Free Snowblind by Michael Abbadon

contact. They'll never find him searching from the ground."
    A voice called from across the room. "Chief Adashek!"
    Dean Stanton waved them over. They hurried to his control desk.
    "It's 403," he said. "They've activated the ELT." Stanton turned up the volume on the VHF receiver. The quick, successive beeps of the emergency-locator beacon were unmistakable. "I've triangulated their position with the airport in Ruby. The signal's coming from somewhere off the western slope of Caribou Mountain. Might be on the Kanuti River. But wherever it is, at least we know somebody's alive out there."
    Stanton turned, looked at Katukan. "Sorry, Doc."
    *  *  *
    Jake watched the red light flash with each "beep" of the beacon. He'd mounted the device on the upturned underside of the airplane's broken wing. He figured nobody would come looking for him until the storm died down, but at least this might let them know he was here.
    Jake had found deep footprints in the snow, heading out across the lake toward the trees. That freak is out there somewhere, he thought. They may not be in a hurry to come for me, but they'll sure bust their asses to get a hold of him.
    The wind howled across the lake. Beneath the broken wing of the plane, Jake had found a sheltered place where he could watch for his rescuers. He had packed it with blankets, tarps, food, and supplies from what was left in the cargo hold. But now he was in excruciating pain. He could no longer walk.
    He cried out as he pulled the torn boot off his broken foot. His wool sock was soaked in blood. He removed the sock, and saw the exposed bone of the metatarsals showing through the abraded flesh. He wrapped the swollen foot with a bandage from the emergency kit. Then he wrapped a blanket around the bandage and lashed it up with tape.
    He was getting colder by the second. He estimated the temperature was at least 15 below. He knew if he didn't start a fire soon he'd freeze to death — long before any rescuers showed up. His frigid fingers fumbled for a match. He struck it and tried lighting the maps he'd brought down from the cockpit. The match blew out in the wind. He numbly struck another, and then another, and another.
    The wind is a dog of the devil.
    Finally, covering himself with a canvas tarp, he managed to light a match and touch its flame to the tattered blue and white paper. It blazed quickly, warming his face. He stuffed it under a crumpled cardboard box, and the box took. He piled on fragments of broken pine slats and cordwood. Soon he had a healthy blaze.
    He leaned back against the fuselage, exhausted. The flames crackled before him, and the beacon flashed in the dark. He'd lost much blood and body heat, but he was alive, and he had food, and fire.
    I might just get out of this alive, he thought.
    The cry of a wolf echoed across the lake.
    Jake peered out into the dark. He realized, with a shudder, that he was not alone.

23.
    Kris had fallen asleep. She awoke when the music on the Jeep's radio came to an end, and a deejay's upbeat voice announced: "Get out those snowshoes, folks — this blizzard's only gettin' worse! As the cold front continues to move over the Brooks Range, we're looking at limited visibility and poor travel conditions through the weekend. Tune in for road closings and a full weather update with the news report at eight."
    A hard-charging commercial for Panther Snowmobiles came on, and Andrea shut off the radio.
    "Maybe we ought to go back," said Erin after a moment of silence. Her voice had lost its sharp-edged tone. Kris could feel her unease.
    "I'm afraid we've gone too far for that," said Andrea. The Cherokee seemed to be straining uphill. "I shouldn't have taken that short-cut," she added, half to herself.
    The car pulled to a stop. "I've got to do something about this ice," said Andrea. "I can't see." Kris heard Andrea's door open. Then she heard her scraping the windshield. The jeep was idling; Erin was silent.
    Kris cracked open her window and felt