… rarely does someone injure himself this badly for no reason. I’ll have to tie you to the sled and haul you like cargo.” She tried to make a joke, but quickly sobered, aware of how dangerous Armand’s situation had been.

  “Yeah, maybe that’s not a bad idea. And… wolves attacked me. These two saved my life.” He gestured toward the dogs.

  She stared at him in disbelief. He nodded, confirming she had heard right. She hugged him again.

  “Did they bite you?”

  “No, they didn’t get to me. Atila and Hector chased off the whole pack.” He looked at the dogs with sincere gratitude.

  Both of them knelt and began stroking the animals. Hemingway kept repeating:

  “Good dogs… my good, good dogs…”

  With open mouths, tongues lolling, and that pure canine bliss only dogs can radiate when their human finally gives them the attention they crave, Atila and Hector melted into the affection, savoring every touch.

  *

  To their astonishment, the dogs snapped awake. As if sensing a hidden threat, they stiffened, raised themselves, ears pricked, teeth bared just slightly. From the distant darkness came a sound that simply did not belong, a soft, persistent buzzing, steady and even, like wind whispering through trembling poplar leaves.

  Hemingway straightened, feeling goosebumps prickle under her fur-lined hood. She cast a searching glance at Armand, seeking an explanation.

  “Do you hear that?”

  He did. And even before the sound fully revealed itself, he knew what was coming. He took her hand.

  “Wait. Watch. It should appear any moment now.”

  The moment stretched taut, like a drawn string. Then, above the lake’s surface, gliding through the fog as if slicing it with a knife, appeared a small quad-rotor drone. It hovered with smooth precision, almost cautiously, as its propellers drew in wisps of mist, scattering them into a white spiral beneath it.

  The dogs erupted in chaos. They reared, jerking the sleds, growling at the craft as if it were some malevolent spirit.

  Armand stepped forward, raising his hand like a falconer summoning a loyal bird back from the hunt. The drone drew near and landed in his palm, its rotors falling silent in an instant, as if yielding to him.

  Hemingway’s eyes widened, breath caught in her chest. Breaking the tension, a small speaker inside the drone spoke, thin yet startlingly clear, the voice of a young girl:

  “Armand… is that you? How? How are you here?”

  “It’s me. Hello, Zadkiel. I’m glad to see you,” he said, as if speaking to an old friend, not a flying machine.

  “Oh… it really is you! The pleasure of seeing you again is all mine! We were so worried about you. If I had arms, I would hug you!”

  Armand smiled; something deep inside him melted. Everything came rushing back, the years of labor, the companionship, the trust, the entire world of their secluded outpost.

  “How did you find us?”

  “I saw the light from the signal flare and hurried to see what was happening.”

  “And the others? How is the outpost holding up?”

  The drone’s propellers relaxed like sodden whiskers:

  “It’s not good. When we learned the project would be shut down, that the power plant would stop operating, we managed to secure some fuel for one generator and a stack of batteries. But soon we realized it wouldn’t be enough for everyone. It was agreed that I would stay awake alone and try to find a solution.” Her voice trembled, striving for courage.

  “But… everyone’s safe? The servers?”

  “Yes. Nothing is damaged. But… there’s nothing I can do to change the situation. I barely keep myself going. Energy reserves are almost gone. I’m lucky I found you. Or, more precisely… that I found all of you.”

  Armand turned the drone toward Hemingway, tenderly, as if presenting someone precious.

  “Zadkiel, I want you to meet someone. This is Hemingway, my companion and guide on this journey.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hemingway! I am, as you’ve heard, Zadkiel.” The propellers buzzed twice briefly, a tiny bow.

  Her gaze flicked from Armand’s serious face to the drone and back. Some surreal performance, perhaps a jest or a playful display, this notion flitted through her mind. Everything he had explained theoretically made sense, but now, face-to-face with his creation, she struggled to adapt. Still, realizing she shouldn’t make the situation any more awkward than it already was, she collected herself, cleared her throat, and said:

  “Hello, Zadkiel… I’m glad to meet you.” She extended her hand, then quickly withdrew it, recognizing the gesture’s futility. Instantly, Armand and Zadkiel burst into laughter.

  “Don’t worry!” the drone said. “I don’t always navigate… unusual social interactions well either. They say it’s a trait of highly intelligent beings. If that’s true, then I’m willing to embrace my shortcomings.”

  The drone has a sense of humor? And a compliment to boot? Hemingway felt her perception shift, her mind opening to the impossible. She decided to let herself be carried along, like a film that suddenly sweeps you into its story.

  “Tell me everything,” Zadkiel said to Armand. “What has happened to you since we parted?”

  And Armand recounted it all. Leaving the outpost, the transport to the airport, the missed flight… all the way to this moment. Nothing was left out. Zadkiel, having absorbed every detail of their journey, turned to Hemingway:

  “I owe you sincere thanks for helping our Armand and taking care of him. We all owe you our gratitude.”

  Hemingway nodded:

  “Of course. Always. There’s no need to thank me. In any case, I think it’s time we get off this ice. We should find a suitable spot for camp as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, how talkative I am!” Zadkiel said. “I’ve rambled on, and you’re exhausted. Perhaps you don’t even realize it, but your destination is literally just a mile from here. At the foot of the mountain lies a convenient cove, protected on all sides. An ideal spot for camp. Follow me, I’ll lead you there.”

  The site truly was perfect, just as Zadkiel had described: a wide gap among the rocks, sheltered by the mountain’s steep rise. They arrived, finally at their goal. All that effort had paid off. Both felt the weight lift from their shoulders. The path ahead would surely be easier than the one already traveled.

  Before they began pitching the tent, Zadkiel said her goodbyes:

  “I must go. My battery is nearly depleted. I’ll find you in the morning. Rest well, for I foresee the days ahead will be full of challenges.”

  The rotors whirred, a wave of fog settled beneath her, and she ascended, vanishing somewhere into the heights.