Frederick Edward Smith. My name. The identity of the famous explorer. I shivered as I dragged myself through the thick snow. My team was setting up camp for the night. I ran my frost-encrusted fingers through my hair. I was shocked at how dirty and rugged it felt. In less than a week, the icy wasteland in which I had decided to explore had made us into rugged, tough men. It was a challenge, something to test our knowledge and survive in a harsh, unforgiving place. I thought back, to my exciting and adventurous childhood. I used to run, sprinting through the woodland like an ostrich cruising across the plains. I smiled fondly at the memory, giving myself a brief reprieve from the situation. My train of thought was interrupted, however, when a grimy, smiling face appeared. John. The edges of my mouth twitched, John had always been one to poke fun at my daring excursions. A real comedian, but a strong fellow and almost fanatically loyal. I smiled in his direction, then got out my tent. It was to be another difficult day tomorrow.
I lay for a while in my sleeping bag, listening to the silence. I hated the silence. More than the cold, the food (or lack of it), silence seemed to be the most sinister foe in these lands. I hated it. Hated how it seemed to surround you, enveloped you in it’s savage immensity. There was no life on these cold glaciers, only the chill of the wind and the endless mass of snow.
The instant I stepped onto the snow, I knew something was wrong. The very air was tainted by malice. I looked around, and cursed under my breath. There was a snow storm approaching. I roused my team, constantly struggling to put the image of a coffin out of my mind. Suddenly, I felt an icy breath of wind on my cheek. I turned, the storm was almost upon us now. It was immense, a huge, swirling vortex of cold and death, it seemed. Ever advancing. There was nothing we could do. I tensed, crouching, bracing myself for the inevitable pain. The wait was not long.
“Help!” someone cried. Their voice sounded faint and weak, a desperate cry for aid. How could I have led them, these fine, honorable men into this place? I felt racked with guilt and pain. I looked around, trying to find John, but the swirling snow obscured everything from view. All I could do, was pray.
a short story by
Tom Dalhuijsen